CONTENTS

1. Introductory comments
2. Of universal truths
3. Of state and society – the politics of faith
   3a. The state as the new idol
   3b. The state and its priests
   3c. The state, its priests – their discourse
   3d. The state and its own populace
   3e. The hierarchy of commanding
   3f. The state as Babel
   3g. The market-place
   3h. The populace
   3i. The values of the market-place and its populace
   3j. Thou-shalt
   3k. The for and against of the masses
   3l. From idolatry to uniformity
   3m. The state as the death of peoples
4. Forms of state
   4a. The politics of faith versus civil association
   4b. Civil association as a form of state
   4c. Civil association and the question of traditionality
5. Types of moralities
   5a. The life versus the death of a people
   5b. The rarity of a genuine people
   5c. Of the creative peoples
   5d. Rationalist ideology versus the morality of habit of behaviour
   5e. Of moralities: the anti-individual versus the individual
   5f. The individual as the latest creation

6. The individual
   6a. The state, and the loss of individuality
   6b. The commencement of the necessary individual
   6c. Existential self-determination
   6d. The loneliest wilderness
   6e. Denial of duty
   6f. The individual as creator of his own values
   6g. The game of creating
   6h. The ego, the body, and the self
   6i. Of the passions, and virtue
   6j. Of virtue and everyday wisdom
   6k. A virtue in common with none else
   6l. The problem of naming one’s own virtue
   6m. Silence, privacy, and the new language of being and becoming
   6n. The disposition of indifference towards the populace
   6o. The disposition of tolerance towards the many-too-many
7. Self-organization
   7a. From mass ideology to individual disposition
   7b. Loving yourself as the individualistic disposition
   7c. Living the present as self-organization
   7d. Redeeming the past as self-organization
   7e. Creating the world in one’s likeness – the question of truth
   7f. The over-standing indifference
   7g. The conflict of virtues – pride as self-organization
8. Of being-in-the-world as an Overman in the history of western civilization

1. Introductory comments

Western thought has given birth to moments of what may be said to be untimely philosophical reflection. Much of such reflection has attempted to establish a morality of individuality – celebrating such individuality, it has even gone so far as to posit the concept of the Overman. On the other hand, dominant western ideology spread across a variety of historical western milieus has more often than not adopted a highly critical – not to say highly suspicious – stance towards whatever happens to point to such concept of the Overman.

It was of course Nietzsche above all, in his own untimely thinking, that would speak of a certain morality of individuality, and who would clearly articulate a philosophy of the Overman. Perhaps as untimely, Oakeshott would himself attempt to develop his own morality of individuality, and which could be said to be supportive of the virtues of the individual standing over – though not ever against – his own community.

This raises a series of necessary questions. To what extent is there a certain coincidence in the thinking of Nietzsche and that of Oakeshott? Does the thinking of the one help us understand the thinking of the other? And, if that be so, could this in any way help us understand the manner of thinking – and mode of conduct – of the present-day western citizen? Further, could the Nietzschean-Oakeshottian convergence of thought (and to the extent that such exists) be said to in some way reflect a present-day manner of thinking that is somehow entangled in postmodern western political debates? And would such entanglement be justified in terms of the thinking of either Nietzsche or Oakeshott?

These are totally open questions that require serious investigation if the postmodern western milieu is to be in any way understood. Nothing at all need be taken for granted. But to embark on such an investigation, we need to first of all hone in on certain more specific issues that the work of both thinkers has addressed, whether directly or otherwise – their manner of approach to just such issues shall help us compare and contrast particular modes of thinking and thereby better comprehend the question of the morality of individuality, as also the concomitant notion of the Overman. Before we pose such questions, it is of importance to assert that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott did in any case share a certain manner of thinking that may be called “disruptive wisdom”, as we shall certainly see in what follows (the term “disruptive wisdom” has been ascribed to Nietzschean philosophy in particular – cf. Alan Rosenberg, “Nietzsche and Untimeliness: The ‘Philosopher of the Future’ as the Figure of Disruptive Wisdom”, Academia.edu, 2003). It is in the light of such disruptive thinking, and with respect to both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, that the following questions need be raised:

• Who or what determines a person’s ends, goals and overall purpose in life? Who or what should determine an individual’s life-purpose?
• To what extent has the western nation-state ever operated – within its own historical time – as the guardian or guarantor of autonomous space for an individual’s creativity and individual value-creating (and which would define the individual’s life-purpose)?
• More specifically: which particular western milieus have expressed a mode of being supportive of the individual as an autonomous, self-rolling wheel (to use a typically Nietzschean term)? With exclusive reference to the modern or postmodern western world, may one somehow identify such mode of thinking and living in the anti-statist, anti-socialist libertarian political currents?
• To what extent does Oakeshott’s concept of civil association represent a form of state that is supportive of the individual as an autonomous, self-rolling wheel?
• May one identify the operation of civil associations – as a dominant mode of political being in society – in any particular milieu or milieus of western history? Has this history witnessed their operation periodically in time?
• In what way, if at all, does Nietzsche’s understanding of the individual as a self-rolling wheel – and therefore as a creator of his own and unique moral and aesthetic values – dovetail with whatever it is that expresses Oakeshott’s position on the individual’s place in the world?
• Would both Nietzsche and Oakeshott agree that such a type of self-rolling individual is in any case (that is, given whatever form of state) all too rare, or always in the minority?
• What is the position of both these thinkers on the question of mass ideology?

2. Of universal truths

For reasons that shall become clear as we proceed, one may say that both the posing of such types of questions and the manner in which one chooses to answer them would be presupposing – or even promulgating – a certain skeptical understanding of the so-called truths of the world. Both the Nietzschean and the Oakeshottian understanding of truth – albeit not themselves of the same order – may be said to share that type of disruptive thinking that radically questions all forms of western rationalist paradigms. It may be argued that both in the case of Nietzsche, as also in the case of Oakeshott, there is no such thing as the truth of the world, and therefore no such thing as a universal truth.

In his Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche writes as follows: “Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of truth; then did it kick me on the face” (p. 264 – we shall be invariably quoting from Thus Spake Zarathustra, Wordsworth Editions Limited, 1997, unless otherwise stated). The Nietzschean project was meant to disrupt, question and disclaim all the universal claims and acquired truths of western rationalist thinking: it announced a radical mistrust of rationalist-based truths and their concomitant social values, ranging from the so-called common good, to so-called equality and so-called justice or social justice. This relentless – not to say merciless – mistrust of all rational, universal claims still reverberates throughout the postmodern western world.

Nietzsche would not, however, disclaim one particular type of truth – that truth would be his very own personal sense of truth. He writes: “Sometimes I meant to lie and behold! Then only did I hit – the truth” (ibid.). We shall examine below in what exact sense the truth that Nietzsche would allow to claim for himself would be his exclusively own, individual truth.

For Oakeshott, there is no single set of truths that may be said to be universal – there is no particular way of seeing the world that can be said to constitute the exclusive truth of things. The Oakeshottian project – as consciously anti-rationalist as is that of the Nietzschean – argues that there is no single truth that stands objectively above all other truths. There happen to be radically different ways of seeing the world – such ways may be seen as languages or voices attempting to comprehend the things of the world. All are in fact different modes of human knowledge – any one thing or event in the world can be interpreted in terms of a particular mode of knowledge. Modes of knowledge would include the historical knowledge of a thing, its scientifically understood structure and composition, the practical knowledge of its usability, as also a knowledge based on its aesthetic appreciation (cf. Elizabeth Corey & John Sailer, Right Ideas: Michael Oakeshott – National Association of Scholars, YouTube, streamlined 23.03.2023).

All modes of knowledge are of equal value in understanding the world, depending on the particular objectives of either an individual or of a field of investigation. However, while there can be no hierarchy of epistemological primacy in the ordering of the modes, one may nonetheless assert that aesthetic appreciation is subjectively dominant – it is via this particular mode that the individual engages in his own creative powers and cultivates his own imagination. Individual creativity and individual imagination constitute a free and therefore self-determining mode of knowledge that is one’s enactment (an Oakeshottian term) of being in the world. We shall see in what follows that Oakeshott will argue his position on the primacy of aesthetic knowledge in a manner that shall attempt to destabilize the foundations of rationalist thinking, rationalist-based ideology and the rationalist-based practices of the western state. Of course, it is precisely this broad field of Oakeshottian critical reflection and investigation that shall allow us to compare and contrast with the work of Nietzsche.

Oakeshott’s critique of the western state – its supposedly rationalist-based practices and all-consuming rationalist-based mass ideology – may be accurately encapsulated in a term that he has coined as the politics of faith. We shall first proceed to examine Nietzsche’s own understanding of the western state, and we shall attempt to show how such an understanding clearly overlaps with the Oakeshottian politics of faith.

3. Of state and society – the politics of faith

3a. The state as the new idol

In Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche writes of what he calls “The New Idol” (p. 45). He is referring to the modern western state as he would understand it at the time.

This form of state, Nietzsche shall observe, has now emerged as the singularly most powerful ordering force in – and over – all of western society. It has gradually surfaced as the all-powerful mechanism of society that drives and directs its populace – it is so powerful, in fact, that it has taken the place of God. It entrenches its power by churning out mass ideology. It has come to operate as the new idol precisely because the mass ideology it produces is worshipped by the masses. This is how Nietzsche presents this new idol, the state: “… ‘On earth there is nothing greater than I: it is I who am the regulating finger of God’ – thus roareth the monster. And not only the long-eared and short-sighted fall upon their knees!” (ibid.).

Elsewhere in Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche tells us that the state “seeketh by all means to be the most important creature on earth” – and he adds that “people think it so” (p. 130). He shall also go on to suggest that the Church is itself “a kind of state” (ibid.).

As we shall see further below, all of these basic Nietzschean observations on the western state shall be of major concern to the Oakeshottian project. Oakeshott shall undertake a critical investigation of the all-powerful ubiquity of the western state as a producer of mass ideology (which he shall call an enterprise association). He shall also investigate the notion of the state as an all-inclusive entity that calls for – and materializes – the active participation of its populace (Nietzsche’s worshippers). Further, Oakeshott shall examine the notion of religion and religious practice as a state ideology, and identify the historical ramifications of this reality.

3b. The state and its priests

As a producer of mass ideology, the state needs to surround itself with intellectuals – but these must be recognized public intellectuals, and they have to operate in a manner that serves the interests of the state and its populace. Nietzsche shall refer to such intellectuals as either the priests or as the famous wise ones – his observations, one may note, shall certainly prepare the ground for later discussions around the notion of the western organic intellectual. The Nietzschean understanding of the famous wise ones, however, would also include what we would nowadays refer to as a society’s celebrities.

In his discussion of the state as the new idol, he observes: “Heroes and honourable ones it would fain set up around it, the new idol!” (p. 46). It is expected of those set up around the state-as-idol to worship it – were they to do so, the state would indulge them in whatever means possible. Nietzsche continues: “Everything will it give you, if ye worship it, the new idol …” (ibid.).

The Nietzschean critique of the famous wise ones at the service of the state is not meant to necessarily demean their person and their intellectual capacities or talents, at least with respect to some of these. But although intellectually capable, such types have been weakened and wearied by old ideological struggles (over the question of old ideological idols) – they are the weary ones who need to both serve and be supported by a power outside of them, it being the power of the new emergent idol, the state. It is such inbred weariness that allows the state to entice them to it and to use them. And thus Nietzsche writes: “Ah, even in your ears, ye great souls, it [the state] whispereth its gloomy lies! Ah, it findeth out the rich hearts which willingly lavish themselves! … Yea, it findeth you out too, ye conquerors of the old God! Weary ye became of the conflict, and now your weariness serveth the new idol!” (pp. 45-46).

But while the intellectual capacities of the famous wise ones are not to be degraded as such, these persons do come to demean themselves in what they do and say when serving the state and its populace. As functionaries of the state, they debase what for Nietzsche is (as also for Oakeshott, as well shall see) of paramount importance – that being, of course, culture itself. Nietzsche tells us that “They steal the works of the inventors and the treasures of the wise. Culture, they call their theft – and everything becometh sickness and trouble unto them!” (p. 46).

Nietzsche is dismissive of the misappropriated type of culture produced by the famous wise ones – and it is in direct response to them and their state-sponsored decadent cultural values that he offers us a series of alternative figurative models, such as his higher men. In his discussion of the Nietzschean figurative models and their relation to the issue of culture, Rosenberg (op. cit.) writes as follows: “They help us to alter or refine our aesthetic sensibilities … by discouraging us from simply deferring to those ‘useless squanderers’ or ‘cultural philistines’ who currently preside over the ‘catalysis of culture’. As an aesthetic counterpoint to the current ‘timely’ decadent figures who dominate our cultural horizon, Nietzsche offers ‘untimely’ alternative figures.” (p. 10).

Before we proceed any further in our presentation of the Nietzschean understanding of all timely intellectuals and their role in the production of mass culture and ideology, we need to briefly consider the implications of what Nietzsche is actually saying, at least at this point, with respect to authentic and inauthentic (or decadent) culture. He is here suggesting that inauthentic culture is that which steals what time-past has already created, it being something which remains a treasure in itself. One may infer that Nietzsche is not at all rejecting the treasures of western civilization as such – what he wishes to criticize is the appropriation of such treasures by the state (yielding the notion of state culture as theft), and the usage of such treasures by the state for its own ideological purposes (Oakeshott shall himself have much to say on this matter of practical usage of things-past, as we shall see).

It is for this reason (as for many others) that both the state and state power, as also those that are the functionaries of the state, are all plunged in the filth of the world, and what Nietzsche shall call its market-places. He writes: “Towards the throne they all strive; it is their madness – as if happiness sat on the throne! Ofttimes sitteth filth on the throne – and ofttimes also the throne on filth.” (p. 46).

The filth that sits on the throne of state power requires the production of mass ideology – the filth that buttresses such power from beneath effects the production of that mass ideology. The process is neither easy nor without internal contradictions – the priests and/or the famous wise men are bent on asserting their own particular version of the truth of the state. This is typical of all public intellectuals, who wish to preserve and perpetuate their fame and affluence – and so Nietzsche observes: “Sick are they always; they vomit their bile and call it a newspaper. They devour one another, and cannot even digest themselves.” (ibid.).

The famous wise ones squander their talents – and whatever genius they might be endowed with – in the interests of wealth, power and influence. And they squander themselves and their intellect in their public ideological polemics as they struggle to outwit one another. In the last instance, they come to render themselves impotent, at least as regards their own individuality and independent wisdom. Nietzsche continues: “Wealth they acquire and become poorer thereby. Power they seek for, and above all the lever of power, much money – these impotent ones!” (ibid.).

Elsewhere in Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche shall refer to the famous wise ones as reversed cripples, it being a condition that is supposedly emblematic of the impotence of public intellectuals. He describes such reversed cripples (and which is somewhat reminiscent of what we would nowadays call over-specialized idiots) as follows: “men who lack everything, except that they have too much of one thing – men who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big mouth, or a big belly, or something else big – reversed cripples, I call such men.” (p. 136).

And thus the Nietzschean untimely alternative figure – such as Zarathustra – would choose to maintain his safe distance from such famous wise ones and their lust for power in the world and its market-places. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “… holding my nose, I went morosely through all yesterdays and todays: verily, badly smell all yesterdays and todays of the scribbling rabble! … Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and dumb – thus have I lived long, that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble and the pleasure-rabble.” (p. 95).

Yet another Nietzschean figurative model offers the following advice when it comes to great cities: “Spit on … the city of the obtrusive, the brazen-faced, the pen-demagogues and tongue-demagogues, the overheated ambitious …” (p. 172).

Above all, the state entices the famous wise ones to itself with one primary objective in mind – it wishes to use them so as to attract the masses (Nietzsche’s the many-too-many) to it, and to engage these masses in its all-inclusive, leviathan-like social operations (as we shall further see, however, the state-versus-masses dichotomy is only a more or less false dichotomy). For the state, the famous wise ones are a means to an end – addressing himself to the heroes and honourable ones in the service of the state, Nietzsche writes: “It [the state] seeketh to allure by means of you, the many-too-many! Yea, a hellish artifice hath here been devised, a death-horse jingling with the trappings of divine honours!” (p. 46).

The famous wise ones operate as the supposed representatives of the many-too-many – in turn, the latter see the former as their own great men, and who happen to be great actors. Nietzsche observes: “In the world even the best things are worthless without those who represent them; those representers the people call great men.” (p. 48).

But the implication here is that, since such so-called great men are both in the service of the state and have to operate as representatives of the populace, they are essentially fettered persons – Nietzsche uses the term harnessed. He writes: “… serving ones do they remain, and harnessed ones, even though they glitter in golden harness.” (p. 101). Harnessed to the idolatry of mass ideology and to the notion of the state-as-idol, they live and think as idol-venerators – and it is as idol-venerators that the famous wise ones are reduced to draught-beasts. “In the cities”, Nietzsche writes, “dwell the well-foddered, famous wise ones – the draught-beasts.” (ibid.). And thus do all western cities have their famous wise donkeys – we read: “And many a powerful one who wanted to run well with the people, hath harnessed in front of his horses – a donkey, a famous wise man.” (p.100).

Serving men, harnessed men, draught-beasts or donkeys of the politically powerful, these reversed cripples are nonetheless seen by the many-too-many as exceptional geniuses. Nietzsche writes as follows: “The people told me, however, that the big ear was not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But I never believed in the people when they spake of great men – and I hold to my belief that it was a reversed cripple who had too little of everything, and too much of one thing.” (p. 137).

One should therefore be wary of both the people and the reversed cripples. The latter, who are taken to be the learned of society, hate whoever chooses to live by an independent morality of individuality – in the last instance, they hate the individual per se. And they hate independence and individuality because these are the sources of productivity and ultimate creativity – the famous wise ones, the learned of society, are themselves unproductive. We shall see below that they are unproductive at least in the sense that they account for the death of both peoples and independent individuals. Nietzsche (as also Oakeshott) shall argue that state ideology is an ideology of death in that it reduces the time-present of peoples and individuals to a mere time-future – this has taken the form either of a future in heaven (religion as a state ideology) or of a future that shall materialize itself as a paradise on earth (secular religion as a state ideology, as in the case of egalitarian socialism). We shall be examining this strand of thought in some greater detail below – for the moment, we merely note Nietzsche’s description of the priests and famous wise ones as the preachers of death. He writes: “Yea, a dying for many hath here been devised, which glorifieth itself as life: verily, a hearty service unto all preachers of death!” (p. 46).

The preachers of death despise those who live life as independent creators of life, as they also preach death to a dead or dying people – and thus Nietzsche warns us to be wary of both the many-too-many in the market-place and of their famous wise ones. He writes: “Be on your guard also [i.e., apart from the populace] against the learned! They hate you, because they are unproductive!” (p. 280).

3c. The state, its priests – their discourse

Both before and after Nietzsche, western intellectuals have spun an endless variety of theories attempting to explain the intricacies of state ideology and mass popular ideology. Nietzsche has himself written much on the ideological discourse of the western state, and as that has been articulated by its priests or its famous wise men. But there is one element in his understanding of state ideology that seems to be a dramatic eye-opener – he tells us that the state is both a liar and a thief (such types of suggestions would of course appear and reappear in more elaborate or composite theories concocted by an endless string of social philosophers). Nietzsche very simply writes as follows: “But the state lieth in all languages of good and evil; and whatever it saith it lieth, and whatever it hath it hath stolen.” (p. 45).

Oakeshott’s own contribution to the question of state ideology belongs to that endless string of theoretical discussion that has come to characterize western thought. But he raises a number of issues that certainly do come to overlap with what Nietzsche has to say about a state that is both liar and thief. Such issues shall be explored in what follows – but we may here simply present some of the types of issues that concern both the Nietzschean and the Oakeshottian projects: (i) to what extent does the state impose its ideology on the masses, and what are the consequences of such imposition?; (ii) to what extent is state discourse a rationalist-based ideology, and what are the implications of this?; (iii) to what extent does the imposition of a rationalist-based ideology translate into mass ideals and the mass idol-adoration of such ideals, and what are the implications of this for both a people and an individual?; (iv) what would all this mean with respect to the question of truth, as also the question of living a life in terms of certain set universal truths? (Some of these issues have been addressed by David Corey, “Oakeshott’s concept of ideology”, Academia.edu, 2014).

To answer these types of questions, one needs to investigate the relationship between the state and the masses.

3d. The state and its own populace

For Nietzsche, the modern western state has been established for none other than the populace itself – it is the populace that explains the raison d’être of a state. It is the many-too-many who are in need of a state’s protection, who depend on it for moral guidance and direction – the many-too-many need the ideology of the state so as to organize their being in the world and so as to find some meaning in their lives. Such need and dependence, however, tells us that the many-too-many are – as Nietzsche puts it – superfluous people. It was for such superfluous people that the state remains an absolute necessity. The implication is that any western state has its own populace – and it is for this reason that we have already suggested that the state-versus-masses dichotomy may be only a false dichotomy. In his discussion of the state as the new idol, Nietzsche writes: “Many too many are born; for the superfluous ones was the state devised!” (p. 45).

The dichotomy is false, but not to the extent that the state may be fully reduced to the populace. The one may practically engage in the business of the other, but they obviously remain different entities (the one is an organized structure or network of organs; the other is a mass of people that is often disorganized and sometimes organized, and especially when it is organized it meshes with and engages with state organs).

To therefore argue that the state has been devised for the populace does not necessarily mean that the state is the populace. To say so is a lie, and such lie constitutes the central ideology of the state in the western world (remember the notion of state ideology as a lie). “A state”, writes Nietzsche, “is called the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly lieth it also, and this lie creepeth from its mouth: ‘I, the state, am the people.’ …” (ibid.). The ideological lie does not simply rest on the fact that the state is not reducible to its populace – it is also a lie in that state ideology imposes itself on the populace, substituting itself for it. In the last instance, however, the imposition of such ideological lie is a shared lie (or a shared social illusion) between the state and its own populace – but shared though it be, it can only lead to the demise of a people.

The lie is shared because the many-too-many need state ideology, and they need the state as their protector and educator. Given its function as protector and educator of the masses, the state needs to articulate a universal truth that is expressive of the people – and it is the famous wise ones who spin such universal truth. Writing of the famous wise ones and their idea of truth, Nietzsche puts the following words in their mouth: “For there the truth is, where the people are! Woe, woe to the seeking ones!” And he continues: “Thus hath it echoed through all time.” (p. 100). Whatever seeking beyond the realm of such universal truth would be an anathema.

The dichotomy between state and populace is both false and true, depending on one’s perspective – either way, the western state is such as to create accessible spaces of power that enable a continuous bargaining and/or trafficking of power within its network of organs between itself and its own populace. The populace – or what Nietzsche shall also refer to as the rabble – is able to bargain for power within state structures and is thus actively present within such structures. Nietzsche writes as follows on the question of ruling: “And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call ruling: to traffic and bargain for power with the rabble!” (p. 95). Nietzsche is of course here referring to the modern democratic state of the western world – a form of state which is both the supreme idol of society as the regulating finger of God, and is at the same time accessible to the many-too-many. Here, the many-too-many are both of the state and in it, and are so through endless processes of power-bargaining.

Since the state has its own populace, its state-dependent intellectuals are themselves dependent on such populace, and they need always speak of the wisdom of the people – yet again, Nietzsche writes as follows about the famous wise ones: “For always do they draw, as asses – the people’s carts!” (p. 101).

What are such carts? These include the ideological and practical virtue of charity and sympathy for the many-too-many – or what we would nowadays refer to as social solidarity. Nietzsche counterposes the virtues of war, courage and bravery to the type of popular virtues promoted by the state and its intellectuals – he writes: “War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your sympathy, but your bravery hath hitherto saved the victims.” (p. 43). The carts of the modern democratic state have come to carry the ideology of solidarity towards the many-too-many – or, in other words, towards the so-called victims of society. Such solidarity, of course, would translate into the ideology and practice of the modern welfare state (we shall be discussing the issue of utilitarian welfarism further below). Nietzsche shall refer to the ideology and practice of welfarism as a state’s gift-giving to its populace, a practice that would tie the populace to the state-as-idol. “What care they”, Nietzsche writes, “if they bind others still faster with their chains and gifts!” (p. 42). He is of course suggesting that a state’s gift-giving is conducive to the destruction of the life and independence of a people – “But they want to be rid of life” (ibid.), he explains. Perhaps we should merely note here that the Nietzschean understanding of gifts – and their relation to chains – would later on also be taken up by thinkers such as Derrida, who would speculate on the meaning of gift-giving and the reciprocity it involves as a dual dead-end.

In terms of the Nietzschean project, in any case, power-bargaining with the populace, the ideology of popular wisdom, the practice of social solidarity, welfarism and gift-giving and so on – all these are symptoms of the western state and the hierarchy of commanding that takes place within it and society as a whole. It is such particular hierarchy – and its implications – to which we need now turn.

3e. The hierarchy of commanding

Considering the nature of all living things from a general perspective, Nietzsche makes the following observation: “Wherever I found a living thing, there found I Will to Power; and even in the will of the servant found I the will to be master.” (p. 112). In terms of such a perspective, the will to power – which would itself translate into a will to truth (and which would be an ideological truth) – is to be found everywhere, from the stronger to the weaker, all down the line. And when Nietzsche speaks of the servant, one might as well substitute that term with that of the populace.

