Modeling Interpretation and the Practice of Political Theory 9781138556591, 9781138556607, 9781315150192, 9781351368278, 9781351368261

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‘How are we to interpret texts of political theory? What approaches work? Can we get different or contrary perspectives to work together? This book gets to grips with these questions, and what is more does so in a highly readable way.This is an eminently clear-​headed and thoughtful book, which should be read by all those interested in political theory and its interpretation. It argues for pluralism, in a theoretically considered way, that asks hard questions of opposing styles of interpretation.’ Gary Browning, Associate Dean, School of Social Sciences, Oxford Brookes University ‘Beckstein and Weber have assembled an array of vital and interesting approaches to interpreting texts in the history of political thought. Students and practitioners alike will find this text to be a valuable resource for understanding the substance and utility of interpretive methods. Works from various historical eras, reflecting an array of issues and contexts, are presented, giving readers expansive insight into the applicability of these methods.’ Sean Noah Walsh, Capital University ‘This excellent book is impressively wide-​ranging, covering eight approaches to interpreting a variety of texts –​and importantly, arguing that we should combine approaches rather than using only one approach. The writing is clear and accessible, and the authors use examples very instructively.’ Adrian Blau, Associate Professor of Politics, Department of Political Economy, King’s College London ‘With clarity, creativity, and verve, Beckstein and Weber advocate pragmatic eclecticism in the practice of political theory.Too often, a few texts and a single method of interpretation are passed unreflectively from teacher to student. Through an insightful, engaging, and often entertaining show-​and-​tell of methodologies, their limits and possibilities, Beckstein and Weber challenge this status quo. Their book is indispensable reading for beginning graduate students, and a valuable corrective for the rest of us.’ Nomi Claire Lazar, Associate Professor of Social Sciences,Yale-​NUS College

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MODELING INTERPRETATION AND THE PRACTICE OF POLITICAL THEORY

Political theory offers a great variety of interpretive traditions and models. Today, pluralism is the paradigm. But are all approaches equally useful? What are their limits and possibilities? Can we practice them in isolation, or can we combine them? Modeling Interpretation and the Practice of Political Theory addresses these questions in a refreshing and hands-​on manner. It not only models in the abstract, but also tests in practice eight basic schemes of interpretation with which any ambitious reader of political texts should already be familiar. Comprehensive and engaging, the book includes: • •

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A straightforward typology of interpretation in political theory. Chapters on the analytical Oxford model, biographical and oeuvre-​based interpretation, Skinner’s Cambridge School, the esoteric model, reflexive hermeneutics, reception analysis and conceptual history. Original readings of Federalist Paper No. 10, Plato’s Statesman, de Gouges’s The Three Urns, Rivera’s wall painting The History of Mexico and Strauss’s Persecution and the Art of Writing; with further chapters on Machiavelli, Huang Zongxi and a Hittite loyalty oath. An Epilogue proposing pragmatist eclecticism as the way forward in interpretation.

An inspiring, hands-​on textbook suitable for undergraduate and graduate students, as well as experienced scholars of political theory, intellectual history and philosophy interested in learning more about types and models of interpretation, and the challenge of combining them in interpretive practice. Martin Beckstein is Senior Researcher and Lecturer at the University of Zurich, Switzerland. His publications include The Politics of Economic Life (Routledge, 2015) and ‘Political Conservation, or How to Prevent Institutional Decay’ (2019). Ralph Weber is Professor of European Global Studies at the University of Basel, Switzerland. He teaches the global history of political thought and has a specialization in Chinese political philosophy.

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MODELING INTERPRETATION AND THE PRACTICE OF POLITICAL THEORY

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Martin Beckstein and Ralph Weber

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First published 2022 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business ©2022 Taylor & Francis The right of Martin Beckstein and Ralph Weber to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Beckstein, Martin, author. | Weber, Ralph E. (Ralph Edward), 1926– author. Title: Modeling interpretation and the practice of political theory / Martin Beckstein & Ralph Weber. Description: First Edition. | New York: Routledge, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2021005616 (print) | LCCN 2021005617 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138556591 (Hardback) | ISBN 9781138556607 (Paperback) | ISBN 9781315150192 (eBook) | ISBN 9781351368278 (Adobe PDF) | ISBN 9781351368254 (mobi) | ISBN 9781351368261 (ePub) Subjects: LCSH: Political science–Philosophy. Classification: LCC JA71 .B436 2021 (print) | LCC JA71 (ebook) | DDC 320.01–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021005616 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021005617 ISBN: 978-​1-​138-​55659-​1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​138-​55660-​7 (pbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​315-​15019-​2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192 Typeset in Bembo by Newgen Publishing UK

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations  Acknowledgments 

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Introduction: A Typology of Interpretation in Political Theory 

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1 From Text to Argument: An Analytical Interpretation of Federalist Paper No. 10 

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2 The Person behind the Author: What Plato’s Life Tells Us about the Statesman 

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3 What the Author also Authored: Understanding Olympe de Gouges’s The Three Urns through Her Oeuvre 

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4 Speaking into the Context: Specifying the Illocutionary Potential of Diego Rivera’s The History of Mexico 

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5 Subtexting: An Esoteric Interpretation of Leo Strauss’s Persecution and the Art of Writing 

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6 The Reader in Front of the Text: De-​/​Recontextualizing Huang Zongxi’s Mingyi daifang lu 

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7 Reading the Readers: How the Meaning of Machiavelli’s The Prince Changed before Its Publication 

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8 Tracing the Concept of Contract: Interpreting a Hittite Loyalty Oath for Conceptual History 

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Epilogue: Eclecticism in Political Theory 

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Index 

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures I .1 1.1 1.2 2.1 3.1 4.1 4.2 5.1 6.1 7.1 7.2 8.1 8.2

Typology of models of interpretation covered in this volume  3 The Oxford model of interpretation  13 Argumentative structure of the Federalist Paper No. 10  17 The biographical model of interpretation  30 The oeuvre-​based model of interpretation  54 The Cambridge model of interpretation  88 Sketch of Rivera’s mural The History of Mexico  89 The esoteric model of interpretation  116 The hermeneutical model of interpretation  139 The reception model of interpretation  157 Reception history of Machiavelli’s The Prince, 1513–​1532  166 The model of the conceptual history approach  182 Sketch of Hittite fragment CTH 260.3 Hethitologie Portal Mainz  192

Photos 3.1 De Gouges, Les Trois Urnes, ou Le salut de la patrie (Paris?, 1793). ©British Library.  4.1 Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico. North Panel:The Pre-​Hispanic Mexico –​The Ancient Indian World (1929). Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F. /​2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz. 

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4.2 Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico.West Panel:The History of Mexico from the Conquest to 1930 (1929–​1931). Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F. /​2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz.  90 4.3 Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico. South Panel: Mexico Today and Tomorrow (1934–​1935). Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F. /​2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz  91 4.4 Mexican Flag (1916–​1934).  95 4.5 José Clemente Orozco, The Banquet of the Rich (1923–​1924). Patio of the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria, Mexico City. ©2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: The Granger Collection  100 4.6 Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico. South Panel: Mexico Today and Tomorrow (1934–​1935). Detail. Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F. /​2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz.  101 4.7 David Alfaro Siqueiros, Portrait of the Bourgeoisie (1939–​1940). Staircase of the Headquarters of the Mexican Electrical Workers Union, Mexico City. ©2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Jennifer Jolly.  102 8.1 Hittite fragment 583/​u. ©Hethitologie Portal Mainz. Photo: Mainzer Fotoarchiv.  193

Tables 1 .1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1 .5 1.6 2 .1 3.1 4.1 5.1 6.1 6.2 7.1

First propositions in Federalist Paper No. 10  An argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [a]‌)  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [a]‌, corrected)  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [b]‌)  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [b]‌, corrected)  Chronology of principal events in Plato’s life  Olympe de Gouges: oeuvre  Speech act theory – four levels of meaning  Inexact repetition in Persecution and the Art of Writing  Waiting for the Dawn: table of contents (de Bary, 1993 )  Structural explanation of the Mingyi daifang lu  Reception sources of Machiavelli’s The Prince, 1513–​1532 

16 19 20 20 21 21 31 62 82 119 144 146 159

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The present volume is based on our co-​authored book in German Politische Ideengeschichte. Interpretationsansätze in der Praxis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014). Furthermore, parts of Chapter 7 are based on Martin Beckstein’s article ‘Machiavellis Der Fürst: Die Rezeption vor der Publikation (1513–​1532),’ published in Zeitschrift für Politische Theorie (2013, 4/​1: 66–​79). In the epilogue, we draw on our co-​authored article ‘Methodenpluralismus in der Politischen Ideengeschichte,’ published in Zeitschrift für Politik (65/​1: 3–​20). We are very grateful for the generosity of these publications in permitting us to reuse our work in translated, revised and rethought form. The permission to reproduce photos of the artwork by Diego Rivera, David Alfaro Siqueiros and José Clemente Orozco was granted by Rafael Doniz Lechon, Jennifer Jolly, The Granger Collection, the Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F. and ProLitteris, Zurich. The permission to reproduce a photo of de Gouges’s poster The Three Urns was granted by the British Library. A sketch and a photo of the Hittite fragment 583/​u was very kindly provided by the Mainzer Fotoarchiv and the Hethitologie Portal Mainz.

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INTRODUCTION A Typology of Interpretation in Political Theory

Interpretation is a ubiquitous activity. Human beings are ‘hermeneutical animal[s]‌’ (Palmer 1969, 118) in that they constantly make sense of the world and of themselves. In academia, we professionally interpret, and professionally reflect about the activity of interpreting; we develop theories and models, discuss their rules for application in practice and apply them. This holds true for political theory too, where the task is to make sense of political texts or to make political sense of seemingly non-​ political texts. Sometimes, we are thus directly and consciously involved in interpretation. On other occasions, we hope to improve some thinker’s theory and are indirectly thrown back upon the activity of interpretation. And for the conception of every research project, we need to assemble a state of the art –​which again means that we must attribute meaning to texts. For all of these tasks, we can draw inspiration from a plethora of traditions and models of interpretation: the Cambridge School, philosophical hermeneutics, conceptual history, Foucauldian genealogy, deconstruction, Marxist and feminist approaches, to name just a few. But, are there really so many different ways to make meaningful sense of texts? And if so, on which of them should we rely in our professional interpretive practice? In debates about interpretive methodology in political theory, it can sometimes seem as if one and only one way of reading texts should be appropriate. Generally speaking, however, methodological dogmatism has today given way to tolerance, and even curiosity, concerning the variety of interpretive traditions and models. In handbooks and companions, for instance, contributors are often encouraged to use the approaches they deem fit (see e.g. Brocker 2008, 11; Klosko et al. 2013, 6). Pluralism has become a norm in this respect too.

DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-1

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Far from merely coexisting one next to another, however, different traditions and models of interpretation are quite commonly used in tandem by one and the same scholar. Some (Ball 1995, 21; Blau 2015, 1188; 2017; Browning 2016; Richter 2009) even explicitly recommend doing so. Pluralism –​more precisely: eclecticism –​has found its way into interpretive practice. Walsh and Fatovich (2016, 7) observe accordingly: Although the developers and practitioners of some approaches insist on the exclusivity (and perhaps the supremacy) of their own approach, many of the approaches surveyed can be and are already combined with one another in practice. In fact, most political theorists today can probably best be described as eclectic in their approach to textual interpretation, borrowing the tools, techniques, and insight of various approaches. It is a good idea to depart from methodological dogmatism. An indispensable part of the practice of political theory, in our view, is to combine interpretive traditions and models. But is eclecticism a viable alternative to the dogmatist call for the exclusive application of, if not confession to, one specific approach? Can interpretive traditions and models be arbitrarily lumped together? After all, are not theoretical tensions invariably arising from the use of the techniques of different approaches? And if tensions are arising, how should we deal with them? The methodological debates so far have only sparsely addressed these pressing questions of interpretive practice (see also Green 2015, 436). Yet we need answers because otherwise it is difficult to see how interpretation in political theory could satisfy the scientific standards of transparency and consistency. Unless we acquire a clearer picture of how eclecticism can be reasonably justified and practiced, it appears to be nothing more than a sign of the arbitrariness and subjectivity with which qualitative methods are frequently charged in departments of politics. This book aims to explore the rationale behind, and prospects of, eclectic interpretation in political theory. But we will not confront the task head on. Sometimes, it is necessary to first take one step back in order to take two steps ahead. To avoid getting lost either in abstract meta-​methodological reflections or in the methodological jumble that has become characteristic of interpretation in scholarly practice, we will carry out three primary tasks. First, we reconstruct eight basic models of interpretation alongside their philosophical backgrounds and respective rules of application. Second, we test and illustrate these basic models by way of application to selected texts.Yet because models, as we conceive of them, are scholarly constructs for understanding and informing practice, while by their very nature also being simplifications of and abstractions from practice, there are invariably limitations to their application. That is why, third, we discuss the conditions of applicability of these basic models of interpretation, and assess their strengths and weaknesses, when taken from the laboratory of our methodological discussion to the real world of textual interpretation.

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With this, we manoeuvre ourselves into a favorable position to contemplate the prospects of combining models of interpretation, as well as the virtues and vices of eclecticism; in short, of improving the practice of political theory.

I.1  What Is a Text? Four Basic Understandings Throughout much of the 20th century, discussions on interpretive methodology in political theory were heavily polarized between those who saw reading texts as largely a historical exercise and those who argued for its more direct contemporary relevance. The debate was quintessentially about the identity of political theory, and whether it belongs to the history or political science department. With pluralism gaining more ground, attempts at integrating these ‘two major, but warring approaches’ became more popular over the course of the century (Saxonhouse 1993, 4; see also Gupta 1990; King 2000). Today, the tension persists, but it has also given rise to a healthy and quite exciting variety of methodological typologies. Some try to match interpretive approaches with disciplinary research focuses. Thus, Blau (2017, 243) recommends distinguishing between empirical, philosophical and aesthetic approaches. Conversely, Richter (2009, 8) distinguishes textual from contextual (and recontextual) schemes of interpretation; that is, between interpretive strategies that stick to the text and those that deliberately go beyond it. The notion of context itself has received sustained attention (early on by LaCapra 1983). The typology we advance here (see Figure I.1) draws from the way in which different interpretive approaches predominantly conceive the very objects of their analysis: texts. Diverging answers to the basic question ‘what is a text?’ pave the way for diverging strategies of making sense of them. The general understanding of texts can be more or less inclusive in two regards. On the one hand, one might see a text as books, essays and newspaper articles only, or one might include oral sources (such as radio broadcasts) and non-​verbal

Oxford Model

Content-centered

Biographical Model Oeuvre-based Model

Readercentered

Authorcentered

Hermeneutic Interpretation Reception Model

Addressee-centered Cambridge Model Esoteric Model

FIGURE I.1 

Typology of models of interpretation covered in this volume.

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sources (such as artwork). On the other hand, one might limit the range of texts considered relevant for interpretation in political theory to those considered part of high culture and elite discourse, or one might be open towards those which are part of pop culture or a subculture. There are plenty of reasons for being inclusive in both regards, and we actively embrace such an understanding.Yet more or less inclusive answers do not determine how whatever one considers to be a text should be approached and understood in a concrete case. For our purposes, the more important question is whether a text is understood (1) as something that is written down (or as otherwise recorded content), (2) as something that has been written (or recorded) by somebody, (3) as something that has been written (or recorded) for somebody or (4) as something that is being or has been read (or in other ways received). Of course, texts are all of that. But if pressed, scholars with different methodological backgrounds will undoubtedly consider one of these aspects more relevant than the others. And one’s decision to emphasize one aspect at the expense of others has a considerable influence on what argumentative strategies one employs in order to attribute meaning to texts in interpretive practice.

I.1.1  Interpretation Centered on the Content Texts are content that is written down or recorded in some other way. If this fact is considered the most important for the process of attributing meaning to texts, we can speak of content-​centered interpretation. Because the interpretive content is primarily understood to be contained within the respective, verbalized or non-​verbalized text itself, content-​centered interpretation involves (quasi) text-​immanent strategies of attributing meaning to the text.They do not look for outside information. Interpretive models that can be categorized as informed by content-​centered interpretation include, among others, Jürgen Habermas’s rational reconstruction, Umberto Eco’s semiotics and, arguably, poststructuralist, postmodernist and deconstructionist approaches that stress Roland Barthes’s and Michel Foucault’s claim about ‘the death of the author.’We will, however, limit ourselves to the most basic type of content-​centered interpretation, namely, the Oxford model. The Oxford model is interested in the arguments contained in a text. Therefore, this model suggests that the relevant content of a text is its propositional content. Rhetorical expressions, literary ornaments, periphrases, and even sentences other than declarative ones that can be either true or false, are bracketed out. Once we are left with those expressions in language or signs that can be believed, doubted or denied, we can place them into the right order, and thus reconstruct the arguments contained in the text. The Oxford model is one of the most basic, yet most controversial, interpretive models in political theory. It is attractive because it is straightforward, technical and parsimonious. It is most popular among analytically minded political theorists, although even they hardly apply it in its pure form. But precisely because the Oxford model is so straightforward, technical and parsimonious, scholars who exhibit stronger hermeneutical or historical sensibilities consider it to be seriously flawed.

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I.1.2  Interpretation Centered on the Author Author-​centered interpretation suggests that to understand a text, it is helpful or even essential to know who authored it. Such an approach to interpretation may or may not aim at identifying authorial intention; but it at least presupposes the legitimacy, indeed the necessity, of illuminating the meaning of the text by reference to circumstances in the life or psyche of the person behind the author. A scholar taking this approach might thus attribute explanatory force to extraordinary events that the person behind the author witnessed. That Hobbes experienced civil war, for instance, is often considered important for understanding the Leviathan. Often times, scholars give information or tell anecdotes about an author’s life. For instance, commentators on Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex mention de Beauvoir’s intimate relationship with Jean-​Paul Sartre. Why would they do so if they considered this biographical detail meaningless for an appropriate understanding of this text? Whenever biographical details are attributed explanatory force, the argument takes the form of author-​centered interpretation. When biographical details are systematically attributed explanatory force – that is, when the person behind the author serves as the main point of reference to understand his or her text – we can speak of the biographical model. Another form of author-​centered interpretation is that of the oeuvre-​based model. Here, details of the author’s life, sensu stricto, are not referenced in order to make sense of his or her text. Instead, it is assumed that the targeted text is best understood if read alongside other texts by the author. An example of the oeuvre-​based model would be, for instance, qualifying Plato’s Symposium as an early dialogue (because his early writings supposedly share some common characteristic). In the broadest sense, an interpretation will simply situate the text under study among the author’s overall intellectual achievements. In either case, the person behind the author serves as the link to relate a given text to other texts, which in turn are assumed to shed light on the meaning of that text.

I.1.3  Interpretation Centered on the Addressee Addressee-​centered interpretation emphasizes the fact that sometimes we would be hopelessly lost unless we knew to whom a text is addressed. If God walked by a rabbi, an imam and a Catholic priest, and said ‘You’re right!,’ it would matter a great deal to know which of them God is addressing. Addressee-​centered interpretation in political theory assumes that political texts are essentially messages sent to specific target audiences. The esoteric model, a version of the addressee-centered interpretation which has been popularized by Leo Strauss, recognizes the possibility that authors may not have wanted to communicate their insights or opinions openly to everyone. Perhaps

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they intended to mobilize resistance against their government and feared censorship or persecution. Perhaps they tried to criticize their government discretely without mobilizing resistance, or had paternalist, elitist, aesthetical, pedagogical or yet other reasons for writing between the lines.The authors’ motivation for including a layer of intended meaning beneath the surface is crucial for the understanding of such meaning. But as authors utilizing this strategy will usually not state their motivation openly, we cannot hope to identify it without considering with whom they tried to enter into an exclusive dialogue. Some such texts with a hidden meaning may only have one target audience. Think of insider jokes: ideally, people other than your friends will be incapable of making any meaningful sense out of what you are saying at all. Other texts, and especially political texts, often have two or more target audiences. A well-​known example is dog-​whistle politics, which aims at communicating different things to different groups of people. Certain contextual approaches, such as Quentin Skinner’s Cambridge School of Intellectual History, are also addressee-​centered, yet they presuppose that political texts are addressed to all participants in a historical discourse. According to this approach, political authors are assumed to make interventions; that is, they try to change or reaffirm the way their contemporaries think and act in turn. To understand these interventions, texts must be read against the backdrop of their discursive context. Even if, as we will argue, this approach lacks methodological tools for understanding what the author was trying to do, it does help to provide a good idea of what the text plausibly could have meant to contemporary readers.

I.1.4  Interpretation Centered on the Reader In the final type of interpretation, the experience of the reader takes center stage. In reader-​centered interpretation, texts are treated as something that can be read or received in some other way –​either by an individual scholar interpreting the text or by the totality of its readers throughout history. Philosophical hermeneutics stresses the distance between the reader interpreting the text and its author.This distance –​which includes temporal, cultural, linguistic, milieu-​related, social and political differences –​hampers a reader’s understanding, but can also be used productively by the scholar. On Hans-​Georg Gadamer’s account, the reader enters into an inexhaustible dialogue with the author and ‘fuses horizons,’ which amounts to a productive use (interrogation) of one’s presuppositions and prejudgments. For Paul Ricoeur, there is no dialogue between the reader and author –​their worlds remain discrete. His approach connects a structural explanation of a text with an interpretation by the reader. The challenge, therefore, is not in any way to approximate the original ‘autonomous’ meaning of the text, but rather to actualize its meaning by a procedure of de-​/​recontextualization. By contrast, the reception model seeks to make productive use of others’ readings of a text. By examining, comparing and ordering different readers’

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interpretations, it aims to indirectly attribute meaning to a text. This indirect and partly quantitative approach has a unique appeal of its own, not least for scholars of politics. For while reading historical texts might be valuable for gaining theoretical insights, readers of such texts in previous times have also drawn their own conclusions, and those conclusions sometimes had an impact not only on the history of ideas but also on real history, sometimes so much so that they changed the world.

I.2  Approaches Focusing on Groups of Texts Several fascinating and popular approaches in political theory do not adequately fit into our typology because they aim at analyzing groups of texts rather than individual ones. One such approach is conceptual history. This scholarly focus is directed not at texts, strictly speaking, but at concepts –​or to be more precise, at the meaning and changes in meaning of political concepts such as liberty, contract or power. Texts are considered mere carriers of information that only constitute meaning when they are grouped together. Individual texts are just pieces of a puzzle.The purpose of this enterprise, according to conceptual history’s most prominent theorist and practitioner, Reinhard Koselleck, is to trace real social and political change. It goes without saying that this approach is far from encouraging a close reading of texts, and it could not be farther from a hagiographic celebration of classics of political theory. Other powerful approaches not covered in this book, e.g. the history of mentality, systems theory and various discourse theories, also focus on text collectives. They too have research interests that go beyond the content of individual texts. Nevertheless, in practice, they all still have to deal with individual text interpretation. They cannot circumvent the question of how to attribute meaning to Aristotle’s Politics, Locke’s Second Treatise or some diplomatic report. And because they typically do not provide an interpretive model of their own to make sense of individual texts, conceptual historians, historians of mentality and systems and discourse theorists are ultimately thrown back upon one of the four types of interpretation, or a combination thereof, that we set out in this book. Ultimately, the interpretive strategies they employ for gathering information from individual texts will reflect either the understanding that texts are written content, something that has been written by someone, something that has been written for someone or something that is being or has been read by someone.

I.3  About the Selection of Interpretive Models and Texts That approaches focusing upon text collectives must necessarily draw upon those interpretive models which focus on individual texts points to the rationale informing the selection covered in this book. Our priority here is to focus on

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basic interpretive models that can be considered to constitute the methodological fundament of interpretation in political theory. And in this regard, at least, less might be more. The same consideration underlies our decision to include the biographical model at the expense of a perhaps more timely feminist model that directs its attention to the person behind the author of a text and to questions of positionality and power (Caputi 2016). The selection of criteria is not related, however, with some normative agenda. We simply believe that our selection facilitates achieving the goal of acquiring a clearer picture of the commonalities and peculiarities, limits and possibilities, virtues and vices of different types and models of interpretation –​all of which are necessary for contemplating the prospects of eclecticism in the practice of political theory. As we will explain in some detail in the Epilogue, one crucial takeaway from our exploration is that any one of the basic interpretive models we reconstruct, apply and assess is insufficient on its own. A combination of the strategies of different interpretive models is desirable because it is necessary. Kulkarni (2012, 32) has pointed to the inadequacy both of approaches taken individually and to the Procrustean aim of an all-​harmonizing overarching framework, thereby leaving ‘a selective appropriation of [the different approaches’] insights at appropriate junctures’ as the only way forward. The question of how to combine models of interpretation in the practice of political theory is one that this book can hope to pose and articulate, rather than answer exhaustively. It is a question that has only recently been recognized as pivotal, but one that will certainly engage methodological debates in political theory for quite some time in the future. We will reconstruct the theory of eight interpretive models and illustrate how they work if put into practice.The selection of cases reflects an attempt to embark on an innovation while cultivating tradition. We have included classics (Plato’s Statesman, Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince, James Madison’s Federalist Paper No. 10, Leo Strauss’s Persecution and the Art of Writing) as well as original and substantial, yet hitherto rather marginalized, texts (Olympe de Gouges’s The Three Urns, Diego Rivera’s The History of Mexico, Huang Zongxi’s Mingyi daifang lu and a Hittite text called The Loyalty Oath of Town Commanders to Arnuwanda I, Ašmunikkal, and Tudḫaliya). To discuss these models under laboratory conditions and in as consistent of a manner as possible requires considerable simplification.Yet with simplification, we hope, also comes clarity. Practitioners might therefore find their approaches to be only inadequately captured, and this is certainly the case. Indeed, our models are not intended to serve as blueprints that can simply be implemented in practice. Rather, the models are supposed to capture fundamental differences between these various approaches. By working through the models presented in the chapters of this book, we hope and believe that we can help readers to navigate through the rocky waters of eclectic interpretation in the practice of political theory.

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Introduction  9

References Ball, Terence. 1995. Reappraising Political Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Blau, Adrian. 2015. ‘History of Political Thought as Detective-​Work.’ History of European Ideas 41/​8: 1178–​1194. Blau, Adrian. 2017. ‘Interpreting Texts.’ In Methods in Analytic Political Theory, edited by Adrian Blau, 243–​269. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brocker, Manfred. 2008. ‘Vorwort.’ In Geschichte des politischen Denkens: Ein Handbuch, edited by Manfred Brocker. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Browning, Gary. 2016. A History of Modern Political Thought. The Question of Interpretation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Caputi, Mary. 2016. ‘Feminist Interventions into Political Theory: The Power of Supplemental Logic.’ In Interpretation in Political Theory, edited by Sean N. Walsh and Clement Fatovic, 100–​122. London; New York: Routledge. Green, Jeffery. 2015. ‘Political Theory as Both Philosophy and History: A Defense Against Methodological Militancy.’ Annual Review of Political Science 18: 425–​441. Gupta, Damyanti. 1990. Political Thought and Interpretation: The Linguistic Approach. Jaipur: Pointer Publishers. King, Preston. 2000. Thinking Past a Problem: Essays on the History of Ideas. London: Frank Cass. Klosko, George. 2013. ‘Introduction.’ In Oxford Handbook of Political Philosophy, edited by George Klosko, 1–​7. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kulkarni, Mangesh. 2012. ‘Text and Context: Methodological Debates in the Study of Political Thought.’ CAS Occasional Paper Series: No. 5. Centre for Advanced Studies, Dept. of Politics and Public Administration, University of Pune. LaCapra, Dominick. 1983. Rethinking Intellectual History: Texts, Contexts, Language. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Palmer, Richard. 1969. Hermeneutics. Evanston: Northwestern University Press. Richter, William L. 2009. Approaches to Political Thought. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Saxonhouse, Arlene W. 1993. ‘Texts and Canons: The Status of Great Books in Political Theory.’ In Political Science: The State of the Discipline II, edited by Ada Finifter, 3–​26. Washington, D.C.: APSA. Walsh, Sean N. and Clement Fatovich. 2016. ‘Introduction: Interpretation and the Politics of Meaning.’ In Interpretation in Political Theory, edited by Sean N. Walsh and Clement Fatovich, 1–​20. London; New York: Routledge.

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1 FROM TEXT TO ARGUMENT An Analytical Interpretation of Federalist Paper No. 10

The Oxford model of interpreting texts is the most basic method of political theory. In principle, we are all familiar with it and know what it is about. Instead of looking beyond what is written in black and white in a text, we are supposed to analyze what its sentences are really saying. This approach focuses on the argument of the text, which we should be able to explain to others in our own words. Because of its straightforwardness and simplicity, the Oxford model is seldom discussed in textbooks and lectures, let alone in scholarly journals.1 Nevertheless, there are at least two reasons for dedicating a chapter to it in the context of this book. First, the Oxford model is, on the one hand, more technical and, on the other hand, more complex than it seems at the first glance. By reconstructing it in detail and by trying to apply it rigorously, we can hope to get a clear idea of its possibilities. Second, while the Oxford model might be the interpretive standard among analytically minded political theorists, scholars displaying stronger historiographical and hermeneutic sensibilities unanimously discard it as a worm’s eye view. Why so? Only by reflecting on the possibilities and limits of the Oxford model can we hope to profitably make use of its interpretive strategies without incurring its shortcomings. In the following, we will take a look at the interpretive strategies of the Oxford model, and illustrate how they are applied in practice. For the purpose of illustration, we will analyze a few sections of James Madison’s Federalist Paper No. 10.We conclude by laying out the limits and possibilities of the Oxford model.

1.1  The Oxford Model of Interpretation The Oxford model asks us to investigate, quite simply, what is written in a text. It is a text-​centered approach. Why and when a text was written, just as by and for DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-2

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From Text to Argument  11

whom it was written or what its effective audience was are unimportant questions for scholars using the Oxford model. John Plamenatz (1963, ix–​x) justifies this rather narrow focus as follows: Those who say that to understand a theory we must understand the conditions in which it was produced sometimes put their case too strongly. They speak as if, to understand what a man is saying, we must know why he is saying it. But this is not true. We need understand only the sense in which he is using words. To understand Hobbes, we need not know what his purpose was in writing Leviathan or how he felt about the rival claims of Royalists and Parliamentarians; but we do need to know what he understood by words as law, right, liberty, covenant, and obligation. And though it is true that even Hobbes, so ‘rare’ at definitions, does not always use a word in the sense in which he defines, we are more likely to get the sense in which he does use it by a close study of his argument than by looking at the condition of England or at political controversies in his day.These are, of course, well worth looking at on their own account. Nevertheless, we can go a long way and yet know very little about them. Plamenatz takes a rather radical methodological stance, as compared to other political theorists and intellectual historians.Yet the Oxford model, in its pure form, is even more parsimonious than what the quote suggests. On the one hand, it is exclusively interested in what is written in a text, not in what its author had in mind. The objective of such a mode of interpretation is not the clarification of authorial intention. Phrases such as ‘Hobbes said…’ or ‘in Hobbes’s view’ are acceptable only as shortcuts for reconstructing an argumentative standpoint from a specific text (e.g. the Leviathan). On the other hand, and contrary to what we suggested above, the Oxford model is not exactly asking us to investigate what the sentences of a text say. Instead, it is interested in what certain kinds of sentences say, namely declarative sentences that can be either true or false. Declarative sentences that can be either true or false are propositions. Hence, the Oxford model is interested in propositions. ‘Socrates was a man’ is an example of a proposition, and so is ‘Socrates was an animal.’ But the question ‘Was Socrates a man?’ is not; it does not express something that can be true or false. Questions (interrogative sentences), as well as commands (imperative sentences) and exclamations (exclamative sentences), are expressions that we can largely bracket out when using the Oxford model to make sense of texts. Rhetorical expressions, literary ornaments and periphrases do not add to the propositional content of a text and can therefore also be cast aside. Erasmus of Rotterdam illustrates this point quite nicely. In On Copia of Words and Ideas (1963 [1512]), he strings together 195 variations of the sentence ‘Your letter has delighted me very much’ –​all expressing basically one and the same proposition. There is a historical explanation for the restricted focus of the Oxford model. Ultimately, the Oxford model is a by-​product of logic and its use for the analysis and

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appraisal of arguments. Philosophers primarily from the University of Oxford helped this approach to take shape in the first half of the 20th century, who transferred elements of the analytical method in philosophy to the discipline of political theory. (The label ‘Oxford’ model, as well as the alternative characterization as ‘analytical approach’ allude to this background.2) Regarding the interpretation of texts, this approach at first primarily focused on linguistic-​philosophical clarification of political concepts. Later on, the task was extended to detecting logical mistakes. Eventually, however, they turned to a more constructive purpose. They interrogated (classical) texts of the history of political thought, treating them as solutions to ‘permanent or at least recurrent problems of philosophy.’3 Hence, scholars using the Oxford model tried to extract arguments from texts in order to be better equipped to answer questions such as ‘what is liberty?,’ ‘what is justice?’ or ‘who should rule?’ The real takeaway from this historical explanation concerns the last remark.We already said that scholars relying on the Oxford model sideline questions contained in the texts they are studying. We now realize that this marginalization is due not only to the fact that questions do not express propositions, but also to the fact that scholars using the Oxford model have their own predefined questions (e.g. ‘what is liberty?,’ ‘what is justice?,’ etc.) to begin with! These predefined questions may be sharpened or altered in the course of the analysis; they may spring from the more or less founded expectation that they coincide with those questions raised in the text being studied; they may be assumed to be timeless and have already motivated the author of the text. But scholars may as well start off from a predefined question that is exclusively theirs and meant to solve some pressing problem of their time. In either case what matters is the putative capacity of the texts to provide answers, that is, applicable arguments, to predefined questions.

BY THE WAY…: UNIT IDEAS AND RECURRENT QUESTIONS With The Great Chain of Being, Arthur Oncken Lovejoy (1936) effectively founded the discipline known as the History of Ideas. He argued that we can identify elemental conceptual components in the works of political theory –​ ‘unit ideas’ –​such as continuity and plenitude. According to Lovejoy, the intellectual historian’s job consists in identifying them as well as describing their historical emergence and development into new forms and combinations. Those who have practiced the Oxford approach did not usually insist on the existence of timeless unit ideas but nevertheless argued that some ideas (or at least questions) have proven to be rather durable and stable. Even so, interpretations using the Oxford model are vulnerable to the charge of anachronism, which holds that a text from the past is seriously misunderstood if it is treated as a contribution to some contemporary (or allegedly recurrent) question.4 A more promising line of defense invokes the variety of goals related to the study of political texts, arguing that not all of them require doing justice to the historicity of texts.

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From Text to Argument  13

Thus, the starting point for any interpretation using the Oxford model is a predefined question and a text that is expected to help answer it. On this basis, a three-​ step procedure unfolds (see Figure 1.1). The first step consists in identifying the propositional content of the text.The next task is to clarify the technical terms and key concepts that are part of the propositions. Finally, the order and inner relationship of the propositions contained in the text is analyzed in order to reconstruct arguments and consider the text’s answer to the predefined question. Let us briefly take a closer look at the individual steps. Identifying the propositional content of a text is usually a routine piece of work. Often, sentences and the propositions they express are one and the same thing. Interrogative and exclamative sentences can be easily recognized. Works of

The Oxford model equates what is important about a text with its propositional content. The goal is to extract arguments that help answer predefined questions.

Text

Step 1

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Which propositions are contained in the text? Which words and sentences lack propositional content and can therefore be deleted? Are interrogative or exclamative sentences supplemented in such a way as to form, in combination, informative propositions?

Identify the propositional content of the text

Which technical terms and key concepts require clarification? Does the text define these terms and concepts? Are these terms and concepts being used at different points in the text? If so, how? Are different terms and concepts being used synonymously or similarly?

Step 2 Clarify technical terms and key concepts

Are there words signaling that this or that proposition is a premise or conclusion of an argument? Are there incomplete arguments with unstated premises or conclusions? What arguments does the text contain? Which of these arguments are applicable to the predefined question underlying the text?

Step 3 Reconstruct the arguments and answer to the predefined question in the text

Meaning

FIGURE 1.1 

The Oxford model of interpretation.

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political theory, moreover, are frequently written in an analytical fashion, which further simplifies the task. More often, however, political writing is also saturated by rhetoric. Wordy passages must be condensed accordingly. And some authors employ rather extravagant writing styles which require greater effort to interpret. A good example of this would be Plato who mainly wrote dialogues. In these dialogues, propositions must be excavated from Socrates’ inquiry-​response game called maieutics. Take the following quote from the Republic (403a): Do you know of greater or keener pleasure than that associated with Aphrodite? –​Socrates asks Glaucon –​‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘nor yet of any more insane.’ Socrates’ question, though constituting an interrogative sentence, is turned into a declarative sentence by Glaucon’s affirmation. His afterthought extends the declarative sentence, and adds a second proposition. Proposition 1: The pleasure being associated with Aphrodite is the greatest or keenest pleasure. Proposition 2: The pleasure being associated with Aphrodite is the most insane pleasure.

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Given that it is not entirely clear whether Socrates and Glaucon take ‘great’ and ‘keen’ to be synonyms, we could further split up the first proposition. Either way, the importance of the second procedural step of the Oxford model immediately comes into focus because we should want to know what exactly the conversation partners are talking about. What exactly is the pleasure being associated with Aphrodite? To find out, we might intuitively delve into our knowledge about Greek mythology or consult a book on the subject. But by so doing, we would be going beyond an analytical ‘text-​only’ approach.To avoid transcending the text, however, we can do two things. First, we can read on and see if the text itself provides a formal definition of the pleasure being associated with Aphrodite. Second, we can look for other references to Aphrodite and pleasures in the text, and indirectly try to extract a definition (let us call this the parallel passages strategy). In the case of the quoted passage, there is no formal definition to be found. But immediately following the passage we find paraphrasis, which characterizes the pleasure as love. The broader context, and the parallel passages strategy, further allow to determine that the pleasure in question is sensual or sexual love. The unclear term can thus be considerably clarified by utilizing text-​immanent strategies to rephrase the previously identified propositions as ‘sexual/​sensual love is the greatest/​keenest pleasure’ and ‘sexual/​sensual love is the most insane pleasure.’ The last step of the procedure requires us to reconstruct the arguments of the text. Herein, the primary task is to group the previously identified propositions and bring them into the correct order.We will therefore have to divide the propositions

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From Text to Argument  15

into two classes, premises and conclusions, the latter of which are indicated by logical signal words such as ‘because,’ ‘therefore’ and ‘hence.’ The reconstruction of arguments does not, by itself, include their amendment; the point is not to make the text better than it is (and for that matter transform it into something else). However, it might well be necessary to eventually render arguments contained in the text logically coherent. Also, arguments with unstated premises or conclusions must be completed. Unstated premises and conclusions are logically implied, and are therefore immanent to the text. Equipped with the reconstructed arguments, we can finally consider which of them are applicable to our respective predefined question, and then answer it.

1.2  Arguments of Federalist Paper No. 10 In the following, we will illustrate how the Oxford model plays out in interpretive practice.The text to which we will try to apply the Oxford model as rigorously as possible is Federalist Paper No. 10 (2020 [1787]). We all already know many things about this text. For instance, we know that it is one of the central documents of the American constitutional debate; that it was published on 22 November 1787 in the newspaper New York Packet under the pseudonym Publius; that its author was James Madison, who together with John Jay and Alexander Hamilton published 85 newspaper articles to persuade New Yorkers of the desirability of ratifying the United States Constitution.We also know that Madison, Jay and Hamilton’s opinion was challenged by several authors who themselves used synonyms (such as Cato, Brutus or Centinel). We know that their disagreement crystallized over the question of whether the United States should become more centralized and establish a strong federal government, which is why the two groups of authors are commonly labeled federalists and anti-​federalists, respectively. We might have an idea of Madison’s overall point in Federalist Paper No. 10, and even have read scholarly articles on the subject. Yet none of this knowledge is of any help right now. Quite to the contrary, we must temporarily try to forget our previously acquired knowledge about the text, its context, author and readers. For our analysis, it is enough if we believe that Federalist Paper No. 10 is a text discussing issues concerning polity. The predefined question we will try to answer is, quite generically, how society should be organized. We will carry out the analysis by applying the previously outlined three-​step procedure, and hence, first, identify propositions, second, clarify technical terms and key concepts, and third, reconstruct the arguments of the text. Given the illustrative purpose of this exercise, we shall limit ourselves to analyzing only a few passages in detail.

1.2.1  Determining the Propositional Content Federalist Paper No. 10 is clearly written and it is not difficult to identify its main propositions. We list and number those contained in the first three sentences, and

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16  From Text to Argument TABLE 1.1  First propositions in Federalist Paper No. 10

Text

Propositions

Among the numerous advantages promised by a wellconstructed Union, none deserves to be more accurately developed than its tendency to break and control the violence of faction.

Prop. 1: A well-​constructed union has many advantages. Prop. 2: One advantage is a tendency to break the violence of faction. Prop. 3: One advantage is to control the violence of faction.

The friend of popular governments never finds himself so much alarmed for their character and fate, as when he contemplates their propensity to this dangerous vice.

Prop. 4: (The violence of) Faction threatens the integrity of popular governments. Prop. 5: (The violence of) Faction threatens the existence of popular governments. Prop. 6: (The violence of) Faction is immoral by nature.

He will not fail, therefore, to set a due value on any plan which, without violating the principles to which he is attached, provides a proper cure for it.

Prop. 7: Popular governments need a solution to the problem (of faction) that does not violate the principles of popular government.

additionally highlight in italics those terms and concepts that require clarification in the second interpretive step (see Table 1.1). In spite of their clarity, the first three sentences raise several questions. For one thing, we need to clarify the terms ‘union,’ ‘faction’ and ‘popular government.’ This will occupy us in the next interpretive step. Moreover, propositions 2 and 3 contain an ambiguity. The problem (‘faction’) is announced to be both alleviated (‘control’) and redressed (‘break’) by a solution (‘a well-constructed union’). But you cannot have both at the same time. In the third interpretive step, we will therefore have to consider carefully which of the two propositions, if either, is actually part of the overall argument of Federalist Paper No. 10. Because our space, and presumably your patience, is limited, we refrain from translating the entire text into propositions. Instead, we merely provide an overview of the argumentative structure of Federalist Paper No. 10 as it can be sketched on the basis of a complete propositional analysis. Figure 1.2 accordingly shows that Madison’s text has a branch-like argumentative structure. It presents several binary choice options to the reader, but ultimately claims that there is but one solution: the problem (majority) factions pose to popular governments can only be alleviated if the polity is organized as a large representative republic.

1.2.2  Clarifying Technical Terms and Key Concepts The orderly presentation of the argumentation makes it easy to acquire a rough understanding of Federalist Paper No. 10. But we cannot hope to grasp the main thrust

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From Text to Argument  17 §§1-3 How to control/break (the violence of) faction?

§4 Remove Causes

§5 Destroy Liberty

§§6-9 Enforce Uniformity

§10 Control Effects

§11 Minority Faction

§12 Majority Faction

§13 Pure Democracy

§§14 -19 Republic

§20 Small Republic

FIGURE 1.2 

§§21–23 Large Republic

Argumentative structure of the Federalist Paper No. 10.

of the individual arguments of the text, and its precise answer to our question of how society should be organized, unless we reconstruct its arguments in detail (which will be the business of Section 1.2.3) and clarify non-​self-​explanatory terms and key concepts. In this section, we will carry out the latter task. In our propositional analysis of the first few lines, we noted that union, faction and popular government are terms that deserve clarification. The overview provided in Figure 1.2 names a few others (liberty, uniformity, democracy, republic), and additionally suggests that some of the terms have overlapping or co-​determining meanings. This is especially true for the triad of ‘popular government,’ ‘democracy’ and ‘republic,’ where the first term serves as an umbrella term for the other two. For many of these terms, we find definitions scattered over the course of the text. A republic, for instance, is defined as ‘a government in which the scheme of representation takes place’ (§14). By contrast, a ‘pure democracy’ is characterized by direct citizen participation (and is, perhaps not inconsiderably, called a ‘society’ rather than a ‘government,’ §13). Madison (§2) provides a definition for faction, too: By a faction, I understand a number of citizens, whether amounting to a majority or a minority of the whole, who are united and actuated by some common impulse of passion, or of interest, adverse to the rights of other citizens, or to the permanent and aggregate interests of the community. The first criterion of a faction is simple enough, but the second and third call for a closer examination. The members of the group constituting a faction, as the definition holds, share certain interests or passions. Because of this commonality, the group

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is not just a random crowd but a collective with a distinct identity. The definition leaves open the question of whether the members of the group are actually aware of their collective identity.Yet consciously or not, their (presumably political) activities are driven by shared interests or passions. The problem is that these passions or interests conflict with the ‘permanent and aggregate interests of the community’ as well as ‘the rights’ of other citizens. Despite its clear-​cut nature, the definition of faction prompts several follow-​up questions. What are the ‘permanent and aggregate interests of the community?’ Are they the same as the ‘public good’ (§8) or the ‘public weal’ (§16), of which the text elsewhere speaks? What does it mean if people share certain passions? Why are the interests or passions of a faction opposed to public interests rather than other group interests, and to individual rights rather than other passions? The parallel passages strategy helps to enhance our understanding, yet it also gives rise to new challenges. For instance, elsewhere Madison actually says that factions violate the rights ‘of the minor party’ (§1), rather than those of individuals, and that a faction increasingly becomes equated with the majority. In the same sentence, the ‘permanent and aggregate interests of the community’ are replaced by ‘the rules of justice,’ which suggests that factions violate procedural norms. Another open question concerns the moral status of faction. Sometimes, Madison associates faction with immoral conduct; faction, he says, is a ‘vice’ (§1). On one occasion, he even states that people with ‘factious tempers’ aim at ‘betraying the interests of the people’ (§16). On other occasions, however, faction is presented as a social fact, as for instance, when Madison discusses whether ‘enlightened statesmen [are] able to adjust the clashing interests [of factions], and render them subservient to the public good’ (§9). In line with Madison’s definition of faction cited above, it seems that individuals by nature happen to have diverging interests and passions, and tend to act in accordance with them. The ensuing danger, then, is a tyranny of the biggest faction if decisions are taken by majority rule. Disambiguating such terms and concepts by text-​immanent means, as effectively as possible, is the task of the second step of the Oxford model. There is every reason to accomplish this task meticulously. Its results impact upon the translation of the text into propositional content (step 1) and, of course, upon the reconstruction of the arguments (step 3), the matter to which we turn now.

1.2.3  Reconstructing Arguments The third step of the Oxford model orders and relates the propositions to each other in order to reconstruct the individual arguments of the text and to extract its answer to our predefined question of how society should be organized. Recall that it may be necessary to add certain logically implied propositions. In the case of Federalist Paper No. 10, despite its rather orderly appearance, its premises and conclusions are quite frequently mixed up or unstated. For instance, in the first paragraph immediately following the lines we analyzed in Section 1.2.1 (see Table 1.2), Madison

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From Text to Argument  19 TABLE 1.2  An argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10

Argument 1 The decline of popular government is caused by unstable, unjust and confused public councils. (Prop. 8)

= Main Premise

According to critics of popular government, American public councils are unstable, unjust and confused. (Prop. 9)

= Minor Premise A

According to defenders of popular government, American public councils are unstable, unjust and confused. (Prop. 10)

= Minor Premise B

American public councils are (a part or kind of) popular government.

= Minor Premise C (unstated)

Popular government in America is doomed to decline, if not both critics and defenders of popular government are wrong.

= Conclusion (unstated)

abstains from spelling out one minor (perhaps widely shared) premise and leaves it to the reader to draw the (obvious) conclusion. The next argument of Federalist Paper No. 10 claims that (the violence of) faction is the cause of instability, injustice and confusion. Because of this, (the violence of) faction must be either controlled or broken. Let us now consider the two arguments Madison provides to reject the latter option. One way to break (the violence of) faction, Madison tells us, is to abolish liberty (§§4–​5). He reduces this option to an absurdity: (The violence of) faction can be broken by abolishing liberty, but liberty is essential not only for faction, but for political life in general as well. Abolishing liberty therefore abolishes political life altogether (and violates the principles of popular government, cf. prop 7). Hence, this solution simply throws the baby out with the bathwater. The other option –​breaking (the violence of) faction by enforcing uniformity (in terms of interests, passions and opinions) –​is also rejected (§§6–​9). While intuitively plausible in light of our own historical experience, it is interesting to consider the reasons and arguments that Federalist Paper No. 10 provides. Intuitively, we might think that the option of enforcing uniformity suffers from the same pitfall as the option of abolishing liberty. It disallows precisely what popular government is designated to allow; in fact, Madison articulates just such an argument. But he also provides a totally different argument and, confusingly, he uses both to substantiate the claim that enforcing uniformity is actually not a solution at all. While abolishing liberty would be ‘unwise,’ Madison claims, enforcing uniformity is virtually ‘impracticable’ (§6). Individual interests cannot be harmonized (= Thesis). First, Madison says, it is impossible to harmonize individual interests, opinions and passions, because human beings

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20  From Text to Argument TABLE 1.3  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [a]‌)

Argument 2 (Version [a]‌) Individual interests cannot be harmonized.

=Thesis

Individuals have different talents (‘faculties’) to acquire property.

=Main Premise

Individuals use their talents to acquire property.

=Minor Premise A (unstated)

Individuals acquire diverging amounts of property.

=Conclusion A

Wealthy and poor individuals have distinct interests.

=Minor Premise B

Individual interests cannot be harmonized. (‘The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is […] an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests.’)

= Conclusion B (q.e.d.)

TABLE 1.4  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [a]‌, corrected)

Argument 2 (Version [a]‌, corrected) Individual interests cannot be harmonized.

=Thesis

Individuals have different talents (‘faculties’) to acquire property.

=Main Premise

Individuals use their talents to acquire property.

= Minor Premise A (unstated)

Individuals acquire diverging amounts of property.

= Conclusion A

Wealthy and poor individuals have distinct interests.

= Minor Premise B

Individuals cannot be prevented from possessing diverging amounts of property.

= Minor Premise C (unstated)

Individual interests cannot be harmonized. (‘The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is […] an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests.’)

= Conclusion B (q.e.d.)

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come to form different opinions (e.g. about religion) and to develop different passions by nature (§6). Two sources of inconformity, and indirectly faction, thus cannot be eradicated. More  important,  however, Madison says, is the second argument, which substantiates the claim about the inevitable diversity of interests. It is helpful to take a closer look at this argument, not least because Madison presents it in two different versions (see Tables 1.3–​1.6). Argument 2 (Version [a]‌) is formally valid –​except for one decisive word in the Thesis and Conclusion B, namely ‘cannot’ (‘impracticable,’ respectively ‘insuperable’ in the original text). We are left with two options to correct the argument. Either we modify the Thesis or we insert the necessary minor premise that ‘individuals

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From Text to Argument  21 TABLE 1.5  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [b]‌)

Argument 2 (Version [b]‌) Individual interests cannot be harmonized.

=Thesis

Individuals have different talents (‘faculties’) to acquire property.

=Main Premise

Individuals use their talents to acquire property.

=Minor Premise A (unstated)

Individuals have an absolute right to make use of their talents. (‘The protection of these faculties is the first object of government.’)

=Minor Premise C’

Individuals are entitled to acquire diverging amounts of property.

=Conclusion A

Wealthy and poor individuals have distinct interests.

=Minor Premise B

Individual interests cannot be harmonized. (‘The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is […] an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests.’)

=Conclusion B (q.e.d.)

TABLE 1.6  A second argument of the Federalist Paper No. 10 (Version [b], corrected)

Argument 2 (Version [b]‌, corrected) Individual interests should not be harmonized.

= Thesis (corrected)

Individuals have different talents (‘faculties’) to acquire property.

= Main Premise

Individuals use their talents to acquire property.

=Minor Premise A (unstated)

Individuals have an absolute right to make use of their talents. (‘The protection of these faculties is the first object of government.’)

=Minor Premise C’

Individuals are entitled to acquire diverging amounts of property.

=Conclusion A

Wealthy and poor individuals have distinct interests.

=Minor Premise B

Individual interests cannot be harmonized. (‘The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is […] an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests.’)

=Conclusion B (q.e.d.)

cannot be prevented from possessing diverging amounts of property’ (=Minor Premise C). Let us for the moment proceed with the latter option. The corrected version of the argument, then, reads as follows: Minor Premise C is rather implausible, but this alone would not keep us from adopting it, given that assessing the plausibility of reconstructed arguments is not

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part of the Oxford model for understanding texts. But there are text-​immanent reasons for going with the other option and, hence, qualifying the Thesis and Conclusion B of Argument 2 (Version [a]‌). These text-​immanent reasons become clear when considering Madison’s second version of the argument (Version [b]). The variation to Argument 2 (Version [a]) results from the insertion of a further premise (let us call that premise Premise C’). We highlight Premise C’ in bold in the original text, and provide the formalized argument in Figure 1.6. The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is […] an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests. The protection of these faculties is the first object of government [our emphasis]. From the protection of different and unequal faculties of acquiring property, the possession of different degrees and kinds of property immediately results; and from the influence of these on the sentiments and views of the respective proprietors, ensues a division of the society into different interests and parties. For the argument to be valid, one further premise (call it Premise D) must be inserted to exclude the possibility of an ex-​post redistribution of property. Otherwise, even if individuals were free to acquire property, it would be possible to deprive them of (parts of) this property once they acquired it. Moreover, the corrected version of Argument 2 (Version [b]‌) does not claim inevitability but desirability. In sum, the option of resolving the problem of faction by enforcing uniformity does in fact suffer from the same pitfall as the option of abolishing liberty, rather than being impracticable; it violates the core principles which are attributed to popular government. We will not consider in detail the other arguments included in Federalist Paper No. 10. Suffice it to say that it argues that enlarging the polity is a key factor for controlling the problems associated with factions because: (a) a large polity includes more factions than a small one, decreasing the likelihood of the existence of majority factions and (b) because a large territory makes it harder for minority factions to forge alliances (esp. §20). Based on the analyses above, we can answer our predefined question as follows: According to the Federalist Paper No. 10, society should be organized in such a way that • • • •

the political system takes the form of a popular government; popular government is a representative, not a direct democracy; the size of the territory and the number of citizens is large (more precisely: as large as possible); individual liberties are guaranteed, including the right to make unrestrained use of one’s talents to acquire property;

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From Text to Argument  23

•

property is not to be redistributed (either on the basis of some principle of redistributive justice, or because the ensuing harmonization of interests would help to control the problem associated with factions).

1.3  Limits and Possibilities of an Oxford Approach The Oxford model is a simple and straightforward method of interpretation. But it is not so simple and straightforward as to obviate the need for explanation. It does not merely involve reading what is written in black on white in the text. Instead, it translates sentences into propositions, specifies terms and concepts, and reconstructs arguments, which may include the task of adding unstated premises and conclusions, or correcting them if unsound. The Oxford model is appealing in several respects: it allows for the possibility of dissecting texts, disrobing them of rhetorical divertissement and stylistic accessories; it allows for the distillation of arguments and understanding their mutual connections, and it produces answers to questions we are actually interested in. It may, but need not be, practiced on the basis of demanding assumptions about the endurance and ubiquity of certain political and philosophical interests. And its individual strategies of interpretation – in particular, proposition identification, parallel passages strategy and logical analysis – will most usually be decidedly useful and easily utilizable in our interpretive practice even if we refrain from applying the Oxford model in pure form. Having said this, we should not hide the fact that the Oxford model is far from self-​sufficient. It simply cannot be exercised in its pure form. For one, the Oxford model can only be applied to philologically edited texts. Most of us are reliant upon the translations by other scholars to read Plato’s Συμπόσιον or Ibn Khaldun’s ‫ةمّدقملا‬. And even if we might be able to read, for instance, Immanuel Kant’s Metaphysik der Sitten or Jean-​Jacques Rousseau’s Du Contrat Social in the original, we will try to use critical editions, in which experts (who will have employed text-​transcendent strategies of interpretation) invariably shape our understanding. Even more important is the fact that we have always already understood (in some way and to some extent) the texts we set out to interpret. That is, we necessarily have a rudimentary preliminary understanding of what the text to be interpreted is about. To add a rather sophisticated example, one might not be able to forget what Hobbes wrote concerning human nature in De Cive, or in his Autobiography in which he characterized himself as the twin of fear, when analyzing the anthropology that he lays out in the Leviathan. And last but not least, we necessarily, even if unnoticedly, translate the texts into our own language while reading. We understand words and phrases according to either today’s usage, perhaps according to either our respective sociolects, or to our assumptions about their historical usage. Perhaps we are experts on the historical context in which the text originated and perhaps we know better than anyone else how the language used in the text was understood back then. But this only means that we have done some excellent

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philological work preceding our interpretation of the text using the Oxford model. The Oxford model itself does not provide any philological tools whatsoever, and actually does not generate awareness about the fact that we always already find ourselves placed within a hermeneutical circle, in which interpretive prejudices enable and channel our understanding.5 There are other limits to the Oxford model. Political texts are often so much more than containers of tidied-​up arguments (cf. Hacker 1954). The rhetorical ruse so characteristic of, for instance, Federalist Paper No. 10 is its deliberate concealment of third options. It systematically confronts the reader with forced choices –​you can do either this or that –​as if there were no alternatives. But democracy does not come in only two forms; it certainly makes a difference whether a party acquires a simple majority, a relative majority only, or even a supermajority, and whether their majority is permanent or temporary (because of swing voters); and instead of either depriving individuals of basic rights or impeding majority parties, it is conceivable to extend the measures for minority protection or require that policies be justified in terms of public reasoning.The Oxford model blinds its applicant to the fact that crowding out alternatives is often an equally important discursive goal of political actors as is making a strong positive case for their preferred policy option. Furthermore, the Oxford model is limited by its text-​only nature. It does not attribute any importance to the facts that a text has been written by somebody, for somebody and that it was read by an audience. The Oxford model makes no attempt to place a text in the context of the discussions of its time and place of origin. It does not take what came before or what came afterwards into account. It brackets out why a text was written in the first place and what it achieved. All of this can add so much to our understanding of a text. And it is easy to see why one might think that the lack of self-​sufficiency, the ignorance of authorial intentions or motivations, and the insensitivity to contextual meaning disqualify the Oxford model. Franca D’Agostini (2010, 167–​172), for instance, suggests that an interpretation using the Oxford model does not merely face certain limitations but that it in fact also commits several interpretive fallacies (in particular, the fallacy of anachronism, the fallacy of underestimation, the fallacy of the unrecognized prejudice, the fallacy of privileging one’s own horizon over that of the author and the fallacy of the final word). Most of these fallacies presuppose that the main purpose of interpretation is the reconstruction of historical or intended meaning. Yet it should be acknowledged that many research interests in political theory are primarily constructive, and aim at expanding our theoretical apparatuses. For this purpose, it does not matter much whether we get the historical or intended meaning of a text correct. But even if we pursue rather reconstructive research projects, the Oxford model –​in eclectic combination with others –​still equips us with a highly valuable method­ ological toolkit. In what ways, and under what conditions, we might profitably rely on the Oxford model is a question to which we will return in the Epilogue. It

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suffices to say that in our view, it is crucial to make deliberate use of its possibilities, and to retain methodological awareness of its limits.

Notes 1 For an early exception, see e.g. Hacker (1954, 782–​783) who firmly rejects the model:‘In a word, these are logic-​book exercises, or (in some people’s eyes) philosophy, but it is not a study of politics.’ 2 For an overview of the formative years in the development of the analytical approach, see Miller (1983). 3 Cf. e.g. Quinton (1982, ix), Plamenatz (1938, x; 1963, xviii). 4 For a general exposition of this charge, see D’Agostini (2010).We will come back to this charge in the conclusions of this chapter as well as in Chapter 4. 5 For the concept of the hermeneutical circle and the interpretive prejudices that enable and channel understanding, see Gadamer (2013 [1960]).

References D’Agostini, Franca. 2010. Verità avvelenata. Buoni e cattivi del dibattito pubblico. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri. Erasmus of Rotterdam. 1963 [1512]. On Copia of Words and Ideas. Translated by Donald King and H. David Rix. Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press. Gadamer, Hans-​Georg. 2013 [1960]. Truth and Method. London; New York: Bloomsbury. Hacker,Andrew. 1954.‘Capital and Carbuncles.’ American Political Science Review 48: 775–​786. Lovejoy, Arthur O. 1936. The Great Chain of Being: A Study of the History of an Idea. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Madison, James. 2020 [1787]. Federalist Paper No. 10.The Same Subject Continued:The Union as a Safeguard Against Domestic Faction and Insurrection. Library of Congress: Primary Documents in American History. Available at: https://​guides.loc.gov/​federalist-​papers/​text-​1-​10. Miller, David. 1983. ‘Linguistic Philosophy and Political Theory.’ In The Nature of Political Theory, edited by David Miller und Larry Siedentop, 35–​52. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Plamenatz, John. 1938. Consent, Freedom and Political Obligation. London: Oxford University Press. Plamenatz, John. 1963. Man and Society. A Critical Examination of some Important Social and Political Theories from Macchiavelli to Marx.Vol. 1. London: Longmans. Quinton, Anthony. 1982. Thoughts and Thinkers. London: Duckworth.

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2 THE PERSON BEHIND THE AUTHOR What Plato’s Life Tells Us about the Statesman

In political theory, there are roughly two variants of biographical interpretation. On the one hand, there are interpretations that consciously and explicitly seek to explain the entire oeuvre or a single text by way of the author’s biography. Joachim Radkau’s (2009) magisterial biography of Max Weber or Ulrich von Willamowitz-​ Moellendorf ’s (1920) book on Plato, which will be important for the present chapter, are two such examples.1 Such large-​scale attempts of the biographical approach are rather unpopular in contemporary research. Criticism of this approach goes back at least to Hacker’s (1954, 777) classic essay, in which he named and rejected it, for ‘such a study is biography and history; but it is not politics.’ Henning Ottmann’s (2008, 149) point on Karl Marx takes the same line: ‘The person is the one matter, the teachings the other. Examining the person can neither confirm nor disprove the theory.’ Ottmann particularly has in mind the attempts by Karl Löwith (1957, ­chapter 2) and Arnold Künzli (1966), who both emphasize Marx’s Jewish provenance as a relevant biographical fact for the interpretation of his works. On the other hand, biographical interpretation is implicitly present in political theory, if not, omnipresent. That the specialists often ascribe explanatory power to the biography of an author for the purposes of interpreting a text is evident by the fact that textbooks regularly research contributions and sometimes feature a table of the author’s life or a short summary thereof.The result is a largely uncommented juxtaposition of biography and interpretation. Henning Ottmann (2001, 1) starts his chapter on Plato (as he does with most chapters in his History of Political Thought) with a box about his life and letters. At the outset, he writes about the lesson that Plato drew from Socrates’ fate, and which would ultimately influence his philosophy. The person and the teachings here do not at all appear as something separate. Still, that an examination of the person can neither confirm nor disprove a theory is plausible, and Ottmann (2008, 149) only disputes the possibility of there DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-3

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being a ‘direct path’ from a person’s biography to the interpretation of a text, as the issue is ‘more complicated.’ Yet, his chapter on Marx is divided into sections on the ‘young’ and the ‘older’ Marx and begins with a section on ‘personal matters.’ Moreover, the chapter ends with a review that features yet another short biography of Marx in 14 lines (Ottmann 2008, 190). Even if Ottmann does not expect the biography to confirm or disprove Marx’s teachings, he depends on a description of the life of the author to structure and explain the theory. In any case, the omnipresence of biographical interpretation in political theory is exceedingly evident in seemingly minor interpretive moves as when a clause introduces some fact about the author’s biography in passing. While it is rarely mentioned, such clauses amount to nothing else than miniature applications of a biographical approach.Why would one draw a connection between the life of the author and his or her text, if it were not to ascribe in some way an explanatory power to that piece of biographical information?

2.1  The Biographical Model of Interpretation The direction of interpretation is crucial for the biographical model; that is, the biography is supposed to help explain the text or a specific aspect thereof. It is important to distinguish biographical interpretation from the reverse interest of learning more about the person behind the author by reading his or her work. The former centers on the interpretation of the text. The text expresses the views and intentions of the author at a given point in life, which is why an adequate understanding of the text is only attainable against the background of the author’s biography; such is the key assumption of the model. In short: whoever seeks to understand a text or only a passage of a text needs to know as well as possible the author’s specific biographical situation (potentially in all facets, including the psychic state and inner world) at the time of the composition of the text. Therefore, the biographical model of interpretation is clearly author-​centered, since a text is understood to be something written by someone. Yet, which aspects of a human life should be considered when pursuing a biographical approach? Perhaps one should only consider autobiographical writings? Or maybe one should also consider an author’s actions as described by third parties? What about the wider structure and nature of the environment in which the author in question operated and therefore lived? Should one also regard the intellectual context? Or perhaps one should even consider all historical events that might have left an impression on the author? These few questions lead to a rather obvious point: there is simply no way to decide as to what the relevant aspects of the biographical model are in a general manner. Meanwhile, biographical interpretation can be distinguished from two different specific historical interests: actual history and the history of philosophy. Although actual history and the history of philosophy usually play a big role in the biography of an author in political theory, biographical interpretation takes an interest

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beyond historical facts and the data of the history of philosophy. Biographical interpretation always seeks to show that a certain event in the author’s life had a decisive effect by compelling him or her to write a text in one but not in another way, to defend a certain position or to advance one argument instead of another. Biographical interpretation explains an unclear text (or a passage) with recourse to an occurrence in the author’s life. Therefore, only those historical events which one can demonstrate as having had a decisive influence on the author’s oeuvre are relevant for biographical interpretation. The influence must be such that it has explanatory power for interpreting the text or the passage. The fact that every author has parents may illustrate this relevancy criterion: while the identity of a person’s parents is always relevant to the biographer, this is not necessarily the case for the interpreter who wants to explain a text by way of biography. This information is only relevant for biographical interpretation if it contributes to a better understanding of the author’s text. That John Stuart Mill was the son of James Mill is often mentioned in readings of John Stuart Mill’s political thought because the father’s strict upbringing led to the son’s mental and physical breakdown and could not but have had an impact on some of John Stuart’s writings.2 That the father of Thomas Hobbes was a vicar is rarely mentioned in readings of Hobbes’s political thought. Yet, this information might be relevant when encountering the difficulty of interpreting the more Bible-​ based third and fourth parts of the Leviathan. That the father was a vicar not just anywhere, but close to Malmesbury in Wiltshire, might indeed seem an irrelevant piece of information for biographical interpretation. Be that as it may, whether or not some piece of information is relevant for biographical interpretation, is ultimately the interpreter’s decision to make and one that he or she will have to defend if necessary. One impressive example of biographical information that might be relevant for explaining an author’s position is Nicolaus Sombart’s sexual-pathological explanation for the central notion of decision (‘Entscheidung’) in Carl Schmitt’s oeuvre: The decision (‘Entscheidung’) is the determined as well as desperate option for the all-​dominating significant (of masculine society), the phallus, the ‘nom du père’ or simply the de-​cision (‘Ent-​Scheidung’) –​literally –​the defense and rejection of the ‘vagina’ (‘Scheide’), the vulva. Decision is the fixation of the phallus, in order to escape the terrible danger of being devoured by the gaping opening, the ‘béance,’ the abyss, into which one would be very keen to get into. Sombart 1991, 177–​178; own transl. Consequently, Sombart interprets the famous sentence at the beginning of Schmitt’s Political Theology, ‘sovereign is he who decides on the exception,’ in the sense of the male erection, which –​itself a state of exception –​fails to establish permanent male rule. Sombart (1991, 180; own transl.) writes:

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Everything suggests that his political theory with its famous-​infamous formula of the ‘friend-​enemy distinction,’ the ‘state of exception’ and ‘decision,’ ‘chaos’ and ‘anarchy’ boils down to the typical neurosis of Wilhelmine male society. Indeed, the most diverse aspects of a person’s life can be relevant for biographical interpretation. In the example above, Sombart claims Schmitt’s psychic inner life to be relevant as a biographical information; but the last quote reveals that Schmitt mirrors a pathology that is supposed to apply to an entire society. The issue concerns those circumstances of Schmitt’s life that transcend the individual author. They are taken to be significant because –​as Sombart strives to show –​they provide explanatory power for those passages that are difficult to interpret in Schmitt’s oeuvre. Against this background, some feminist and Marxist approaches (which we do not discuss in this volume) can be seen as special cases of the biographical model, inasmuch as they (like Sombart’s social pathology of Wilhelmine male society) put forth social conditions as primary explanatory factors. An author’s writing is thus always taken to be dependent if not determined by the predominant gender conceptions or relations of production in a society. The structure of the society works, so to speak, through the author; the structure is in fact the real author. To push the argument to its extreme, one could almost say that who exactly wrote a text no longer plays any role; anyone who wrote under certain relations of production (e.g. capitalism) and suffered from a ‘false consciousness’ or anyone who was accustomed to certain patriarchal gender roles could write the same thing. Of course, such a radical strategy of analysis runs the risk of having conclusively interpreted the text before even reading it. Many Marxist and feminist approaches therefore take a less radical, correspondingly more complex and therefore more convincing approach. In any case, these examples suggest an interesting spectrum for biographical interpretation: at the one end, a biography is of interest with regard to the author’s characteristics that he or she shared with others (with all other contemporaries, with other philosophers across all times, with other large landowners, with all men, etc.). At the other end, a biography is of interest with regard to the author’s characteristics that only concern him or her (his or her genius, extraordinariness, singularity). The following application of the biographical model to Plato and his Statesman does not pursue a radical variant, but decidedly shows more concern for Plato’s individuality than the structural elements of Athenian society.

2.2  Plato’s Life and Works The procedure seems straightforward enough (see Figure 2.1). First, a biographical approach endeavors to find as much as possible about the author’s life and his or her circumstances, even if not everything will prove to be relevant in the

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The biographical model explains a text or a specific aspect thereof with recourse to a motivating fact or event in the author’s life.

Text

Who has authored the text? When was the text written? Are the authorship or dating of the text contested? Was the text written over a longer period of time and can the unclear passage be dated more precisely?

Step 1 Identify author and dating of the text

Step 2

What is known about the life of the person behind the author up until the time of writing the text? What is the evidence for these accounts? Which broader historical circumstances must have impacted the author as much as other contemporaries? What other texts has the author written before the text under inquiry?

Establish full biography including historical circumstances until the time of writing

Are there events in the person’s life or historical circumstances that impacted the author and that can be related to the investigated text or aspect thereof? How plausible are these connections? What further arguments could possibly strengthen the evidence for the claimed connections?

Step 3 Draw connections between biography and text

Meaning

FIGURE 2.1 

The biographical model of interpretation.

interpretive effort. Certainly, the time of the composition of the text sets a limit on relevant information. Whatever happened in the life of the author after that point in time cannot be relevant for the interpretation utilizing the biographical model. Even if the entire oeuvre forms the object of biographical interpretation, the author’s death and potentially an unfinished work (as in the case of Plato’s Laws) set the major boundaries. This means that exact dating of the text is extremely important for biographical interpretation since the time of composition gives a terminus ad quem, until which the interpreter has to consider the author’s biography. Yet, what do we know today about Plato’s life?Von Willamowitz-​Moellendorf (1920, 6) put it concisely: ‘What we reliably know about Plato’s life beyond his

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The Person behind the Author  31 TABLE 2.1  Chronology of principal events in Plato’s life

469 429 399 384 380–​370s

367 347

Socrates born Plato born Socrates executed Aristotle born At some point, Plato begins to hold formal instruction in the academy gymnasium; this develops into the Academy as a philosophical school, about whose institutional structure we know almost nothing. Aristotle joins the Academy Plato dies

writings can be written on a page of a quarto.’ Whoever engages with studying Plato’s biography soon enough faces the task of being mindful of the little that is reliable amidst the heaps of anecdotes and fictions. The question of the authenticity of the reported episodes is constantly posed. Of course, scholars disagree as to the amount and the kind of information that they judge to be reliable. In her notes on the Statesman (Politikos), Julia Annas assembles a table of Plato’s life (see Table 2.1) using very strict criteria of reliability. The table only contains seven entries. Annas (1995, xxvi) adds an explanation to the table: ‘Other events in Plato’s life mentioned in the ancient biographies are of doubtful chronology, and often doubtful historicity.’ In turn, Michael Erler (2006, 225–​226), who also exercises caution, puts together a much more comprehensive table. Moreover, much of what a more comprehensive variant (perhaps rightly) considers to be trustworthy information comes from sources dating to a few centuries after Plato (e.g. Diogenes Laertios). These sources, in turn, rely on texts that are no longer extant (early biographies from the circle of Plato’s students, for instance, are referenced). Plato’s dialogues are known to include information about all kinds of historical figures, but they mention hardly any information whatsoever about Plato himself.3 Perhaps only a few sources from much later times are worth considering. They are often interspersed with legendary elements and sometimes even report contradicting information –​with the one exception being the Seventh Letter, which Plato may have written and, if so, may have been his attempt at autobiography. The Seventh Letter offers some interesting material concerning Plato’s life. In it, Plato looks back at his life, explains his political actions and gives an account of his journeys to Sicily (which historians from the first century bc, such as Cornelius Nepos and Diodoros Siculus and the later Plutarch also report). The authenticity of the Seventh Letter has been the subject of a longstanding controversy (see, for a recent substantial contribution, Burnyeat and Frede, 2015). Every so often, the letter would be deemed inauthentic (which would not have been out of the

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ordinary as many scribes in antiquity authored letters of famous people for the purpose of practicing their craft).4 In today’s scholarly discussions (Erler 2007, 314–​318; Nails 2006, 3), the letter is considered to be real or, if not real, then at least authored by someone who was highly informed; in fact, so well informed that the contents of the letter can be taken to be reliable. But some nevertheless continue to raise very serious objections to this standard view.5 Besides the biography, the chronology of the dialogues poses problems too. Researchers have pursued many different approaches to determine the sequence of the works:6 (1) internal criteria follow cross-​references within the dialogues themselves (for instance, both the Sophist (217a) and the Statesman (258b) indicate that the Sophist was written earlier).7 (2) External criteria make use of historical figures and events that are mentioned in the dialogues. Socrates’ death in 399 bc, for instance, allows us to date the composition of all dialogues that mention this event (and many of Plato’s dialogues do) to after that specific year. (3) Less straightforward is an approach that argues for sequencing any two given works based on an assumption that Plato would have refined his earlier positions in his later works. Erler has serious reservations about this approach because Plato does not always have Socrates say all that he knows, but rather lets him hold back out of consideration for the other participants; one would also commit to the more far-​reaching, but equally less persuasive, assumption that Plato always wrote down everything according to the best of his knowledge (Erler 2007, 23). But of course, the eponymous characters of the dialogues are an obstacle to such an approach. (4) Stylistic criteria and particularly stylometric procedures that evaluate dialogues (increasingly with the help of computers) for vocabulary and style have scored the most success in terms of establishing chronology, even if no certainty can possibly be attained in this manner. Most scholars today accept the division of Plato’s oeuvre into three groups (early, middle and late period) based on stylistic criteria, and they accept that no precise chronology can be established within these three groups, except where internal or external criteria, or convincing arguments for subsequently refined positions can be presented (Erler 2006, 41). With regard to the third group of texts, a further aspect has recently attracted increased attention. Some suspect that the composition of the Laws, for which Plato’s student Philip of Opus did the final redactions, was not an isolated incident, but that many hands were frequently involved in the composition of the late dialogues.8 An application of the biographical model to Plato’s dialogues nevertheless faces considerable barriers. This difficult point of departure sets narrow boundaries for a biographical reading, which must be adequately mirrored in the arguments and presumptions produced, if one wants to apply the model seriously. Then again, it is precisely for this reason that Plato seems to be a particularly suitable case for critically discussing the challenges confronting any interpretation that follows the biographical model.

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BY THE WAY…: THE TRAPS OF CHRONOLOGY If one draws on the Seventh Letter and commits to the chronological sequence of Plato’s first and second journey to Sicily to conduct a biographical approach to the Statesman, then a peculiar and somewhat delicate interpretive constellation results. As much as Plato’s first two trips to Sicily might have influenced the contents of the Statesman, the composition of the Statesman might have influenced the remarks in the Seventh Letter. The Seventh Letter reports on events that took place some years earlier (it was written after 354 bc). Plato’s advice to the Syracusians in the Seventh Letter (337c–​d) fits with what he says in the Statesman, and may even be influenced by the Statesman, yet it cannot possibly explain the Seventh Letter retrospectively (‘And then when the laws have been laid down everything depends upon this. If the victors show themselves more eager than the vanquished to obey the laws, then everything will be safe, happiness will abound, and all these evils will take their flight.’)9 For instance, the meaning of the word kairos—which is used in the letter (327e) when Dion tries to persuade Plato to come to Sicily given the advantageous moment and which enjoys also a central position in the Statesman—is entirely unclear. What influences what can hardly be clarified in this case.10

2.3  Plato in Sicily and Laws in the Statesman 2.3.1  Dating the Statesman There is no doubt in contemporary research that the Statesman can be assigned to Plato. The dialogue is widely considered to be authentic. But this was not always the case. In the 19th century, in the context of a new historical consciousness inspired by Romanticism and a corresponding hyper-​skepticism, some denied the authenticity of the Statesman, while nobody really showed much interest in the question of authenticity at all before this period (see Erler 2006, 37, 245). What is there to be said about the time of the composition of the text? Which part of Plato’s biography might be relevant for the purposes of interpretation? Researchers have investigated the time of the composition of the Statesman in the above-​mentioned ways. On the one hand, they are interested in the relative time of the composition in relation to Plato’s other dialogues; on the other hand, they want to know the precise date of the composition, which in Plato’s case means determining a specific year or period. Both of these approaches are important for the biographical approach. Texts that already existed at the time of the composition of the Statesman belong to the author’s

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biography and can contain helpful information about it. Based on its stylistic characteristics, the Statesman can be classified as a late dialogue, meaning it was composed after the Republic, Phaedrus, Theaetetus and Parmenides. Internal criteria suggest that the text was written after (or perhaps at the same time as) the Sophist. With regard to the possible absolute date, most scholars find it probable that the text was composed between 367/​5 bc and the first half of the 350s bc. 367/​5 refers to Plato’s second trip to Sicily. This sets a terminus post quem for the interpretation because all deviating suggestions provide a later date of composition. Nevertheless, the second trip to Sicily is not explicitly mentioned in the dialogue and therefore not an external criterion for inferring the date of composition. Some have made implicit references with respect to 292aff. and 296bff. (see Erler 2006, 245). Hence, one still cannot rule out the possibility that the Statesman was composed after Plato’s third trip to Sicily in 361/​0 bc. In the biographical approach pursued in this chapter, we take the second trip to Sicily to be the decisive event interpreting the Statesman. The relevant biographical event does not have to lie in close temporal proximity to the date of composition. Socrates’ execution in 399 bc is a relevant event, even if there is a distance of some 40 years between the cup of hemlock and the composition of the Statesman. The storyline in the Statesman is set directly before Socrates’ trial. In a certain sense, all of Plato’s texts can be said to be related to Socrates’ execution –​insofar as that event incited Plato to give up a political career and turn to writing instead. This does not imply that each of his texts and every open question therein should be related to this event. For example, an interpretation might arise out of a comparison between two texts both of which were composed after the event. In this case, a difference of argument might be due to the author changing his or her mind or due to some new, hitherto neglected information. In such a constellation, other events which took place between the writing of the two texts must be identified or some other explanation must be advanced about why the event is attributed with a different significance in the two texts. Finally, it could be the case that an earlier, in the first text largely ineffective, event gains weight and comes to make the author change his or her mind, which then clearly manifests in the second text.

2.3.2  Summary of the Dialogue When taking up the Statesman, the reader first encounters a short exchange between Socrates and Theodoros, before these two figures take a back seat and a conversation begins between a visitor (a guest from Elea) and a pupil, who carries the nameYoung Socrates. The guest leads the discussion and presents longer deliberations, while Young Socrates states shorter polite requests in response or simply adds affirmative but empty phrases (‘that’s so,’ ‘you’re right,’ ‘that’s fair,’ ‘of course,’ ‘very true,’ ‘absolutely,’ etc.). Only at the very end does (Older) Socrates speak again, thanking the guest for having so well explained what appears to be the central question of the

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dialogue: ‘Another most excellent portrait, visitor […] of the man who possesses the art of kingship: the statesman’ (311c).11 More precisely, the dialogue concerns the definition and description of the true statesman. A first definition of the statesman presents him as a ‘herdsman concerned with things human’ (268a). This definition is quickly proven to be unsatisfactory, when the telling of a comprehensive myth of the golden age of Cronus leads the conversants to the insight that a divine herdsman of human beings is simply nowhere to be found in the age of Zeus (that is, the age in which the dialogue is set). They have, the guest says, not only described ‘a god instead of a mortal’ (275a) but have gone wrong in other ways as well, thereby leading them to a new definition: the true and genuine statesman is the one who masters the art of ‘herd-​keeping that is voluntary’ over ‘willing two-​footed living things’ (276e). The following discussion about the nature of the example (277d–​277e) leads to another exemplary definition, this time a definition of weaving (279a–​281d), along with a consideration of the nature and art of measurement (283b–​287a). The political dimension comes explicitly to the foreground soon afterwards (with the thoughts about the method of dihaeresis correspondingly losing prominence), when the visitor proposes: ‘let’s go back again to the statesman, and bring the model of weaving, which we talked about before, to bear on it’ (287a–​287b). This turn in the discussion brings a new topic to the fore: VISITOR: It must then be the case, it seems, that of constitutions too the one that is correct in comparison with the rest, and alone a constitution, is the one in which the rulers would be found truly possessing expert knowledge, and not merely seeming to do so, whether they rule according to laws or without laws, over willing or unwilling subjects, and whether the rulers are poor or wealthy—​there is no principle of correctness according to which any of these must be taken into any account at all. YOUNG SOCRATES: Right. 293c The remarks on the true statesman then coalesce with questions about the correct constitution, by which the statesman might have to ‘purge the city for its benefit by putting some people to death or else by exiling them’ (293c). Notwithstanding, this is the only genuine constitution; all the others, which are perhaps also known by this name, are ‘not really constitutions at all, but imitations of this one; those we say are “law-​abiding” have imitated it for the better, the others for the worse’ (293d–​293e). Young Socrates finds the idea of laws playing no role at all in ideal rule to be ‘something harder for a hearer to accept’ (293e). An excursus about the different imitating constitutions follows. Monarchy, aristocracy and the better form of democracy are ‘good’ or ‘better’ imitations (mimemata) of the only correct, that is, the true, constitution only if they never do ‘anything contrary to what is written or to ancestral customs’ (301a).The reason is that in such states, there are no ‘experts’ who

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have mastered ‘the art of statesmanship,’ which would be a necessary condition for adequately changing the laws. Therefore, ‘good’ imitations of the true constitution (one that builds on a true and knowing statesman) are those that rest on laws and that leave these laws untouched. The text is clear that the laws must be ‘good’. The dialogue ends with a discussion of the last definition of the true statesman. This time, the definition turns on the example of weaving (305d–​305e; 310d–​ 311c). According to the guest from Elea, the true statesman is an expert in ‘weaving everything together’ (305e), intertwining all the different foundational characters and temperaments and their related virtues, particularly courage and moderation. The art of statesmanship turns out to be a meta-​expertise to recognize the ‘right time’ (kairos) for the application of other sorts of expert knowledge: VISITOR: If then one looks at all the sorts of expert knowledge that have been discussed, it must be observed that none of them has been declared to be statesmanship. For what is really kingship must not itself perform practical tasks, but control those with the capacity to perform them, because it knows when it is the right time to begin and set in motion the most important things in cities, and when it is the wrong time; and the others must do what has been prescribed for them. Thus, the dialogue appears to defend a clear position in terms of statesmanship (even if it remains unclear as to whether the entire dialogue is aimed more at making a methodological point or whether its thematic and methodological points somehow meaningfully hang together). The art of politics is the preserve of a few –​alas, as the dialogue suggests, arguably nobody masters it at the time of actual events.

2.3.3  The Puzzle Of course, one could investigate and interrogate the final definition of the statesman as weaver in a variety of ways. One could read it, on the one hand, in light of the entire structure of the dialogue, and the part on the laws and their varying role with regard to the true constitution, and on the other hand, in light of the forms of constitutions imitating it. All in all, the discussion of this final definition is an excursus in need of interpretation. Even if the dramaturgy of the entire dialogue results in a characterization of the true and knowing statesman, the excursus places a particular theme at its center that we should suppose stands there for a reason. Moreover, the issue has not lost any of its significance in today’s world. Democratic constitutions at the beginning of the 21st century are also based on the principle of legality. Many who have studied the dialogue noticed a problem that has to do with how and what exactly is being imitated. It is unclear what the constitutions that rest on unchangeable laws would have in common with the one true constitution that

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can do perfectly fine without laws, since its laws can be changed at any moment. What justifies the discussion of ‘imitations’? In other words: how can one seriously claim that constitutions whose main characteristic are unchangeable laws should be good ‘imitations’ of a constitution whose main characteristic is the knowledge of the true statesman and explicitly not the existence and significance of unchangeable laws? Would it not stand to reason then that ‘bad’ constitutions (that is, tyranny, oligarchy and the bad form of democracy) were ‘better’ imitations, since their main characteristic is also the absence of good laws? Ultimately, the ‘imitation’ rests on a kind of paradox as described by, for instance, Melissa Lane (1998, 11): Making use of the idea of imitation in the story, the dialogue develops a paradoxical account of just how such imperfect self-​rule can, by strict adherence to law, achieve some feature of the absent political ideal while remaining open to its eventual realization. There are many explanations for the paradox, but they are rather easily invalidated. It is safe to exclude the possibility that Plato was not aware of the paradox. He wrote exhaustively on the nature of imitation, particularly in the Statesman, when investigating the nature of example (paradeigma) and the role of similarity therein (see Lane 1998, 61–​75). The explanation that the visitor tries to argue for the best way of imitating the constitution being not trying to imitate it, is no more persuasive.12 Yet another explanation specifies that imitation means that a knowing lawgiver formulated good laws in the past which were adopted into lawful constitutions and that they have not changed. In the absence of this lawgiver, holding on to the laws appears to be the best possible solution.Yet, this explanation is not persuasive, because strictly speaking it means that nothing much is imitated anymore. Instead, one remains locked in the situation of a knowing, but absent lawgiver, which the dialogue discusses in its elaborations on the true constitution. Another interesting explanation, which is not so easy to discard, also highlights the situation of the absent knowing lawgiver, but nevertheless retains the distinction between the imitated constitution and imitating constitutions (see Rowe 2000, 249). By the provision that the laws not be changed, imitating constitutions do indeed imitate some characteristic of the true constitution when the knowing statesman is absent. Insofar as imitating constitutions lack such a statesman, they really participate in imitation. The defining characteristic of the imitation, that ensures that something is imitated, relates only to a partial aspect of the true constitution.This characteristic is a sort of emergency rule, which in the dialogue is considered practically necessary and conceded in light of the sheer number of individual cases that the statesman faces. (He too will have to issue laws, since he is not capable of what he is in principle meant to, due to his role of having to judge each individual case in light of its particularity, cf. 295a.) However, in the dialogue, this necessity of having to rely on laws is unmistakably declared to be a deviation from the ideal.

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A similar, equally elaborately argued explanation emphasizes that a knowing statesman would have to issue laws since he could not sit ‘beside each individual perpetually throughout his life and accurately prescrib[e]‌what is appropriate to him’ (295a–​b); this ‘rehabilitates the law as part … of the ideal practice of statecraft’ (Lane 1998, 153). Indeed, the Statesman discusses the possibility that the memoranda (laws) cannot be so rigid as to be unchangeable by the knowing statesman in light of new circumstances. It is only in this regard that laws fulfill an important function in the true constitution. The dialogue hence conceives of ‘a new role’ for laws in the context of its discussion of imitating constitutions (Lane 1998, 156). The true constitution is imitated ‘so far as possible’ (eis dunamin) simply by not changing the laws; this expression should be understood as saying that ‘in a context of applying the ideal to a limited and faulty material and human world, the “possibility” of realizing the ideal will inevitably involve substantial alterations to it’ –​and the excursus on the laws in the Statesman is said to treat of such an application (Lane 1998, 157). According to this explanation, imitation in the Statesman should not be taken to function in light of the model-​copy idea (which is a view presented in The Republic and the Timaeus). Rather, imitation in the Statesman rests on a second-​order characteristic, which the model and its imitation share. This view of imitation permits the model and its imitation to have very different features. Again, the idea is that neither imitating constitutions nor true constitution change their laws if no expert is at hand for doing so: The statesman having not appeared in the second-​best cities is comparable to the statesman who goes away and leaves written instructions behind (300c-​d) for the best city. In neither case will the laws be changed until the expert (re-​)appears. This links the second-​best constitutions to the ideal solely in relation to the second-​order feature of not changing the laws without expert advice. Superficially they will be quite different. Each will have its own laws derived, in the case of the ideal, from memoranda, and in the case of the second-​best, from experience and persuasion. There is no reason to expect the content of these laws to be similar at all. Imitation of the ideal constitution ‘as far as possible’ yields not a plausible resemblance on the surface, but instead –​given the radically different material shaped by the presence or absence of knowledge –​a structural commonality under the skin. Lane 1998, 158–​159 The many explanations in the secondary literature of the seemingly paradoxical nature of imitation in the Statesman reveal that the excursus on the laws in the dialogue calls for interpretation. Researchers of Plato all agree on this. What follows is an attempt to clarify this issue by way of an interpretation that uses the biographical approach. This approach only partially differs from the

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above-​mentioned interpretations, since they too have often sought to clarify the paradox by drawing connections to Plato’s life. In his book from the early 20th century, von Willamowitz-​Moellendorf applies a biographical approach to precisely this matter. Concerning the role of laws, one can read in Willamowitz-​ Moellendorf as follows (1920, 460; own transl.): Plato himself has chalked out the sage who unconfined by laws is pressed down to the restrained efficacy of an official, but rules in truly royal freedom for the general blessing.Yet, he does not believe that this sage would now or ever really appear. He has in mind the practically feasible; no doubt, he thinks about Syracuse. For this reason, constitutionally bound monarchy is the best possible form of government to him (305e).

2.3.4  Plato’s New Realism Can recourse to an event or a situation in Plato’s life clarify the seemingly paradoxical role that laws play in his understanding of the true constitution and imitating constitutions? For Willamowitz-​Moellendorf, it seemed obvious that Plato had Syracuse in mind when formulating this distinction –​and Plato’s second trip to Sicily indeed offers the best candidate for an event that might have changed Plato’s thoughts about the role of laws. After Socrates’ death, Plato initially turned away from a political career and devoted himself to philosophy (perhaps writing a good part of The Republic13). But an invitation to the royal court of Dionysius I in Syracuse offered an opportunity for him to take up political action. Plato accepted the invitation and went on to meet Dion. However, he ended up disappointed, which –​so the story goes –​compelled him to return to Athens, found the Academy and henceforth steadfastly concentrate fully on teaching. Even if his first trip to Sicily ended in disappointment, it brought Plato Dion’s friendship. Many years later, Dion succeeded in persuading Plato to embark on a second trip to Sicily. This time, he faced an entirely novel situation. Dionysius I had passed away and his son Dinoysius II was on the throne. In the meantime, Plato had finished writing his dialogue The Republic, which contained as a central idea the philosopher-​king; a notion which did not entirely resonate in Athens. When he received the invitation from Syracuse, his time seemed to have arrived. He must have seen in Dionysius II the chance to implement in reality the ideals he had set out in The Republic. Of course, it did not turn out this way. Dionysius II was not at all receptive to Plato’s vision. Plato even had trouble leaving Sicily again and soon after returning to Athens, set out to write the Statesman. Plato’s repeated disappointment in Sicily led him to embrace a new realism in the Statesman, which is exemplified inter alia in the role he affords to laws. In constitutions which imitate the ideal, laws can no longer be passed over by a statesman who acts as if it is beyond his comprehension. The ideal of a true and knowing statesman who does

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not require laws persists throughout the course of the dialogue. Precisely because the dialogue is only concerned with second ​rate constitutions as ‘imitations,’ Plato can pursue new philosophical paths in light of his experience in Sicily and his newly acquired realism. He seems to have accepted the fact that the ‘imitation’ was not smooth and appeared to be paradoxical. His experience in Syracuse was of such an incisive nature. What is the basis of this biographical interpretation? The following events and situations seem particularly important for the interpretation: (a) Plato’s abandonment of politics after Socrates’ execution, at least for the time being; (b) his first trip to Sicily initiating his new orientation towards politics; (c) his outline of an ideal constitution in The Republic, which should have been practically implemented or at least could have been implemented; (d) his second trip to Sicily being a chance to implement the ideal constitution; (e) his disappointment towards his second trip to Sicily; his insight that the ideal constitution cannot be implemented in a simple fashion; his insight that the rule of good unchangeable laws is the best imitation of the ideal constitution. Do early biographical sources corroborate these early events and situations and which additional details can be deduced from them to strengthen a biographical reading?

2.3.4.1  The Seventh Letter The Seventh Letter is by far the richest source on Plato’s life, as much for a biographical interpretation of the Statesman as for its excursus on the role of laws, as repeatedly mentioned above.

BY THE WAY…: DEALING WITH THE SEVENTH LETTER If the information in the Seventh Letter is considered reliable, then those who ascribe the letter not to Plato himself, but to close associates of his should take into consideration the feelings and motivations expressed in the letter with some caution. Those who take the letter to be completely authentic would be allowed to psychologize much more. The difference in attributing the letter to other authors might be gradual since a very close friend would likely have been to some extent familiar with Plato’s feelings and motivations. The connections drawn in this chapter presume that the letter was indeed written by a close friend. Should it emerge that the letter was penned by Plato himself, the interpretation would have to be revised only to the extent that its arguments would appear stronger, not weaker.

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2.3.4.1.1  Ad (a) The Seventh Letter divides Plato’s abandonment of politics into two distinct phases. After the letter describes the young Plato’s intention of ‘entering public life’ (324c) it proceeds to enumerate his first abandonment of politics described in the wake of the 30 tyrants (in whom Plato initially placed trust, 324d–​e) and their failed attempt to enlist Socrates ‘as one of a group sent to arrest a certain citizen who was to be put to death illegally’ (324e). In the letter, it says: ‘When I saw all this and other like things of no little consequence, I was appalled and drew back from that reign of injustice’ (325a–​b). After the overthrow of the 30 tyrants, Plato again considered engaging in politics with the returned ‘democrats,’ with whom the author of the letter appears to have some reservations about, even though he attributes to them ‘great restraint’ (325b–​c). Yet, a great mischief was about to befall Plato’s political life, when Socrates was sentenced to death by a jury for ‘impiety’, leading to his second abandonment of politics. The letter describes the matter as follows: The more I reflected upon what was happening, upon what kind of men were active in politics, and upon the state of our laws and customs, and the older I grew, the more I realized how difficult it is to manage a city’s affairs rightly. […]. And the corruption of our written laws and our customs was proceeding at such amazing speed that whereas at first I had been full of zeal for public life, when I noted these changes and saw how unstable everything was, I became in the end quite dizzy; and though I did not cease to reflect how an improvement could be brought about in our laws and in the whole constitution, yet I refrained from action, waiting for the proper time. 325d–​326a Even though this quote mainly serves to corroborate Plato’s abandonment of politics after Socrates’ death, it might show that Plato already –​and not only after his second trip to Sicily –​believed that in a democracy, the government should follow the ‘written laws and our customs.’ He thus gained the insight ‘that all existing states are badly governed’ (326a). 2.3.4.1.2  Ad (b) ‘Waiting for the proper time,’ Plato did not want to be involved with practical politics according to the Seventh Letter. When discussing Plato’s first trip to Sicily, the letter mentions two thoughts that Plato apparently had when he embarked onto Italy and eventually onto Sicily: on the one hand, it refers to the idea of philosopher-​kings, an insight which Plato developed in his abandonment of practical politics in Athens and which is central to the dialogue of The Republic. In

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the letter, the following thought is stated: ‘that the ills of the human race would never end until either those who are sincerely and truly lovers of wisdom come into political power, or the rulers of our cities, by the grace of God, learn true philosophy’ (326b). On the other hand, the letter conveys the thought that under morally corrupt conditions, no city could ‘enjoy tranquility, no matter how good its laws’; ‘these cities,’ the letter continues, ‘are always changing into tyrannies, or oligarchies, or democracies, while the rulers in them will not even hear mention of a just and equitable constitution’ (326c–​d). If these were the thoughts Plato had in mind when going to Syracuse, then they would only be reinforced by what he came to see there: what they call there the ‘happy life’ –​a life filled with Italian and Syracusan banquets, with men gorging themselves twice a day and never sleeping alone at night, and following all the other customs that go with this way of living. 326c The Seventh Letter also recounts Plato’s fatal encounter with the young Dion. It is in the context of this encounter that one finds an indication for Plato’s intention to be politically active in Sicily. Plato is said to have instructed Dion (327a), but then the letter continues: I imparted to him my ideas of what was best for men and urged him to put them into practice; and in doing so I was in a way contriving, though quite unwittingly, the destruction of the tyranny that later came to pass. 327a The passage appears consciously ambiguous. Plato is depicted as giving Dion an idea to put ‘into practice’ –​which suggests a political motivation on Plato’s side, given that he as a stranger could not have exerted direct influence in Sicily.Yet, he goes on to deny his intention of exerting political influence when he describes his teaching as ‘unwittingly’ having had consequences. While the first part of the sentence suggests that Dion was Plato’s pawn, the second part raises the opposite possibility that Plato himself was an unwitting tool. 2.3.4.1.3  Ad (c) The dialogue The Republic is generally thought to date back to the time after Plato’s first trip to Sicily.The Seventh Letter offers little help regarding the question of whether the elaborate draft of an ideal constitution in The Republic was meant to be practically implemented or rather as a utopia against which the reality could be measured as a benchmark. That the central thought of the philosopher-​ king receives such prominent mention in the context of discussing Plato’s first

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trip to Sicily and that Dion is talked about at the end of the letter as a possible philosopher-​king might suggest the former.14 2.3.4.1.4  Ad (d) The Seventh Letter reports that Dion eventually split from those who followed the ‘practices of tyranny’ and who indulged in the Italian and Sicilian way of life right until the death of Dionysius I. It further states that he continued (together with others) to follow Plato’s teachings even after Plato’s departure from Sicily (327b–​c). Dion, the letter states, ‘thought that by the help of the gods Dionysius himself might be counted among this number’ [of Plato’s followers] (327c). For this reason, he wanted to bring Plato to Sicily, to help him with his plan regarding ‘Dionysius’ – whom he praised not only for his youth – but also because of ‘the eager interest he was showing in philosophy and culture’ (328a). The previous reference is to Dionysius II, who had succeeded his father to the throne. And it was Dion who had Dionysius II send out an invitation to Plato (327e). The letter leaves no doubt that Dion, as much as Plato, was interested in the implementation of the ideal union ‘of philosophers and rulers’: […] so that now, if ever, might we confidently hope to accomplish that union, in the same persons, of philosophers and rulers of great cities.These and many other like arguments he addressed to me. […] Consequently I weighed the question and was uncertain whether or not to yield to his urging and undertake the journey. What tipped the scales eventually was the thought that if anyone ever was to attempt to realize these principles of law and government, now was the time to try, since it was only necessary to win over a single man and I should have accomplished all the good I dreamed of. This, then, was the ‘bold’ purpose I had in setting forth from home […]. Above all I was ashamed lest I appear to myself as a pure theorist, unwilling to touch any practical task. 328a–​d The text makes no explicit reference to The Republic. But it is abundantly clear from the Seventh Letter that in Plato’s eyes, his second trip to Sicily in presented an opportunity to implement the ideal constitution. 2.3.4.1.5  Ad (e) According to the Seventh Letter, on his second stay in Sicily Plato together with Dion began advising Dionysius II, not openly, but by making use of ‘veiled references’ (332d). He recommends ‘first of all to make his daily life such as to give him the greatest possible mastery over himself ’ (331e) or to ‘resettle the deserted cities of Sicily’ and ‘bind them together with such laws and constitutions as would make them friendly to himself and to one another and a mutual help against the

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barbarians’ (332e). Soon, a situation arose which abated the hope of successful political activity, as the ‘court of Dionysius [became] full of faction’ while Dion was charged ‘with plotting against the tyranny’ (329c). Plato and Dion were regarded as ‘conspiring against him [Dionysius II]’ (333a), and soon afterwards, Dionysius II banned Dion. Dionysius continues to be friendly to Plato on the surface, but all while holding him (Dionysius II) captive in the castle (329c–​e). Dionysius II appears to be bothered by Plato’s teachings, but only superficially and sporadically. Against all odds, the letter tells us, Plato clung onto the ‘the original purpose’ for which he ‘had come, hoping that he [i.e. Dionysius II] might somehow come to desire the philosophic life’ (330b). In this effort, Plato failed. The Seventh Letter, which is clearly written after Plato’s third trip to Sicily (the letter recounts the third trip extensively, see: 338a–​341b; 345a–​350b), addresses Dion’s followers, who had been murdered in the meantime. Plato sought to give them advice that was in accordance with Dion’s views, and that he had already given twice before (meaning in the past, which is why we can draw on it for our interpretation): ‘Do not subject Sicily nor any other state to the despotism of men, but to the rule of laws; this at least is my doctrine’ (334c). Plato’s disappointment in Dionysius II and his failed effort to implement the ideal constitution comes up in the Seventh Letter, without it ever being too clear whether it refers to Plato’s second or third trip to Sicily. According to Plato, Dion would have had the philosophical insight, but lacked the power, while the opposite was true of Dionysius.The letter describes what Sicily missed out on because of these circumstances, as follows: If in his empire there had been brought about a real union of philosophy and power, it would have been an illustrious example to both Greeks and barbarians, and all mankind would have been convinced of the truth that no city nor individual can be happy except by living in company with wisdom under the guidance of justice, either from personal achievement of these virtues or from a right training and education received under God-​fearing rulers. 335d–​e Although this statement shows that Plato remained committed to devising an ideal constitution, the remarks immediately following it commenting on Dion’s possible performance in office emphasize the rule of laws (336a) –​of course, these remarks remain ambiguous as to whether these are the laws that a true statesman would have issued for practical reasons or the laws that cannot be changed and have to be followed as an imitation of a situation where the true statesman is absent.The description that Dion was invested with philosophical insight but without power may suggest the former.

2.3.4.2  Other Sources on Plato and Sicily Aside from the Seventh Letter, there are several other sources on Plato’s life.They are, however, only fragmentary or date from much later times and are full of anecdotes

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and unreliable information. Nevertheless, one cannot rule out the possibility that useful information hailing from early trustworthy accounts was incorporated into later sources (as, for example, the account by Neanthes of Cyzicus, which perhaps stems from a discussion with some of Plato’s contemporaries [cf. Schorn 2007]). They may in fact complement the Seventh Letter. Alice Swift Riginos has collected many anecdotes about Plato and her book features a chapter devoted specifically to his trips to Sicily (including an anecdote about an ostensibly protocolled conversation between Dionysius I and Plato, which deals with the matter of the philosopher’s freedom of speech against the tyrant [Riginos 1976]). Many of these texts about Plato’s trips to Sicily, which apparently already circulated in antiquity, respond to a reproach that Plato faced when he was still alive. He was reproached as having gone to Sicily for no other reason than parasitism and gluttony (apparently Gorgias 518b is presented as evidence, where Plato mentions ‘Mithaecus the author of the book on Sicilian pastry baking’). Perhaps the Seventh Letter can be understood as a response to this specific reproach. The letter does not merely constitute a biography looking back at an eventful life. Similarly, the later sources that take up positions of their own are interesting in terms of historiography, but they should only be used as evidence with the utmost caution. Kai Trampedach (1994, 104), for instance, reminds us that whenever a ‘modern historian’ wants to make use of an ‘antique biography as a historiographical source,’ he or she does so ‘against the author’s intention.’ And Riginos (1976, 70) plainly shows that nowhere more than the biographical tradition on Plato is the difference between distorted historical fact, defamation and anecdote less clear. Given the early circulation of anecdotes about Plato’s life, the pro and contra Plato camps, and the intricate situation with various layers of tradition often based on fragments, hardly anything useful can be gained for a biographical interpretation of the Statesman. Even more than with the Seventh Letter, the interpreter using ancient biographies (e.g. Apuleius’ 2nd century ad work On Plato and his Doctrine, Diogenes Laërtius’ 3rd century account in his Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers, Olympiodorus the Younger’s 6th century commentary on Plato’s Alcibiades or the 6th century Anonymous Prolegomena to Plato’s philosophy) must rely on rather shaky ground and requires remarkable philological expertise. Much of what is written in these biographies comes from the Seventh Letter, but not everything.15 For instance, Philodemus of Gadara remarks in his Index Academicorum (first century bc) that he will rely on several sources regarding the events in Plato’s life relating to Sicily.16 Perhaps, one cannot adduce these sources for anything much more than further support for the presupposition that Plato indeed travelled to Sicily on several occasions.

2.4  Limits and Possibilities of Biographical Interpretation A biographical interpretation of the excursus of the role of laws in Plato’s Statesman faces challenges that are rooted in reasons specific to Plato and the material available

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for reconstructing his biography and the chronology of his oeuvre. Yet, such an endeavour also faces challenges of a more general nature; that is, challenges that an interpreter would face even if the available material were nearly perfect.We should distinguish these two distinct types of limitations when considering this approach. It is very well possible that a biographical approach would be recommendable in principle, but that the available material turns out to be so poor for a specific text as to frustrate any attempt at application. Sufficient and reliable material is a prime condition for a successful biographical interpretation. The material available concerning Plato is clearly problematic concerning this approach. The biographical model demands a high sensitivity towards assumptions that make their way into the interpretation, counterevidence of the sought interpretation, and the risk of overinterpretation. The upshot of the biographical approach presented in this chapter is that the seemingly paradoxical nature of the role of laws in Plato’s Statesman can be explained by the author’s experiences on his second trip to Sicily. This trip, as the argument goes, compelled Plato to consciously or unconsciously change his views, a change which clearly manifests in the Statesman. These changing views explain why the dialogue recorded in the text runs as it does and not otherwise. Specifically, they explain why the laws are given a new significance in the excursus; a point which is directly related to the central theme of the dialogue, i.e. the definition of the true statesman, which itself requires interpretation. How this change of views came about is a matter that can (and certainly should) still be further investigated. For one thing, it is difficult to understand the Statesman as a renunciation of The Republic.There is simply too much continuity between the two dialogues in terms of defining the true statesman, even if, for instance, the final emphasis on kairos and the weaving metaphor represent innovations. From this perspective, the Statesman shows signs of development and differentiation from elements in The Republic, with respect to certain matters that did not require any kind of intervening, biography-​changing event. Even the excursus on the role of laws can be understood in this way. Michael Erler interprets the dialogue in this sense: The Statesman is an addendum to the earlier oeuvre and the political theory. While The Republic depicts the philosopher-​ruler with regard to his knowledge and his education, the Statesman looks at the relation to political reality. One can view the latter as more realistic, but not as a renunciation from earlier views. Erler 2007, 249 Addendum or renunciation? The difference might be rather small and only a matter of emphasis. Whoever is interested in the new realism exhibited in the excursus on the role of laws in the Statesman, might be more prone to seeing a ‘renunciation’ of the positions set out in The Republic –​precisely because the relation to political reality is largely absent from the discussion there. A biographical approach might then be useful.

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What possibilities and limitations pertain to biographical interpretation regardless of the available material? In the contemporary debates about methodology, the limitations of this approach are clearly in the foreground, to the extent that it is considered worth mentioning at all. At the outset, we stressed that biographical approaches are currently as unpopular as they are omnipresent in political theory. This unpopularity arises from the assumption that one would have to establish a necessary connection between the biographical model and authorial intention, like an attempt at peeping into the author’s head, to empathize with him or her, or to write the text again by reenactment. This (justified) critique risks throwing the baby out with the bath water, by questioning the biographical model as such. The death of the author has become a buzzword, while the subtleness of this critique is often forgotten. The death of the author served to legitimate one or several other interpretive approaches that proved illuminating without giving importance to the author. Of course, proponents of such approaches know perfectly well that a text is written by somebody, but they consider this fact to be of no greater consequence for textual interpretation. A series of new and fascinating approaches have emerged from this line of inquiry. The author, authorial intention and biographical interpretation, however, continue to be of considerable significance for interpreting texts. On the one hand, there are models of interpretation that ascribe a role to authorial intention, even if they are usually more moderate than the psychologizing variant just mentioned; such models include the Cambridge School in Skinner’s version (see Chapter 4), Strauss’s esoteric model (see Chapter 5) or some variants of the hermeneutical approach (see Chapter 6). In order for a text to be ‘written for somebody’, it must have been ‘written by somebody’. On the other hand, the omnipresence of biographical interpretation is exemplified by the prominence of vitae and chronological tables in textbooks or via the inclusion of biographical detail in interpretation. The recourse to an event or a situation in the life of an author for explaining a text corresponds with a strong intuition. Surely, this insight suggests neither the primacy nor a particularly radical variant of the biographical approach. To exclude the approach from methodological and theoretical discussion, however, seems inappropriate and negligent given the significance of the intuition and its omnipresence. The biographical model, as it has been introduced in this chapter, does not necessarily rely on a strong version of authorial intention, inasmuch as events and circumstances of which the author was not even aware, i.e. which could not possibly inform his or her intention, can be considered significant.

Notes 1 Von Willamowitz-​Moellendorf ’s Platon is also exceptional in terms of methodology since he first reconstructs Plato’s biography based on his oeuvre and then in turn sets out to illuminate the oeuvre through his biography.

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2 John Stuart Mill (1981) himself processed his father’s rather intense ‘scheme of education’ through writing. 3 Plato is mentioned by name only three times throughout the entire oeuvre: Apology 34a, 38b; Phaedo 59b. 4 Julia Annas (1991, 285) has disputed the authenticity of the letter, and instead locates it within the larger genre of interesting historical fiction. She writes: ‘The “Seventh Letter” is so peculiar philosophically that it would be perverse to use it as a basis for interpreting the philosophy in the dialogues; and it is as a whole such an unconvincing production that its acceptance by many scholars is best seen as indicating the strength of their desire to find, behind the detachment of the dialogues, something, no matter what, to which Plato is straightforwardly committed.’ 5 Dominic Scott (2015, ix) recalls Myles Burnyeat as saying: ‘Most scholars, they say, accept the Seventh Letter (Epistle VII) as genuinely from Plato’s pen, or at least as a reliable account of Plato’s life written by someone associated with the Academy and close to the events narrated.The more often this is said, the more true it becomes. More and more scholars do accept the reliability of the Seventh Letter—​but not because more and more of them have done serious scholarly work on the subject. Many have merely added their vote to the tally without themselves contributing to the arguments in favor of authenticity—​often without even looking at the arguments there are to look at, for or against. Just going with the flow.’ 6 We adopt the following categorization from Erler (2007). 7 It is common practice to indicate passages in Plato’s textual corpus along the so-​called Stephanus pagination, going back to the three volume collected works of Plato by Henry Estienne (lat. Henricus Stephanus), which was published in Geneva in 1578. Hence, Sophist (217a) refers to the dialogue entitled Sophist, Stephanus-​ page 217, section a. 8 See Nails (2006, 11) and Erler (2007, 27). The semi-​authenticity thesis goes back to Friedrich Schleiermacher and holds that the Platonic dialogues (even the early ones) followed discussions at the academy and that members of the academy would have worked on them before their publication. 9 All quotes from the Seventh Letter follow Glenn R. Morrow’s translation given in Cooper (1997, 1646–​1667). 10 In this regard, Barbara Zehnpfennig’s (1997, 23) interpretation seems one-​sided:‘Dion’s allusion to “kairos,” to the right moment, to turn philosophy into practice, does not fail to have an effect on Plato. In 366, he decides to take the trip, which he justifies in detail in the Seventh Letter.’ 11 All quotes from the Statesman follow Christopher Rowe’s translation given in Cooper (1997, 294–​358). 12 Yet, as Rowe (2000, 248) comments, there is simply ‘no indication’ of this. 13 Nails (2006, 6) dates Books 2–​5 to before 391 BC. 14 The question of whether Plato conceived in The Republic a plan to be implemented in reality remains controversial among scholars. An overview of these debates is given in Erler (2007, 205–​206). 15 Trampedach (1994, 103) mentions the fact that the entire transmission of the events surrounding Plato and Dion in Sicily depends largely on the letters. 16 Given the exact locus, see (Phld. Ind. Acad., Pherc. 1021, col. X 2–​5). Schorn (2007, 124 fn. 62).

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References Annas, Julia. 1991. ‘Classical Greek Philosophy.’ In The Oxford History of Greece and the Hellenistic World, edited by John Boardman, Jasper Griffin and Oswyn Murray. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 277–​305. Annas, Julia and Robin Waterfield. 1995. Plato: Statesman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Burnyeat, Myles and Michael Frede. 2015. The Seventh Platonic Letter: A Seminar. Edited by Dominic Scott. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cooper, John M. (ed.) 1997. Plato: Complete Works. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, pp. 1646–​1667. Erler, Michael. 2006. Platon. Munich: C.H. Beck. Erler, Michael. 2007. Platon, Volume 2/​2: Die Philosophie der Antike. Edited by Helmut Holzhey. Basel: Schwabe Verlag. Hacker, Andrew. 1954. ‘Capital and Carbuncles: The “Great Books” Reappraised.’ American Political Science Review 48: 775–​786 Künzli,Arnold. 1966. Karl Marx. Eine Psychographie.Vienna; Frankfurt; Zurich: Europa-​Verlag. Lane, Melissa. 1998. Method and Politics in Plato’s ‘Statesman’. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Löwith, Karl. 1957. Meaning in History:The Theological Implications of the Philosophy of History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mill, John Stuart. 1981. Autobiography and Literary Essays. Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. Edited by John M. Robson and Jack Stillinger. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Nails, Debra. 2006. ‘The Life of Plato of Athens.’ In A Companion to Plato, edited by Hugh H. Benson, 1–​12. Malden: Blackwell Publishing. Ottmann, Henning. 2001. Geschichte des politischen Denkens. Volume 1/​2: Die Griechen. Von Platon bis zum Hellenismus. Stuttgart und Weimar: J.B. Metzler. Ottmann, Henning. 2008. Geschichte des politischen Denkens. Volume 3/​3: Die Neuzeit. Die politischen Strömungen im 19. Jahrhundert. Stuttgart and Weimar: J.B. Metzler. Radkau, Joachim. 2009. Max Weber –​A Biography. Translated by Patrick Camiller. Cambridge: Polity. Riginos, Alice Swift. 1976. Platonica: The Anecdotes concerning the Life and Writings of Plato. Leiden: Brill. Rowe, Christopher J. 2000. ‘The Politicus and Other Dialogues.’ In The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Political Thought, edited by Christopher J. Rowe and Malcolm Schoefield, 233–​257. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schorn, Stefan. 2007. ‘“Periegetische Biographie” –​“Historische Biographie”: Neanthes von Kyzikos (FrgHist 84) als Biograph.’ In Die griechische Biographie in hellenistischer Zeit, edited by Michael Erler and Stefan Schorn. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, pp. 115–​156. Scott, Dominic. 2015. ‘Editor’s introduction.’ In The Seventh Platonic Letter: A Seminar, by Myles Burnyeat and Michael Frede, edited by Dominic Scott. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. viii–xiv. Sombart, Nicolaus. 1991. Die deutschen Männer und ihre Feinde: Carl Schmitt –​ein deutsches Schicksal zwischen Männerbund und Matriarchatsmythos. München: Carl Hanser Verlag. Trampedach, Kai. 1994. Platon, die Akademie und die zeitgenössische Politik. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. von Willamowitz-​ Moellendorf, Ulrich. 1920. Platon. Volume 1: Leben und Werke. Berlin: Weidmann. Zehnpfennig, Barbara. 1997. Platon zur Einführung, Hamburg: Junius Verlag.

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3 WHAT THE AUTHOR ALSO AUTHORED Understanding Olympe de Gouges’s The Three Urns through Her Oeuvre

Who does not know the following temptation? You are reading the Leviathan and you find yourself pondering what conception of the human being the text advances given its famous emphasis on apparently unsociable and selfish individuals. Knowing that the famous author of the Leviathan –​Thomas Hobbes –​also wrote a text called De Cive (first published in Latin, later in English translation under the title Philosophicall Rudiments Concerning Government and Society), you turn to that book to read what he wrote there about the relation between the individual and society. Perhaps you find something in this second text of Hobbes that will help you better understand the passages in question from the Leviathan. While Hobbes describes human beings as antisocial in the Leviathan, in De Cive he discusses Aristotle and in stark contrast to his other work writes that ‘it may seeme a wonderfull kind of stupidity, to lay in the very threshold of this Doctrine, such a stumbling block before the Readers, as to deny Man to be born fit for Society.’ But he adds: Therefore I must more plainly say, That it is true indeed, that to Man, by nature, or as Man, that is, as soone as he is born, Solitude is an enemy; for Infants have need of others to help them to live, and those of riper years to help them to live well, wherefore I deny not that men (even nature compelling) desire to come together. But civill Societies are not meer Meetings, but Bonds, to the making whereof, Faith and Compacts are necessary […]. Manifest therefore it is, that all men, because they are born in Infancy, are born unapt for Society. […] wherefore Man is made fit for Society not by Nature, but by Education. Hobbes 1983, 44 DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-4

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Does this remark from De Cive shed any light on Hobbes’s conception of the human being in the Leviathan, or not? Is there anything more natural than when encountering a passage that requires interpretation, giving in to the temptation of searching for comparable passages in other works written by the same author? This move, by which an unclear text is explained by reference to one or several other texts of the same author, lies at the heart of oeuvre-​based interpretation. The term ‘oeuvre’ refers to all texts an author has written during his or her life. The oeuvre-​based approach is therefore author-​centered since the identity of the author decides whether or not a text pertains to the oeuvre. Similar to the biographical approach, the approach of reading through an author’s oeuvre to explain a single, individual text is not discussed much in contemporary methodological debates, notwithstanding the omnipresence of the interpretive move in the practice of political theory. Hence, it is imperative to theoretically and methodically reflect upon what we are doing when we interpret a text or a passage by cross-referencing within the author’s oeuvre. What presuppositions underly this approach? Which accompanying claims must be supported with arguments? What are the limitations of this approach?

3.1  The Oeuvre-​Based Model of Interpretation The oeuvre-​based model amounts to a restricted kind of biographical interpretation whereby the author’s written work alone can be considered as sources. Moreover, whereas the biographical approach is only interested in the author’s life to the point in time at which the text requiring interpretation was penned, the oeuvre-​based model also includes texts that were written later on. The basic assumption behind this approach is that the author intended to talk about something in the text that he or she continued to reflect upon in later texts (or had been reflecting on in earlier work). In addition, the two author-​centered models differ in the significance they give to authorial intention. Biographical interpretation is interested in the author’s intention as he or she was writing the text. The oeuvre-​based approach treats the text as a partial manifestation of an intention that permeates the author’s life work or at least that he or she repeatedly addressed. Texts are thereby understood quite differently here than in the biographical approach. Biographical interpretation presumes texts to be units whose meaning can be explained by the author’s biography. The oeuvre-​based approach understands texts to be complexes of meaning that are constituted through the oeuvre in its entirety or through single parts thereof. The single, individual text can complement the unit of meaning represented by the oeuvre in a variety of ways, for instance, by deepening an aspect that is merely mentioned elsewhere in the oeuvre or by taking up an aspect that is elsewhere not mentioned but pertinent to the question at hand.

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BY THE WAY…: THE OEUVRE-​BASED MODEL AND INTERTEXTUALITY The interpretive strategy of drawing connections between texts is often associated with the intertextual approach. This approach is popular in literature studies but is not covered in this volume, and should not be conflated with the oeuvre-​based approach. The two approaches share the same idea that texts can stand in productive relation to each other. But their general understanding of the nature of texts is diametrically opposed. The oeuvre-​ based approach is only interested in connections of a text to the oeuvre of the text’s author, whereas the intertextual approach does not recognize any distinction between texts that belong to the oeuvre of an author and the texts of others. Theoreticians of intertextuality abandon the idea of a single, individual text as a closed semantic entity in favor of an ever-​extending textual universe (wherein reality itself becomes a text). Instead of an individual text, they focus on the ‘textual space’ or the ‘intertext.’ Speaking of an author is devoid of sense from such a perspective. Authors are merely different readers; their production of texts only mirrors their active reception of other texts. In Roland Barthes’s poststructuralist theory of intertextuality, the autonomy of the subject and authorial intention become problematized to such a degree that in 1968 he famously declared ‘the death of the author.’ Rather evidently, the oeuvre-​based approach and the intertextual approach have little in common.

How then does one apply the oeuvre-​based model? What decisions, and what justifications of these decisions, does the interpreter have to make when using this approach? The starting point herein (see Figure 3.1) is an unclear text (or simply a question that one brings to the text). First, one has to identify the author of the text. Most often, this is not difficult to do since the authorship of most texts is known. In cases where texts have been published anonymously, feature a pseudonym or when there is doubt concerning the authorship, the interpreter has to undertake some additional effort. Such an effort might include the consultation of secondary literature or even demand time-​consuming own research (e.g. in archives). Given the supposed authorial intention, co-​authorships and writing collectives further complicate the matter.

BY THE WAY…: CO-​AUTHORSHIP AND THE NOTION OF THE OEUVRE Is it right to draw connections to texts of only one co-​author when interpreting a co-​authored text? Or should one only refer to texts co-​authored by the same team? Take, for example, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy (1985),

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published by Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe. Both of these authors have published texts by themselves before and after their co-​authored piece. There have been attempts to disentangle Hegemony and Socialist Strategy to retrieve whom of the two has written which part. Even when successful, these attempts cannot do away with the simple fact that the text has both names on its cover. Ultimately, it is up to the interpreter to decide whether or not it would be right to draw on a co-​author’s single-​authored text. One could argue, for instance, that both authors agree on a certain position, and that both would defend that position, even if it only explicitly appears in one of the author’s writings. However, it might be possible that instead of agreeing, the authors compromised – such that each of them by themselves would defend a slightly different position – or that one author had his or her way – so that each of them by themselves would defend a markedly different position. The idea of co-​authorship is brought to boil by the authorship of The End of Capitalism (As We Knew It) (1996). The cover names the author as J.K. Gibson-​Graham, and throughout the book the author is referred to in the singular (in the Acknowledgments, for instance, ‘the author’ expresses thanks). Nevertheless, J.K. Gibson-​Graham is not one, but two persons: Julie Graham and Katherine Gibson.