Nietzsche further observes “That to the stronger the weaker shall serve – thereto persuadeth he his will who would be master over a still weaker one. That delight alone he is unwilling to forego.” (ibid.). He is therefore here presenting us with a hierarchical chain of commanding and obeying that traverses the whole of a society, from top to bottom.

One may briefly explain this commanding-obeying hierarchical structure of a society by putting it slightly otherwise as follows: person A commands person B, who obeys so that he may be able to command person C; person C obeys so that he may command person D, who obeys so that he may command person E, and person E himself obeys so that … etc., and so on, right down the line. Parenthetically, we need to emphasize here that this state of affairs describes the general nature of living things – but we shall see below that the exceptional individual (or the so-called Overman) does not at all have to adhere to such chain of command and/or obedience, as he has no need for either commanding or obeying anyone whatsoever.

Now, and as regards the general nature of things in society, such a commanding-obeying hierarchical structure can and does have its own particular consequences. This structural chain is such as to allow the weaker – who we know also possess the will to be master – to enter the fortress of the stronger and usurp their power. Nietzsche explains: “And where there is sacrifice and service and love-glances, there also is the will to be master. By by-ways doth the weaker then slink into the fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one – and there stealeth power.” (ibid.).

The mere fact that there are various by-ways through which the weaker may enter the echelons of power and thereby usurp the levers of political control defines the democratic processes of the western world – such processes determine the very social structure of a society, as they also obfuscate the distinction between those who possess or do not possess wealth. To put it simply: wherever one looks across the hierarchical power structures of western society, one always sees the presence of the populace (or of the superfluous many-too-many). Nietzsche writes as follows: “Populace above, populace below! What are ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ at present! That distinction did I unlearn …” (p. 261). One could here observe that certain social distinctions would naturally continue to prevail in the modern western world, but the distinctions would be relatively seamless across the social strata, and all members of which would in any case be lost in materialistically-oriented idol-adoration (the type that Oakeshott shall himself investigate in great detail, as we shall see).

The hierarchical structure of command and obedience and its gradual penetration by the populace itself would mean that the ideological discourse of the state would come to be permeated with the virtues – that is, the ideological virtues – of the many-too-many. And thus one would see the emergence of a common, universal idol-adoration, it being precisely the Oakeshottian politics of faith to be discussed below. Such politics of faith would come to define an all-inclusive common virtue of good and evil – the universal commonality of such virtue and its ideals would be intended to infuse the thinking and conduct of all and sundry within the hierarchical structure of society. This diffusion of ideological virtues and ideological ideals across the board is presented by Nietzsche as follows: “And this hypocrisy found I worst amongst them, that even those who command feign the virtues of those who serve … ‘I serve, thou servest, we serve’ – so chanteth here even the hypocrisy of the rulers – and alas, if the first lord be only the first servant!” (p. 165).

The rise of the populace, therefore, is the rise and prevalence of its own and exclusive sense of virtue – and the ideological ideals of that sense of virtue are meant to be imposed (via the state and its famous wise ones) onto each and every single individual of society. Nietzsche presents this state of affairs and its implications as follows: “There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny than when the mighty of the earth are not also the first men. Then everything becometh false and distorted and monstrous … And when they are even the last men, and more beast than man, then riseth and riseth the populace in honour, and at last saith even the populace-virtue: ‘Lo, I alone am virtue!’ …” (p. 238).

The populace is composed of the petty people with its own petty virtues – but the populace needs its preacher, who is in any case of that people. It is the preacher who articulates and announces the tenets of populace-virtue to society as a whole, and he articulates such virtue as the dogmatic truth of things. Nietzsche writes: “And ‘truth’ is at present what the preacher spake who himself sprang from them [the populace], that singular saint and advocate of the petty people, who testified of himself: ‘I – am the truth’ … That immodest one hath long made the petty people greatly puffed up, he who taught no small error when he taught: ‘I – am the truth’ …” (p. 256).

Generally speaking, the implication is that the modern democratic state in the western world has ultimately given birth to what we would nowadays sloganize as power to the people – its milieu has thus also glorified the virtues of popular insurrection. Nietzsche observes: “Too long have we acknowledged them [“the throng of grey little waves and wills and souls”] to be right, those petty people: so we have at last given them power as well – and now do they teach that ‘good is only what petty people call good’ …” (ibid.). With respect to the question of popular insurrection and its glorified virtues, Nietzsche writes as follows: “At present … everything low hath become rebellious and exclusive and haughty in its manner – in the manner of the populace … For the hour hath come – thou knowest it forsooth – for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth!” (p. 260).

An even deeper implication is that both the state and its so-called subverters are one and the same thing – they are, in the last instance, of the same species. Nietzsche speaks of – or rather to – the subverters (whom he includes amongst “the inventors of new noise”, p. 129) as follows: “Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like thee doth it like to speak with smoke and roaring – to make believe, like thee, that it speaketh out of the heart of things.” (p. 130).

3f. The state as Babel

All of what Nietzsche has said thus far of the western state – its role as the new idol, the role of its intellectuals as disseminators of mass ideology, and the concomitant rise of the many-too-many to power – is crowned with a presentation of a state of affairs that may be described as Babelian. And it may be described as Babelian because the idol-adoration of the many-too-many would lead to vicious ideological, cultural and material struggles around the idol itself – one would see, in other words, an endless series of verbal disputes within the ambit of that much vaunted space called public opinion. This approach is of major interest because, as we shall see in much greater detail below, this would tally with Oakeshott’s own use of the Babelian myth to describe the all-powerful western state as an enterprise of grand collective projects revolving around the idolatry of social discourse. Oakeshott, like Nietzsche, would of course see that whatever struggles around ideological idolatry ultimately do come to yield a social uniformity amongst the many-too-many, whereby each person is reduced to a replica of the other whatever be their apparent differences.

Speaking of great cities, one of the Nietzschean figurative models makes the following observation: “Seest thou not the souls hanging like limp dirty rags? And they make newspapers also out of these rags! … Hearest thou not how spirit hath here become a verbal game? Loathsome verbal swill doth it vomit forth! And they make newspapers also out of this verbal swill.” (p. 171).

With respect to the space of public opinion and its reduction to a ferocious verbal game in great cities, we further read as follows: “They hound one another, and know not whither! They inflame one another, and know not why! … they are all sick and sore through public opinion.” (ibid.).

It is Babelian-like ideological chatter that rules the roost in the so-called great cities of the western world – Nietzsche writes: “Everything among them talketh, nothing succeedeth any longer and accomplisheth itself. Everything cackleth, but who will still sit quietly on the nest and hatch eggs? … Everything among them talketh, everything is out-talked. And that which yesterday was still too hard for time itself and its tooth, hangeth today, outchamped and outchewed, from the mouths of the men of today … Everything among them talketh, everything is betrayed. And what was once called the secret and secrecy of profound souls, belongeth today to the street-trumpeters and other butterflies.” (pp. 179-180).

As we shall see in due course, the Nietzschean understanding of the Babelian-like ideological chatter permeating great cities is a concept that closely overlaps with that of the Oakeshottian view of the modern western world, and it does so in at least one very specific manner. Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would argue that all ideological chatter – with its grand ideals and even grander visions of the future – revolves around material interests, material survival and the material maintenance of the many-too-many, whatever be their social position. “But down there”, Nietzsche observes, “there speaketh everything, there is everything misheard. If one announce one’s wisdom with bells, the shopmen in the market-place will out-jingle it with pennies!” (p. 179).

Similarly, and as regards the relationship between political rulers and material interests, he writes as follows: “But the moon still revolveth around all that is earthly: so revolveth also the prince around what is earthliest of all – that, however, is the gold of the shopman … The God of the Hosts of war is not the God of the golden bar; the prince proposeth but the shopman – disposeth! … By all that is luminous and strong and good in thee, O Zarathustra, spit on this city of shopmen and return back!” (p. 172).

The God of hosts has now been substituted for the God of the golden bar – and it is therefore only material interests that are of concern to both the political rulers and their populace. In a world where mercantile exchange is the raison d’être of the many-too-many, these have rendered themselves unworthy of the rule of kings (who of course had once been the rulers in pre-capitalist societies, where people would not be exclusively focused on material success). Nietzsche writes of the modern world as follows: “Let there the trader rule, where all that still glittereth is – traders’ gold. It is the time of kings no longer; that which now calleth itself the people is unworthy of kings.” (p. 204).

Not all of the people in the so-called great cities are traders – but the point is that even those that happen not to be traders have come to behave in a manner that replicates that of the traders. Nietzsche continues: “See how these peoples themselves now do just like the traders: they pick up the smallest advantage out of all kinds of rubbish!” (ibid.). It is the mundanely materialistic obsession of the many-too-many that Nietzsche wishes to point to when he uses the expression all kinds of rubbish – the word rubbish, one may assume, must refer to commodities.

The modern cities of the western world have come to be populated by masses of people who swarm around ideological idols, and they do so like herds fighting for little else but their material maintenance –  that is their raison d’être: they chatter, cackle and cry for just that, whatever be the lofty ideals of the ideologies they say they espouse. Nietzsche goes even further – he writes: “If they had – bread for nothing, alas, for what would they cry! Their maintainment – that is their true entertainment; and they shall have it hard! … Beasts of prey are they; in their ‘working’ – there is even plundering, in their ‘earning’ – there is even overreaching! Therefore shall they have it hard! … Better beasts of prey shall they thus become, subtler, cleverer, more man-like; for man is the best beast of prey … All the animals hath man already robbed of their virtues: that is why of all animals it hath been hardest for man … Only the birds are still beyond him, and if man should yet learn to fly, alas, to what height – would his rapacity fly?” (ibid.).

One may say that people’s chattering, cackling and crying – all aspects of their ideological discourses – become subtler and clever as the going gets tougher. Ideological struggles and clashing ideological discourses lead to a confusion of language – and such confusion can be both deliberate and unintentional. Either way, it is a Babelian state of affairs – the state, however, thrives on just such confusion. Nietzsche observes: “Confusion of language of good and evil: this sign I give unto you as the sign of the state.” (p. 45). And he then goes on directly to make a further observation, the implications of which shall have to be discussed as we proceed – he writes: “Verily, the will to death indicateth this sign [of confusion]! Verily, it beckoneth unto the preachers of death!” (ibid.). As we shall see, the Babelian state thriving on the confusion of ideological language amongst its populace constitutes a nihilistic, destructive force. Such state does not stand for the will to life – its very existence spells the death of peoples.

The Babelian state holds dominion over the great Babelian city – it is that type of modern city that Nietzsche shall describe as a great slum. He writes: “Here floweth all blood putridly and tepidly and frothily through all veins; spit on the great city, which is the great slum where all the scum frotheth together!” (p. 172).

It is the market-place, of course, around which such great slum revolves. “Here”, Nietzsche asserts, “there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen.” (p. 173). To further understand Nietzsche’s absolute rejection of the Babelian state and society, we need to briefly dwell on what he has to say specifically about the market-place.

3g. The market-place

For Nietzsche, there is a clear dividing line between that space where the free individual can create his own life-values and that other space where such free creativity ends. The space for individual creativity requires solitude – it is precisely there where such solitude ends that the state begins to exist and function. And it is also at that exact point where the market-place begins to exist and function. What is it that exists and functions in the space of the market-place? Therein, one finds the state’s great actors, and one also finds therein the masses – both categories of people are in continual interaction, their mutual co-existence is a binding necessity. Nietzsche speaks of such clear dividing line, and describes the market-place and its people, as follows: “Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the market-place; and where the market-place beginneth, there beginneth also the noise of the great actors, and the buzzing of the poison-flies.” (p. 48).

For the individual who can both endure and celebrate his own creative freedom, Nietzsche gives the following advice regarding the market-place: “Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise of the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones.” (ibid.). We shall have much more to say on the question of solitude below – at this point, we merely note that the noise of the great men (as functionaries of the state and as mediators of the many-too-many within the market-place) and the stings of the little ones are interrelated dimensions of a single albeit internally contradictory state ideology that wishes to crush all individuality (by deafening it with its noise, and by poisoning it with its stings).

Repudiating all and sundry within the market-place, Nietzsche speaks of these as follows: “Full of clattering buffoons is the market-place – and the people glory in their great men! These are for them the masters of the hour.” (ibid.).

To further understand Nietzsche’s repudiation of the populace in the market-place, we need to dwell in some greater detail on the manner in which he assesses the mettle of the modern masses of the western world.

3h. The populace

The populace is synonymous with the rabble – and it is the rabble that poison life and its felicity. Nietzsche writes: “Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all fountains are poisoned.” (p. 94). He speaks of “the kingdom of the populace”, and observes: “The populace, however – that meaneth, hodgepodge.” (p. 236).

His assessment of the populace is based on a consciously detached bird’s-eye view (a very special type of detachment that shall have to be further examined below). Nietzsche writes: “With the new morning, however, there came unto me a new truth; then did I learn to say: ‘Of what account to me are market-place and populace and populace-noise and long populace-cars!’ …” (p. 276).

The populace – those superfluous ones for which the state had to be devised – is necessarily entangled in that hierarchy of command and obedience running through the structures of western society, and it is therefore inevitably embroiled in a perpetual scramble for power. Being so embroiled, it is a beast of prey that is becoming all the more subtler and cleverer in its manipulations and strategic compromises for state power – the populace is a nimble ape. But it is a nimble ape bent on its nihilistic self-destruction. Nietzsche writes of both the populace and its representatives as follows: “See them clamber, these nimble apes! They clamber over one another, and thus scuffle into the mud and the abyss.” (p. 46).

It is materialistic ambition that defines the populace as rabble, and its scrambling for social success – and it is that type of ambition and scrambling that determines rabble conduct as a whole, it being a conduct that one should flee from. Nietzschean figurative models assert their distance from the bellowing and yelling rabble as follows: “From the rabble have we gone out of the way, from all those bawlers and scribe-blowflies, from the trader-stench, the ambition-fidgeting, the bad breath; fie, to live among the rabble …” (p. 237).

Materialistic ambition or ambition-fidgeting reduces the populace to a rabble of servile masses – and they are servile as they clamber over one another within the structures of the state. What they expect of their state is the promise of a provided abundance – and they prefer it to the opportunity (and danger) of individual choice. It is just such a critical overview of the modern western masses that clearly points to an essential overlapping between the thinking of Nietzsche and that of Oakeshott. The latter writes of people “with wants so servile that they prefer the promise of a provided abundance [i.e. as provided by the state] to the opportunity of choice and activity on their own account.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, Rationalism In Politics and other essays, Methuen & Co Ltd, 1962, p. 192).

The servile masses – the great majority of a state’s population – can only but be cowardly. Nietzsche wishes to contrast the exceptional individual to the rest of society – he writes: “The rest: these are always the great majority, the commonplace, the superfluous, the far-too-many – those all are cowardly!” (p. 174).

Servility and cowardice are detectable in the run-of-the-mill lassitude and complacency that characterizes the far-too-many. Even with respect to the young of modern western society, Nietzsche notes as follows: “Those young hearts have already all become old – and not old even! Only weary, ordinary, comfortable. They declare it: ‘We have again become pious.’ …” (ibid.).

The symptoms of weariness, ordinariness and self-comfort are all such as to inevitably lead to a generalized plebeian ignorance. Nietzsche presents the ignorance of the masses as follows: “The ignorant, to be sure, the people – they are like a river on which a boat floateth along; and in the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn and disguised.” (p. 110). It is not the river of the people that decides the value of things – in their ignorance, the people allow the boat of wisdom to estimate for them what is good and evil (we need note, however, that such boat of wisdom has no choice but to flow in accordance with the fashion, faith and fantasy of the age, as Roger Penrose would put it).

The modern western world has of course enabled the masses to read – that, however, has in any case had (and will continue to have) a detrimental effect on western intellectual culture as a whole. “Another century of readers”, Nietzsche tells us, “and spirit itself will stink.” (p. 36). And he continues: “Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in the long run not only writing but also thinking.” (ibid.). The obvious implication here is that were writers to write so as to please the ignorance of the masses, both their writing and their thinking would suffer in terms of quality. A somewhat similar position on culture (though certainly based on dissimilar premises) would be held by T.S. Eliot in the 1940’s, when he would argue that the maintenance of the quality of culture would depend on the extent to which that culture would remain of the minority; or, similarly, that the expansion of education amongst the masses would ultimately lower the qualitative criteria of culture as a whole (cf. his Notes towards the Definition of Culture, Faber and Faber Limited, 1948; 1949).

For Nietzsche, plebeian ignorance is such that it inadvertently deceives itself, as it also deceives others. “The populace”, he writes, “knoweth not what is great and what is small, what is straight and what is honest; it is innocently crooked, it ever lieth.” (p. 279).

In its innocent crookedness and self-deception, the populace has had beliefs and value-systems imposed on it – imposed, that is, by that boat of wisdom floating on the flowing river of the populace. The estimates of value imposed on it have led it to learn and accept the dogmatic tenets of idol-adoration. And thus Nietzsche asks: “What the populace once learned to believe without reasons, who could – refute it to them by means of reasons?” (p. 280). “And on the market-place”, he continues, “one convinceth with gestures. But reasons make the populace distrustful.” (ibid.).

The ramifications of such a state of affairs regarding the populace are obvious – for Nietzsche, the masses of the western world have come to constitute a danger to individual freedom and independent thinking. Oakeshott, as we shall see, would fully agree on the question of the danger posed by mass ideology, and the subservience of the masses to such ideology and to the demagogues peddling it. Luke O’Sullivan, who wishes to present Oakeshott as one of the last of the so-called English Romantics, notes as follows: “Striking a Nietzschean note, Oakeshott warned of the danger that ‘the masses’ posed to representative democracy [here, not to be confused with either the state-as-idol, or with the politics of faith]: the majority of people were unused to choosing for themselves, and would become prey to demagogues.” (cf. “Short Article: Michael Oakeshott Last of the English Romantics”, Academia.edu, 2017, p. 71).

The danger of the populace lies in the fact that, in the last instance, it really has nothing to say for itself. Oakeshott writes as follows: “The major part of mankind has nothing to say; the lives of most men do not revolve round a felt necessity to speak.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 43). In an important sense, the fact that the masses have nothing to say publicly does not in itself constitute a danger – but when many or even some of their members do speak, they simply mimic the thinking of the famous wise ones, who function as demagogues. And when they mimic the demagogic famous wise ones, they bellow and yell fanatically – the estimates of value that have been imposed on them crystallize into mass political dogma. Ultimately, then, almost all may come to cackle around the ideals of such dogma. When the masses do speak, their speech is devoid of authenticity.

The mass cackling is of course meant to assert the values of the populace – the populace, however, does not understand the creating agency hidden behind such values (or it cannot grasp that which reigns disguised within the boat of so-called wisdom). Nietzsche observes: “Little do people understand what is great – that is to say, the creating agency. But they have a taste for all representers and actors of great things.” (p. 48).

Their taste for mere representers and actors of great things means that the masses have come to despise the free, independent individual who is himself his own creating agency. Feeling revengeful, they stand against that type of person. It is for this reason that Nietzsche calls the many-too-many circumscribed souls – their inability to be value-creating agents themselves delimits their very mode of existence. Regarding those many-too-many flies in the market-place, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra tells us that theirs is a small existence – and adds: “But their circumscribed souls think: ‘Blamable is all great existence’ …” (p. 50).

And yet, despite the fact that such circumscribed souls lead a small existence, they all nonetheless think much of themselves, of their own life, and of their own death. Nietzsche observes: “But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked.” (p. 68).

This allows Nietzsche to speak as follows about what he calls the sorrow-sighing of the populace: “So unlearn, I pray you, the sorrow-sighing, and all the populace-sadness! Oh, how sad the buffoons of the populace seem to me today! This today, however, is that of the populace.” (pp. 284-285).

Much of what Nietzsche has to say about the populace is more or less also evident in the work of Stendhal (whom, as we know, Nietzsche greatly admired as an untimely explorer of the human psyche). The intolerant dogmatism of the populace, the tyranny of public opinion and the ignorance that goes with it, the pettiness – or small existence – of the lives of the many-too-many, and so on, are also explored in Stendhal’s 1830 novel, The Red and the Black. With respect to “the judgment of those wise and moderate folk who make public opinion in the Franche-Comté”, Stendhal makes the following observation: “As a matter of fact, these folk wield the most wearisome despotism … The tyranny of public opinion – and what an opinion! – is as stupid in the small towns of France as it is in the United States of America.” (cf. Stendhal, Red and Black, translated by Robert M. Adams, New York, Norton & Co, 1969, p. 4).

Like Nietzsche, Stendhal looks down on the masses, be these the people as a whole or the rising 19th century bourgeoisie. For him, the masses of his time are all materialistically obsessed – they have a single purpose in life, it being to succeed in some profession and nothing much else. Generally, moreover, he cannot stand the very smell and the noise of all such masses. Again like Nietzsche, who would hearken back to time-past for models of heroic virility and an aristocratic spirit set well apart from the many-too-many, Stendhal would likewise opt for the aristocratic instinct as a mode of life – therein, he would discover the qualities of intelligence and self-cultivation. And it would only be within aristocratic social culture that – in contrast to the popular culture of the materialistic masses – one would discover the joys of music, passion and heroism.

The affinity in the thinking of Nietzsche and Stendhal has been well documented in a text by William R. Goetz, “Nietzsche and Le Rouge et le noir”, Comparative Literature Studies, Vol. 18, No. 4, December 1981, pp. 443-458.

At this point, we merely wish to corroborate what has been noted above regarding Stendhal’s own positions on the masses vis-à-vis the aristocratic instinct – we shall here present an extract from a 1953 text by Erich Auerbach entitled “In the Hôtel de La Mole” (a supplement to Red and Black, op. cit.). We read as follows: “… he [Stendhal] treats even the classes of society which, according to his views, should be closest to him, extremely critically and without a trace of the emotional views which romanticism attached to the word people. The practically active bourgeoisie with its respectable money-making, inspires him with an unconquerable boredom, he shudders at the ‘republican virtue’ of the United States, and despite his ostensible lack of sentimentality he regrets the fall of the social culture of the ancien régime. ‘My word, there’s no more wit’, he writes in chapter 30 of Henri Brulard, ‘everyone is saving all his energy for a job which will give him standing in the world.’ No longer is birth or intelligence or the self-cultivation of the honnête homme the deciding factor – it is ability in some profession. This is no world in which Stendhal-Dominique can live and breathe … Love, music, passion, intrigue, heroism – these are the things that make life worthwhile … Stendhal is an aristocratic son of the big bourgeoisie of the old regime, he will and can be no nineteenth-century bourgeois. He says so himself time and again: ‘… my family handed down their aristocratic instincts to me’ (Brulard, ch. 14); ‘since the Revolution theater audiences have become stupid’ (Brulard, ch. 22) … he finds the smell and the noise of the masses unendurable, and in his books … we find no ‘people’ …” (pp. 444-445).

But if such be the many-too-many, what is it that constitutes their set of values? We shall need to take a closer look at such values, which are ipso facto the values of the market-place. We shall have to examine issues such as democracy, equality, justice and the so-called common good.

3i. The values of the market-place and its populace

Despite an array of ever-alternating internal contradictions, the values of the populace are the values of the market-place – and again despite an interminable diffusion of internal contradictions, these values are also of the modern western state. This is so because that form of state is a democratic state – and it is democratic in that the many-too-many are of it and in it (being allured by it).

This is the basic social context that shall allow us to understand the values of the populace – Nietzsche describes such broad context as follows: “Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becometh populace.” (p. 36). One may interpret such an observation by saying that the ethos or motivating force of the western world has undergone three basic transformations in the course of its history: first, values had been determined by religion; then they would be determined by the paradigm of humanism; ultimately, however, it would be the populace itself – via the agency of its demagogues – that would be the determining force of all social values. It would be the democratic state, and its democratic ethos, that would enable the values of the populace to become socially dominant.

Regarding such potentially all-inclusive popular ideological dominance, Nietzsche writes: “Whatever is of the effeminate type, whatever originateth from the servile type, and especially the populace-mishmash – that wisheth now to be master of all human destiny! O disgust! Disgust! Disgust!” (p. 277). The populace power stemming from democracy yields to the prevalence of populace values, and the virtues that accompany such values.

Nietzsche shall observe that these virtues of the populace are the bedwarfing virtues of mass mediocrity – and they reflect the values of a utilitarian-based idol-adoration whereby all are in search of a certain type of petty happiness. “I pass through this people”, Nietzsche writes, “and keep mine eyes open; they have become smaller, and ever become smaller – the reason thereof is their doctrine of happiness and virtue.” (p. 164). And he further goes on to explain such smallness – or such small existences – as follows: “For they are moderate also in virtue – because they want comfort. With comfort, however, moderate virtue only is compatible.” (ibid.).

The common populace virtues, being as they are, induce submission – in its turn, submission induces cowardice, and vice versa. The process turns into a vicious circle, especially as the pursuit for a certain small happiness invariably leads to yet another pursuit for some other small happiness. Nietzsche writes: “Modestly to embrace a small happiness – that do they call ‘submission’! And at the same time they peer modestly after a new small happiness.” (p. 165). “In their hearts”, he explains, “they want simply one thing most of all: that no one hurt them. Thus do they anticipate every one’s wishes and do well unto every one … That, however, is cowardice, though it be called ‘virtue’ …” (ibid.).

The acquiescence to submission, and the tacit cowardice that goes with such acquiescence, has led to the domestication of the many-too-many. According to Nietzsche: “Virtue for them is what maketh modest and tame: therewith have they made the wolf a dog, and man himself man’s best domestic animal.” (ibid.).

Mass domestication has come to be heralded as a social virtue – but a moderation revolving around the small happinesses of a docile people has come to herald mediocrity itself as a virtue. Nietzsche sees in the bedwarfing virtues of domestication and moderation the very essence of mediocrity. He writes of the modern western masses as follows: “… ‘We set our chair in the midst’ – so saith their smirking unto me – ‘and as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine’ … That, however, is – mediocrity, though it be called moderation.” (p. 166).

The small happinesses of the mediocre many-too-many are part and parcel of their sorrow-sighing and populace-sadness. And thus Nietzsche’s Zarathustra declares: “of what account to me are your many little, short miseries!” (p. 279).

It is precisely the pursuit of the small happinesses (and the concomitant short miseries) that constitutes the essential source of all the values and all the virtues of the many-too-many – the pursuit and maintenance of such small happinesses is the alpha and the omega of their small existences. And thus they concentrate on the question of their material maintenance and spin grand ideologies around it. Nietzsche writes: “The most careful ask today: ‘How is man to be maintained?’ Zarathustra however asketh, as the first and only one: ‘How is man to be surpassed?’ …” (p. 277). We note that it is the modern, present-day intellectual (he who is of today) that devotes himself to a careful consideration of the issue of human maintenance – his concern is therefore focused on modern western man in particular. For Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, it is specifically that type of man that needs to be surpassed. And he needs to be surpassed – by those who are the first – because the issue of raw material maintenance is such as to inevitably generate utilitarian-oriented ideals that translate into mass idol-adoration. Life is thereby reduced to a mere material maintenance dissipating itself in such adoration. And all such mass ideals – originating as they do from the needs and considerations of material maintenance (the matter of small happinesses) – further reduce life to an incessant projection of time-present into a time-future that never ever truly arrives.

The utilitarian-based effeminately servile type who is enmeshed in the idol-adoration of particular ideals of social justice, and who is thereby struggling for the maintenance of some small happinesses, has come to dominate western civilization both ideologically and culturally. Nietzsche writes as follows of that type of western man: “That asketh and asketh and never tireth: ‘How is man to maintain himself best, longest, most pleasantly?’ Thereby – are they the masters of today.” (ibid.).

The ideological and cultural domination is effected through the spinning of grand ideologies – these are spun by state functionaries and are appropriated in their more vulgar form by the masses as a popular mentality. The utilitarian-based idol-adoration bent on western man’s material maintenance has been informed by the grand ideology of rationalism, a manner of thinking and conduct that has been critically investigated by Oakeshott himself, as we shall further see below. Like utilitarianism, the rationalist mode of thinking and living confines the human experience to the single-minded pursuit of maximizing utility. Elizabeth Corey, in a detailed study of Oakeshottian thinking entitled Michael Oakeshott on Religion, Aesthetics, and Politics (University of Missouri Press, Columbia and London, 2006), notes the following: “… Oakeshott saw Rationalism as an intellectual pathology that works to constrict the range of experience, since Rationalists value only those things and activities that encourage modern man in his goals of maximizing utility. Oakeshott’s work is a continual protest against the world’s demand for productivity and progress.” (p. 125).

The goal of maximizing utility is meant to secure the best, the longest, the most possibly pleasant maintenance of western man. This implies that the modern western milieu wishes to maximize utility so as to secure the small happinesses of the many-too-many. Such mode of thinking and living has thereby come to promote as its central ideological and political ideal the people’s petty virtues, yielding all too petty policies – and it is such petty policies that have come to dominate the modern western world. Nietzsche observes: “For today have the petty people become master; they all preach submission and humility and policy and diligence and consideration and the long et cetera of petty virtues.” (p. 277).

Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would wish to see the petty, utilitarian virtues of rationalist ideology to be surpassed – these could only be surpassed by asserting the enactment of a mode of being centered on the self-determining and morally self-determined individual. Both would reject whatever ideology of collectivism meant to secure the maintenance and the so-called common good of the many-too-many as a collectivity. Nietzsche exhorts the exceptional individual to overcome such manner of thinking and living – he writes: “Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the petty policy, the sand-grain considerateness, the ant-hill trumpery, the pitiable comfortableness, the ‘happiness of the greatest number’!” (ibid.).

We note that Nietzsche refers to that long et cetera of the petty virtues of the many-too-many – he does so because such petty virtues have come to assume a wide variety of closely interrelated ideological dimensions. One such dimension is the notion of the good citizen, and how the feelings of such a citizen ought to be defined by – what we would nowadays call – a sense of solidarity towards his fellow men. Nietzsche certainly has much to say with respect to the good and that so-called solidarity amongst the many-too-many.

As to those who call themselves the good, Nietzsche has this to say: “Especially did I find those who call themselves ‘the good’ the most poisonous flies; they sting in all innocence, they lie in all innocence; how could they – be just towards me! … He who liveth amongst the good – pity teacheth him to lie. Pity maketh stifling air for all free souls. For the stupidity of the good is unfathomable.” (p. 180).

The good citizen is good because he is said to feel empathy with those who suffer in his midst – as one of the many-too-many, he stands in solidarity with the pain of the other. Essentially, those who call themselves the good are consciously or unconsciously immersed in the ethical ideology of fellow-suffering. Nietzsche, however, radically reinterprets such empathetic solidarity towards the other – or towards the sufferer – by questioning the deeper motives of the good citizen. He asks him thus: “Hath not your lust just disguised itself and taken the name of fellow-suffering?” (p. 51).

By and by, empathetic solidarity can translate into a wish to emancipate one’s fellow-sufferer – and yet, asserts Nietzsche: “Many a one cannot loosen his own fetters, but is nevertheless his friend’s emancipator.” (p. 54). And further, Nietzsche goes on to observe, he who is incapable of loosening his own fetters obviously remains a lustful slave, and lustful slaves cannot in any case have real friends.

A solidarity that translates into the wish to emancipate the other can be destructive, and especially so for the fellow-sufferer who was presumably meant to be emancipated. Nietzsche writes: “He, however, who maketh the lame man run, inflicteth upon him the greatest injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices run away with him …” (p. 136).

The ideological notion of the good citizen – and the concomitant notion of so-called solidarity towards all fellow-sufferers of the many-too-many – constitutes one of the basic common virtues of the petty people (as also those of their rulers). Being good and being in solidarity with the rest is simply being just – it is, in fact, an expression of justice itself. The ideological notion of justice, therefore, is founded on pity for the other. Nietzsche looks around him and observes as follows: “So much kindness, so much weakness do I see. So much justice and pity, so much weakness.” (p. 165). And in Nietzsche’s discussion of the ugliest man, we read: “That however – namely, pity – is called virtue itself at present by all petty people …” (p. 256).

Exactly how the Nietzschean Overman relates to the petty many-too-many remains a subtle issue which shall have to be further discussed below, and especially through the insights provided us by Oakeshott. But one thing is certain here: the exceptional individual, the Overman, is someone who has no time at all for a relationship based on pity, or based on the long et cetera of interrelated petty virtues. Nietzsche declares: “The Superman, I have at heart; that is the first and only thing to me – and not man; not the neighbour, not the poorest, not the sorriest …” (p. 277).

We have noted that that long et cetera of the petty virtues encompasses an ideological notion of justice founded on pity – Nietzsche investigates such notion of justice per se, or the notion of social justice as practiced by the populace and its state. He observes that this is a justice ultimately based on judges and executioners – it is therefore a notion of justice imposed by the state on all members of society through an at least latent coercion (and is especially imposed on whoever dares to deviate, for instance, from the imperatives of the petty virtues). Nietzsche writes: “I do not like your cold justice; out of the eye of your judges there always glanceth the executioner and his cold steel.” (p. 65). Speaking of the tarantulas, typical preachers of social justice, he observes: “… being judge seemeth to them bliss.” (p. 98). And he continues: “They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their countenances peer the hangman and the sleuth-hound.” (ibid.).

The social justice of the many-too-many, Nietzsche asserts, is a justice of judges where everyone is under investigation (this being the function of the sleuth-hounds). Whoever deviates from the long et cetera of the petty virtues and the grand ideals that are spun around such virtues – those grand utopian ideals of the many-too-many and their society – is suspected of anti-social conduct and can fall prey to the cold steel of the social and/or state judges. Once in a while, these grand utopian ideals are violently imposed on all and sundry in a society – it is there that the hangman is activated. And the hangman has one basic motive, it being vengeance – Nietzsche tells us that “In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance …” (ibid.). We know of course that Albert Camus would himself write much of the role of avenging hangmen in cases where we would see the violent imposition of utopian ideals onto a society, as in the case of the French or Russian Revolutions (cf. Nikos Vlachos, “From Proust’s Aristocracy to Sartre’s Outcasts”, Academia.edu, 2023). As we shall see, Oakeshott has himself as much to say on the imposition of whatever ideals onto societies.

The discourse of social justice, we are saying, gives birth to the hangman and the sleuth-hound – these are on the lookout for any deviation. And they are ready to pounce on him that dares to deviate from the idol-adoration of the many-too-many – to pounce on him who is, as Nietzsche names him, a non-adorer. That which gives the hangmen and sleuth-hounds the right to so pounce on such an individual is precisely the sense of right of the many-too-many. Nietzsche writes as follows: “To hunt him [i.e. the “non-adorer”] out of his lair – that was always called ‘sense of right’ by the people; on him do they still hound their sharpest-toothed dogs.” (p. 100).

Generally speaking, Nietzsche wishes to expose the fraudulent hypocrisy of all ideologies of social justice, and especially when these are imposed on society – such imposition occurs, of course, as soon as populace justice bonds with the rudiments of power. He notes: “And when they call themselves ‘the good and just’, forget not that for them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but – power!” (p. 98).

Now, one of the grandest of petty virtues of the ideology of social justice is that of equality, or of the equality of the many-too-many and their rulers. It is in the market-place of the modern western cities that the virtue of equality prevails. “Ye higher men”, writes Nietzsche, “learn this from me: on the market-place no one believeth in higher men. But if ye will speak there, very well! The populace, however, blinketh: ‘We are all equal’ … ‘Ye higher men’ – so blinketh the populace – ‘there are no higher men, we are all equal; man is man, before God – we are all equal!’ …” (p. 276).

As in the case of the hangmen and sleuth-hounds of social justice in general, whose basic motive is vengeance, so also in the case of the preachers of equality – the Nietzschean tarantulas – it is above all vengeance that is being sought. Naturally, the preachers of equality – as also the populace that they represent – wish to avenge any individual who happens not to be like those who declare themselves to be equal. Regarding all preachers of equality, Nietzsche writes as follows: “Revenge is in thy soul: wherever thou bitest, there ariseth black scab; with revenge thy poison maketh the soul giddy! … Thus do I speak unto you in parable, ye who make the soul giddy, ye preachers of equality! Tarantulas are ye unto me, and secretly revengeful ones!” (p. 97).

Nietzsche wishes to expose that which truly lies beneath the discourse of equality, and the notion of social justice that supports such discourse. So as to effect such an exposure, he intends to provoke all preachers of equality in a manner that shall bring forth their vengeful impulses to light. And thus he continues: “Therefore do I tear at your web, that your rage may lure you out of your den of lies, and that your revenge may leap forth from behind your word ‘justice’ …” (ibid.).

It may be asserted that a great part of the history of the western world has been marked by wars that have been instigated by none other than the vengeful impulses of the preachers of equality and the many-too-many that they have always represented. And it yet still remains the intention of the preachers of equality to continue perpetuating such conflicts – and to do just that in the name of their notion of social justice and equality. Nietzsche continues his exposure of the preachers of justice by telling us of their intentions. While the self-willed, independent individual would wish to redeem himself of all vestiges of revenge (since the wish for whatever revenge would stifle independence itself), the preachers of justice and equality would have it all too differently. Nietzsche writes: “Otherwise, however, would the tarantulas have it. ‘Let it be very justice for the world to become full of the storms of our vengeance’ – thus do they talk to one another.” (ibid.).

And the preachers of justice and equality continue their talk with one another as follows: “… ‘Vengeance we will use, and insult, against all who are not like us’ – thus do the tarantula-hearts pledge themselves.” (ibid.).

For the preachers of equality, the independent individual’s will to power for self-virtue has been abandoned in the name of the virtue of the will to equality for all. Nietzsche writes: “… ‘And “Will to Equality” – that itself shall henceforth be the name of virtue; and against all that hath power will we raise an outcry!’ …” (ibid.).

And yet such a supposedly virtuous outcry for equality is in fact the outcry of the impotent – it is the impulsive protestation of those who are incapable of experiencing their own individuality, and are incapable of discovering their own independent wisdom. And it is for this reason alone that they yearn to be tyrants – yearn, that is, to impose their own virtue of equality on all of society. Nietzsche continues: “Ye preachers of equality, the tyrant-frenzy of impotence crieth thus in you for ‘equality’: your most secret tyrant-longings disguise themselves thus in virtue-words!” (ibid.). In the last instance, Nietzsche asserts, the will to equality of the many-too-many is mere “Fretted conceit and suppressed envy …” (ibid.).

The morality of individuality – that of the independent individual who lives his life as a creative self-rolling wheel – is a morality that eschews the morality of the market-place and its virtue-signalling preachers of equality. The Nietzschean independent individual has no choice but to declare his exceptionality vis-à-vis the many-too-many who name themselves equal – Nietzsche writes as follows: “Before the populace, however, we will not be equal. Ye higher men, away from the market-place!” (p. 276).

The independently creative individual is able to reject the ideological concept of equality because he has already rejected the whole ideological paradigm of social justice on which that concept rests – and he can reject the paradigm of social justice since he lives his life as a sovereign individual capable of creating his own sense of justice, it being a justice organizing none other but his own self. And thus Nietzsche can assert: “With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded. For thus speaketh justice unto me: ‘Men are not equal’ …” (p. 98).

The creative individual, in fact, sees the reality of inequality everywhere in life and its various manifestations. Being himself creative, he has naturally come to possess a sense of beauty and an assessment of it – therein, as well, he yet again sees a certain inequality as to what constitutes the beautiful. “There is”, observes Nietzsche, “struggle and inequality even in beauty …” (p. 99).

We shall be discussing Oakeshott’s own critique of the concept of equality further below – especially the clear dividing line that he wishes to draw between, on the one hand, the ignorant mimicking of the masses bent on their materialistically utilitarian survival and, on the other, the independent, self-enacted individual free to experiment with his own life. These two types of categories of persons cannot possibly be considered to be equal. Likewise, we shall also be discussing Oakeshott’s more general critique of equality by examining his presentation of the social ideal of equality as a value willy-nilly imposed on all individuals in society by the state as an enterprise association, and as that form of state promotes a politics of faith centered on social justice and especially so on social equality. But before we come to the approach adopted by Oakeshottian thinking, it would be appropriate here to compare the Nietzschean critique of equality with the position taken by someone such as Friedrich Hayek.

To begin with, it should be said that a thinker such as Hayek would be in full agreement with Nietzsche (and of course with Oakeshott himself) that the question of equality as a social value would have to be rejected to the extent that it is a value that is simply being imposed on all and sundry by an all-inclusive state.

Within this context, and which may perhaps be seen to be a general philosophical position, Hayek articulates his own very specific critique of the ideological concepts of social justice and social equality. In a discussion hosted by William F. Buckley Jr., Hayek would begin to argue as follows: “The point we must start from is that the classical demand is that the state ought to treat all people equally in spite of the fact that they are very unequal. You can’t deduce from this the rule that because the people are unequal it ought to treat them unequally in order to make them equal, and that is what social justice amounts to.” (cf. Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr.: “Is there a case for private property?”, January 31, 2017, Episode S0300, Recorded on November 7, 1977).

Hayek would continue as follows on what it is that social justice amounts to – he says: “It’s a demand that the state should treat the different people differently in order to place them in the same position. The rule of equal treatment applies only to things the state has to do in any case, but … making people equal a goal of governmental policy would force government to treat people very unequally indeed.” (ibid.).

Were one to thus far compare the Nietzschean critique of equality with that of Hayek’s, one could make the following observations. Firstly, it would be of no real concern to Nietzsche as to whether or not a state treats its citizens equally. For Nietzsche, the exceptional individual would in no way wish to depend on whatever outside force (such as the state) so that his own exceptionality be secured – in fact, were he to depend on whatever state protection, his exceptionality would be fake. Secondly, however, the Nietzschean position on both the state and its ideological concept of equality would certainly overlap with that of Hayek’s when the latter speaks of governmental goals. For the Nietzschean approach, whatever reference to governmental or state goals would point to the production of mass ideology, and to the idol-adoration of mass ideals by the many-too-many. He would therefore fully concur with Hayek (as also definitely with Oakeshott, as we shall see) that whatever state intervention in the lives of individuals through governmental goals would be destructive for those individuals. As we have already seen, Nietzsche would consider whatever state intervention in the lives of individuals – and which would be an intervention via the grand goals for equality – as the implementation of those petty policies aimed at maintaining the small happinesses of the greatest number.

Whatever be the divergences and convergences in the thinking of Nietzsche and Hayek, one thing is certain: both would certainly assert that men are not equal, and that they can never be equal. When Hayek tells us that the rule of equal treatment applies only to things the state has to do as a matter of course for all of its citizens, he is obviously suggesting that equal treatment should be applied to all so that all have equal access to (what Oakeshott shall come to call) a framework whereby all individuals can pursue their own ends. But for Hayek such ends can be and will be unequal in quality, importance, and consequence. The very Nietzschean observation that there is struggle and inequality in all of life would yet once more simply be confirmed.

It goes without saying, of course, that both Nietzsche and Hayek would further agree on yet another principle – viz. that no state should ever be given the right to regulate the quality, equality, or inequality of its citizens. Both, in other words, would reject the state-as-idol that poses as the regulating finger of god, or as the regulating finger of social justice. Government policy simply has no right to impose its own oughts, rules, and goals of social justice, thereby deciding on how to treat each and every individual. Such a monster, as Nietzsche has called it, ultimately imposes a uniformity over all of society – and in that way it crushes the potential uniqueness of an individual. Both Nietzsche and Hayek would agree with the Oakeshottian observation that the modern western state has mutated, from a framework of civil associations, to a leviathan-type enterprise peddling an all-inclusive faith that discourages (or even outlaws) the morality of individuality.

When Hayek is arguing against the concept of social justice, and especially when that is imposed as an ideology and policy by the state on all in society, he is essentially defending the freedom and independence of the individual. In so doing, he is above all for the sovereign individual – and would thus presumably be supportive of an individual’s sovereign sense of justice. For Nietzsche, at least, not all can be sovereign individuals, and not all can cultivate their own sovereign sense of justice. When Nietzsche – like Hayek – rejects the imposition of the ideology of social justice and equality on all members of society, he is in fact recognizing the exceptional individual’s own concept of justice vis-à-vis the petty values of the many-too-many. Not only are people unequal with respect to one another, there are also those very few individuals who are exceptional enough to relate to society as the Overman – their sense of justice is beyond all social sense of good and evil. We shall have to come back to this position in much greater detail below – we may in any case state here that the concept of the Overman would not in any way threaten the lives and (whatever sense of) freedom of others. For Nietzsche, the Overman is merely a law unto himself and for himself. For Oakeshott, as we shall see, the justice of the sovereign individual would be of no threat to others as the rest would be protected by that framework of civil associations that is meant to function as a neutral umpire within the social order – one may assume that Hayek’s own position would more or less tally with such an approach.

Finally, one may simply note here that there is definitely a certain conceptual correlation between the thinking of Nietzsche and that of Hayek, and given that the latter has argued against state centralism, state power and the imposition of mass ideology. Hayek’s libertarian anti-statism can certainly be said to overlap with much of Nietzsche’s own critique of the state-as-idol. On the other hand, Nietzsche’s own exclusive concern – as also that of Oakeshott’s – is definitely not centered around economics and the maintenance of the populace, and we know that much. Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would stand over and above the world of politics and economics – they would rather focus on the question of aesthetic values and how these may be created and re-created by the self-determined individual. Both would have little faith in the modern masses, their narrow materialistic concerns, and the politics of faith that ensue from such concerns.

Nietzsche’s own general position with respect to social equality has been well summarized by Terence Irwin – he presents the Nietzschean critique of equality as a critique of the modern democratic spirit, and how such spirit is bent on both penalizing the exceptional individual and on consoling the unexceptional one. In the prologue to his study entitled Ethics Through History: An Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2020), Irwin writes as follows: “Nietzsche questions the claim – accepted by sentimentalists, rationalists, and Kant – that we have good reasons for accepting moral principles and acting on them. We can see why this claim is open to question if we consider the origins of our moral beliefs and attitudes. They arise from the resentment of inferior people who feel humiliated by the achievements of others. The effect of general observance of moral principles can be seen in the modern democratic spirit, which restrains and penalizes the development of any capacities and talents that tend to make some people superior to others. Belief in the equal moral value of everyone is a consolation for inferior people. When we recognize this psychological basis for our moral outlook, we will be less inclined to suppose that it has any special authority.”

For Nietzsche, all of the values of the market-place and its populace – and as these have been presented here – can only but lead to the self-destruction of a civilization, it being that of the modern western world. The values of the populace are nihilistically self-destructive – they constitute that spirit of gravity that is the nihilism of western modernity itself, and which is a modernity based on democracy and social justice. The ultimate self-destruction of a western people lies in the fact that such populace has come to accept an imposed valuation of things – its very own state is itself expressive of a slave-morality, it being a democratic state of the many-too-many that penalizes (or even outlaws) the exceptional individual. Both the state and its populace have come to be burdened by that spirit of gravity that nihilistically resents life itself, as it also resents the self-love of the independent individual (we shall have to come back to the question of self-love).

Since western democratic civilization is expressive of a resentment towards whatever self-love of the independent, self-rolling individual, it is above all a civilization that is destined to produce and reproduce mediocrity. And thus Nietzsche shall speak of the small people – their small existences, their even smaller happinesses – and of how they shall ultimately come to perish. On the question of the decline and fall of the western mass man, he writes as follows: “Ye ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumble away, ye comfortable ones! Ye will yet perish – … By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by your many small submissions!” (p. 167).

In summarizing the values of the market-place and its populace, one may say that it is these very values that have come to define much of western democratic modernity. And the very particular form that such democratic milieu has come to take has meant a diffusion of power whereby the rulers are the ruled, and vice versa. It has been precisely such diffusion of power that has given birth to the mass ideology of social equality and social justice. Embedded in the mass ideology of equality is the need to resent individual exceptionality and preserve mass mediocrity. The passive acceptance of such an ideology – and especially a popular acceptance of its all-inclusive imposition by a state that defines itself in terms of a politics of faith – has allowed for the ubiquity of the slave morality. What is it, in the last instance, that reigns in this particular form of the western democratic milieu? It is that banal wish to be a trader or a shopkeeper – all are or wish to be so. It is their mere material survival – or perhaps their mere materialistic ambition – that constitutes their basic sense of entertainment. As we shall see further below, even the historical past of such a civilization was to be reduced to the needs of such a slavish, materialistic populace – Oakeshott shall argue that very much of the historical past of the western world would come to be treated in accordance with the practical needs of the populace. He shall argue that a certain practical history would come to be articulated by the state and its intellectual organs, and it would be imposed as a state ideology on the many-too-many. It would be those very masses, however, that would themselves wish to read or speak of a past that suits their present practical needs.

3j. Thou-shalt

Mass ideology – and the mass idol-adoration that goes with it – amounts to an imposed valuation of all things. The valuation of all things is articulated and imposed on the many-too-many by the famous wise ones, who are of the populace and who represent that docile populace. What Nietzsche shall call the dragon of mass ideology goes so far as to even usurp the valuation of things dating from time-past, and it presents such valuation as its own (it being by nature a thief). The right and the initiative of the individual to value things for himself and in terms of his own will is disallowed – the will as such is neutralized. Henceforth, all is reduced to a Thou-shalt, and the many-too-many bow down and pray to such Thou-shalt.

Nietzsche tells us how the dragon of Thou-shalt confronts the spirit of the lion, it being precisely that type of exceptional individual that wishes to create his own space (and a lordship therein) for an independent creation of new values. He writes as follows: “… ‘Thou-shalt’ lieth in its [the individual’s] path, sparkling with gold – a scale-covered beast; and on every scale glittereth golden, ‘Thou shalt!’ … The values of a thousand years glitter on these scales, and thus speaketh the mightiest of all dragons: ‘All the values of things – glitter on me’ ...” (p 22). And the dragon continues to denounce whatever will to independent value-creation on the part of the individual, as it has already usurped all values – it speaks thus: “All values have already been created, and all created values – do I represent. Verily, there shall be no “I will” any more.’ Thus speaketh the dragon.” (ibid.).