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Having identified the author, one next sets out to determine the parameters of the oeuvre. This requires consulting relevant and recent research literature (such as pertinent new academic articles, monographs or edited volumes). Determining the oeuvre will necessarily involve making use of criteria of inclusion and exclusion, which might depend on a narrow or general understanding of the nature of texts. In the end, the interpreter might be required to take a side in disputes concerning the authenticity of a work. But there are still further issues. Even if we adopt a narrow understanding of the notion of the text, we can still often divide the oeuvre up into different genres (e.g. essays, pamphlets, letters, poems, etc.) and focus more on one genre than on the other. It is entirely possible that an author would pursue very different intentions by writing in different genres, for example, by producing works of fiction alongside academic writing. But how then should one proceed? What might appear to be very different intentions in the eyes of the author might constitute one subject matter in the eyes of the interpreter. Should an interpreter of Iris Murdoch’s work on Aristotle and Plato, who adopts an oeuvre-​based approach, read her many novels to see how they might inform, say, the The Sovereignty of Good (1970)? What, if she had used a different pen name for her literary works? There is no easy answer to these questions. But it seems that simply ignoring her literary works would require adequate justification –​and for that, perhaps, one would have to have read her novels.Within the framework of an

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The oeuvre-based model interprets a text by drawing connections to other texts or passages in texts written by the same author.

Text

Who has authored the text (a single author, a team)? Is the text signed (by name, pseudonym) or anonymous? Is the authorship of the text contested?

Step 1 Identify the author of the text

Which other texts are ascribed to the same author? What belongs to the oeuvre, what does not? Are there borderline cases? Can the oeuvre be divided up into different genres (essays, pamphlets, letters, blog entries, tweets)? What are the topics and themes of the writings?

Step 2 Identify and read the oeuvre

Are there passages in the oeuvre that speak to the interpretive desideratum? How evident is the connection? Is the same or different vocabulary used? Are there implicit or explicit references? Is the connection substantiated by content, form or temporal proximity? On the basis of what prior knowledge or premises can the connection be drawn?

Step 3 Draw connections

Meaning

FIGURE 3.1 

The oeuvre-​based model of interpretation.

oeuvre-​based approach, there appears to be no way around familiarizing oneself with all of the author’s works in all their variety across genres. The next step in the procedure, that is, drawing connections, only seems to be unproblematic. In fact, it is a rather complex affair. For one thing, the act of interpretation is already in full swing when the interpreter is getting acquainted with the oeuvre. The questions that the oeuvre-​based approach sets out to answer, or at least the themes that guide the reading of the works in the oeuvre, are already there. In a certain sense, the text has already been interpreted in another way before the oeuvre-​based approach has even been applied. This insight bears considerable consequence for what it means to draw a connection, or, more precisely, for determining the condition of the possibility of a connection. In the

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oeuvre-​based approach, identifying a connection presupposes that in related texts (or passages) the author was indeed speaking to the same or at least to a sufficiently similar topic. There is a remarkable latitude in claiming that an author is treating the same subject matter here and there. An interpreter can always claim that the meaning of a text is very different from what the words in the text might suggest. Or the topic upon which a connection between two texts is based can be described in different vocabularies given the time when the texts were actually penned, such as when someone would claim that two passages in Plato really speak of nothing else than the Kantian categorical imperative. A particularly persuasive oeuvre-​based connection may rest on an author’s own indication of a connection (‘as I have shown in greater detail elsewhere…’), the fact that an author uses the same or similar vocabulary in the connected passages, the temporal proximity of the two texts or passages, further expert opinions supporting the claim, etc. Obviously, there is no such thing as a final proof. In the end, a connection always amounts to an argument made by the interpreter, which ideally is accompanied by a reflection weighing pros and cons, and showing exactly how the connection helps illuminate the text or passage in need of interpretation.

3.2  De Gouges and Her Three Urns Here, we will apply the oeuvre-​based approach to a text by Olympe de Gouges (1748–​1793), born Marie Gouze. We are thus turning to an author who has been rather neglected in political theory for quite some time. Only in the course of the 200 years’ anniversary of the French Revolution and in the context of an increased interest in feminist political thought was Olympe de Gouges rediscovered.Today, she occupies an important place in the pantheon of early feminists. She is famous for her Déclaration des droits de la Femme et de la Citoyenne (Declaration of the Rights ofWoman and Citizeness) of 1791, which she understood to be a direct response to the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. In recent years, researchers have become notably more interested in other aspects of De Gouges’s wide-​ranging and multi-​faceted oeuvre (Azoulay 2009; Beauchamps 2016; Sherman 2013, 2016). Occasionally, however, there is still a tendency to unduly reduce her role to that of a writing woman and a defender of women’s rights. Throughout her work, a rather ambiguous relationship towards gender roles and gender identity is manifest: there is barely a text in which she does not refer to her being a woman and to concomitant social expectations therein. At the same time, she not only bemoans her situation, but also plays with her gender identity and deploys it whenever opportune. Finally, her writings often shine through with a normative conception of womanhood that is oriented towards aristocratic ideas of chivalry and the gallantry of the past. Be that as it may, de Gouges’s texts cover many different topics.They treat questions that range from a (private law) social contract between a man and a woman, the collection of a voluntary tax to mend the national deficit, a luxury tax on jewelry and coaches,

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a tax on gambling, winter shelters for the unemployed, elderly and orphans, the abolition of the slave trade, to explicitly patriotic and political theatre. Hence, de Gouges’s work has plenty to offer for political theorists beyond feminist issues. Notably, de Gouges also pondered the question of which system of government France should adopt after the Revolution. Her writings on this topic did not get lost in the shuffle and turmoil of the French Revolution, but were known and taken seriously by her opponents. How else are we to interpret the judge’s order in her trial to burn de Gouges’s manuscripts after her death? ‘It would be unendingly dangerous,’ he ruled, ‘to have them circulate in the public, where they could poison the public spirit’ (Blanc 2003, 240, our trans.). The text which she wrote in the year of her death, 1793, concerns the political future of France and was publicized as a poster pasted on the walls of Paris. The work is entitled The Three Urns –​or in its full French version Les trois urnes, ou le salut de la patrie, par un voyageur aérien (The Three Urns, or the Welfare of the Homeland, by an Aerial Voyager, see Photo 3.1). The year of her death is by no means accidental, as it correlates to the time of the Jacobins under Robespierre and their terreur. The Three Urns was at the center of the trial against de Gouges, which ended with a guilty verdict and led to her public execution by guillotine only two days later on the Place de la Concorde. Reports and documents from her arrest and the trial itself show that the different standpoints of the prosecution and of de Gouges (who had to defend herself) depended in part on opposed interpretations of The Three Urns.1 In the eyes of the prosecution, the text revealed de Gouges to be a monarchist and federalist and therefore an enemy of the republic. She herself presented the same text as nothing less than outright proof of her republican convictions. This text, as much as de Gouges’s other writings, is particularly suitable for probing into the oeuvre-​based approach, despite her repeatedly stated intention to directly intervene in current affairs (which perhaps would commend Quentin Skinner’s Cambridge School, see Chapter 4). Her oeuvre is full of explicit references to her other texts. Even in the trial, de Gouges explained the meaning of The Three Urns by drawing connections to her other works. In a sense, she herself interpreted her own text along an oeuvre-​based approach. Moreover, in her texts, she would often emphasize that she always pursued the same aims and stood up for the same principles, which she frequently corroborated by references to earlier (5.91–​100) as well as merely prospective texts (4.211).2 Also rather conspicuously, her vocabulary is highly consistent, which may bespeak the assumption of a thematic unity across her oeuvre. Yet, the prosecution also argued along an oeuvre-​based approach in the trial and cautioned against being deceived by the ‘perfidious intentions’ of this ‘criminal woman,’ who had ‘throughout all her works’ slandered the defendants of the people. To make their point, the prosecution quoted from a long passage of the play The Salvaged France, or the Dethroned Tyrant (Vanpée 1999, 49). In our oeuvre-based reading of de Gouges’s The Three Urns, our interpretation also puts de Gouges’s interpretation of her own text as well as the prosecution’s to the test.

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Exaggerating somewhat, we could say that we are judging de Gouges a second time. Her tragic fate may serve as a warning that textual interpretation is not a game of whateverism, but that it can result in the utmost serious of consequences.

3.3  From the Reference to the Meaning of the Text 3.3.1  Text Appropriation and the Need of Interpretation A careful reading of The Three Urns, or the Welfare of the Homeland, by an Aerial Voyager3 shows the text to demand interpretation in several regards. The title already makes one stumble. Who exactly is this aerial voyager? And why is the story of the text put into the hands of such a figure? No less staggering is the beginning of the text: My name is Toxicodindron; I come from the land of lunacy via Monomotapa: I have roamed the four Corners of the World, more in a reverie than in reality for life is but a dream. 5.243 Toxicodindron? The land of lunacy? Monomotapa? A delusionary aerial voyager? But that is still only the beginning; a few lines later the text introduces another narrative level when the aerial voyager lost in dreams claims to have a ‘well-​ meaning God’ speaking through her. The voyager addressing the ‘French’ recites the words of the god. One wonders which god the text is invoking (perhaps simply ‘an invisible being,’ as is mentioned at the outset), but the text later hints that this god appears startled by ‘the clergy,’ which in times of the ancient régime made ‘me say things I had never meant’ (5.245). Somehow, therefore, it seems to invoke the same god who the much-​scoffed clergy talk about (de Gouges declares the tale of humanity originating with Adam and Eve to be ‘used by the corrupt priests … to stupefy our credulous females,’ cf. 5.243). The speech culminates in a decree dictated by the god which is to be made public by the convention. Here, at the core of this fantastical narrational edifice, we find the political proposal about which the author is truly concerned in the form of a decree: The Convention, deeply upset to see France divided by opinions and beliefs on the form of government that must save her Homeland, proposes, in the name of humanity, that for an entire month the rebels be denied arms, even those abroad, in order that the entire nation has the time to pronounce on the three forms of government dividing it. All the départements must be enjoined to convoke primary assemblies: three urns must be placed on the President of the assembly’s table, each one labelled with one of the following inscriptions: republican Government, one and indivisible; federal Government; monarchic Government.

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The President will proclaim, in the name of the endangered Homeland, the free and individual choice of one of three governments… All voters will have three ballot papers in hand, their choice will be written on one of them: It will not be possible to make a mistake, either on the urn or on the paper, that the voters’ probity dictates. They will place a ballot paper in each urn. The government that obtains the majority of votes will be sworn in by a solemn and universal oath of allegiance; this oath will be renewed on the urn for every citizen, individually. A civic celebration will accompany this solemnity; this sensitive and decisive act will calm passions and destroy factions. 5.247 That this is the author’s proposal and not ‘merely’ that of the god or ‘merely’ the aerial voyager becomes evident when the text changes the narrative register towards the end: Yes, citizens, a God spoke to me on your behalf; now the author will speak. 5.248 Immediately following this sentence, the ‘author’ is equated with the ‘aerial voyager… from the land of lunacy.’ The decree is called ‘my wish’ and, beyond the hitherto mentioned addressees (the ‘French’ and the ‘citizens’), the search is now directed towards somebody, a ‘mortal’ or a ‘genius,’ who is able to implement the political proposal. That somebody is mentioned by name: ‘Is it you, Héraut-​ Séchelles? Will you implement my wishes?’ The text then calls to Héraut-​ Séchelles’s mind a France that is threatened with ‘entire dissolution’ amidst farmers perishing on the battlefield and depleted public finances. Momentous sentences follow: See those perfidious men, thirsty for blood, sell us to the enemy Powers; swearing on the Republic but awaiting the height of disorder in order to proclaim a king. A prompt remedy is needed for so much hardship. The national wish must, finally, be solemnly pronounced, and the choice no longer put into question, so that neither the rebels nor the foreign powers can any longer say that the majority of French want a monarch, or some other form of government. 5.248 At this point, the author of the text appears to take up a position explicitly against pseudo-​republicans who are really monarchists and also against those who claim that the majority of French people actually prefer a monarchy. The latter is surprising, as the aerial voyager seems to rather surreptitiously take up this

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very position at the beginning of the text. There, even before the text recites the words of the god, Toxicodindron names the central reason why a decree is at all necessary. The problem are ‘factions,’ that is the adherents of diverse ‘opinions and beliefs’ mentioned in the decree, ‘who only want to tear apart the republic and share out the remains’ (5.244). However, no ‘faction’ should be left after the successful revolution: Oh French, what has caused your dissension? The death of the tyrant? Well, he is dead! All factions must fall with his head. 5.244 In the eyes of the aerial voyager, this situation can be explained, since the ‘extravagant criminality recalls to my mind the panoply of great revolutions’ (5.244). A comparison of three historical revolutions is supposed to illustrate this. The dethroned tyrant of the Syracusans faced with the choice either to flee or to become one of the people chose the latter and became ‘a schoolteacher.’ The Tarquins, who were chased out of the Roman Republic, searched for allies abroad to fight against the people ‘who wanted freedom’ and ended as ‘itinerant vagabonds.’ In England, Charles I was executed and he thereby ‘perpetuated royalty in England.’ The text leaves no doubt that the French, much like the English, whom they ‘try so hard to mimic,’ did not supersede monarchy with the revolution: Louis Capet is dead, yet Louis Capet still reigns among us. 5.244 Spouting republicanism with hearts full of royalism. 5.245 When the aerial voyager believes that Louis Capet still rules the hearts of the French people, does that not also imply that ‘the majority of French want a monarch, or some other form of government?’ This would be true if only people always knew what their hearts desired, if their wills were formulated without mediation. The crux of the matter, however, could be that sometimes people wish in their hearts what they cannot reasonably want. The monarchy could be blocking the Republic (‘one and indivisible’) more in the hearts of the French people in a subtle and social–​psychological manner than by way of an explicitly propagated royalism. It would therefore be pertinent to realize the wish of one’s heart in order to do away with the monarchy. In this regard, The Three Urns very much requires interpretation, for the question inevitably arises as to how matters look in Toxicodindron’s heart, or –​more importantly –​in the heart of the author herself. Does Louis Capet rule there –​even if the text does not overtly express the desire for a monarchy?

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PHOTO 3.1 

De Gouges, Les Trois Urnes, ou Le salut de la patrie (Paris?, 1793).

Source: British Library.

3.3.2  Identification of the Author and Appropriation of the Oeuvre These questions will now be subjected to an oeuvre-​based reading. First, however, we need to identify the author of The Three Urns.4 The text does not inform

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us about the author. It is anonymous, but ends with a message about its own anonymity: I will remain anonymous for now but, if I can save my teetering Homeland from falling into the abyss, I will name myself as I rush to it by her side. 5.248 This sentence ends the playful combination of the narrative levels of author, aerial voyager and god. The text’s anonymity does not pose too many difficulties for determining the authorship of the text. Olympe de Gouges is its author; she admitted her authorship repeatedly in the course of her arrest and trial, seemingly without coercion, as well as in her final writings (Blanc 1993, 17). Contemporary research unanimously accepts her authorship.

BY THE WAY…: THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE AUTHOR IN THE OEUVRE-​BASED MODEL At this stage, it would be interesting to learn more about Olympe de Gouges. Certainly, there are many revealing biographical details about her, which could facilitate an interpretation of the text. However, this would mean going beyond the oeuvre-​based approach. Strictly speaking, what counts is merely the identification of the author to ensure the shared authorship of the oeuvre and to claim an authorial intention across the connected texts. Any inquiry into the author’s life has to focus on substantiating either an overlap or a discrepancy of intention.

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De Gouges’s oeuvre (see Table 3.1) is comprised of roughly 150 texts. Her authorship is controversial for only a few of them. In addition, the oeuvre contains many letters and published newspaper articles. Oliver Blanc (2003, 240–​247) divides her oeuvre into four genres: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Novels, memoirs, prefaces and some freestanding writings (31 texts); Stage plays, published or as manuscripts (44 texts); Revolutionary pamphlets: brochures, posters, articles (69 texts); Newspaper articles (number unknown).

As previously mentioned, one could count the extant letters, but also the protocols of the trial, in which de Gouges is quoted at length, as part of her ‘oeuvre’ (although scholars express considerable reservations towards the protocols because they were written down by one party at the trial and hence are under suspicion of bias)

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62  What the Author also Authored TABLE 3.1  Olympe de Gouges: oeuvre

(1) 1986 (2) 1991 (3) 1993a (4) 1993b (5) 1993c (6) 2000 (7) 2010

Œuvres, ed. Benoîte Groult. Paris: Mercure de France. Théâtre politique, ed. Gisela Thiele-​Knobloch. Paris: côté-​femmes. Théâtre politique:Tome 2, ed. Gisela Thiele-​Knobloch. Paris: côté-​femmes. Écrits politiques 1788–​1791, ed. Olivier Blanc. Paris: côté-​femmes. Écrits politiques 1792–​1793, ed. Olivier Blanc. Paris: côté-​femmes. Œuvres complètes.Tome 1:Théâtre, ed. Félix-​Marcel Castan. Montauban: Cocagne. Œuvres complètes.Tome 2: Philosophie, dialogues & apologues, ed. Félix-​Marcel Castan. Montauban: Cocagne.

(Blanc 1993, 29). At first glance, the third genre, i.e. the revolutionary pamphlets, might be considered the most significant and trustworthy sources for an oeuvre-​ based approach towards an interpretation of The Three Urns. It would be premature, however, to confine one’s reading to this genre, since de Gouges’s stage plays also treat of political matters and we know that she also wanted them to be understood in this sense. She repeatedly references her stage plays as well as her novels and newspaper articles in her pamphlets. The fact that The Three Urns features several narrative levels might even suggest that de Gouges did not strictly separate her literary and political works.Yet, even in the last year of her life, after all of her sacrifices for the Republic, she still considered returning to the theatre: ‘Thalia calls to me and I fly back to her embrace’ (5.188). Generally speaking, her literary production preceded her political pamphlets by a few years. Her first literary texts date back to 1784, while she did not write a pamphlet prior to 1788, i.e. the date of the calling of the Estates-​General. With regard to her play Zamore and Mirza – which was first accepted by the Comédie-​ Française in 1784 but then put on hold (it was only staged on 28 December 1789 under the title Black Slavery) – de Gouges’s quarrel with the theater troupe concerning their refusal to stage the piece is telling. Together with the general environment before and just after the French Revolution, the quarrel certainly contributed to the politicization of the piece as much as of the author herself (Brown 2001). Still, even if de Gouges would have agreed with a division of her oeuvre into different genres, nothing per se speaks for an oeuvre-​based approach of The Three Urns that would focus mainly on one genre.

3.3.3  Drawing Connections After a careful reading of de Gouges’s oeuvre, connections with the text The Three Urns are evident in several regards. An analysis regarding formal aspects seems less promising, since no other pamphlet in her oeuvre uses a similar number of narrative levels. In this regard, The Three Urns is rather unique among her works. De Gouges also published other texts anonymously: her first pamphlets for instance. In none of these cases does the authorship pose a mystery (4.37–​45; 4.46–​61; 4.73–​76). She

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signs her text Heroic action by a French woman using ‘Madame de G***’ (4.120–​121). Between 1789 and the end of 1792, she usually signed her pamphlets with her full name. There are some similarities between The Three Urns and her other text Prognostic of Maximilien Robespierre, which was written half a year earlier, apparently ‘by an Amphibious Animal’ (5.169–​173). The text is not entirely anonymous, but is signed under the pseudonym ‘Polyme,’ which is an easily decoded anagram of Olympe. Prognostic of Maximilien Robespierre is structured similarly to The Three Urns, although it is composed in a less complex manner. However, this similarity with regard to formal aspects does not require further investigation in the context of an oeuvre-​based approach, since it would probably be of little help for answering the aforementioned questions arising from reading The Three Urns. An analysis regarding matters of content yields plenty of illuminating connections. In what follows, we discuss only four of them by way of example.

3.3.3.1  Toxicodindron and the God Are there passages in de Gouges’s oeuvre that can explain the significance of the several narrative levels in The Three Urns? Although the proper names Toxicodindron and Monomotapa do not appear anywhere else in de Gouges’s oeuvre (and therefore little can be said about them from an oeuvre-​based approach), there are a couple of passages from other works that can be related to the title and the initial sentences of The Three Urns. For instance, in an opaque passage from The Primitive Happiness of Mankind, or Patriotic Reveries, de Gouges mentions an ‘aerial voyager’ (7.50). There she asks whether ‘the first man’ (7.49) was not happier than two other kinds of people: the constantly struggling worker, who like many lunatics searches the philosopher’s stone, or those different fools whose pointless investigations only aim at their own profit. The emphatic discourses of the latter which were printed in newspapers with their ‘inflammable air and aerial machines’ (7.49) very much bore readers, when they report upon their visits to the Sovereigns of Europe; visits, de Gouges adds, which they do not embark upon in their aerostats – since aerial travelers must arrive at foreign courts in their coaches – as they only keep their balloons tucked away in their luggage. In this passage, de Gouges appears to distance herself from the misguided aerial voyager who does not really travel by air; the aerial voyager of The Three Urns does come from Monomotapa and has indeed travelled ‘the four Corners of the World.’ In an announced stage play, de Gouges assigns a representative to each of these four corners: Washington for America, Typoosaïde for Asia, Zyméo for Africa and M. de la Fayette for Europe (4.170). Whether the aerial voyager originally does hail from Monomotapa or has simply just stopped there on the trip around the globe, remains unclear. Certainly, Monomotapa is a land of fools, which pins down one affinity between the aerial voyager of The Three Urns and the balloonist of the Primitive Happiness. De Gouges, generally and throughout her oeuvre, speaks frequently of fools and lunatics. Mostly, she sees others – for instance, Robespierre (5.256, the ‘National

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Assembly, or some of its honorable members’ (4.202) or even ‘the presumptuous French’ (5.57) – describing her as ‘mad’ or her writings as ‘crazy’ (4.188; 5.189). De Gouges responds by asking who exactly the fool is and who is reasonable (4.202), by suspending the distinction between the two with regard to the greater good of the country (5.256). Or she simply acknowledges her own lunacy, but adds that it is of a special kind, namely fanaticism for the love of country (5.164; cf. also 4.184). Regularly, de Gouges places her lunacy in the context of fanaticism, of ‘a permanent mania’ (4.185), of ‘violent fever’ (4.186) and of sickness. On one occasion, as she is leaving sickbed to look after her homeland (la patrie), she voices the following desire: ‘may my delirium become contagious and fill all the French with the fever of love for the homeland’ (5.134).The French, according to de Gouges, were receptive to such feverishly mad circumstances, particularly after the Revolution, which would have been ‘all too delightful’ with its ‘original follies,’ were it not for ‘a few pitilessly and unrightfully lopped off heads and the general hardship’ (4.182, our trans.). The ‘modern Gauls,’ she writes, came into the world with a ‘seed of inconsequentiality and folly’ (5.55), which made France no longer simply France, but ‘an islands of fools’ –​and for the sickness that is raging there, an antidote has to be found (4.186, our trans.). Is the ‘island of fools’ (l’île des fous) the ‘land of lunacy’ (le pays des fous) from which Toxicodindron hails? Does Monomotapa refer to France? This conclusion is immediately implied, if one takes seriously the hint in the initial passage of The Three Urns, which explains the journey to the four corners of the world in a reverie with the insight that life is but a dream. De Gouges also refers to dreams elsewhere and warns the reader not to judge her by this genre of writing. Her ‘fictions,’ she continues, are so incisive and patriotic that she cannot keep them to herself (4.57). Still more, as she writes in a letter, she can engage in politics and philosophy only as if ‘in a dream’ (4.101). As in The Three Urns,Toxicodindron turns out to be a cipher for de Gouges. The antidote which she seeks is Toxico-​dindron, that is, a poison, or probably an anti-poison. Toxico-dindron is a matter of reason, as de Gouges embodies it, of ‘the toxin of reason’ (le tocsin de la raison) (4.209, own trans.), or accordingly ‘healthy philosophy’ (5.84, own trans.). It is in this connection that she calls upon virtuous people (hommes vertueux) to rally around her, ‘for it is not a fanatic who speaks to you in the name of Heaven but a woman who uses the language of reason and of nature’ (5.113). This last qualification, which leads her to the second speaker in The Three Urns, i.e. the ‘well-​meaning God,’ sets her fanaticism apart from all others by approximating it to reason. As de Gouges writes, she believes that her ‘permanent mania’ issues from Heaven (4.185) and elsewhere she mentions it by reference to the will of her ‘bizarre star’ (7.50). This belief, to be directly animated by ‘a well-​meaning being’ towards a good cause (4.45, own trans.), runs through the entire oeuvre. De Gouges frequently appeals to ‘divine providence’ (4.215), which guides all her steps and which ‘from a distance prepares revolutions and destroys tyrants’ (5.234; cf. 4.139). It is providence, she contends, that might save the homeland (5.57). It is up to the people to rise ‘as high as the Eternal intended’ (5.71). In

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her texts, de Gouges leaves almost no doubt that she sees herself as embodying these intentions. Like the ‘first man,’ who was soon seen ‘as a prophet inspired by Heaven’ (7.55, own trans.), de Gouges emphasizes her own prophetic skills (5.161). Over and again, she claims to report the ‘truth’ (4.190), at the same time that the notions of ‘true’ and ‘truthful’ come to qualify many of her other key notions. Where religions speak of god, she speaks of the ‘true God,’ who, ‘as one should envisage him,’ is ‘a generous and benevolent God’ (7.45). In another passage, she adds the description of ‘the God of conscience’ (5.239). It is this god who speaks through her, for instance, when she tells Marat and Robespierre that ‘Heaven and mankind are in agreement; you must both be annihilated’ (5.170). Finally, as she is told that her state of affairs is ‘the will of God,’ she explains in an unimpressed manner: ‘Oh well, then I make myself God’ (5.61). The oeuvre-​based approach suggests that the well-​meaning God as a distinct speaker in The Three Urns merely stands for a separate narrative level in a literary sense, as de Gouges claims that a god is speaking through her in all of her texts. Even if Toxicodindron speaks, a god is at work. When she calls The Three Urns her legacy and reaffirms her belief that her proposal would save the ‘honor of a nation,’ she also indicates that these would mean implementing a measure ‘with which providence inspires great souls’ (5.260). In the end, both speakers, the aerial voyager and the communicating god, can be related back to her first name. Olympe, she insinuates, ‘has something of the celestial about it’ (5.169).

3.3.3.2  Dethroning a Tyrant As mentioned above, in The Three Urns, de Gouges draws an analogy between France and England to make the point that the monarchy continues to rule in the hearts of the people even after Louis Capet’s death.What does this mean and what is the role of such a historical comparison? Can other passages from de Gouges’s oeuvre help gain further clarity? In her comparison of the dethronements of tyrants in Syracuse, Rome and England, she seems to imply a value scale running from the best to the worst. The best case of the Syracusians finds no mention elsewhere in her oeuvre. Once, she pleads for the king to be able to retreat to his castle as ‘as the king of a free people’ while abdicating his crown (5.90). She has France pay homage to liberty in her Bouquet National: ‘One will see by your doing, reigning over a free people, a citizen king’ (4.168, our trans.). There are, however, countless explicit references to the Romans and the English. Thus, de Gouges bemoans Brissot’s purported anglophile orientation (4.17), even as she herself at one point considers moving to England and presenting a stage play in English translation with the expectation of perhaps finding a better reception there. In any case, she reproaches the French common chamber with ‘wanting to imitate the English altogether’ (4.92, our transl.). Repeatedly she raises the concern of there one day being an all-​powerful French Cromwell (4.98); Cromwell, of whom she notably said

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that he ‘caresses’ Robespierre’s reason (5.166). In general, de Gouges sees France as treading on England’s paths, ‘as though the French want to end their brilliant career by renewing the one that engendered all the troubles in England’ (4.98). The French also ‘could go from insurrection to insurrection like the English who after 50 years of civil war still have no constitution’ (5.78). According to de Gouges, England’s condition is attributable to the way Charles I was dethroned. By putting their king to death, the English ‘dishonored themselves in the eyes of posterity’ (5.193). Calm would only be restored in England, once ‘it was reconciled to Monarchy’ (7.59). The matter stood quite differently for the Romans, who ‘immortalized themselves’ by exiling Tarquin and who therefore deserve a different place in history than the English (5.193). As de Gouges exclaims, the French should imitate the Romans (5.131). As the Romans chased away Tarquin, so too the French ‘should chase away Louis XVI’ (5.154, our trans.). Yet elsewhere, de Gouges writes that it is for good reason ‘that our situation is neither like that of the English nor the Romans’ (5.204). This might appear to be contradictory. Perhaps it is only underspecified; perhaps the French are to imitate the Romans in one regard, even if they appear incomparable in another. In any case, de Gouges does not want to rely too heavily on the experiences of other countries. As she writes in The Three Urns, each country should choose the government that ‘best suits their character, their customs and their climate’ (5.246). It is precisely by the common chamber imitating the English that they ignore the fact that what is suitable for the English ‘makes the French ridiculous’ (4.92, our trans.). Something similar holds true for Poland, to which de Gouges attributes such exemplary wisdom and prudence that it should serve as a guide to other people, ‘if each one did not have a different idea of government’ (esprit de gouvernement) (5.78). What, therefore, is the French idea of government, and why would it be best not to execute Louis Capet, but merely ban him from France? De Gouges’s texts offer two different arguments. For one thing, banning Louis Capet is simply what ‘true Republicans’ would do. For in order to kill the king it does not suffice to chop off his head: ‘He lives on long after his death; he is only truly dead once he has survived his fall’ (5.193). De Gouges hints that mercy honors the victor and that true Republicans would not demand the king’s death, but rather his exile (5.193); for exactly these reasons, she will later be put on record for defending Louis Capet (5.236). When the English let their king ascend the scaffold, it showed that they are no republicans (5.172). As de Gouges writes, not executing the king would even count as ‘the first victory’ of the French people, since showing mercy to the tyrant, ‘who had held one captive for so long’ would do justice to the name ‘Republican’ (5.154, own transl.). Nevertheless, de Gouges perceives a direct benefit for France from delaying the execution of the king. She will respect the ‘Nation’s decree,’ but proposes that one should buy ‘with this culpable head’ the peace with the enemy powers: the king’s head, once severed from the body, has no use anymore; this head has cost France far too much to let go of the opportunity of benefiting from it (5.203). Lest the tyrants

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of Europe can make their subject believe that the French eat each other alive and have a ‘virtuous king’ executed, the criminal should be pardoned –​but only with the condition that they recognize,‘in a solemn proceeding, the independent French republic’ (5.203). This spectacular event would bring shame upon the tyrants, and not on France:‘or they will be only too glad to buy the pardon of one of their own, at the price of a revolution that cost them dear’ (5.203). In de Gouges’s brochure in which she writes all of this translated in other European languages, nothing short of ‘a universal insurrection’ would be possible: ‘Louis dead will still enslave the Universe. Louis alive will break the chains of the Universe by smashing the scepters of his equals’ (5.204). De Gouges adds a rather spectacular proposal: Louis’ son is innocent, but he could be a pretender to the crown and I would like to deny him all pretension.Therefore I would like Louis, his wife, his children and all his family to be chained in a carriage and driven into the heart of our armies, between the enemy fire and our own artillery. If the crowned brigands persist in their crimes and refuse to recognize the independence of the French republic I will sue for the pleasure of being the first to light the cannon’s fuse that will save us from this homicidal, tyrannical, family. Louis’ death will be so glorious it will be worthy of a free people; then it will no longer be said, when speaking of the French, that they were shameful assassins, rather that they were generous men. 5.204 This passage again emphasizes de Gouges’s two arguments against an execution: the true republican spirit (‘worthy of a free people’) and the direct benefit (‘that will save us from this homicidal, tyrannical, family’).

3.3.3.3  De Gouges’s Preferred Form of Government In The Three Urns, de Gouges gives the French people the choice whether their future form of government should be a monarchy, a federation or a republic. Whatever they decide, everyone should be bound to agree on it. Still, in the previously mentioned passages, de Gouges’s reservations against a monarchy are evident. But does she speak out in favor of a republic in The Three Urns? Or perhaps for a federation, which gets the least explicit discussion? Reading de Gouges’s oeuvre, one finds statements that point in a variety of directions regarding her own position. In many texts, she positions herself explicitly as a monarchist (‘royalist and true patriot,’ 4.136, our trans.), a constitutional monarchist (‘I am a Royalist, yes Gentlemen, but a Patriotic Royalist, a Constitutional Royalist,’ 4.187), a Girondist (‘I know that I appear to them as a moderate who leans strongly towards the principles held by the Gironde,’ 5.235), once even (partly) a Jacobite (‘I am [a Jacobite] from the outset, what concerns the good

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things,’ 5.107, our trans.) but always time and again a republican (‘I am a candid and loyal republican, without stain or fault,’ 5.191). Her particularly fractious relationship with the Jacobites particularly manifests in one passage that is worthy of being quoted in light of the previous mention of Toxicondindron: ‘I always considered the Jacobin club to be a necessary antidote to the venom of despotism; today this remedy has become itself a veritable despotic poison’ (5.113).

BY THE WAY…: OEUVRE-​BASED APPROACH OR DEVELOPMENT APPROACH De Gouges’s repeatedly changing ideological self-​ assertions strongly suggest a development of her views across time. In other words, de Gouges’s positions have changed, but not in the sense of a differentiation of the same view, but in abandoning one view and embracing another. Looking at the dates and phrases of her signatures on her writings perhaps affirms such a development: Apr 1790 ‘The most decided royalist, and the mortal enemy of slavery, your most humble servant, de Gouges’ May 1791 ‘I am respectfully, Madame, the most ardent royalist patriot, in life as in death, de Gouges’ (to the queen) Mar 1792 ‘Signed, de Gouges, currently a moderate royalist, and patriot for life and death.’ May 1792 ‘I am, Mr. President, with all the sentiments of equality, etc., Marie-​ Olympe de Gouges (to the President of the Jacobin Club)’ Dec 1792 ‘... and with all the honesty of equality, Marie-​Olympe de Gouges’ Of course, this development was unsteady and faced disruptions. Thus, in May 1792, at a time when de Gouges was driven by emotions of equality, she finished a letter to the queen with the following words: ‘I am respectfully, Madame, your most humble and most obedient servant, Marie-​Olympe de Gouges.’ Still, it is difficult to ignore a change in her ideological position across time. Arguments based on development cannot be brought to bear in an oeuvre-​based approach. The oeuvre-​based approach in its extreme variant ascribes to the author a uniform intention, since for every alleged connection one must argue that the referenced passage and the passage to be interpreted treat the same point. Even if one intuitively spots a development of the author’s position, the oeuvre-​based approach demands that the interpreter be strictly aware of whether the development is not merely a quasi-​development. The interpreter will always be on the look out for some continuity (if only at a more abstract level).

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There is not much more that can be learned about de Gouges’s position from reading in her oeuvre what others have apparently called her.Again, the spectrum of labels varies across a most diverse set from ‘Demagogue’ (5.162), ‘Royalist’ (5.178), ‘Aristocrat’ as well as ‘Democrat’ (4.124), ‘Girondist’ (5.239), ‘Jacobin’ (5.107), to ‘Republican.’ Repeatedly, de Gouges coquets with her position, as when in The Repentance of Madame de Gouges she writes: I liked to be taken for an Aristocrat, without hiding my principles.Yet I did not believe the French to be so blind. Me, an Aristocrat? Well then, that is what I am; with good reason; I admit it, I confess it; I confirm it and I pride myself on it. By the way, I forget my justification. 4.201, own transl. Yet, she herself often reproached others in her writings with the charge of fake republicanism – as she does in The Three Urns – or more generally of masquerading. She speaks of ‘hypocrites’ (4.127) and emphasizes that virtue makes accusations ‘in the open because it has proof and because it acts for the good of society,’ since it is ‘the corrupt who hide’ (4.129). Repeatedly, de Gouges mentions ‘the mask of republicanism’ that ‘clever aristocrats’ (5.251) and ‘odious Cromwellians’ (5.229) put on but also ‘enemies’ (5.33–​34), who send her to the scaffold without remorse. Of course, she distinguishes between ‘Republicans’ and ‘true Republicans,’ as when she asks the Convention, the commune, the sections, the mayor and the general of Paris and all constitutive powers: ‘are you true Republicans?’ (5.224). It seems impossible to steer through this jumble of ideological positions. Perhaps the situation resembles the one described in the prologue of de Gouges’s novel Mémoire de Madame de Valmont, where she writes about a mirror cabinet, without knowing where to go and who is fooling whom. In the final analysis, as de Gouges unmistakably puts it, these affiliations are but words: The Mountain, The Plain, Rolandists, Brissotins, Girondins, Robespierrists, Maratists, disappear; infamous epithets! Disappear for good, so that the names of the Legislators, the Brothers replace you, for the happiness of the People, for social tranquility and for the triumph of the homeland. 5.221–​222, own trans. As constantly as the labels of her affiliation change, as steadily as de Gouges insists throughout all her writings that she is guided by ‘no self-​interest’ (4.160) and that she belongs ‘to no party’ (4.49; 4.124; 5.144); a fact which is ‘generally known’ (4.148). In other passages, she again speaks out for a partisanship for ‘the most feeble and oppressed party’ (4.162) or for a position of the ‘golden mean’ between the extremes (4.124, own trans.).

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Notwithstanding, de Gouges affords a particular weight to her self-proclaimed affiliation as a republican throughout her texts. She repeatedly opposes those pretentiously calling themselves ‘Republicans.’ To her, there are ‘Republicans’ and ‘true Republicans.’ Against this background, the question arises: what republi­ canism did she subscribe to? De Gouges’s statements on why she calls herself a republican, although she had earlier declared herself in favor of the monarchy (7.59), are particularly interesting in this regard: French by birth I admit that I have long been subjugated by the prejudices that favor our Kings; are there any French who can claim otherwise? These prejudices stifled the republican dispositions that characterize all my actions and, at times, my writings, but I was careful not to manifest them publicly as I thought they were a danger to my country. 5.84 These republican professions would have been dangerous because ‘the real spirit of the French Government and the true interests of my Homeland demand a Monarchy’ (5.59); that is the principles and traditions of France call for a monarchy (4.103). Here again, she contrasts the preference for republicanism deeply anchored in her soul with the French spirit for monarchical government (4.191; 5.165; 5.199f.; 5.228). At times, it seems as if de Gouges’s republicanism were compatible with a form of monarchism as much as with other forms of government. In her Farewell to the French, she advances the case for a kind of royalist republic, such ‘that the king of France had regained all his rights, that all citizens, newly equal, were contributing to the public good, that shopkeepers were back in charge of their shops, that the worker had taken up his tools again’ and ‘that the rich were flying to succor the poor’ (4.161–​162). In her other writings, she no longer mentions the king, but other keywords attesting to de Gouges’s republicanism appear in his stead: I have registered with much pain the fall of this constitution. I confess to you: I have recognized to my comfort that it has been but a beautiful dream and that kings never act in the interest of the people. Since my youngest years, I have felt this truth. This masterpiece of the constitution has fascinated my eyes. This social contract was made for a people of brothers. I had thought that it would require only one step from it to a republic. I have found in this form of government my true principles: death, I swear, or I will defend them. 5.225, own transl. Elsewhere in light of her dedication to the king, she calls herself ‘the Don Quixote of the King of the French’ (5.197, own transl.). Her confessions to republicanism are at times hefty and presented with a radicalism that is rarely found in her oeuvre

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otherwise, for instance, when she wants to meet ‘great evil’ with ‘grand operations.’ And, again, she alludes to the notion of poison: ‘When an evil is contagious, then one needs to cut it down to the roots; the tree whose poisoned branches cover a free earth’ (5.225, own transl.). De Gouges’s republicanism reaches deeper than merely favoring one or another form of government that can change over the course of time: ‘Scepters fall just like republics, all passes’ (5.84). When she writes that ‘today no one knows how to describe me’ and designates republicanism to be her ‘element’ and hopefully also that of all French, she also remarks that she has ‘never vacillated in [her] opinions’ (5.162). She is concerned with principles and it is at this level that one has to look for answers to the questions as to which republicanism she favored and what exactly she intended with her The Three Urns.

3.3.3.4  The First Contract In her writings, de Gouges confirms over and again that her principles and maxims are ‘invariable’ (4.136, own transl.), that they are manifest in ‘all my texts’ (4.125, own transl.) and that those who change their principles simply have ‘neither character nor virtue’ (5.69, own transl.). She affords particular attention, for instance, to ‘republican principles’ (5.151), the ‘principles of justice and humanity’ (5.65, own transl.) as well as ‘true constitutional principles’ (5.67, own transl.). Many of the principles that de Gouges upholds remain peculiarly shapeless. She regularly mentions ‘liberty’ (e.g. 4.172), ‘equality’ (e.g. 4.147; 4.164, own transl.) and finally ‘fraternity,’ which alone she maintains is capable of saving the homeland (5.145, own transl.; 5.235). Yet, her texts tell us little about what exactly she understands by these terms. She did not seem particularly interested in explicating her understanding (‘It will be pointless to write endless essays; our great Authors will be quoted in vain…,’ 4.81; ‘in these circumstances it is not a case of quoting Montesquieu or Jean-​Jacques…,’ 4.78). In The Primitive Happiness of Mankind, she upholds a marked naturalism and anti-​intellectualism, opposing ‘true genius’ to the ‘philosopher’ (7.58). This might appear odd in the face of her occasional advice, even to her enemies, to ‘become a philosopher!’ (5.196, own transl.). Throughout de Gouges’s oeuvre, we find a series of connected key concepts that help us to read and understand her proposal in The Three Urns. The nation and the homeland are in the foreground. De Gouges constantly speaks of the good of the people and her homeland (4.97; 5.220), her patriotism (5.259) and her love for her homeland (4.43). She is concerned with the ‘true interests of the State’ (4.77) and with that, which is ‘useful’ (utile) to the nation –​a word she most frequently deploys (4.84; 4.154; 5.189). She aims at those proposals and projects that are ‘useful and salutary’ (4.68; 4.73; 4.163; 5.106) as well as at ‘useful truths’ (4.99). Her only desire is to be ‘useful’ to her homeland (4.120; 4.80; 5.158). Her own, and indeed all particular interest, must be subordinated to the

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interest of the nation as much as the passions (4.102; 4.109; 4.179; 4.189). Even if all were to simply think about their own personal interest, the French spirit swears on the good of the homeland (5.57). Against the fear of civil war (4.40; 4.84; 4.113), de Gouges emphasizes unity (4.48; 4.74) and harmony (4.72; 5.135), both mainly with regard to interests and opinions. In one of her dialogues, she has the character of France say: ‘if the Clergy, Nobility and the Third Estate are not like-​minded, I am lost’ (4.68). She maintains that in particular, ‘the Sovereign to the Nation’ (4.111), ‘the King and the People’ as well as ‘the executive and the legislative Powers’ (4.189) should be united. She relates the executive and legislative powers to ‘man and woman,’ who ‘must be united, but equal in power and virtue, to live well together’ (4.213). The element mediating all of these elements is the ‘principle of the Constitution’ (4.189). In de Gouges’s writings, justice, law and the constitution provide another interesting cluster of key concepts. On the one hand, she emphasizes natural law, which she relates to the ‘sacred ties that united spouses’ (7.49) and which she sees as being prior to positive laws (‘I know that laws must speak, but there are times when they must be silenced.’ 7.56). On the other hand, she shows great respect for laws and property (5.111; 5.145), calling the law ‘sovereign and incorruptible’ and to which ‘everyone must obey,’ citizens as much as leaders, who ‘are needed for the organization of a society’ (5.112). Finally, de Gouges likens the constitution, i.e. the fundament of all laws, to natural law: she calls the constitution ‘one of the great wonders of the world,’ a child of the French spirit –​even if, and this brings us back to the main problem, this spirit ‘from day to day finds itself at odds with its own creation’ (5.56). To be distinguished from natural law, laws and the constitution is de Gouges’s reference to the ‘first contract’ –​‘the most important of contracts that binds the human race’ (5.47). Behind all of this lurks the spirit (l’esprit), which de Gouges celebrates over and again: ‘Long live the French spirit, long live its harmony, long live its equality, long live its wise foresight!’ (5.57, own transl.). When she identifies ‘change’ as an element of this spirit (5.58), she opens the possibility that the same spirit may at one point demand a monarchy and at another a republic. These key concepts, principles and the ‘first contract’ are central to interpreting the main part of The Three Urns, i.e. the proposal for a solemn strike ballot on a monarchy, a federation or a republic. Oeuvre-​based references to three other texts by de Gouges will corroborate this point. First, in a passage of To Save the Homeland, the Three Orders Must Be Respected (1789), de Gouges presents a proposal that contains some of the elements in The Three Urns: Time is pressing; this moment is favorable; swear at the feet of your King that you will all mutually cast aside your self-​interests so that from now on you will only concern yourselves with the good of the State and public happiness. During national revolutions the ancients had a system as simple

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as it was august; they randomly picked from among their intentions and enclosed the destiny of the homeland in an antique urn. Can there be a more auspicious time than the present to imitate the ancient peoples! France is perilously close to its final moments; the health of the homeland rests entirely on the union of the Estates-​General. There is only one decent way, one high-​minded project that can, without prejudice, reunite minds; this project may depend only on destiny. The authority of most of the twelve hundred Deputies is linked to their Constituents and depends on them voting only by a head count, the rest vote by Party; let the King engage them to number all the regulations in their power, let each regulation specify, on the ballot paper, how it must be counted, and let these numbers be mixed up and placed in an urn. The Deputies from the three Orders will take it in turns to take a ballot paper out of the urn and, as it appears, it will be deliberated upon by a head count or by Party. This method, proposed by His Majesty as head of the Nation, will be unanimously acclaimed. 4.83 This passage also discusses an oath targeting the elimination of particular interests for the common good. It also involves an urn. All this is aimed at the ‘welfare of the homeland’ (le salut de la Patrie), which is the exact same phrase that appears in the full title of The Three Urns. Finally, de Gouges is confident that this ‘method’ will be met with unanimity by the French people –​were they only to know it, of course. Following this passage, de Gouges emphasizes her belief that the idea of an urn may be particularly useful (4.85). Second, in the National Contract by Marie-​Olympe de Gouges, addressed to the National Assembly (1792), the idea of a ‘national contract’ is treated in detail and de Gouges even offers a formula for the oath itself: It is a national contract that I propose to you: it can dissolve the factions and have all the spirits converge. […]. It is time to bind the opinions of all to the law, which is the only divinity on earth that can save them. Two reliable registries are to be maintained showing all names and characteristics of the citizens, who are required within eight days to assemble within their sections and to depose in these registries their approval or rejection of the national contract. Here is an excerpt: I declare that I (so-​and-​so) love the constitution and respect the laws that it has prescribed to me; I renounce the system of the two chambers and the republic, as much as any other anti-​constitutional party; and I shall obey only the laws of the constitution, even if our enemies gain an odious victory; I recognize only the king of the constitution; and, should I break my oath, I shall receive the death penalty, which is reserved for the perfidious: I swear it, I take my oath on the book of the laws. Do not forget, my Gentlemen, to include the women in this solemn oath. […]. The Jacobins, the Feuillants, the departments, the communes, the

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journalists, the generals, the armies, all will hasten, without a doubt, to sign the national contract; all want the constitution (at least they are all saying so, therefore they need to prove it), and we will no longer have civil wars. 7.138–​139, own transl. Subsequently, de Gouges again discusses a ‘decree’ (décret) and a ‘civic oath’ (serment civique), but she stresses the significance of the ‘national contract’ using language that is akin to the speech of a god when she refers to it as a ‘holy and national convention’ (5.139, own transl.). Third, in The Call of Innocence (1792), de Gouges expounds on how the ‘national contract,’ the ‘constitution’ and her ‘republicanism’ might all hang together: There are commonly counted two groups; I distinguish four; that of the Ancien Régime, almost no ambiguity with this one; that of the republican anarchy, which indubitably has the same direction of march; that of the two chambers, whose advocates hide themselves and which is not dangerous; that of the true friends of the constitution is the dominant one; but she is without effect, devoid of courage and lacking a rallying point. Only the national contract can establish this coalition, which is dreadful to the foreign powers and the enemies from within; it is our last resort. Oh, my fellow citizens! In the name of the homeland, I beseech you again in support of this national declaration. 5.147, own transl. Like in The Three Urns, she sees the dangers of both foreign powers and internal enemies that beleaguer the French nation. ‘Republic anarchy’, she maintains, is no solution. Rather, a ‘national contract’ is needed. But this contract is the task of the ‘true friends of the constitution.’ Against the background of these oeuvre-​based references, it becomes clear that in The Three Urns de Gouges is not primarily concerned with a particular form of government. It is true that citizens should choose between a monarchy, a federation and a republic, and de Gouges makes her preference for a republican form of government abundantly clear; to her, however, it is more important however that citizens choose, that they make their rational will known, that they participate in this political act. De Gouges is interested in a foundational political act that would guarantee the unity of a republic (the same unity that the king symbolizes in a monarchy). When she demands that the nobility form one body with the masses of the French people (5.88), then she takes the theme of unity to its logical conclusion, which is omnipresent in her oeuvre in the form of family metaphors (‘Let the People, the Parliaments and the King unite as one family…,’ 4.46; ‘France is the mother of the family, the monarch is its good father, let us, like zealous children, anticipate their needs, let us unite to save us all at the same time…,’ 4.81).

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Her text about The Three Urns which contains her proposal for primary assemblies at which a solemn oath on the ‘first contract’ would be performed are intended to constitute the demanded ‘rallying point.’ The constitution required by a republic must rest on the fundament of a ‘first contract.’ From time to time, de Gouges also speaks of a ‘social contract’ (contrat social, 4.202). With The Three Urns, de Gouges seeks to accomplish nothing short of a ‘philosophical revolution worthy of blessed humanity, once and for all worthy of your republican principles’ (5.174–​175).

3.4  Limits and Possibilities of Oeuvre-​based Interpretation De Gouges’s The Three Urns takes a different shape when viewed in light of her entire oeuvre. While our initial reading of the text led us to question what lay at the heart of her process – namely, whether she was advocating for a monarchy, a federation or a republic in The Three Urns – this now looks rather misguided. When the prosecution argued during her court proceedings that the French had already committed to a republic, it was precisely this commitment that she found insufficient. Many of her opponents found such commitment evident in the events of the Revolution, but de Gouges demanded a more explicit and fundamental commitment. Finally –​based on the oeuvre-based approach – we can discern that she proposed something like a historical social contract. An oeuvre-​based approach seems to promise such insights. Of course, such an interpretation would have to stand its ground against the results of other approaches that could equally be applied to interpret The Three Urns (as well as competing results from other oeuvre-​based approaches). A cross-​examination with the results from other approaches is recommendable for the reason that the oeuvre-​based approach, as it has been applied in this chapter, has some obvious limitations and also rests on some rather strong assumptions. Some such assumptions and limitations should be quickly addressed in light of The Three Urns, before we set out to highlight the possibilities that we see in the oeuvre-​based approach. One assumption underlying the oeuvre-​based approach concerns the actual conception of an oeuvre that can be ascribed to an author. The issue is not the pragmatic difficulty of whether or not a text pertains to the oeuvre, but rather the non-​trivial question of whether de Gouges’s oeuvre really is her ‘oeuvre.’ How, for instance, are we supposed to deal with the fact that de Gouges reproduced entire passages from her correspondence with third parties such as the mayor of Paris, Jérôme Pétion de Villeneuve, whose own letter she included in full with place and date (Paris, 28 March 1792) (5.77). This raises the question of how to deal with quotations in the oeuvre of an author. In de Gouges’s The Three Urns, we find passages that are clearly marked as quotations (but which lack a reference). These passages in de Gouges’s work lead us to Alexis Piron and his La Métronomie ou Le poète (1738), perhaps to the libretto of Jean-​Babtiste Lully’s opera Cadmus et Hermione (1673), and certainly to the poem Épitre au people (presented to the Académie Française in 1760) by Antoine-​Léonard Thomas. All of these texts, in the

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absence of any further mention somewhere else in de Gouges’s writings, would have to remain off-​limits for an oeuvre-​based approach. De Gouges uses the words of others to say what she herself wants to say. There might be several reason why she did not include references. Of course, it might simply convey that she did not care that much about who said it but that she wants to say, too, what has been said before. In the end, much if not all that an author writes is subject to a use that is not his or her own. Put pointedly, we always write in quotations. The assumption of an oeuvre ascribable to one and only one author can be problematized in light of the present chapter from another angle too. Strictly speaking, the quotations from de Gouges’s texts would have to be drawn from the French original and not from an English translation, since there are good arguments for the view that a work in translation is really the translator’s work (traduttore, traditore!). One limitation of the oeuvre-​based approach is the role of foreknowledge. On the one hand, any interpreter brings foreknowledge to a text that he or she would artificially have to disregard unless that knowledge could be gained from the text itself. Most interpreters would have heard about the French Revolution. They would certainly learn quite a bit about de Gouges herself when turning, as recommended, to the research literature in order to identify the author and her oeuvre. On the other hand, it seems impossible to draw connections without such foreknowledge, which would frustrate any attempt at an oeuvre-​ based approach; one simply has to know what an urn or a monarchy is. This ambiguous role of foreknowledge highlights a deeper problem. Depending on one’s foreknowledge, interpreters will readily identify Louis Capet, who is mentioned in The Three Urns, to be the same person as Louis XVI or simply ‘the king,’ who frequently appears in de Gouges’s other texts. Whoever has this foreknowledge, will not waste a second and recognize the identification, perhaps being wholly unaware of the fact that they are performing this identification. Admittedly, there would be sufficient evidence to detect the identification by way of an oeuvre-​based approach, but the matter would have the status of an assumption at best. Such an assumption, however, is impossible in the cases of the proper names Toxycodindron and Monomotapa in The Three Urns. Both proper names appear solely in The Three Urns. For whatever reason, an interpreter might know that Toxycodindron is the name of a genus of plants (to which poison ivy belongs). Or, he or she might be aware that Monomotapa is the name of a precolonial empire in the region of today’s Zimbabwe and Mozambique, which were thought in de Gouges’s time to have among the best of their warriors a legion of women, so-​called amazons. A Dutch registry from 1595 reports this much. In his The City of the Sun (1602),Tommaso Campanella also mentions the amazons from ‘Monopotapa’ (1995, 58). This piece of information is important since it might provide an easy explanation for the opening passage of The Three Urns: de Gouges understood herself and her text to be the product of an amazon. Like

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an act of war, her text should constitute a rallying point for a revolutionary deed; the establishment of a national first contract. It is therefore highly ironic that de Gouges would, for an entirely different set of reasons, be denounced as an ‘amazon’ by later commentators (Frysak 2010, 15). Methodologically, the example of Monomotapa is most telling, since this piece of foreknowledge would enter the oeuvre-​based interpretation the same way as the identification of Louis Capet with Louis XVI. This might lead some to embrace the view that encyclopedic knowledge has to be admitted into the oeuvre-​based approach. An interpreter who had been inattentive in a history class on the French Revolution might have to consult Wikipedia to establish the link between Louis Capet and Louis XVI, where the history teacher would readily have this knowledge available when embarking on a reading of The Three Urns. In the final analysis, however, this would mean giving up the oeuvre-​based approach, for why would one then not also read Campanella’s The City of the Sun or take into consideration the texts that make up the specific discourse into which de Gouges intervened with her text? The distinctness of the oeuvre-​based approach would dissolve as it would no longer be based on the oeuvre. Finally, the oeuvre-​based approach is subject to yet another significant limitation, inasmuch as it offers no guidance at all to the interpreter as to whether the interpreted text is in any way original or particularly relevant. For instance, is de Gouges’s emphasis on utility or her appeal to the homeland especially original or is she simply in tune with the canon of the concerns, style and vocabulary of her time? Has someone else perhaps also spoken of a ‘first contract’ or even dealt with the topic in much more detail? Only a comparison that transcends de Gouges’s texts can answer these questions and, for instance, establish that the central importance given to ‘spirit’ in de Gouges’s oeuvre or her claim that France needs a political order that fits its climate draws on Montesquieu.5 Exclusive reliance on the oeuvre leaves the interpreter clueless as to whether the questions that arise from the interpretive effort might be of interest to others too. As previously mentioned, these questions are not generated from the text alone, the interpreter also brings them to the text. The interpreter’s foreknowledge and interests play a strong role as well.When reading The Three Urns, the interpreter might be particularly responsive to the term ‘first contract,’ because he or she might know about the often-​ mentioned proximity between de Gouges and Jean-​Jacques Rousseau or rather assume such a proximity given de Gouges’s frequent mention of ‘Jean-​Jacques.’ Still, the point is that one cannot take a critical position on this issue when pursuing an oeuvre-​based approach alone. The possibilities of an oeuvre-​based approach should have been amply illustrated through the interpretation offered in this chapter. To conclude, we shall highlight two strengths of the approach in particular. One strength is that the oeuvre-​based approach does justice to the fact that in a given text, an author does not wish to repeat everything he or she has written elsewhere. It is thus rather common for authors to sum up rather assertively in a short clause what they have expounded in

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depth in another text. The underlying assumption of the oeuvre-​based approach that an author has already expressed his or her thoughts on the same or a significantly related topic in other texts is in no way absurd. There are good reasons for making this assumption. It would indeed be absurd to assume the contrary, namely that an author would embark on a completely new and hitherto disregarded topic in every new text, just as it would be absurd in turn to believe that an author is everywhere and always speaks about one and the same concern.The oeuvre-​based approach takes seriously the author’s systematic intentions to repeatedly tackle a certain topic. This insight is a useful tool for maximally exploiting this approach to interpreting a text. The absurdity of the claim that an author might be speaking always and everywhere about the same matter stands in a peculiar tension to the assumption of a unitary and uniform intention that permeates the author’s life work. Such an assumption is clearly extreme (and, as such, extremely implausible). Therefore, the oeuvre-​based approach might perhaps be better understood as relying only partially on a uniform intention. In other words, a uniform intention could be detected in only certain passages. This would allow one to understand the author as having undergone a development that cannot be reduced to the repetition, precision and differentiation of one and the same thought, but that quite naturally would include breaks, reorientations and changing standpoints. Still, from a methodological point of view, the assumption of a uniform intention throughout the various writings is one of the strengths of the oeuvre-​based approach. Relying on the assumption of only a partially uniform intention can lead to radically different outcomes. Lily Braun’s interpretation of de Gouges’s The Rights of Woman has been reproached for relying one-​sidedly on socialist passages and ignoring those which are ‘specifically feminist’ (Wolters and Sutor 1979, 18–​22). In turn, Benoite Groult’s edition of de Gouges’s oeuvre was criticized for its ‘one-​sided’ reliance on the specifically feminist passages and the omission of others to the contrary (Doormann 1993, 66; cf. Frysak 2010, 44–​47 and 78–​79). Focusing on partially uniform intentions opens the floodgates for one-​sided and manipulative interpretations, whereas an interpretation that claims to be supported by the entire oeuvre cannot but face and respond to contrary passages. Only an interpreter committed to an oeuvre-​based approach and who understands the assumption of a uniform intention as a methodological corrective can erect a protective layer against all too common one-​sided interpretations.

Notes 1 In a letter to Jean-​Pierre Costard, her friend and publisher from after her arrest, she writes that her judges were disposed to interpret The Three Urns badly, ‘dont il plaît àmes juges de mal l’interpréter’ (Blanc 1993, 12). 2 The many references to Olympe de Gouges’s texts in this chapter have been arranged based on a simple system of pointing out a specific work and the page number as reflected

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in the overview of her oeuvre given in Section 3.3 (see Table 3.1). The references are to her works in the French language. 3 Unless otherwise indicated, the translations of de Gouges’s texts follow those of Clarissa Palmer. See her homepage: www.olympedegouges.eu/​index.php (last visited, 24 June 2020). One term we consistently translate differently from Palmer is ‘la patrie,’ which she renders as ‘motherland’ while we prefer ‘homeland.’ 4 There are apparently only two extant copies of the original posters, the one used in the trial, which is in the Archives Nationales in Paris, and one that was found in 2013 in the British Library. The other posters were destroyed by the authorities. See online: https://​ blogs.bl.uk/ ​ e uropean/ ​ 2 013/ ​ 1 1/ ​ o lympe- ​ d e- ​ g ouges- ​ a nd- ​ l es- ​ t rois- ​ u rnes.html (last visited 24 June 2020). 5 In her play Mirabeau aux Champs-​Elysées (1791), besides Voltaire, Ninon de Lenclos, Franklin, Jean-​Jacques [Rousseau], Solon and others, de Gouges also features Montesquieu as a protagonist, who speaks of the French spirit, the ‘l’esprit français’, in the dialogue (6.249).

References Azoulay, Ariella. 2009. ‘The Absent Philosopher. Thinking Political Philosophy with Olympe de Gouges.’ Radical Philosophy 158: 36–​46. Beauchamps, Marie. 2016. ‘Olympe de Gouges’s Trial and the Affective Politics of Denaturalization in France.’ Citizenship Studies 20/​8: 943–​956. Blanc, Oliver. 1993. ‘Introduction: Arrestation et procès d’Olympe de Gouges (Documents inédits).’ In Olympe de Gouges: Écrits politiques 1792–​1793, edited by Olivier Blanc, 7–​37. Paris: côté-​femmes éditions. Blanc, Oliver. 2003. Marie-​ Olympe de Gouges: Une humaniste à la fin du XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Éditions RenéViénet. Brown, Gregory. 2001.‘The Self-​Fashionings of Olympe de Gouges, 1784–​1789.’ Eighteenth-​ Century Studies 34/​1: 383–​401. Campanella, Tommaso. 1995. La Città del Sole. Edited by Massimo Baldini. Rome: Newton Compton editori. Doormann, Lottemi. 1993. ‘Ein Feuer brennt in mir’: Die Lebensgeschichte der Olympe de Gouges. Weinheim and Basel: Beltz Verlag. Frysak, Viktoria. 2010. Denken und Werk der Olympe de Gouges (1748–​1793). Doctoral Thesis. University of Vienna. Hobbes, Thomas. 1983. De Cive: The English Version. Edited by Howard Warrender. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sherman, Carol L. 2013. Reading Olympe de Gouges. New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Sherman, Carol L. 2016. Olympe de Gouges:Witness to Revolution. Ebook edition. Vanpée, Janie. 1999. ‘Performing Justice: The Trials of Olympe de Gouges.’ Theatre Journal 51/​1: 47–​65. Wolters, Margarete and Clara Sutor. 1979. ‘Zum Stand der Forschung über die politischen Aktivitäten und über die gesellschaftspolitischen Schriften von Marie Olympe de Gouges.’ In Marie Olympe de Gouges. Politische Schriften in Auswahl, edited by Margarete Wolters and Clara Sutor, 14–​48. Hamburg: Helmut Buske Verlag.