In contrast to the exceptional individual, who remains lion-willed in the face of the dragon, the many-too-many have come to accept their plight, that of being willed by state and/or mass ideology. And by accepting such plight they ultimately become weary-o’-the world itself. Unlike the exceptional individual, who delights in the creativity of discernment regarding the things of the world, the willed many-too-many simply allow themselves to be played by all the waves that circumscribe them. And all this translates into a weary nihilism, it being the self-destructive stamp of the slave. Nietzsche writes of this as follows: “To discern: that is delight to the lion-willed! But he who hath become weary is himself merely ‘willed’; with him play all the waves … And such is always the nature of weak men: they lose themselves on their way. And at last asketh their weariness: ‘Why did we ever go on the way? All is indifferent!’ … To them soundeth it pleasant to have preached in their ears: ‘Nothing is worth while! Ye shall not will!’ That, however, is a sermon for slavery.” (p. 200).

For the individual that is lion-willed, and for whom life is a well of delight, the state and/or its mass ideology of Thou-shalt is nothing but “illusion and arbitrariness” (p. 22).

Parenthetically, it should be noted here that Nietzsche does not necessarily reject all forms of illusion, at least with respect to a people, or peoples. His is a rejection of state-imposed illusions of Thou-shalt that neutralize the will of both a people and – perhaps principally – that of an individual. As regards the former, it may be argued that Nietzsche would certainly recognize the historically efficacious role of – what Oakeshott has himself termed in his own investigations – a people’s morality of habit of behaviour, a morality and manner of conduct that could of course itself be riddled with its own particular illusions. Such a type of morality – born of historical habit – is not akin to a rationalist ideology imposed by a state and its famous wise men. It may be informed by particular historical illusions, but it is in no way an arbitrary phenomenon – and it is not arbitrary precisely because of its time-honoured historical roots. Importantly, since it is not something imposed on a people, it is a habit that is open to the self-creative potentiality of that people as it makes its own history. Being potentially creative, further, it steers clear of nihilism – and Nietzsche has himself identified peoples in history that have steered clear of whatever symptoms of nihilism (the concept of the morality of habit of behaviour, a central concept that has determined Oakeshott’s own reading of the thinking of Nietzsche, shall have to be discussed in much greater detail below).

3k. The for and against of the masses

The western-type mass man is immersed in the dense fluid of mass ideology, and he is therefore imbued with the mass culture that defines that ideology in everyday practices. That dense fluid of ideology and cultural practices is an all-consuming arrow that points to an omnipresent Thou-shalt. All bow down and pray to it – whatever infringements are penalized, both by the organs of the state and, more importantly, by public opinion itself.

All those outside the limits of the grand Thou-shalt are hated by the many-too-many. Since, as Nietzsche has observed, all great existence is blamable for the circumscribed souls of the many-too-many, whoever dares to be an exceptional individual is viewed as the bad conscience of the populace. And it is for this reason that both state and populace hate that type of individual. Nietzsche speaks as follows to the exceptional individual: “Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of thy neighbours; for they are unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck thy blood.” (p. 50). Whatever bad conscience is to be hated, for it lives outside the well-defined limits of the all-consuming ideology of Thou-shalt. The radical implication here is that all ideology – and which is always a mass ideology – translates into hatred per se. And all of ideology translates into hatred since, by its very nature, it is a positioning for and against something. That is the necessary for and against of the masses.

The masses are in urgent need of a for-something-to-believe-in and an against-something- else-to hate – they are always in dire need of an absolute Yea or an absolute Nay, and they expect the famous wise ones (or whichever intellectual) to satisfy that need. The masses, that is, need to believe in and follow something absolute – and they are impatient for their absolute truths. It is in mass political ideology that the many-too-many find such For-Against, or such Yea-Nay, and which amounts to their own existentially necessary absolute truth of things. They look to the state and its organs (such as political parties) for guidance and, above all, for their protection (Oakeshott shall himself have much to say about that type person who is in need of state protection, as we shall see). Speaking of the clattering buffoons that inhabit the market-place, and addressing himself to those few, exceptional individuals who could potentially be outside the ideological ambit of Thou-shalt, Nietzsche observes: “But the hour presseth them; so they press thee. And also from thee they want Yea or Nay. Alas! Thou wouldst set thy chair betwixt For and Against? … On account of those absolute and impatient ones, be not jealous, thou lover of truth! Never yet did truth cling to the arm of an absolute one.” (pp. 48-49).

Thou-shalt delineates the absolute – all of the many-too-many think, feel and conduct themselves in accordance with that absolute. And yet, and right within that delineated moral horizon, one has a motley of different interests competing with one another. And thus one observes that there are different interpretations of Thou-shalt – this is the phenomenon of the Babelian-type verbal disputes that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott have spoken of in their own way. Such verbal disputes yield a variety of conflicting Thou-shalts within the grand Thou-shalt. Remember how Nietzsche describes the ferocity of these verbal disputes and how those who are engaged in them “hound one another, and know not whither! They inflame one another, and know not why!” But there is one thing that they do think they know – and that is that their own particular Thou-shalt and their own particular For and Against are such as to express the most authentic and the most righteous interpretation of the grand Thou-shalt that organizes all of society. The internal divisions of the many-too-many are ideological struggles meant to confirm the ideological supremacy of their own definition of the grand and omnipresent Thou-shalt, and its decrees of social justice and social equality. All thereby sanction and uphold the prevailing ideology of Thou-shalt as articulated by the state and its famous wise ones. All see themselves as the good conscience of society – all are, in the last instance, of the absolute type.

And thus Nietzsche admonishes the exceptional individual – or the higher man – as follows: “Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They are a poor sickly type, a populace-type: they look at this life with ill-will; they have an evil eye for this earth.” (p. 283).

They are of the poor sickly type with an ill-will and an evil eye because they bear the self-destructive stamp of the slave, in the sense already discussed above – and they bear that stamp since they all have come to accept an imposed valuation of things, it being that Thou-shalt. They have come to accept it as an absolute, and they are therefore of the absolute type, and thus they engage in ideological idolatry and in For-Against ideological struggles revolving round such idolatry. And since they are all immersed in the dense fluid of ideological idolatry and ideological verbal games, they have ultimately all come to live as mere replicas of one another – this, however, can only but yield a social uniformity.

As we shall see further below, it would be precisely because of the prevalence of ideological idolatry in the western world, and the danger of social uniformity that goes with it, that Oakeshott would always and clearly express a deep aversion to whatever entanglement with all ideological struggles – and that aversion would even include whatever entanglement with social movements expressive of conservative ideology itself. Such an Oakeshottian stance is reminiscent of Nietzsche’s own Zarathustrian morality of individuality which, as we have thus far seen, would be a morality that stands over and above all ideological idolatry – over and above, that is, the For and Against of the masses in the market-place; as also over and above that Thou-shalt that is both of the state and its famous wise ones and of the populace itself.

We may at this point examine the social phenomenon of idolatry in some greater detail, and which shall help us understand the sense in which ideological idolatry in the western democratic milieu ultimately comes to yield a certain social uniformity.

3l. From idolatry to uniformity

Modern western idolatry may be defined as the mass idol adoration of a particular system of virtues enshrined in an ideological discourse. Such system of virtues – and more especially the essence of a grand virtue around which orbit all other little virtuous truths – is what it is as it has been appointed to be so. And it has been appointed by the state and its network of institutions, by the famous wise ones, and by a populace that is in existential need of such an appointment. The term appointed virtue shall prove to be of great use to us as we endeavour to further understand both ideological idolatry and the social uniformity that such idolatry leads to – above all, however, the term shall allow us to more fully appreciate Oakeshott’s own presentation of moral ideals pointing to a perfect society (or what he terms perfectionist moral formulae) as an idolatry that has been appointed by rationalist ideologues to homogenize modern western society.

Writing of great cities, Nietzsche observes as follows: “All lusts and vices are here at home; but here there are also the virtuous; there is much appointable appointed virtue – … Much appointable virtue with scribe-fingers …” (p. 171).

And it is the populace that prays to such appointed virtue – and it does so as a begging people, for it is always in urgent need of that virtue. Nietzsche continues: “… unto all … that cometh from the court [viz. “from on high”] do the mendicant people pray, and all appointable mendicant virtues.” (p. 172).

In keeping with the hierarchy of commanding discussed above, all of the populace – right across and up and down the social hierarchy – pray to and all engage in the adoration of a single generic virtue, which is a pivotal appointable virtue enunciating social justice, and which makes all who pray and adore such virtue to be virtuous. And all of the many-too-many come to pray to a hegemonic prince, himself appointed to encapsulate that virtue. Nietzsche writes as follows: “… ‘I serve, thou servest, we serve’ – so prayeth all appointable virtue to the prince, that the merited star may at last stick on the slender breast!” (ibid.).

Nietzsche exhorts the exceptional individual to distance himself from all idolaters, whom he sees – as we know – as the superfluous ones in need of state protection. The very taste and disposition of the Nietzschean higher man is such as to detach himself from both the idol (be it the state-as-idol or its appointable virtues) and the idolater. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks of all idolaters as follows: “Madmen they all seem to me, and clambering apes, and too eager. Badly smelleth their idol to me, the cold monster; badly they all smell to me, these idolaters.” (p. 46). And he continues: “My brethren, will ye suffocate in the fumes of their maws and appetites! Better break the windows and jump into the open air! … Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the idolatry of the superfluous!” (ibid.). Such exhortation, of course, is again very much reminiscent of the Oakeshottian position – we have explained that Oakeshott shall himself ask of the modern western individual to stay well away from all political idol-adoration, and therefore away from all the ideological ideals of perfectionism promoted by the state, its political parties, and their political mass movements (and as already mentioned, such personal distancing would also encompass whatever social movements happen to espouse, in mass ideological veneer, any cherished values of Oakeshottian political philosophy).

Addressing himself, not to the many-too-many, but to the famous wise ones specifically, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra has no choice but to question their presumed uprightness – for whatever trace of uprightness has been (or can come to be) lost in their venerating hearts. It has been (or can come to be) lost, in other words, given their own particular indulgence in idol-worshipping, it being a veneration of the idols of the state and of the many-too-many. This is what Zarathustra has to say to them: “Ah, for me to learn to believe in your ‘conscientiousness’, ye would first have to break your venerating will.” (p. 100).

For Nietzsche, the individual who is authentically conscientious is free of all idol-veneration – he writes: “Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from deities and adorations, fearless and fear-inspiring, grand and lonesome: so is the will of the conscientious.” (p. 101). But it is all too obvious here that Nietzsche speaks of that type of individual who is, not only beyond the morality of social equality, but is himself superior to all those who happen to be exceptional vis-à-vis the many-too-many. Nietzsche’s Overman stands over and above both the famous wise ones and the many-too-many that they represent.

Very few can endure the dangers and the teeth-chattering of such a stance in life. “Better even a little teeth-chattering”, says Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, “than idol-adoration! So willeth my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming, steamy fire-idols.” (p. 168).

The Overman is that type of exceptional individual whose nature it is to accept the risks of living as a self-rolling will (accept that teeth-chattering, of which Oakeshott shall also have much to say) rather than yield to the small comforts – or stomach the various slave happinesses – offered by the idol-adoration of the modern democratic world. It is this idol-adoration of the western democratic milieu that Nietzsche shall also refer to as ass-worship, it being the appointed mass ideals and the mass ideology of social justice and equality (also described as the people’s carts above).

The ass-worship, deeply symptomatic of the modern democratic age, is articulated in “a pious, strange litany”, and such litany is always “in praise of the adored and censed ass” (p. 302).

And what does that litany of ass-worship actually say? The populace speaks as follows of the ass: “He carrieth our burdens, he hath taken upon him the form of a servant, he is patient of heart and never saith Nay …” (ibid.). The implication is that the burdens of life have been lifted from the back of the individual – these are now carried by the idol of the ass, and the concomitant appointed virtues. A further implication is that the individual is now no longer given the opportunity to harness such burdens to his own creative will – the will of individuality, or even the potential will of a creative people, has been deadened and dulled.

But to deaden and dull the creative will is to produce and reproduce mediocrity – and mediocrity can only ultimately lead to mass stupidity. The stupidity is shared by all who are entangled in the idol-adoration of the ass, or who bow to mass ass-worship. Nietzsche writes: “What hidden wisdom it is to wear long ears, and only to say Yea and never Nay! Hath he [the ass] not created the world in his own image, namely, as stupid as possible?” (ibid.).

Nietzsche is describing the moral life of the western world as he observed it around him at the time – the moral ideals of such world centered on the appointed virtues of (what he called) ass-worship. The ass-worship would constitute the modern idolatry of the masses, all of whom would espouse the ideals and virtues of social justice and social equality. All would live and struggle within the dense fluid of an ideology of social ideals that persistently pointed to a paradisiacal future wherein all would be equal to one another.

In his own time, and as already touched on above, Oakeshott would himself go on to present modern western idolatry as the worshipping of an ideology based on perfectionist moral formulae, the built-in virtues of which would be appointed by the famous wise ones of a leviathan state. With reference to the moral life of the societies of the western world, Oakeshott would write as follows: “… every moral ideal is potentially an obsession; the pursuit of moral ideals [by western society] is an idolatry in which particular objects are recognized as ‘gods’ …” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 69).

Oakeshott would be deeply critical of all grand ideals espoused by the modern mass man of western societies, and the appointed formulaic abstractions that all such ideals would entail. For him, ideals and their abstract comprehension of life would inevitably be outside the realm of individual experience, and therefore outside the will of such individual experience – mass social ideals and formulaic abstractions concocted by rationalist intellectuals would, in fact, imply the absence of will on the part of the individual. As we shall see, the question of ideals and theoretical abstractions would – for the Oakeshottian project – be an issue that is directly related to the more vital question of willing one’s life, or alternatively of being willed in one’s life by externally imposed social powers of idol-adoration (for a useful discussion of the Oakeshottian rejection of social ideals cf., as well, Corey, YouTube, op. cit.).

Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would agree that social idolatry leads to social uniformity – for both, the imposition of ideals on society by a state-as-idol would eventually translate into the imposition of social uniformity. Alluding to the question of uniformity, Nietzsche writes as follows: “I see many soldiers; could I but see many warriors [of knowledge]! ‘Uniform’ one calleth what they wear; may it not be uniform what they therewith hide!” (p. 43).

For Nietzsche, whatever servile nature would yield uniformity, and it would do so because a servile nature cannot uphold the sovereignty of the self – this leads to social uniformity. The Nietzschean approach to the issue of uniformity would go as follows: the servile person willingly abandons the self, opting for selflessness; but being selfless means that one has less of a self; and having less of a self means one has less of a unique individuality; and having less of a unique individuality means that one has reduced one’s person to a mere replica of others – replication produces and reproduces social uniformity. Zarathustra speaks of the question of selflessness as follows: “The spurious wise, however – all the priests, the world-weary, and those whose souls are of feminine and servile nature – oh, how hath their game all along abused selfishness? … And precisely that was to be virtue and was to be called virtue – to abuse selfishness! And ‘selfless’ – so did they wish themselves with good reason, all those world-weary cowards and cross-spiders!” (pp. 185-186).

Oakeshott’s own critique of modern-day perfectionist moral formulae is itself a warning that such imposed formulae are interchangeable with an imposed social uniformity. Corey, who wishes to focus on the impact that the Augustinian manner of thinking had on Oakeshott’s own project, writes as follows: “One additional point is worth mentioning with regard to Oakeshott’s Augustinianism, namely, that his objections to certain defective understandings of modern politics are strikingly similar to Augustine’s campaign against Pelagius in the years of the early fifth century. Augustine famously chided the Pelagians for pridefully assuming that they could conquer human imperfection and become godlike. In the same way, Oakeshott berated Rationalists for their faulty assumption that human beings can impose perfection and uniformity upon their political arrangements.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 11). Unlike Nietzsche, who would see the ideological attack on individualistic self-love as the decisive catalyst for social uniformity, Oakeshott would rather maintain – at least at some stage of his thinking – that the intended uniformity could somehow be curbed so long as the operations of the leviathan state as an all-inclusive enterprise association could be contained generally, or could be contained through an individual’s own assertive enactment of his will (Nietzsche would of course concur with the latter case).

But Oakeshott would in any case be consistent in his critique of the rationalist western politics of faith positing a new modern idol that pursues both a politics of formulaic perfectionism and a politics of social uniformity. Oakeshott, Corey goes on to note, “describes the two general characteristics of Rationalism as the “politics of perfection” and the “politics of uniformity” and contends that Rationalism is indeed the combination of both: “the imposition of a uniform condition of perfection upon human conduct” …” (ibid., p. 167).

For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, whatever form of imposed social uniformity – or whatever imposition of the worldly idols of the market-place in pursuit of social perfection – could only lead to a tragic dead-end for the whole of society. But there can be exceptions to this dead-end. While the worshipping of worldly idols can only but lead to a woeful dead-end, the exceptional individual stands over and above such nihilistic self-destruction, for he refuses to partake of and practically engage in the this-worldliness of things (Oakeshott shall himself differentiate between the state of being in the world and that of being of it, as will be discussed further below). Nietzsche’s Zarathustra observes the God’s-hell of this strange world, but absolutely refuses to be in whatever way entangled with the cares and woes of such world. He simply lets the many-too-many hold on to some God, or hold on to whatever idol-adoration, though he himself shall allow no one at all to lean on him as some kind of prop. And thus part of Zarathustra’s drunken song goes as follows: “… grasp after some God; grasp not after me … but yet am I no God, no God’s hell: deep is its woe …” (p. 311). And the song goes on as follows: “God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me! What am I! A drunken sweet lyre …” (ibid.).

Grasping after some God – the ideologically motivated idol-adoration and the mass worshipping that accompanies it – is in itself a shame. But it is a shame only in the eyes of the Overman – as for the rest of society, it is an absolutely necessary protective measure. With respect to all forms of worshipful praying, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows to the potentially exceptional individual – he says: “It is however a shame to pray! Not for all, but for thee, and me, and whoever hath his conscience in his head. For thee it is a shame to pray!” (p. 175).

3m. The state as the death of peoples

For Nietzsche at least, and based on all that has thus far been discussed, the state per se has meant – or will yet mean – the death of peoples (let alone the individuality of persons). The state renders the people small – it thereby causes their decline. Nietzsche writes: “Hourly do they become smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller – poor herbs, poor earth!” (p. 167).

The state renders the people small and unfruitful – it is therefore a destroyer of people. And it is a destroyer of people because it imposes on them both the threat of coercion and the ideological force of consent. The threat of coercion is the dangling of a sword over their heads; the ideological force of consent is effectuated through the manufacturing of wants amongst them. Wants take the form of cravings, hungers, or so-called substantive material needs – and it is on the basis of such substantive wants that people are mobilized and organized around an ideological consensus concentrated on utopian ideals.

The state is a destroyer of people given precisely this imposition of coercion and consent. But the modern state’s destructive practices can be directly contrasted to the creators of yesteryear – to those creators of a historical and noble time-past. These creators created peoples by affirming them – and they created and affirmed peoples by simply serving life. They served life by serving faith and love, these being – according to the Oakeshottian reading of Nietzsche – manifestations of a people’s morality of habit of behaviour. Creators of time-past, in other words, created by affirming life and the life of a people that was itself organically united by a morality of habit of behaviour that instinctively affirmed life – viz. a morality of self-faith and of self-love (or of a proud self-respect). And all this would be achieved in the absence of both an externally imposed coercion and the imposition of any idol-adoration.

Nietzsche expresses such positions through what Zarathustra has to say about the state per se – we read: “Creators were they who created peoples, and hung a faith and a love over them: thus they served life … Destroyers are they who lay snares for many, and call it the state; they hang a sword and a hundred cravings over them.” (p. 45).

Concerning the central Nietzschean position on the modern western state, Zarathustra’s words sum it all up when he says the following: “A state? What is that? Well! Open now your ears unto me, for now will I say unto you my word concerning the death of peoples.” (ibid.).

For Oakeshott especially, the death of peoples equals the demise of a people’s self-imposed morality of habit of behaviour. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, it is the rise of a state that imposes its ideology, its faith, and its morality on a spineless people that constitutes the death of such people. Oakeshott’s own response to such a state of affairs, however, is not exactly that of Nietzsche’s. For Nietzsche, as we have seen, the state is simply the point at which both a people, and ultimately any independent individual, can cease to exist. For Oakeshott the political philosopher, the case is more complex – he shall come to entertain different forms of state, and as these have more or less materialized in the different stages of western civilization. One such form of state, Oakeshott shall attempt to show, would help salvage both the individual and the morality of individuality. It is to such different forms of state that we shall now turn – and therefore turn to a slightly more systematic exposition of the Oakeshottian project.

4. Forms of state

For Nietzsche, the state can kill a people, as it can crush individuality. We have said that for Oakeshott things are in some ways different – he would rather pose what is to him a key question: what form of state is it that does such killing and crushing, and what form of state does not? For him, the former type of state is that which has come to be established as an ideological force expressive of the Babelian politics of faith (or the state as an enterprise association). The latter type of state is what Oakeshott shall identify as a social structure functioning as would a civil association. We shall need to consider Oakeshott’s presentation of these two different forms of state, and draw a number of conclusions regarding their respective impact on a populace and – above all – on the individual (and especially the exceptional individual).

4a. The politics of faith versus civil association

Oakeshott attempts to present us with these two different forms of western state by adopting a historical perspective. But before we proceed any further, it is of importance to clarify at this point that his historically-based distinction between these two different forms of state is not categorical – and it need not be, nor can it be given the complexities of human history and conduct. The distinction is rather a matter of relative primacy as to which of the two forms of governance happen to prevail within a particular historical conjuncture. Both forms can in fact co-exist and may even overlap – the real question is this: which of these two conflicting forms of human organization is in the last instance overdetermining at a particular point of historical time? On the other hand, Oakeshott does seem to see the modern western world – and especially its postmodern residue – as a milieu that has come to be one-sidedly dominated by an all-powerful and all-consuming state-as-idol (in the Nietzschean sense as discussed above).

Corey points to both the Oakeshottian historical perspective as also to Oakeshott’s specific critique of present-day western politics. She writes: “Oakeshott … spends much effort in setting out damning critiques of certain modern approaches to politics and tracing their development through the last five centuries of European history.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 156).

From a historical perspective, the politics of faith of the modern or postmodern state-as-idol can be said to be mainly rooted in, and can above all be traced back to, the 17th and 18th centuries of Enlightenment or the Age of Reason, a milieu that would establish rationalism as the epistemological key to all of the truths of the world. Based on rationalist ideology, the modern politics of faith would usher in a rationalist morality that would belittle culture and the aesthetic moment – and especially that of the creative individual. It would therefore belittle or wish to bedwarf the individual per se, thereby positing a collectivist politics of ideological faith centered on a social justice for the many. The rationalist morality of the politics of faith would therefore be expressive of a resentment of the burdens of individuality. In its interminable struggles to attain social justice and a future paradisiacal society, it would further be symptomatic of a collective incapacity to live time-present to the full. And yet, it would dogmatically insist on a gnostic arrogance all of its own, based on its formulaic truths of the world.

For Oakeshott, this historically traceable modern-day morality of rationalism would have to be directly counterposed to a morality of aesthetic value (be it that of a people, or that of an individual). Corey captures this central Oakeshottian perspective as follows: “If his [Oakeshott’s] favored view of morality is aesthetic, then the morality of Rationalism, of collectivism, and of the “politics of faith” is emphatically not aesthetic. It is the morality of those who would build a Tower of Babel, who look for ready-made codes of conduct, and who resent what they see as the burdens of individuality. This morality is perfectionist in character – Pelagian, as Oakeshott repeatedly puts it – and gnostic. It expresses a fundamental dissatisfaction with the world and an inability to live in the present.” (ibid.).

The prevalence of the morality of rationalism would play a major role in determining the particular form of state that would arise in the western world – it would, in other words, have a major impact on the structures and practices of the western form of state (or on the form of various types of western states).

In terms of the unfolding historical process, of course, it would literally mean an ensuing struggle between two opposing conceptions of the nature of the modern European state. While such opposing conceptions of the western state would never be materialized in the real world as two exclusive and absolutely irreconcilable entities demarcating discrete historical conjunctures of western history, it would in fact be their very conflictual interface that would ultimately yield the nature of the European state. With reference to Oakeshott’s thinking on the nature of the modern European state, Edmund Neill writes as follows: “… [this] was best analyzed as the combination of (or at least struggle between) two opposing conceptions [of the state], namely a purposive ‘teleocratic’ one, and a goalless framework that respected individual differences.” (cf. Edmund Neill, Michael Oakeshott – Major Conservative and Libertarian Thinkers, Series Editor: John Meadowcroft – Volume 8, The Continuum International Publishing Group Inc, 2010, p. 52).