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4 SPEAKING INTO THE CONTEXT Specifying the Illocutionary Potential of Diego Rivera’s The History of Mexico

Contextual approaches translate words into meaning by reading a text against the backdrop of its con-​text, i.e. the circumstances that formed the setting of the text during the time of its production.These circumstances are always multifarious and complex. They include everything that possibly influenced the production of the text, even climatic and nutritional factors. It would be a hopeless endeavor to analyze them in full, which is why contextual models only focus on certain kinds of circumstances –​and are informed by a theory that justifies their respective focus. What has come to be known as the contextual model in political theory is mostly limited to sociolinguistic and ideological conventions. According to this approach, the meaning of a political text can be properly understood only if we pinpoint its place in the discursive web constituted by other political texts on the same subject and at the same time. Having said this, it immediately becomes clear that the contextual model stands in stark methodological opposition to the text-​centered and deliberately context-​disregarding Oxford model that we presented in Chapter 1. Is it no small irony that the contextual model originated at Oxford’s legendary rival, the University of Cambridge, and is therefore called the Cambridge School of political thought? While the rivalry between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge dates back to the 13th century, this methodological cleavage did not arise until the 20th century. It took shape with the publication of Quentin Skinner’s 1969 essay ‘Meaning and Understanding in the History of Ideas.’ Together with colleagues at the University of Cambridge –​e.g. Peter Laslett, J.G.A. Pocock and John Dunn –​ Skinner especially warned against the danger of anachronistic readings: unless we respect the historicity of political texts, we run the danger of distorting their significance by associating them with the events, worldviews and controversies of later (and in particular: our own) life worlds. DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-5

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But what exactly does it mean to do justice to the historicity of political texts? Which specific contingent circumstances should we direct our attention to, in contrast to others? The members of the Cambridge School have given diverging answers to these questions.They have also more or less substantially modified their respective answers over the course of their careers. In this chapter, we will reconstruct, apply and assess the version developed by Quentin Skinner.1 We begin, in the following section, by setting out its theory.

4.1  Skinner’s Cambridge Model of Interpretation Whereas the Oxford model tends to treat political thinkers from antiquity and modernity as members of an ahistorical senior common room, Skinner recommends situating them firmly in their own respective times and places. This implies, among other things, that we pay attention to the specific meaning that thinkers from the past associated with political concepts or that we familiarize ourselves with the specific social and political conventions an author confronted when composing his or her thoughts. Yet this is not what most fundamentally sets Skinner’s Cambridge model apart from the Oxford model, for as we noted in Chapter 1, the latter can happily, if inevitably, allow contextual elements to pre-​structure its interpretation. Rather, the real difference consists in their meta-​ theoretical understandings of texts, on the one hand, and their understandings of political theorizing, on the other hand. Before turning to the interpretive strategy of Skinner’s model, we will take a closer look at these differences.

4.1.1  Doing Things with Words Skinner maintains that texts are not simply containers for propositions. Indeed, they are not passive entities at all for him; instead, they do something. To better understand this claim, note that his theory is informed by speech act theory (esp. Austin 1962; Searle 1976). According to speech act theory, in addition to presenting information utterances may perform actions. For instance, if your boss tells you ‘You’re fired!,’ he or she is using these words not only to express the status of your employment, but also to end your employment. Speech acts are commonplace in everyday communication. We raise questions, give or request answers and call for actions; we greet, insult, order, apologize, complain, protest, warn, threaten and do much more with words. Speech act theory posits a distinction between four different levels of meaning (see Table 4.1). First, a text has a locutionary content –​the things it literally says. Second, a text incorporates an illocutionary potential –​the things it is capable of doing by virtue of its wording and syntax. Third, the author may want his or her text to do certain things by composing it in this or that way. We call this the illocutionary intention. Finally, texts have a perlocutionary force insofar as they are read and have an impact upon their readers.

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Speech act theory –​four levels of meaning 1 2

Locutionary content Illocutionary potential

Literal meaning Enabled actions

3

Illocutionary intention

Intended action

4

Perlocutionary force

Actual action/​effects

What the text is saying What the text is capable of doing by saying what it says What the author was trying to do by writing the text What the text succeeded in doing

In addition to employing diverging terms for these four levels of meaning, certain varieties of speech act theory do not always distinguish between levels 2 and 3. Skinner does, albeit hesitantly, yet we will see in a moment that the distinction is of utmost importance for acquiring a maximally clear understanding of the Cambridge model in pure form. To understand the difference between the illocutionary potential (level of meaning 2) and the illocutionary intention (level of meaning 3) of a text in particular, consider the example of a policewoman standing by a frozen pond watching an ice-​skater, and saying ‘The ice is very thin over there’ (cf. Skinner 2002b, 104).The locutionary content refers to the literal meaning of the utterance. The utterance articulates a proposition, which is why in this case, the locutionary corresponds to the propositional content (which constitutes the focus of the Oxford model). The perlocutionary force depends on the reactions of those who listened to the utterance.The example does not say anything about such reactions. But for the sake of illustration, let us imagine that the skater hears the policewoman and quickly moves away from the spot he thinks she was referring to. In this case, the perlocutionary force of the policewoman’s utterance would amount to a warning, recommendation or command to move away. And in fact, this might very well have been the policewoman’s intention, in which case the illocutionary intention also was to issue a warning, recommendation or command. However, the utterance by itself does not disclose what the policewoman wanted to do by saying ‘The ice is very thin over there.’ Perhaps she knew that the ice was thick enough but hated the fact that others were having fun while she had to work. She might have wanted to frighten the skater and spoil his enjoyment instead of alerting him to a danger. Or, let us suppose she knew that the skater was a reckless person, and that she spoke with a stern voice to denigrate the skater. The takeaway of this complication is fourfold. First, the wording and the syntax of one and the same utterance may enable the speaker to perform several different actions. The illocutionary potential is –​objectively considered –​ multiple. Second, the author of the utterance usually only intends to realize one aspect of the illocutionary potential. The policewoman was either trying

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to warn or denigrate the ice-​skater, but not both at the same time. Third, it is impossible to read a person’s mind; there is no way for us to identify an author’s illocutionary intention with absolute certainty. At best we can try to indirectly deduce what he or she was thinking. Finally, the inevitable fuzziness clouding the author’s mindset motivates the question of whether there could be scholarly value in focusing on a level of meaning other than illocutionary intention. Before we further consider this question, let us quickly consider the second point of Skinner’s departure from the Oxford model, which concerns the overall understanding of political theorizing.

BY THE WAY…: HOW TO IDENTIFY ILLOCUTIONARY INTENTIONS? It is difficult to know what conversation partners intend to do with what they say because one and the same composition of words can mean two or more things, just as individual words often have multiple meanings. The problem is exacerbated by the possibility that our conversation partners might not abide by linguistic conventions and may use words in idiosyncratic ways. And even if they explicitly endorse our interpretation, they could very well be lying. We are doomed to live in uncertainty about what our conversation partners actually have in mind. To handle this situation, we empathize with them among other things. That is, we try to place ourselves in their position to feel or understand what they are thinking or to feel from within their frame of reference. The ability and willingness to empathize with conversation partners is essential for forming meaningful personal relationships. But is empathy also an essential tool for interpretation in scholarship?

4.1.2  Timeless Wisdom or Contingent Interventions? By approaching texts against the backdrop of speech act theory, we can distinguish between different levels of meaning. From this, various implications immediately follow. For if speech act theory is applicable to texts in general and to political texts in particular,2 then (political) texts are –​like oral utterances –​connecting links situating authors in a concrete, if projected, communicative situation. This addressee-​ centered understanding of texts differs markedly from text-​ centered methods such as the Oxford model, which treats texts as self-​sufficient compositions of utterances from which we can reconstruct more or less compelling arguments. Addressee-​centered interpretation instead requires us to consider the idea that texts are written by and, even more importantly, for somebody specific.The propositions contained in a text thus cease to be mere propositions.They become ‘move[s]‌in an argument’ (Skinner 2002b, 115) by which an author tries

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to inform, persuade, mobilize, unsettle or in yet other ways influence a target audience. And the text –​the composition of such propositions –​turns into a polemical intervention. Skinner (2008, xvi) describes this peculiar understanding of texts in the introduction to his study of Thomas Hobbes’s work as follows: I approach Hobbes’s political theory not simply as a general system of ideas but also as a polemical intervention in the ideological conflicts of his time. To interpret and understand his texts, I suggest, we need to recognize the force of Wittgenstein’s maxim that words are also deeds. We need, that is, to put ourselves in a position to grasp what sort of an intervention Hobbes’s texts may be said to have constituted. […] With this in mind, I try to bring Hobbes down from the philosophical heights, to spell out his allusions, to identify his allies and adversaries, to indicate where he stands on the spectrum of political debate. What started out as an innocent disambiguation of levels of meaning of texts turns out having massive ramifications for the study of political texts and, relatedly, for our understanding of what they (or their authors) are trying to do. Political theorizing, Skinner suggests, is also always politics proper. The one sentence we omitted from the above quote gets straight to the point: ‘My governing assumption is that even the most abstract works of political theory are never above the battle’ (Skinner 2008, xvi. Cf. also Skinner 1969, 8; 1974, 280). So, how does this understanding of texts and political theory play out in interpretive practice?

4.1.3  The Text in its Context According to Skinner (2002b, 116), the Cambridge model is comprised of three steps: We should start by elucidating the meaning, and hence the subject matter, of the utterances in which we are interested and then turn to the argumentative context of their occurrence to determine how exactly they connect with, or relate to, other utterances concerned with the same subject matter. If we succeed in identifying this context with sufficient accuracy, we can eventually hope to read off what it was that the speaker or writer in whom we are interested was doing in saying what he or she said. By examining the three methodological steps more closely, it becomes clear that the first two steps consist of gathering raw material we can work with in step 3. We need to acquire a sufficiently detailed understanding of a text and its ‘argumentative context.’ The ‘argumentative context’ is –​because of the ‘governing assumption’ we introduced in Section 1.2 –​a geographically and

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temporally distinct –​political discourse. The matching operation enables us to answer such questions as: which political issues does the text take up and which does it marginalize? What are the central concepts, as well as linguistic and ideological conventions of the discourse? How does the text modify or give them a polemical twist? Which ideological positions does the text champion, reject or criticize? Upon a closer look, it turns out that the first two steps confront us with challenges that Skinner did not tell us much about. For instance, the second step pertains to the practical task of identifying the sources of the discourse, which may consist of monographs and speeches but also nonverbal texts such as artwork or architecture. In the case of texts from distant history, we might be bound to work with only a few extant, and perhaps opaque, text fragments. If that is the case, how can we believe that we have access to the decisive contextual sources? At the other end, we might be confronted with an overabundance of information thus forcing us to carefully justify our selection of sources.3 Moreover, while it certainly would be possible, even if extremely burdensome, to determine the illocutions of every single sentence of a text, it is not entirely clear whether this is either necessary or sufficient for determining the meaning of the entire text. In this case, the whole might very well be more (or less) than the sum of its parts. The third step proposed by Skinner also raises a number of questions. In particular, it forces us to consider what level of meaning the methodological procedure really allows to access. In the passage we just quoted, Skinner seems to believe that the Cambridge model aims at elucidating the illocutionary intention of texts (and hence, what their authors had in mind). He tells us that his procedure ultimately allows us to determine ‘what it was that the speaker or writer in whom we are interested was doing in saying what he or she said’ (Skinner 2002b, 119). However, the three-​step procedure conspicuously lacks any tool for facilitating empathy. The ‘governing assumption’ does presuppose that the author intended to intervene into a contingent political discourse but it does not tell us how. And at no point does the Cambridge model examine the author’s motivation for intervening in a debate, as for instance the biographical model does (see Chapter 2). Getting to know something about an author’s subjective or objective interests, or his or her political identity, would at least allow the interpreter to make informed guesses about what he or she wanted to do. Only in one case would the three-​step procedure of the Cambridge model enable us to find out what the author was actually doing: if the illocutionary potential of the text boils down to a single action. To realize just how unlikely that case is, recall the simplistic example of the ice-​skater and compare it to the complexity of an entire book. If we turn to the ice-​skater yet another time, we see what the three-​step procedure recommended by Skinner really does. By considering the policewoman’s utterance (step 1) in light of text-​transcending factors (step 2), we can discard a few possibilities of what she plausibly could have tried to do by saying what she said (step 3). By inquiring into her gestures, tone of voice or the persons involved in the communicative situation, we can hope to

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ascertain that her utterance could plausibly have been understood by the addressee or bystanders (e.g.) as issuing a warning, recommendation or command but not as an attempt to frighten or denigrate the ice-​skater. Once again, it would still be little more than speculative guesswork to deduce from this insight that the policewoman actually intended to issue a warning, recommendation or command. Perhaps she was being ironic or perhaps she misused her words, gestures and tone of voice. We can only say what action a sincere person who was fairly familiar with the sociolinguistic conventions of the time could have hoped to perform by saying ‘the ice is very thin over there’ in that specific situation. Analogously, the Cambridge model aims to delineate what certain linguistically enabled actions a text could plausibly have performed in the contingent political discourse in which the text is assumed to have intervened. Tellingly, in a page after the passage quoted above, Skinner (2002b, 118) does an about-​face: ‘we can hope by these means to identify illocutionary forces [in our terminology: illocutionary potential], but not necessarily any illocutionary acts [illocutionary intentions].’ Is the incapacity of the Cambridge model to access illocutionary intentions then a demerit? Not necessarily. It is not altogether obvious that scholars of politics need to be interested in what authors wanted to say and do. As we will suggest in the Epilogue, political theory has various legitimate research objectives. Learning from key thinkers is just one of these. Other objectives include, for instance, the capacity to serve as an archive and an arsenal of political thought practices (Llanque 2008, 3). To furnish these repositories, it would indeed be counterproductive to move from the level of possible to actual or intended meanings. The discipline also caters more for historical interests. It is meant to help us better understand the peculiarities of contingent and historical political conflicts. Also in this regard, the identification of the contextually delimited illocutionary potential of a text is more relevant than authorial intentions. After all, even the contemporary addressees of a text could not know with absolute certainty what the authors addressing them had in mind. They too need to interpret the intervention. And because of the objectively multiple illocutionary potential, limited contextual information or abilities to emphasize, some of them may very well include unintended messages.

4.2  Diego Rivera’s Intervention with The History of Mexico Skinner practiced his version of the contextual model in his studies on classics of political theory such as the works of Thomas Hobbes or Niccolò Machiavelli. He (Skinner 1986) also used contextual interpretive strategies to enlighten our understanding of a non-​verbal text painted on the walls of the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena: Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s series of fresco panels Allegory of Good and Bad Government (1338/​1339). In so doing, Skinner assumed that speech act theory works analogously in the case of non-​verbal texts. Whether it is necessary to

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develop a corresponding ‘picture act theory,’ and how it would have to look in detail is still a matter of dispute (Bredekamp 2015; Hornuff 2012; Llanque 2018). But in this chapter, we go along with Skinner, and likewise apply the Cambridge model to a piece of artwork, which is similar to Lorenzetti’s fresco in a number of regards: Diego Rivera’s The History of Mexico (1929–​1935). The History of Mexico is a gigantic mural which Rivera created by using the fresco technique. It is also displayed in a public building, namely Mexico City’s Palacio Nacional. And, just like Lorenzetti’s fresco, it was commissioned by the political authorities.4 Our text selection is not arbitrary. An analogous interpretation of Rivera’s mural allows us to illustrate the Cambridge model in a particularly vivid and convincing way, not least because it is easy to accept Skinner’s decision to understand texts as interventions into political discourse in this case. Rivera in no way disguised his political ambitions, as his pamphlet ‘The Revolutionary Spirit in Modern Art’ (Rivera 1932, 54) shows: I want to be a propagandist and I want to be nothing else. I want to be a propagandist of Communism and I want to be it in all that I can think, in all that I can speak, in all that I can write, and in all that I can paint. I want to use my art as a weapon. So, Rivera is most likely making a case for communism in The History of Mexico. Why bother analyzing the mural in detail then, if Rivera stated his ideological aims so directly? Well, first of all, Rivera might have changed his mind between 1932 (the year he wrote the pamphlet) and 1935 (the year he completed The History of Mexico). Second, defending communism in Mexico in the 1930s could have meant something quite different than what it meant in Europe back then, or where you, our reader, are living today.Third, communism was likely not a homogeneous ideology in Mexico at the beginning of the 20th century. If so, we might find out what specific conception of communism he defended, and what contemporary visions he attacked. Finally, the Cambridge model as we presented it above does not focus on illocutionary intentions, but on the illocutionary potential, which means that we not only want to know Rivera’s intended message but also the unintended ones that contemporary spectators could have plausibly taken to be the intended message. In what follows, we will apply the context-based model to The History of Mexico. We rely on the outlined three-​step procedure (see Figure 4.1), and therefore analyze the mural’s locutionary content and illocutionary potential (step 1) as well as its argumentative context (step 2), and then review (in order to rule out some options) the mural’s illocutionary potential in light of its argumentative context (step 3). Rather than dedicating neatly separated sections to the individual methodological steps, we will –​given the limits of space –​draw selective comparisons between Rivera’s mural and contextual sources in the main body of our analysis.

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The Cambridge model interprets political texts as interventions into time-and-placebound ideological controversies.

Text

Step 1

What is the subject matter of the text? What does the text literally say? What, generally speaking, can the utterances plausibly have tried to do by saying what they say?

Identify the locutionary content and illocutionary potential of the text

Into which political discourse did the text intervene? What are the relevant contextual sources? What political questions, concepts, linguistic and ideological conventions featured prominently in that discourse? Which ideological positions did other authors champion?

Step 2 Analyze the argumentative context of the text

Make connections between steps (1) and (2). Which ideological positions are criticized and which are defended in the text? What is the context-dependent illocutionary potential of the text, i.e. what effect on the thoughts and actions of the likely target audience could the text have had?

Step 3 Specify the illocutionary potential of the text

Meaning

FIGURE 4.1 

The Cambridge model of interpretation.

4.2.1  The Text: Diego Rivera’s The History of Mexico The History of Mexico is painted on the walls of the Palacio Nacional in Mexico City, the seat of Mexican government, which was built on the exact spot where the palace of the last Aztec ruler Moctezuma once stood. It stretches over three walls and some 410 square meters, resembling a supersized Triptych enclosed on a winged altarpiece (see Figure 4.2). Upon entering the building, spectators are immediately confronted by the west panel (Photos 4.2a and 4.2b), which is flanked by the two smaller north and south panels (Photos 4.1, 4.3). Traditionally, Triptychs are to be read from right to left, and indeed the chronology of the displayed events suggests that Rivera followed the tradition in this regard.

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FIGURE 4.2 

Sketch of Rivera’s mural The History of Mexico.

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Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico. North Panel:The Pre-​Hispanic Mexico –​ The Ancient Indian World (1929). Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. PHOTO 4.1 

Source: ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F./​ 2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz.

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Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico.West Panel:The History of Mexico from the Conquest to 1930 (1929–​1931). Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. PHOTO 4.2 

Source: ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F. /​2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz.

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Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico. South Panel: Mexico Today and Tomorrow (1934–​1935). Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. PHOTO 4.3 

Source: ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F./​ 2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz.

The north panel is called ‘Pre-​Hispanic Mexico –​the Ancient Indian World.’ It portrays the working life, culture, mythology and conflicts of the autochthonous Aztecs. The west panel on the middle wall illustrates ‘The History of Mexico from the Conquest to 1930.’ It recalls the incursion of the conquistadores into the Aztec empire in 1519 (lower part), the ensuing Spanish colonization, the mission of the Franciscans, the Inquisition (center strip) and the Mexican War of Independence 1810–​1821 (upper part); the arches show the successful American invasion of 1846 (Mexican-​American War) as well as the unsuccessful French invasion of 1864 (Pastry War), the Mexican Revolution of 1910 and the post-​ revolutionary Mexico of the 1920s.The south panel to the left, captioned ‘Mexico Today and Tomorrow,’ depicts a conflict between apparently socialist activists and fascist forces on the streets, while the elites go about their economic, political and military business in some kind of machine under the banner of a dollar sign. At

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the very top, Karl Marx shows the way to a bright industrialized and thriving future. Corresponding to its title, the mural shows (a selection of episodes of) Mexican history.This is the ‘locutionary’ content of Rivera’s text. Every now and then for the purposes of our analysis, we will have to delve into much greater detail regarding this content. But before that, let us reflect for a moment on the mural’s illocutionary potential.Which actions is the pictorial statement capable of performing by the structure and locutionary content of its visual language? Because of the inbuilt chronology of Marx completing the timeline after the depiction of so much conflict and violence, the mural is well-​suited for encouraging or inviting Mexicans to realize international socialism. Additionally or alternatively, the mural could try to intimidate reactionary, fascist or nationalist forces by suggesting that in spite of their ongoing struggle, the future is already determined to be socialist. But the opposite is also possible. Instead of representing the harbinger of a better future, Marx’s unrealized vision could also be the depiction of an unrealistic fantasy, and serve as an explanation for historical conflict and violence. Hence, the mural could alternatively try to knock socialists out of their daydreams.These options presuppose that the mural’s punch line results from its temporal structure.5 However, we have not yet considered the coloration and arrangement of persons, the symbols or the artifacts in the mural –​all of which could be more important than its temporal structure. For instance, the panel depicting society in the ancient world is much brighter and more orderly than the other two. Brightness and orderliness are both, prima facie, positive attributes so that the mural could invite a nostalgia for the Aztec tradition. Thus, even by casting a fleeting glimpse at the mural we clearly see that the illocutionary potential of The History of Mexico, if considered in isolation, is highly multifarious. Comparing this content with sources from the argumentative context will allow us to rule out a few possibilities and to emphasize others. Before doing that, however, we need to acquire a basic understanding of the overall context in which Rivera painted the mural, of which we so far only know that it was in Mexico in the 1920s and 1930s.

4.2.2  The Context: Political Discourse in Post-​revolutionary Mexico If Mexican history was ever calm and peaceful, it certainly was not so in the early 20th century.6 Porfirio Dìaz took power by a coup because his predecessor had violated the norm of no reelection to the presidency. He was then violently ousted from power in 1910 –​after having clung to his office for 31 years. His successor, the liberal-​conservative landowner Francisco Maduro was assassinated three years later. The next usurper (who was actually later nicknamed El Usurpador) could avoid this fate by fleeing the country after a year in office. In the ensuing years, many other revolutionary and counterrevolutionary leaders again turned belly-​up.

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The civil war ended in 1920, when Álvaro Obregón managed to herald the start of a period of consolidation of government power (even though he was also assassinated before he could serve his second term in office). In spite of his achievements, Obregón did not live up to the expectations of particularly radical revolutionaries, and many of the reform plans he endorsed (e.g. the redistribution of land from wealthy landowners to the indigenous population) petered out. It therefore comes as no surprise that Obregón sang praises to the revolutionary spirit all the louder the less he kept his promises. In particular, he resorted to a politics of memory, which –​coordinated by the newly appointed Secretary of Education JoséVasconcelos –​roped artists in for the cause of consolidation. Obregón’s manifest preference for producers of non-​verbal texts was not arbitrary. Analphabetism was widespread in Mexico, and the revolutionary climate was not particularly favorably disposed towards armchair philosophers anyway. Equipped with a considerable budget, Vasconcelos (cited by Vaughan 1982, 142) called upon artists to leave the studio. Aligning themselves with the revolution, they could help bring about a ‘cultural renaissance.’ He immediately started to commission artworks, mostly murals, to be painted on the walls of public buildings. For one of the first, Roberto Montenegro’s Tree of Life (1922),Vasconcelos (cited by Charlot 1963, 99) had predefined the motto: ‘Action is stronger than fate.’ Dozens of murals were commissioned until 1924, when Vasconcelos was forced to resign, but his successors nevertheless carried on the project of ‘muralism.’ The History of Mexico – which was commissioned to be painted on the walls of the seat of government – was considered a particularly important part of this project, but in this case, the authorities did not lay out any predefined motto. Because of this project, art came to play a central role in Mexico’s reemerging public discourse.The fact that state-​sponsored artworks were generally not hidden away from the public in galleries or museums, but ostentatiously displayed on the walls of government and school buildings, and explicitly declared to serve the purpose of political education, further boosted their influence. In fact, it is probably fair to say that hardly anywhere else was public political discourse anchored so firmly in art as it was in Mexico in the 1920s and 1930s. Quite naturally, then, the murals created in this period were broadly received, controversially discussed, celebrated by some, and criticized and sometimes even destroyed by others. The artists themselves –​in particular Diego Rivera, David Alfaro Siqueiros and José Clemente Orozco, who soon nearly monopolized the production of monumental public art –​did not hesitate to follow Vasconcelos’s call. In 1922, they published a manifesto articulating their readiness to put art into the service of the revolution: Declaration from the Union of Technical Workers, Painters, and Sculptors to the indigenous races humiliated through centuries; to the soldiers converted into hangmen by their chiefs; to the workers and peasants who are oppressed by the rich; and to the intellectuals who are not servile to the bourgeoisie:

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... We proclaim that this being the moment of social transformation from a decrepit to a new order, the makers of beauty must invest their greatest efforts in the aim of materializing an art valuable to the people, and our supreme objective in art, which is today an expression for individual pleasure, is to create beauty for all, beauty that enlightens and stirs to struggle. Siqueiros et al. 1939 [1922], 39 The manifesto quite accurately names what would become central themes of Rivera’s, Siqueiros’s and Orozco’s murals: the aspiration to overcome the exploitation of farmers, workers and soldiers by economic and military elites; to revalue indigenous culture; to politicize and democratize art; and to believe in ongoing revolutionary change. Tellingly, on the question of exactly what a newly emerging order should look like, the manifesto remains silent. It was apparently easier to agree upon the enemy of the revolution than its goal. Somewhere in between the commonly agreed upon enemy and the inarticulate vision of the future were the questions of how Mexicans would find themselves in the here and now once the journey had begun. The murals gave answers. Which answer did Rivera’s artwork in the Palacio Nacional give to the people of his day?

4.2.3  A Closer Look at the Mural’s Locutionary Content The Flag Bristling with persons, historical events and cultural symbols, The History of Mexico overwhelms the spectator at first glance. This is particularly true for spectators who are not as familiar with Mexican history.Yet to acquire a basic understanding of the mural, it is perhaps best to set aside the details at the start anyway. For by stepping back, the mural suddenly mutates from a Boschean wimmelpicture into a neatly structured interpretation of the Mexican national flag (cf. Folgarait 1998, 96–​97, 115, 126; see Photo 4.4). The staircase in the Palacio Nacional provides a natural environment for its triband design. Originally, the Mexican tricolor symbolized the Three Guarantees promised by the independence movement: Roman Catholicism (red), unity (white) and independence (green). The reform movement that formally separated church and state interpreted the flag’s color scheme anew in 1857. From then onwards, red symbolized the country’s cultural heritage, race and the blood sacrificed by heroes, while green stood quite generally for hope. White remained the emblem of unity.7 Regardless of how well-​informed contemporary spectators were about the official symbolism, the motifs dealt with on the north and south panels (Aztecs/​ Marx and thriving city) did not make it too altogether difficult for spectators to form associations. At the same time, they must have quickly noticed that Rivera’s

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PHOTO 4.4 

Mexican Flag (1916–​1934).

Source: WikiCommons.

mural diverged from the official emblem at its very heart.The flag’s heraldic animal at the center, the eagle, does not carry a snake in its beak, but an Aztec banner. Contemporary spectators might have thought that Rivera just wanted to be more accurate. His depiction is much closer to the original legend than the official portrayal on the flag. According to the founding myth of Tentochtitlan (today’s Mexico City), the Aztec nomads were promised a settlement site which would be shown to them by an eagle alighting on a cactus. Some Aztec codices and graphic depictions from antiquity suggest that the eagle carried a bird in its beak, or nothing at all, while others report of an Aztec banner as does Rivera. No historical sources ever mention a snake (Aguilar-​Moreno 2007, 142–​146).Yet, even if Rivera’s reason for modifying the flag was simply a concern for historical accuracy, this still amounted to a rejection of the government-​sponsored view; even more so as this does not concern the accuracy of historical but mythological facts. Additionally, it is not altogether clear why he decided in favor of the Aztec banner rather than the bird or the void. So, what is the symbolic difference between the different options? The eagle with a snake is a classical symbol of European heraldry. It symbolizes the triumph either, in its more political variety, of the empire over external enemies or, in the more religious variety, of Good over Evil. The visual imagery evoked by the Aztec myth is strikingly similar, given that Aztec banners have the shape of a pennon –​so similar indeed that a Catholic missionary in the 16th century recognized a cultural analogue in the Aztec myth (Duran 1994 [1588], 41 fn. 11). Whether inspired by the missionary or not, the Mexican independence movement adopted the European heraldic figure in the 19th century, once more sidetracking anti-​colonial qualms. They apparently hoped that the founding myth could be re-imagined and aligned with the demand for national self-​determination. Neither the missionary nor the independence movement were concerned with the fact that snakes, in Aztec mythology, consistently carry positive connotations.

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As a first guess, the absence of the snake from Rivera’s flag might be understood to be a rejection of colonial heritage, of European values or of the European militarist version of nationalism. And to some extent, it certainly is something of all of these. But this can only tell us half of the story because the mural not only lacks the snake, but also inserts the Aztec banner –​which itself has an antagonistic meaning. The banner is the atl-​tlachinolli glyph. It literally translates to ‘burning water,’ which represents war in Aztec mythology –​holy war, to be precise. War, the glyph suggests, does not owe its holiness to some political purpose such as self-​defense or liberation, which could have been considered compatible with the Mexican strive for independence. Rather, the war represented by the atl-​ tlachinolli glyph is holy by virtue of offering up human entrails and especially hearts as a sacrifice to the sun.8 What would the (re-​)inserted cut-​throat Aztec banner communicate to the contemporary spectator? Would they have understood it as a sanguinary spin on Vasconcelos’s opening motto ‘action is stronger than fate’? Would they have been tempted to rehabilitate human sacrifice or apotheosizing life-​and-​death struggle? This would seem astonishing from the viewpoint of today’s readers, though such positions were not entirely unpopular at the beginning of the 20th century, at least not on the other side of the Atlantic, where so many intellectuals had volunteered in World War I. It would imply that the mural forgoes the political vision of a well-​ordered, flourishing, industrialized and peaceful socialist society not only from actual history but from the realm of what is desirable as well, and that the purpose of the revolution is ongoing existential struggle. Yet, the eagle and the Aztec banner could also be seen to be emblematic of the the meaning of Mexican history only from the conquest to 1931. For if anything is missing from Rivera’s depiction of this part of Mexico’s history, then it is exactly what is depicted by the white stripe of the official Mexican flag: national unity. The history of Mexico ever since the conquest looks like a story of continuous, violently staged, dissension. Upon looking at the combination of Rivera’s two conspicuous modifications, the main wall prompts one to conclude that there is some evil which the nation must overcome. But rather than contending with outside aggressors such as colonial forces, as the European heraldry traditionally had it, the enemy was within. A propensity to cultivate violent conflict and the ensuing internal disunity was the evil to be defeated.

National Disunity The main wall leaves little room for doubting that national disunity is an important cause of Mexico’s historical incompletion. The mural depicts the Reform Movement of 1857 and the Mexican Independence War 1810–​1821 in great detail, but it does not celebrate their achievements. Concerning the Reform Movement, for example, the mural affords special prominence to Augustín de Iturbide. As the

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first head of the emerging nation, he certainly would not be absent from any account of Mexican history. Yet the gorgeous apparel in which he is dressed serves as an unambiguous reminder that he entered history books for having betrayed the people by crowning himself king and installing an authoritarian regime. The problem of national disunity sticks out elsewhere too. The revolutionaries of 1910 are depicted as bringing down Porfirio Díaz, but they are not shown to be fighting for a common cause. They have turned their backs on each other, pursuing mutually incompatible plans for the future (Folgarait 1998, 92). The chronologically ensuing event shows the first post-​revolutionary president Álvaro Obregón and three socialist freedom fighters portrayed as rather peaceable leaders (Emilano Zapata, Felipe Carillo Puerto und José Guadalupe Rodríguez) –​a faint gleam of hope that is suddenly frustrated by them being accompanied by their assassins. The south wall clearly shows that disunity continues to strain Mexico.The Marxian utopia can be found in the upper left compartment of the panel. This might be the way to go on in the long run, but for the foreseeable future it appears that domestic antagonism will continue: fascist reactionaries are fighting workers and hanging indigenous Mexicans. From what we have seen so far, it is not obvious exactly who is to be blamed for the predicament. We spoke of internal disunion but what would have kept contemporary spectators from interpreting Rivera’s mural more in line with the European symbolism adorning the official flag of Mexico, and attributing responsibility to imperialist invaders? Do the frightfully superior conquistadores led by Hernán Cortés not butcher the Aztecs, whose harmlessness is vividly expressed by them being equipped with animal costumes and lances rather than heavy harnesses, rifles and artillery? Is this historical event not the logical starting point of Rivera’s narrative, given its place at the center of the west wall, to which the spectator’s attention is first drawn upon entering the building? Does one’s second glance not fall to the woman on the left-​hand side of the battle, lady patria,9 who is being raped by Spanish warriors, suggesting that the Mexican nation is the victim, not the perpetrator?​Rivera’s mural gives voice to this narrative of Mexico’s history but, at the same time, it also casts doubt on it. For instance, the central panel shows some indigenous people allying with the Spanish conquistadores (next to the rape scene). So the mural does mention, then, that some Mexicans assisted imperialist oppression.Yet those same indigenous tribes that are depicted as committing the treason on the North panel on Mexico’s pre-​Hispanic era were also those oppressed and forced to pay tribute to an Aztec chieftain (depicted with a bird’s costume), and who apparently then pinned their hopes on the imperialist invaders to shake off their intra-​Mexican yoke. Thus, the mural tells its spectators that the disunion, exploitation and oppression that were seemingly brought upon Mexico by imperialism in truth were already part and parcel of pre-​Hispanic Mexico. The ancient world was never a peaceful golden era. By the light of the sun being turned upside down, perhaps signifying that Ancient Mexico rightly perished, the

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god Quetzalcóatl consequently flies off towards the east. According to the myth, he will one day return to establish legitimate rule. So far, we have seen that the mural portrays the Mexican nation as suffering from disunion and nourishing the hope that the revolution would eventually bring about a tranquil socialist future. Moreover it explains that disunion is a home-​made problem even if it was exacerbated or renewed by imperialist forces. With this, we have only contributed to clarifying the mural’s locutionary content, yet also realized that a good understanding of the text is crucial even for the Cambridge model. Beyond that, our brief consideration of the general historical context has exposed two relevant facts for the determination of the mural’s illocutionary potential: first, that the mural was commissioned by the government, displayed in a government building and neither modified nor veiled by the government after its completion. From this, we can infer that contemporary spectators would have understood that the mural might be critical of the status quo, but certainly not fundamentally opposed to the government’s course of action. The diagnosis of the problem as national disunity in the mural certainly fit the interests of those running a deeply divided society that had only recently managed to establish a fragile peace. Second, socialism was the political lingua franca in Mexico at the time. Almost everybody in that context referred to socialism to legitimize his or her political views. Just consider president Obregón’s definition of socialism: ‘The central view of socialism is to offer a hand to the underprivileged in order to search for a greater equilibrium between capital and labor’ (cited by Folgarait 1998, 53). Not paying tribute, or at least lip-​service, to socialism would have constituted a breach of decorum. Thus, the depiction of the figure of Marx, of the socialist vision of the future on the south panel, as well as other socialist symbols may or may not have been entirely important for the message(s) the mural was sending to contemporaries. The only way to find out is to take the argumentative context of the time into account, in particular as it reflects in the words and deeds of other muralists, which is what we will do in the following.

4.2.4  Specifying the Illocutionary Potential The Revolution The growing sense of alienation between Rivera and Siqueiros is crucial for contextually specifying the illocutionary potential of The History of Mexico. As we mentioned above, in 1922 they teamed up to co-​author a manifesto with several other artists. Despite their disagreements concerning the positive goals of emancipatory activism, Rivera and Siqueiros were apparently willing and able to act in concert. They were also fellow members of the Mexican Communist Party, with both sitting on the executive committee.Yet there they soon started growing apart

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from each other. Trotsky and Stalin had already started fighting over Lenin’s heritage in the Soviet Union –​Rivera sided with the former, while Siqueiros sided with the latter. Running parallel to Stalin’s victory and Trotsky’s exile, Siqueiros successfully gathered sufficient support to have Rivera expelled from the Mexican Communist Party. But the drama had not yet reached its climax. In the late 1930s, Trotsky took refuge in Mexico, in the house of Rivera specifically, and there Siqueiros made an (unsuccessful) attempt upon Trotsky’s life. For Siqueiros, the Mexican revolution had not ended in 1920. In his eyes, the ‘post-​revolutionaries’ were deserters, if not enemies of the revolution. In 1934, shortly before Rivera completed The History of Mexico, Siqueiros (1934) publicly denounced Rivera as a counter revolutionary. It is tempting to reduce Mexican political discourse at the time to the personal–​ political feud between Siqueiros and Rivera. But of course, the two of them did not represent the spectrum of the debate in its entirety. Contrary to what one might expect from the dramatic nature of their disagreements, they did not even cover the poles of the ideological spectrum. By looking at the murals of Orozco, we come to realize, in particular, that Rivera must have adopted an intermediate rather than extreme position. In Orozco’s The Trench and Trinity (both 1923–​1924), the population is dying a martyr’s death with neither the purpose of the devotion nor even the enemy in sight. His fresco cycle The Epic of American Civilization places further emphasis on this pessimistic diagnosis. It attempts, as Orozco (cited by Hugh, Honour and Fleming 2005, 807) explained, to visualize the hopelessly inflated idealism of Latin American revolutionaries who were striving for ‘justice whatever the cost.’ By contrast, Rivera’s The History of Mexico displays certain revolutionary achievements. In spite of its emphasis on disunity, the panel depicting the recent history of Mexico shows legal documents to witness important constitutional reforms. Two details on the south wall are even more telling in this regard because they read like a direct qualification of Orozco’s viewpoint. In The Banquet of the Rich (1923–​1924, Photo 4.5), Orozco had reminded spectators of the gap between the rich and the poor. He showed the rich feasting and laughing at the poor who, instead of defending their own interests, were letting themselves get entangled in a brawl, attacking each other with hammers and sickles. The workers on the south wall of Rivera’s mural raise a hammer and sickle to form the symbol of socialism, and –​holding Marx’s Capital in their hands –​laugh at the ill-​fated class of the bourgeoisie (Photo 4.6).

Socialism and Nationalism? Rivera’s mural was meant to reinforce the public’s faith in socialism. We already noted his inclusion of the figure of Marx, the hammer and sickle, and Capital. Other positively connoted symbols of socialist ideology can be found as well. Frida Kahlo (Rivera’s wife), for instance, is depicted as teaching Marx’s writings.

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José Clemente Orozco, The Banquet of the Rich (1923–​1924). Patio of the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria, Mexico City. ©2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. PHOTO 4.5 

Source: The Granger Collection.

Conspicuously though, more radical tenets of socialist theory are not explored in the mural in depth. Likewise, foreign threats (USA, France) to the Mexican independence are marginalized into peripheral arches in The History of Mexico. The same is true for the intrusion of global capitalism since the time of Porfirio Díaz’s dictatorship. By contrast, the mural Man at the Crossroads (1934), which Rivera created in passing at the Rockefeller Center in New York, demonized capitalism so fiercely that Nelson Rockefeller, who had commissioned the artwork, ordered that it be plastered over before it was even unveiled. Moreover, Rivera consistently portrays exploitation as an interpersonal phenomenon in The History of Mexico, implying that there is no difference between the exploitation of workers, farmers and indigenous people and the three ages. Rivera’s earlier frescos Entry into the Mine and Exit from the Mine (1923) had still given the issue of exploitation a systemic touch, with the mine itself being treated as the source of evil. Finally, there is the conspicuous absence of concrete ideas in The History of Mexico for

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Diego Rivera, The History of Mexico. South Panel: Mexico Today and Tomorrow (1934–​1935). Detail. Staircase of the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City. PHOTO 4.6 

Source: ©Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, México D.F./​ 2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Rafael Doniz.

improving the status quo, a theme that used to be part and parcel of many of Rivera’s earlier murals, such as Distribution of the Land (1924) or Hymn to the Earth (1926–​1927). Tellingly, there is no path on the south wall leading from Marx to the promised land. Given this striking lack of radicality, it is tempting to see nothing more than an inessential lip-​ service to the general political self-​ understanding in the socialist visual language –​inessential and empty like Obregón’s aforementioned definition of socialism. However, this would require overlooking the fact that the socialist imagery, however underdetermined, is firmly placed within a version of the Mexican national flag.This is meant to demonstrate that socialism is compatible with nationalism; it is a part of, and can be realized within, the Mexican nation. The brisance of this message in Mexican political discourse from the 1920s and 1930s becomes clear if we bring to mind how well it fell in line with the interests of the post-​revolutionary government, and how much it differed from the positions championed by Orozco and Siqueiros. The former had equated nationalism with atavistic Aztec rites. Nationalism, Orozco argued, is the Modern Human

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Sacrifice (1932–​1934); nothing more than the spitting image of the Ancient Human Sacrifice (1932–​1934).The only way to improve existing conditions, he argued, was through solidarity across nations, i.e. internationalism (The Fraternity of All Men at the Table of Brotherhood and Ultimate Universality, 1931–​1932). Siqueiros took the same stance as Orozco in 1929. At the congress of Latin-​American Communists, he affirmed that diverging political conditions across countries do not justify communist parties developing different ‘physiognomies,’ just as national references in party names would merely serve the purpose of a ‘legal masquerade’ (cited by Caballero 2002, 101). Another of Siqueiros’s murals is of particular relevance at this point, The Portrait of the Bourgeoisie (Photo 4.7), which was created right after The History of Mexico.10 No less gigantic than Rivera’s mural, it also constitutes an allegory of Mexico. And also depicting the national flag, it naturally features an eagle at its center. But this eagle sits enthroned like a figurehead on an exploitive capitalist machinery, from which the United States, Japan and the European great powers France, Germany and the United Kingdom profit. Instead of the snake or an Aztec banner, the mechanical eagle carries the lifeless body of an indigenous Mexican in its beak.

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David Alfaro Siqueiros, Portrait of the Bourgeoisie (1939–​1940). Staircase of the Headquarters of the Mexican Electrical Workers Union, Mexico City. PHOTO 4.7 

Source: ©2021, ProLitteris, Zurich. Photo: Jennifer Jolly.

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BY THE WAY…: SOURCES OF THE ARGUMENTATIVE CONTEXT Siqueiros’s The Portrait of the Bourgeoisie is highly instructive for determining the meaning of Rivera’s The History of Mexico but the former was only created after the completion of the latter. This prompts the following question: can the Cambridge model rely on reception sources? Recall that the Cambridge model understands texts to be something written for a certain audience. In contrast to the reception model (see Chapter 7), the Cambridge model is interested in how a text communicates with its addressed readers, the actions the text enables, but not in the effects on and responses of actual readers. It therefore seems that works succeeding the publication of the analyzed text must be bracketed out by the Cambridge model. However, there is another way to think about this issue. As we said, the methodological means for specifying the illocutionary potential of a text consists of reconstructing the argumentative context in which the text originated. The decisive question therefore concerns the category of the argumentative context. Does it only include analyzing works produced up until the time of the publication (or production) of the text? Or is it reasonable to also include works that followed shortly afterwards? In our view, a good case can be made for the latter view. Hence, we hold that it is legitimate to consider Siqueiros’s The Portrait of the Bourgeoisie because it improves our understanding of the argumentative context in which Rivera’s The History of Mexico was born. The reason is that the Cambridge model (despite Skinner’s claim to the contrary) can illuminate only the illocutionary potential, not the illocutionary intention of a text. The goal is to find out what a text can plausibly have meant to addressees, which is why the argumentative context may legitimately be determined in such a way as to exceed the author’s horizon of understanding. In short, the argumentative context is to be understood as the political discourse around the time of the origin of a text, and can therefore include sources which chronologically succeed the text in which we are interested.

Apparently, Rivera –​but not Orozco and Siqueiros –​advocated for an amalgamation of socialism with nationalism. With this, he went far beyond Stalin’s ‘socialism in one country’ theory of 1924, which put the globalization of socialism on hold for pragmatic reasons, while still considering the project of national self-​determination to be essentially reactionary (Lowy 1976). In fact, it is not nationalism which is admitted entrance into the world of socialism in The History of Mexico but, vice versa, socialism which is given some room in the Mexican nation. Its visual language reformulates Marx and Engels’s proclamation from the Communist Manifesto ‘Workers of the world, unite!’ as ‘Workers of Mexico, unite!,’ or perhaps even ‘Mexicans, unite!’

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Socialism and nationalism are two European imports upon which The History of Mexico calls to refashion the country. What role does Mexican, and in particular the indigenous, culture play in that vision? The one reference to the Aztec heritage which we addressed in some detail before, the atl-​tlachinolli glyph, features negatively as an evil to be overcome. But we have not yet examined the north wall of the mural depicting the red band of the flag against the backdrop of the argumentative context. The last section of our analysis will do just that.

Towards a Europeanization of Mexico? The relationship of indigenous and European culture played a central role in the Mexican political discourse of the 1920s and 1930s. The dominant view, reflected in schoolbooks of that time, propagated the superiority of the latter: ‘the history of Mexico begins with the arrival of Cortés… for the conquistadors brought us the achievements of European civilization’ (cited by Vaughan 1982, 236). An early mural by Rivera affirms this view. The mural is called The Creation (1923) which depicts the indigenous population of Mexico as helpless savages being educated by personified Greek muses and Christian virtues.11 Around the same time, Fernando Leal created The Feast of the Lord of Chalma (1922–​1923). Here, European-​Christian culture is still depicted as helping to civilize Mesoamerican people. At the same time, it also appears to reevaluate the indigenous culture. Rather than being depicted as an atavistic remnant it appears as a source of everyday joy and zest for life. Minister of education Vasconcelos took a similar stance, but he also went one step further. Like Leal, he advocated a project of cultural renaissance that would resucitate Mesoamerican culture by refining it through the cultural possessions of the ‘white civilizations.’ This cultural marriage, however, could only constitute one part of a holistic synthesis, Vasconcelos argued in his book The Cosmic Race (1925). The second part would consist of a racial blending of the European and Mesoamerican people. A mixed mestizo race, he (Vasconcelos 1997 [1925], 34) claimed, would be superior to ‘pure races’ by uniting their respective virtues. To bring in a third position, Orozco rejected any propensity whatsoever to romanticize the indigenous heritage: ‘I renounce now and forever to paint sandals and dirty underwear. I surely wish, with all my heart, that those people who wear them should abandon them and civilize themselves...’ (Orozco cited by Folgarait 1998, 56). At the same time, he doubted the viability of European civilization as a panacea. To him, as we saw above, nationalism appeared as a modern resumption of Aztec barbarity. As he claimed in The Prophecy (1932–​1934), Christianity is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The Christian cross, which the conquistadores brought to Mexico promising peace and salvation, resembled a thrusting weapon. Orozco’s skepticism regarding cultural imports from Europe culminated in his depiction of the scientific tradition in Gods of the Modern World (1932–​1934). In this piece, he shows skeletons

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wearing gowns to represent European (and North-​American) universities, serving as obstetricians giving birth to ‘undead’ knowledge. The History of Mexico connects with the dominant, schoolbook view of that time and place and Rivera’s early murals, in that they both depict an Aztec symbol (the atl-​tlachinolli glyph) as an evil to be overcome by cultural imports. The Christian missionaries on the west wall are shown to have been the first to look after and care selflessly about the weak and the poor. Constitutionalism, which features on the same panel in the form of legal paragraphs, looks like the only real achievement of the Mexican emancipation movement. Rivera fully integrates nationalism and socialism into his vision of the future. Notably though, by making no secret of the cruelties committed by the Conquista and the Inquisition, The History of Mexico apparently tries to paint a more ambivalent picture of the virtues and vices associated with European influence that has historically been exerted upon Mexico. Beyond that, the mural makes explicit reference to Vasconcelos’s raciology, and firmly rejects it. In the compartment depicting contemporary Mexico, an intellectual is shown in front of a swastika lecturing​​about the motto that Vasconcelos had inserted into the crest of the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico in 1921: ‘The spirit shall speak through my race.’ Conspicuously though, there is no indication in The History of Mexico that Mesoamerican primordial culture should play a constitutive role in the realization of Mexico’s future, which symbolically is monopolized by the figure of Karl Marx and modern industrialization. Or should Marx be considered the reincarnation of the Aztec feathered-​serpent god Quetzalcoatl? If the red band of the reinterpreted flag shows the departure of Quetzalcoatl from Ancient Mexico promising his return and to establish a legitimate order, we should expect him to somehow find his way into the nation’s future vision. Furthermore, there is an undeniable geometrical correspondence in the placing of the two figures in the upper compartments of the north and south walls, so that Marx looks like a reproduction of Quetzalcoatl in mirror image. And however unlikely it might intuitively seem to identify an Aztec deity with the German philosopher, the idea that Quetzalcoatl is a reborn European would not have been an unprecedented discursive innovation at the time. Aztec sources typically portrayed the ‘serpent of precious feathers’ –​or in its allegorical sense, the ‘wisest of men’ (De Alva Ixtlilxochitl 2010 [ca. 1640], 35) –​with white skin. After the conquistadores’ arrival to Mexico, the legend was soon born (probably by the intruders) that Cortés was the returning god. Later, Franciscan missionaries promoted their cause by explaining to the native population that Quetzalcoatl was really nobody else than Thomas Aquinas, who had also decided to evangelize ‘on the other side of the Ganges.’ We might add that today, Mormon theologians (e.g. Wirth 2002; cf. also Restall 2004, 114) consider the possibility that Quetzalcoatl was the Aztec’s attempt to deliver their knowledge about Moses or Jesus to posteriority, i.e. knowledge they allegedly had about Christianity before the Spanish conquest.

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A final, contextual comparison with Orozco’s work also caters to the suspicion that Rivera cloaked Quetzalcoatl in the figure of Marx in The History of Mexico. In 1932–​1934, Orozco himself took up the Quetzalcoatl myth. Cynically, as he often did, his murals Arrival of Quetzalcoatl and Departure of Quetzalcoatl convey the message that Mexicans should finally stop hoping in vain for the mythical promise of fulfillment through Christianization and Europeanization. Regardless of the question of who commented on whose appropriation of Aztec mythology (recall that the north panel of The History of Mexico was completed in 1929 while the south panel wasn’t completed until 1934–​1935), we can safely say that Rivera propagated a more conciliatory and optimistic message concerning European and Mesoamerican culture than Orozco. With the astonishing similitude of ‘Carlos Marx’ holding the Communist Manifesto in his hands with traditional portrayals of Moses delivering the ten commandments, a syncretistic economy of salvation which hoped for the prospect of a classless, conflict-​free society comes full circle in The History of Mexico.

4.3  Limits and Possibilities of a Skinnerite Cambridge Approach Over the course of our analysis, it became clear how helpful it was to compare other interventions in the political discourse of Mexico in the 1920s and 1930s in order to acquire an understanding of The History of Mexico. Muralists diverging utilization of the same political symbols (e.g. the eagle of the Mexican national flag) or the cultural heritage (e.g. Quetzalcoatl) read just like a verbal dispute among the discussants in a talk show. With our contextual analysis of The History of Mexico, we pursued the task of delimiting its illocutionary potential. By reading the text in light of the argumentative context of Mexico in the 1920s and 1930s, we gathered evidence to determine prima facie plausible accounts of what the text was trying to do, while, if sometimes indirectly, marginalizing others. We learned, for instance, that the The History of Mexico could not plausibly be understood as an invitation to realize international socialism or to intimidate reactionary, fascist or nationalist forces by suggesting that the future is determined to be socialist; it could not hope to knock socialists out of the sky or to stimulate Mexicans to roll back cultural Europeanization. Positively speaking, the mural could very well have been meant as an exhortation to stop internal conflicts, to work together for an orderly future, to continue the post-​ revolutionary government’s course, to reconcile socialism with nationalism or to develop a syncretistic amalgam of selective elements of the diverse cultural heritage. Even if there is hardly any way around understanding the mural as promoting the project of a socialist Mexican nation state, there is still considerable room for the lexical ordering, and relative balancing, of the aspects positively identified as parts of the illocutionary potential. For instance, contemporary spectators plausibly could have felt equally motivated to expedite socialist reforms as to adjourn them to the more distant future.

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Rivera might very well have been trying to convey one definitive political message rather than leaving ample room for interpretation. Because of this possibility, most of us will instinctively be drawn to raise the question of what he really had in mind when crafting The History of Mexico. An author-​centered model of analysis would have enabled us to answer this question and make a case about Rivera’s authorial intention. The Cambridge model, however, does not take this approach as it lacks the appropriate methodological strategies. It does not invite scholars to inquire systematically about the author’s interests, experiences, inclinations, identities or self-​conceptions. The Cambridge model must be stretched to its limits before we can make informed guesses about what exactly authors aimed at communicating. Rather than constituting a defect of the Cambridge model, the inacces­ sibility of authorial intentions should be seen as a willingly accepted limit. The Cambridge model does not try to illuminate authorial intentions because a political theorist might not only be interested in the question of what an author had in mind. Instead, the Cambridge model focuses on satisfying the question of what interventions (plural!) a historical text can plausibly have made into a political discourse. The idea is that the meaning which a text can acquire in a political discourse is dependent upon, indeed relative to, other contributions to that discourse. The cogency of this consideration notwithstanding, we should note two oddities about the Cambridge model as we presented it in this chapter. First, if we are interested in the meaning which a text acquires in a contingent political discourse, why would we still be concerned with the intrinsic properties of the text itself? Focusing on the illocutionary potential rather than on authorial intention certainly has the advantage of making room for the fact that even contemporary participants in the discourse, when confronted with a new intervention, cannot think the author’s thoughts exactly after him or her. Because of the underdetermined nature of texts, one can legitimately arrive at mutually diverging interpretations, all of which perhaps misconstrue some unintended aspect of the illocutionary potential as the author’s intended message. Yet if we grant these points, and also insist on the political nature of even theoretical inquiries, why not analyze the perlocutionary force of a text, i.e. its actual actions/​effects right away? If authoring and interpreting texts on politics is generally part of politics proper, then we should expect participants in discourse to deliberately misunderstand texts at times. Surely, there are not many more effective strategies for marginalizing the influence of a position in a political dispute than misinterpreting it. The second oddity of the Cambridge model is its emphasis on the intrinsically political nature of texts on politics. We may perfectly grant that everything, and hence also every philosophical treatise, is political. But we should still be able to make distinctions in the political quality of texts, because otherwise the political

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becomes an empty category. Without a doubt, Rivera’s The History of Mexico is a rather political text on politics. It was a government-​sponsored piece of public art, planned to serve the purpose of political education, and designed to simplify –​ with the means of visual representation –​complex political concepts, among other things. But many other contributions to the history of political thought seem to constitute more distanced and passive, or in other ways less political reflections on politics. Sometimes it is not even readily clear that a text formally qualifies as a discursive intervention. Do works on politics, for instance, constitute political interventions even if their authors refrained from publishing them? As we will see in Chapter 7, Machiavelli’s The Prince is just such a case. Finally we should note that scholars relying on the Cambridge model will have a hard time meeting their own methodological standards when analyzing the argumentative context of a text. The individual sources of this context (as in our case primarily the murals by Siqueiros and Orozco) constitute interventions into a contingent political discourse, and therefore require contextual interpretations themselves. But the aspiration of providing a full-​fledged contextual analysis of all context sources of the text would overburden any scholar. Moreover, where should scholars stop? Would the argumentative context of the contextual sources (and their respective argumentative contexts) not again require a contextual analysis, such that we would end up being caught in an infinite regress? To avoid this impasse, scholars relying on the Cambridge model are bound to temporarily relax their methodological standards, or more precisely, to make use of other interpretive models at least on a secondary level.

Notes 1 For an exposition of the Cambridge model by Skinner himself, see esp. Skinner (2002a, ­chapters 3–​7). For another excellent introduction to the Cambridge School of political thought, see Bevir (2011). 2 We will later (see Chapter 6, Section 6.1.2) see that the analogous treatment of written and oral communication is not uncontroversial. 3 A remediable weakness of Skinner’s Cambridge model is the absence of any strategy for building a corpus of discursive sources. 4 Rivera’s art was heavily influenced by Italian Renaissance artists. In an earlier fresco displayed at the Escuela Nacional de Agricultura in Chapingo –​Song to the Earth and Those Who Till It and Liberate It (1926–​1927) –​Rivera explicitly referenced Lorenzetti’s Allegory by titling two panels ‘The good government’ and, respectively, ‘The bad government’. Cf. Honour, Hugh und John Fleming (2005, 807). 5 Ultimately, the locutionary content of any statement, whether verbal or pictorial, can be reaffirmed or perverted on the illocutionary level due to factors transcending the locutionary content itself. In oral conversations, perverted meanings are usually indicated by a sardonic or otherwise inappropriate intonation or gestures. In artwork, strong colors or unnatural proportions (among other things) can have the same effect. 6 For a comprehensive analysis of the Mexican Revolution, see Hart (1997).

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7 For the original symbolism, see Encyclopedia Britannica (2013). For the reinterpretation in 1857, see Folgarait (1998, 223 fn. 52). 8 For the meaning of the atl-​tlachinolli glyph and Aztec mythology more generally, see Sejourne (1956) and also Leon-​Portilla (1990, 216). 9 That the female figure symbolizes the Mexican nation can be deduced from the metaphorical language typical of representations of Mestizo ideology, according to which persons of European and autochthonous roots were considered the authentic race of modern Mexico: dark skinned but dressed in white garments. Slightly above the rape scene on the west wall, we see the ‘first mestizo,’ the son of Cortés and Malinche, veiling his face from the fighting. 10 For a fascinating discussion of the process of the creation of The Portrait of the Bourgeoisie, see Jolly (2007). 11 For an in-​depth analysis of the characterization of indigenous people in Rivera’s The History of Mexico, see Picôt (2007).

References Aguilar-​Moreno, Manuel. 2007. Handbook to Life in the AztecWorld. Oxford; NewYork: Oxford University Press. Austin, John L. 1962. How to Do Things with Words. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Bevir, Mark. 2011. ‘The Contextualist Approach.’ In The Oxford Handbook of the History of Political Philosophy, edited by George Klosko. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bredekamp, Horst, 2015. Der Bildakt. Frankfurter Adorno-​ Vorlesungen 2007. Berlin: Akademie. Caballero,Manuel.2002.Latin America and the Comintern,1919–​1943.Cambridge:Cambridge University Press. Charlot, Jean. 1963. The Mexican Mural Renaissance 1920–​1925. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. De Alva Ixtlilxochitl, Alva. 2010 [ca. 1640]. History of the Chichimeca Nation. Don Fernando de Alva Ixtlilxochitl’s Seventeenth-​Century Chronicle of Ancient Mexico. Edited and translated by A. Brian, B. Benton, Peter B.Villella and P. García Loaeza. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Duran, Fray Diego. 1994 [1588]. The History of the Indies of New Spain. Translated and commented by Doris Heyden. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Encyclopedia Britannica. 2013. ‘Mexico: Colonial Period, 1701–​ 1821.’ Online: www. britannica.com/​EBchecked/​topic/​379167/​Mexico (Accessed 5 September 2019) Folgarait, Leonard. 1998. Mural Painting and Social Revolution in Mexico, 1920–​1940: Art of the New Order. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hart, John Mason. 1997. Revolutionary Mexico: The Coming and Process of the Mexican Revolution. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Honour, Hugh und John Fleming. 2005. A World History of Arts. 7th edition. London: Laurence King. Hornuff, Daniel. 2012. Bildwissenschaft im Widerstreit. Belting, Boehm, Bredekamp, Burda. Würzburg: Fink. Jolly, Jennifer. 2007. ‘Art of the Collective: David Alfaro Siqueiros, Josep Renau and their Collaboration at the Mexican Electricians’ Syndicate.’ Oxford Art Journal 31/​ 1: 129–​151.

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Leon-​Portilla, Miguel. 1990. Aztec Thought and Culture: A Study of the Ancient Nahuatl Mind. Translated by Jack E. Davis. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Llanque, Marcus. 2008. Politische Ideengeschichte. Ein Gewebe politischer Diskurse. München: DeGruyter. Llanque, Marcus. 2018. Die ikonographische Vermittlung von Differenz in Selbstregie­ rungsregimen. Leviathan 46/​34: 48–​70. Lowy, Michael. 1976. ‘Marxists and the National Question.’ New Left Review 96: 81–​100. Picôt, Natasha. 2007. The Representation of the Indigenous People of Mexico in Diego Rivera’s National Palace Mural. PhD Thesis. Nottingham: University of Nottingham. Restall, Matthew. 2004. Seven Myths of the Spanish Conquest. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Rivera, Diego. 1932. ‘The Revolutionary Spirit in Modern Art.’ The Modern Quarterly 6/​ 3: 51–​57. Searle, John R. 1976. ‘A Classification of Illocutionary Acts.’ Language and Society 5/​1: 1–​23. Sejourne, Laurette. 1956. Burning Water: Thought and Religion in Ancient Mexico. London: Thames and Hudson. Siqueiros, David Alfaro. 1934. ‘Rivera’s Counter-​Revolutionary Road.’ New Masses 38 (29 May 1934): 16–​19. Siqueiros, David et al. 1939 [1922]. ‘Manifesto del Sindicato de Obreros Tecnicos, Pintores y Escultores.’ In Modern Mexican Art, edited by Laurence E. Schmeckebier. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Skinner, Quentin. 1969. ‘Meaning and Understanding in the History of Ideas.’ History and Theory 8/​1: 3–​53. Skinner, Quentin. 1974. ‘Some Problems in the Analysis of Political Thought and Action.’ Political Theory 2/​3: 277–​303. Skinner, Quentin. 1986. ‘Ambrogio Lorenzetti: The Artist as Political Philosopher.’ Proceedings of the British Academy 72: 1–​56. Skinner, Quentin. 2002a. Visions of Politics.Vol 1: Regarding Method. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Skinner, Quentin. 2002b. ‘Interpretation and the Understanding of Speech Acts.’ In Visions of Politics.Vol. I: Regarding Method, 103–​127. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Skinner, Quentin. 2008. Hobbes and Republican Liberty. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vasconcelos, José. 1997 [1925]. The Cosmic Race/​La Raza Cosmica. Translated by Didier T. Jaén. Baltimore; London: John Hopkins University Press. Vaughan, Mary Kay. 1982. State, Education, and Social Class in Mexico 1880–​1928. De Kalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press. Wirth, Diane E. 2002. ‘Quetzalcoatl, the Maya Maize God, and Jesus Christ.’ Journal of the Book of Mormon Studies 11/​1: 4–​15.

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5 SUBTEXTING An Esoteric Interpretation of Leo Strauss’s Persecution and the Art of Writing

Imagine that you are trying to convince a university colleague of your reading of a political text.What could be more compelling than quoting directly from the text? According to Plato, you might argue, a political community ought to be ruled by philosophers because as he writes in The Republic (473c–​e),‘unless … philosophers become kings in the cities or those whom we now call kings and rulers philosophize truly and adequately … there can be no cessation of evils.’ The assumption underlying your argument is that the actual utterances of a text correspond to its meaning. Perhaps, you would take an additional correspondence between actual utterances and authorial intention for granted. In sum, you would presuppose that authors were able to clearly convey their ideas to their audience and that they cherished the value of transparency. We do not know about your imagined colleague, but following this strategy, you would not have succeeded in convincing Leo Strauss, a German-​Jewish immigrant to the United States. He would have rejected your argument –​and not because he thought poorly of earlier thinkers. He argued that many classical authors in the history of political thought were not only master thinkers but also masters of what he called ‘the art of writing’ (Strauss 1988a, 24). They wrote the lines of their texts, as all writers do, yet additionally hid a message between the lines. If Strauss is right, the real meaning of their texts occasionally diverges from the actual utterances included therein. Strauss discovered the art of double writing for himself during the years 1938–​ 1939, when he studied Maimonides’s (ca. 1138–​1204) Guide for the Perplexed. On the surface of the text, Strauss argued, Maimonides plays the devout Jew who is at pains to reconcile his faith with Aristotelian philosophy. Upon closer inspection, however, he reveals himself to be a libertine questioning –​at times even burlesquing –​the Bible. Strauss was convinced that because of Maimonides’s authoritative standing in the Jewish tradition, this finding amounted to a scholarly ‘bombshell’ (2001, 549; DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-6

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own transl.). He did not hesitate to drop further bombshells in the ensuing years: like Maimonides, Spinoza did not want to prove the compatibility, but the incompatibility of philosophy and religion; Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon were not historians but enigmatic philosophers; contrary to a surface impression, Plato consistently postulated a fundamental opposition between philosophic truth and natural law on the one hand, and the positive laws of polities on the other; Machiavelli was not the political realist many think he was, but a ‘teacher of evil.’ In Strauss’s opinion, all of these thinkers carefully concealed their heterodox views between the lines. His verdict on historians of political thought who had stopped short of penetrating into these more recondite layers of textual meaning was correspondingly harsh: ‘The philologists are indescribable idiots!’ (Strauss 2001, 569; own transl.). Unsurprisingly, Strauss did not make many friends in academia. Several scholars (e.g. Ottmann 2010, 481; Sabine 1953, 222; Skinner 2002, 64;) firmly rejected his interpretations and repudiated his methodology, which they felt absolved the researcher of all responsibility of keeping to the facts. More surprisingly, Strauss stands in poor stature today particularly because of his allegedly elitist, paternalist, neo-​conservative and anti-​democratic politics. For instance, in 2003 major newspapers (Heer 2003; N.A. 2003; Pfaff 2003) portrayed Strauss as the intellectual string-​puller behind the Iraq War. As a matter of fact, a considerable number of his students (e.g. Paul Wolfowitz) had come to hold influential positions in Washington. It is also true that some scholars were citing Strauss to defend Bush (just as the Claremont Conservatives did more recently in order to defend Trump, Brühwiler 2018). However, whether Strauss’s work on the history of political thought and his methodology has anything to do with all of that is not clear. Nevertheless, in this chapter we may want to bear in mind the question as to whether the interpretive model favored by Strauss –​esoteric interpretation –​comes along with certain specific ideological commitments. In the following, we reconstruct, test and illustrate the esoteric approach, as well as assess its limits and possibilities. We ought to say two things in advance. First, Strauss neither invented the esoteric model, nor was he the first to discuss it. He simply popularized it in the discipline of political theory. Diderot and d’Alembert’s (2020 [1751], 273–​274) Encyclopédie, for instance, already included an entry ‘Exotérique et Esotérique,’ which claimed that ancient philosophers usually had two teachings, one for insiders and one for outsiders. Half a century later, German poet Goethe (1811; quoted by Strehlke 1884, 35–​36) bewailed the ignorance of his contemporaries because they were not able to distinguish exoteric from esoteric layers of texts. And long before that, the tradition of allegorical Bible interpretation –​handed down by Philo of Alexandria, Origen and Augustine, among others –​was predicated upon the assumption that the real meaning of Holy Scripture could not be extracted by a literal reading. Second, renouncing the value of transparency is often a rather mundane business. We do not need to take sides in controversial disputes in biblical studies

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or go along with Strauss’s claim that the great thinkers of antiquity and the Middle Ages cultivated the art of writing between the lines. We are confronted with texts and statements containing multiple, and even contradictory layers of meaning in day-​to-​day politics. In international relations, heads of governments frequently pass censure, issue warnings, utter threats or give ultimatums in a subtle and non-​ explicit way to allow the addressee to keep up appearances. In the domestic realm, democratic representatives remain studiously vague, make use of ambiguous speech or resort to dog-​whistle politics to attract ideologically heterogeneous groups of citizens. And in our own everyday life we share insider jokes or write excessively euphemistic letters of recommendation. In all of these cases, authors bank on the expectation that some people understand something that others do not. If it did not work from time to time, why would anybody keep doing it? The real question is not whether there is such a thing as esoteric texts, but how they are produced and can be decoded, and whether they can be decoded in a scholarly manner.

5.1  The Esoteric Model of Interpretation It is difficult to apply the esoteric model, just as it is tricky to explicate it theoretically. Strauss’s own instructions seem to be refreshingly straightforward when compared to those of other scholars.Yet applying Strauss’s approach without further reflection would be a grave mistake. As we will see, they need to be taken with a pinch of salt. Rather than simply summarizing Strauss’s account of the esoteric model, we will provide an account that deliberately diverges here and there from his instructions. More specifically, we try to present a logically and systematically reconstructed as well as (insofar as we consider it applicable not only to the works of great thinkers of the past) trivialized model of the esoteric approach.1 The starting point of the political theorist is always the confrontation with a text that requires interpretation. The esoteric model does not make for any exceptions in this regard. Most interpretive models, however, immediately ask the scholar to familiarize him-​or herself with the content of the text, whereas the esoteric model first calls for scholars to examine whether the text requires an esoteric interpretation at all. Only ‘esoteric texts’ – that is, only those texts whose authors deliberately imbued them with a somewhat hidden layer of meaning – stand in need of a close reading between the lines. Now, determining what an author meant does mean speculating about his or her intentions.We can never know what an author actually had in mind with any absolute certainty. The process therefore resembles a trial based on circumstantial evidence. In a nutshell, we should be suspicious whenever we are confronted with –​what must appear to an analytically trained mind as –​a technical mistake. Logical contradictions, enthymemes and other argumentative leaps as well as fallacies, redundancies, platitudes and wordy or distorting comments on other thinkers’ works including strawman arguments may harden our suspicion. Surely,

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Strauss argues, even Homer might have been dormant sometimes. But we should seriously consider reading between the lines ‘[i]‌f a master of the art of writing commits such blunders as would shame an intelligent high school boy’ (PAW, 30). Occasionally authors also explicitly express an awareness of either the existence of esoteric texts or reasons for practicing the art of writing. Such statements are valuable for our purpose because without the knowledge expressed therein, the author could not have deliberately hidden a subtle message. Furthermore, we should pay close attention to literary ruses. For instance, Strauss notes the widespread presence of madmen, drunkards, imbeciles, jesters and other unreliable sources in classical works of political theory. Because readers understand that such characters are unperturbed by the existence of social and legal norms, they can be used as vehicles for touching upon heterodox views. For a good example of another literary ruse, recall Plato’s Symposium. This dialogue discusses the nature of love, but it embeds philosophical discussion in a wordy conversational exchange that includes small talk and flirting between Socrates and a few interlocutors. During one of these seemingly idle episodes of banter, Socrates raises an entirely different issue (Plato 2008, 194b–​d). He begins by asking his usual questions using the maieutic method, but he soon interrupts this process. It is up to the reader to bring this investigation to an end: ‘Hang on, Socrates,’ Agathon said. ‘Surely you don’t think that my obsession with the theatre blinds me to the fact that anyone with any sense will find a small number of intelligent people more alarming than a large number of unintelligent people?’ ‘No, of course not, Agathon,’ Socrates replied. ‘I’d be wrong to think you capable of anything uncultured. I’m well aware that you’d take more notice of those of your acquaintances you regard as clever than you would of the general populace. But are you sure that we here are clever? After all, we were also there in the theatre, forming part of the general populace. Anyway, if you did ever come across clever people, you’d probably be embarrassed to feel that you might be doing something wrong in front of them. Is that what you mean?’ ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘But wouldn’t you be embarrassed to feel you were doing something wrong in front of the general populace?’ At this point Phaedrus came in […]2

BY THE WAY…: AUTHORIAL INTENTION Authorial intention refers to the meaning that authors try to encode in their work. Traditionally, interpretive approaches focused on recovering the authorial intention, not least because scholars almost exclusively focused on

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the classical works of great thinkers. Most interpretive approaches developed in the 20th century abandoned this project, and severely criticized its practitioners. Some even considered the quest for authorial intention to be a fallacy (Wimsatt and Beardsley 1946). Yet it is probably fair to say that later scholars basically lost interest in authorial intention. For one thing, many of them turned away from high literature. Moreover, they realized that we can detect interesting meanings in texts other than those supposedly encoded by authors.

If we find sufficient circumstantial evidence to warrant an esoteric reading, the second interpretive step consists in considering why the author may have chosen to write an esoteric text. Every writer may have his or her own special reasons for doing so, but the most obvious one that deserves mentioning is the danger of judicial prosecution in societies that do not guarantee the freedom of speech or resort to social ostracism. The public questioning of dogmas and the propagation of politically subversive views risks censorship and punishment under such circumstances. Quite different, yet equally conceivable, motivations for camouflaging one’s thought might simply be convenience, literary playfulness or vanity. Strauss highlights a further motivation, namely a paternalist sense of responsibility for maintaining social peace. Accordingly, some authors might try to hide something from the majority of readers because they believe that it is in everybody’s interest to do so.3 By identifying possible motivations for practicing the art of writing, the scholar is prepared for the third and final interpretive step, which consists in developing hypotheses about the meaning of the subtext (cf. Rosen 2003, 123; see also Strauss 1954, 67). The way of going about this task is, formally speaking, quite straightforward: we need to consider the circumstantial evidence gathered for identifying a work as an esoteric text (i.e. the first interpretive step) in light of the author’s possible motivations for writing between the lines (i.e. the second interpretive step). Of course, this procedure needs to be adapted to the specificities of the concrete text in question. As we suggested before, in the case of the (early) Platonic dialogues it would be a good idea to apply the maieutic method to the questions raised but not answered in the course of the narrative. In other cases, the task might consist of deciphering the meaning encapsulated in allegories, metaphors or the names of fictional characters,4 or in the analytic correction of (putatively deliberate) technical mistakes and argumentative deficiencies. Towards the end, scholars will have to weigh the plausibility of their hypothesis (see Figure 5.1). Hypothesizing about the subtext implies reflecting upon the audience whom the author was really targeting. This is why the esoteric model qualifies as an addressee-​centered interpretation. Notably, however, by their very

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The esoteric model asks the scholar to read between the lines in order to identify a deeper layer of meaning that the author only directed at an intended audience.

Text

Does the text, analytically considered, comprise ‘technical mistakes,’ i.e. logical contradictions, enthymemes, argumentative leaps, redundancies, platitudes, etc.

Step 1 Confirm the suspicion that the text is an esoteric text

What was the political orthodoxy at the time of writing? Could the author have tried to avoid judicial prosecution or social ostracism? Might the author have had pedagogical or literary reasons for writing between the lines?

Step 2 Identify possible motivations

What is written between the lines? For whom did the author write between the lines? What’s the illocutionary potential of the text?

Step 3 Develop hypotheses about the message and addressees of the subtext

Meaning

FIGURE 5.1 

The esoteric model of interpretation.

nature, esoteric texts deprive the scholar of the possibility of authoritatively verifying or falsifying his or her hypotheses.

5.2  Persecution and the Art of Writing In the following, we will apply the esoteric model to Leo Strauss’s essay Persecution and the Art of Writing (1988b [1941/​1952]).5 This essay contains Strauss’s most extensive account of his esoteric approach. We will therefore treat Strauss by his own standards. We are not aware of any previous attempts to do so. The reason, perhaps, is that scholars generally do not consider contemporary studies in methodology to require interpretation sensu stricto. However plausible this view is, generally

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speaking, it is questionable in the case of Strauss’s writings on methodology. From his private correspondence we know that Strauss reflected extensively upon the question of whether and how he should inform the public about his rediscovery of esoteric interpretation.Would speaking openly about the art of hiding meaning not expose heterodox writers of his day, and perhaps even put their personal safety at risk? (Recall that Strauss wrote Persecution and the Art of Writing during World War II.) But even if this were not the case, would it not be terribly crude to lay bare in technical language what masters of the art of writing intended to poetically conceal? It very much seems so (Lampert 2009; cf. Frazer 2006, 46. See also Strauss 1988c, 55). On top of that, Persecution and the Art of Writing includes a few very awkward passages. Just look at how he finishes the sentence we quoted above: If a master of the art of writing commits such blunders as would shame an intelligent high school boy, it is reasonable to assume that they are intentional, especially if the author discusses, however incidentally, the possibility of intentional blunders in writing. PAW, 30; our emphasis In this passage, Strauss himself does what he tells us that writers of esoteric texts occasionally do. He talks about mistakes made deliberately. Perhaps, of course, Strauss overlooked the irony. But the principle of charitable reading compels us to at least consider the possibility that Strauss’s text on the esoteric model contains its own esoteric meaning. Put differently, by focusing exclusively on what Strauss wrote in black and white, we might miss his real message or thoroughly misunderstand what he thinks about interpretive methodology in political theory. Persecution and the Art of Writing may not actually be a defense of the esoteric model, but a persiflage!

BY THE WAY…: TREATING SCHOLARS BY THEIR OWN INTERPRETIVE STANDARDS Political theorists often commit to some interpretive model and reject (all) others. As charitable readers, should we follow their methodological recommendations upon studying their own work? On the one hand, writings on methodology need not be considered relevant contributions to political theory, even if they are relevant for studying it. One could argue that they constitute technical meta-​reflections on the practice of a discipline that do not stand in need of interpretation themselves. On the other hand, there is no way around interpretation. At the very least, we will have to rely on a loosely practiced version of the Oxford model (see Chapter 1) and dissect the propositional content from these texts. Yet, most political theorists explicitly

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reject the central assumption of the Oxford model –​that the meaning of a text is entirely encapsulated in the text itself! For instance, Quentin Skinner’s Cambridge model (see Chapter 4) invites scholars to understand texts as interventions in the local political discourse that require a con-​textual analysis. So, why should we treat his writings as anything other than this? We can safely say that treating scholars by their own interpretive standards can be extremely interesting. Take a look, for instance, at Perreau-​Saussine’s (2007) interpretation of Skinner’s work using his own Cambridge model, or Palti’s (2011) inquiry into a concept that informs Koselleck’s conceptual history.

5.2.1  Is Persecution and the Art of Writing an Esoteric Text? Strauss’s mentioning the possibility of deliberate mistakes provides us with an initial suspicion that Persecution and the Art of Writing might be a piece of esoteric literature. Let us now consider if we can find further circumstantial evidence to corroborate this suspicion. To illustrate the nature of esoteric texts, Strauss brings up the example of a dissident historian in a totalitarian state (PAW, 24–​25). Writing an esoteric book, this historian would start with a passionate attack on liberalism. Second, she would tire her readers by stringing together technical terms, quotations and insignificant details before, in a third step, presenting her case for liberalism in a few concise sentences. With this presentation, only very attentive readers would ‘catch a glimpse of the forbidden fruit.’ After reading the book over and over again, they would eventually come to actually taste that fruit in its entirety. Is it possible that Strauss’s text parallels this hypothetical example of esoteric literature that he presents in his text? Is Persecution and the Art of Writing structured like the book of the dissident historian? Strauss begins his essay by discussing the effects of political persecution on people’s thoughts and actions in reference to the anti-​liberal developments taking place around the world during the 1940s. Persecution, he argues, is an efficient instrument for controlling people’s minds. Though it does not produce any conviction in those it oppresses, it does nevertheless suppress dissent. Consequently, only a few government-​tolerated views will be publicly available, and most people are incapable of evading the forced choice between already available options. Among the few truly independent thinkers, however, persecution is unable to retain its grip. Authoritarian states cannot prevent them from expressing their views publicly, provided that they know how to make use of the art of writing between the lines. The second section contains Strauss’s exposition of the esoteric model as well as a, indeed wordy and lettered, defense against his critics. Before proceeding to the last section of his essay, Strauss makes a bold claim: occasionally, writers explicitly state that they are hiding their views on important issues. Such statements, however, could not be ‘understood, so long as we confine ourselves to

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Subtexting  119 TABLE 5.1  Inexact repetition in Persecution and the Art of Writing

Hints indicating the esoteric nature of the text: ‘obscurity of the plan, contradictions within one work or between two or more works of the same author, omission of important links of the argument, and so on.’ (PAW, 31)

‘obscurity of the plan, contradictions, pseudonyms, inexact repetitions of earlier statements, strange expressions, etc.’ (PAW, 36)

the view of persecution and the attitude toward freedom of speech and candor which have become prevalent during the last three hundred years’ (PAW, 32). Is Strauss trying to give the reader a foretaste of the forbidden fruit here? After all, the third section distinguishes between ancient and modern motivations for writing between the lines as well as ways of talking about lies. Undeniably, there is something of a structural similarity between Strauss’s example of the dissident historian and himself. But it is questionable as to whether this similarity is enough to corroborate the initial suspicion with which we are confronted in an esoteric text. Who seeks to look for similarities shall find them anyway, and whoever cares to look for dissimilarities would not come away empty-​handed. For instance, the dissident historian lambasts a standpoint in his or her lines, while Strauss defends one. Also, Strauss motivates his readers to skim through his work already in the first section. The first page of the essay alone contains a plethora of erudite remarks (e.g. ‘According to the horse-​drawn Parmenides or Gulliver’s Houyhnhnms’), technical terms (‘enthymemes’) and opaque references (e.g. ‘Descartes, Discours de la méthode,VI, beginning’). Be that as it may, other circumstantial evidence suggests that Persecution and the Art of Writing does in fact require an esoteric reading. In two places, Strauss lists a few specific literary techniques by which an esoteric writer might drop a hint about the intricate nature of her text. One of them consists of inexactly repeating an earlier statement. Tellingly, the very sentence mentioning this ruse is an inexact repetition of a statement that Strauss made just a few pages before (see Table 5.1). How likely is it that our Homer was napping in this case? At the very least, it is safe to say that Strauss was cracking a joke. The same can be said about the entire passage in which he discusses the possibility of intentional blunders, parts of which we have already quoted twice: Reading between the lines is strictly prohibited in all cases where it would be less exact than not doing so. Only such reading between the lines as starts from an exact consideration of the explicit statements of the author is legitimate.The context in which a statement occurs, and the literary character of the whole work as well as its plan, must be perfectly understood before an interpretation of the statement can reasonably claim to be adequate or even correct. One is not

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entitled to delete a passage, nor to amend its text, before one has fully considered all reasonable possibilities of understanding the passage as it stands –​one of these possibilities being that the passage may be ironic. If a master of the art of writing commits such blunders as would shame an intelligent high school boy, it is reasonable to assume that they are intentional, especially if the author discusses, however incidentally, the possibility of intentional blunders in writing. PAW, 30 It would probably be difficult to find another passage in a scholar’s work that abounds in as many logical contradictions and stylistic inconsistencies as this. Consider, for instance, the first sentence: the excavation of a supposed hidden meaning can never be more exact than the analysis of the actual utterances. The area between the lines does not contain any material that actually qualifies as solid evidence, which is why, as Strauss argues at the beginning of his essay (PAW, 26), persecutors (and censors) have such a hard time preventing the publication of heterodox views. The passage following the one previously quoted reaffirms this point: ‘there is a difference between winning an argument, or proving to practically everyone that he is right, and understanding the thought of the great writers of the past’ (PAW, 30). Another contradiction and joke from the quoted passage concerns the issue of irony. When trying to understand a text, Strauss claims, one must not change the wording, even if the text is ironic. But every pupil learns that irony is a rhetorical device in which the true meaning is only expressed at the level of subtext. An ironic sentence must be transformed into another in the reader’s mind; in the simplest version, by negating it. Finally, in terms of style, the entire passage resembles one of those absurd signs one occasionally finds on playgrounds that lists a ridiculous number of don’ts. The satirizing character of the passage culminates in the last sentence, which conveys some deliberate errors with respect to esoteric literature. One can still detect further hints of the esoteric nature of Persecution and the Art of Writing. However, these hints are often considerably less obvious than the ones just mentioned; one must add missing assumptions,6 look up references7 or compare the different versions of the essay that Strauss published throughout the years.8 There is no need to pursue all of them at this point. What we have already discovered is sufficient for justifying the claim that Persecution and the Art of Writing deserves an esoteric interpretation. We can therefore proceed to the second and third steps of the esoteric model, which ask us to identify possible motivations for esoteric writing and the hidden message of the text, as well as its target audience.

5.2.2  Why Would Strauss Write an Esoteric Text? In Section 5.1, we already touched upon two general reasons for writing between the lines: protecting oneself from judicial prosecution and mere literary playfulness. The first of these reasons points to an unexpected proximity between the esoteric model to the contextual Cambridge model developed by Quentin Skinner (see

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Chapter 4). Skinner (esp. 1966) fiercely rejected Strauss’s methodology, accusing it of obscurity, programmatic guesswork and of course insensitivity to historical and other contingent factors. Yet, the esoteric model, as we have reconstructed it here actually has much more in common with Skinner’s than one might think. Broadly speaking, both approaches understand texts to be speech acts: as something that an author has ‘written for someone’ in order to do something to them. Moreover, it is crucial to acquire knowledge about the specific historical context not only for the Cambridge model, but for esoteric interpretation as well (Major 2005;Ward 2009). Unless we get to know whether freedom of thought and inquiry were limited back then, and what the orthodox views were, we can only make unfounded guesses about whether the author might have tried to evade censorship. Of course, there are also important differences between the two approaches. Yet the difference that ultimately might have motivated Skinner’s harsh rejection of the esoteric model concerns not insensitivity to context but his perception of a diverging inbuilt understanding of political theory. As we saw in the last chapter, for Skinner, a contextual interpretation renders political theory an eminently practical and context-​ bound activity: ‘political philosophers […are not] above the battle, because the battle is all there is’ (Skinner 2002, 7); by contrast, Strauss (1954, 71–​72; 1992, 24) seems to believe that political theory is an indeed theoretical business capable of producing ahistorical truths. However, the esoteric model, as we are presenting it here, does not need to commit to either view. It is open to the development of ahistorical as well as contextual hypotheses about an author’s motivations for writing an esoteric text. Because of this, self-​protection from judicial prosecution or social ostracism is just one possible motivation we should consider when applying the esoteric model.The same applies to the other reason that Strauss explicitly mentions in Persecution and the Art of Writing. As anticipated above, Strauss believed that thinkers from the Middle Ages and antiquity, much more than modern thinkers, considered philosophy to be a potential danger for society; a paternalist sense of responsibility led some of them to present their dearest insights in coded language (PAW, 27). The fact that Strauss highlights these two motivations for esoteric writing gives us reason enough to investigate whether Strauss himself could have been driven by one of them. This is what we will do in the following section.

5.3  From the Text to its Subtext 5.3.1  The Self-​protection Hypothesis Writers might refrain from communicating openly with their audience for a variety of reasons. Strauss mentions two of them, i.e. the danger of persecution and paternalism, but he does not afford them equal weight. The latter, Strauss says, motivated primarily ancient Greek thinkers; the former motivated thinkers from all times and places. And, whereas paternalism might have occasionally triggered author’s decisions to hide perceived truths, Strauss insists that persecution is always a

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necessary condition of esoteric literature.There is, he says, an ‘essential’ link,‘a necessary correlation between persecution and writing between the lines.’ Esoteric texts ‘must have been composed in an era of persecution,’ in a society ‘which is not liberal’ (PAW, 32, 36). However, Strauss wrote an esoteric text while living in the United States, arguably a rather liberal environment. He had already left Germany by 1932 in search of academic employment –​a few months before Hitler was appointed Chancellor –​and after stopovers in France and England, was successful when he found employment at the New School for Social Research in New York. There are two possible ways to resolve that contradiction. Either his claim about there being a necessary correlation between persecution and esoteric writing was simply a refined distraction; that is, the self-protection hypothesis might have been an adequate explanation in many cases, but not in Strauss’s. Or Strauss genuinely believed that he was at risk for persecution at the time he was writing; that the United States of the late 1930s and early 1940s was not a truly liberal society. He might have expected that hasty readers would quickly forget about the necessary criterion for esoteric literature once he started talking about paternalism as an alternative motivation. They would therefore overlook the fact that the meaning of the term ‘persecution’ undergoes a considerable shift in meaning in the third part of the text. In the beginning of the essay, Strauss associates persecution with the repressive actions of a totalitarian state. Dissident writers face the danger of censorship, torture and violent death. Yet, when explaining the world of the ancient philosophers to the reader, Strauss emphasizes that authors could still become the subject of persecution even if ‘all kinds … of worship [were] permitted’ (PAW, 33). Contrary to what he suggested at the beginning of the text, Strauss now clarifies that ‘[t]‌he term persecution covers a variety of phenomena, ranging from the most cruel type, as exemplified by the Spanish Inquisition, to the mildest, which is social ostracism.’ (PAW, 32). Moreover, he notes that the ‘most interesting’ types of persecution are not those which are cruel but those which can be found in ‘comparatively liberal periods’ (PAW, 33). In the footnote that follows, Strauss completes his redefinition of persecution. Quoting Archibald MacLeish’s essay Post-​War Writers and Pre-​War Readers, he stresses that authors should always deny themselves ‘the luxury of the complete confession’ unless they are living in ‘the most halcyon conditions’ (PAW, 34 fn. 14). Was the United States of the 1940s a place under such unlikely conditions? In some parts of the essay it does seem so. For instance, towards the ends of the text (a place where scholars often point out implications for the here and now), Strauss asks whether there is a use for the art of writing in ‘a truly liberal society’ (PAW, 36). However, he offers no word associating such a society with the United States; there is no ‘here’ or ‘today’ or ‘for us.’ And in an article from 1954, Strauss (1954, 67–​68) refers to the Third French Republic and the Weimar Republic as examples of societies ‘in which men can attack in writings accessible to all both the established social and political order and the beliefs on which it is based’ –​the United States is not included in that list.

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In sum, four points attest to the validity of the self-​protection hypothesis. First is Strauss’s redefinition of the term persecution and second is his omission of his adoptive country from being listed as a really free society. Third, while Persecution and the Art of Writing says little about the ‘most interesting’ types of persecution to be found in comparatively liberal societies, Strauss’s other prominent essay on the esoteric model –​On a Forgotton Kind of Writing (1954, 65–​66) –​does: there, he reports of a colleague (not mentioned by name) ‘who understands the contemporary dangers to intellectual freedom well enough to realize that these dangers are caused not only by men like Senator McCarthy but by the absurd dogmatism of certain academic “liberals” or “scientific” social scientists as well.’ Finally, there is the fact that his Persecution and the Art of Writing can be read as a critical response to two articles published in the same journal right before. While Ernst Kris (1941, Social Research 8/​1) and Alvin Johnson (1941, Social Research 8/​2) denounced National-​Socialist censorship, Strauss (1941, Social Research 8/​3) would have accordingly appealed to American intellectuals to become more critical of their own government, and less dogmatic themselves. Arguably, Strauss would have been right in hesitating to speak his voice openly –​he had just immigrated from Germany, was not yet an American citizen and knew very well just how quickly constitutional guarantees could be undermined. Moreover, the United States was just preparing for war (they entered World War II three weeks after the publication of Persecution and the Art of Writing, on 8 December), and to mobilize its population, it increasingly presented itself as a counterproject to (Nazi) Germany.

BY THE WAY…: SECONDARY SOURCES OF ESOTERIC INTERPRETATION The esoteric model asks us to ‘read between the lines.’ This is obviously a metaphorical expression. Readers are supposed to spot hints at a hidden layer of meaning in the text such as logical mistakes, and to hypothesize about the author’s motivations for writing an esoteric text. However, what textual sources should one consult during this inquiry? Apart from the text itself, the subtext of which we are meant to grasp, we need to look up references and perhaps the passages surrounding the quotations of other writers’ works. As mentioned in Section 5.2.2, we also need to take the historical context into account. Is it permissible to look up other, not referenced, writings of the author, as the oeuvre-​based model (see Chapter 3) recommends? Strauss did so himself when reading works esoterically. But recall that this requires that we buy into the presupposition of a stable authorial intention. Moreover, why should we believe that the author of the esoteric text has written their thoughts fairly and squarely elsewhere?9 We would have to be sure that the author’s other writings were not esoteric texts themselves! And if the test

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turned out to be positive, we would find ourselves at an impasse, for one cannot illuminate obscurity with another obscurity. Thus, the text, subtext and context are more reliable sources than other writings by the author we are interested in.

5.3.2  The Paternalism Hypothesis Four fairly plausible reasons buttress the self-​protection hypothesis. It might very well be correct but if so, would the hidden meaning of Persecution and the Art of Writing not be a little bit too obvious? The main theme of the essay is the danger of persection, which is even indicated in the title. Moreover, just as Strauss redefines the term persecution over the course of his argument, we can trace a shift from modern to ancient ways of thinking and from persecution to paternalism. Belying the claim that esoteric literature is necessarily linked with limits to free speech and inquiry, Strauss reports that ancient philosophers were hated by the masses, no matter what kind of society they were living in (PAW, 34). Almost en passant Strauss inverts the relation of philosophers and society with respect to hazards: the ancient philosophers, Strauss says, were convinced that public communication of their insights was ‘impossible or undesirable’ (PAW, 34); the ‘vulgar’ simply could not understand the truth. And as they were bound to draw wrong (namely practical –​we will come back to this specification of wrongness later) conclusions from philosophers’ ‘purely theoretical’ (PAW, 36) writings, great harm would likely result for themselves or society at large. We should note here that at the beginning of the text and without comment (PAW, 23 fn. 4), Strauss introduces a reference wherein we hear Socrates saying that the public communication of certain reflections is a more atrocious crime than murder by negligence. Esoteric literature, then, actually is not motivated by the philosophers’ fear of persecution, but their paternalistic insight into the desirability of self-​censorship. Strauss suggests that ancient thinkers considered philosophical self-​censorship to be a necessary evil. They referred to acts of self-censorship as ‘noble (or just) lies,’ ‘pious frauds’ or the ‘economy of the truth’ (PAW, 35). Strauss did not explicitly embrace this view, but he did seem to be sympathetic to it, as the following quote shows: Every decent modern reader is bound to be shocked by the mere suggestion that a great man might have deliberately deceived the large majority of his readers. And yet, as a liberal theologian once remarked, these imitators of the resourceful Odysseus were perhaps merely more sincere than we when they called ‘lying nobly’ what we would call ‘considering one’s social responsibilities. PAW, 35–​36

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Arguably, Strauss immunizes himself from criticism by adopting the role of the neutral commentator. He neither identifies with ‘premodern philosophers,’ ‘decent modern readers,’ nor with the ‘liberal theologian’. Instead, he simply raises the question of whether the difference is of a merely terminological nature. If so, ‘our’ employment of the phrase ‘considering one’s social responsibilities’ resembles a (noble?) lie about the noble lie itself. On that note, we should reflect on Strauss’s reference to this liberal theologian for a moment. Is there a way to find out exactly whom Strauss had in mind? Or might the ‘liberal theologian’ be a literary character rather than an actual historical person, and as such somehow serve a similar function as those ‘disreputable,’ yet ‘interesting’ madmen and buffoons in ‘the greatest literature of the past’ that Strauss draws our attention to in the very next paragraph? Be that as it may, there is yet another reason for believing that Strauss recommends self-​censorship. While he presents the views of the ancients as anachronistic in these passages, at the beginning of the text, he nevertheless sides with Socrates who claimed ‘that virtue is knowledge, and therefore that thoughtful men as such are trustworthy and not cruel’ (PAW, 25). Strauss uses the statement to make an obviously unconvincing point: because thoughtful persons are virtuous, dissident writers do not run the danger of being denounced to the authorities by intelligent readers. Yet for the later reported practice of philosophical self-​censorship, the Socratic dictum has the undeniable implication that philosophers are superior to non-​philosophers not only intellectually, but morally too. With this, the paternalism hypothesis is surely a second attractive candidate for determining the esoteric meaning of Persecution and the Art of Writing.

5.3.3  The Quest for a Third Way So far, we have found certain evidence in support of the self-​protection as well as the paternalism hypothesis. Neither is clearly more plausible than the other. More importantly, however, neither option is fully convincing either. If Strauss wanted to denounce limits to the freedom of speech and inquiry in the United States, why would he bring up the paternalism issue, which is likely to upset those who might feel to be part of the ‘nonphilosophic majority’ (PAW, 35)? And why would he explicitely write about the art of writing between the lines, thus inviting those who had never heard of esoteric literature to search for a dissident message below the surface? On the other hand, Strauss rather openly discusses the paternalism hypothesis in the text as well. And if placing the esoteric meaning too obviously between the lines is already a problem for the self-​protection hypothesis, it speaks a fortiori against the paternalism hypothesis. ‘For philosophic readers,’ Strauss tells us, a writer sympathizing with the ancients’ views ‘would do almost more than enough by drawing their attention to the fact that he did not object to telling lies which were noble, or tales which were merely similar to truth’ (PAW, 35).

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The twoness of relatively self-​suggesting hypotheses about the hidden meaning of Persecution and the Art of Writing casts further doubt on their correctness.As Strauss suggests at one point, whether we side with the views of ancient philosophers (paternalism hypothesis) or those of modern enlightenment philosophers (self-​ protection hypothesis) ultimately depends on what we ‘think about popular education and its limits’ (PAW, 33). In other words, Strauss asks us to choose between one of two depicted viewpoints. But careful readers will not have forgotten that at the beginning of the essay, Strauss claimed that only people incapable of truly independent thinking were bound to accept forced-​choice situations. For them, ‘[r]‌eason is but choosing’ (PAW, 23 fn. 3). So, is Strauss perhaps throwing us a red herring by asking us to accept either the self-​protection or the paternalism hypothesis? Perhaps, trapping readers in an intentional and irresolvable ambiguity is exactly what Strauss intended. To dodge Strauss’s forced choice, we should look for a third way out of the conundrum. A good starting point for this enterprise would be the peculiar beginning of the text. Given what follows, one might expect that Strauss raises the question of whether and under what conditions thinkers could safely disclose their insights to the public. However, Strauss invites his readers to reflect upon the effects of ideological hegemony on our ‘thoughts and actions’ (PAW, 22). The footnote following this opening paragraph adds, quoting William Blackstone, that writing is acting –​‘scribere est agere’ (PAW, 22 fn. 1). In other words, we are prompted to contemplate not only what a writer like Strauss had in mind when writing an essay but also what he was doing when submitting it to an interested audience. Persecution and the Art of Writing primarily discusses two types of acts of writing, by which some readers might be led astray: the act of sending a hidden message critical of the regime to political allies-​to-​be, and the act of sending a hidden message to fellow philosophers. Strauss certainly puts up with the possibility of misleading many readers, but he does exactly the opposite up front: he aims to enlighten all –​and especially untrained –​readers. Strauss is lifting a secret, moreover one that serves to disclose other secrets. He should have discussed a different exoteric topic, had he wanted to hide certain truths from the uninitiated masses or to immunize himself from criticism. Had he intended to communicate with fellow initiated philosophers, he should have written –​like Gotthold Ephraim Lessing –​ ‘between the lines about the art of writing between the lines’ (Strauss 1989, 64). But rather than following Lessing, Strauss encourages his readers to go on a quest of identifying a hidden layer of meaning, a heterodox opinion or deep philosophic insight. Thus, if Strauss did indeed intentionally trap his readers in an irresolvable ambiguity with some evidence corroborating the self-​protection and some corroborating the paternalism hypothesis, then the journey itself might be the destination. Readers who accept the essay’s invitation to take the esoteric model seriously and apply it to the text itself, will nolens volens contemplate about the interpretive strategies of the esoteric model, on the one hand, as well as about philosophy,

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government and society on the other hand. Both effects lead us to the same conclusion about Strauss’s action with writing Persecution and the Art of Writing. Instead of trying to mobilize political opposition or sending an elitist message to fellow philosophers, Strauss is engaging in pedagogical capacity building. He was trying to give readers tools in order to cultivate their thinking skills. Consider the effect of reflecting upon methodology. Strauss informs us about the interpretive strategies of the esoteric model and simultaneously destabilizes our beliefs that these precepts are to be taken seriously. Recall that many of these precepts take the form of performative self-​contradictions: he imprecisely repeats an earlier statement when he asks readers to look out for imprecise repetitions of earlier statements; he makes a logical mistake when speaking about technical blunders; he talks about irony with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek; and he articulates strict rules for conducting esoteric interpretation while affirming that we always need to develop specific interpretive strategies to decrypt the particular text at hand. Whatever interpretive strategy Strauss himself might have considered expedient, we need to make up our own minds about how to decode his essay. Here and there we have tried to do precisely that in this chapter. But, certainly, we have not yet exhausted all possibilities. For instance, what would happen if we turned one or several of his (deliberately) self-​contradictory methodological recommendations upside down? What were we looking at, if our attention was directed at the opening and concluding sentences instead of the confusing middle of the text? The last two paragraphs of Persecution and the Art of Writing argue that there is a place for esoteric literature even under perfectly liberal conditions (contrary to the self-​protection hypothesis), and even if nobody would draw wrong conclusions from a philosophical treatise (contrary to the paternalism hypothesis). In one of these paragraphs, Strauss tells us that esoteric literature is simply a literary delight.The ‘visible beauty [of the works of great authors] is sheer ugliness, compared with the beauty of [the] hidden treasures’ (PAW, 37). The other paragraph suggests that there simply is no better way of teaching someone how to philosophize. Students may acquire knowledge about every single philosophical tradition and even learn how to apply certain theories in specific cases, and yet never become philosophers themselves. For this to happen, they need to start thinking independently; that is, they must be willing to question and contest public and intellectual authorities. Strauss’s essay compels us to do this very thing with him. Careful readers will notice his self-​contradictions, while rather careless readers will still find enough to disagree with. The former, of course, can get much more out of text.They might reflect upon the limits to free speech and inquiry even in really-​existing liberalism, whether it pertain to the nature of philosophy (is it merely theoretical or eminently practical?), conceivable virtues of vices (e.g. lying), and many other things. The ‘always difficult but always pleasant work’ of searching for a deeper sense in Strauss’s essay and questioning what he explicitly states brings engaged readers closer to realizing ‘things divine’ (PAW, 37). The epigraph set at the beginning of Persecution and the Art of Writing points to the same thing: ‘That vice has often proved an emancipator of the mind, is one of the most humiliating, but,

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at the same time, one of the most unquestionable, facts of history’ (Lecky quoted in PAW, 22). Regardless of whether pedagogical concerns are characteristic of esoteric literature in general, they very much appear to be essential in the case of Strauss’s Persecution and the Art of Writing. His essay might very well owe its existence, to take up an odd phrase from the penultimate paragraph,‘to the love of the mature philosopher for the puppies of his race, by whom he wants to be loved in turn’ (PAW, 36).

5.4  Limits and Possibilities of an Esoteric Interpretation The main limit of esoteric interpretation is rather obvious. It can never establish certainty about the putative deeper meaning hidden in the text. Of course, textual interpretation is always a controversial business given the rivalry between different methodologies. But by its own account an esoteric reading cannot reliably disambiguate the meaning of a text. Two scholars using the esoteric approach to understand a text independently cannot – or can but to a much lesser degree than other models – hope to achieve the same results. The theoretical reason for this limit is that the esoteric model is not interested in texts, but in their suspected subtexts, which are notoriously elusive objects of investigation. If we treat a text as a piece of esoteric literature, we ultimately trap ourselves in an irresolvable ambiguity, and the best we can do is simply gather circumstantial evidence that corroborates one or another hypothesis about the author’s secret message. Scholars who are not entirely unimpressed by positivism must find this theoretical limit rather frustrating. And scholars who insist on using the esoteric model ought to retain awareness of it. For however sure we may be to have properly understood the real meaning of a putatively esoteric text, we are doomed to slip into the roles of either the attorney who is convinced of the suspect’s guilt but lacks hard evidence or the inquisitor who does not need evidence to condemn some poor soul. Yet another limit of the esoteric model consists in its selective applicability. It only offers interpretive strategies for esoteric literature.The esoteric model does not presuppose that all texts, not even all works of great philosophers, contain a secret message. Rather it asks us to consider the possibility that at least some texts contain an enigmatic layer of meaning. It sensitizes us to the possibility that occasionally authors do not plainly state what they had in mind. Reminding us of this possibility is a strength of the esoteric model. It raises our awareness to the possibility of literary playfulness and authorial indirectness, and reminds us that only some scholarly works and political statements performatively celebrate the value of transparency. Because we can never prove that a given text is esoteric, but only gather circumstantial evidence confirming such a suspicion, we must at some point make a decision about the text for ourselves. One must consider such a decision carefully. Of course, if you become deeply absorbed in looking for a hidden meaning in a non-​esoteric text, you might still personally gain from it. You might, as our close reading of Strauss suggested towards the end of this chapter, cultivate your independent thinking skills. And, if you are striving for a vita

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contemplativa, it ultimately might not matter much whether you are thinking your own thoughts or those of the author. But there certainly is a danger of seeing hidden meanings everywhere. You might end up looking for intentional blunders, inexact repetitions of earlier statements, oddities and a deeper layer of meaning even in this chapter on esoteric interpretation! One can certainly say, though, that it would be rather questionable to mention the possibility of having written between the lines in an inquiry on the art of writing between the lines, if there actually was something written between the lines. Be that as it may, by treating some text as a piece of esoteric literature, we accept certain assumptions about its author –​most importantly, that the author had some sense of self-control. Whether a gifted writer and great thinker or not, we presuppose that she must have reflected not only upon the subject of the text but also about its effects on the audience(s). Instead of merely informing readers about the results of her reflections on some topic, she tried to do certain things to them: to deceive, mobilize, warn, propitiate, enlighten, provoke or entertain (some of) her readers. In other words, treating some text as a piece of esoteric literature means understanding it as a carefully planned speech act. Like other addressee-​centered approaches such as the one we discussed and applied in the previous chapter (see Chapter 4), the esoteric model ultimately aims at –​and cannot plausibly hope to go beyond –​identifying the illocutionary potential of texts.

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Notes 1 In addition to Persecution and the Art of Writing, Strauss’s (1954; 2011) essays ‘On a Forgotten Kind of Writing’ and ‘Exoteric Teaching’ are particularly relevant for such a reconstruction of the theory informing esoteric interpretation. For other descriptions of the esoteric model, see e.g. Ewasiuk (2016) and Zuckert (2011). 2 For the maieutic method, see Vlastos (1983). Typically, Socrates arrives at the contrary conclusion to his conversation partner, which in this case is the idea that a large number of unintelligent people is more alarming than small number of intelligent people. 3 Swiss dramatist Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s 1962 play The Physicists is a famous exploration of the dangers associated with the uncontrolled dissemination of knowledge. 4 Joseph Radowitz’s anonymously published dialogue Gespräche aus der Gegenwart über Kirche und Staat (1846) is a particularly playful and sophisticated example of this esoteric writing technique. Cf. Beckstein (2017). 5 We use the revised version from 1952 that was reprinted in Strauss (1988a). 6 In the passage in which Strauss talks about enthymemes (PAW, 23), he decides to compose one himself; namely, the unstated premise that what is written between the lines, is that ‘Human beings can and do lie.’ 7 Take, for instance, the footnote referencing Plato’s discussion of noble lies in The Republic (415 c6–​d5), where Socrates responds to Glaucon by saying ‘I understand, more or less, what you mean.’ 8 Strauss first published Persecution and the Art of Writing in 1941 in the journal Social Research. The version that we are using is included in the 1952 collection of papers Persecution and the Art of Writing. With one revision, Strauss replaced a rather decent claim

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with a much stronger one. In 1941, Strauss said that the logica equina leads people to accept a state-​sponsored lie as ‘a truth of at least the second power.’ In 1952, he used the expression ‘absolutely certain’ (PAW, 23) instead. 9 Strauss expert Heinrich Meier (1996, 31) likewise recommends to ‘try to understand the author’s oeuvre as an articulated whole.’

References Beckstein, Martin. 2017.‘Eigentum verpflichtet: Joseph von Radowitz und die intellektuelle Vorbereitung des Wohlfahrtsstaats.’ In Jahrbuch für Politisches Denken 27: 11–​38. Brühwiler, Claudia. 2018. ‘ “Claremonsters” in Defense of Trump: A First Look at the (Ab) Use of Strauss.’ ECPR General Conference Paper. Hamburg: University of Hamburg. Diderot, Denis and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert. 1751. Encyclopédie. Dictionnaire raisonnédes sciences, des arts et des métiers. Vol. 6. Geneva; Paris: 273–​274. Online: http://​encyclopédie. eu/​(Accessed 9 September 2020). Ewasiuk, Craig. 2016. ‘The Interpretive Methodology of Leo Strauss.’ In Interpretation in Political Theory, edited by Clement Fatovich and Sean Noah Walsh. London; New York: Routledge: 22–​46. Frazer, Michael. 2006. ‘Esotericism Ancient and Modern: Strauss Contra Straussians on the Art of Political-​Philosophical Writing.’ Political Theory 34/​1: 33–​61. Heer, Jeet. 2003. ‘The Philosopher.’ Boston Globe, 11 May 2003, H1. Online: www.boston. com/​news/​globe/​ideas/​articles/​2003/​05/​11/​the_​philosopher/​?page=full (Accessed 2 September 2019). Johnson, Alvin. 1941. ‘War and the Scholar,’ Social Research 8/​3: 1–​3. Kris, Ernst. 1941. ‘German Censorship Instructions for the Czech Press,’ Social Research 8/​ 2: 238–​246. Lampert, Laurence. 2009 ‘Strauss’s Recovery of Esotericism.’ In: The Cambridge Companion to Leo Strauss, edited by Steven B. Smith, 63–​92. New York: Cambridge University Press. Major, Rafael. 2005. ‘The Cambridge School and Leo Strauss: Texts and Context of American Political Science.’ Political Research Quarterly 58/​3: 477–​485. Meier, Heinrich. 1996. Die Denkbewegung von Leo Strauss: Die Geschichte der Philosophie und die Intention des Philosophen. Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler. N.A. 2003. ‘Philosophers and Kings.’ The Economist, 19 June 2003. Online: www.economist. com/​node/​1859009 (Accessed 2 September 2019). Ottmann, Henning. 2010. Geschichte des politischen Denkens.Vol. 4/​1: Das 20. Jahrhundert. Der Totalitarismus und seine Überwindung. Stuttgart/​Weimar: J. B. Metzler. Palti, Elías José. 2011. ‘Reinhart Koselleck: His Concept of the Concept and Neo-​ Kantianism.’ Contributions to the History of Concepts 6/​2: 1–​20. Perreau-​Saussine, Emile. 2007. ‘Quentin Skinner in Context.’ The Review of Politics 69/​ 1: 106–​122. Pfaff, William. 2003. ‘The Long Reach of Leo Strauss.’ International Herald Tribune, 15 May 2003. Online: http://​acikradyo.com.tr/​arsiv-​icerigi/​long-​reach-​of-​leo-​strauss. (Accessed 2 September 2019). Plato 2008. Symposium. A new Translation by Robin Waterfield. Oxford World’s Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rosen, Stanley. 2003. Hermeneutics as Politics. New Haven, CT:Yale University Press. Sabine, George H. 1953. ‘Persecution and the Art of Writing by Leo Strauss.’ Ethics 63/​ 3: 220–​222.

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Skinner, Quentin 1966. ‘The Limits of Historical Explanation.’ Philosophy 4: 199–​215. Skinner, Quentin 2002. Visions of Politics. Vol. I: Regarding Method. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Strauss, Leo. 1941. ‘Persecution and the Art of Writing.’ Social Research 8/​3: 488–​504. Strauss, Leo. 1954. ‘On a Forgotten Kind of Writing.’ Chicago Review 8/​1: 64–​75. Strauss, Leo. 1988a. Persecution and the Art of Writing. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Strauss, Leo. 1988b. ‘Persecution and the Art of Writing.’ In Persecution and the Art of Writing, 22–​37. [PAW]. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Strauss, Leo. 1988c. ‘The Literary Character of the Guide for the Perplexed.’ In Persecution and the Art of Writing, 38–​94. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Strauss, Leo 1989. ‘Exoteric Teaching.’ In The Rebirth of Classical Political Rationalism, edited by Thomas L. Pangle, 63–​71. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Strauss, Leo. 1992. Natural Right and History. Chicago/​London: University of Chicago Press Strauss, Leo. 2001. Gesammelte Schriften. Vol. 1. Edited by Heinrich and Wiebke Meier. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler. Strehlke, Friedrich. 1884. Goethe’s Briefe.Vol. 2. Berlin. Online: www.zeno.org/​Literatur/​M/​ Goethe,+Johann+Wolfgang/​Briefe/​1811 (Accessed 2 September 2019). Vlastos, Gregory. 1983. ‘The Socratic Elenchus.’ Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy I, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ward, Ian. 2009. ‘Helping the Dead Speak: Leo Strauss, Quentin Skinner and the Arts of Interpretation in Political Thought.’ Polity 41/​2: 235–​255. Wimsatt, William K. and Monroe C. Beardsley. 1946. ‘The Intentional Fallacy.’ The Sewanee Review 54/​3: 468–​488. Zuckert, Catherine. 2011. ‘The Straussian Approach.’ In The Oxford Handbook of the History of Political Philosophy, edited by George Klosko, 24–​35. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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6 THE READER IN FRONT OF THE TEXT De-​/​Recontextualizing Huang Zongxi’s Mingyi daifang lu

The headline of this chapter only gives the title of Huang Zongxi’s (1610–​1695) text in the standard transcription for Mandarin Chinese. This choice might strike readers as not particularly helpful, believing that a translation would have been more adequate. It would have allowed the reader to at least get some idea of the subject of the text. Translations are often perceived as facilitating understanding. This is not only the case with languages about which we are ignorant, but even with languages that we master. Yet, translations can also make understanding significantly harder. Specific connotations and ambiguities are often lost in this process.The translation of Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu illustrates this point very well.The title can be rendered as either ‘waiting for a call during darkness (yi) before dawn (ming)’ or ‘waiting for a call after the replacement of the Ming dynasty through the barbarians (yi)’ –​as the Chinese title might very well communicate both layers of meaning (Bauer 2001, 296). A translation into one’s own language can also suggest a deceptive familiarity with the contents of the text. For instance, one might think that we know the meaning of the term ‘barbarians’ from the Greeks, but does yi really mean ‘barbarians’ in the same sense? And does the English word for ‘barbarians’ not also differ in meaning from the Greek term bárbaroi; the former referring more to brutish, uneducated humans and the latter to those who do not or only badly master the Greek language? To escape any danger of furthering a false sense of familiarity and to emphasize the foreignness of the content, it might have been even better in the case of Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu to simply drop the transliteration and give the title in Chinese script: 明夷待訪錄. Hermeneutics foregrounds the interpretive difficulties a reader faces in distinguishing the ‘known,’ the ‘familiar’ and what is considered one’s ‘own’, on the one hand, and the ‘unknown,’ the ‘unfamiliar,’ the ‘strange’ and the ‘foreign,’ on the other hand. One should presume such a distance not only in light of differences DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-7

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between languages, but within one’s own language as well. Differences in all regards potentially matter: temporal, spatial, social, cultural, gender-related, etc. From the perspective of a modern reader, both of the aforementioned translations of Huang’s title Mingyi daifang lu would foreground a different interpretive distance. ‘Darkness before dawn’ is a reference to the 36th hexagram of the famous Yijing (The Book of Changes) and a cosmic state, describing a time when dark forces reign such that virtuous humans are left waiting for a better future. The text itself contains a world of foreign cultural references, as, for instance, is emphasized in intercultural ­hermeneutics. ‘The replacement of the Ming dynasty through the barbarians (yi),’ however, indicates the more specific historical distance by referring to the fall of the Ming dynasty (1368–​1644) at the hands of the (barbarian) Manchu invaders, who went on to establish the Qing dynasty (1644–​1912).To us, Huang Zongxi and his Mingyi daifang lu may appear to stand at a much greater interpretive distance, but such a distance exists always and necessarily within any text. With there being so many, easily identifiable differences between a text and a reader, it seems appropriate to ask the question of whether that distance can be traversed at all. Can interpretation ever lead to comprehension? Is not any act of interpretation prone to distorting foreign content and dissolving it into the reader’s own world? Hermeneutics deals with precisely these questions. Throughout its history, hermeneuticians have produced answers that aim at mediating real or supposed differences. We would like to briefly recapitulate these answers –​consciously ignoring many instances of interpretive distance –​before turning to the specific approaches of Hans-​ Georg Gadamer (1900–​ 2002) and Paul Ricoeur (1913–​2005), two of the most significant hermeneuticians of the second half of the 20th century.We will then use Ricoeur’s approach to interpret Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu.

6.1  Philosophical Hermeneutics Generally speaking, introductions to hermeneutics distinguish between three main meanings of the term. In the classical tradition and following the etymology of the term, hermeneutics refers to the art of correctly interpreting texts. Historically, the main object of interpretation was the Bible, but texts of jurisprudence and philology have been subjected to this approach as well. Hermeneutics was used as an aid for interpreting ambiguous or otherwise difficult passages. Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768–​1834) constituted a turning point in this area, as he is credited for having extended the focus to the interpretation of texts in general. He is taken to stand at the very beginning of philosophical hermeneutics (Joisten 2009, 17–​18). According to this first main meaning, hermeneutics refers to the methodically guided study of recorded texts. Wilhelm Dilthey (1833–​1911) expanded upon this meaning in order to provide a methodological foundation to the humanities. In this second main meaning, hermeneutics constitutes the counterpart to natural-​ scientific methodology, by offering a basic methodological reflection on truth claims in and

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the overall scientific status of the humanities (Grondin 1994, 20). With Martin Heidegger (1889–​1976), hermeneutics underwent yet another significant expansion or even a revaluation, as he no longer treated it as the methodology of the humanities, but as a universal philosophy of interpretation that is applicable to life as such. In this third main meaning, hermeneutics no longer concerns just the meanings of texts, but human existence in general; the understanding of meaning becomes the essential characteristic of the human being (Joisten 2009, 18).

6.1.1  Gadamer Even though hermeneutics today is so much more than an art of interpretation, and in this sense transcends the concerns of our volume, Gadamer’s exposition of the prejudiced nature of all comprehension and interpretation of a text can still be read as constituting an approach in its own right. Gadamer explicitly rejected traditional hermeneutics, which focused on interpreting texts correctly; that is, revealing the objective meaning of a text. He emphasizes the contingency of one’s own standpoint that always already belongs to a tradition or context of transmission (Überlieferungskontext). Gadamer discusses this issue as the principle of ‘effective history’ or ‘the history of effect’ (Wirkungsgeschichte) and stresses the fact that our ‘historical consciousness is always filled with a variety of voices in which the echo of the past is heard’ (Gadamer 2004, 285). Past and present are not strictly separated horizons: ‘understanding is always the fusion of these horizons supposedly existing by themselves’ (Gadamer 2004, 305). In contrast to traditional hermeneutics, which sought to understand the author better than he or she did, Gadamer saw the task of a hermeneutics conscious of effective history as understanding the author differently than he or she did. The reason for this is that each interpreter approaches a text with prejudgments that should not be eliminated, but instead identified and acknowledged. From this perspective, the translation of Huang’s title, Mingyi daifang lu, in the heading of this chapter would neither have facilitated the reader’s understanding, nor exacerbated it, but simply provided the basis for another prejudgment, which then could have proven itself in its exposition or simply come to be convicted for its arbitrariness.1 Prejudices are therefore nothing less than ‘conditions of understanding.’ In this context, Gadamer explicitly refers to a ‘rehabilitation of authority and tradition’ and sometimes highlights the potency of history in the prejudices of individuals, so much so that one can easily come to believe that he underestimates the individual’s capacity for critical reflection (this was at the core of the controversy between Gadamer and Habermas, see Joisten 2009, 155–​159; Grondin 1994, 129–​135). Gadamer (2004, 278) distinguished between ‘legitimate prejudices’ (that should be rehabilitated) and prejudices ‘which it is the undeniable task of critical reason to overcome.’ In other words, Gadamer did not seek to back out of the Enlightenment, but he also did not want to reject the favorable along with the unfavorable, by declaring all prejudice to be erroneous.

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The prejudiced nature of all understanding can best be illustrated by the hermeneutic circle, which Gadamer roughly sketches as follows: A person who is trying to understand a text is always projecting. He projects a meaning for the text as a whole as soon as some initial meaning emerges in the text. Again, the initial meaning emerges only because he is reading the text with particular expectations in regard to a certain meaning.Working out this fore-​projection, which is constantly revised in terms of what emerges as he penetrates into the meaning, is understanding what is there. Gadamer 2004, 269 The hermeneutic circle is not really a methodological instrument, just as Gadamer’s hermeneutics overall cannot be understood as a mere method (the title of his book is Truth and Method). He does not offer any blueprint for understanding something, since no interpreter can successfully separate ‘in advance the productive prejudices that enable understanding from the prejudices that hinder it and lead to misunderstanding.’ Rather, hermeneutics pertains to ‘clarify[ing] the conditions in which understanding takes place,’ and the hermeneutic circle describes the ‘ontological structure of understanding’ necessary for doing so (Gadamer 2004, 294–​295). In Gadamer’s view, the unbridgeable gap between the interpreter and the author is an essential part of the conditions of understanding. But herein lies the crux of the matter. Hermeneutic distance is not a problem that bars one’s understanding of the meaning of a text, but rather a part of ‘the real meaning of a text.’ According to Gadamer, the real meaning of a text is not determined by the author’s thought alone, but also always by the interpreter’s reading of the text: Not just occasionally but always, the meaning of a text goes beyond its author. That is why understanding is not merely a reproductive but always a productive activity as well. Gadamer 2004, 296 Surely, such an effort at understanding knows no end, since the ‘the discovery of the true meaning of a text or a work of art [is] in fact an infinite process’ (Gadamer 2004, 298).