It goes without saying that this tension in the political, ideological, and social history of the western world – and with respect to Europe in particular – would constitute a major division pivoted around one’s understanding of the relationship between the individual and the collectivity that surrounds him. For Oakeshott, the history of European politics has been a history of tensions between the forces of individualism, otherwise referred to as societas, and those of collectivism, also referred to as universitas (cf., for instance, Luke O’Sullivan, “Michael Oakeshott on European Political History”, Academia.edu, 2000). And we are saying that it would be the ongoing, consecutive struggles between these two major forces that would determine, not only the form of state, but especially the relationship between the state and the individual.

Generally speaking, the forces of individualism would maintain a very clear-cut position on the issue of the state versus the individual. For such ideological forces, if the existence of the state is to be at all justified as an entity, such justification need rest on a recognition of the primacy of individual consciousness – the state, in other words, need respect absolutely the uniqueness of an individual’s life experiences. This would mean that the form of state must be such as to affirm individuality. But such a state of affairs – materialized in a civil association – would depend on the very character of citizens: one would here speak of a state whose associates would themselves embrace individuality. The implication is that the forces of individuality would be such as to consciously reject a Babelian form of state – a state, that is, which rewards collective solidarity and the concomitant social uniformity (one may already detect here a clear rejection of the values of the many-too-many as advanced in the thinking of Nietzsche).

Oakeshottian thinking encapsulates the essence of such individualist position with respect to the state – Corey presents Oakeshott’s political philosophy as follows: “The basis of all political theory, he [Oakeshott] maintained in an unpublished notebook on Plato’s Republic, “must be sought in the individual consciousness … The justification and nature of the State is in the need of men” … And, in a striking anticipation of his later critique of behaviorism …, he argued that the raw material of political science “is to be found in the lives and experiences of a schoolmaster, a University teacher, a social worker, or a thoughtful man with many friends, rather than in those of a politician or a collector of statistics.” All of this supports a relatively straightforward thesis, namely, that politics will necessarily be incomprehensible unless one has a firm grasp of the character of human beings as the “raw material” of politics. As late as 1975 Oakeshott reiterated this view, noting in On Human Conduct that the character of a state depends on the character of its associates. A state whose associates embrace individuality will be quite different from one in which solidarity and conformity are prized.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 5).

For the individualist position and its morality of individuality (and which would be a morality of an individual’s aesthetic values), the key issue would come down to this: it is the concrete person who needs to understand – and who must capable of and willing to understand – his own self and his own place in the world. He must, in other words, have to make a number of fundamental choices with respect to society and to the form of state that he tolerates so that his own independent self be served. He has to make a choice as to how he shall orient himself in the world. Such choice would constitute an individual’s moral decision regarding his relationship with the rest of society. In making such choice, he shall come to belong to one of two contrasting ideal types: either the type that wills to live his life in the context of a civil association, or the type that is in dire need of an enterprise association. In the case of the former, it would be the self-created morality of individuality that would be affirmed; in the case of the latter, it would be the collective faith of collectivism that would be espoused.

With respect to Oakeshott’s emphasis on the vital importance of individual choice and the implications of this, Corey notes as follows: “… Oakeshott is concerned with a fundamental choice that must be made in human life. This choice might be described as Augustinian, for it is the question of how to orient oneself in the world. Oakeshott presents this choice in many different ways over the course of his career. Sometimes, as in “Religion and the World” [1929], it is presented as an explicitly moral decision that an individual must make. More often, this choice appears in the contrasting ideal types Oakeshott sets out as ways of thinking about moral and political life: faith and skepticism, civil and enterprise association, individuality and collectivism. All these expressions, however, point to the same fundamental division in human experience; all are markedly different and oppositional ways of understanding oneself and one’s place in the world.” (ibid., p. 22).

Now, we know that the long-term historical struggle between the two opposing conceptions of the state – viz. the purposive teleocratic state versus a goalless statal framework – would more or less come to be decided by the Age of Reason, and the prevalence of the ideology of rationalism. And thus we would see the gradual emergence of a Babelian form of state, or that leviathan scale-covered beast of the western world, and which would be the mightiest of all dragons, as Nietzsche would put it. Its prevalence, of course, would not and could not possibly be absolute in the real world – consider, perhaps, the case of Connecticut’s New Haven in the period of the 1960’s, where government would function as mere mediator in a pluralistic community (cf. Robert Dahl, Who Governs?: Democracy and Power in an American city, Yale University Press, 1961).

But the New Havens of the western world, and to the extent that such cases were at all true exceptions, would in any case be exceptions that proved the rule. One would generally observe the steady rise of a state-promoted collective faith in a collectivist ideology inundating most of society. This would naturally be supplemented by the collective solidarity of the many-too-many and its corollary, social uniformity – the tendency towards uniformity would of course at the same time mean an attempt at neutralizing whatever form of individuality.

Collectivist ideology would manifest itself in a variety of different ways – it would yield different versions of collectivism. These versions could complement one another, though – more often than not – they could lead to internal ideological clashes, depending on different interests (remember Nietzsche’s observation about the famous wise ones, and how they usually “devour one another, and cannot even digest themselves”). But despite the internal ideological clashes, all versions of collectivism would share a number of basic features – these would include the following: (i) all would announce a single perfectionist road ahead for the rest of society, and would wish to see that road imposed on all; (ii) their perfectionist ideology would yield an idol-adoration for the symbols of that ideology, and this would amount to a modern form of idolatry; (iii) all would be intolerant of anyone who would be skeptical or dismissive of such idol-adoration – these could be punished for their contrarian stance; and (iv) intolerance could lead to a tyrannical form of state.

In her discussion of the Oakeshottian project, Corey presents us with those different versions of ideological collectivism that have come to prevail in the history of the Babelian-type societies of the western world – she writes as follows: “In the religious version of collectivism the desired perfection is salvation that is to be worked out in the world. In the productivist version it is economic progress. And in the distributionist version it is equality of condition. In each of these a “single road” to perfection is chosen by government and imposed on a society. But each kind of perfection is a kind of idolatry, a Tower of Babel in which individual choice is stamped out in favor of what is supposed to be a greater good. As in the Tower of Babel story, dissent and disobedience are punished “not as a troublesome conduct, but as ‘error’ and ‘sin’. Lack of enthusiasm will be considered a crime, to be prevented by education and to be punished as treason.” …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 172).

The Babelian form of state, it is said, is tyrannical or can be potentially so. Its politics of faith assumes that human beings – or life per se – can be or should be planned and shaped in a manner chosen by the state itself. Any government informed by a collectivist ideology can therefore only but be tyrannical, at least with respect to the concrete individual that wishes to will his own existence. Corey presents Oakeshott’s position on the question of collectivist ideology and its relation to tyrannical government as follows: “Oakeshott understood politics … as an activity that must not lead but follow … For to begin from the other side, that is, to ask, what part should government play in human life? either presupposes a view of human beings or simply assumes that they might be molded into whatever form their government chooses for them. The latter view is one of the principal errors Oakeshott saw in collectivist and tyrannical governments.” (ibid., p. 156).

Counter to the collectivist tyranny of the Babelian form of state, Oakeshott would posit a political economy of freedom – it would be wrong to see such a political positioning as mere idealistic wishful thinking in regard to the plight of western civilization. Rather, one should say that the Oakeshottian understanding of a political economy of freedom is based on past and present material manifestations of human organization and/or human conduct where the role of the state had been or has come to be delimited through individual initiative.

Of course, Oakeshott’s political economy of freedom would not sit well with the Nietzschean understanding of a morality of individuality. Nietzsche’s higher man would necessarily have to stand over and above whatever political economy, and the socio-economic circumstances that such a framework would imply – the life of the exceptional individual would be a free and independently self-rolling project beyond whatever externally imposed tyranny.

On the other hand, it is as important to emphasize that Oakeshott’s critique of collectivist tyranny is not at all dissimilar to that of Nietzsche’s position. Both would be against whatever form of state intervention in the life of an individual, and especially so when that individual is capable of and willing to experience his own individuality, and is capable of and willing to discover his own truth of things. Both Oakeshott and Nietzsche, in other words, would be absolutely opposed to whatever continuous and/or sporadic interruption of the life of the independent individual (or of the life of an independent people and its society for that matter). To put it in a nutshell, interruption of life simply equals tyranny – and this is so for both thinkers.

Nietzsche and Oakeshott, we are saying, part ways when the latter expounds his political economy of freedom. Such an understanding of political economy calls for a society’s settled protective structure – viz. a structure protective of individual freedom. The protective structure would be the rule of law, and such rule of law would operate in partnership with the traditions of time-past and the needs of time-present, as also in partnership between governors and governed. It would be this very specific rule of law functioning as neutral umpire that would protect individual citizens from state tyranny – it would protect them, in other words, from state activity that continually intervenes to disrupt the life of individuality through an endless series of so-called corrective measures presumably meant to deal with concentrations of power in different clusters of society.

In terms of the Nietzschean understanding of life, and as already intimated, the exceptional individual does not need – and should not need if he be truly exceptional – any form of settled protective structure. He would not need whatever form of protection from his friends, his neighbours, his community, or from the state – he is strong enough to protect himself. Oakeshott, by comparison, takes it for granted that such settled protective structure is an absolute necessity for all, given the particular form that the modern – and especially the postmodern – state has come to take.

We may here present in some detail what Oakeshott himself has to say with respect to his political economy of freedom – he writes as follows: “… our experience has disclosed to us a method of government remarkably economical in the use of power and consequently peculiarly fitted to preserve freedom: it is called the rule of law. If the activity of our government were the continuous or sporadic interruption of the life and arrangements of our society with arbitrary corrective measures, we should consider ourselves no longer free, even though the measures were directed against concentrations of power universally recognized to be dangerous. For not only would government of this kind require extraordinary power (each of its acts being an ad hoc intervention), but also, in spite of this concentration of governmental power, the society would be without that known and settled protective structure which is so important a condition of freedom. But government by rule of law (that is, by means of the enforcement by prescribed methods of settled rules binding alike on governors and governed), while losing nothing in strength, is itself the emblem of that diffusion of power which it exists to promote, and is therefore peculiarly appropriate to a free society. It is the method of government most economical in the use of power, it involves a partnership between past and present and between governors and governed which leaves no room for arbitrariness; it encourages a tradition of resistance to the growth of dangerous concentrations of power which is far more effective than any promiscuous onslaught however crushing; it controls effectively, but without breaking the grand affirmative flow of things; and it gives a practical definition of the kind of limited but necessary service a society may expect from its government, restraining us from vain and dangerous expectations. Particular laws, we know, may fail to protect the freedom enjoyed in our society, and may even be destructive of some of our freedom; but we know also that the rule of law is the greatest single condition of our freedom, removing from us that great fear which has overshadowed so many communities, the fear of the power of our own government.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., pp. 42-43).

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is well beyond whatever social arrangements in the modern world – yet still, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would fully agree on the primacy of an individual’s life – on the primacy, that is, of determining one’s own life-purpose. The central concern for both thinkers would be to pose and answer the following quintessential question: who or what determined the ends, the goals, or the very purpose of one’s life, or that of life per se? Should some Mr. A be given the right to plan a way of life for some other Mr. B? Or, alternatively, should that Mr. B refuse to hand over whatever such planning to a Mr. A? Luke O’Sullivan, in his “Michael Oakeshott on European Political History”, op. cit., presents Oakeshott’s position on this question as follows: he argued, we are told, “that the relevant political distinction was not between left and right but between those who would ‘plan and impose a way of life upon a society’ and those who ‘not only refuse to hand over the destiny of a society to any set of officials but also consider the whole notion of planning the destiny of a society to be both stupid and immoral.’ …” (p. 137).

We should note here that Oakeshott’s reference to any set of officials may be directly compared to Nietzsche’s famous wise ones, these being the official and/or ideological planners of the destiny of a society – and these are the state-sustained planners of a populace that does not itself refuse to hand over their destiny to them. And they do not refuse such right to their planners because they both depend on them and are, in the last instance, of them (in the very least as a voting public, but also as participants in the various organs of the state). Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would see such dependence as a denial of one’s freedom, and therefore as slavishly self-destructive.

In her discussion of the politics of faith versus the politics of individuality, Corey confirms and reiterates Luke O’Sullivan’s reading of the Oakeshottian position with respect to the question of the determination of one’s life-purpose – she writes as follows: “Oakeshott argues in the introduction to The Social and Political Doctrines of Contemporary Europe (1939) that the differences between various doctrines – Liberalism, Catholicism, Communism, Fascism, and National Socialism – are not so much between those that offer “spiritual” or “material” ideals, but between those “which hand over to the arbitrary will of a society’s self-appointed leaders the planning of its entire life, and those which not only refuse to hand over the destiny of a society to any set of officials but also consider the whole notion of planning the destiny of a society to be both stupid and immoral.” … Once again, the fundamental difference is between those governments that have “faith” in their ability to direct the activities of human beings and those that are “skeptical” about this endeavor.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 169).

For society as a whole (though definitely not with respect to the exceptional individual), the self-determination of the destiny of a people – as also the self-determination of an individual’s life-purpose – would be directly related to the particular form of state that ultimately comes to prevail in the course of history. This again brings us to Oakeshott’s well-known distinction between two generically different types of statal organization – that of civil associations, on the one hand, and that of enterprise associations, on the other. In his “Michael Oakeshott on European Political History”, op. cit., Luke O’Sullivan writes as follows: “To use the terminology Oakeshott later employed in On Human Conduct, States could be described either as civil associations, in which the rule of law provided a framework for individuals to pursue their own ends, or as an enterprise association, in which the State managed and perhaps even determined the pursuit of a common goal or purpose.” (p. 137).

We know that it would be the state as enterprise association that would prevail in the modern western world – and it would be the Babelian world of western civilization that would rule the roost, and do so right through to the dawn of the 21st century. Oakeshott’s own presentation of the myth of the Tower of Babel would attempt to describe what such a state of affairs would imply for both the peoples of the western world, as also for the individuals living in that world.

In her discussion of Oakeshott’s two separate essays entitled “The Tower of Babel”, Corey tells us that the intention of the political philosopher is to issue a double warning – he wishes to warn both the concrete individual and society as a whole about the dangers of submitting to the social order of a Babelian-type world. The individual can lose his self by wholly investing his person in a this-worldly paradisiacal promise; society can damage itself irreversibly by indulging in collective quests aimed at such a paradisiacal promise – such quests could lead to intolerance or even totalitarianism. She writes as follows about Oakeshott’s myth of The Tower of Babel: “For the individual, it is a warning against investing oneself in projects that promise worldly salvation. It is a cautionary tale about the dangers of sensuality and materialism … For a society, the tale is a warning about the hazards inherent in the collective pursuit of perfection and an illustration of the irreparable damage that such pursuit wreaks on civil society.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., pp. 9-10).

At least part of the history of the western world is all about a transition from a pre-Babelian social order (notably in certain geographical localities and particular milieus of the west) to the emergence of a grand state-as-idol that was to discourage and finally crush much of individuality. Making use of The Tower of Babel myth, Corey explains, Oakeshott intends to describe “the sorts of things that take place during this transition from a civil society of free individuals to a mobilized, purposive community.” (ibid., p. 130). The latter type of community would yield what Corey calls a “Babelian servile morality” (ibid., p. 131), and which certainly does echo Nietzsche’s understanding of the state-as-idol and its obsequiously effeminate many-too-many in the modern Europe of his time.

The Babelian servile morality is a faith in mass ideology and a mass idol-adoration of the values and symbols of such ideology – and such ideology would wish to mobilize all of the many-too-many around a singular dream, such dream being the perfect society of equality and social justice. It is precisely such mass faith that Nietzsche would describe as ass-worship, and it is what Oakeshott would identify as the modern politics of faith (or a Pelagian-type politics that wishes to conquer all human imperfection by doing away with all inequality and all forms of social injustice). Corey writes as follows: “In The Politics of Faith and the Politics of Scepticism Oakeshott explicitly stated that the modern politics of “faith” is Pelagian. He was profoundly skeptical of all governments that pursue perfection “as the crow flies” … The moral life, according to Oakeshott’s understanding, consists not in the construction of a Tower of Babel or in the single-minded pursuit of perfection, moral or otherwise” (ibid., p. 11) – it is, rather, a confirmation of the possibilities of individuality and of its will to live the present in terms of an aesthetic creativity (a position again very much reminiscent of the Nietzschean disposition).

Whatever single-minded pursuit of perfection is, for both the individual and the community, a narrowly circumscribed faith in certain particular ideals – being narrowly circumscribed, it is an all-consuming faith the followers of which can only but automatically accept the imposition of values reflective of that all-consuming faith. In the last instance, it sacrifices the individual on the altar of such ideals and values. Corey writes: “The pursuit of perfection, whether economic, moral, or cultural, can never be a suitable endeavor for an entire society because this would involve it in undertakings such as building towers to heaven – purposeful, all-consuming projects that mobilize the entirety of a society’s resources to realize an end that not all may agree is worth pursuing or even possible. In a massive mobilization of this kind, a society will necessarily sacrifice the variety that makes civil society worth having … Thus the Babelian pursuit of perfection – society conceived as an enterprise association – cuts off the sources of the richer “civil association” that Oakeshott prefers. In building the Tower of Babel the humbler enjoyments of the vita temporalis are permanently eschewed in favor of a grander – but always postponed – perfect and final satisfaction.” (ibid., p. 132).

The mobilizing of an entire society around the realization of a single, grand end – it being social justice and equality – would mean sacrificing individuality and individual free choice. Within such a setup, all would have to abide by particular values pointing to particular ends, with all such ends meant to be presumably consummated in one grand dream-end. All would therefore have to accept an imposed economic, moral, and cultural order.

The acceptance of an imposed economic, moral and cultural status quo would of course yield a stable and sustainable social order – and it would yield such order, despite whatever contrarian ideological currents (these would themselves be absolutely functional to that status quo in their capacity as mass ideological movements in their own right, and would thus legitimize the very practice of mass ideology). On the other hand, the concomitant stifling of the variety of resources emanating from the richness of civil associations (and their free individuals) would at the same time mean a stifling of plurality – and by plurality we here mean the individual’s free choice to live outside mass ideology, or a plurality of free-rolling individuality.

For the famous wise ones representative of the state-as-idol, such plurality of individuality (or a contrarian position strictly external to all ideology) would spell social chaos – and they would naturally insist that it is only the operation of mass ideology and mass idol-adoration within a society that can avoid such chaos.

In response to this question of the presumed chaos of individualist plurality versus social order, Oakeshott would first all observe that important segments of the western masses would themselves wish to avoid the so-called chaos of individualist plurality and the individualist morality that goes with it – they would need to live, in other words, within the ideologically protective shell of a state-imposed economic, moral and cultural order (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 186).

Those fearful of chaos, Oakeshott goes on to ague, wish to dream of an ideal, collisionless society. And such a society would be ideal and collisionless as it would be organized around a single vision – this vision would be coordinated by the state and would have to be imposed on all. The dream of those who fear chaos is a dream that must be imposed on all as a compulsory manner of living. Given the so-called chaos, Oakeshott writes, some people “tell us that they have seen in a dream the glorious, collisionless manner of living proper to all mankind, and this dream they understand as their warrant for seeking to remove the diversities and occasions of conflict which distinguish our current manner of living. Of course, their dreams are not all exactly alike; but they have this in common: each is a vision of a condition of human circumstance from which the occasion of conflict has been removed, a vision of human activity co-ordinated and set going in a single direction and of every resource being used to the full. And such people appropriately understand the office of government to be the imposition upon its subjects of the condition of human circumstances of their dream. To govern is to turn a private dream into a public and compulsory manner of living.” (ibid.).

The implications of such socially-motivated dreaming can be absolutely destructive for the private lives of individuals. We may here ferret out such implications by carefully re-examining what it is that such dreamers are in fact dreaming about. For them, chaos – or, say, the chaos of a class-based society of pluralist inequality – is to be countered by presenting humanity with a vision or a dream of a particular collisionless (or classless) society. Now, this vision or dream is centered on some symbolic idol of a new and glorious social order. The symbolic idol is accompanied by an awe-inspiring ideal, and it is this ideal that is the womb of all ideology and all ideological narratives. The ideological narratives play a major role in determining the different forms and practices of the state, and especially as these narratives gradually mutate and come to acquire the status of state ideology. Ultimately, state ideology becomes so powerful that it capable of intervening in the private lives of people – it intervenes in the private sphere so that it is able to force that manner of living proper to all mankind. And thus, the distinction between the private and the public spheres gradually comes to disappear. As this distinction disappears, the state as enterprise – or the state with a moral mission – finds itself everywhere in the public and private lives of persons: each and every citizen must abide by the ideological enterprise of the state and must publicly declare his participation in the practices of social justice and equality. By so participating, the dream of the collisionless society becomes a material reality. Naturally, whoever dares to openly question these dominant values, or to in any way belittle the virtues of participation and empathy (remember Nietzsche’s rejection of charity, sympathy, pity, or fellow-suffering), finds himself morally ostracized.

The fears pertaining to the pluralist chaos of individuality – and the presumed need for a counteracting ideology to maintain a collisionless social order – can only but translate into the imposition of a dream (or a variation of dreams) onto society. And thus, Oakeshott observes, “politics becomes an encounter of dreams” (ibid.).

Yet worse, however, this encounter of dreams in the terrain of politics is in fact an encounter of dreaming monomaniacs – for it so happens that each dreamer (together with his followers, of course) is absolutely convinced that it is his particular dream that is the key to ordering society in a perfect world of social justice and equality. And thus, the particular social dream that comes to dominate – and which is often an alliance of mutually related dreams – constitutes an ideological and cultural regime that is intolerant of any divergences vis-à-vis the moral values inherent in the language of that dominant dream. One may therefore speak of the dictatorship of dreams in the modern western milieu.

In response to such a state of affairs, Oakeshott positions himself as follows: “We tolerate monomaniacs, it is our habit to do so; but why should we be ruled by them?” (ibid., p. 187). This typically Oakeshottian response to whichever dictatorship of dreams contains three key words that point to three cardinal concepts in the Oakeshottian political philosophy that shall have to be examined in much greater detail below – the words are: tolerate; habit; and ruled. At this point, we may simply make a number of rough observations. Firstly, when Oakeshott tells us that we should tolerate the monomaniacs since it is our habit in so doing, he is making the absolutely important point that toleration has been a vital part of what he calls, as already mentioned, a people’s self-imposed morality of habit of behaviour. Such traditionally-rooted behaviour, characterizing various phases in the history of western civilization as an essentially anti-Babelian force, has been ipso facto and above all pluralist in nature – simple toleration always was its habitual disposition. The Nietzschean position, by the way and as we shall further see, is actually quite similar to that of Oakeshott’s with respect to both the traditional history of any people’s self-imposed morality of habit of behaviour, and especially with respect to the absolute importance of toleration. We know that Nietzsche’s Zarathustra repeatedly advises the exceptional individual with a key phrase suggesting toleration vis-à-vis the many-too-many: Let them, he says.

Secondly, when Oakeshott refuses to be ruled by the monomaniacs of social dreams, he is rejecting – again, as would Nietzsche – whatever ideology, and which is always and by definition a mass-based ideology. He is rejecting the rule of whatever ideology, not only because all ideologies express singular dreams and perfectionist formulae for paradisiacal futures, but also because they represent dogmatic narratives that are imposed on a people by the state and its famous wise ones. By rejecting such intrusive imposition, Oakeshott is denying all forms of slave morality or whatever submission to (the Nietzschean definition of) idol-adoration.

Any ideology of social justice is intrusive – it especially intrudes on the taste and disposition of an independently self-rolling individual; and it can intrude on the taste and disposition of any historical people that would otherwise have maintained its traditional independence of a Babelian-type society. The intrusion is effected through a politics of faith that comes to encroach into all spheres of life – and it thereby kills the present by speaking of a utopian future; and thereby it kills the diversity of pluralist individuality by reducing all to replicas of mass uniformity. We shall now need to delve slightly deeper into precisely how such politics of faith have come to function in the modern (but also postmodern) western milieu.

In her discussion of how Oakeshott views the politics of faith, Corey writes as follows on the question of the modern mode of governance: “Government becomes huge as it strains to direct the activities of its citizens in politics and in all other spheres of life. It is the “chief inspirer and sole director” of the improvement that is supposed to lead to perfection.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 165).

This general presentation of the modern western mode of governance – and the form of state that such governance presupposes – may be directly compared to what Nietzsche had to say of the state as he saw it in his time. Remember, for instance, his observation that the state “seeketh by all means to be the most important creature on earth”. It even wishes to assert such importance by telling its populace that it has now taken the place of God – this is how the state speaks to its citizens, according to Nietzsche (and as already noted): “On earth there is nothing greater than I: it is I who am the regulating finger of God.”

It is in its capacity as the regulating finger of God that the state (and whatever government happens to operate within its structures) assumes the all-important role of the sole director of society. As sole director, it wishes to direct the activities of its citizens in politics, and it thereby strains to politicize everything and everyone in life. Its primary purpose is to absorb all manifestations of life within its own matrix. Extrapolating from the ancient Greek concept of idiotes, it stigmatizes anyone who refuses such politicization as an idiot – any individual who willfully chooses to abstain from public politics and mass ideology (so that, inter alia, he preserve his own private and independent world), is declared to be either an archetypal idiot or an anti-social threat.