6.1.2  Ricoeur Like Gadamer, Ricoeur deemphasizes the role of the author of the text and instead highlights the relation between the text and the reader.Yet, Ricoeur places more emphasis on the process of reading (whereas Gadamer fancies a dialogical model). This is evident from Ricoeur’s description of the hermeneutic circle, which he writes is not adequately understood ‘when it is presented, first, as a circle between

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two subjectivities, that of the reader and that of the author; and second, as the projection of the subjectivity of the reader into the reading itself ’ (Ricoeur 1981, 140). According to Ricoeur, there is simply no dialogue between the author and the reader. The act of writing and the act of reading are two events that are independent of each other: ‘The reader is absent from the act of writing; the writer is absent from the act of reading’ (Ricoeur 1981, 108). Ricoeur’s understanding of a text is rather complex; and he modified it over the course of his various writings and discussed it from a variety of viewpoints. Put simply, he appears to kill two hermeneutic birds with one stone: on the one hand, he overcomes Wilhelm Dilthey’s division between the explanatory natural sciences (Naturwissenschaften) and the human sciences (Geisteswissenschaften), which are devoted to understanding. In Ricoeur’s view, both attitudes towards texts, i.e., explanation and understanding, have undergone a development since Dilthey. Explanation no longer follows the model of the natural sciences, but those of linguistics and semiology. It no longer concerns understanding in terms of the interpreter finding a way into the author’s psyche (Ricoeur 1981, 112–​115). In fact, interpretation should be disassociated from such a conception of understanding altogether. Hence, Ricoeur’s approach connects a structural explanation of a text with a reader’s interpretation in a complementary and reciprocal manner. On the other hand, Ricoeur circumvents the opposition that lies at the heart of many hermeneutic approaches, namely between the interpreter’s distanciation – which is the practiced method of the sciences – and his or her belonging, which is committed to truth and oriented towards the transmission of historical tradition. Between distanciating alienation (which is positively connoted by Ricoeur) and belonging stands the text. In his reading, the text ‘is the paradigm of distanciation in communication’ and, at the same time, it highlights the fundamental character of historicity and human experience: it is ‘a communication in and through distance’ (Ricoeur 1981, 93). What does that mean? For Ricoeur, every discourse which is fixated in writing is a text. And precisely because it is written, a text should not be conceived as a simple transcription of a prior speaking. If one were to assume otherwise, he or she would overlook an important distinction. When a speaker intends to say something to someone in a specific historical situation, in a specific mood and in a specific discursive milieu, he or she is always referring to ‘a reality, which can be indicated “around” the speakers.’ Language offers innumerable means to do so. Ricoeur mentions ‘demonstratives, adverbs of time and place, personal pronouns, [and] verbal tenses.’ In ‘living speech,’ it can thus happen that the ‘ideal sense of what is said turns towards the real reference, towards that “about which” we speak’ and can be confounded with the ‘gesture of [deictic or ostensive] pointing’ (Ricoeur 1981, 110).Yet when facing a text instead of speech, things might be quite a bit different: The movement of reference towards the act of showing is intercepted, at the same time as dialogue is interrupted by the text. […]. As we shall see, the text is not without reference; the task of reading, qua interpretation, will

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be precisely to fulfil the reference. The suspense which defers the reference merely leaves the text, as it were, ‘in the air,’ outside or without a world. Ricoeur 1981, 110 The text is not entirely without a world, but stands in a relation to all other texts, which together represent a ‘quasi-​world.’ Ricoeur refers to the ‘eclipse of the circumstantial world by the quasi-​world of texts’ (Ricoeur 1981, 111). To begin with, therefore, the interpreter has to identify the real references in the text and to detach them from the ideal sense of the text.The text thereby assumes an autonomous status (against authorial intention, the original setting of the work and its original readers) and thus acquires its own meaning. This postulate prepares the programmatic groundwork for Ricoeur’s reflexive hermeneutics: What we have called the eclipse of the surrounding world by the quasi-​world of texts engenders two possibilities.We can, as readers, remain in the suspense of the text, treating it as a worldless and authorless object; in this case, we explain the text in terms of its internal relations, its structure. On the other hand, we can lift the suspense and fulfil the text in speech, restoring it to living communication; in this case, we interpret the text.These two possibilities both belong to reading, and reading is the dialectic of these two attitudes. Ricoeur 1981, 114; see also 171–​183 A structural analysis can access the world constituted by the text as a written and fixated discourse. The interpreter has to explain the structure of the text by focusing on its narrative structure (e.g. different levels of narration) and temporality, but also on its ‘functions or basic segments of action’ and corresponding roles (‘actants’).This requires the interpreter to abstain from making value judgments as much as possible and not to qualify or exhaustively describe single structural elements (Ricoeur 1981, 245). The question of interpretation – which is also the question of self-​ interpretation – is only ‘postponed until the end’ rather than the ‘introductory theme’ (Ricoeur 1981, 94, 126). For Ricoeur, there is no question of the reader projecting his or her subjectivity onto the text. Still, interpretation is ‘the real aim of reading’ and this would hardly be possible ‘if it were not first apparent that the text, as writing, awaits and calls for a reading’; the text (and its world) is precisely ‘not closed in on itself but opens out onto other things’ (Ricoeur 1981, 120). Each reading conjoins a new discourse (the world of the reader) to the discourse of the text. ‘The “actualized text”,’ Ricoeur writes, ‘finds a surrounding and an audience’ (Ricoeur 1981, 121).2 Explanation and interpretation turn out to be two attitudes that are not opposed to each other but which stand next to each other in a complementary and reciprocal relation. They form the ends of a ‘unique hermeneutical arc’ (Ricoeur 1981, 123). The characterization of Ricoeur’s approach as reflective hermeneutics stems from his emphasis on the final appropriation of the text. The interpretation of a

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text culminates in the self-​interpretation of a subject; that is, the reading interpreter, ‘who thenceforth understands himself better, understands himself differently, or simply begins to understand himself ’ (Ricoeur 1981, 120). Appropriation here means that the reader takes up the intention of the text and follows the direction (Ricoeur here plays with the double-​meaning of the French word ‘sens’) that it opens up for thinking. Interpretation here no longer means a ‘subjective process’ directed towards a text, but an ‘objective process,’ which ‘would be the act of the text’ (Ricoeur 1981, 123). Ricoeur often compares his hermeneutic approach to ‘the performance of a musical piece regulated by the written notations of the score,’ by which ‘cultural distance’ can be overcome (Ricoeur 1981, 57, 121, 136). Ricoeur’s reflective hermeneutics seeks to occupy a markedly critical position, not least in the wake of Jürgen Habermas’s ideology critique against Gadamer (Ricoeur 1981, 61–​89). Ricoeur distinguishes then between a hermeneutics based on trust and one based on suspicion, which have to be taken into account in tandem. The hermeneutics of trust appropriates sense, as it offers itself to the interpreter; the hermeneutics of suspicion, however, keeps this sense at a critical distance, with one harboring an awareness that such sense could turn out to be nothing more than ‘false consciousness.’

6.1.3  Applied Hermeneutics? How then should one proceed if one sets out to interpret a text in a hermeneutic fashion? How should this method be applied? How should one read our Figure 6.1? Both aforementioned authors, Gadamer and Ricoeur, explicitly raise the issue of applying hermeneutics, but they unmistakably indicate that hermeneutics offers no method, let alone a manual. Rather than focusing on a method, hermeneutics aims at the reader’s conscious interaction with texts; in other words, it concerns methodological consciousness. Of course, one might be able to speak of a method in hindsight after having performed an interpretation.Yet, a repeated attempt at interpreting a text would precisely (and purposely) not lead to the same result. A text is conducive to a plurality of different readings, each proceeding from a variety of sociocultural contexts (Ricoeur 1981, 101). This situation does not lead to arbitrary readings of texts. Ricoeur, for instance, mentions that a structural explanation and the entirety of the text can be ‘constructed in several ways,’ from ‘unsuitable constructions’ to ‘more probable’ ones (Ricoeur 1981, 137–​138). With its focus on the reader and the text, hermeneutics stands out as an interpretive approach of its own. Its understanding of what a text actually is sets it apart from other approaches. On this point, Ricoeur differs markedly from Skinner and the Cambridge School: whereas Skinner emphasizes the historical context of a text, Ricoeur subjects the text to a decontextualization (the structural explanation) and thereafter to a recontextualization (an interpretation of the text and self-​ interpretation of the reader). Applying the hermeneutic approach therefore amounts to a commitment towards such an understanding

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Ricoeur’s approach of reflexive hermeneutics seeks to actualize the ideal sense of a text in a conscious act of interpretation based on the world of the reader.

Text

Step 1

Which parts of the text refer to the realities of the historical context? Which historical places, personalities and events are referenced in the text? If the text were spoken rather than written by the author, what would he or she point to while speaking?

Identification of the real references of the text which are to be eliminated

Step 2

Which narrative structure underlies the text, e.g. which temporalities or other narrative levels? Are there sub-units of events (sequences) and segments of action? Which actants play a role in the text? What do proper names of people, places and events stand in for? Are there thematic frames?

Structural explanation and analysis of the ideal sense of the text

How do I as reader actualize the text in my world and in my discourse? How could my own interpretation be misguided?

Step 3 Interpretation: Hermeneutics of trust and suspicion

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Meaning

FIGURE 6.1 

The hermeneutical model of interpretation.

of a text, combined with a practiced sensitivity to concomitant issues. One might lean more towards Gadamer or Ricoeur (or towards another hermeneutician), but by blindly following somebody else and abstaining from setting out as an independent interpreter oneself, one would fall short of the hermeneutic approach.

6.2  Huang Zongxi and the Mingyi daifang lu If we proceed to present background information on Huang Zongxi and his text Mingyi daifang lu we invariably influence the prejudgment of all those who have never heard of the author or the text, but perhaps even those who are more or

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less familiar with the subject matter. The latter will either find their prejudices confirmed or challenged by what we write. In light of Gadamer’s position, the following point is most significant: our framing of Huang Zongxi and the text in question lays bare our own biases. In other words, our reading constitutes an effort to make ourselves aware of our own prejudgments. From this vantage point, the following is less an introduction of the topic than a first and necessary step in the procedure of the hermeneutic approach. Following Ricoeur, we engage with our own discourse, which in the end we will bring to the discourse of the text when recontextualizing it.

6.2.1  On Huang’s Position in Political Theory Huang Zongxi 黃宗羲 (1610–​1695) was roughly a contemporary of Baruch de Spinoza, Thomas Hobbes and John Locke. In the research literature, he has mainly been recognized as an exponent of Chinese history of political thought specifically and in light of his importance for Chinese history more generally. There are good reasons for this. In the history of Chinese political thought, Huang has come to occupy a rather extraordinary position.3 Mingyi daifang lu 明夷待訪錄 (1662/​1663) is his main political oeuvre. Zhang Junmai 张君劢 (1886–​1969) claimed that this text opens up an entirely new perspective on the question of government and Lin Mousheng (*1906) added that it ‘is probably the most systematic political treatise in the Chinese language’ (Chang 1962, 259; Lin 1942, 187). More recently, Thomas Fröhlich (2006, 42) spoke of it as ‘one of the most critically minded engagements with the dynastic governmental order of China from the late imperial era.’ For Wolfgang Ommerborn (1999, 295), the text constitutes a critique of the given circumstances as much as a normative vision of the ‘optimal form of government.’ Western, Chinese and Japanese commentators have often read Huang and his text by way of extensive comparison. Some have depicted him as the ‘Chinese Rousseau.’4 Others (Lin 1942, 198) have highlighted similarities with John Locke from a philosophical perspective, with John Stuart Mill from an economic perspective, and with both of them from the perspective of political philosophy. Theodore Wm. de Bary (1993, 52–​55; see also Ommerborn 1999, 326–​327), who had done himself much to popularize Huang outside of China by translating the Mingyi daifang lu into English and inscribing the text within a ‘liberal’ tradition of Confucianism, considered the last comparison to be rather futile. Huang, de Bary insists, was a ‘democrat’ like Locke or Mill in that he also believed that the state was created for humans, and not the other way around. At best, however, he only approximated the constitutionalism that marks Western democracies. De Bary utilizes Abraham Lincoln’s famous dictum to make the point that Huang clearly conceived of a government for the people, but he only conceived of a government by the people in very limited ways. In the Mingyi daifang lu, Huang places government in the hands of a capable monarch with a powerful and largely independent chancellor and other ministers

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at his side; they are all there to serve the good of the people. He thereby continues a longstanding Confucian emphasis on virtuous, classically educated and well-​advised rulers. He adds to it more recent attempts at institutionally limiting the power of the ruler. In short, Huang shifts the main center of government to a meritocratic Confucian elite, whose position and independence is institutionally secured. In this regard, Huang’s idea of an ideal state has been poignantly characterized as an ‘elite democracy.’5 Characterizations such as ‘elite democracy,’ however, are subject to changes over time and circumstance. This is exemplified, for instance, by the fact that in the transition from the 19th to the 20th century Huang came to be rediscovered after a long time of disregard. The reformers of the day took him to be a Confucian harbinger of democracy, providing nothing less than a powerful reference point for establishing a people’s government and a republic. Others saw Huang as an anti-​ imperial hero of the revolutionary nationalist movement. In turn, monarchists saw Huang’s political thought as directly opposed to Confucian ideals and as threatening lawlessness and anarchy. Then again, in the opinion of another leading intellectual (i.e. Zhang Binglin 章炳麟, 1868–​1936), Huang did indeed represent Western democracy, but everything that was bad about it. The excessive power given to the chancellor and the conceived reforms in the recruitment of officials in Huang’s vision would ultimately lead not to the rule of law, but to the dominance of a few political leaders. Later, in Communist China, Huang received a very different interpretation, namely, as a champion of the interests of the aristocratic class in feudal China or as a more truthful democrat than Western democrats since he had understood the necessity of economic equality (de Bary 1993, 71–​74). More recent times have once again seen positive references to Huang, as former Chinese premier minister Wen Jiabao 溫家寶 (quoted from Fröhlich 2006, 46 fn. 21) lauded the ‘scientific and democratic nature’ of Huang Zongxi’s political thought. As previously mentioned, all of these characterizations and evaluations portray Huang as a specifically Chinese thinker. Comparisons with Western thinkers and the positive references to Huang’s political ideas in much later times decontextualized him and his Mingyi daifang lu in a variety of ways. These efforts implied the possibility of reading him systematically, but they also suggested that interpreting him was not exhausted by becoming familiar with the specific historical and Chinese context, in which he lived and wrote. The attention given to Huang around the globe today raises the question of whether understanding him as a Chinese thinker does not constitute a prejudice that one should question and that would have to withstand a thorough analysis of the text. When de Bary (1993, 83) transports Huang into the context of modern democracies and suggests that ‘something like Huang’s parliament of scholars’ could ‘serve a function in helping to offset other concentration of power,’ it raises the issue of whether or not Huang should be treated as simply a political thinker. Or does characterizing him as a specifically Chinese thinker constitute a helpful methodical device of alienation with the aim of frustrating any attempt at an all too quick appropriation?

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6.2.2  Pre-​understanding the Mingyi daifang lu Even if one has not yet read the Mingyi daifang lu itself, one might have read or heard much about its contents from third parties. In that case, one would likely bring prejudgments much like the previously mentioned characterizations and evaluations to the reading of the text. Those who read the text stored it in their memories, which may have changed their understanding of it over time or indeed it might have evaporated considerably. Yet some might have prepared themselves by way of a careful study of available secondary literature. Such preparation is often recommended, particularly in light of a difficult text (that was written for an expert audience, which presupposes a great deal of background knowledge, etc.). Prepared by the secondary literature, one would already have a good grasp of the rough contents of the text. Some, perhaps more recent interpretations in the secondary literature might especially shape one’s prejudgments. In an article on power and authority in Chinese political thought, Thomas Fröhlich discussed Huang Zongxi’s Mingyi daifang lu in some detail in a section entitled ‘Meritocracy and the Prevention of Power Abuse.’ He argues that Huang Zongxi, ‘in the absence of a perfect virtuous ruler, sought a second-​best solution,’ which he found in an institutionalized meritocracy. In such a system, political power would remain with the emperor, but the authority of the chancellor and the ministers would limit that power. The religious and ‘metaphysical foundation of the ruler’s power,’ in turn, sets a limit to the ambition and scope of the chancellor’s and the ministers’ power. Fröhlich (2006, 44) emphasizes that in the Mingyi daifang lu ‘the figure of the perfect virtuous ruler’ is transposed onto ‘a human collective’ (the emperor, the chancellor and the ministers). But more importantly, to the extent that the emperor is willing ‘to be advised and subject himself to advice,’ his power is indeed transformed into real authority. Another source which could inform one’s prejudgment might be the introductory remarks to Huang’s text in a modern edition, such as, for instance, those offered by de Bary (1993, 30–​35). On the basis of his introduction alone, readers would rightfully presume to encounter in Huang’s text the pleas for a ‘universal public school system,’ for local academies as well as for an Imperial College in a space separate from the palace and therefore ‘immune to political pressure.’ The Imperial College would be the place where the crown prince and the sons of the ministers would be educated and where the emperor himself, his chancellor and the ministers would have to listen to the principal once a month. In Huang’s framework, the principal might even be considered to stand on equal footing with the chancellor or even above him. Since the principal is not part of the clique of those in government like the emperor and the chancellor, an additional layer of control is added to power that is based on eruditeness or epistemic authority. Such authority is also relevant for selecting the chancellor and the ministers, but the uniqueness of the principal’s position lies in its distance from the center of power.

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The principal is supposed to sincerely and openly confront the emperor and the chancellor with errors and shortcomings. Such openness is possible precisely because of the principal’s detachment from daily politics and the political decision-​making processes, all of which was institutionally encouraged by his spatiotemporal distance from the palace and from meeting there only once a month (Ommerborn 1999, 321–​323). The secondary literature helps us to learn about the content of the text as if we had actually read the text, which of course we have not (or not necessarily) done. When and how the actual reading of a text begins is not evident, not even when the book lies on the table in front of us. Most often, at least with modern editions, our gaze first turns to the cover and then perhaps to the table of contents. Depending on the kind of book and edition, the cover presents us with a considerable amount of substantial and marketing information (on the text, on the author, etc.). Therefore, we are considerably exposed to visually mediated impressions. Thomas Hobbes, who took great care to be involved in designing the final version of the famous frontispiece of his Leviathan, certainly knew about the importance of visual strategies for framing the reader’s mindset in a way that he considered advantageous, not wholly unlike modern marketers do (Bredekamp 2020). With regard to Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu, there are several Chinese, Taiwanese and Japanese editions available, whereas de Bary’s English translation appears to be the only comprehensive translation in a European language (Übelhör et al. 1977). On the back cover of the English translation, readers will discover the following blurb: The Ming-​i tai-​fang lu [Mingyi daifang lu] of Huang Tsung-​ hsi [Huang Zongxi] (1610–​1695) stands alone in the history of Chinese political literature. Since the time of Confucius and Mencius, no other work in the long Confucian tradition has stood out so clearly as a major critique of Chinese dynastic institutions. Reformers and revolutionary leaders such as Liang Ch’i-​ch’ao [Liang Qichao] and Sun Yat-​sen used Huang’s essays to promote their own political aims. Modern scholars have confirmed Huang’s stature as the most enduring and influential critic of Chinese despotism and have recognized his Plan [Mingyi daifang lu] as the most powerful affirmation of a liberal Confucian political vision in premodern times. de Bary 1993, back cover Whoever reads these passages on the back cover of the book before actually reading the text will form an expectation about the contents of the text, informed by at least some of its author’s conceptions as a Confucian and a liberal thinker as well as the reception of the book in later times. This nicely illustrates how the prejudgments which are emphasized in philosophical hermeneutics might even be the results of interpretive approaches that go against the assumptions of the hermeneutic model.

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144  The Reader in Front of the Text TABLE 6.1  Waiting for the Dawn: table of contents (de Bary, 1993)

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8 Ch. 9 Ch. 10 Ch. 11 Ch. 12 Ch. 13

Preface Explanatory Note Introduction Translation of the Ming-​i tai-​fang lu Preface of Huang Tsung-​hsi On the Prince On Ministership On Law Establishing a Prime Minister Schools The Selection of Scholar-​Officials Choosing a Capital Frontier Commanderies Land System Military System Finance Subofficials Eunuchs Letter from Ku Yen-​wu to Huang Tsung-​hsi Ch’üan Tsu-​wang, Colophon to the Ming-​i-​tai-​fang lu Notes; Glossary of Names and Terms; Abbreviations; Bibliography; Works Cited in Western Languages, Index

Additionally, readers are likely exposed to prefaces, introductions and appendices (which often feature citations from the text) and many will consult the table of contents (see Table 6.1) before setting out to read the ‘actual’ text. The following hermeneutic reading draws on the original Chinese version, de Bary’s English translation and the German translation of single chapters by Übelhör.The fact that we make use of translations is of the utmost significance for the hermeneutic approach and should be openly indicated.

BY THE WAY…: TRANSLATION, WHOSE HORIZON AND WHOSE WORLD? It is not unusual for scholars to consult translations extensively when working on a text in a foreign script. One might well have several of them within one’s reach. Only a few would maintain that this amounts to facing one and the same text, albeit in various editions. The status of a translation is particularly interesting from a hermeneutic point of view. If every reading constitutes a kind of translation, then the reader of an English translation of a Chinese text is just translating a translation. Methodologically speaking, the question then

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arises as to with whose horizon one’s hermeneutic consciousness is engaging: that of the translated author or that of the translator –​or both at the same time? Is one dealing with the intention underlying one or two texts?

6.3  Hermeneutic Readings: Chapter 1 –​On the Prince In this section, we focus on one chapter of the Mingyi daifang lu and subject it to a hermeneutic reading. First, we will attempt to conduct a hermeneutic reading along the lines of Ricoeur, and then turn to some points raised by Gadamer and intercultural hermeneutics in particular, which we will finally apply. Yet, we will do so without making the (hermeneutically nonsensical) claim of carrying out an accurate application of these approaches.

6.3.1  Structural Explanation Regarding the structural explanation of the first chapter of Huang Zongxi’s Mingyi daifang lu, there is a narrative structure with different ‘basic segments of action’ and ‘actants’ that is rather easy to identify. A contrast that distinguishes three different times lays out the sense of the text. A specific vocabulary and the often-​exalted position at the beginning of paragraphs corroborate the structure (see Table 6.2).6 In addition, there is a complex series of narratives and statements in and between paragraphs, which operate and produce sense by way of contrasting two times. Structurally, they can be reduced to two segments of action. The first segment (paragraphs 1–​3) captures the following narrative: [time 1] from the natural selfishness of human beings; [time 2] to the burden of ruling for those who rule benefitting all-​under-​Heaven; [time 3] to the rule of selfish rulers with dire consequences for the people. The narrative culminates in the exclamation: ‘How could the institution of rulership have turned out like this?’ The following paragraph draws a contrast by referring to the relationship between the people and the ruler, and operates in the second time. The relationship is marked by love and veneration, in turn forming a stark contrast with the third time which is dominated by hate. The second segment of action (paragraphs 2–​4) mainly takes place in the third time and shows a ruler who considers the empire to be his own property and who sooner or later can no longer prevail. This insight causes the ruler to feel great sorrow. He can no longer rule since everyone else in the empire will simply imitate him and give free rein to the desire of owning the empire. The demise of the dynasty can linger over the course of a few generations or it can descend upon

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146  The Reader in Front of the Text TABLE 6.2  Structural explanation of the Mingyi daifang lu

Time 1 §1, sent. 1

Time 2

有生之初 /​ ‘In the beginning of human life’

§1, sent. 5

故古之人君 /​ ‘in those early times some men worthy of ruling’

§2, sent. 1

後之為人君者 /​‘those who later became princes’

§2, sent. 4 §2, sent. 5 §2, sent. 9

§3, sent. 1

古者 /​‘in ancient times’ 今 /​ ‘now’ 向使無君 /​ ‘If there had been no rulers, …’ 古者 /​‘in ancient times’

§3, sent. 2 §3, sent. 6

今 /​ ‘now’ 後世之君 /​‘the princes of later times’ 使後之為君者 /​ ‘latter-​day princes’

§4, sent. 1 §4, sent. 6

§4, sent. 6

Time 3

唐、虞之世 /​ ‘in the time of [Yao] and [Shun]’ 許由、務光所以曠後 世而不 聞也 /​‘which is why through all the subsequent generations no one has heard of another [Xu You] and [Wu Guang]’

the ruler during his own lifetime. The second time finds a brief contrasting reference in paragraph 4, when the ruler of the third time is said to pretend to be a ruler of the second time. Drawing another sharp contrast, the text gets to the heart of this segment of action: while the ruler’s tasks and duties were clear in the second time, this is no longer the case in the third time when everyone strives to be the ruler.Yet, and thus ends the first chapter, ‘any fool can see that a brief moment of excessive pleasure is not worth an eternity of sorrows’ (de Bary 1993, 93). Beyond the three times and the two segments of action, a handful of ‘actants’ occupy central roles in the text:

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1. human beings as such, thinking about themselves and their profit; humankind; 2. extraordinary human beings, who do not pursue their own benefit but that of the public; exemplary rulers, who did not seek out the position of ruler [deictic references to Xu You and Wu Guang,Yao and Shun,Yu]; 3. rulers who seek the position of ruler, but who are far from being extraordinary [deictic references to the founder of the Han-​dynasty and Yi Zong, the last emperor of the Ming-​dynasty]; 4. petty Confucians (xiao ru 小儒). Even if this list includes proper names, in Ricoeur’s hermeneutic approach they are precisely not to be understood as such (which is why we set them apart as ‘deictic references’). For this approach is not interested in what can be shown ‘around’ the author, nor with considering the real reference of the text to be the living speech of the author, but in its ideal sense. Proper names therefore take the place of structural elements in the text. The roles of the usually self-​interested human beings, the extraordinary exemplary rulers and the rulers of later times have largely dominated the structural explanation. The ‘actant’ listed in the final position, i.e. the petty Confucians, will now occupy the focus of our interpretation.

6.3.2  Interpretation Our interpretation begins with an evaluation of the three times. The first time is hypothetical, the second mythological and the third is historically real (comprising the past as much as the present). The hypothetical time does not refer to a ‘primordial state’ or a ‘state of nature’ which legitimizes the need for a ‘social contract,’ even if it undoubtedly describes a suboptimal state of affairs: In the beginning of human life each man lived for himself and looked to his own interests. There was such a thing as the common benefit, yet no one seems to have promoted it; and there was common harm, yet no one seems to have eliminated it. de Bary 1993, 91 The function of hypothetical time is to draw up a trans-​and extratemporal conception of the human being, which allows for the possibility of characterizing the ruler’s abilities with more precision and poignancy in the second time. Rulers are extraordinary to the extent that they are capable of making a special insight, namely that a state of affairs in which everyone pursues his or her benefits would be less than ideal. Yet they also understand that they are only humans themselves and therefore they too might seek personal profit from the labors that accompany ruling. For ‘to love ease and dislike strenuous labor has always been the natural inclination of man.’ This is the reason why they shirk from the task of ruling or pass it on to somebody else.The

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normative function of the hypothetical time lies in depicting rule as a burden and as something reserved only to these who are capable of a special insight. This special insight of exemplary rulers in the second time hence appears to be fundamentally opposed to nature. The text accommodates this perversity by capturing the second time as mythological and relocating it in antiquity. Only through mythological transfiguration can the text suggest the emergence of human beings who, contrary to their nature, do not pursue their own benefit and come to establish an ideal that commands normative validity. This play with different times appears once again at the end of the second paragraph, which largely addresses the third time: ‘Thus he who does the greatest harm in the world is none other than the prince. If there had been no rulers, each man would have provided for himself and looked to his own interests’ (de Bary 1993, 92). At this point, the text begins to focus exclusively on the third, historically real time. Neither the hypothetical nor the mythical time proffer a normative ideal that could be simply translated into the historically real time. On the contrary, both times mark a suboptimal state of affairs. A state without rulers would not be able to realize the benefit of the people; thus a state without extraordinary rulers exhibiting normative power would be unable to establish lasting rule. The first chapter offers a discussion of the problem of ruling, as it remains an institution wherein human beings merely exercise their own interest. The rulers of the second and third time do not differ in this respect. They differ only insofar as the former recognize the problem as a problem, whereas the latter hurl themselves blindly into power and dupe themselves into believing ‘that since they held the power over benefit and harm, there was nothing wrong in taking for themselves all the benefits and imposing on others all the harm’ (de Bary 1993, 92). The text, however, suggests a solution to this problem. In both segments of action, one ‘actant’ conspicuously fits into the characterization of natural self-​interest only by a marked failing of its own proper calling: the ‘petty Confucians.’ They insist ‘pedantically’ on an unconditioned ‘duty of the subject to his prince,’ even to a tyrannical ruler.They are faulted for disestablishing from the curriculum the passages of the Mengzi that they thought ‘did not serve their purpose’ (de Bary 1993, 93). With this reference to the Mengzi, the text activates the normative power of the mythological time and poses a Confucian worthy of his name against the ‘petty Confucians.’ Mengzi, the supposed author of the book named after him, is characterized as a ‘sage’ in the text. Herein, the problem is rooted in the failure of the Confucians; a cause that can be eliminated. For successful rule, there is no need to change human nature; rather, it suffices to simply put ‘non-​petty,’ that is, worthy Confucians (whose nature is different from all the others) institutionally at an able ruler’s side. Only such a measure will restrain common human nature to the benefit of all. This interpretation is based on a Ricoeurian hermeneutic approach to the dominant reading of Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu supplanted by a critique of the ruler. Unquestionably, the text problematizes dynastic rule as an institution

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exercised by human beings and thus always threatened by the self-​interest of human beings. Yet, this is true of all government, even the good government of the mythological time. What the hermeneutic approach emphasizes is that the text is not just a critique of the ruler, but also –​and necessarily –​a critique of Confucians who in their pettiness and in mindlessness failed to keep an eye on the ruler (de Bary 1993, 93). This is at least the result of an interpretation conducted on the basis of a structural explanation of the text.

6.3.3  Hermeneutic Distance: Alienating and Mediating Language Is the present interpretation of Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu not also burdened by a prejudgment that does not withstand closer scrutiny of the text (at least of the first chapter)? Why do so many scholars read the passages on the origins of humanity along the lines of an ‘original state’ or ‘state of nature,’ akin to the social contract language in Hobbes, Locke and Rousseau?7 We too have rather readily spoken of a ‘hypothetical’ time. Have we not chosen to direct our gaze in the direction of the history of political thought, thus inclining us to read the text as a critique of ‘despotism’ and of ‘Chinese dynastic institutions,’ as the blurb on de Bary’s translation suggests, rather than as a critique of political advisors? Hermeneutics demands that the reader (following Gadamer) become as aware as possible of one’s own prejudgments and (following Ricoeur) add to a hermeneutics of trust a hermeneutics of suspicion.There are many ways of approximating these maxims. Perhaps one way would consist of reading the text once again using a different interpretive approach; for instance, by contextualizing it historically, reading it psychoanalytically or by examining it in light of feminist concerns or ideological criticism. The upshot of that would be to establish a hermeneutic distance that would either cast doubt on the meaning that the text seemingly offers or to corroborate the purported reading of the text. Such distance could easily be made plausible by historically contextualizing the Mingyi daifang lu. Gadamer positively connotes the hermeneutic distance that stems from the text’s alienation of the horizon of the past, as he believes that it can facilitate the reader’s prejudgments becoming more transparent and verifiable. An alienating effect can be rather easily achieved with respect to Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu, since the text was originally penned in Chinese. Taking this fact into account, one cannot but question one’s own interpretation of the text –​regardless of one’s mastery of the Chinese language. The Chinese language of the 17th century is quite possibly just as strange to a 21st-​century Chinese historian of political thought. A translation mediates as much as it alienates. Comparing different translations in order to attempt to approximate the original language (however delusional such a project might be) is another wonderful tool for becoming aware of the hermeneutic distance between reader and text. Some examples may further bring this point home. First, one could conduct a closer inspection of the key words and passages in one’s own interpretation. The

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contrast mentioned in the very first sentence between one’s own interest and the common benefit is worth mentioning. In the Chinese original, the former is expressed as zi li (自利), which is equated with the negatively connoted zi si ( 自私) in Huang, while the latter is expressed as gong li (公利). Just how strongly do these Chinese notions resonate with egoism and the common good? Egoism understood as narrow individual interest would certainly be a misconstrual, as the text indicates that the interest of a single person obviously can include the wellbeing of one’s family and offspring (the text is clear on this matter). But, what common good does the text allude to? The Chinese text uses the notion of tian xia (天下), which appears no less than 24 times in this short text (around 900 Chinese characters). In the English translation, de Bary sometimes seems to translate it as synonymous with commonality as he equates it with the ‘common’ in ‘common benefit.’ Then again, he explicitly translates it as ‘all-​under-​Heaven.’ In one passage of the German version, the term is translated as uses ‘Reich,’ meaning empire. How ‘commonality,’ ‘all-​under-​Heaven’ and ‘empire’ hang together is important if we want to understand exactly whose benefit the text references. But the vocabulary used to describe the decisive actant for the above interpretation is telling. Instead of ‘petty Confucians,’ de Bary (1993, 92) refers to ‘petty scholars.’ The original Chinese reveals a much more morally weighty connotation.The notion of xiao ru (小儒) invokes a frequently deployed contrast in classical Confucianism between the morally ordinary human being, xiao ren (小人), and the morally excellent human being, da ren (大人).This contrast is manifest in the text when a king who was venerated by the Confucians in ancient times and also by Mencius are described as ‘sages,’ or sheng ren (聖人).The notions da ren as much as sheng ren stand for morally consummate persons, as the virtuous ruler ideally would be. The critique of political advisors might sound unduly expertocratic. Surely non-​petty Confucians would need to have expertise; but this expertise would necessarily have to be embedded in a morally, perhaps religiously and also politically, cultivated way of life.

6.4  Limits and Possibilities of a Hermeneutic Approach Hermeneutics foremost concerns methodological consciousness and a correspond­ ing interaction with texts. Still, hermeneutics offers, with some reservations, an approach and even a methodological procedure. In both variants, the Gadamerian as much as the Ricoeurian, the approach has its limitations. By its emphasis on an appropriating reading, the hermeneutic approach runs the risk of falling into subjectivism. Both Gadamer and Ricoeur tried to offset this risk. Ricoeur featured the appropriating aspect at the very end of the interpretive process and eventually suggested understanding interpretation as an ‘objective operation’ of the text (instead of the interpreter). But because different readers will undoubtedly produce different interpretations, this approach confronts a real limitation. It also means that a reader using a hermeneutic approach is largely immunized against criticism.

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At the same time, this weakness also denotes a strength. This approach emphasizes, considers and openly attests to the hermeneutic distance between the person of the reader and the strangeness of the text. For this reason the hermeneutic approach is indeed extremely transparent. Other approaches may also include the reader’s critical self-​reflection, but these elements are often pushed as far into the background as possible in the written or oral presentation of one’s interpretation. Only hermeneutics elevates self-​examination to the core of its program. The different versions of hermeneutic approaches showcase additional limitations and possibilities of their own. Keep in mind that hermeneuticians have subjected other hermeneuticians’ approaches to substantial criticism. As mentioned above, Ricoeur criticized Gadamer’s conception of a dialogue between the interpreter and the author, while Habermas carried out his own ideology critique of Gadamer. An additional critique of Gadamer might be traced to a famous debate he had with Derrida, although it is unclear whether a debate actually took place (Bernstein 2008; Michelfelder and Palmer 1989). Concerning Ricoeur, this chapter has shown that a structural explanation can be quite powerful. Our hermeneutic reading has exposed the first chapter of Huang’s book as a critique of political advisors against the dominant interpretation of reading the book as a critique of rulers.This unconventional interpretation would not have been easy to achieve without focusing on the actants of the petty Confucians, who functioned as a link between the different basic segments of action and times.The normative function of the hypothetical time in light of the mythical time – that is, the foundation of a trans-​and extratemporal conception of the human being and the concomitant differences of the social contract theory – might have remained hidden in the dark without strictly differentiating the three times. This has also changed our own understanding, given that we had previously seen Huang’s Mingyi daifang lu as an interesting possible example of a Chinese version of social contract theory. From this point of view, Huang has shown himself to be more Chinese and more alien than we would have thought. That our hermeneutic reading has suggested that Huang provides an interesting example of a critique of political advisors leads us not only to ask about the significance of political advisors in Western political theory, but also compels us to form another prejudgment to be tested by a new reading of the text. Since a prejudgment is no less of a judgment, the question of whether Huang is a specifically Chinese or simply, and without the need for any further qualification, a political thinker turns out to be an illustration and an element of the hermeneutic work between methodical alienation and systematic or personal appropriation.

Notes 1 Gadamer, 2004, p. 270: ‘Every text presents the task of not simply leaving our own linguistic usage unexamined –​or in the case of a foreign language the usage that we are familiar with from writers or from daily intercourse. Rather, we regard our task as deriving our understanding of the text from the linguistic usage of the time or of

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the author. The question is, of course, how this general requirement can be fulfilled. Especially in the field of semantics we are confronted with the problem that our own use of language is unconscious. How do we discover that there is a difference between our own customary usage and that of the text?’ 2 Note that Ricoeur here distinguishes between ‘sense’ and ‘meaning’ (‘Initially the text had only a sense, that is, internal relations or a structure; now it has a meaning, that is, a realization in the discourse of the reading subject’). 3 Historical research has established Huang’s extensive reliance on previous ideas from within the Confucian tradition. See Struve (1988). 4 The comparison with Rousseau goes back to Liang Qichao and Hou Wailu. Japanese scholar Shimada Kenji coined the expression ‘Chinese Rousseau’ for the title of an essay. See Shimada (1960). 5 This expression originates from Japanese scholar Yamanoi Yū. See: de Bary (1993, 80–​81). 6 This analysis follows the division of the Chinese text into paragraphs as they are printed in the Collected Works of Huang Zongxi (Huang Zongxi quanji, Zhejiang Guyi Chubanshe, 1985). 7 See e.g. Ommerborn (1999, 297–​298): ‘mythological rulers ... who transferred the state of nature of human society marked by egoism into an orderly state with a monarchical character’ (our transl.).

References Bauer, Wolfgang. 2001. Geschichte der chinesischen Philosophie: Konfuzianismus, Daoismus, Buddhismus. Munich: C.H. Beck. Bernstein, Richard J. 2008. ‘The Conversation That Never Happened (Gadamer/​Derrida).’ The Review of Metaphysics 61/​3: 577–​603. Bredekamp, Horst. 2020. Leviathan: Body Politic as Visual Strategy in the Work of Thomas Hobbes. Translated by Elizabeth Clegg. Berlin: de Gruyter. Chang, Carsun [Zhang Junmai]. 1962. The Development of Neo-​Confucian Thought. Vol. 2. New York: Bookman Associates. De Bary, Wm. Theodore. 1993. Waiting for the Dawn: A Plan for the Prince: Huang Tsung-​hsi’s Ming-​i tai-​fang lu. New York: Columbia University Press. Fröhlich,Thomas. 2006.‘Vom Zugang zu Machthabern: Macht und Autorität im politischen Denken Chinas.’ In Han-​Zeit. Festschrift für Hans Stumpfeldt aus Anlass seines 65. Geburtstages, edited by Michael Friedrich, 41–​56. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Gadamer, Hans-​Georg. 2004. Truth and Method. Revised translation by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. London; New York: Continuum. Grondin, Jean. 1994. Introduction to Philosophical Hermeneutics.Translated by Joel Weinsheimer. New Haven and London:Yale University Press. Joisten, Karen. 2009. Philosophische Hermeneutik. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Lin, Mousheng. 1942. Men and Ideas: An Informal History of Chinese Political Thought. New York: The John Day Company. Michelfelder, Diane. P. and Richard E. Palmer (eds.). 1989. Dialogue and Deconstruction: The Gadamer-​Derrida Debate. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Ommerborn, Wolfgang. 1999. ‘Die politischen Ideen des Huang Zongxi (1610–​1695) und ihr philosophischer und gesellschaftlicher Hintergrund.’ Zeitschrift der Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 149/​2: 289–​336. Ricoeur, Paul. 1981. Hermeneutics & the Human Sciences: Essays on Language, Action and Interpretation.Translated by John B.Thompson. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Shimada, Kenji. 1960. ‘Chūgoku no Rusō.’ Shisō 435: 66–​85. Struve, Lynn A. 1988. ‘Huang Zongxi in Context: A Reappraisal of His Major Writings.’ The Journal of Asian Studies 47/​3: 474–​502. Übelhör, Monika et al. 1977. ‘Eine Gegenposition zum neukonfuzianischen Herrschaftsverständnis. Kommentierte Übersetzung der vier ersten Kapitel des Mingyi-​ daifang-​lu von Huang Zongxi (1610–​1695).’ Oriens Extremus 24: 105–​123.

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7 READING THE READERS How the Meaning of Machiavelli’s The Prince Changed before Its Publication

Reception analysis has an ambiguous status in academia. Most scholars consider it to be a formal and important part of research. In political theory, as in all forms of academic research, assembling the state of the art is a standard procedure. Before developing a theory, testing a hypothesis, or reconstructing the meaning of some text, we are expected to examine, group and systematize what others have said about the subject before. To be able to carry out a reception analysis is thus considered a basic skill of professional work in academia. The ambivalence of its status is due to the preparatory nature of reception analysis thus understood. The purpose of assembling the state of the art is to acknowledge previous achievements and spot lacunae. It is not meant to contribute anything to scholarly knowledge. by itself. But how could it? How could the process of examining, grouping and systematizing other people’s readings generate originality? Are we even qualified to speak about some text in a scholarly manner unless we have thoroughly read, analyzed or interpreted it for ourselves? Is it not true, moreover, that the ‘secondary literature’ is derivative, and hence an inessential mirror-​image of the primary text? Can it ever be preferable to focus on the former rather than the latter? In this chapter, we suggest that, yes, it can indeed be preferable to focus on secondary literature on occasion, and not just in literature departments where reader responses may be considered relevant for evaluating the aesthetic quality of texts.1 Reception analysis has a raison d’être in political theory beyond that of preparatory tasks. For this purpose, we turn our attention to theoretical considerations that motivate stronger versions of reception analysis, proceeding then to discuss some of its intricacies in interpretive practice. The main body of this chapter, however, is dedicated to an application of the reception model to Machiavelli’s The Prince. As in all of the previous chapters, we conclude by briefly discussing the limits and possibilities of this model of interpretation. DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-8

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7.1  The Reception Model of Interpretation Reception analysis translates a text into meaning by assessing how it was understood by its readership. Sometimes, this is the best that we can hope for. Many supposedly great works have been destroyed. Many other works have been lost and we do not even know that they existed. The history of political theory hosts many known and unknown unknowns. The only way to explore at least some of them is indirectly, via the traces of reception that have survived. Reception analysis is therefore an expedient tool in situations where primary texts are simply unavailable. Yet, reception analysis might claim a legitimate place in political theory on other occasions too.To see how, we must return to the basic ways of understanding the nature of texts. As we saw in the last chapter, the hermeneutical approach understands a text to be something that must be read by someone, namely the interpreting scholar. Similarly, the reception model of interpretation understands that a text must be read by someone, yet conceives of this someone as the totality of readers. The actual readership is thus attributed a co-​determining role alongside the author in the process of giving meaning to the text (Eco 1991; van Ingen 1974). One must admit, of course, that authors pre-​structure the texts they are authoring, and thus set limits upon possible meanings. Yet, they never manage to entirely close off what is conceivable, as texts inevitably remain ambiguous and polysemous. In turn, texts are not ready-made for passive consumption; they require explication. Readers must actively prosume them by entering into a productive dialogue with the authors. Novelist Italo Calvino (1998, 185) nicely expressed this understanding of a text in If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler: ‘I expect readers to read in my books something I didn’t know.’ Recall that we made a similar point in our chapter on the Cambridge model (see Chapter 4). There, we argued that the illocutionary potential of most speech acts is multiple. Absent certain knowledge about authorial (illocutionary) intentions, we saw that a text may be capable of performing several actions. This similarity, however, cannot hide the theoretical difference between the two approaches. By contrast to the Cambridge model, reception analysis is concerned not with potentialities, but actualities; not addressees, but readers. And arguably, there is a point to be made in favor of the latter. Why do we still read Hobbes’s Leviathan and Machiavelli’s The Prince if we deny, as Skinner sometimes does (see Chapter 4), that they contain answers to timeless questions or, at least, to questions that matter for us today? Obviously we read them because they have had a real-​historical impact.They were read by many people, and influenced their thoughts and deeds.The real-​world effects of these texts continue to unfold today, and this alone warrants our continued occupation with them in politics departments (Boucher 1985; Shapiro 1982). In line with this positivist consideration, we mention a final argument that speaks in favor of the reception model. If the other type of reader-​centered interpretation we discuss in this volume, the hermeneutical approach, (deliberately) produces subjective interpretations, reception analysis can claim a

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certain objectivity of results. As philosophical hermeneutics has taught us, any direct reading will, of course, reflect the concrete reader’s personal horizon of understanding. Yet reception analysis can be employed to interpret texts indirectly. It precisely uses others’ reading experiences as a medium for conducting analysis. We will later (Section 7.1.4) discuss how and where the scholar’s subjectivity nevertheless colors the result of the reception analysis. Yet, primarily, it is the subjective apprehension of the analyzed readers that finds its way into the interpretation (Gumbrecht 1975, 390). Furthermore, by acquiring an overview of reception patterns, traditions or dispositifs, motivating interests, ideologies and identities become easily recognizable. Although scholars cannot hope to stumble upon objectivity at the intersection of various readings, it is nevertheless still often interesting to see that readers from divergent camps concur in several important respects. The reception model of interpretation can thus come in bolder or more moderate forms. It can aim primarily at detecting reception patterns, traditions and dispositifs, or it can conversely focus on the kaleidoscopic variety of attributed meaning or the effective meaning of a text. The basic methodological procedure is always the same (see Figure 7.1). In the first step, one must determine certain formal criteria for selecting reception sources. Occasionally, all extant sources can be included. More often, however, one must make a selection by justifiably limiting the range of sources to be analyzed to a certain time period or region. Content-​related selection criteria, which narrow down the sources to those that focus on some thematic aspect such as political or economic issues are rather problematic, because they curtail the autonomy of the readings. The most common, silently employed selection criterion is equally problematic from a theoretical point of view, though condonable from a practical angle. Scholars almost always focus on those receptions that have been put down in writing. In exceptional cases, they will also include receptions that have been passed on orally. But reader’s deliberate decision not to write or talk about the text in question is a relevant act of reception too. The case of Machiavelli’s The Prince, to which we will turn in detail in the next section, illustrates this point. Many of Machiavelli’s contemporaries simply did not comment on The Prince even though we have good reasons to believe that they had read (or heard of) it, and even though these people seemingly commented on every other political writing they got their hands on (Anglo 2005, 2, 10). Did they simply have no thoughts about Machiavelli’s book? Did they refuse to write or talk about it out of indignation? Or could it possibly be that they considered The Prince to be a literary work rather than a contribution to the art of government? The task of the second step of the reception model is to examine individual documents. On this basis, the scholar can proceed onto grouping and systematizing reception sources. What are the divergent readings of the primary text? In what regards did readers concur? Are there any temporal or geographical trends in the reception? And most importantly: what does the reception tell us about the meaning of the primary text?

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Reception analysis interprets a text indirectly by examining the meaning readers attributed to it.

Text

What are the extant reception sources? Is there a reason to assume the existence of silent reception? From which time period, which geographical area, or which social strata shall reception sources be examined?

Step 1 Determine formal criteria of source selection

Step 2

What do the selected reception sources say about the primary text? Do selected reception sources provide interpretations of the entire primary text, of certain chapters or of certain aspects only?

Examine the selected reception sources

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What are the divergent readings of the primary text? In what regards did readers concur? Are there any temporal or geographical trends in the reception? What does the reception tell us about the meaning of the primary text?

Step 3 Group and systematize the sifted reception sources

Meaning

FIGURE 7.1 

The reception model of interpretation.

7.2  Early Readings of Machiavelli’s The Prince In the following, we will apply the reception model to Machiavelli’s The Prince.2 We should say in advance that this text has confronted its audience with practical problems for a long time. From 1559 until 1890, The Prince was listed on the Vatican’s Index Librorum Prohibitorum. The distribution, acquisition and the reading of the book was thus legally forbidden in many parts of Europe. Unless they acquired an exception permit, readers risked receiving a penalty, but even then they occasionally experienced difficulties with even getting a copy of the text in the first place. At the same time, the Vatican’s prohibition itself counts as authoritative reception, which is likely to have affected subsequent readers’ interpretations.

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Due to this ban, they could reasonably expect the book to contain a critique of Christianity or the Church; one which was sufficiently subversive to be considered a threat to the power of the Roman Curia (Soll 2010, 11). Readers from the late 19th century onwards did not face this practical problem, but they were nevertheless left with another one, namely that the original manuscript of The Prince is no longer extant.The editions they (and we) use rely on transcripts and print editions which were produced by people other than Machiavelli.There is reason to believe that all of those transcripts and print editions contain corrections of the original manuscript that are not entirely limited to amendments of style (Anglo 2005, 22). The following analysis cannot hope to cover the thousands upon thousands of extant reception sources of The Prince. Tellingly, Anglo’s reception analysis, which runs almost 800 pages without claiming to be comprehensive, limits itself to comments put down within the first 100 years after the appearance of The Prince.3 Because we have less space, we have narrowed down the body of reception sources even further. We include only those reception sources that originated before Machiavelli’s infamous book was printed and published.4 Examining what the readership thought of a book prior to its publication may sound like an odd idea, but we maintain that it is not, and particularly not in the case of The Prince.The book was printed and published for the first time in 1532, five years after Machiavelli’s demise, yet Machiavelli started writing it in 1513. In the ensuing years, he talked about the work in letters and disseminated various drafts among friends, who did not always exercise confidentiality.They shared their impressions with others and, occasionally, made imperfect (?) transcripts which they disseminated in turn. It did not take long for The Prince to be known all over Florence and beyond. About two dozen reception sources are extant, as one can see from Table 7.1. Lost reception sources and silent receptions constitute the blind spots of the following analysis.

7.2.1  Machiavelli, Author and First Reader of The Prince On 10 December 1513, Machiavelli (1961a [1513]) wrote a letter to Francesco Vettori. He deplored the gloomy everyday life in his country house near San Casciano, some miles south-​west of Florence, where he had been exiled earlier that year. His exile was an act of grace, an amnesty in celebration of Giovanni de’ Medici’s election as the new pope. For immediately after the Medici had managed to seize back power in Florence, Machiavelli had been accused of conspiracy, tortured and sent to prison. But Machiavelli felt that exile was even worse. In his view, living in liberty while being excluded from political and urban life meant carving out a miserable existence. In the letter, Machiavelli reports that day after day he dawdled away in the local tavern, played and wrangled with ordinary people, or visited the lumberjacks in the forest because they too had suffered ill twists of fate. After indulging in self-​pity, however, Machiavelli says that he was not spending his time entirely idly. In the evening hours, at least, he used to author a writing on princedoms (‘De Principatibus’): The Prince was born.

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10 Dec 1513

Niccolò Machiavelli: Letter to Francesco Vettori

1513 24 Dec 1513, 18 Jan 1514, 16 May 1514, May 1514* 1515–​1516*

Niccolò Machiavelli: The Thrushes Francesco Vettori: Letters to Machiavelli

1515–​1518* 1516 25 Nov 1516, 27 Dec 1516 1516–​1517* 1516–​1520* 29 Jul 517 1518–​1519* 1521–​1524 1523 1524–​1527* 1526 1526 1527 1530* 4 Jan 1532 8 May 1532

Niccolò Machiavelli: Dedicatory Letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici Reginald Pole (1539), Giovanni Matteo Toscano (1578), Riccardo Riccardi (1592): Anecdote Francesco Guicciardini: Discorso del modo di assicurare lo stato ai Medici Lodovico Alamanni: Two letters to Albert III. Pio, Prince of Carpi Niccolò Machiavelli: Dedicatory Letter to Zanobi Buondelmonti and Cosimo Ruccelai (Discourses on Livy) Biagio Buonaccorsi: Prefatory letter to Pandolfo Bellacci Niccolò Guicciardini: Letter to Luigi Guicciardini Niccolò Guicciardini: Essay Francesco Guicciardini: Dialogo e Discorsi del reggimento di Firenze (1527) sowie Ricordi politici (1530) Agostino Nifo: De regnandi peritia. Luigi Alamanni: Satira Antonio Brucioli: Dialogi Matteo Bandello: Novelle (1554) Giovanni Battista Busini (23.1.1549), Benedetto Varchi (1565): Anecdote about Machiavelli’s death Teofilo Mochi: Preface to The Prince Antonio Blado: Dedicatory letter to Filippo Strozzi in the Roman first print edition of The Prince Bernardo Giunta: Dedicatory letter to Giovanni Gaddi in the Florentine first print edition of The Prince *Dating unresolved.

Machiavelli (1961a [1513], 142) notes that in this writing, he discusses ‘what a princedom is, of what kind they are, how they are gained, how they are kept, why they are lost.’ He claims to have gone ‘as deeply as I can into considerations on this subject.’ Vettori, Machiavelli says, shall ask their mutual friend Filippo Casavecchia for a summary.5 He has faith that The Prince will help him get back into Florence, to retake office and clear his name. Every ruler will ‘be glad to get the services of one who at the expense of others has become full of experience.’ Hence, he decides to dedicate the work to Giuliano de’ Medici, the prince in power, in order to propitiate and impress him. But should he present it to him personally? That, he insisted, would be too dangerous. Sending somebody else might

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be dangerous as well. Giuliano might not take due notice of the work, or worse, the messenger might claim authorship.

BY THE WAY…: THE AUTHOR, THE FIRST READER? The primary text as well as the author fade from the spotlight when undertaking a reception analysis. Is it impermissible, then, to consider what Machiavelli himself said about The Prince? To justify this step, the author must be conceptually detached from the person acting as an author. Insofar as the person behind the author comments on the work (instead of working on it, especially after its completion), he or she slips into the role of a reader. While it is true that (the person behind) the author is most often the first reader, chronologically speaking, it is another question as to whether his or her readings should be given a privileged status in a reception analysis. After all (the persons behind) authors might try to reframe their works in light of new circumstances. Or, they might simply have gaps in their memory. Recall that Montaigne was forgetful up to the point of partial amnesia. In the Essais (Montaigne 1957 [1580], 495), he reports of regularly not realizing that the books others were quoting from, and that he was criticizing in turn in a discussion were in fact his own.

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Before the end of the year 1513, Machiavelli (2005 [1513]) wrote a sonnet, The Thrushes, which attests to his intention to apply for a job in Giuliano de Medici’s administration. The poem, in which Machiavelli announces a gift of thrushes, effectively dedicates The Prince to Giuliano de’ Medici (Fubini 1998; Jaeckl 1998). Seemingly modest at first sight, Machiavelli eventually claims that the real worth of the gift will be revealed upon closer inspection: […] But you will say: ‘How can these birds achieve All this, being neither good nor fat at all? Of touching them my men would not conceive.’ Then let me tell you this: As they recall, I am too thin, yet of my flesh they leave No inch untried by their teeth’s hungry fall. Oh, answer not the call Of empty words, my Lord; and judge and see, Not with your eyes but with your hands, my plea. It is unknown whether Machiavelli handed over either a version of The Prince or The Thrushes to Giuliano. We do know, however, that Vettori discouraged

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Machiavelli from doing so. He first (letter from 24 December 1513) showed interest in The Prince, then (letter from 18 January 1514) later said that he needed to see the entire book. (Machiavelli had sent him only the first 11 chapters, while the published version consisted of 25.) In the end (letter from 16 May 1514), Vettori rejected Machiavelli’s central arguments and (lost letter from end of May 1514) recommended that he not present the work to Giuliano (Vettori 1996a [1513], 1996b [1514], 1996c [1514]).6 Machiavelli might well have ignored the advice. In one way or another, however, the Medici were informed about his hopes to retake office. In a letter from 14 February 1515, a papal secretary warned Giuliano of giving into Machiavelli’s wish (Connell 2005, 18). Ultimately, Giuliano heeded the secretary’s advice, regardless of whether Machiavelli actually sent The Prince, The Thrushes, or some other dedicatory letter, or whether he or his friends had spread the word. Nevertheless, Machiavelli did not relinquish his hopes entirely. Likely right after Giuliano’s death on 17 March 1516, he gave The Prince to his appointed successor, Lorenzo de’ Medici, and wrote a new dedicatory letter (Machiavelli 1985 [ca. 1516]). Instead of proving his eligibility for appointment by sending ‘horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones and similar ornaments,’ he sent a ‘small gift.’ Machiavelli assured Lorenzo that if he consumed it with care he would realize ‘how undeservedly I endure a great and continuous malignity of fortune.’ Though like-minded in spirit, the new dedicatory letter contains one significant shift in emphasis. In his conversation with Vettori, Machiavelli understood that The Prince is a treatise on princedoms. Now, three years later, he claimed to have written about ‘the actions of great men.’ It is very well possible that Machiavelli extended and revised his work, and also changed the title (‘De Principatibus’) to ‘Il Principe’ in between. Even so his strenuous efforts were not crowned with success. Later in the 16th century, a historian (Riccardi 2005 [1592]; cf. Atkinson 2010, 23) reports of the rumor that Machiavelli actually was received by Lorenzo in an (group) audience, but his presence went unheeded because Lorenzo’s attention was deflected by another solicitant, who gifted him with exquisite hunting dogs.There is little doubt that the rumor amplifies what really happened, given that it takes up the animal motif of Machiavelli’s own dedicatory letter. But the rumor could only become a likely story because Machiavelli, apparently in spite of sending and dedicating The Prince to Lorenzo, did not manage to convince him and be taken into his service.

7.2.2  Second Thoughts Other rumors report of Machiavelli’s reaction to the rejection. He allegedly claimed to have only faked interest in a job. Actually, handing over the book was meant to serve as an act of revenge for everything the Medici had done to him. They would read the book without noticing that it was Machiavelli’s version of the Trojan Horse. The rule of the Medici would be doomed to be short, if they followed the malicious and counterproductive advice contained in The Prince (Pole 2005 [1539]; Riccardi 2005 [1592]; Toscano [1578] cited by Burd 1891, 38 n. 1).

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It is true that Machiavelli’s 1513 letter toVettori already included an ambiguous characterization of the work. He called The Prince a maggot (‘ghiribizzo’), which might especially arouse the interest of an unexperienced leader (Machiavelli 1961a [1513], 142). But the anecdote expresses a much harsher verdict as well. Two later documents by Machiavelli – which can be considered implicit reception sources – lend further credence to the thesis that he reinterpreted The Prince over time. The first of these documents is Machiavelli’s (1996 [1516–​17], 1) dedicatory letter for his other major work on politics, the Discourses on Livy. Whether the ideas articulated in the two works complement rather than conflict with each other is not a question we need to address here. What is certain, however, is that the two dedicatory letters are inconsistent. Machiavelli’s dedicatory letter of The Prince to Lorenzo resembles a humble, slightly self-​pitying letter of application. (The same is true for The Thrushes addressed to Giuliano.) The dedicatory letter of the Discourses is addressed to intellectual friends (Zanobi Buondelmonti and Cosimo Ruccelai), and deplores the dedication of works to rulers as sycophancy: I have gone outside the common usage of those who write, who are accustomed always to address their works to some prince and, blinded by ambition and avarice, praise him for all virtuous qualities when they should blame him for every part worthy of reproach. Hence, so as not to incur this error, I have chosen not those who are princes but those who for their infinite good parts deserve to be; not those who could load me with ranks, honors, and riches but those who, though unable, would wish to do so. What a change of heart! Or, perhaps, blatant opportunism? The Prince, to recall, had not yet been published when Machiavelli wrote the dedicatory letter for the Discourses. Furthermore, it seems that the intended audience of The Prince was limited to the Medici. Drafts likely became widely disseminated only from 1519 onwards (Martelli 1999, 270–​273). Moreover, they probably did not include the dedicatory letter to Lorenzo, and certainly not The Thrushes. Is it possible that Machiavelli simply hoped the complete about-​face would go unnoticed? However, we know that Machiavelli did not make any secret of his plans to retake office by dedicating a book to the prince(s) in power. He told at least two of his friends, Filippo Casavecchia und Francesco Vettori, of his intentions and his enemies (such as the papal secretary) knew this anyway. It is therefore more likely that Machiavelli abandoned his original career path, that he expressed this change of plan in his typical sarcastic way,7 and hoped that his friends would condone The Prince as a peccadillo of youth. The important takeaway is that to Machiavelli The Prince appeared ever more as a merely instrumental work that had outlived its purpose. It would not be excessive

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to believe that Machiavelli (1961c [1521], 200) also had The Prince in mind, when he wrote the following lines to Francesco Guicciardini in 17 May 1521: for a long time I have not said what I believed, nor do I ever believe what I say, and if indeed sometimes I do happen to tell the truth, I hide it among so many lies that it is hard to find.