As sole director, therefore, the state strives to direct the conduct of its citizens in all other (i.e. those inherently not strictly political) spheres of life – it literally wishes to practically intervene in how persons conduct themselves anywhere and in all spheres of life, from the bedroom to the workplace, from the sitting room to the street corner, and so on.

Aware that such persistent and obvious statal overstretch may cause a certain apprehension on the part of some segments of its populace, the state enables certain of its subjects to engage in what has euphemistically been dubbed non-governmental organizations. Here, the role of the state as sole director is no longer obvious – the regulating finger of God is nonetheless still there (via funding), but its presence is now only half-visible.

As chief inspirer, finally, the state is unremittingly involved in social projects aimed at the perpetual improvement of the lives of its populace – this is dubbed the quality of life of citizens. And all are expected to respect and – in whatever way possible – participate in the socio-political struggles for the improvement of such quality of life. All organs of the state and all members of the populace need scramble for the holiest of holy social titles – that of being politically progressive. For it is progress that shall ultimately yield the perfect society. And thus the whole of the populace is morally obliged to share in one basic tenet of faith – viz. that the progressive series of piecemeal improvements in the lives of citizens shall come to cumulatively yield a perfect society organized around social justice and equality for all.

The politics of faith places mass politics in absolute command – and it does so by declaring that such politics should be pursued to the exclusion of all other human preoccupations, be these mental, manual, or whatever form of human activity. The implication is that the state, like all gods, is itself a jealous god – it wants everything for itself.

The Oakeshottian position, of course, would be absolutely critical of the viewpoint that politics – political ideology and political practice – should be pursued everywhere and at all times. One should in any case not have to obsess over the quite mundane matter of politics. Oakeshott would rather argue that political engagement, albeit an unavoidably necessary human burden, should nonetheless only take place within certain specified times and places – and it should always take place in a manner that would not ever interrupt that which is truly important, viz. living life per se. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, of course, would go even further – he would choose to stand over and above all politics, and would stand over and above all the values of the market-place as reflected in political ideology and political practice.

Oakeshott’s position on the relative status of the so-called political moment in the life of a people, and especially in that of an individual, has been very lucidly presented by Corey as follows: “Whereas the politics of faith understands political activity as preeminently serious, as something that ought to be pursued to the exclusion of all other activities, [Oakeshott’s] skepticism sets aside special times and places for engagement in politics. These times and places (for instance, parliaments and law courts) are deliberately separated from “ordinary life” and have special rituals and requirements for participation. According to this understanding, politics is an activity to be pursued not at all times but “on certain specified occasions.” Its significance lies not in its result, but in the manner in which its participants engage in it. This understanding does not trivialize political activity, for the outcome of this ritualized “play” certainly matters, but it does remove from it the tendency to consider itself more important than all other forms of human activity.” (ibid., pp. 181-182).

The politics of faith, perhaps like most faiths, is above all a faith in the future. And it is such future-prone politics of faith – in the form of a political ideology – that permeates the modern western state. As such, the state is an enterprise that constitutes a powerful existential threat to the individual living his present. It is precisely for this reason that when Nietzsche speaks of the state and its various organs and organic intellectuals, he consistently makes use of death-related pronouncements – consider, for instance, examples such as the following: death-horse; preachers of death; will to death; the death of peoples, etc. Very much like Oakeshott himself, Nietzsche is telling us that the state is against life per se, or that it stands against the will to live the present. The state is a killer of all time-present, and especially the time-present of an individual who would otherwise know what to do with such time. That which the state kills, one may add, is something that has always had a very limited life-span (that of any human being); moreover, it kills a limited life-span that cannot ever be repeated (we shall have to come back to the issue of living the present further below, and especially with reference to Nietzsche).

Corey encapsulates the critical Oakeshottian position with respect to all future-prone ideology by writing as follows: “Living in the present … requires that we neither place our hopes in our future selves nor live on the accumulated capital of past achievements. It certainly goes against everything we hear around us, since looking to the future is a cardinal virtue for politicians, financial planners, and insurance salesmen.” (ibid., p. 46).

The Oakeshottian intellectual project may be said to expose the prevailing (and paramount) virtue underlying the whole of the modern western world – viz. that of living by looking to the future. Modern, as also postmodern, western civilization is in fact obsessed with the future – and such obsession is embedded in its various versions of collectivism, or in its collectivist ideologies. Corey notes: “… the promised perfection – religious, productivist, distributionist – lies always in the future and thus always out of reach. The politics of faith is preoccupied, indeed obsessed, with the future.” (ibid., p. 173).

Now, this politics of faith – or this Pelagian-type utopian politics – answers to the essential needs of the modern mass man, such type of man being Nietzsche’s many-too-many. And it answers to the needs of the many-too-many because it is expressive of a democratic milieu – and it is a democratic milieu because therein, as Nietzsche has observed, I serve, thou servest, we serve. In what way does such milieu serve the many-too-many? It serves them by presenting them with a ready-made life-purpose encapsulated in ideals, or utopian ideals. Recipients of such ideals, they escape from themselves as individuals by submitting to such ideals – they no longer need bother to understand their own selves, and thus they need not bother to both discover and create their own unique purpose in life. Whatever uniqueness could have possibly characterized them as individuals is lost for life. Their own purpose in life comes to be fully articulated by the Babelian priests of an ideal, or by what Nietzsche has called the famous wise ones. Referring to the Babelian tower and what this all means for individuality, Corey writes as follows: “… the tower also symbolizes the human desire to escape the difficult task of self-understanding by becoming part of a project that is thought to be great and noble. An individual’s hopes for the future are thus tied to the success of a grand undertaking with which he has allied himself. And yet by allying himself in this way he has, in a sense, relinquished the difficult task of self-understanding: he is now the recipient of a ready-made purpose in life. In just this way the Babelians have become “priests of an ideal” …” (ibid., p. 132).

This is what generally defines the mode of life of the many-too-many in the typical western democratic state. Being a democratic state, anyone – or almost anyone – can engage in the politics of the state and in the exercise of power. The first lord, Nietzsche has written, can merely be the first servant. The hierarchical chain of commanding is such as to enable the weaker to usurp the power of the stronger – we need remember here how Nietzsche has expressed this in describing the democratic diffusion of power in the modern western milieu: “By by-ways”, he has written, “doth the weaker then slink into the fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one – and there stealeth power.” And he can steal such power as the process of usurpation happens to be, at least theoretically speaking, fairly easy to fulfill – and it is fairly easy to fulfill because the politics of faith is a rationalist-based politics dependent above all on attainable technical knowledge. With reference to rationalist-based politics, and how its political practices are based on an easily accessible technical knowledge, Corey writes: “… in theory this kind of [technical] knowledge is available to everyone. No special talents are required to engage in politics if one can master an ideology.” (ibid., p. 161). And since no special talents are needed, mediocrity becomes rampant even amongst the ruling elites of the state, including its famous wise ones.

With or without special talents, one would need to go through a certain political education so as to master any one prevailing ideology. With respect to that type of political education, Oakeshott has written as follows: “it [political education] is associated with that softening of the mind, by force, by alarm, or by the hypnotism of the endless repetition of what was scarcely worth saying once, by means of which whole populations have been reduced to submission.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 112).

Submission to the politics of faith – to the ideology of a future-prone politics of perfection – means submission to a politics of uniformity. And it is that softening of the mind through political education that allows for such uniformity. In fact, modern-day schooling in the western world consciously trains for the social and ideological uniformity of all.

Before we proceed to examine the possible ways, as suggested by Oakeshott, in which the individual – as an agent of his own self – can live his life even within the context of that modern western state and its political schooling as described above, we may here briefly dwell on the real, material impact of such a type of Babelian state as witnessed in the more recent history of the western world, and especially so in the USA.

The workings of (the Oakeshottian understanding of) the huge state as an enterprise association – and the consequences of its practices with respect to the realities of the western world – would become most clearly evident towards the end of the 20th century, and much more so by the 21st century. While – as has been mentioned above – such form of state may definitely be traced back to the Age of Reason, its all-consuming structures and practices would begin to fully blossom by the post-1990’s. One may roughly sketch such maturation in the USA by commencing one’s analysis with the period of the 1960’s, and then identifying the major mutations that would come to prevail some decades later.

It may be argued that in the period of the 1960’s it was the ideology of fusionism that would come to prevail amongst certain important segments of American intellectuals and various socio-political blocs. It was an ideology articulated by particular famous wise ones – or public intellectuals, such as William F. Buckley Jr. and his National Review – who would insist on struggling against a purposively teleocratic all-powerful state, and who would argue instead for a state that respected or even celebrated individual differences (they would in fact be engaging in that long, historical struggle between two opposing conceptions of the western state, as has been described by Edmund Neill).

The ideology of fusionism was to actually become a dominant force in the USA, and it would even occupy the centre stage of American politics. And it would be fusionist in a very specific sense: it would be an alliance between conservative traditionalism (otherwise known as social conservatism) and the principles of libertarianism. It would, in other words, fuse what Oakeshott has called a popular morality of habit of behaviour (and which would include the Christian religious disposition) with a morality of individuality. This fusionist alliance would have Ronald Reagan as its most well-known advocate, and it would also be at its height ideologically with the Republican takeover of Congress in 1994.

In the course of the post-Reagan era, however, this historic alliance would break down: conservative traditionalism would be abandoned, and the principles of American libertarian individualism would be either peripheralized or demonized, or in any case distorted. What had happened? One would see the emergence of the ideology of neo-liberalism and the rise of the all-powerful neo-liberal state as a Babelian-type enterprise. Such state would now focus all of its resources, and do so absolutely, on a licentious economic growth – it would even become obsessed with such growth. It would be doing precisely what Oakeshott had once warned against – viz. the rationalist-based demand for continual productivity and economic growth. And it would be doing what Nietzsche had himself once warned against – viz. the utilitarian-based idol-adoration bent on western man’s material maintenance, it being a maintenance which, again, could only be sustained given that continual productivity and economic growth.

Obsessed with growth, the neo-liberal state would come to impose its economic policies on all – it would come to preach, as Nietzsche would once write, “humility and policy and diligence”. And such state would transform into a huge leviathan network with ubiquitous tentacles intervening in the private lives of its citizens. But further, and given its obsession with economic growth, the state would now forge close alliances with similarly ubiquitous and as all-powerful global corporations. Ultimately, this type of state would come to operate as the Babelian priest of an ideal (that of an announced social justice and equality for all) – and thus we would see that persistent statal imposition of a new ethical order on all of society. Together with its promotion of humility, policy, and diligence, therefore, the state would also become a preacher of what Nietzsche would dub “the long et cetera of petty virtues”.

Patrick J. Deneen, in his book entitled Why Liberalism Failed (Yale University Press, 2018), tells us that a political philosophy that had been put into effect at the birth of the United States has now finally been shattered – why is that so? He goes on to show how “The liberal state expands to control nearly every aspect of life while citizens regard government as a distant and uncontrollable power.” (pagination unavailable).

That which has in fact been thereby shattered is both the morality of individuality and the traditional morality of habit of behaviour. Both the persistent interventionism of the state-as-priest in the private lives of individuals, as also the constant push towards a globalization of cultural practices, would help shatter a people’s habit of behaviour. On the other hand, the obsession with licentious economic growth would yield a distorted form of individualism – it would be a debased, nihilistic, and materialistically this-worldly type of individualism. It would now be the individualism of the commodity consumer and the obsessive profiteer – precisely what Nietzsche had described as the trader-stench and the ambition-fidgeting – that would take the place of an individualism based on value-creation and on individual aesthetic creativity.

In direct contrast to the new nihilistically materialist form of individualism, the libertarian individualism of the creator of his own values and/or aesthetic world would at the same time have been as much respectful of any people’s traditional morality of habit of behaviour – and such aesthetic-based individualism would be thus respectful given its cardinal respect for traditional pluralism. Of course, it was precisely such pluralistic respect that had enabled the ideology of fusionism to materialize in the first place.

In the long term, it may be argued that the expansion of the Babelian-type state can yield different forms of totalitarianism – and that, not in spite of, but in fact precisely due to the democratic milieu itself. It would be René Girard who would point to such totalitarian possibilities, and he would do so in his own perspicacious way. We may rather liberally interpret his own thinking as follows: Democracy may be said to yield equality. But equality would itself mean a diminishing of the concrete differences between men. Since concrete differences are diminished, it would now be abstract ideological conflicts that would play a dominant role in the lives of people. Such collective conflicts over abstract ideological idols would come to intermingle with private and personal conflicts. And thus the public and the private would become indistinguishable – their distinction would disappear into an all-consuming ideological-political mobilization of society. All human desires would come to be organized and mobilized around ideological idol-adoration. Here, the coordinating role of the state-as-idol becomes central and continually expands. By so expanding, totalitarianism raises its head, wherein all are in the service of an ideological nothingness – this, however, gives birth to different forms of nihilism.

Our reading of the thinking of Girard may not necessarily be precise – but it certainly does capture the basic idea that a Babelian-type state based on mass democracy and the virtues of equality can ultimately mutate into some form of totalitarianism. We may here, in any case, quote a bit of Girard himself with respect to the question of democracy and totalitarianism – he writes as follows: “As … the concrete differences between men grow smaller [through democracy and equality], abstract opposition plays an ever larger part in individual and collective existence. All the forces of being are gradually organized into twin structures whose opposition grows ever more exact. Thus every human force is braced in a struggle that is as relentless as it is senseless, since no concrete difference or positive value is involved. Totalitarianism is precisely this. The social and political aspects of this phenomenon cannot be distinguished from its personal and private aspects. Totalitarianism exists when all desires have been organized one by one into a general and permanent mobilization of being in the service of nothingness.” (cf. Stendhal, Red and Black, op. cit., p. 520).

For Girard, it seems, it is the general organization and mobilization of all human desires in the service of an ideological nothingness – both public and private – that defines totalitarianism. And it is the disappearance of the private desire into a mobilized collective desire that confirms such totalitarianism.

How may the independent individual live his life despite the existence of an already huge interventionist state that is in any case continually expanding? How may such individual preserve his private self in the face of a gradually emerging totalitarianism? In his attempt to respond to such vitally important questions, Oakeshott would speak of the potentialities of concrete individuals enacting their own independent selves. And he would go on to argue that such enactment of the self could only be actuated to the extent that the individual possessed the will to redefine his relationship to the world as an alien sojourner within that world. We shall here need to further investigate that thread of Oakeshottian thinking.

At this point, we should once again remind ourselves of the commonalities but also the divergences in the thinking of Oakeshott vis-à-vis that of Nietzsche. We may first of all note that Nietzsche could fully agree with the Oakeshottian notion of self-enactment, and especially as regards that of the alien sojourner (one may here cite the mode of living of Zarathustra himself, as that sui generis alternative figurative model). On the other hand, and as already alluded to, Nietzsche would insist that the type of individual engaging in self-enactment and living as an alien sojourner should be able to do just that whatever the social conditions that happen to contingently circumscribe him – in fact, it would be precisely the contingency of things around him that would test and further enrich his own will to self-enactment and alien sojourn in the world.

Oakeshott, it may be said, could certainly share such a Nietzschean position on the manner in which an independent individual deals with the world around him, and deals with the values of the market-place that define it. But he would also wish to argue that there are – have been, or can be – particular social circumstances and political frameworks that are most amenable to the individual’s capacities for self-enactment. And thus he would go on to investigate the historical concepts of civil association and enterprise association, and how such realities have come to clash in the history of the western world, and would clash precisely on the question of the sovereignty of individuality.

Yet still, Oakeshott would hold the position that whatever the social circumstances and whatever the prevailing political framework, the individual should in any case maintain his independence as an alien sojourner in the world. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, the key issue was always that of redefining morality, and especially when that came to the morality of individual agency. For both, in other words, the creative activity of self-enactment and the independence of the alien sojourner were issues pertaining to none other than morality per se (we shall further below examine the manner in which Nietzsche would understand the virtue of the exceptional individual).

Corey’s work provides us with a clear presentation of the Oakeshottian position on the enactment of individuality, and how this is above all a question of self-morality – she writes as follows: “If Oakeshott’s conception of the moral life takes its bearings from religion and poetry, … then politics must also reflect this understanding. And it should be no surprise that Oakeshott favored a view of political activity in which individual agents are given the greatest possible latitude to act as they see fit. His mature expression of the kind of politics he applauded – civil association – is an understanding of governing in which human beings have the freedom to “enact” themselves as they desire, all the while observing certain agreed-upon conditions (law). This understanding of government is at the opposite pole from one that desires to control all aspects of the lives of its subjects: to construct, in effect, a Tower of Babel or to usher in “the New Jerusalem” …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 13).

We should here dwell on the phrase as they desire, and contrast it to what Girard has to say on the question of desire in the Babelian-type state – viz. his presentation of human desire as a collective mobilization all in the service of an ideological nothingness. And such service would, in the last instance, constitute an ideological nothingness having neutralized the freedom of human beings to enact their own individualities, it being life per se.

Self-morality is the individual desire and, above all, the individual will to freely choose the kind of life to be lived by that individual. Corey here identifies a certain shared ground between the thinking of Oakeshott and that of Augustine. Without wishing to comment on the so-called religiosity of Oakeshott’s own thinking – for us, this remains an open question, depending on how one chooses to define any religious disposition, as also depending on the variety of phases in Oakeshottian thinking itself – we may here nonetheless quote Corey on how Oakeshott would understand the question of human freedom and individual free choice. She writes as follows: “Their [Oakeshott’s and Augustine’s] conceptions of freedom allow human beings a great deal of latitude to choose the kinds of lives they will live. For both thinkers, the fundamental choice was between religion and worldliness, and it is in making this choice, not once and for all but again and again over the course of a lifetime, that a person declares citizenship in either civitas terrena or the civitas Dei.” (ibid., p. 39).

The desire – and ultimately the will – to consciously declare a certain type of citizenship for oneself is that which shall determine one’s freedom or lack of it. Without ever becoming intolerable with respect to the choices of the many-too-many, and while fully recognizing the conditions of the world that one traverses, the individual (but especially so in the case of the exceptional higher man) chooses and wills his place in the world as an alien sojourner within that world. It is this concept of the alien sojourner in the modern western world that may be said to constitute Oakeshott’s central prescription for the attainment of a free, self-rolling individuality, and which would stand over and above the statal politics of faith. The Oakeshottian concept of alien sojourner is said to have been borrowed directly but at the same time creatively from Augustinian thinking itself – Timothy Fuller, Oakeshott’s foremost American protégé, has even spoken of a “transposed Augustinianism” in the political philosophy of Oakeshott (as Corey informs us, ibid., p. 10).

What is it that such concept suggests? In a modern European state – the practices of which should in any case be delimited as much as that be at all feasible to those approximating a civil association – the individual salvages his own individuality by conducting himself as a resident stranger in the world (this being a translation of the Augustinian term, civitas peregrina). How would a resident stranger conduct himself in the modern western world? Corey explains that such individuals “do not see themselves as comrades engaged in a common, substantive enterprise, but as “wanderers” or “pilgrims” who travel on diverse paths yet remain allied in their recognition of certain common conditions.” (ibid.).

There are a number of important observations that one may make regarding such conduct of a resident stranger (or alien sojourner): Firstly, such an individual would not see himself as a comrade with respect to others – he would not stand in solidarity with the many-too-many. Such type of conduct is of course deeply evocative of the Nietzschean disposition. Secondly, and as deeply evocative of the Nietzschean disposition, is that the resident stranger conducts himself as a wanderer or pilgrim – he therefore lives his life in a manner that is expressive of the Zarathustrian alternative paradigm. Thirdly, all resident strangers travel on diverse paths – they therefore choose to follow their own lonesome course informed by its own singular morality, and again very much in terms of the Zarathustrian mode of life. This singular morality would naturally be of no concern to other resident strangers, who would by definition follow their own moral inclination. As importantly, it should also be of no concern to the many-too-many, given that such moral course would not attempt to intervene in the world of those many-too-many, it being a course beyond all political ideologies (on the other hand, a Babelian state-as-idol could certainly concern itself with any diverse paths that diverge from its politics of faith, but that is a risk that resident strangers would have to live with). Finally, the Oakeshottian resident stranger would still remain allied with others in a recognition of certain conditions shared by all in society – he would, in other words, recognize the law in its capacity as social umpire. Interestingly, there is some sense in which the Nietzschean position on this issue can be said to more or less converge with that of the Oakeshottian, and such convergence can be interpreted in a number of ways. For one thing, it may be argued (and as we shall further investigate below) that the Nietzschean approach could fully respect the morality of an independent people’s habit of behaviour, and could therefore respect the laws that emanate from such historically-rooted conduct. As for the modern western citizen who has submitted to the idol-adoration of mass ideology, Nietzsche would simply recognize the slavish needs of the many-too-many to abide by the rules of the hierarchies to which they belong – he would recognize the objective needs of any slave-morality while maintaining his supreme indifference towards such objective reality.

Oakeshott’s concept of the alien sojourner or resident stranger is expressive of a mode of thinking that is both pessimistic and optimistic. It is pessimistic as regards the role of the modern western state, and the various ways in which such state (and its concomitant governmental practices) has been evolving in its relationship to the individual; it is, however, highly optimistic as regards the creative potentialities of the individual, and especially when such individual happens to be exceptional. Corey writes of such pessimism and optimism in the work of Oakeshott as follows: “Indeed, not unlike Augustine’s, Oakeshott’s view of what government can and should achieve is remarkably limited and even pessimistic, despite the fact that he is simultaneously optimistic about the vast possibilities open to individuals. The most important achievements result from people’s making choices for themselves, not from a government that imposes a dominant order on the society as a whole.” (ibid., p. 157).

The imposition of a dominant order is meant to deliberately stifle individual choice, and it thereby stifles those vast possibilities inherent in the individual (or, more realistically, in certain types of individuals). The vast possibilities inherent in the individual constitute the exclusive truth of that individual – and it is precisely this exclusive truth that is stifled when state and government latitude is limitless. It is such limitless latitude that the Oakeshottian project wishes to address, and it does so by presenting the western world with a different understanding of government. Such an understanding is reflective of a particular disposition – being above all a disposition, it is in no way reducible to a system of formulae springing from whatever political ideology. The disposition may nonetheless be said to be philosophically conservative, in that it wishes to salvage whatever remains of a people’s morality of habit of behaviour; as also in that it wishes to salvage the pluralistic culture that has intermittently accompanied such morality. At the same time, such disposition is also essentially radical in its understanding of the current condition of humanity in the western world, and in its vital confirmation of individuality and the exclusive truths of the real world of the concrete individual. Its non-political radicalism is founded on a radical respect for the enactment of one’s independent individuality and its attendant life-project, and as that persistent project is pursued with the individual’s passion for life. Such respect is radical in that it is a confirmation of individual over-activity – and it is such over-activity that is the very womb of inventiveness and changefulness. In fact all too reminiscent of the Nietzschean understanding of life, this conservative-cum-radical disposition announces a respect for the freely-chosen excesses of individual creativity (and the potentially tragic consequences of such excess), and which would imply a deep respect for the freely-chosen exclusive truths of such creativity.

Oakeshott himself expresses all of the above in a very straightforward manner – he writes as follows: “The spring of this other disposition in respect of governing and the instruments of government – a conservative disposition – is to be found in the acceptance of the current condition of human circumstances … : the propensity to make our own choices and to find happiness in doing so, the variety of enterprises each pursued with passion, the diversity of beliefs each held with the conviction of its exclusive truth, the inventiveness, the changefulness and the absence of any large design [as imposed by a politics of faith]; the excess, the over-activity and the informal compromise.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 186).

Based on such radical thinking, the Oakeshottian injunctions towards the state and its organs are quite as radical in terms of their practical implications – again very much reminiscent of the Nietzschean disposition towards all that relates to matters of the state, Oakeshott asserts that the western state should not even, amongst other things, educate its subjects. He expands on this as follows: “And the office of government is not to impose other beliefs and activities upon its subjects, not to tutor or to educate them, not to make them better or happier in another way [i.e. in some other way that disturbs an individual’s own exclusive truth], not to direct them, to galvanize them into action, to lead them or to co-ordinate their activities so that no occasion of conflict shall occur; the office of government is merely to rule. This is a specific and limited activity, easily corrupted when it is combined with any other, and, in the circumstances, indispensable. The image of the ruler is the umpire whose business is to administer the rules of the game, or the chairman who governs the debate according to known rules but does not himself participate in it.” (ibid., pp. 186-187).

It is such types of injunctions that encapsulate the radical, material implications of the Oakeshottian understanding of state and government. It is this particular dispositional stance towards the western state that enables Oakeshott to identify the central conflictual element that has come to characterize much of western history – as already alluded to, such history has not only (or not mainly) been a history of so-called class struggles for social justice and equality (what Nietzsche has referred to as the storms of vengeance on the part of the many-too-many); rather, much of western history has been characterized by struggles between, on the one hand, independent-minded peoples opting to live their lives in civil associations and, on the other, populations seeking the protection of an all-consuming statal politics of faith (the respective and contrasting moral systems of which shall be further investigated below). Such central historical contradiction in the western world has thus been a continual struggle over the limits of politics – and it is the identification of this particular contradiction that allows Oakeshott to argue for and defend the limits of the political moment in the life of the western individual.

With respect to the Oakeshottian position on the necessary limits of the political moment in the western world, Edmund Neill explains that a form of state reflective of a civil association could not and would not ever pursue whatever substantive ends for any of its citizens – and by substantive ends one would here mean whatever policies of distributive justice. And it would not pursue such ends because that would violate the very liberty of its citizens. It is precisely this typically Oakeshottian position that argues for a limited function of the state and politics in western society. Neill writes on this as follows: “… since, by definition, a ‘civil association’ cannot pursue one substantive end without violating the liberty of the citizens within it – even if this (for example) merely consists in upholding one overarching criterion for distributive justice over another – the function of ‘politics’ must inevitably be a fairly limited one, as far as Oakeshott is concerned.” (op. cit., p. 67).

To curb the functions of the political moment in this way is to eschew the very notion of whatever activist government, it being a form of governance that may be said to have come to truly dominate the postmodern western world. Contrasting the Oakeshottian politics of skepticism with that of the politics of faith, Corey delineates what she views as the necessary limits of government, explaining why all forms of activist governance violate such limits. She writes as follows: “It [the politics of skepticism] has much in common with Oakeshott’s idea of civil association, in which government is an umpire, ensuring that minimal rules are obeyed and the rule of law is not jeopardized … skepticism is profoundly dubious about undertakings that pursue mundane perfection [viz. the idol-adoration of perfectionist formulae imposed on society]. Far from the activist government promoted by the politics of faith, in skeptical politics governing is primarily a judicial activity that leaves human beings free to pursue their own purposes.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 165).

Activist government leaves no room for individuals to pursue their own purpose in life, and which is a life that belongs to them and them only. And it leaves no such room as it has already usurped and thereby predetermined the very notion of life-purpose. The imposition of the idol-adoration of social perfectionism presupposes a statal – and ultimately governmental – vision of life. Such vision itself presupposes a truth of the world. But statal truth disallows whatever self-government on the part of society and its social groupings – even more significantly, statal truth abrogates all self-government on the part of the individual, and it thereby wishes to invalidate all manifestations of individual truth. Wishing to salvage both self-government and individual truth, Oakeshott points to the intimations of a form of governance that delimits its own functions in society – he writes as follows: “Government … does not begin with a vision of another, different and better world, but with the observation of the self-government practiced even by men of passion in the conduct of their enterprises … In short, the intimations of government are to be found in ritual, not in religion or philosophy; in the enjoyment of orderly and peaceable behaviour, not in the search for truth or perfection.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 188).

Above all, and given the absolute primacy of individual truth and individual virtue, Oakeshott shall argue that the state ought not to concern itself with what is morally right and morally wrong – like Nietzsche, he is critical of that type of state that has for so long been a value-laden, scale-covered beast. He continues as follows: “It [governing] is not concerned with moral right and wrong, it is not designed to make men good or even better; it is not indispensable on account of ‘the natural depravity of mankind’ …” (ibid., p. 189).

Now, pragmatically speaking – and which implies a dimension of social reality that would be of little interest to the Nietzschean Overman for reasons to be further investigated below – one would be obliged to acknowledge that there are certain limits that must apply to even skeptical politics, and especially as regards its rejection of statal initiatives to mobilize its citizens around specific goals. While such mass mobilization of a people would be anathema to the Oakeshottian understanding of politics, there can be very special circumstances wherein galvanizing a populace into action becomes an inevitable necessity. What could such exceptional circumstances be? Corey points to the limits of Oakeshottian skeptical politics by identifying at least three types of exceptional circumstances – she writes as follows: “… despite its general desirability, skeptical politics may be inappropriate for certain kinds of societies, either those that are just emerging or those that find themselves in times of war or crisis.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 178). It should yet again be emphasized, however, that skeptical politics would here be inappropriate specifically as regards the populace of a society, and not so as regards whichever self-rolling Overman (the relations of the latter to whatever form of state shall be thrashed out in much greater detail in a special section below).

It is quite obvious that when such special circumstances cease to exist, the state should itself cease to operate as an activist state, it should no longer articulate mass, visionary ideologies of the truth of things, and it should no longer concern itself with what is morally right – it would not, in other words, take it upon itself as a state-as-idol to mobilize and galvanize its citizens in terms of a politics of faith. And thus, in an essay written in the aftermath of the Second World War, in 1949, Oakeshott would argue that although any society could find itself mobilizing for war, it would then have to demobilize in the interests of a free society (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 56).

4b. Civil association as a form of state

At least theoretically speaking, when the state-as-Babel ceases, and at that point where the politics of faith also cease to operate, one may say that the structures and practices of civil association as a form of state can come to prevail. Or the inverse might occur, as it more or less happened in the history of western civilization. Civil association as a form of state has of course existed in the history of that civilization – it has also been rigorously upheld as a political option by a variety of major intellectuals in the history of western thought.

To be able to identify the appearance and operation of civil association as a form of state in the history of the western world, one would need to undertake some sort of a historical periodization of western milieus. One would need to pose the following key question: in which particular milieus of the history of the western world did non-purposive forms of state come to prevail? Oakeshott would undertake historical research work attempting to show that Rome – both Republican and Imperial – had in fact been organized around a form (or forms) of state approximating a non-purposive civil association. Therein, it would be none other than private individuals who would associate with one another around the recognition of a law (as neutral umpire) to which they owed obedience – both the recognition of such law, as also the law itself, would not violate either their privacy as persons or their independence as citizens. Oakeshott would go on to argue that the case of Rome did not merely represent an early example of a non-purposive state – it would also constitute a political paradigm that was to be handed down in a variety of ways to the medieval and modern worlds of western civilization. With respect to Oakeshott’s particular historical understanding of the existence of civil association in the course of various western milieus, Luke O’Sullivan writes as follows: “… he [Oakeshott] had begun to reconsider the periods into which political thought was divided – ancient, medieval and modern – and the relationship between them … To begin with the ancient world, he acknowledged its importance without sliding into more-or-less uncritical admiration … Oakeshott recognized the Greeks as the inventors of politics in Europe, but did not go on to draw the conclusion that they had arrived at a definitive understanding of it. In fact, Oakeshott tended to see Rome, rather than Greece, as vital for understanding subsequent developments. The Romans, he believed, were ‘the only European people who have shown a real genius for politics.’ … he saw the Romans as the inventors of ‘by far the most comprehensive and elaborate system of law that any people, save in modern times, has elaborated for itself.’ Rome became ‘a legally organized society in a manner in which even Athens never became.’ In his eyes, Rome, in both its Republican and Imperial periods, had been ‘a civil association … a set of private persons joined in the recognition of a law to which they, all alike, owed obedience.’ The significance of this attitude is worth making explicit – Oakeshott was claiming, in effect, that the Roman State had provided an early example of a non-purposive understanding of a State, an example handed down to the medieval and modern worlds.” (cf. Luke O’Sullivan, “Michael Oakeshott on European Political History”, op. cit., p. 138).

Now, the history of western thought would itself present us with a long list of intellectuals who had, in one way or another, argued for civil association as an effective manner of organizing western societies – to the extent that the Nietzschean project could at all be said to imply some positive element of political thinking applicable to western society as a whole, one would perhaps include Nietzsche himself amongst the list of proponents of civil association. Corey Abel, in his “Forward to The Meanings of Michael Oakeshott’s Conservatism” (cf. Academia.edu, 2010, p. xiv), writes as follows: “Oakeshott’s list of proponents of civil association includes an impressive line-up of major thinkers: Pico della Mirandola, Marsilius of Padua, Montaigne, Hobbes, Pascal, Hume, Kant, Burke, Blake, Locke (usually), the American Founders (in spite of their often ‘enterprising’ rhetoric), Nietzsche, and of course, Hegel.”

It is not for us to verify the accuracy of such general observations regarding the roster of proponents – one may here cautiously assume that most, if not all, of the thinkers listed above would at some point or other in the course of their intellectual careers have espoused a mode of thinking approximating the notion of civil association. But perhaps the most effective manner of verifying the extent to which they constitute proponents of civil association would be to measure the degree to which they would have subscribed to values such as the following:

• The pursuance of an individual’s personal activities must take priority over and above all else in the world – all that politics and its practices can do is to quietly oversee the general rules of conduct precisely so as to facilitate such personal activities (cf., for instance, StJohnsPipeCasts, “Michael Oakeshott’s Political Philosophy”, YouTube, October 16, 2020).
• Beyond providing the obligatory public service of facilitating an individual’s personal activities, government must remain an absolutely indifferent referee (cf., for instance, José Roberto Bonifácio, “On Being Conservative (1956) by Michael Oakeshott”, Academia.edu, undated).
• Although one should acknowledge the need for a stable order as one precondition for human fulfillment, the state and the political realm as a whole can never provide what is ultimately satisfying for human beings – one should not place one’s hopes for salvation in this-worldly activity and in a this-worldly Rationalist-based ideological eschatology for some New Jerusalem (cf., for instance, Corey, op. cit., pp. 20-21).

These would be some of the very basic values – and as these have been presented thus far in this paper – which would have to be espoused by any proponent of civil association. But what really matters in any discussion of the question of civil association as a politico-historical phenomenon is not merely the extent to which such phenomenon has come to be articulated in the history of western political philosophy by particular proponents. What truly matters, and matters above all, belongs to a different order of things. This may be put as succinctly as possible as follows: the actual materialization of whatever form of civil association in the western world can only but depend on individuals who are consciously willing and naturally capable of participating in such a form of social organization. Civil association, in other words, depends on the existence of a particular type of person with particular qualities – Oakeshott would call such type cives. And it is in the definition of a cive that there would be a definite common ground in the thinking of Oakeshott and in that of Nietzsche. How would both define that type of individual who would choose to live his life in a civil association?

To begin with, a typical cive would neither demand nor depend on whatever substantive props which supposedly ought to be provided by the state. His material maintenance, in other words, would not depend on the state’s petty policies (remember Nietzsche) of distributive justice. Corey explains that Oakeshott’s cives participating in civil associations (as opposed to enterprise associations) “are related only in terms of a moral practice, which postulates no substantive ends.” (ibid., p. 184).

Secondly, a typical cive is necessarily a moral individualist, and there can be no civil association in the absence of such moral individualists. In her discussion of skeptical politics, and which is that type of politics yielding civil association, Corey writes as follows: “As he [Oakeshott] makes clear in Morality and Politics in Modern Europe, skeptical politics depends upon the existence of a type of person who is a moral individualist, someone disposed “to make choices for [himself] to the maximum possible extent” …” (ibid., p. 182).

Thirdly, all cives would need to be self-determining free agents. But what is it that makes one a self-determining free agent? Making use of Oakeshott’s On Human Conduct, Corey explains what a self-determining individual is, and especially what he is not – she writes as follows: “Most important to the relationship of cives is that they are self-determining individuals – “not neurophysiological organisms, genetic characters, psychological egos or components of a ‘social process’, but ‘free’ agents whose responses to one another’s actions and utterances is one of understanding” …” (ibid., p. 184). It should be noted here that, precisely because they are morally independent free agents, cives are not and cannot be the products of particular social circumstances – very much like the Nietzschean higher man, the Oakeshottian cive stands over and above the components of whatever so-called social process.

Finally, and again highly reminiscent of the Zarathustrian mode of being, the typical cive is above all a fearless but well prepared risk-taker – he would reject the cowardice of those who comfortably embrace the small happinesses offered by the state (its substantive gifts). The cive is that type of individual who is prepared to face the ordeal of consciousness all by himself – this is how Corey puts it: “Civil association thus requires agents who are well prepared to face the “ordeal of consciousness”, who embrace opportunities to make choices for themselves, and who are unafraid of the possibilities for failure that partner any potential success.” (ibid.). It goes without saying that such particular prerequisites – and especially that ability to fearlessly face the ordeal of one’s own consciousness – are not meant for the modern-day mass man and his ideals for the building of collective Towers. Such prerequisites, in other words, are not meant for what Nietzsche would call the mobilized, idol-worshipping and thereby superfluous many-too-many (“those are all cowardly”, as he observes).

Unless a society is predominantly composed of individuals satisfying the four closely interrelated prerequisites delineated above, such society would not be able to organize itself around civil associations. It seems that for Oakeshott (though certainly not for Nietzsche), while the establishment of civil association as a form of state would depend on a particular type of individual, that type of individual would himself depend upon civil association for his own personal freedom. And he would depend upon civil association so as to secure such personal freedom since civil association as a form of state would above all mean a moderation of all political power – such power would only be put to use when there is an absolute necessity for such use. Oakeshott expresses this position as follows: “… we consider that our freedom depends as much upon the moderation of the power exercised by government as upon the proper and courageous use of that power when necessity arises.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 42).

It is of absolute importance to finally note here that, whenever some form of civil association had (or has) emerged in the course of western civilization, such particular manifestation of political will would come to constitute the guarantor of that civilization. Relating civil association as a form of state to the Oakeshottian language of civility, Edmund Neill writes as follows: “… the ‘language’ of civility has a particular importance in relating agents [through the plurality of tolerance and/or mutual understanding], since it is in some sense the guarantor of civilization …” (op. cit., p. 64).

4c. Civil association and the question of traditionality

As has already been discussed above, civil association as a form of state would presuppose a settled structure protective of individual freedom – such protective structure, enunciated in the rule of law, would operate as a social umpire in partnership with the traditions of time-past (though also, one should not forget, with the practical needs of time-present). We need to dwell further on the implications of the fact that the functioning of a civil association is informed by time-past and the traditionality embedded in such time-past.

Where does the rule of law in any civil association – or, rather, the particular rules of the settled structure protective of individuality in that association – emanate from? The rules of civil association are rules that have evolved over time. They can only but emanate from such a historical evolution; they can only but be inherited from the past – they could not possibly be any one person’s brainchild. Inherited from the past and the traditionality embedded in such time-past, such rules can often limit what any individual may or may not do – but such rules cannot ever determine or dictate individual actions. This seems to be the basic Oakeshottian understanding of civil association and its relationship to traditionality (cf. StJohnsPipeCasts, op. cit.) – how this compares and contrasts with the Nietzschean position on traditionality (and his respect for traditional peoples who had once been able to be life-affirming) shall further unfold below.

In discussing the conditions of civil association and the freedom of the individual therein – and not, in any case, the need for the self-assertion of a morality of individuality under whichever social circumstances in the modern world – Oakeshott cannot escape, and does not wish to escape, the inherited traditions of western civilization and the implications of such a civilization. Given such a context, Oakeshott tells us that the freedom of the individual is a freedom that is acquired, mastered and celebrated within the historical experience bestowed on western man by inherited traditionality – viz. by a particular morality of habit of behaviour. Of course, this would suggest that the freedom of an individual who willfully participates in a civil association (and unlike the Nietzschean Overman vis-à-vis the demands of the market-place in, say, a country of modern Europe) would be constrained by the practices and traditions of that morality of habit of behaviour, and he would be more or less constrained by the habituation that goes with such behaviour. One may therefore say that the Oakeshottian freedom is one that is both expansive and limited. Corey explains Oakeshott’s position with respect to individual freedom and the question of traditionality as follows: “The freedom Oakeshott applauds is something that must be learned and enjoyed within inherited traditions. It is therefore a freedom at once expansive and limited. This is important to note, because many people find Oakeshott’s non-rule-based morality almost frighteningly liberating. If there are no hard and fast rules, they argue, what is to prevent people from acting immorally and badly? Oakeshott’s answer would surely be that no rules could prevent this, and it is a misunderstanding of morality to imagine that any such ironclad rules exist. Nevertheless, he would also point out the constraining features of practices and traditions, which habituate people toward acting in morally acceptable ways.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 222).

Which are the basic values that have come to constitute western inherited traditionality? Oakeshott’s response to this question may be said to belong to the conservative – as opposed to the liberal – genre. While any attempts at labeling Oakeshottian political thinking would be of little use for our purposes, one would in any case have to admit that Oakeshott’s libertarian position does at the same time wish to conserve certain basic values that have come to define the western world. Edmund Neill (op. cit.) explains this as follows: “What, then, marks out Oakeshott’s position as a conservative rather than liberal? … In the first place, … there is a much stronger sense in Oakeshott’s work than one would expect from a late twentieth-century liberal of the value of the nation-state, and beyond this of the importance of patriotism in general. If ‘tradition’ is something that Oakeshott is concerned to value, by this he means – primarily at least – a national tradition, rather than something more international.” (p. 111).

One may perhaps be more specific here as regards the implicit values of Oakeshottian inherited traditionality by making the following observations:

• Western inherited traditionality has generally embraced the political notion of the nation-state as a supreme political unit organizing a people – but that which is to be above all valued in a particular nation-state is its upholding of the principle of pluralism, and which would therefore mean an absolute respect for the morality of individuality.
• The Oakeshottian understanding of the historical nation-state as a value to be conserved presupposes that its political realm is restricted to the role of neutral umpire.
• Oakeshottian inherited traditionality would uphold the value of patriotism – but this would be an understanding of patriotism as a strictly personal taste or personal disposition, and not at all as a political ideology (whether statal or popular, or both).
• A people’s national tradition – and the cultural practices that have come to express it – would also need to be upheld, but only to the extent that such national tradition constitutes a morality of habit of behaviour emanating from the people themselves as independent subjects (and which would therefore not be a set of values and practices that have been imposed by the state and its organic intellectuals).
• Generally speaking, the Oakeshottian understanding of inherited traditionality would value a people’s historical identity – such western identity has above all been informed by the Christian cultural heritage. Again, this Christian cultural heritage is only to be valued to the extent that it is a manifestation of a popular morality of habit of behaviour, and not an imposed state ideology.

Now, the question of western historical identity – and its concomitant Christian cultural heritage – is often of central importance in the work of Oakeshott in that it allows him to examine the relationship between change and sameness within that identity. He wishes to argue, in other words, that one may speak of a cohesive and coherent western identity (its sameness in time) not despite the changes such identity has undergone in the course of its history, but precisely because of such changes. Whatever changes in western identity, he shall attempt to show, actually depend on the sameness of that identity – such changes are also necessary for the enrichment of that identity. And his understanding of civil association as a form of state presupposes both the sameness of western identity and the organically evolving changes taking place within such western identity. Corey presents this important aspect of Oakeshottian political thinking as follows: “The significance of identity lies in its ability to endure through changes. In other words, there must be some aspect of a phenomenon that has a qualitative sameness even while other aspects of it are transformed. This issue of identity is a more pressing issue in Christianity than in most other religions. For in these other religions, Oakeshott observes, “there has often been little change of surrounding civilization and little internal development; Christianity, however, has suffered both extensively”. It is Oakeshott’s task … to find some answer to the question of what part historical understanding plays in Christianity, and in exactly what the “identity” of Christianity may be found … Oakeshott provides the following answer. Identity, he argues, “so far from excluding differences, is meaningless in their absence, just as difference or change depend on something whose identity is not destroyed by that change” … to say that something is exactly the same is not yet to say anything about identity. If identity is to be a meaningful concept at all, then it requires that some sort of change take place even as something else simultaneously stays the same.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 89).

In her presentation of Oakeshott’s position on western identity and traditionality, Corey then goes on to further consider the issue of change and sameness in terms of possible deep ruptures in such identity and traditionality. For Oakeshott, she tells us, “Anything that does not cause an “absolute break” in the development of the Christian tradition may potentially be integrated into that tradition.” (ibid., p. 90). Of course, one may here raise the question as to what constitutes an absolute break, and such question is pertinent as it hinges on the continuity of western civilization, and therefore also hinges on the extent to which such civilization could ever accommodate traditionalist-pluralist civil associations as a form of social organization in the course of its future history. It may be argued that an absolute rupture within western identity and Christian traditionality would be a break that ultimately comes to eliminate all traces of the western morality of habit of behaviour – and, surely, the phenomenon of globalization could be considered to be a force that does just that. On the other hand, and given that the phenomenon of globalization remains a highly complex historical process (some analysts have counterposed globalization to apparently more realistic notions of (g)localization and postmodern regionalization), it would perhaps be wiser at this point in human history to let analysts of the future determine the extent to which absolute breaks in the history of the western identity have actually occurred and have irreversibly eliminated all vestiges of such identity.

For Oakeshott, in any case, western identity and its attendant moral practices – and which is the historical terrain in which civil association as a form of state has sprouted – presupposes a tradition of moral conduct, it being a particular popular morality of habit of behaviour which has characterized various milieus (not all) of western civilization. For Oakeshott, Corey tells us, “No moral ideals can exist prior to or independently of moral conduct …” (ibid., p. 163). By the term ideals, of course, Oakeshott would here definitely not mean those expressive of a political ideology – rather, such ideals would be the moral values of an independent, self-created community, and which would be a community that would respect the moral values of the independent individuals composing that community. And Oakeshott’s understanding of ideals would not be referring to those of an ideology since the ideals of whichever ideology are precisely the type that do exist independently of a tradition of moral conduct. When these do so exist, they are ideals that have been imposed on a people by the state and its ideologues as rules and formulae – they are what Nietzsche has referred to as the appointed virtues of the scribe-fingers. For Oakeshott these scribe-fingers are the rationalist ideologues of the modern western state.

It is in the very nature of the rationalist ideologue to disparage habit, custom and tradition – his rationalist politics of faith are such as to ceaselessly plan the imposition of new conceptual constructions of the truth independently of a community’s traditional morality of habit of behaviour. Corey explains the Oakeshottian position on rationalist politics and its dismissal of traditionality as follows: “The Rationalist disparages habit and custom, preferring new construction on an absolutely “rational” foundation … “To patch up, to repair (that is, to do anything which requires a patient knowledge of the material), [the Rationalist] regards as a waste of time; and he always prefers the invention of a new device to making use of a current and well-tried expedient” …” (ibid., p. 161).

It would be civil association as a form of state that would safeguard – via its primary social arrangement of plurality – both the best of traditionality and the best of the morality of habit of behaviour in its organically progressive transformation through time. For some modern-day thinkers, it has also been the traditional western university – amongst other civil institutions – that has played a major role in salvaging the best of western traditionality. As a body of cumulative traditional learning, Anthony Burgess has argued, the traditional western university has always had to appeal to tradition. On the other hand, he would also go on to argue that the present-day western university – he was speaking in the 1970’s – may be said to be guilty of the debasement of knowledge given its gradual disparagement of western traditionality (cf. Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr.: “The Young”, January 27, 2017, Episode S0074, Recorded on December 21, 1972). The question therefore yet again arises as to whether or not the postmodern western university has developed in such a way – and given the phenomenon of globalization – as to deepen even further the so-called deep ruptures in western traditional identity discussed above. Again, this shall have to remain an open question.

5. Types of moralities

Our discussion of the two generically different forms of state – the Oakeshottian understanding of the state as enterprise association versus the state as civil association – now allows us to examine the radically different types of moralities that are intrinsic to these two different forms of state. The two types of moralities we shall be presenting below may be said to be respectively reflective of a particular form of state and therefore respectively reflective of a particular form of social organization. This presentation of the two discrete moralities that have come to characterize the history of the western world shall naturally interlock with Nietzsche’s own presentation of the issue of morality, and as such issue pertains to both a people (or peoples) and the concrete individual.

5a. The life versus the death of a people

We may commence our presentation of the issue of morality by making the simple – and by now perhaps even self-evident – observation that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would fully agree on the following central understanding of human life: when a people organizes itself around a self-imposed morality, that community of people affirms life per se; when a people is organized around a state-imposed morality, that spells the death of that community. This understanding of human life – and the concomitant issue of morality – needs to be explored further.

“Somewhere”, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra tells us, “there are still peoples … but not with us, my brethren; here there are states.” (p. 45). There where one finds independent, self-created peoples, one finds life and its affirmation; there where one finds the operation of states over peoples, one finds death.

This means that there where there is yet still a people, one finds that there is yet still a people’s own morality of habit of behaviour – it is a morality of habit designating their mode of living which they have gradually created by and for themselves, and which they have gradually come to impose on themselves. In direct contrast, there where the state rules the roost, one finds a superfluous people – and they are superfluous because they are in need of the protection of the state, and they need its protection because they themselves can no longer create their own life-meaning and life-values.

Oakeshott sees both of these realities as part of the history of the western world – so does Nietzsche. And, despite what has so often and so carelessly been said of the Nietzschean enterprise, it should here and once and for all be stated that a careful reading of Thus Spake Zarathustra reveals a deep respect for the history of peoples who had once created their own faiths, and who had thereby served life. Nietzsche therefore truly appreciated and paid tribute to peoples that lived their lives in terms of their own morality of habit of behaviour and the intrinsic moral faith that informed such behaviour. It is of course true that the faith informing their behaviour would above all be articulated by the exceptional amongst them – but these higher men were essentially creators. They did not function as autonomous operators of a state – they simply did not constitute the famous wise ones of some state organ spinning and weaving rationalist-based ideologies and rationalist-based formulae for a utopian future. Rather, they would articulate a morality of life celebrating (what Oakeshott shall call) presentness – i.e., a morality of habit of behaviour centered on human activities as ends in themselves. And it is for this reason that, as Nietzsche says, such creators served life – and did so together with their own people.