7.2.3  Public (Dis-​)Approval While the dedicatees, Giuliano and Lorenzo, probably did not take notice of The Prince, and while Machiavelli and his friends eventually stopped talking about it, the public reception started to set in. By the mid-​1520s, The Prince had been read, or at least been heard of, in Florence, Rome, Siena, probably Venice, and Spain (Bleznick 1958; cf. Richardson 1995, 19). Some reception sources expressed approval. One of them, Biagio Buonaccorsi (2005 [ca. 1516–​1520]), even added a prefatory letter to the text. In it, he acknowledges the relevance of Machiavelli’s practical advice, and calls for defending the book against critics and enviers. Another one, Lodovico Alamanni (1995a [1516], 1995b [1516]), cites arguments and examples of The Prince in an expert report for Albert III. Pio, Prince of Carpi (cf. Inglese 1994, 16). Most readers, however, remained either unconvinced or morally indignant to the work. On 29 July 1517, Niccolò Guicciardini (2005 [1517]) reported to his father Luigi about the desire among leading citizens of Arezzo to secede from Florentine rule. To hold onto control, he maintains, it would not even help doing ‘what Machiavelli in his On Principalities says that Iurotto [Liverotto] of Fermo did when he wanted to become lord of Fermo’ –​namely, to invite the leading citizens to a banquet and having them all killed. Instead, the young Guicciardini added mockingly, it would be necessary to kill the entire citizenry. For his part, the historian Francesco Guicciardini discussed The Prince more than one time, and always disapprovingly. In the Discorso del modo di assicurare lo stato alla casa de’ Medici (1516), he rejects The Prince for making the overall case to give Lorenzo de’ Medici unconstrained power. Between 1521 and 1524, Francesco worked on the Dialogo e discorsi del reggimento di Firenze (published 1527) and what would later become his Ricordi politici (published 1530). Here, he condemns individual points of The Prince in detail (cf. Bizzocchi 1978; Procacci 1995). In his Novelle (1554), Matteo Bandello reports of a meeting with Machiavelli in 1526, where he came to the conclusion that The Prince contained advice that was not particularly useful. Antonio Brucioli argued that on the long run only pious princes could be successful (cf. Richardson 1995, 34–​35). Finally, Luigi Alamanni’s Satira (1524–​1527) calls The Prince the ‘golden book of morality,’ which demands suppressors to keep their word –​as long as it is to their advantage (cf. Dionisotti 1980, 152–​153). The Prince increasingly brought discredit upon Machiavelli. According to an anecdote (reported by Busini 2005 [1549];Varchi 2005 [1565]), righteous people considered him so wicked, while the wicked saw him as such a paper tiger, that Machiavelli died in exasperation.

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7.2.4  Four Print Editions of The Prince The first reception source that we analyzed was one by the author himself; the last ones were by those who published, or tried to publish The Prince. Two print editions were actually published posthumously in 1532. Another posthumous edition was prepared two years earlier but would eventually go unrealized.We will not examine whether the text of The Prince differs in these editions, and what the differences might tell us about the editors’ interpretations of the text. Instead, we will merely examine how they characterized Machiavelli’s work in their respective prefaces. Before that, however, we have to examine a rather unlikely fourth print edition, which was published during Machiavelli’s lifetime. In March 1523, a treatise titled De regnandi peritia (On skill in ruling) was printed in Naples. It was the first publication of The Prince but its official author was the famous professor of philosophy Agostino Nifo, not Machiavelli. The first four chapters of De regnandi peritia contain The Prince, partly restructured and translated into Latin.8 The fifth chapter, authentically written by Nifo, deals with ‘the honest way of governing.’There is not a single mention of Machiavelli in the entire work. Instead, Nifo (2005 [1523]) calls De regnandi peritia the most important book he had ever written. In the secondary literature (e.g. Buck 1985, 130–​131; Burd 1891, 43–​44; Höffe 2012), De regnandi peritia is therefore known as a cheap act of plagiarism aimed at discrediting Machiavellism due to its moralizing supplement. But it is really quite a bit more than this. Upon closer inspection it turns out to actually be a very subtle and ambiguous composition, and because of this, a formidable reception source. The fifth chapter follows the tradition of mirrors for princes without adding anything that has not already been said many times before. The prince shall lead by example, not lie, play foul or be cruel. Because the fifth chapter is the final chapter, it seems to contain Nifo’s overall recommendation to princes.This impression is further confirmed by the dedicatory letter, in which Nifo tells his dedicatee, Charles V., to read the book like a medical textbook as it similarly deals with poisons and antidotes. Charles, Nifo says, shall be brought into a position to choose the right means and avoid the others. It seems, then, that Machiavelli’s teaching in The Prince constitutes part of the former, while Nifo’s added chapter amounts to the remedy. However, when specifying the content of the book, Nifo breaks up the dualism of poisons and antidotes. He then differentiates a royal from a tyrannical kind of wrongdoing (‘facinora’). Only after exploring the two types of wrongdoing, does he describe the honest way of governing in the conclusion. And whenever a prince is confronted with tyrannical wrongdoing, Nifo affirms, only the poison of royal wrongdoing can serve justice (cf. Anglo 2005, 48, 78–​79).Thus, De regnandi peritia appears to be a very sympathetic interpretation of The Prince, as a theory of dirty-​hands in politics. Interestingly, Machiavelli reacted neither publicly nor privately to Nifo’s plagiarism –​even though they knew each other personally, and even though we know that intellectual theft was among Machiavelli’s prime concerns based on

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his 1513 correspondence with Vettori. Nevertheless, Machiavelli did not claim authorship and, more astonishingly, did not lament the apparent scandal in any of his numerous letters. His silence raises many questions indeed (Bertelli 1999, 792–​793). Whatever Machiavelli thought and knew about De regnandi peritia, Bernardo Giunta – the editor of the Florentine posthumous edition of The Prince who attributed authorship to Machiavelli – was outraged. In his dedicatory letter to Giovanni Gaddi from 8 May 1532, Giunta (2005 [1532]) complained that someone (obviously Nifo) had already published a Latin translation of The Prince in his own name. However, instead of criticizing the modifications of The Prince as distortions or ridiculing the added chapter, Giunta replicated Nifo’s framing of the work by using the same metaphor: critics of The Prince would fail to see that students of medicine need to know about anti-poisons as well. Like any technique or science, so Machiavelli’s teaching about the art of governing could be used for good or bad purposes. About two years earlier, Teofilo Mochi prepared an edition of The Prince in Siena. It never got published, but Mochi did nevertheless complete an interesting preface. The addressee of the preface is not some individual, i.e. a political leader or an intellectual, but the people. They, Mochi (2005 [ca. 1530]; see also Busini 2005 [1549]) stresses, could not hope to find a more important work because The Prince, constitutes an extensive collection of actually used techniques of governance. Citizens should learn about them without exception because it is by their use that princes keep the people in line. Finally, the Roman posthumous edition by Antonio Blado was edited again in 1532. Blado’s dedicatory letter contrastingly describes The Prince as an extremely important, yet eminently philosophical inquiry into the ‘ideal prince.’ Due to its taxing nature, only erudite and experienced readers could benefit from the book. As Blado claims, the uneducated masses and the young would be doomed to get it wrong.

7.2.5  Changes of Meaning and Function The Prince was already read in various ways before it was even published. This might not come as a surprise.Yet, it is certainly noteworthy that Machiavelli himself, as the first reader of the text, provided different readings of his own work. In the beginning, he linked The Prince to his hope of demonstrating his aptitude for a diplomatic office. Then, he likened it to the Trojan Horse, thereby framing it as a counterproductive handbook for princes. Already with these results, our reception analysis shows just how problematic is the dogmatist idea that one and only one reading of The Prince would suffice.9 Frequently reinterpreted and revised by Machiavelli between the years of 1513 through 1518, The Prince lacks a stable authorial intention. Equally noteworthy is the fact that subsequent readers rejected Machiavelli’s interpretation. Buonaccorsi, Nifo and Giunta firmly placed The Prince in the genre

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10.12.1513 First mention of The Prince

Letter of Application to the Medici (Machiavelli 1513, Vettori 1513014)

1514–1518 Completion of The Prince

Handbook for Princes (F. Guicciardini 1516, N. Guicciardini 1517, Buonaccorsi 1516–20, Nifo 1523, Alamanni 1524–27, Brucioli 1526, Bandello 1526)

Counter-productive Handbook for Princes to wreake vengeance on the Medici and shorten their rule (Machiavelli 1515–18 according to Pole 1539, Toscano 1578 and Riccardi 1592)

FIGURE 7.2 

1527 Death of Machiavelli

1532 First publications

Emancipatory Pamphlet on princely techniques of oppression (Machiavelli 1527 according to Busini 1549 and Varchi 1565, Mochi 1530)

Philosophical Treatise about the ‘ideal’ prince (F. Guicciardini 1521–24, Blado 1532)

Political Science Study on government methods (Giunta 1532)

Reception history of Machiavelli’s The Prince, 1513–​1532.

of advice literature instead of reading it as a proof of diplomatic qualification. In addition to generalizing the purpose of The Prince, Blado also foregrounded its philosophical merits at the expense of its practical utility. In a similar manner, Mochi depersonalized Machiavelli’s Trojan-​Horse interpretation. The Prince became an empancipatory pamphlet informing the people about princely techniques of oppression (see Figure 7.2). The move to generalize and depersonalize the overall meaning of The Prince can be explained in two ways. First, generalization and depersonalization serve the purpose of making the work interesting for a broader audience. Second, Blado, Giunta, Mochi and Nifo were only motivated to publish The Prince because of its generalized and depersonalized meaning. Either way, our reception analysis suggests that The Prince became a work of systematic political interest because of its early readers. In this sense, it is fair to say that they did not only passively consume the text according to this or that interpretation. Rather, in addition to their individual interpretations, they collectively prosumed it in such a way as to actually change its meaning.

7.3  Limits and Possibilities of a Reception Analysis The Prince was already the subject of controversial interpretation before it was even published. Whoever complains about the stubborn existence of diverging readings of Machiavelli’s works might very well feel validated (e.g. Schroeder 2004, 121). But he or she would miss out on something important. The ambiguities of a text, which provoke diverging readings, need not be viewed as flaws. They enable readers to attribute different meanings to a text; they point towards the literally polyvalent nature of texts. In the case of The Prince, polyvalence is amplified by the

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fact that the material object of the text came in more than one version. The version that Machiavelli sent to Vettori in 1513 was comprised of 11 chapters, while the officially published versions in 1532 included 25.10 Yet other versions were circulated in between these years with certainty. And in addition to different material text objects, each and every reader –​especially those who knew The Prince from hearsay but also from Machiavelli himself –​worked on the basis of distinctive immaterial text objects. Having said this, the importance which the reception model of interpretation attributes to readers becomes particularly plausible. When we study Hobbes’s Leviathan or Plato’s Republic, we often assume that readers commented on basically the same material object that the author created. Occasionally, this might even be true. Yet reading is an activity, and never just a form of passive consumption. Reading requires one to absorb information, and simultaneously, to transform this information into meaning. Whenever we talk or write about a text, we talk or write about the ‘screen book’ (the literary equivalent to Freud’s screen memory) that we have formed in a co-​productive enterprise (Bayard 2007, 54). As a result, Hobbes’s Leviathan or Plato’s Republic is a meaningful object of research in political theory only as an immaterial (text) object. One of the strengths of the reception model of interpretation is to capitalize on this insight, and to unsheathe the multiple value of a text by examining it indirectly via its readers. Our guiding principle here is that four (and a fortiori: > 4) eyes see more than two. It enables us to realize that we are interested in immaterial text objects, not material ones, which are only a medium. Because of this, the reception analyst does not necessarily even have to flip the actual book The Prince open in order to interpret it. Reception analysis is also attractive for political theorists due to its focus on actual effects, and the quasi-​objectivity which it reaches by leaving the primary task of interpretation to the readership of the text rather than one’s own subjective reading experience. Of course, this quasi-​objectivity is imperfect, and not only because the actual readership of a text may still be biased. On the one hand, the scholar still has to interpret the results of the reception analysis. On the other hand, the scholar has to interpret the individual reception sources. Here, the approach finds a limit. It is not possible, even if it were desirable, to interpret the individual reception sources by using reception analysis. The scholar would be trapped in an almost infinite regress of reading not just the readers, but the readers of the readers and their readers yet again, ad infinitum. Consequently, one, must rely upon some other interpretive model in order to examine the reception sources. In this chapter, we made use of several models on the secondary level, without being concerned with consistency. In fact, at no point did we reflect upon the methodological task associated with the analysis of reception sources. But such methodological reflection and consistency on secondary levels of analysis would nevertheless be desirable, as we will argue in the Epilogue.

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Notes 1 The most popular interpretive models in literature departments which focus on reception are reader-​response analysis and reception aesthetics, both of which aim at examining the aesthetic qualities of texts. See e.g. Holub (1984) and Suleiman and Crosman (1980). Occasionally it seems that reception histories are primarily written in order to reject alleged misinterpretations in political theory. 2 The following reception analysis is based upon Beckstein (2013). 3 For further reception analyses of Machiavelli’s The Prince, see e.g. Barthas (2010), Evrigenis and Somos (2011) and Kahn (2010). 4 For studies covering this period of the reception of The Prince, see Anglo (2005, 17–​ 114), Burd (1891), Connell (2005, esp. 19–​22), and Richardson (1995). 5 No extant source sheds light on Casavecchia’s thoughts about De Principatibus. Cf. Burd (1891, 32). 6 Two of Vettori’s letters did not survive. That Vettori must have counseled against such a presentation can be reconstructed on the basis of Machiavelli’s (1961b [1514]) reply from 10 June 1514. Cf. Najemy (1993, 286–​287). 7 Cf. Varchi (2005 [1565], 162): ‘As he had lived, making fun of himself and others and without any religion, so he died, without any religion whatsoever, ridiculing others and himself.’ 8 De regnandi peritia contains every chapter of The Prince except for chapters XXIV–​ XXVI. More likely than Machiavelli only later writing these chapters is that Nifo eclipsed them because his dedicatee, Charles V, might have felt offended by the vision of an Italy, free of barbarian domination, as he presented it therein. 9 Think e.g. of J.G.A. Pocock’s (1975, 179) claim that ‘We know that Il Principe is not a handbook for the use of kings.’ 10 Machiavelli probably continued revising and adding chapters to The Prince until 1518. See Inglese (1994, 2, 5) and Martelli (1981; 1999, 261–​290; 2006, 22–​32).

References Alamanni, Lodovico. 1995a [1516].‘Letters to Albert III. Pio, Prince of Carpi (25 November 1516).’ Reprinted in Firenze dalla repubblica al principato: Storia e coscienza politica, edited by Rudolf von Albertini, 33–​36. Turin: Einaudi. Alamanni, Lodovico. 1995b [1516].‘Letters to Albert III. Pio, Prince of Carpi (27 December 1516).’ Reprinted in Firenze dalla repubblica al principato: Storia e coscienza politica, edited by Rudolf von Albertini, 376–​390. Turin: Einaudi. Anglo, Sydney. 2005. Machiavelli: The First Century: Studies in Enthusiasm, Hostility, and Irrelevance. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Atkinson, James B. 2010. ‘Niccolò Machiavelli: A Portrait.’ In The Cambridge Companion to Machiavelli, edited by John M. Najemy, 14–​30. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barthas, Jérémie. 2010. ‘Machiavelli in Political Thought from the Age of Revolutions to the Present.’ In The Cambridge Companion to Machiavelli, edited by John M. Najemy, 256–​273. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bayard, Pierre. 2007. How to Talk About Books You Haven’t Read. New York: Bloomsbury. Beckstein, Martin. 2013. ‘Machiavellis Der Fürst: Die Rezeption vor der Publikation (1513–​ 1532).’ Zeitschrift für Politische Theorie 4/​1: 66–​79.

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Bertelli, Sergio. 1999. ‘Machiavelli riproposto in tutte le sue opere.’ Archivio Storico Italiano 157: 789–​800. Bizzocchi, Roberto. 1978. ‘Guicciardini lettore del Machiavelli.’ Archivio Storico Italiano 136: 437–​455. Blado, Antonio. 2005 [1532]. ‘Sedicatory letter to Filippo Strozzi (4 January 1532).’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli:The Prince.With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 147–​150. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Bleznick, Donald W. 1958. ‘Spanish Reaction to Machiavelli in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries.’ Journal of the History of Ideas 19/​4: 542–​550. Boucher, David. 1985. Texts in Contexts: Revisionist Method for Studying the History of Ideas. Dordrecht: Nijhoff. Buck, August. 1985. Machiavelli. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Buonaccorsi, Biagio. 2005 [ca. 1516–​1520].‘Prefatory letter to Pandolfo Bellacci.’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 145–​146. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Burd, Laurence A. 1891. ‘Introduction to The Prince.’ In Il Principe by Niccolò Machiavelli, edited and translated by Laurence A. Burd, 1–​71. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Busini, Giovan Battista. 2005 [1549].‘Letter to Benedetto Varchi (23 January 1549).’ Excerpt reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 159–​160. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Calvino, Italo. 1998. If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler. London:Vintage. Connell, William J. 2005. ‘Introduction to The Prince.’ In Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 1–​34. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Dionisotti, Carlo. 1980. Machiavellerie: Storie e fortuna di Machiavelli. Turin: Einaudi. Eco, Umberto. 1991. The Limits of Interpretation. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Evrigenis, Ioannis D. and Mark Somos. 2011. ‘Wrestling with Machiavelli.’ History of European Ideas 37/​2: 85–​93. Fubini, Riccardo. 1998. ‘Postilla ai “Tordi.” ’ Archivio Storico Italiano 156: 93–​96. Giunta, Bernardo. 2005 [1532]. ‘Dedicatory letter to Giovanni Gaddi’ (8 May 1532). Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli:The Prince.With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 150–​152. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Guicciardini, Niccolò. 2005 [1517]. ‘Letter to Luigi Guiccardini (29 July 1517).’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 143–​145. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Gumbrecht, Hans Ulrich. 1975. ‘Konsequenzen der Rezeptionsästhetik oder Literaturwissenschaft als Kommunikationssoziologie.’ Poetica 7/​3–​4: 388–​413. Höffe, Otfried. 2012. ‘Zu Machiavellis Wirkung.’ In Niccolò Machiavelli: Der Fürst. Klassiker Auslegen, vol. 50, edited by Otfried Höffe, 179–​200. Berlin: Oldenbourg Akademieverlag. Holub, Robert C. 1984. Reception Theory: A Critical Introduction. London: Methuen. Inglese, Giorgio. 1994. ‘Introduzione.’ In Niccolò Machiavelli: De Principatibus, edited by Giorgio Inglese, 1–​178. Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medioevo. Jaeckl, Hugo. 1998. ‘I “Tordi” e il “Principe Nuovo”: Note sulle dediche del “Principe” di Machiavelli a Giuliano e a Lorenzo de’ Medici.’ Archivio Storico Italiano 156: 73–​92. Kahn, Victoria. 2010. ‘Machiavelli’s Afterlife and Reputation to the Eighteenth Century.’ In The Cambridge Companion to Machiavelli, edited by John M. Najemy, 239–​ 255. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press.

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Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1961a [1513]. ‘Letter to Francesco Vettori (10 December 1513).’ Reprinted in The Letters of Machiavelli: A Selection, edited by Allan Gilbert, Letter no. 137, 139–​144. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1961b [1514]. ‘Letter to Francesco Vettori (10 June 1514). Reprinted in The Letters of Machiavelli: A Selection, edited by Allan Gilbert, Letter no. 148, 162–​163. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1961c [1514]. ‘Letter to Francesco Guicciardini (17 May 1521).’ Reprinted in The Letters of Machiavelli: A Selection, edited by Allan Gilbert, Letter no. 179, 200. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1985 [ca. 1516]. ‘Dedicatory Letter to Lorenzo Medici.’ Reprinted in Machiavelli: The Prince, edited, translated and with an introduction by Harvey C. Mansfield, 3–​4. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1996 [1515–​16]. Discourses on Livy.Translated by Harvey C. Mansfield and Nathan Tarcov. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Machiavelli, Niccolò. 2005 [1513]. ‘The Thrushes.’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 141. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Martelli, Mario. 1981. ‘La logica provvidenzialistica e il capitolo XXVI del Principe.’ Interpres 4: 262–​384. Martelli, Mario. 1999. Saggio sul Principe. Rome: Salerno. Martelli, Mario. 2006. ‘Introduzione: Breve storia del “Principe.” ’ In Niccolò Machiavelli: Il Principe, edited by Mario Martelli, 9–​49. Rome: Salerno. Mochi, Teofilo. 2005 [ca. 1530]. ‘Preface to The Prince.’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli:The Prince.With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 147. New York: Bedford&St. Martin’s. Montaigne, Michel de. 1957. The Complete Essays of Montaigne.Translated by Donald Frame. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Najemy, John. 1993. Between Friends: Discourses of Power and Desire in the Machiavelli-​Vettori Letters of 1513–​1515. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Nifo, Agostino. 2005 [1523]. On Skill in Ruling. Excerpt reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli:The Prince.With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 153–​158. NewYork: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Pocock, John Greville Agard. 1975. The Machiavellian Moment: Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Pole, Reginald. 2005 [1539]. Apology to Charles V. Excerpt reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 164–​165. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Procacci, Giuliano. 1995. Machiavelli nella cultura europea dell’etàmoderna. Bari: Laterza. Riccardi, Riccardo. 2005 [1592]. ‘Machiavelli’s Presentation of The Prince to Lorenzo de’ Medici (ca. 1515).’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 142. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Richardson, Brian. 1995. ‘The Prince and Its Early Italian Readers.’ In Niccolò Machiavelli: New Interdisciplinary Essays, edited by Martin Coyle, 18–​39. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Schroeder, Peter. 2004. Niccolò Machiavelli. Frankfurt, New York: Campus Verlag. Shapiro, Ian. 1982. ‘Realism in the Study of the History of Ideas.’ History of Political Thought 3/​3: 535–​578.

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Soll, Jacob. 2010. ‘Introduction: Translating The Prince by Many Hands.’ In The First Translations of Machiavelli’s Prince: From the Sixteenth to the First Half of the Nineteenth Century, edited by Roberto de Pol, 9–​14. Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi. Suleiman, Susan and Inge Crosman. 1980. The Reader in the Text. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. van Ingen, Ferdinand. 1974.‘Die Revolte des Lesers oder Rezeption versus Interpretation: Zu Fragen der Interpretation und der Rezeptionsästhetik.’ In Rezeption, Interpretation: Beiträge zur Methodendiskussion, edited by Gerd Labroisse, 83–​147. Amsterdamer Beiträge zur Neueren Germanistik. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Varchi, Benedetto. 2005 [1565]. ‘Florentine History [Storia Fiorentina].’ Excerpt reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. With Related Documents, edited by William J. Connell, 161–​162. New York: Bedford & St. Martin’s. Vettori, Francesco. 1996a [1513]. ‘Letter to Niccolò Machiavelli (24 December 1513).’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli. Lettere a Francesco Vettori e a Francesco Guiddicardini (1513–​1527), edited by Giorgio Inglese, Letter no. 21, 205–​210. Milan: Rizzoli. Vettori, Francesco. 1996b [1514]. ‘Letter to Niccolò Machiavelli (18 January 1514).’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli. Lettere a Francesco Vettori e a Francesco Guiddicardini (1513–​1527), edited by Giorgio Inglese, Letter no. 23, 213–​218. Milan: Rizzoli. Vettori, Francesco. 1996c [1514]. ‘Letter to Niccolò Machiavelli (16 May 1514).’ Reprinted in Niccolò Machiavelli. Lettere a Francesco Vettori e a Francesco Guiddicardini (1513–​1527), edited by Giorgio Inglese, Letter no. 29, 238–​245.

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8 TRACING THE CONCEPT OF CONTRACT Interpreting a Hittite Loyalty Oath for Conceptual History

The approaches hitherto introduced in this volume all focus on situations wherein an interpretive desideratum has been detected and we as interpreters go about making sense of a text. In all of this, a text is primarily understood to be a single, individual text such as The Republic or (following a broader notion of text) Diego Rivera’s mural painting The History of Mexico. The need for interpretation may arise with respect to an entire individual text, or just of a part thereof, for example, a single chapter, a passage, a sentence or simply an unclear or ambiguous term. In the discipline of political theory, however, there are a number of interpretive approaches that do not focus primarily on single, individual texts, even if they too eventually do not fully manage to escape the interpretation of individual texts, as we shall see. In these approaches, from beginning to end, the interpretation of single, individual texts relates to a collective of texts, which occupies the center of the interpreter’s attention. This collective of texts may form an independent constellation of meaning, for example, in the form of a discourse or in terms of intertextuality, which can itself be declared the object of research and in turn understood as one text.1 But it may also simply refer to a non-​textual constellation of meaning, which represents the final point of interest of the research and thereby provides the reason for engaging with the selected set of texts. Such examples would include histories of specific concepts, problems or mentalities of social entities, often with special attention to a certain time period. The study of discourses plays an important role and comes in a variety of different approaches. These approaches, however, often operate with mutually opposed theoretical assumptions or emphasize very different matters. (For instance, discourse theory following Jürgen Habermas stands diametrically opposed to feminist or postcolonial approaches in many respects).The writings of French philosopher Michel Foucault have been particularly influential in this area. He emphasized DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-9

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the anonymous constraints to which thought is subjected and the multifaceted social rules of access to discourse, as, for instance, disciplinary rules of exclusion. Discourse here refers to the actually spoken and written utterances and the framework of rules that limits the realm of possible utterances. Foucault juxtaposes speaking subjects in opposition to discourse. Both limit each other, but they also need each other. The constraints of which Foucault speaks are not only mental, but material as well.They are written into the very bodies of the subjects and serve the prevailing relations of power.This brings both the examined discourse and the discursive formation of the reader into focus. From this vantage point, it is doubly naïve to comprehend the history of political thought as an eternal conversation about truth. With his emphasis on understanding power and force as constitutive of the sense and meaning of historical speech and its hindrances, Foucault has not only challenged the traditional history of political thought, but also added a promising research perspective. The history of mentalities originates from French historiography (Annales School). This approach differs from earlier practices in history as it does not focus on the history of events (histoire événementielle) or political history told through the deeds of ‘great men.’ Instead, it draws our attention to history from a mid-level perspective, particularly in the longue durée, as well as on fundamental and slowly evolving structures. To the history of mentalities, the most interesting sources include those of ‘ordinary people,’ transcripts of court proceedings and the texts of canonical authors, all on equal footing; they all serve the historian as testimonials of a mentality, its mental tools and linguistic means that are widely shared by contemporaries and vitally transcend the individuality of single persons. Scholars utilizing this approach examine broad descriptions of individual fates for the purposes of distilling shared and general characteristics by which one can reconstruct the mentalities. These mentalities change very slowly, in fact so slowly as to be unperceived by the actors themselves. Authorial intention is of no interest here. Even when it employs statistical methods, it does so in an attempt to analyze sources that are subject to regularity and that generate textual collectives over a long period of time (testaments, baptismal registers, witness interviews, court documents, etc.). By concentrating on mental dispositions and structures not necessarily known to the actors, the history of mentalities clearly sets itself apart from the more traditional history of political thought and its emphasis on authorial intention. If Foucault’s emphasizes the rules of discourse while historians of mentalities focus on shared mental tools, then Niklas Luhmann comes to concentrate on the semantic apparatus and the meaning-​producing rules (Sinnverarbeitungsregeln) therein. Such rules create meaning in various functionally differentiated systems (politics, law, economy, religion, etc.). The main point of Luhmann’s systems theory is that under modern conditions, these societal subsystems no longer relate to each other so as to constitute one overarching system.The subsystem of science is characterized by an awareness of the historical contingency of its concepts (and

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ideas) and, like all subsystems, reproduces its own rules as an autonomous functional system. The complexity of the change in question in social semantics is so high as to largely forestall any causal explanation for the emergence of an idea at any particular point in time; rather, Luhmann’s sociology of knowledge approach focuses on the conditions of the (sometimes unforeseeable) production of meaning and ‘the history of ideas.’ As is evident from the above passages, it is not easy to summarize contemporary approaches that go beyond the interpretation of a single, individual text and instead examine collectives of texts. The complexity of these approaches is rooted in their many references to theories from markedly diverse sets of disciplines, a fine-​tuned vocabulary that often relies on neologisms, and the clear attempt to transcend the existing (but rejected) approaches without inadvertently coming to rely on them. All of these approaches have emerged at a critical distance from the traditional (political) history of ideas. For that reason, one may understand them as developments in the history of ideas. In this chapter, we discuss the conceptual history approach (Begriffsgeschichte) as an example of an approach that emphasizes collectives of texts. The collective of texts in question here will be those of obligation and oath texts from the Hittite Middle Kingdom. Yet, those who study collectives of texts cannot help but read and interpret single, individual texts, even if their approach denies the importance or meaningfulness of single, individual texts. We therefore focus on interpreting a single, individual text (The Loyalty Oath of Town Commanders to Arnuwanda I, Ašmunikkal, and Tudḫaliya), with the aim of capturing merely a specific moment in the work of a conceptual historian.

8.1  Conceptual History as History of Ideas? As its name states, conceptual history deals with the history of concepts. The concept of the republic, for instance, was heavily contested in the debates between Federalists and Anti-​Federalists inasmuch as both groups claimed it for themselves and competed over who were the better republicans. When Madison came to apply the concept of the republic to an extended union with a representative government in Federalist No. 10, he also redefined the concept (he certainly did in the eyes of the Anti-​Federalists). To the extent that Madison’s new definition succeeded in being adopted, one could also say that the concept of the republic changed during the constitutional debates. Conceptual history is most interested in these very processes and phenomena. Conceptual history, today understood as an independent research program, takes its starting point from the groundbreaking work of Reinhart Koselleck.2 Koselleck led a project that culminated in a monumental lexicon in German (Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-​sozialen Sprache in Deutschland) and it was he who authored the theoretical and methodological passages in the preface of the first volume of the lexicon. The eight volumes of

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the lexicon, published between 1972 and 1997, offer lengthy histories of no less than 122 key concepts.3 Besides his lexicon, Koselleck also wrote many influential articles and books on the theory and on the anthropological foundations of history. The international interest in conceptual history of recent decades has largely engaged the topic in the form that Koselleck gave it. This is also true of the sustained efforts to merge the Cambridge model (see Chapter 4) with conceptual history.4 Hence, in this chapter, we will discuss conceptual history mainly along the lines drawn by Koselleck and his research program. In a more historically comprehensive manner, however, Koselleck cannot be considered the founder of conceptual history as such. He was already responding to a history of conceptual history himself. The Historical Dictionary of Philosophy (Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie), often referenced as a major work on conceptual history, takes a rather different methodological orientation than Kosselleck. It also boasts an entry on ‘conceptual history’ the origins of which trace back to the early 18th century (Meier 1971). This entry mentions a philosophical lexicon by Johann Georg Walch dating back to 1726, the preface of which makes a distinction between equally important historical and dogmatic aspects of concepts (Meier 1971). In the 19th century, conceptual history set itself apart from the then prevalent historicism (according to which all social and political phenomena are conclusively determined by history), insisting on the dogmatic aspects of concepts that persist through time and across cultures. In this period, conceptual history was mainly considered an occupation of scholars working in the fields of philosophical lexicography and historiography. Increasingly, however, the distinction from and relation to the history of ideas emerged as a topic of its own and slowly a division between philosophical and historiographical conceptual history took hold.The most famous attempt to focus on eternal ideas, problems or concepts (even if with a much-​reduced claim in the form of so-​called ‘unit ideas’) was Arthur O. Lovejoy’s work on the history of ideas and particularly his The Great Chain of Being: A Study of the History of an Idea (1936). The latter wielded an enormous influence on the discipline of the history of political ideas. Koselleck’s historiographical conceptual history, which hailed from the second half of the 20th century, opposed such a history of political ideas in particular as well as any philosophical conceptual history based on ‘unchanging ideas’ in general. As he clearly states, his emphasis is ‘neither on a word history, nor on a history of facts and events, nor on a history of ideas or problems’ (Koselleck 1972a, xx).5 His aim was not even a comprehensive history of concepts, as his emphasis on historical contextualization would not allow for it. In fact, Koselleck’s conceptual history follows a very specific research program. Kosselleck’s eight-​volume lexicon focuses on the specific transitional epoch from early modernity to modernity (1750–​ 1850), which he refers to as the saddle period (Sattelzeit) or a threshold period (Schwellenzeit). During this epoch, Koselleck claims, the foundational political concepts of modernity underwent a deep-​seated change resulting in the emergence of a host of new concepts. These

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concepts incorporated a wholly new conception of temporality, as the past no longer served as the measure of the future. Concepts are more than just ordinary words and according to Koselleck (2004b, 251) they serve a double, politicosocial function: they are indicators of, as well as contributing factors to historical change. Language and history point to each other, but do not concur. Still, in the lexicon itself, the conceptual history approach is far from uniformly applied. Likewise, Koselleck’s research program has found critics of its own.6 The criticism from linguistics that conceptual history affords an undue primacy to practice instead of urgent theoretical discussions is particularly noteworthy. According to this main charge, conceptual history has not satisfactorily tackled the relations between concept, meaning, word and fact. Another criticism reproaches the large majority of entries in the lexicon for practicing exactly the kind of history of ideas that the project set out to transcend (Bödeker 2011, 21; Busse 1987, 6, 8, 52–​56). Nonetheless, Koselleck developed his approach of conceptual history considerably in a series of subsequent works.7 Likewise, many others depending on Koselleck have proposed and sometimes more or less applied their own forms of conceptual history. Influential lexical projects such as the Handbook of Politio-​Social Key Concepts in France 1680–​1820 (Reichhardt and Lüsebrink 1982) or the more recent Diccionario político y social del mundo iberoamericano (Sebastiàn 2009/​2014) offer some good examples. Even more importantly, a series of proposals formulated in recent decades have aimed at extending or linking conceptual history to other theoretical enterprises, such as to Hans Blumenberg’s metaphorology, Luhmann’s systems theory, Foucault’s discourse analysis and other approaches in historical semantics. In the context of the contemporary history of political thought, conceptual history refers to a variety of partly similar, partly rather distinct approaches. Overall, perhaps four developments stand out, each of which extends Koselleck’s specific research program considerably: 1. Whereas Koselleck foregrounded social and political language (putting religious language decidedly in the background), conceptual history today has come to embrace and include investigations of aesthetic, religious and other concepts. 2. Whereas most entries in the lexicon took their bearings from ‘canonized high literature,’ the research program was quick to include more ordinary sources as well as sources of an institutional–​technical nature (Reichhardt and Lüsebrink 1982, 56). 3. Instead of Koselleck’s focus on the saddle period (with only a few introductory remarks on the prehistory of the concept, usually leading to Roman and Greek antiquity), other epochs have come to be considered relevant and equally meaningful for research today. Particularly, the discussion shifted to the significance of a conceptual history of the 20th century.

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4. Instead of the explicit and somewhat parochial focus on conceptual change in Germany (which only sporadically included sources in other languages), practitioners set out to work on different linguistic and cultural contexts.This brought the topic of translation and the question of the possibility of a conceptual history across natural languages to the fore of contemporary research. In this chapter, we apply the conceptual history approach to a text from the genre of Hittite documents (more precisely: ‘obligation and oath’ documents from the period usually referred to as the ‘Middle Kingdom’ of the Hittite Empire, i.e. ca. 1500–​1430 bc) and aim at a modest contribution to the history of the concept of the contract.8 This means that we transcend Koselleck’s research program along the lines of all four of the above-​mentioned developments: (1) with Hittite, a different and extinct (but the oldest Indo-​European) language and culture stands center stage; (2) in this culture, which lacks the differentiation of modern societies, relevant concepts often touch simultaneously upon political, legal and religious domains; (3) the sources are institutional–​technical documents ranging from vassal treaties, to instructions for officials and loyalty oaths; and finally, (4) the epoch in question is in the distant past of the saddle-​ period, raising the discussion of something like the prehistory of the concept of the contract.9 With regard to the practice of the history of political thought, the following question arises once again: How does one actually do conceptual history? How does a researcher proceed when reading and interpreting a text in light of a conceptual history?

8.2  On Practicing Conceptual History When approaching a text within the framework of a conceptual history (see Figure 8.1), the focal concept must already be predetermined and its history more or less established.The selected text carries the burden of a presupposition, namely that it is relatable to the predetermined concept, either confirming or deviating from it, but nevertheless contributing to its history in one or another way. This is possible since the study of the text either confirms an already established aspect of a concept or discovers a new aspect that enlarges or alters the hitherto guiding understanding of the concept. In a first step, the conceptual historian will carefully read the text in order to confirm the presupposed relation between text and concept. If this reading confirms the concept, the text will then, in a second step, be subjected to a thorough conceptual analysis. One conducts such an analysis by tracing words in the text that are considered to express the concept, while establishing hypernyms and hyponyms as well as related concepts and antonyms.10 In a further step, the conceptual analysis should be expanded and afforded greater precision, for example, by including a study of the historical contexts and concomitant uses of the concept.

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All of this finally results in the inclusion of the use of that concept within the already established conceptual history, by confirming or deviating, that is, enlarging, the parameters of that conceptual history. Concisely, and in all required abstraction, these steps summarize the application of the conceptual history approach.

8.2.1  Research Interests To the extent that one approaches a selected text with the intention of using it for a conceptual history, one’s selection is always already led by one’s research interests. For example, a Hittite text would not even figure among the possible options for inquiry if one understands conceptual history as a specific research program for the saddle period and only the saddle period. One’s research interest invariably comes with many prejudgments, some of which are related to conceptual history as such, and others to the predetermined concept. It is entirely possible that a conceptual historian who is fully committed to the concept of a republic as understood by the Anti-​Federalists will not find any contribution from Madison’s Federalist Paper No. 10 for a conceptual history of that concept during the American constitutional debates. One should be distinctly aware of one’s guiding research interests and conceptual prejudgments. It would be reckless –​specifically when attempting the first step of approaching a text and confirming or rejecting the presupposed relation between text and concept –​to simply follow a prejudgment in a non-​reflective manner. The consequence could be no less than failing to recognize a potentially interesting new aspect of a concept and thereby missing a real indicator of and contributing factor to historical change. It is therefore imperative to familiarize oneself with as many different aspects of a concept as possible.

BY THE WAY…: BENEFITS AND LIMITS OF A DIFFERENTIATED PREDETERMINED CONCEPT The more differentiated the concept with which one approaches the text, the more aspects of that concept can possibly show up. Whoever operates with a very lapidary predetermined concept might only come to see either almost everything or almost nothing falling under that concept. The risk is to miss a new aspect of the concept or to read something prematurely as a confirmation of an already established aspect. Yet, there are also limits to the benefit of a maximally differentiated predetermined concept. For instance, it is far from obvious that a set of aspects gleaned from studying John Rawls’s social contract theory or Hittite thoughts on contracts would be advantageous when focusing on a specific conceptual history of the contract during the saddle period –​but neither can it be ruled out, which is precisely the point.

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The specific research interests guiding a history of the concept of the contract in light of a Middle Kingdom Hittite text could be more general (a comprehensive history of the concept of the contract) or more specific (the Hittite history of the concept of the contract). It could also be motivated by very different starting points in political theory. Two issues, both taken from the entry named ‘Contract, Social Contract, Political Contract’ in the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe, illustrate this claim: •

•

One might want to question the statement that the ‘beginnings of contract theory’ are to be found ‘in fifth century bc’ in the ‘Greek Enlightenment’ (Münkler 1990, 904). Skepticism could arise from the evident influence of Ancient Near Eastern terminology on the Greek and Latin languages with respect to contracts, for instance, regarding cutting a deal, or holding to or infringing upon the terms of the contract. For instance, the combination of two terms for ‘obligation and oath’ can be found in Akkadian (riksu u māmītu), in Hittite (išḫiul-​, lingāi-​), in Hebrew (běrît, ʼālâ) as well as in Ancient Greek (syntheke kai horkos) (Weinfeld 1973). Alternatively, to take a different starting point, one could perhaps take issue with the longstanding discussion of the prehistory of the concept of the contract, which mentions the context of Calvin and the Monarchomach Covenant Theology, the Old Testament covenants between God and Moses as well as that between God and the people of Israel. Does this not indicate another (acknowledged) origin of contract theory, one that falls into a similar period as the ‘Greek Enlightenment’? More importantly, a genealogy of the Old Testament traces its origins to Ancient Near Eastern Thought and particularly to Hittite obligation and oath texts. Recent research on Old Testament Theology, Ancient Near Eastern Studies and Hittitology suggest an indirect history of diffusion via Neo-​Assyrian and Aramaic mediation (Christiansen and Devecchi 2013; Koch 2008; Taggar-​ Cohen 2011; Thompson 2013; Weeks 2004).

Such different research interests might yield variations regarding the concept of the contract. How one differentiates the concept directly affects one’s conceptual history of the Hittite concept of the contract, given that it determines whether or not a single, individual text is seen as playing a role in that history. The second example could possibly lead to employing a distinction between medieval political contracts and modern social contracts for categorizing obligation and oath texts; or, perhaps more likely, they might form the basis for arguing for a third kind of contract. It could also trigger an inquiry into the question of to what extent the relation between the gods and the king in Middle Kingdom Hittite obligation and oath texts may be conceived as a covenant.

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8.2.2  The Concept as a Point of Access In the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe, a majority of the entries only boast a single word in the title (e.g. ‘labor,’ ‘profession,’ ‘fascism’ or ‘tolerance’; the volumes published later conspicuously differ by referring to word clusters, e.g. ‘government, regime, authorities,’ ‘civilization, culture’ or, as previously mentioned, ‘contract, social contract, political contract’). In his introduction to the lexicon, Koselleck (1972a, xiii) refers to concepts as specific sorts of words that ‘pool the variety of historical experience,’ thereby making the words in the title into key concepts. Taking into consideration the developments of historiographical conceptual history since the lexicon, one would be wrong to accord too much significance to a word in the title of a conceptual history; that is, in the sense of an isolated key concept. Rather, a concept that stands at the center of a conceptual history offers no more than a point of access. ‘At the bottom,’ it is but ‘an abstract fiction’ (Busse 1987, 62). The following quote taken from the secondary literature nicely renders the significance attributed to key concepts in recent historiographical conceptual history: For historiographical conceptual history […], the concept is only a concept among concepts. A single concept can barely be understood without reference to other concepts. From the outset, the concept stands within conceptual schemata, theoretical constellations, and conceptual configurations. For this reason, conceptual history as the history of insight mediated by language must always focus on the conceptual net of relations. […]. To put it differently: conceptual history analyses concepts as elements of a semantic or linguistic field, even if there is only one concept-​word in the title. Conceptual history research definitely transcends word history, beyond the history of a single concept, tapping into semantic structures. Bödeker 2002, 91–​92; own transl. Focusing on a concept serves ‘as a point of departure,’ and ‘demarcates a field of inquiry’ (Bödeker 2002, 117). Conceptual history foregrounds the fact that definitions of concepts and uses of concepts always occur in the context of an interpretive competition and often around a power struggle over the prerogative of interpretation. Such a conceptual history requires historical contextualization of single uses of the concept in question. One would therefore be seriously mistaken if conceptual history were simply to amount to the history of a concept in a narrow sense. Koselleck (1983, 14) himself conceded that the label ‘conceptual history’ is imprecise since a concept, once constituted, does not change, even though the uses of the word standing in for the concept do. In the last instance, therefore, conceptual history seems to reveal affinities with social history and the history of mentalities, even if it maintains a

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more decisive focus on ‘conceptually oriented speech acts’ (Bödeker 2002, 118). In a later work, Koselleck explicitly defines conceptual history as dependent on discursive history. Just as a discourse relies on concepts in order to express what it is about, conceptual history requires knowledge about linguistic and extra-​linguistic context, including relevant discourses: ‘only by such knowledge of context can the analyst determine what are a concept’s multiple meanings, its content, importance, and the extent to which it is contested.’ (Koselleck 1996, 65). Alluding to the linguistic context brings other texts into play and it does so in a manner which suggests that a conceptual analysis of one text involves more than just that one text: ‘Conceptual history from the beginning –​theoretically –​transcends the level of the single word and the level of the single text’ (Bödeker 2002, 116). It is therefore apposite – and all the more so given the emphasis on single texts in the hitherto presented interpretive approaches – to highlight exactly what constitutes a text in the conceptual history approach.

8.2.3  What Constitutes a Text in Conceptual History? The work of a conceptual historian consists necessarily and extensively in the interpretation of single texts. But how does the conceptual history approach conceive of texts? Early in his career, Koselleck himself went on record so as to provide his own definition of a concept: It is clear that the exact sense can be obtained only by reference to the complete [context of the text]; but it is also necessary to take into account the situation of the author and the addressee. Due regard also must be paid to the political situation and the social condition […]; just as, finally, the use of language by the author, his contemporaries, and the generation preceding him, with whom he shared a specific linguistic community, must be considered. Koselleck 2004a, 77–​78 From this statement, can one deduce something about what actually constitutes a text for the conceptual history approach? In this quote, Kosselleck does not define a text as a collection of concepts that could be investigated by a text-​centered interpretation. Rather, he defines a text as something that is written by someone, for someone and read by someone, thus combining author-​centered, addressee-​ centered and reader-​centered interpretation. At the level of interpreting a single text, then, the conceptual history approach seems underdetermined. Whether this is a strength or a weakness of the approach remains to be addressed (we do so in the Epilogue). At first glance, it seems that a commitment to methodological pluralism could be productive in order to avoid methodological reductionism, but therein also looms the danger of interpretive caprice.

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The conceptual history approach examines a text in order to analyze a predetermined concept in light of its particularities and commonalities with the established history of that concept.

Text

Step 1 Appropriate the text in light of the concept

Step 2 Conceptual analysis in light of historical context

Step 3 Conceptual analysis in light of the established history of the concept

Meaning

FIGURE 8.1 

The established history of the concept under inquiry Does the text really relate to the concept under inquiry? Does it confirm or in any way add to the established history of the concept under inquiry?

Are there antonyms in the text? Hypernyms? Hyponyms? What words are used to articulate the concept? Are there unusual words? For what conception of reality does the text serve as an indicator? How much was the text a factor in bringing that reality about? What elements of the established history of the concept under inquiry are concerned? In what way is the concept in the text original?

The enriched history of the concept under inquiry

The model of the conceptual history approach.

8.3  A Hittite History of the Concept of the Contract A conceptual history of the concept of the contract focusing on the Hittites must begin by examining the primary set of words that are used to express it. Even the prehistory that establishes the basis for the actual investigation depends on this. The situation is particularly complicated in a context with languages of such vastly different provenience as in the Ancient Near East (Sumerian, Semitic, Indo-​European languages), since one could always question whether, say, the Akkadian riksu (rikištu/​r ikiltu) did not mean something entirely different from the Hittite išḫiul-​. The question is legitimate, but it can be answered:

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it quite possibly did mean something different, but not something entirely different. Eventually, the commonality between riksu, išḫiul-​and the word ‘contract’ is (necessarily) held together by way of the concept of ‘contract,’ invoking its dogmatic connotation mentioned above. For the case at hand, there are some indications of a comparatively close link between the vocabulary in question and the English concept-​word ‘contract.’ The etymology of the English word ‘contract’ leads quite obviously back to the Latin noun contractus and the verb contrahere. Above, we have already pointed out the evident similarity between Latin, Ancient Greek and Ancient Near Eastern vocabularies concerning contracts, which places front and center a set of words and a conceptual scheme that includes notions like ‘covenant,’ ‘(com)pact,’ ‘(con) federacy’ etc., but also ‘oath,’ and perhaps ‘obligation’ or ‘bond’ as hypernyms. Regarding the two Hittite words išḫiul-​und lingāi-​, which will be at the center of our conceptual history, one of the foremost experts on the topic recently stated: The first, išḫiul-​, is derived from the verb išḫai-​ /​ išḫiya-​, ‘to bind,’ and thus literally means ‘bond.’ It can be translated depending on context as ‘instruction,’ ‘obligation,’ ‘contract,’ or ‘treaty.’ The second term, lingāi-​, ‘oath; curse,’ is likewise a deverbal substantive, from link-​‘to swear.’ Miller 2013, 2; transliteration revised for reasons of consistency In terms of a conceptual history approach, Hittite contracts, as they are expressed in the text genre of obligation and oath documents (išḫiul-​, lingāi-​), should be characterized in such a way as to maximize the conceptual latitude of demonstrable variants and, if possible, reveal developments in the understanding of the concept. This is imperative despite (and thanks to) the necessarily stipulated commonality at the conceptual level. It makes sense to focus on obligation and oath documents since oaths (lingāi-​) were an indispensable part of Hittite contracts. They can barely be distinguished from contracts at the conceptual level. Given that an oath always features an object at which it aims – for example, a detailed instruction on how to behave in a temple or a more general loyalty to the king – an išḫiul-​can be conceived of as a logical prerequisite for an oath (Miller 2011b, 1).The transitions between oaths and obligations are in the last instance ‘fluid’ (von Schuler 1956, 212 fn. 2). Therefore it is not astonishing that a few texts are explicitly described through a combination of the two terms and as such designate a text genre, for which the Hittites did not seem to have developed a specific single word (Miller 2011b, 2). Even though many documents only feature one or the other term in the text itself and even though entire texts are often characterized as either išḫiul-​ or lingāi-​,11 attempts to distinguish between two different historical text genres have largely been frustrated: These ‘obligation and oath’ texts, which the modern scholar attributes to categories such as ‘instructions’ and ‘treaties,’ all had the aim of defining the

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duties and obligations [isḫiul-​] of the subordinate within the administrative structure of the Hittite state and, through the oath [lingāi-​], of sanctioning and witnessing his/​her acceptance of these obligations before the gods. Miller 2011b, 7 [While modern researchers are entitled to dissociate isḫiul-​ and lingāi-​, that should not hide the fact that] Hittite scribes would have seen [those compositions of] obligation and oaths texts [as forming a unity] and which, in fact, they labeled either as ‘obligation’ (isḫiul-​) or ‘oath’ (lingāi-​) texts or, on occasion, both […]. Miller 2013, 2; for the inserted passages see Miller 2011b, 17; transliteration adapted for reasons of consistency If one accepts the idea that all of these texts share a common aim, then the assumption of a single text genre is warranted. But if their emphasis sometimes falls back on different uses and differences in the literary form, then a division into several genres might seem apposite.12 One must also consider royal epistolary texts, which often contain instructions which are quite similar in style and refer to similar matters as found in obligation and oath documents, or edicts. Edicts feature similar norms and injunctions, yet they work without the element of an oath, or for that matter, any input at all by the subordinate party (Miller 2013, 2). A well-​established distinction within the text genre in question runs between domestic contracts aimed at internal administration on the one hand, and international contracts on the other hand. Domestic contracts refer to those obligation and oath documents that involve subordinates at all levels of a hierarchy. International contracts include vassal treaties (contracts of submission) as well as treaties suggesting parity (such as the famous Hittite-​Egyptian Peace Treaty of Kadesh of approx. 1259 bc). Hittite vassal treaties are written in a form that is quite common throughout the Ancient Near East, with the exception that the Hittite variant always features a historical introduction which summarizes the events leading up to the contract (Taggar-​Cohen 2011, 482 fn. 80). Somewhere perhaps in between lie bestowals to subject territories (as e.g. from the king to his son), which are also called išḫiul-​(Taggar-​Cohen 2011, 471–​478; regarding vassal treaties, see also Miller 2011b, 7). In what follows, we only focus on domestic contracts.

8.3.1  The Ancient Near Eastern Pre-​history Early textual witnesses from the Ancient Near East exhibit a wealth of contracts: contracts of purchase, lease, marriage, donation and many more.13 From these documents, one encounters a widespread cultural form of entering into written (bilateral or multilateral) obligations.14 Given the current state of research, it seems futile to try to find a single origin for the motif of a contract, and the

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many extant forms resist any reduction to a single prototype (Weeks 2004, 174). Some of the earliest Sumerian texts deal with contracts, such as when a new kind of ruler is granted a formal title. Up until then, i.e. the third millennium bc, the city-​state with a ruling prince or a high priest (ensi) was taken to be the dominant political entity. Whenever a prince would succeed in securing dominance over a rival city-​state they would need a new title that would capture their newly established power. It was in this context that Iriinimgina15 (around 2350 bc, the last ruler of the dynasty of Lagaš) came to be called ‘king,’ demarcating a difference from mere princes of city-​states. As is attested in a royal inscription, in his first year of rule, he issued an amnesty to prisoners who were guilty of debt accumulation, fraud, deception or manslaughter. The edict, however, speaks mainly about the restoration of ancient laws, which it states was necessary because Iriinimgina’s predecessors had seized the land of the gods and had increasingly treated institutional property as private property. At the core of the edict one finds a series of statements about previous abuses of political power for the purpose of economic gain and Iriinimgina’s series of countermeasures therein. This list of decreed countermeasures ends with the statement that Iriinimgina ‘made a binding oral agreement’ with the god Ningirsu ‘that he would never subjugate the orphan (or) widow to the powerful’ (Frayne 2008, 265). Ningirsu was the principal deity of the state of Lagaš. The king declared that he made a contract (Sum. zu2 keše2) with this god, remarkably not least concerning the protection of orphans and widows. Throughout the entire Ancient Near East, one finds very similar documents to the Hittite obligation and oath texts. They all show characteristics of the same text genre, particularly by including sworn contract provisions, lists of deities and maledictory formulas. This is no surprise at all with regards to vassal treaties since these ‘represent an international text format per definitionem’ (Koch 2008, 22–​23). Early traces of written oath testimonies taken by subordinates or dependent rulers again lead us to the Sumerians and the dynasty of Lagaš in the third millennium bc. The so-​called Stele of the Vultures (ca. 2450 bc) records a border treaty between Lagaš and Umma and reports an oath before the Sumerian principal deities, which the representative of Umma was forced to take. The text mentions a punishment from the gods in case one violated the contract, which seemed to be accompanied by some ritual symbolic act to instill a sense of awe (Koch 2008, 24). In a later vassal treaty between the Northern Syrian city-​state of Ebla and the city of Abarsal (24th/​ 23rd century bc), we find the first evidence of a duty to give notice. The treaty was imposed upon the ruler of Abarsal and demanded that he send on a messenger the moment he hears an ‘evil word’ (sum. inim ḫul; akk. awātum lemnum). If he failed to do so, it would have meant that he had broken the oath. Finally, dating back to the end of the third millennium bc, we find the oldest attested oath of allegiance, which the administrator of a temple swore to the king of Girsu (Koch 2008, 24–​25). The domestic and international contracts of the Syrian city-​state of Mari (located at the Euphrates) stand as concrete historical models for the later Hittite and Neo-​Assyrian oaths of allegiance.16 Besides the customary commandments

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of loyalty, they also include a duty to give notice (referring once more to ‘evil words’), as well as proof for a declaration of exclusivity, as was a characteristic of Hittite vassal treaties. The vassal was to take an oath stating that there shall be ‘no other king’ next to the king of Mari. Such a declaration was also sworn under oath to the gods (nîšilāni) by the various categories of state officials, but probably also by the inhabitants of entire cities. The duty to give notice here is closely linked with the declaration of exclusivity and holds a central significance for the king. The point was that the king should be informed ‘about all possible conspiring activities’; in short, this declaration concerns the prevention of an ‘uprising’ (bartum) (Koch 2008, 26–​27).

8.3.2  Early Hittite Thinking about Contracts Scholars debate about whether or not certain texts from the Old Kingdom (mid-​ 17th to end of 16th century bc) can be understood as predecessors for obligation and oath (išḫiul-​, lingāi-​) documents. Some point to the Palace Anecdote (CTH 8) as a possible predecessor, which recounts events in the administrative realm while also mentioning a punishment threatening officials as an admonition to their successors.17 Some contracts with other Anatolian tribes (CTH 21, CTH 27) have also been treated as earlier textual sources from the Old Hittite period (Giorgieri 2005, 324).Whether or not one can correctly conceive of ‘Old Hittite proto-​išḫiul-​ texts’ on this basis is a matter deserving of lengthy discussion.18 A recently published compilation of obligation and oath texts lists some predecessors and examples from the Old Kingdom (CTH 262, 263, 265, 269, 272, 275) with the verdict that they indeed show single elements of the later textual genre, but do not constitute a prototype (Miller 2013, 12). However, scholars have largely established a consensus over the fact that written obligation and oath agreements prevailed as an important tool in the political organization of the Hittite state during the consecutive reigns of Tudḫalija I. and Arnuwanda I. in the Middle Kingdom (15th to mid-​14th century BC). The majority of domestic obligation and oath documents hail from this period. And even though they would take on new emphasis according to the needs of the moment, their central importance would not diminish across the entire Middle and New Kingdom periods (Miller 2013, 18–​23). So how and why did this textual genre gain prominence as the most important political tool during the reigns of Tudḫalija and Arnuwanda? Current scholarship appears to defend two opposing theses. One thesis pinpoints this reason to a specific historical situation, when after a crisis related to ‘a feud within the royal family’ is overcome the need arises ‘to re-​found the administrative structure of the state’ (Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 286, 288). Comprehensive reforms brought about new structures and especially a new class of officials, thereby replacing the earlier ‘family management’ (Pecchioli Daddi, quoted from Miller 2011b, 9).These reforms increased the efficacy of the administration and organization of the Hittite state and cleared the way towards the great empire (Klinger 2007, 45–​47). The

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second thesis holds that this textual genre gained prominence less because of the new establishment of the state, or even profound reforms, but rather because of the institutionalization of structures and administrative procedures that had already been well in place for some time. This thesis finds support in the fact that some offices mentioned in the obligation and oath texts are attested to in earlier times. According to this second thesis, obligation and oath documents represent a state administration that more and more put its precepts into writing in order to codify and preserve the status quo (Miller 2011b, 9–​10, 17).

8.3.3  The Golden Age of the Middle Kingdom: Instructions and Oaths From a Hittite point of view, the concept of the contract as obligation and oath texts took shape either in the Old Hittite period (where the concept changes in the Middle Hittite period to refer to a written object) or later in the Middle Hittite period in the course of administrative reforms. As a political instrument, these texts capture a conceptual content that was available to Hittite actors. What follows concerns determining and at the same time contextualizing this conceptual content, as it finds expression in the primary sources across the panoply of its possible uses. An interpretation based on the conceptual history approach gets most interesting when some uses seem to go against the established conceptual content. In the obligation and oath texts it is ‘usually, but not always, the king’ who gives the instructions (Miller 2013, 6). The rulers Tudḫalija I and Arnuwanda I, for instance, are explicitly named as originators in some išḫiul-​texts. Often, however, the texts provide no mention of exactly who gives the instructions (Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 281–​282). This is not to say that the required obligations and oaths only pertain to the king. Loyalty is most often demanded to the king, the queen and their dynastic lines, but sometimes to a specific heir of the throne or directly to the gods as well (CTH 264) (Giorgieri 2005, 324; Miller 2013, 7, 24; von Schuler 1957, 5). Addressees are often other rulers (mostly vassals) or ‘certain groups of Hittite dignitaries and officials’ (Giorgieri 2005, 322). Even if ‘the highest ranks of state administration was in the hands of near and distant relatives of the king,’ the circle of those put under obligation went clearly beyond the royal clan (Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 284). They make explicit mention of, for instance, personnel in the royal funerary structure (CTH 252), lords, princes and courtiers (CTH 255), mayors (CTH 257), military officers and frontier post governors (CTH 261), royal body guards (CTH 262), palace gatekeepers (CTH 263), priests and temple personnel (CTH 264) and royal servants (CTH 265, 266). Some of them might have been placed under oath because they were close to the king and potentially dangerous to him (Koch 2008, 34.). On several occasions, the contract is made with ‘the men of Ḫattusa’ (CTH 256, 251, 259, 85.2, 253.1, 254; cf. Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 286 fn 56). Surely, this does not invoke an ‘ethnic’ idea of the Hittite people,

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even though they were meant to refer to ‘almost all subordinates’, but the invocation is simply addressed to ‘all those people … who played an active role in the defense of the state and in its economy’ (Giorgieri 2005, 330–​332, 342). The contents of the instructions vary from detailed technical and specific tasks (e.g. when and how to open the palace gates), to more general duties similar to ‘general by-​law,’ and to expressions of loyalty that were demanded regularly (mostly monthly), for example in the context of the previously mentioned duty to give notice.19 The general function of some obligation and oath texts is rather remarkable as ‘different areas of responsibilities’ appear to have been regulated ‘independently of the person of the ruler and individual instructions’ (Klinger 2007, 45). The texts appear to be aimed at establishing ‘comprehensive and temporally unlimited valid official guidelines’; ‘when, where and in what context officials discharged of their duties –​they always could resort to a precise and exhaustive catalogue of instructions, which was binding to them’ (Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 280, 286). Some of the texts (CTH 261, 262) constituted ‘as it were, adaptable model texts,’ which ‘could be modified depending on the specific situation’ (Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 286–​289). How these model texts were adapted in practice can perhaps be understood through their grammatically different textual layers.The instructions are written mostly in the third or second person singular or plural (Giorgieri 2005, 336). In one instance, one finds the text written in first person (CTH 270; Miller 2011b, 7), suggesting that the text might have been read and then repeated by the oath-​takers. Those paragraphs of the text that do not address ‘particular persons in attendance’ but seem to remain in consciously general terms, are written in the third person. Beyond general statements, one also finds multiple-​choice passages, which highlights the function of these texts as models (CTH 261, supplemented; Miller 2011a, 197). This text, which contains instructions for frontier post governors, includes passages in the third as well as in the second person. The passages in the third person are largely of a general character (the entire first third of the text), with the exception of a handful of passages that directly address the frontier post governor. The same is true for the passages written in the second person. But one also finds changes of grammatical person within one and the same passages. For example, one passage begins written entirely in the third person: The (water of the) drains of the ritual purification building, of the house of the cupbearer, and the gate-​house must circulate (freely) and they shall inspect them regularly. That which is clogged due to the (sewer-​)water, though, they shall clean up. But it ends in the second person: ‘Also the bird in the ponds in your district shall be well’ (Miller 2013, 227). The ending sentence is apparently a later insertion. Since the text has survived in several tablets from the Middle and New Kingdom, scholars have been able to make assumptions about the development of obligation and oath texts in general. For one, we recognize that almost all passages

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in the second person pertain to the period of the New Kingdom. For one passage, we have tablets from both periods with one reading ‘you should’ and the earlier reading ‘one should’ (Miller 2011a, 197–​199). Even if this does not rebut but rather specifies the thesis of model texts (the model has to be understood more diachronically in the sense of an application of traditional materials), the change in grammatical person during the New Kingdom suggests a changed or extended practice wherein ‘the text was read to a royally convened congregation of frontier post governors in the capital city.’20 Loyalty oaths to the Hittite king and his dynastical line apparently took place on a variety of different occasions. There is evidence that this instrument was used in the face of domestic crises, for instance, ‘following the murder of a king and repeatedly in the context of succession to the throne’ (Koch 2008, 34). One such example would be the oath demanded by the great king Ḫattušili III of the Hittite people, after he had won a power struggle against his nephew, the former great king Urḫi-​Tešub (Mursili III), and sent him into exile (CTH 85.2; Klinger 2007, 106–​108). As mentioned above, beyond such special occasions, there were classes of state officials who regularly had to swear monthly oaths (CTH 253.1, 254, 259, 265). The concurrent presence of political, legal and religious aspects becomes obvious in the invocation of various sorts of Hittite (and in the case of vassal treaties originally non-​Hittite) gods, which function as witnesses of the oath, and by the equally widely attested maledictory formulas. According to a prevalent Ancient Near Eastern idea, the oath amounted to a ‘conditional self-​curse’ (Giorgieri 2005, 324). Two surviving oaths given by soldiers suggest that many uses of obligation and oath texts were accompanied by ritual acts. At these rituals, countless analogies were evoked by way of demonstratio ad oculos, which vividly portrayed the terrible consequences of breaching the contract (Miller 2013, 7; see also Giorgieri 2005, 338–​340). There are impressive examples of this detail in an oath given by soldiers (CTH 427) which dates to the Middle Hittite period. Wax and sheep fat are placed in the takers’ hands while some of it is thrown into a fire, whereupon the following words are spoken: ‘Just as this wax melts and just as the sheep fat is rendered, who breaks the oath and takes deceptive action against the king of Ḫatti, may he melt like the wax and may he be rendered like the sheep fat.’ The oath-​taking soldiers reply ‘(so) be it’ (apāt ešdu) –​and thereby incant the curse.21 There are no limits to the creativity at play in these texts: He places malt and beer seasoning in their hands and they lick it. He says to them as follows: ‘Just as they mill this beer seasoning with a millstone and mix it with water and cook it and mash it, who transgresses these oaths and takes part in evil against the king, the queen or against the princes or against the land of Ḫatti, may these oath deities seize him and in the same way they mill his bones and in the same way they heat him up and in the same way they mash him. May he carry off a horrible death.’ They say: ‘(So) be it.’

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They bring a woman’s garment, a distaff and a spindle and they break an arrow (lit., reed). You say to them as follows: ‘What are these? Are they not the dresses of a woman? We are holding them for the oath-​taking. He who transgresses these oaths and takes part in evil against the king, queen and princess may these oath deities make (that) man (into) a woman. May they make his troops women. Let them dress them as women. Let them put a scarf on them. Let them break the bows, arrows, and weapons in their hands and let them place the distaff and spindle in their hands (instead).’ Hallo 2004, 166 A second oath taken by soldiers (CTH 427) that harks back to the New Kingdom describes innumerable rituals in a similar fashion. Thus, the bowls were to be smashed to pieces in front of the soldiers with the bowls thereafter declared to be the heads of the soldiers, signifying that the gods would proceed likewise should the soldiers breach their oath (Hallo 2004, 167). Similar instances have been recorded in other texts, such as the ‘Instructions and Oath Imposition for Royal Servants concerning the Purity of the King’ (CTH 265), in which the kitchen personnel –​responsible for the procurement of clean drinking water –​are subjected to a ritual that involves spilling water from a cup to strike an analogy with the lives of the servants should they breach their oath.22 Besides the instrument of self-​imposed curses, in some singular cases (CTH 265), the effect of the obligation was strengthened by relating to the oath-​takers the fate of somebody else from their own ranks, which thereby had an ‘exhorting character’ and served ‘as deterrent to the listeners’ (Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 284). Largely, however, trust took the form of a belief in the effect of a curse imposed under watchful eyes of the gods. Fear of the gods is omnipresent throughout these texts not because it needed to be described, but simply because it penetrated the lives of the Hittites, even that of the king. Even in the case of vassal treaties, the king often relied solely on the sanctioning power of the gods’ curse.The oath-​takers and their self-​imposed curse did not only accept their own punishments at the hands of the gods, but equally that of all those to whom they were related: ‘his wife, [his children,] his descendants, his family, his male and female servants, his cattle, his sheep, and his grain’ (CTH 264). The god ‘destroys him with everything,’ which is why a text warns: ‘Be very afraid of a god’s word for your own sake’ (Hallo 2004, 218). It would have been easy to include the breach of an oath as a crime in the comprehensive law code that harked back to the Old Kingdom (CTH 271, 272). Indeed, secular punishments and corporeal punishments are mentioned in some texts from this period (CTH 258.1, 264; Miller 2011a; Miller 2013, 7; Pecchioli Daddi 2005, 283). For instance, in the ‘Instructions to Priests and Temple Officials’ (CTH 264), a person who makes food-​offerings to the gods too late is threatened with the punishment of giving up one cow and ten sheep; then again, a person who neglected his or her guard duties was meant to be subjected to public humiliation by making

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him or her carry water naked three times from the spring to the temple –​nota bene with the caveat that he or she had not already been killed by others for the misdemeanor (Hallo 2004, 219–​220). Also in the context of a breach of contract in vassal treaties, action could be taken without becoming entrapped in a contradiction, since it was the gods who determined victory or defeat (Koch 2008, 22). The gods also play an important role in our last attempt to grasp the Hittite contracts conceptually. Obligation and oath texts are essentially unilateral agreements. The king dictates the instructions and the subordinate swears an oath on them (Miller 2011a, 193). The king giving an oath, and thereby putting himself under the watch and judgment of the gods, is only mentioned in equal treaties and in a few vassal treaties.23 The parties involved could perhaps argue in favor of a bilateral obligation in these cases if the king’s oath was understood to affirm a relation in which he already stood.24 Still, as much as the oath-​takers swore their loyalty to the king and his dynastical line under the watch of the gods, the king was merely considered the earthly administrator and representative (maniyaḫḫai-​) of the gods. He was under the rule of the gods and served as the high priest. Since he could not be present everywhere at the same time, he conferred his power to his oath-​taking subordinates. Just as the king received his right to rule over the land of Ḫatti from the gods, so too does he give some of his ruling power along with other administrative tasks to his subordinates; that is, to vassals and governors, temple personnel, the royal guards and the people working in the royal kitchen. Seen from this angle, the išḫiul-​mirrored the hierarchical execution of ruling power, all while ‘the gods rather than the king are at the top of the pyramid’ (Taggar-​Cohen 2011, 464–​471).

8.4  The Loyalty Oath of Town Commanders to Arnuwanda I The previous comments have generally excluded any consideration of international contracts. Yet we consciously excluded one specific domestic obligation and oath text. We will now turn our attention to this text and –​if suitable –​interpret it in light of its contribution to the hitherto established conceptual history. The text is entitled ‘The Loyalty Oath of Town Commanders to Arnuwanda I, Ašmunikkal, and Tudḫaliya’ (CTH 260) and has been translated into English recently by Jared L. Miller (2013, 194–​205). It is based upon seven tablets which bring together eighteen fragments in cuneiform writing (for the joint sketch of one such tablet, see Figure 8.2).25 With the exception of one tablet that dates from the Middle Kingdom, all other textual witnesses hail from the New Kingdom. Even if such archeologically unearthed textual witnesses are blank or unreadable in certain parts (see Photo 8.1), much of them can be reconstructed thus allowing one to retrieve a constellation of meaning across many passages. Some scholars have distinguished between different parts of the text.26 The first part lists all of the commanders (UGULA LIM, LÚ.MEŠDUGUD) along with the names of the provinces they represented together with their troops. It also

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583/u II

Vs. I

Bo 2722

Bo 4520

583/u

Bo 2722 Bo 9270 Bo 7020 1322/u Bo 7716 804/v

912

Bo 2722

FIGURE 8.2 

E 161

„IV“

Sketch of Hittite fragment CTH 260.3 Hethitologie Portal Mainz.

mentions King Arnuwanda, the queen, the crown prince and ‘their sons’ (referring perhaps to all of the previously mentioned). The second part formulates a duty to give notice, several demands for loyalty, a precept to protect as well as a self-​imposed curse (‘[…] his grandsons […] his cattle […] may they destroy!’). The text is written in the first-​person plural. The self-​imposed curse targets a series of cases, all of which would amount to a breach of loyalty: defecting to the enemy, failing to call out an insult, an evil word or an evil messenger, the failure to fight those hostile to the king, giving priority to one’s own life over that of the king, as well as the merely hesitant championing of ‘lords,’ their wives, their sons and grandsons. The third part features another oath to the king and his dynastic line ‘in front of the Sto[rm God] of Ḫurranašši.’27

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PHOTO 8.1 

Hittite fragment 583/​u. ©Hethitologie Portal Mainz.

Source: Mainzer Fotoarchiv.

The fourth part deserves to be quoted at length: We, the e[nti]re Land of Ḫattusa, the lords [of the troops, the chariot] troops, the foot troops, the šarik[uwa]-​troops all together, [to the person of] Arnuwanda, the Great King, [and] to the person of [Ašmunikal], the Great Queen, and to the perso[n of T]utḫalij[a, Son of the King, Crown Prince], (and) thereafter his sons, h[is] grandsons and to the person of [the sons of the king], (and) thereafter their sons (and) their grandsons, month for mon[th, we shall swear]. Hereby, then, have we, the Clan Chief (and) Commander of all the troops of [Kiššia28], together with our wives, our sons, (and) hereafter [(our)] grandsons, together with our land, [ma]de a sepa[(rate)] bronze tablet of the oath, and [we] placed it in Ḫattusa before [(Storm God of Ḫattusa)], while in Arinna we placed it before the [(Sun Goddess)] of Arinna, [while] in Ḫart[ana], we placed [it (before)] Iyarri. Miller 2013, 201; see also Giorgieri 2005, 337–​338 In exactly what way can an interpretation of this text confirm or complement the Hittite history of the concept of the contract? The text attests to a monthly loyalty oath, which the entire Land of Ḫattusa had to swear, and it then relates back to concrete actions that the oath-​taking town commanders were to perform.This mention of a monthly loyalty oath may point to the possibility that this general kind of oath was a fixed component of state organization during the Middle Kingdom.29 This passage, and as previously mentioned, the entire text, is written in the first-​person

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plural. Thus, a second textual witness confirms the exception found in CTH 270. Finally, it is rather remarkable that these oaths taken in provincial towns were cast in ‘bronze tablets’ for such a practice is otherwise only known in contexts of international contracts (Miller 2013, 3, 195). The prominent mention of the ‘wives,’ ‘sons’ and ‘grandsons’ of the town commanders in these obligation and oath texts expands their conceptual content. The families of the oath-​takers are not explicitly mentioned in the self-​imposed curses in CTH 260, but the quoted passage from the oath as well as innumerable explicit mentions in other texts (see above on CTH 264) suggest that the family line was always understood to be implicated. In the end, the appended phrase ‘together with our land’ is striking and, at first glance at least, calls for further interpretation. What is meant by ‘land’ here? Perhaps it refers to the ‘land’ of the provincial towns that the commanders represent?30 Or does ‘land’ refer to the personal estates of the commanders and clan-​chiefs, including perhaps the cattle, the sheep and the grain, as in the self-​imposed curse of CTH 264? How does the representation of the town by the commander relate to his being depicted as clan chief? The answers to these questions, particularly that of the meaning of the term ‘land,’ would surely require significant philological work. However, they would also require interpretive work on the single text, for which several approaches would seem appropriate. It seems unlikely that these questions could be answered again by way of a conceptual history approach. In this chapter, conceptual history served as an example of more ‘recent’ interpretive approaches which are interested in reaching beyond the interpretation of a single text to a collective of texts or an extra-​textual reality. Our application of this approach to the concept of the contract in Middle Kingdom obligation and oath texts has illustrated the potential specifically of a conceptual history approach and generally of a focus on collectives of texts. We have indicated some of the limits and possibilities above, specifically in those parts pertaining to the theory and practice of the conceptual theory approach. Here it should suffice to emphasize the significance of the interpretation of single, individual texts for approaches that aim at collectives of texts. Even a scholar who proceeds with an understanding of a text as referring to an unbounded textual universe, and in which single texts are decidedly not self-​contained semantic entities, will nevertheless find themselves busy at a desk and reading an essay or a book in the actual practice of doing political theory. One can easily imagine how such an act of reading will draw upon a textual understanding that –​at least during the act of reading itself –​concerns the single text in front of the scholar rather than a collective of texts to be reflected upon. We identified a lack of reflection upon the interpretation of single texts in conceptual history but we left open the question of whether this is a strength or a weakness of the approach. For it to be strength, however, developing an awareness of different interpretive approaches of single texts and their respective promises and limitations appears to be a sine qua non.

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Notes 1 For a history of political thought that conceives of texts as a woven fabric in the sense of diachronic and synchronic discourses, see Llanque (2008). 2 For an insightful discussion of Koselleck and his work in English, see Olsen (2012). 3 Kari Palonen (2014a) apparently read all 9000 pages on train-​rides over a stretch of 10 months. 4 For an important contribution which aims at reconciling Koselleck’s conceptual history with the Cambridge model, see Richter (1995). See also the many works by Palonen (e.g. 2004; 2014b). 5 For an English version of Koselleck’s introduction, see Koselleck (2011). 6 For an early summary of criticisms, see Sheehan (1978). 7 In hindsight, Koselleck (1994, 7) is on record as having said the following: ‘Publication of that lexicon has been going on for two decades by now and, for me at least, its theoretical and methodological presuppositions, first formulated some twenty-​five years ago, have grown into an intellectual straightjacket. While it was necessary to maintain these presuppositions in relatively unchanged form in order to be able to proceed with the collaborative project of the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe, my own thought on conceptual history has kept changing.’ 8 Besides English, much scholarship on the Hittites has been produced in German, Italian, Turkish and other languages. In this chapter, we use quite a bit of German and English scholarship. For general scholarship on the Hittites in the English language, see e.g. Bryce (2004; 2005). 9 In the introduction to the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe Koselleck (2011, 15) notes that not every history of a concept has to manifest a change during the saddle period, since ‘the meaning of many concepts remained unchanged even after our threshold period. To identify the otherness –​or sameness –​of expressions in the period before circa 1770, we must investigate usage before that time, which once again has its own history. This history may differ from word to word, and therefore will be pursued to various degrees of depth.’ 10 Koselleck (1994, 8) writes: ‘Once you start considering the contexts within which the meaning of individual concepts may be analyzed, there is no end to it. You start with the paragraph within which the concept is mentioned. From the paragraph, you proceed to the whole book. From the book, you move to the entire social and political debate of the historical period in question, for all concepts are related to other contemporary concepts, for instance to their Gegenbegriffe [antonyms], in a variety of ways.’ 11 Pecchioli Daddi (2005, 284–​285) sees the constitution of two distinct textual genres with Tudḫaliya and Arnuwanda in the Middle Kingdom: ‘[They] issued, first in combined form, then separately, lingāi-​and išḫiul-​documents...,’ which caused a development towards išḫiul texts, because oaths no longer sufficed. For objections to this view, see Miller (2011b, 3–​5). 12 Giorgieri (2005, 326 fn. 17) speaks of ‘different forms of documents,’ which had ‘the same purpose.’ See also: Taggar-​Cohen (2011, 475): ‘The literary difference may be considered important, but it is clear that both forms of texts come from the same core of political-​administrative thinking and mainly reflect the same demand for loyalty to the king.’ 13 For an overview of political thought in the Ancient Near East, see: Raaflaub (1993; 2000).

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14 According to Tadmor (1990), in some areas and epochs, the written form was not mandatory. 15 The reading of the name is apparently unclear with Urukagina, Irikagina and Uruinimgina being possible variants. 16 See also Giorgieri (2005, 326), who locates the Hittite oaths of allegiance at an ‘intermediate stage’ between those of Mari in the Old Babylonian period and Neo-​Assyrian oaths of allegiance. 17 Pecchioli Daddi (2005, 284–​285). See also (Gilan 2007). For convenience, all Hittite texts in this chapter are referenced by their CTH-​number. See Laroche (1971). 18 This notion has been proposed by Pecchioli Daddi (2005). Critical comments can be found in Gilan (2007, 299–​300); Miller (2011a, 195; 2013, 16). 19 Giorgieri (2005, 335–​336). Pecchioli Daddi (2005, 286) takes išḫiul and lingāi-​texts as pertaining to two different genres. 20 Miller (2011a, 201). Miller (2013, 19, 22–​23) has argued that obligations and oath texts developed from the Middle to the New Kingdom period, as detailed practical instruction were replaced with more general oaths of allegiance. 21 For English translations of the oaths by soldiers (by Billie Jean Collins), see Hallo (2004, 165–​168) and Giorgieri (2005, 339). 22 Giorgieri (2005, 339–​340) mentions a similarity with the Books of Samuel (2 Sam 14, 14). 23 Taggar-​Cohen (2011, 473) references the pertinent writings of Amnon Altman. See also Miller (2013, 2; Christiansen and Devecchi 2013, 73, 76–​77). 24 For vasall treaties, see Christiansen and Devecchi (2013, 77). 25 Photographs of the fragments can be viewed online. See the Konkordanz der hethitischen Keilschrifttafeln (Silvin Košak, version 1.87) and the photo archive Mainz: www. hethport.uni-​wuerzburg.de/​hetkonk/​ (24.08.2019) und www.hethport.adwmainz. de/​fotarch/​ (24.08.2019). 26 The summary and the division of the text into different parts is based on an older translation into German, see von Schuler (1956, 229–​231). 27 Other versions mention different lands instead of Ḫurranašši. See Miller (2013, 194–​ 195 §1). 28 Again, different versions list different lands. 29 Giorgieri (2005, 338) goes as far as to refer to it as evidence. 30 Giorgieri (2005, 336) sees the functionaries and worthies as ‘obviously representing their communities.’

References Bödeker, Hans Erich. 2002. ‘Reflexionen über Begriffsgeschichte als Methode.’ In Begriffsgeschichte, Diskursgeschichte, Metapherngeschichte, edited by Hans Erich Bödeker, 73–​121. Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 73–​121. Bödeker, Hans Erich. 2011. ‘Begriffsgeschichte as the History of Theory. The History of Theory as Begriffsgeschichte: An Essay.’ In New Approaches to Conceptual History: Political Concepts and Time, edited by Javier Fernández-​Sebastián. Santander: Cantabria University Press. Bryce, Trevor. 2004. Life and Society in the Hittite World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bryce, Trevor. 2005. The Kingdom of the Hittites. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Busse, Dietrich. 1987. Historische Semantik: Analyse eines Programms. Stuttgart: Klett-​Cotta.

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Christiansen, Birgit and Elena Devecchi. 2013. ‘Die hethitischen Vasallenverträge und die biblische Bundeskonzeption.’ Biblische Notizen 156: 65–​87. Frayne, Douglas R. 2008. Presargonic Period (2700–​ 2350 bc). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Gilan, Amir. 2007.‘Bread,Wine and Partridges –​A Note on the Palace Anecdotes (CTH 8).’ In Tabularia Hethaeorum. Hethitologische Beiträge Silvin Kosak zum 65. Geburtstag, edited by Detlev Groddek and Marina Zorman, 299–​304. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Giorgieri, Mauro. 2005. ‘Zu den Treueiden mittelhethitischer Zeit.’ Altorientalische Forschungen 32/​2: 322–​346. Hallo,William W. 2004. The Context of Scripture.Vol. 1: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World. Leiden: Brill. Klinger, Jörg. 2007. Die Hethiter: Geschichte –​Gesellschaft –​Kultur. Munich: Beck. Koch, Christoph. 2008. Vertrag, Treueid und Bund: Studien zur Rezeption des altorientalischen Vertragsrechts im Deuteronomium und zur Ausbildung der Bundestheologie im Alten Testament. Berlin: De Gruyter. Koselleck, Reinhart. 1972. ‘Einleitung.’ In Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-​sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, Vol. 1, edited by Otto Brunner, Werner Conze and Reinhart Koselleck, xii–​xxviii. Stuttgart: Klett-​Cotta. Koselleck, Reinhart. 1983. ‘Begriffsgeschichtliche Probleme der Verfassungsgeschichts­ schreibung.’ In Gegenstand und Begriffe der Verfassungsgeschichtsschreibung, Der Staat, special issue 6: 7–​21. Koselleck, Reinhart. 1994. ‘Some Reflections on the Temporal Structure of Conceptual Change.’ In Main Trends in Cultural History: Ten Essays, edited by Willem Melching and Wyger Velema, 7–​16. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Koselleck, Reinhart. 1996.‘A Response to Comments on the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe.’ Translated by Melvin Richter and Sally E. Robertson. In The Meaning of Historical Terms and Concepts. New Studies on Begriffsgeschichte, 59–​70. Washington: German Historical Institute. Koselleck, Reinhart. 2004a. ‘Begriffsgeschichte and Social History.’ Translated by Keith Tribe. In Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, 75–​92. New York: Columbia University Press. Koselleck, Reinhart. 2004b. ‘Neuzeit: Remarks on the Semantics of Modern Concepts of Movement.’ Translated by Keith Tribe. In Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, 222–​254. New York: Columbia University. Koselleck, Reinhart. 2011. ‘Introduction and Prefaces to the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe.’ Translated by Michaela Richter. In Contributions to the History of Concepts 6/​1: 1–​37. Laroche, Emmanuel. 1971. Catalogue des textes hittites. Paris: Éditions Klincksieck. Llanque, Marcus. 2008. Politische Ideengeschichte: Ein Gewebe politischer Diskurse. Munich; Vienna: Oldenbourg Verlag. Meier, Helmut G. 1971. ‘Begriffsgeschichte.’ In Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, Vol. 1, edited by Joachim Ritter, Karlfried Gründer and Gottfried Gabriel, 788–​807. Basel: Schwabe Verlag. Miller, Jared L. 2011a.‘Die hethitischen Dienstanweisungen: Zwischen normativerVorschrift und Traditionsliteratur.’ Hethitische Literatur: Überlieferungsprozesse, Textstrukturen, Ausdrucksformen und Nachwirken, edited by Manfred Hutter and Sylvia Hutter-​Braunsar, 193–​205. Münster: Ugarit-​Verlag. Miller, Jared L. 2011b. ‘Diverse Remarks on the Hittite Instructions.’ Colloquium Anatolicum 10: 1–​20.

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Miller, Jared L. 2013. Royal Hittite Instructions and Related Administrative Texts.Writings from the Ancient World/​Society of Biblical Literature 33. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Münkler, Herfried. 1990. ‘Vertrag, Gesellschaftsvertrag, Herrschaftsvertrag.’ Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-​ sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, Vol. 6: St–​Vert., edited by Otto Brunner, Werner Conze and Reinhart Koselleck, 901–​946. Stuttgart: Klett-​Cotta. Olsen, Niklas. 2012. History in the Plural: An Introduction to the Work of Reinhart Koselleck. New York: Berghahn Books. Palonen, Kari. 2004. Die Entzauberung der Begriffe. Das Umschreiben der politischen Begriffe bei Quentin Skinner und Reinhart Koselleck. Münster: LIT Verlag. Palonen, Kari. 2014a. ‘A Train Reading Marathon: Retrospective Remarks on Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe.’ In Politics and Conceptual Histories: Rhetorical and Temporal Perspectives, 97–​ 112. Baden-​Baden: Nomos. Palonen, Kari. 2014b. Politics and Conceptual Histories: Rhetorical and Temporal Perspectives. Baden-​Baden: Nomos. Pecchioli Daddi, Franca. 2005. ‘Die mittelhethitischen išḫiul-​Texte.’ Altorientalische Forschungen 32/​2: 280–​290. Raaflaub, Kurt (ed.). 1993. Anfänge politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen. Munich: Oldenbourg Raaflaub, Kurt. 2000. ‘Influence, Adaptation, and Interaction. Near Eastern and Early Greek Political Thought.’ In The Heirs of Assyria. Melammu Symposia 1, edited by Sanna Aro and Robert M. Whiting, 51–​64. Helsinki: The Neo-​Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Reichhardt, Rolf and Hans-​ Jürgen Lüsebrink (eds). 1982. Handbuch politisch-​sozialer Grundbegriffe in Frankreich 1680–​1820. Munich: Oldenbourg. Richter, Melvin. 1995. The History of Political and Social Concepts: A Critical Introduction. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sebastián, Javier Fernández (ed). 2009/​2014. Diccionario político y social del mundo iberoamericano. 11 vol., Madrid: Fundación Carolina. Sociedad Estatal de Conmemoraciones Culturales. Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales. Sheehan, James. 1978. ‘Begriffsgeschichte: Theory and Practice.’ Journal of Modern History 50: 312–​319. Tadmor,Haytm.1990.‘Alleanza e dipendenza nell‘antica Mesopotamia e in Israele:terminologia e prassi.’ In: I trattati nel mondo antico: forma, ideologia, funzione, edited by Luciano Canfora, Mario Liverani and Carlo Zaccagnini, 17–​36. Rome: ‘L’erma’ di Breitschneider. Taggar-​ Cohen, Ada. 2011. ‘Biblical Covenant and Hittite išḫiul Reexamined.’ Vetus Testamentum 61: 461–​488. Thompson, Richard Jude. 2013. Terror of the Radiance. Aššur Covenant to YHWH Covenant. Fribourg: Academic Press. von Schuler, Einar. 1956. ‘Die Würdenträgereide des Arnuwanda.’ Orientalia 25: 209–​240. von Schuler, Einar. 1957. ‘Hethithische Dienstanweisungen für höhere Hof-​und Staatsbeamte. Ein Beitrag zum antiken Recht Kleinasiens.’ Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft 10, edited by Ernst Weidner. Graz: Author’s edition. Weeks, Noel. 2004. ‘Admonition and Curse: The Ancient Near Eastern Treaty/​Covenant Form as a Problem in Inter-​Cultural Relationships.’ Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series 407. London: T&T Clark. Weinfeld, Moshe. 1973. ‘Covenant Terminology in the Ancient Near East and its Influence on the West.’ Journal of the American Oriental Society 93/​2: 190–​199.

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EPILOGUE Eclecticism in Political Theory

In the Republic, Plato distinguishes between technical and practical knowledge, giving priority to the latter (cf. Damschen 2003, 37–​40). In Plato’s view, the producer of tools believes him or herself to have knowledge without actually having it: ‘Now do not the excellence, the beauty, the rightness of every implement, living thing, and action refer solely to the use for which each is made or by nature adapted?’ ‘That is so.’ ‘It quite necessarily follows, then, that the user of anything is the one who knows most of it by experience, and that he reports to the maker the good or bad effects in use of the thing he uses. As, for example, the flute-​player reports to the flute-​maker which flutes respond and serve rightly in flute-​playing, and will order the kind that must be made, and the other will obey and serve him.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘The one, then, possessing knowledge, reports about the goodness or the badness of the flutes, and the other, believing, will make them.’ ‘Yes.’ Plato,The Republic 601d–​e We need not go that far. Technical knowledge, in that sense, surely matters as well. Concerning the subject of this book, we therefore consider it important to model interpretation through practice and to theorize about different interpretive approaches. But we are not only interested in theorizing about them in order to apply and test them; we also take interest in this indispensable feedback loop in order to inform and improve theorization. We have applied eight interpretive approaches all in idealized forms. That is, we tried to reconstruct and practice them as models as if we were working under laboratory conditions. Under these conditions, idealization served the purpose of DOI: 10.4324/9781315150192-10

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simplification, thereby helping to illustrate the respective procedures, similarities, peculiarities as well as limits and possibilities of each approach.

E.1  Farewell to Dogmatism One structural similarity of all the interpretive approaches covered in this book is their insufficiency. None of the models –​in their idealized form –​can plausibly be regarded, and consequently be applied, as a self-​standing method. In all cases, we were forced to borrow in more or less obvious and more or less problematic ways from other models. The Oxford model stands as the most observably self-sufficient. But even its commitment to text-​immanent strategies of interpretation (such as the translation of text into propositional content or the parallel passages strategy of clarifying concepts) is undermined by our inevitable presuppositions, by our quasi-​automatic translations of texts, and often too, by our starting off with philologically edited material. Text-​immanence in the practice of interpretation is a myth. However, text-​transcendent approaches are also not self-sufficient. Skinner’s Cambridge School practically runs into an infinite regress if one contextualizes not only the primary source, but the secondary discourse sources as well. If texts on politics are never really outside the battleground, discourse sources—but also the secondary literature as well as one’s own interpretation—would have to be treated as ideological interventions themselves (cf. Perreau-​Saussine 2007). Reception analysis suffers the same fate as it cannot in turn assess the reception sources in a reception-​analytical manner. The oeuvre-​based model is inapplicable unless one acquires a basic understanding of what the text passage in question is actually about. Thus, there is a reason for the widespread eclecticism which features prominently in the practice of political theory that Walsh and Fatovich (2016, 7), among others (e.g. Blau 2015, 1192), have observed. Methodological dogmatism is simply not an available option. But even if it were, settling for it would be a poor choice indeed. Different interpretive models have different strengths, and so settling on any one of them would entail deliberately turning one’s back on the strengths of all other models of interpretation.

E.2  What about Methodological Holism? If the idea of relying on one and only one interpretive model is a dead end, then what about methodological holism? Should we try to use all of the models in conjunction or should we apply the various strategies one after another? An individual scholar might not be able to do all of this, but perhaps holistic interpretations should be a goal of the discipline of political theory, to be worked towards by the community of peers. Reinhard Koselleck (2004, 77–​78) in fact, comes close to championing this view as we have seen above (Chapter 8), when he emphasizes the

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context, the situations of the author and the addressee, respectively, the general political and social conditions, as well as the use of language by the author, contemporaries and previous generations.The problem is, however, that holistic interpretations could not possibly deliver consistent results. To begin with, interpretive approaches do not share the same understanding of the nature of texts. Some champion a dominantly author-​centric approach, while others are more addressee-​, reader-​or content-​centric. They also part ways regarding the general subject of interpretation in political theory. For some, the task is to clarify formulations of concepts, others care about ideas, and yet others deny the existence of ideas and concepts in the stricter sense. The results of these different interpretations not only differ, they are often contradictory. Even interpretive approaches that share an understanding of the nature of texts and the general subject of interpretation might not always be compatible. The oeuvre-​based model necessarily presupposes a rather stable authorial intention; biographical approaches may relate an author’s intention to a single, fleeting moment or an epiphany in his or her life. Methodological holism then is a fanciful dream, both in theory and in practice, just like its dogmatist counterpart. The reality must be somewhere in between; some kind of methodological eclecticism. The question is whether such a practically feasible middle course can be theoretically justified.1

E.3  Eclecticism –​Solution or Name of the Problem? Eclecticism is the practice of deriving ideas, style or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources. It rightly has a negative connotation in common parlance, as it is often associated with a lack of originality, creativity, artistic integrity and intellectual consistency. In the present context, eclecticism can serve as an adequate term for the practice of lumping together approaches, theories and traditions in an ad hoc or opportunistic, tacit and under-​reflected manner. Eclecticism, thus understood, does not meet basic scientific standards such as transparency and consistency. But perhaps eclecticism can be construed in another way. Fortunately, we can draw on the reflections of a range of philosophers from the Early Enlightenment who faced a similar challenge some 300 years ago. Perceiving the rivalry between dogmatism and skepticism in the philosophy of their time as a deadlock, a number of Early Enlightenment philosophers sought to steer a middle course. The point was not to create a third position, but rather to adopt a philosophical attitude that allowed one to combine the virtues of these different philosophical traditions. Meant to serve as a ‘permanent makeshift solution’ (Schneiders 1985, 153), philosophical eclecticism, can be characterized as a metatheoretical disposition vis-​à-​vis philosophical positions (Schneider 1992, 221; 1998, 177; for more detailed accounts of philosophical eclecticism, see Albrecht 1994; Dreitzel 1991; Kelly 2001). Following skepticism, eclecticists stressed the importance of doubt. In contrast to Descartes, however, the dubitatio eclectica (as e.g. articulated by Christian Thomasius) aimed at questioning prejudices selectively and successively, rather than systematically while remaining committed to

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the quest for truth. To avoid the dogmatization of doubt, doubt was given room within the dogmatist project of truth-​seeking (Schneiders 1985, 147). Adding to the critical attitude vis-​à-​vis philosophical positions, eclecticism is complemented by a self-​critical disposition. This disposition manifests as a commitment to fallibilism, which Thomasius expressed as sticking to his eclectically derived truths only ‘until somebody else disabuses myself from misconception,’ thus anticipating Popper’s position (Holzhey 1983, 28). Finally, the critical/​ self-​critical selection of elements from philosophical positions is guided by the libertas philosophandi (cf. Kelley 2001, 581). In other words, the eclecticist’s work does not limit itself to a thoughtless combination of other people’s thoughts, but takes the liberty to balance, interpret and appropriate them for the purpose of original philosophical construction. For the present purpose of informing an eclectic interpretive practice in political theory, one implication of philosophical eclecticism is especially relevant. The goal of combining interpretive approaches is not at all associated with eclecticism in common parlance: The eclectic conciliatio is not a harmonizing operation that marginalizes difference. On the contrary, mediation requires recognition of distinctness. The point is to grasp this distinctness through a ‘third factor’: truth. Schneider 1992, 220; own transl. Hence, instead of fusing approaches that cannot be united, or downplaying differences between interpretive approaches, eclecticism should serve as a kind of broker.Through this approach, theoretical incompatibilities must be acknowledged, reflected, made visible –​and ultimately endured. If one were, for instance, to make use of Skinner’s Cambridge School and Koselleck’s conceptual history (for such an attempt, see Palonen 2004; see also Llanque 2008), one would have to stop short of silently adopting either Skinner’s addressee-​centered understanding of the nature of texts or Koselleck’s open, non-​specified understanding.

E.4  A Pragmatist Addendum But philosophical eclecticism requires some modification if it is to serve as a plausible meta-​ methodological attitude informing interpretation in political theory. After all, eclectic Enlightenment philosophers pursued a monistically construed path of inquiry –​the quest for truth in the singular (Schneider 1992, 216). Of course, political theory should aim at giving truthful answers. But political theory is not a monistic discipline. Hence, the questions political theorists set out to answer may be motivated by diverging understandings of the general subject of interpretation (ideas, concepts, thought, mentalities, etc.) as well as diverging purposes (e.g. to increase historical consciousness, to recover, archive, systematize or rethink concepts, etc.). Eclectic interpretation in political theory therefore must

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aim at selecting and combining approaches in such a way as to suit one’s specific understanding of the general subject and specific purpose of interpretation.2 The work of early Enlightenment eclecticists includes tentative reflections along these lines. They were perceptive of the need to adapt ideas to changing circumstances (Kelley 2001, 585). Thomasius even likened truth to the useful and the useful in turn to that which promotes welfare (cf. Holzhey 1983, 29; Schneider 1998, 181). Yet American pragmatism, especially as associated with the work of William James, more consequentially encourages us to grasp theories or approaches as tools for making conscious, selective use of them in our specific research projects. Thus, American pragmatism productively adds to philosophical eclecticism. And it is well-​suited for a conceptual marriage because, like philosophical eclecticism, it is a meta-​theoretical posture rather than a substantial standpoint. As such, it cultivates a like-​minded distance from both dogmatism and skepticism and is equally committed to fallibilism (Dewey 1986 [1938]). In short, the pragmatist addendum allows us to clarify the relationship between the various dogmatic theories about the appropriate understanding of texts on the one hand, and the eclectic interpretive practice in political theory on the other hand. The Italian philosopher Giovanni Papini (1961 [1905], 405) has given us the metaphor that we believe most aptly captures this relationship. In James’s words (1987 [1907], 510): [Pragmatism] lies in the midst of our theories, like a corridor in a hotel. Innumerable chambers open out of it. In one you may find a man writing an atheistic volume; in the next some one on his knees praying for faith and strength; in a third a chemist investigating a body’s properties. In a fourth a system of idealistic metaphysics is being excogitated; in a fifth the impossibility of metaphysics is being shown. But they all own the corridor, and all must pass through it if they want a practicable way of getting into or out of their respective rooms. Based on the present example, we may imagine the hotel rooms to be occupied by those developers of interpretive approaches who have tried to demonstrate the superiority or appropriateness of their respective method. Gadamer, Skinner or Strauss might come to mind as scholars who have given answers about whether ideas, concepts, theories or mentalities should be interpreted. They all have their legitimate place in the discipline known as political theory; they have all contributed to identifying limits and possibilities of individual models. But they all, like ourselves, need to leave their rooms and walk through the corridor of eclectic text interpretation if they are to enter into the practice of political theory.

E.5  Towards Pragmatist Eclecticism in Political Theory With pragmatist eclecticism we can adopt a meta-​methodological attitude in the practice of political theory that is both theoretically sound and more practicable

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than some form of methodological dogmatism or methodological holism. It allows us to do the necessary work of combining different interpretive approaches, yet in a reflective, transparent and replicable way, and without playing down theoretical tensions. But what specifically does it mean to adopt the pragmatist-​eclectic attitude in scholarly practice? First, it means replacing the dogmatist question of which interpretive approach is, generally speaking, appropriate, with a reflection upon the limits and possibilities of the various approaches for a specific research goal. ‘Appropriate for what?’ is what one should ask. The Cambridge School tends to be particularly helpful for the purpose of raising our historical knowledge and consciousness, whereas the Oxford model more directly facilitates the recovery of systematic arguments. We consciously say ‘tends to’ and ‘more directly’ because interpretive models are not exclusively or necessarily linked with certain research goals. By, for instance, reading a text as a political intervention into some historically contingent discourse, we might very well prepare the ground for a systematic discussion of options in the here and now (Skinner et al. 2002, 2–​4). Historical consciousness fosters out-​of-​the-​box thinking. Second, adopting the pragmatist-​eclectic attitude means consciously selecting and combining interpretive approaches, and making the selection and combination –​along with one’s own reasons –​explicit. Thus, methodological decisions become transparent and interpretation, by and large, replicable. Obviously, there is little sense in trying to name all conceivable or promising selection or combination. But providing two or three examples should help illustrate the task. Suppose, for instance, you want to read Mary Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Women using the Oxford model. You could draw, subsidiarily, on conceptual history to clarify key concepts such as education and friendship rather than, anachronistically, inform your interpretation with the use of contemporary language. (The opposite is, of course, an alternative option.) An interpretation of the Vindication of the Rights of Women using the Cambridge School could similarly apply the Oxford model on a secondary level to analyze the sources of the historical discourse. Alternatively to such hierarchical combinations, two or more interpretive approaches could also be relied upon on an equal footing. Cambridge School and reception analysis could be used in tandem to match the illocutionary potentials and the perlocutionary force of Wollstonecraft’s work. These not entirely arbitrary examples lead us to a third, and final, practical demand of pragmatist eclecticism: theoretical tensions and incompatibilities must be reflected, made visible –​and occasionally at least –​endured. If one uses the Cambridge School on a primary level and the Oxford model on a secondary level, one should not suggest that their understandings of the nature of texts and the general subject of interpretation can possibly be harmonized. The eclectic combination may result in a practicable and transparent research design, but it would not result in a coherent Oxbridge approach.

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The currently popular, hasty commitment to methodological pluralism in political theory easily leads to an ostensibly peaceful, yet elusory juxtaposition of interpretive approaches. It suggests that it would be possible to avoid the muddy waters of methodological imperfection into which we are condemned to sail whenever we go about interpreting texts. It is about time that we accept the challenge of eclecticism in a philosophical and pragmatist, and head-​on way.

Notes 1 For an alternative account of interpretive pluralism, see Browning (2016, ­chapter 19). 2 A similar point is made by Ball (1995, 27).

References Albrecht, Michael. 1994. Eklektik. Eine Begriffsgeschichte mit Hinweisen auf die Philosophie-​und Wissenschaftsgeschichte. Quaestiones 5. Stuttgart: frommann-holzboog. Ball, Terence. 1995. Reappraising Political Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Blau, Adrian. 2015. ‘History of Political Thought as Detective-​Work.’ History of European Ideas 41/​8: 1178–​1194. Browning, Gary. 2016. A History of Modern Political Thought. The Question of Interpretation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Damschen, Gregor. 2003. ‘Grenzen des Gesprächs über Ideen. Die Formen des Wissens und die Notwendigkeit der Ideen in Platons Parmenides.’ In Platon und Aristoteles –​sub ratione Veritatis. Festschrift für Wolfgang Wieland zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by Gregor Damschen, Enskat, Rainer and Alejando G.Vigo, 31–​75. Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Dewey, John. 1986 [1938]. Logic. The Theory of Inquiry. The Later Works 1892–​1953, vol. 12. Edited by Jo Ann Boydson. Carbondale. Dreitzel, Horst. 1991. ‘Zur Entwicklung und Eigenart der “eklektischen Philosophie.” ’ Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 18: 281–​343. Holzhey, Helmut. 1983. ‘Philosophie als Eklektik.’ Studia Leibnitiana 15/​1: 19–​29. James,William. 1987 [1907].‘Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking.’ In William James, Writings 1902–​1910, edited by Bruce Kuklick, 479–​624. New York: The Library of America. Kelley, Donald R. 2001. ‘Eclecticism and the History of Ideas.’ Journal of the History of Ideas 62/​4: 577–​592. Koselleck, Reinhart. 2004. ‘Begriffsgeschichte and Social History.’ Translated by Keith Tribe.In Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, 75–​92. New York: Columbia University Press. Llanque, Marcus. 2008. Politische Ideengeschichte. Ein Gewebe politischer Diskurse. Munich: Oldenbourg. Palonen, Kari. 2004. Die Entzauberung der Begriffe. Das Umschreiben der politischen Begriffe bei Quentin Skinner und Reinhart Koselleck. Münster: LIT Verlag. Papini, Giovanni. 1961 [1905]. ‘Pragmatismo.’ In Tutte le opere di Giovanni Papini, Vol. 2, 329–​468.Verona: Arnoldo Mondadori. Perreau-​Saussine, Emile. 2007. ‘Quentin Skinner in Context.’ The Review of Politics 69/​ 1: 106–​122.

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Plato. 1969. The Republic. Plato in Twelve Volumes Vol. 6.Translated by Paul Shorey. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Richter, Melvin. 1995. The History of Political and Social Concepts: A Critical Introduction. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schneider, Ulrich Johannes. 1992. ‘Über den philosophischen Eklektizismus.’ In Nach der Postmoderne, edited by Andreas Steffens, 201–​224. Düsseldorf: Bollmann. Schneider, Ulrich Johannes. 1998. ‘Eclecticism Rediscovered.’ Journal of the History of Ideas 59/​1: 173–​182. Schneiders, Werner. 1985. ‘Vernünftiger Zweifel und wahre Eklektik: Zur Entstehung des modernen Kritikbegriffes.’ Studia Leibnitiana 17/​2: 143–​161. Skinner, Quentin, Dasgupta, Partha, Geuss, Raymond, Lane, Melissa, Laslett, Peter, O’Neill, Onara, Runciman, W.G. and Andrew Kuper. 2002. ‘Political Philosophy. The View from Cambridge.’ The Journal of Political Philosophy 10/​1: 1–​19. Walsh, Sean N. and Clement Fatovich. 2016. ‘Introduction: Interpretation and the Politics of Meaning.’ In Interpretation in Political Theory, edited by Clement Fatovich and Sean N. Walsh, 1–​20. London; New York: Routledge.

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INDEX

addressee-​centered interpretation 5–​6 Alamanni, Luigi 163 Albert III Pio, Prince of Carpi 163 American pragmatism 203 Ancient Greece see Plato; Socrates; Statesman Ancient Near East see Hittite Loyalty Oath Annales School of French historiography 173 Annas, Julia 31 Apuleius 45 Aquinas, Thomas 105 Aristotle 7, 53 Arnuwanda I, Hittite King 186, 187, 191 art see The History of Mexico Augustine, St. 112 author, importance in oeuvre-​based interpretation 61 author-​centered interpretation 5 authorial intention: and biographical interpretation 47; correspondence with actual utterances 111; definition of 114; and esoteric interpretation 123; ignorance of 24; and illocutionary potential 86; interest in 173; interpretation of 5, 11, 114–​115; and oeuvre-​based interpretation 51, 52, 61, 201; textual autonomy from 137 author’s other works see oeuvre-​based interpretation author’s views, development of 68

Bandello, Matteo 163 Barthes, Roland 4 Beauvoir, Simone de 5 biographical interpretation: and authorial intention 47; introduction to 26–​27; limitations and possibilities of 45–​47; model 5, 27–​29; steps 30; types 26 Blackstone, William 126 Blado, Antonio 165 Blanc, Oliver 61 Blumenberg, Hans 176 Braun, Lily 78 Brissot, Jacques Pierre 65 Buondelmonti, Zanobi 162 Bush, George W. 112 Calvino, Italo 155 Cambridge School of Intellectual History: author’s role 47; contextual approach 6; eclecticism and 200, 202, 204; and esoteric interpretation 120–​121; and hermeneutical interpretation 138; illocutionary intention 81–​82, 83; illocutionary potential 81–​82; limitations and possibilities of 106–​108; locutionary content 81–​82; and oeuvre-​based interpretation 56; overview 81; Oxford model contrasted 80, 83; perlocutionary force 81–​82; polemical interventions 83–​84; and reception analysis 155; speech act theory 81–​83; steps 84, 88;

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text in context 84–​86; see also Skinner, Quentin Campanella, Tommaso 76–​77 Carillo Puerto, Felipe 97 Casavecchia, Filippo 159, 162 Charles I, King 59, 66 Chinese political thought see Huang Zongxi; Mingyi daifang lu co-​authorship, oeuvre-​based interpretation applied to 52–​53 comprehension, interpretation as aid to 133 conceptual history: approach to interpretation 182; benefits and limits of differentiated predetermined concept 178; concept as point of access 180–​181; discourse theory 172–​173; and French historiography (Annales School) 173; as history of ideas 174–​177; practice 177–​178; research interests 178–​179; systems theory 173–​174, 176; texts in 181–​182 see also Hittite Loyalty Oath content-​centered interpretation 4 contextual interpretation: introduction to 80–​81; limitations and possibilities of 106–​108; see also Cambridge School of Intellectual History contract: concept of ‘national’ 73–​75; Hittite history of concept 182–​191; introduction to 172–​174 see also conceptual history; Hittite Loyalty Oath Cornelius Nepos 31 Cortés, Hernán 97, 104, 105 Cromwell, Oliver 65–​66 cultural difference see hermeneutics D’Agostini, Franca 24 D’Alembert, Jean 112 de Bary, Theodore William 140–​141, 142, 143, 144, 150 de Gouges, Olympe: dethroning of monarchs, references to 65–​67; development of views 68; feminism 78; lunacy and madness, references to 63–​65; overview of oeuvre 55–​57; preferred form of government 67–​ 71; republicanism 67–​71; see also The Three Urns de Iturbide, Agustín 96–​97 de Villeneuve, Jérôme Pétion 75 Derrida, Jacques 151 Descartes, René 201

dethroning of monarchs 59, 65–​67, 76–​77 Diderot, Denis 112 difference, cultural see hermeneutics; Mingyi daifang lu Dilthey, Wilhelm 133, 136 Diodoros Siculus 31 Diogenes Laertios (Laërtius) 31, 45 Dion 39, 42–​44 Dionysius I, Tyrant of Syracuse 39, 43, 44, 45 Dionysius II, Tyrant of Syracuse 39, 43, 44 discourse theory 172–​173 discursive interventions 108 distance, language and see hermeneutics; Mingyi daifang lu dogmatism, eclecticism as alternative to 200 eclectic interpretation 2, 8 eclecticism: as alternative to methodological dogmatism 200; as alternative to methodological holism 200–​201; definition of 201; in interpretive practice 2–​3; introduction to 199; philosophical 201–​203; in political theory 8, 199–​205; pragmatist 203–​205 Eco, Umberto 4 Engels, Friedrich 103 English Republic (1649–​1660) 59, 65–​67 Erasmus 11 Erler, Michael 31, 46 esoteric interpretation: authorial intention 114–​115, 123; introduction to 111–​113; model 5–​6, 113–​116; Quentin Skinner’s rejection 120–​121; secondary sources of 123–​124; see also Persecution and the Art of Writing ‘faction,’ definition of 17–​18 Federalist Paper No. 10 (Madison): argumentative structure 17; arguments of 15; conceptual history approach 174, 178; definitions 16–​18; ‘faction,’ definition of 17–​18; Oxford model of interpretation 10–​25; propositional content 15–​16; ‘pure democracy,’ definition of 17; reconstructing of arguments 18–​23; ‘republic,’ definition of 17 feminism 78 Foucault, Michel 4, 172–​173

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French historiography (Annales School) 173 French Revolution see de Gouges, Olympe; The Three Urns Fröhlich, Thomas 140, 142 Gadamer, Hans-​Georg 6, 133, 134–​135, 138–​140, 145, 149, 150–​151 Gaddi, Giovanni 165 Gibson, Katherine 53 Gibson-​Graham, J.K. 53 Giunta, Bernardo 165 Glaucon 14 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 112 Gouze, Marie see de Gouges, Olympe Graham, Julie 53 Groult, Benoîte 78 Guicciardini, Francesco 163 Guicciardini, Niccolò 163 Habermas, Jürgen 4, 134, 138, 172 Hamilton, Alexander 15 Ḫattušili III, Hittite King 189 Heidegger, Martin 134 hermeneutics: applied 138–​139, 145; and Cambridge School 138; foregrounding of difference and distance 132–​133; Hans-​Georg Gadamer 134–​135; intercultural 133, 145; limitations and possibilities of hermeneutic interpretation 149–​150; Paul Ricoeur 135–​138; philosophical 6, 133–​134; reflexive 139. history: of ideas see conceptual history; political theory as 3 The History of Mexico (Rivera): argumentative context, sources of 103; communism 87; contextual interpretation 86–​88; description 88–​92; Europeanization of Mexico 104–​106; illocutionary potential 98–​106; as intervention 86–​88; locutionary content 94–​98; national disunity 96–​98; national flag 94–​96; nationalism 101–​104; political context 92–​94; revolution 98–​99; socialism 99–​101, 103–​104 Hittite Loyalty Oath: Ancient Near Eastern pre-​history 184–​186; benefits and limits of differentiated predetermined concept 178; early Hittite thought on contracts 186–​187; Hittite concept of contract 182–​184; interpretation 174;

Loyalty Oath of Town Commanders to Arnuwanda I 191–​194; Middle Kingdom contractual texts 187–​191; as research interest 178–​179 Hobbes, Thomas 5, 11, 23, 28, 50–​51, 84, 86, 143, 155, 167 holism, eclecticism as alternative to 200–​201 Huang Zongxi: European contemporaries 140, 149; political theory 140–​141; readers’ preunderstanding of 139–​140; see also Mingyi daifang lu intention, author’s see authorial intention intercultural hermeneutics see hermeneutics interpretation: activity of 1; addressee-​ centered 5–​6; author-​centered 5; of authorial intention 5, 11, 114–​115; biographical model see biographical interpretation; Cambridge School see Cambridge School of Intellectual History; combining of models 2, 8; and comprehension 133; conceptual history approach see conceptual history; content-​centered 4; contextual schemes of 3; eclectic 2, 8; see also eclecticism; esoteric model 5–​6; hermeneutical model see hermeneutics; of interventions 86; introduction to 1–​8; models of 1–​3, 7; Oxford model see Oxford model of interpretation; pluralism and 1; in political theory 1–​8; reader-​centered 6–​7; reception model see reception analysis; selection of interpretive models and texts 7–​8; textual 7, 10; treating scholars by their own interpretive standards 117–​118 intertextuality: and collections of texts 172; and oeuvre-​based interpretation 52 Iraq War 112 Italian politics. see Machiavelli, Niccolò; The Prince James, William 203 Jay, John 15 Jesus Christ 105 Johnson, Alvin 123 Kahlo, Frida 99 Kant, Immanuel 55 knowledge, Plato’s theory of 199

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Koselleck, Reinhard 7, 174–​177, 180–​181, 200, 202 Kris, Ernst 123 Künzli, Arnold 26 Laclau, Ernesto 52–​53 Lane, Melissa 37–​38 language, difference and see hermeneutics; Mingyi daifang lu Leal, Fernando 104 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 126 Lin Mousheng 140 Lincoln, Abraham 140 Locke, John 7 Lorenzetti, Ambrogio 86, 87 Louis XVI, King of France 59, 65, 66, 67, 76, 77 Lovejoy, Arthur Oncken 12, 175 Löwith, Karl 26 The Loyalty Oath of Town Commanders to Arnuwanda I, Ašmunikkal, and Tudūaliya see Hittite Loyalty Oath Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (Tarquin) 59, 66 Luhmann, Niklas 173–​174, 176 Lully, Jean-​Baptiste 75 lunacy, references to 63–​65 Machiavelli, Niccolò 86, 108; as author and first reader of The Prince 158–​161; and Cambridge School 86; death 158; double writing 112; political realism 112; subsequent thoughts about The Prince 161–​163; see also The Prince MacLeish, Archibald 122 Madison, James 15–​22, 174 madness, references to 63–​65 Maduro, Francisco 92 maieutics 14 Maimonides 111 Marat, Jean-​Paul 65 Marx, Karl 26–​27, 92, 99, 103, 105, 106 Medici, Giovanni de 158 Medici, Giuliano de 159–​161, 162 Medici, Lorenzo de 161 methodological dogmatism, eclecticism as alternative to 200 methodological holism, eclecticism as alternative to 200–​201 Mexican politics see Rivera, Diego; The History of Mexico Mill, John Stuart 28

Mingyi daifang lu (Waiting for the Dawn) (Huang Zongxi): hermeneutic distance as to language 149–​150; hermeneutic reading 145; interpretation 147–​149; introduction to 132–​133; readers’ preunderstanding of 139–​140, 142–​145; structural explanation 145–​147; translation 144–​145 Mochi, Teofilo 165 Moctezuma, Aztec Emperor 88 monarchs see dethroning of monarchs Montenegro, Roberto 93 Montesquieu, Charles-​Louis de Secondat, Baron de La Brède 71, 77 monumental public art see The History of Mexico Moses 105 Mouffe, Chantal 52–​53 murals see The History of Mexico Murdoch, Iris 53 Mursili III, Hittite King 189 ‘national contract,’ concept of 73–​75 Neanthes of Cyzicus 45 Nifo, Agostino 164–​165 Obregón Salido, Álvaro 92–​93, 97, 101 oeuvre-​based interpretation: and authorial intention 51, 52, 61, 201; author’s importance 61; and Cambridge School 47; and co-​authorship 52–​53; connections with other works by author 62–​75; development approach as alternative 68; intertextuality and 52; introduction to 50–​51; limits and possibilities of 75–​78; model 51–​55; see also de Gouges, Olympe; The Three Urns Olympiodorus the Younger 45 Ommerborn, Wolfgang 140 Origen 112 Orozco, José Clemente 93–​94, 99, 101–​103, 104, 106 other works by author see oeuvre-​based interpretation Ottmann, Henning 26–​27 Oxford model of interpretation: Cambridge School contrasted 80, 83; clarification of technical terms and key concepts in text 13, 14; controversies about 4; eclecticism and 204; identification of text’s propositional content 13–​14; limitations and

210

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Index  211

possibilities of 23–​25; reconstruction of text’s arguments 13, 14–​15; restricted focus of 10–​12; text-​centered model 10; ‘unit ideas’ in political theory 12; see also Federalist Paper No. 10 painting see The History of Mexico Papini, Giovanni 203 paternalism hypothesis 124–​125 Persecution and the Art of Writing (Strauss): esoteric interpretation 116–​118; an esoteric text? 118–​120; inexact repetition in 119; limitations and possibilities of esoteric interpretation 128–​129; paternalism hypothesis 124–​125; reasons for writing of 120–​121; self-​protection hypothesis 121–​124; third approach to interpretation 125–​128 Philip of Opus 32 Philo of Alexandria 112 Philodemus of Gadara 45 philosophical hermeneutics see hermeneutics Piron, Alexis 75 Plamenatz, John 11 Plato: Alcibiades 45; biography 26, 53; chronological challenges 33; dialogues 31, 31–​32, 34, 115; double writing 112; Gorgias 45; and Kant 55; Laws 30, 32; life and works 29–​33; new realism 39–​40; other biographical references 44–​45; principal events in life 31; Republic 14, 34, 38, 39, 42, 43, 46, 111, 167, 199; Seventh Letter 31–​33, 40–​45; in Sicily 31, 39, 42–​45; Sophist 32, 34; Symposium 5, 114; theory of knowledge 199; see also Statesman pluralism, interpretation and 1 Plutarch 31 political theory: eclecticism in 199–​205; elemental conceptual components (‘unit ideas’) 12; as history 3; interpretation in 1–​8; as political science 3 politics: Chinese see Huang Zongxi; Mingyi daifang lu; French see de Gouges, Olympe; The Three Urns; Italian see Machiavelli, Niccolò; The Prince; Mexican see Rivera, Diego; The History of Mexico Popper, Karl 202 Porfirio Díaz Mori, José de la Cruz 92, 97, 100

The Prince (Machiavelli): authorial intention 165; changes of meaning and function 165–​166; early readings 157–​158; editions 164–​165; limits and possibilities of reception analysis 166–​167; Machiavelli as author and first reader 158–​161; Machiavelli’s subsequent thoughts 161–​163; Papal prohibition 157; public reaction 163; reception history 166 public monumental art see The History of Mexico ‘pure democracy,’ definition of 17 Radkau, Joachim 26 reader-​centered interpretation 6–​7 reception analysis: and Cambridge School 155; introduction to 154; limits and possibilities 166–​167; reception model of interpretation 155–​157; steps 157; see also The Prince ‘republic,’ definition of 17 republicanism 67–​71 revolution: French see de Gouges, Olympe; Mexican see Rivera, Diego; The History of Mexico; The Three Urns Riccardi, Riccardo 161 Ricoeur, Paul 6, 133, 135–​140, 145, 149, 150–​151 Riginos, Alice Swift 45 Rivera, Diego: authorial intention 107; communism 87, 98; depiction of Mexican national flag 94–​96; earlier murals 100–​101; intervention by 86–​88; manifesto 93–​94; other artists’ murals compared 101–​106; political feud with David Siqueiros 98–​99; Trotskyism 99; wife see Kahlo, Frida; see also The History of Mexico Robespierre, Maximilien 56, 65, 66 Rockefeller, Nelson 100 Rodríguez, José Guadalupe 97 Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques 71, 77 Ruccelai, Cosimo 162 Sartre, Jean-​Paul 5 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 133 Schmitt, Carl 28–​29 Schneider, Ulrich 202 self-​protection hypothesis 121–​124 Siqueiros, David Alfaro 93–​94, 98, 101–​103 Skinner, Quentin 6, 47, 56, 80–​81, 84, 85, 86, 87, 118, 120–​121, 138, 200, 202, 203;

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see also Cambridge School of Intellectual History Socrates: biography 26; death 39, 41; Leo Strauss and 124; maieutics 14; Plato and 41 Sombart, Nicolaus 28–​29 Spinoza, Baruch 112 Stalin, Joseph 99, 103 Statesman (Plato): chronological challenges 33; date 33–​34; dialogue 34–​36; limitations and possibilities of biographical interpretation 40–​44; questions about meaning of 36–​39; and Republic 46; and Seventh Letter 40–​44 Strauss, Leo 5; double writing 111–​112; eclecticism 203; esoteric interpretation 112, 116; in United States 122–​123; unpopularity 112; see also Persecution and the Art of Writing Symposium (Plato) 5 systems theory 173–​174, 176 Tarquin see Lucius Tarquinius Superbus texts: autonomy from authorial intention 137; in conceptual history 181–​182; groups of 7; selection for interpretation 7–​8; understanding of 3–​7 textual interpretation: intertextuality and 52, 172; introduction to 50–​51; model 2, 7, 10 Thomas, Antoine Léonard 75 Thomasius, Christian 201–​202, 203 The Three Urns (de Gouges): Charles I, references to execution of 59, 66; connections with other works by author 62–​75; dethroning of monarchs, references to 59, 65–​67, 76–​77; English Republic (1649–​1660), references to 59, 65–​67; identification of author 60–​62; key concepts, references in other works by author 71–​75; limits and possibilities of oeuvre-​based interpretation 75–​78; Louis XVI, references to execution of

59, 65, 66, 67, 76, 77; Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (Tarquin), references to exile of 59, 66; lunacy and madness, references to 63–​65; ‘Monomotapa,’ references in other works by author 63–​65; ‘national contract,’ concept of 73–​75; oeuvre-​based interpretation 55–​57; preferred form of government 67–​71; text appropriation 57–​60; ‘Toxicodindron,’ references in other works by author 63–​65 Trampedach, Kai 45 translations as aid to understanding 132–​133, 134, 143, 144–​145, 149–​150 Trotsky, Leon 99 Trump, Donald 112 Tudḫaliya I, Hittite King 186, 187 tyrants see dethroning of monarchs Übelhör, Monika 144 understanding, translations as aid to 132–​133, 134, 143, 144–​145, 149–​150 ‘unit ideas’ in political theory 12 United States: American pragmatism 203; Leo Strauss in 122–​123 Vasconcelos Calderón, José 93, 104, 105 Vettori, Francesco 158, 160–​161, 162, 165 visual art see The History of Mexico Waiting for the Dawn see Mingyi daifang lu Walch, Johann Georg 175 wall paintings see The History of Mexico Weber, Max 26 Wen Jiabao 141 Willamowitz-​Moellendorf, Ulrich von 26, 30–​31, 39 Wollstonecraft, Mary 204 Zapata, Emilano 97 Zhang Binglin 141 Zhang Junmai 140

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