Nietzsche would therefore recognize, accept, and respect a certain tradition that had existed prior to the rise of the modern European state, that coldest of all cold monsters. Like Oakeshott, he thereby rejects all of state ideology, which leads to the moral death of its populace. For both, in other words, the state is a destroyer of peoples because it destroys their own organically-developed laws and customs. This is how Nietzsche expresses this important position: “Where there is still a people, there the state is not understood, but hated as the evil eye, and [hated] as sin against laws and customs.” (ibid.).

If there be a definition of sin in a people’s morality of habit of behaviour – in its own laws and customs – that definition is crystal-clear: it is the state itself. And it is the evil eye of that morality since it denies a people its autonomous right to devise its own language and the language of its own morality. Nietzsche continues here as follows: “This sign I give unto you: every people speaketh its language of good and evil; this its neighbour understandeth not. Its language hath it devised for itself in laws and customs.” (ibid.).

Of course, this devising – this creating – of its own language of laws and customs for itself is precisely what Oakeshott has identified as a people’s morality of habit of behaviour. And this creation of a language for itself is reflective of its own will, which it bestows upon itself. An authentically independent people is thus beyond whatever submission to whichever idol-worship as devised by the state-as-idol.

On the question of will, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “And all those are mine equals who give unto themselves their Will, and divest themselves of all submission.” (p. 166). By thus divesting themselves of whatever submission, Zarathustra’s equals deliver themselves from all the ideological waves of the state and its superfluous many-too-many – they deliver themselves, in other words, from the common, small virtues and the idols that symbolize these virtues. And it is thus that they are a free people – free, that is, to become creators of their own morality and the cultural practices that are epitomized in that morality. Zarathustra expresses this as follows: “Willing emancipateth; for willing is creating: so do I teach. And only for creating shall ye learn!” (p. 200).

A free, self-willing people is a people that is brimming with the vitality of life, and which is to be contrasted to the death of the many-too-many as subjects of the state. Brimming with the vitality of life, a free people is able to be the creator of its own morality – but by being the creator of its own good and evil, it is also the creator of its own cultural vitality, and thereby it takes it upon itself to be the creator of its own cultural civilization. This is of central importance to the Nietzschean enterprise, and which is what Oakeshott has himself referred to as the realm of poetry qua mode of life. In Oakeshott’s work, of course, the term poetry shall be used in a very special sense, and which is a concept that will be examined in some detail below. Suffice it to say at this point that the Oakeshottian understanding of poetry is synonymous with the act of creativity in various spheres of life, it being the activity of imagining or of making images for one’s own independent self, thereby creating a universe of poetic images that constitutes culture per se. For Oakeshott, such creative activity of poetic imagining can belong to both a people and an individual.

The crucial point here is that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, in their defense of a free, self-willing and self-creative people (and/or individual), place the moment of culture and cultural creativity in command of all else in human activity. And thus it is that Michael Gillespie, in his paper entitled “Nietzsche’s Deepest Thought”, tells us that it was Nietzsche who would primarily argue for “the necessary cultural foundations of political life” (cf. Academia.edu, January 15, 2015, no pagination). The exact same may be said of Oakeshott’s own work.

5b. The rarity of a genuine people

The history of the western world has not often given birth to genuine peoples that had (or have) been free, self-willing, and self-creative – such types of peoples (but also, as shall be indicated, such types of individuals) happen to be rare. Speaking of peoples, Nietzsche observes as follows: “Some of them will, but most of them are willed. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors.” (p. 165).

Only some of them will or have willed their lives – most do not or have not, they have allowed or expected others to do the willing for them. As the phrase many-too-many obviously implies, these are the majority, and they cannot be genuine. Since they are willed by others, they can only but be bad actors – and they are unconscious of themselves as bad actors. Nietzsche continues thus: “There are actors without knowing it amongst them, and actors without intending it; the genuine ones are always rare, especially the genuine actors.” (ibid.).

Addressing himself to the small people – those who subscribe to the common, small virtues – Zarathustra advises as follows: “Ah, that ye understood my word: ‘Do ever what ye will – but first be such as can will’ …” (p. 167). But the reality is that possessing the ability to will is itself a rarity.

Oakeshott would fully concur with Nietzsche as to what the many-too-many in the western world – most people therein – are capable of doing, and what they are simply incapable of doing when it comes to living their lives as free and independent beings. He has observed that the modern western-type mass man is incapable of willing his life, and is incapable of willing such life as a form of presentness or as an end in itself. Given such generalized incapacity – which reduces the many-too-many to living their lives as bedwarfed cripples – the modern masses are in need of social arrangements that must take care of that unceasing list of practical needs that typifies their mode of being. And so they need to maintain protective institutions and relationships that cater to those practical needs. Most people therefore live their lives within what amounts to a prison, it being a prison that confines them to the needs of practical – as opposed to aesthetic – experience. This must be said to apply to the vast majority of people – the many-too-many. The implication is that it does not apply to certain others – the exceptional types who are, by definition, rare. Corey presents Oakeshott’s position regarding the majority of the western populace and its mode of being as follows: “Indeed, most people, as Oakeshott observes, are confined within practical experience “as in a prison”. The alternative to practice lies in Oakeshott’s conception of “presentness” …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 59). She explains that Oakeshott’s understanding of the nature of practice (or that of practical experience) is essentially that dimension of life that is dominated by nothing else but “the continuousness of needs” (ibid., p. 57). Naturally, it remains quite impossible for even the rarest of all individuals to escape the contingencies of practical needs – but that which makes him in any case rare is that such needs are not ever continuous, they do not demand his constant attention to such practical concerns. In his case, therefore, the realm of practical needs is simply not dominant. He possesses both the self-determination and the capability of peripheralizing all such practical needs – and he possesses the will to both suffer and celebrate the consequences of his selective mode of being.

Now, as regards the question of the rarity and the genuineness of any one group of people (and perhaps to some degree in contrast to the exceptionally rare individual), one should here reflect on a certain qualification that always needs to be considered in attempting to understand that group’s mode of life and history. It may be argued that the historical life of any people can be complex enough to include both a manifestation of its will and a manifestation of an absence of such will. And that can apply to merely a particular moment of its history or can – more often – apply to its history as spread across time and depending on conjunctural circumstances. And thus one may say that a people can often be seen to be both making its history as an independent self-willing force in terms of its own self-made morality of habit of behaviour and, perhaps at the same time, be living its life in terms of a uniform acceptance of an imposed idol-adoration. A people can therefore be both creative (as it nurtures its own morality in a manner facilitating that morality’s organic evolution, development and progress) and uncreative (as it passively accepts an imposed formulaic morality developing of its own accord). Exactly when and where such phenomena manifest themselves in the real world is a matter of investigation for the social historian.

5c. Of the creative peoples

Western history has in any case come to witness the emergence of clusters of truly creative peoples who have – or had – made their own history as informed by their own self-imposed morality, and which was a morality expressive of their own distinct habit of behaviour. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra clearly speaks of such distinct habit of behaviour amongst certain historical peoples, and he celebrates the distinction of such peoples.

A people’s morality of habit of behaviour is that people’s valuing of all things as either good or bad. Such morality designating the good and the bad of a people is a distinct morality created by the people themselves – it is thus a self-imposed morality of habit of behaviour spontaneously and historically created by such truly independent people, and which is at the same time capable of giving birth to a comprehensive valuing culture and thus to a distinct civilization of original cultural practices. That people’s morality of habit of behaviour and its concomitant valuing culture and civilizational practices is a force that may be created and re-created in history (or it may wither and die depending on the form of social arrangements that ultimately come to prevail, especially as regards the form of statal organization).

For Nietzsche, a people’s disposition determining its own sense of good and bad – its own morality of habit of behaviour – is the single most powerful determinant of all of human history. In his Thus Spake Zarathustra, he writes as follows: “Many lands saw Zarathustra, and many people; thus he discovered the good and bad of many peoples. No greater power did Zarathustra find on earth than good and bad.” (p. 55).

Now, a people’s valuing culture must be such as to also define that people’s exceptionalism. The creative act of valuing is essential for the life of a people – in the absence of such creative act, one would see the death of that people. But for that life to be sustained in time, that creative act of valuing must also be exceptionalist. The people’s valuation of things has to be exceptionalist because that is the only way in which it can maintain its own unique cultural identity, and thereby maintain itself. It need value its world in a manner that is different from that of other peoples. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks of such exceptionalism as follows: “No people could live without first valuing; if a people will maintain itself, however, it must not value as its neighbour valueth.” (ibid.). And Zarathustra further confirms this position by continuing thus: “Much that passed for good with one people was regarded with scorn and contempt by another: thus I found it. Much found I here called bad, which was there decked with purple honours. Never did the one neighbour understand the other; ever did his soul marvel at his neighbour’s delusion and wickedness.” (ibid.). The Nietzschean admonition that a creative people must not value as does its neighbouring people should not be seen as an admonition encouraging chauvinism – on the other hand, it certainly does confirm the Oakeshottian disposition espousing national traditionality and the sense of patriotism that expresses it.

But above all it should here be emphasized that the Nietzschean insistence on a people’s exceptionalist originality is based on the almost common sense understanding that originality equals creativity and vice versa. That particular Zarathustrian admonition to a people – you must not create as others do – wishes to salvage originality since all creative activities must by definition be original. Were they not to be original, they would simply not be creative. This surely applies to any work of art – but it must similarly apply to the creativity of valuation and thus to a people’s cultural civilization. If art is an aesthetic act, so is a people’s historical conduct and disposition – and the Oakeshottian project would itself fully confirm such an understanding of the art of living (remember Oakeshott’s understanding of poetry as a mode of life).

As in the act of any artistic creativity, it is the will to power that functions as the catalyst to the achievement of excellence in the art of living. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks thus of creative peoples and of their will to power: “A table of excellencies hangeth over every people. Lo, it is the table of their triumphs; lo, it is the voice of their Will to Power.” (ibid.).

It is this will to power that informs a people’s valuation of what is good and what is bad. For a triumphant people, that which is good takes on an exceptional meaning, and which is a meaning that may be contrasted to that sense of good as espoused by the modern mass man (his ideology of virtuous social solidarity, for instance). For any independent, self-determining people, it is the virtue of hardness which constitutes their sense of the good. That which is hard is that which is good, and that which is hardest of all is seen as holy – this would be the intrinsic faith of a self-determining people. It would be a self-imposed faith serving life and, being a self-faith, it would serve to maintain them as an independent people. Zarathustra speaks of this as follows: “It is laudable, what they think hard; what is indispensable and hard they call good; and what relieveth in the direst distress, the unique and hardest of all – they extol as holy.” (ibid.).

This will to power through the virtue of hardness enables a self-determining people to preserve the rule over themselves, to prevail over whatever threatens the exceptionality of their identity, and to thereby sparkle in the excellence and originality of their cultural civilization. It is in such manner that a self-determining people continually tests itself, and by so testing itself it reproduces itself. That which enables it to pass the test of its reproduction – that will to power expressive of the virtue of hardness – would constitute the very meaning of its life as a people. Zarathustra continues thus: “Whatever maketh them rule and conquer and shine, to the dismay and envy of their neighbours, they regard as the high and foremost thing, the test and the meaning of all else.” (ibid.).

Western civilization has actually seen the existence of such creative peoples – that particular civilization’s primal cradle would be populated precisely by such types, and Nietzsche chooses to present the ancient Greeks as such types of a self-determining, creative people (perhaps in some contrast to Oakeshott, who would of course identify the Romans as a superior people possessing that real genius for politics). Zarathustra speaks of the so-called soul of the Greeks as follows: “… ‘Always shalt thou be the foremost and prominent above others; no one shall thy jealous soul love, except a friend’: that made the soul of a Greek thrill; thereby went he his way to greatness.” (ibid.). Terms such as foremost, prominent, and that special and highly selective form of jealousy, are clearly types of expressions meant to capture the exceptionality of the ancient Greek people and their will to creative self-determination.

Nietzsche’s criteria for the evaluation of creative peoples in the course of history are such as to allow him to consider cases other than that of the Greeks – but, and as has already been alluded to, such criteria point to the primacy of values rooted in traditionality, or rooted in traditional moralities of habit of behaviour. With respect to the importance of traditional values in consolidating an exceptional people, Zarathustra speaks as follows: “… ‘To honour father and mother, and from the root of the soul to do their will’: this table of surmounting hung another people over them, and became powerful and permanent thereby.” (ibid.).

Above all and in all historically considered cases, exceptional and creative people have been endowed with the possession of that will to power whereby they could give unto themselves their own table of good and bad. That would be their own gift unto themselves, that being their own morality of habit of behaviour. They did not borrow this morality from others – they did not need to imitate other people’s moral habits, this being a matter of their very own exceptionalism. They did not somehow discover this morality – they did not chance upon some pre-existing moral formula which they adopted for themselves. And they did not wait for some extrinsic voice to tell them what is good and what is bad – they did not expect either certain famous wise ones or certain metaphysical agencies to advise them on matters of moral conduct (and this would certainly also be the case where a people happened to uphold a particular religious faith, such faith being of their very own making). The essential point here is that a self-determined people’s morality of habit of behaviour is what it is as that is lived by that people – it is an inherent and defining feature of that people. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks of all this as follows: “Verily, men have given unto themselves all their good and bad. Verily, they took it not, they found it not, it came not unto them as a voice from heaven.” (ibid., p. 56). And it was precisely such mode of life that rendered such people a valuing, creative people aware of its own consequence – Zarathustra continues thus: “Values did man only assign to things in order to maintain himself – he created only the significance of things, a human significance! Therefore called he himself ‘man’ – that is, the valuator.” (ibid.).

It is the egoism of an artist (the Oakeshottian poet) that would define a people as self-ruling valuator – but, then, it would be precisely such artistic egoism that would ultimately unleash in the course of history what Nietzsche would call bad conscience. And such bad conscience would be unleashed on the part of those peoples (and/or individuals) that would find themselves incapable of affirming their own roles as self-ruling creative valuators. And one would identify such incapacity for the creative valuation of things on the part of the majority of peoples (or individuals) simply because creative peoples (or individuals) have been rare in the history of western civilization, at least as has been observed by both Nietzsche and Oakeshott. In a text entitled “Nietzsche: Psychology vs. Philosophy, and Freedom”, Shlomo Pines considers the question of rulership on the basis of a people’s artistic egoism, and the subsequent backlash of bad conscience on the part of those that have allowed themselves to be ruled – he writes as follows: “A conquering horde, in organizing its rulership with the unconscious egoism of an artist, brings about, according to Nietzsche, the seeming disappearance of a great quantum of freedom. The instinct of freedom becomes latent, is internalized, turns into bad conscience, and thus the transformation of man which Nietzsche found so fascinating comes about.” (cf. Academia.edu, 1986, p. 154).

As we shall see in much greater detail further below, it would be this clash between self-ruling creative valuators and the bad conscience of the rest that would translate into an ideological conflict that would prevail throughout the course of the history of the western world. This would be a clash between two opposing moral worldviews – viz. a clash between individualist and anti-individualist moralities, and which would in fact be a clash between those that celebrated, on the one hand, a people’s (or an individual’s) self-determining creative valuation of things and, on the other, those that celebrated mass man and his collective social movements mobilized around rationalist political ideals of social justice.

For Nietzsche in particular, this clash of worldviews would give birth to a series of historical milieus in the course of western civilization which would either allow the egoism of the artist to rule the roost, or would otherwise allow the democratic many-too-many (and their form of state) to rule that roost. In the case of the former, it would be the best that ruled – and since they would be the best as creating valuators, they would possess the right to imperial rule over weaker peoples and/or individuals. In the case of the modern democratic milieus, it would be the social justice of so-called good neighbourliness that would prevail, and which would ultimately yield the state-as-idol and as the ubiquitous protector of the ideology of good neighbourliness.

Of course, when Nietzsche speaks of milieus wherein the best had once prevailed, he is referring to a remote past – alternatively, when he speaks of the many-too-many and their ideology of good neighbourliness, he is obviously referring to the modern European milieu as he lived it at the time. With respect to his modern European contemporaries – the people as traders – he observes as follows: “They lay lures for one another, they lure things out of one another – that they call ‘good neighbourliness’ …” (p. 204).

In direct contrast, and being fully aware of the need for a periodization of the history of the western world, Nietzsche speaks of that remote period – or perhaps that series of milieus – in the history of such world which had been dominated by the egoism of peoples as ruling artists. It is such period – or such conjunctures – that he shall see as blessed. This is what he writes: “O blessed remote period when a people said to itself: ‘I will be – master over peoples!’ For, my brethren, the best shall rule, the best also willeth to rule! And where the teaching is different, there – the best is lacking.” (ibid.).

Now, it should here be quite evident that there are a couple of important problems in this Nietzschean presentation of creative peoples. These problems are already apparent, for instance, in his suggestion that the best shall rule. Elsewhere in Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche even goes so far as to write the following: “Ye lonesome ones of today, ye seceding ones, ye shall one day be a people; out of you who have chosen yourselves shall a chosen people arise – and out of it the Superman.” (p. 74).

The first problem with such type of thinking may be explained as follows: typically, both the Nietzschean and the Oakeshottian understanding of the modern western world could only but have been highly pessimistic as regards that world’s ability to somehow overcome the consequences of the rise of a huge leviathan state-as-idol, and its concomitant imposition of mass ideologies on the many-too-many. And so both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would, in the last instance, focus on an articulation of the morality of individuality – and they would thus both dwell on the exceptional individual’s lonesome struggle to enact himself as a self-rolling wheel within the abject circumstances of a world as market-place (with its flies). And yet, in the particular quotes referred to above, Nietzsche here seems to be moving, from a certain hope in the exceptional individual as placed in the modern world, back to a hope for the future rise of a chosen people.

Of course, and right at the same time, therein lies the second problem in this type of Nietzschean thinking – very much like thinkers such as Hegel and especially Marx, Nietzsche himself apparently seems to be inadvertently lapsing into a millenarian eschatology that simply cannot be taken too seriously. The idea that a chosen people shall someday arise, a people beyond and above the many-too-many, is obviously problematic precisely because it is prophetic, and thus guilty of the fallacy of teleology.

Very much unlike the work of Oakeshott, there can be traces of a certain utopianism in Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra. Consider the following passage: “He who hath grown wise concerning old origins, lo, he will at last seek after the fountains of the future and new origins. O my brethren, not long will it be until new peoples shall arise and new fountains shall rush down into new depths. For the earthquake – it choketh up many wells, it causeth much languishing; but it bringeth also to light inner powers and secrets. The earthquake discloseth new fountains. In the earthquake of old peoples new fountains burst forth. And whoever calleth out: ‘Lo, here is a well for many thirsty ones, one heart for many longing ones, one will for many instruments’ – around him collecteth a people, that is to say, many attempting ones. Who can command, who must obey – that is there attempted! Ah, with what long seeking and solving and failing and learning and re-attempting!” (p. 205).

This passage seems to radically diverge from any typically Oakeshottian thinking given its eschatological utopianism. Paradoxically, however, it can also be said to converge with Oakeshott’s political philosophy, based at least on a certain inferential perspective. The idea that superior new peoples shall at some point in history arise and collect together in some new and superior form of social arrangement, and that they will do so from the womb of old peoples, is certainly utopian. On the other hand, were they – hypothetically – to in fact so arise, they would be establishing an Oakeshottian-type civil association. And they would be doing this because when free individuals – the type who create and espouse their own personal virtues – collect together, they can only but co-exist within a civil association, it being that type of social arrangement that recognizes such free, self-determining individuality. This collection of free individuals would yield a common will, thus forging a new, self-determining people. Therein, the best would rule (rulership would be a process of attempting and re-attempting), and the rest would obey. But, and as Oakeshott would argue, such obedience would be freely willed and consciously acknowledged by individuals continuing to enact their own private worlds as cives.

For Nietzsche, of course, this type of hypothetical thinking would miss the point of his whole intellectual project, at least as that is presented in Thus Spake Zarathustra. Addressing himself to his guests gathered in his cave, Zarathustra has this to say: “For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones, for such as are built squarely in body and soul: laughing lions must come! O my guests, ye strange ones – have ye yet heard nothing of my children? And that they are on the way to me? Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my new beautiful race – why do ye not speak unto me thereof?” (p. 273).

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra tells us that it is a new beautiful race that is acoming – and that such race is already on its way in human history. This style of thinking simply does not match the rigour of Nietzschean thinking – on the other hand, one could argue that such idea does tie up with the supposedly Nietzschean notion of the eternal recurrence, whereby all that has ever happened (such as the rise of new beautiful races) is bound to happen all over again ad infinitum in human history. But since such an understanding of the notion of eternal recurrence is beyond whatever experimental verification, it would have to be rejected. Further below, nonetheless, we shall be presenting an interpretation of eternal recurrence that certainly does hold water, and that would further help clarify our understanding of the nature of the creative, self-rolling individual (and which would certainly also be acceptable to the Oakeshottian understanding of the morality of individuality).

5d. Rationalist ideology versus the morality of habit of behaviour

The clash of worldviews in the history of the western world would be a clash over two generic types of moralities, each of which would generate a series of variations expressive of the core of the respective generic type. On the one hand, the western world would witness the emergence of a morality embracing the virtues of collectivism, and which would be founded on rationalist thinking – this type of morality may also be referred to as reflective, for reasons that shall be discussed below. On the other hand, the western world would also witness the emergence of a morality embracing the virtues of individualism, and which would be founded on what we have identified as the morality of habit of behaviour – this type of morality may also be referred to as habitual, again for reasons that shall be discussed below (and cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 10).

We have thus far attempted to present these two types of moral worldviews – and their implications for western societies and the individuals therein – by considering certain dimensions of the thinking of both Nietzsche and Oakeshott. But we now need to go further, and do so by further examining the work of these two thinkers. We know that the clash of worldviews in the history of western civilization has in fact been a clash between the individualist and the anti-individualist worldviews. But before we dissect in greater detail this titanic clash in the course of western history, we shall first need to undertake a prior examination of the mode of thinking that would inform each of these two worldviews. We shall at this point therefore attempt to delve deeper into the clash between rationalist ideology and the morality of habit of behaviour, and their respective mode of thinking. This shall allow us to reconsider the circumstances in which a populace would be creative as a people and the circumstances in which a populace would remain docile as the superfluous many-too-many. It would also enable us to further understand the type of social arrangements and mode of thinking that are reflective of the independent, self-rolling individual and the type of social arrangements and mode of thinking that are reflective of the dependent, state-rolled people-as-traders. Ultimately, this shall allow us to examine the conditions in which the modern western world would give birth to the individual as its latest creation – this shall itself allow us to consider such individual’s possible interaction both with his society’s prevailing mass ideology and with that society’s persistent morality of habit of behaviour (to the extent that such morality still persists). Such possible double interaction on the part of the individual vis-à-vis his society shall finally allow us to consider what is for us the key question in this project – viz., the question of an individual’s manner of self-organization.

By way of a general introduction, we may reiterate that a reflective type of morality is a rationalist-based morality articulated in an ideology and imposed on the passive-receptive masses. In contrast, a habitual type of morality is a self-imposed morality of a people, and which has been organically and cumulatively experienced through the ages. Each of these two types of moralities presupposes a radically different understanding of social change. As we shall see, the reflective type of morality wishes to impose radical changes onto society through continual ideological interventionism. In the case of the habitual type of morality, social change is seen as gradual, gradational and moderated – it wishes to repair rather than uproot a set of social circumstances.

There is yet still another major difference that distinguishes the one type of morality from the other: while in the case of the reflective morality – or what has been called the commonplace rationalist morality – what matters is the imposition of rationalist-based formulae in dealing with problems of the human condition, the morality of habit of behaviour – or traditional morality – is concerned with the self-created aesthetics of everyday human conduct (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 119).

Summarily, one may say that these two conflicting types of moralities represent two different types of knowledge. Reflective morality presupposes the primacy of technical knowledge. Such knowledge must be “formulated into rules” and is “susceptible of precise formulation”. Traditional knowledge, on the other hand, is above all practical knowledge which “exists only in use” and which is developed in the process of its usage (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 8).

Following these rather general introductory pointers, we may now enter the world of rationalism proper, and as that has been critically presented to us by the Oakeshottian intellectual enterprise. Such enterprise, it has been suggested, constitutes a type of so-called conservative wisdom that wishes to expose the weaknesses of the world of rationalism (cf. Ojel L. Rodriguez Burgos, “Rediscovering Oakeshott: Conservative Wisdom in a Rationalist World”, Academia.edu, 2023). These weaknesses will hopefully be exposed by considering the manner in which Oakeshott deals with each of the pointers mentioned above.

According to Oakeshott, the emergence of modern rationalism dates back to the early 17th century (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 13). For the modern rationalist, human experience is such as to call for the solution of its variety of problems through reason – and that reason should not ever be obfuscated by old habits, and the traditions that have accrued around whatever human habituality. Corey presents this Oakeshottian position as follows: “In Rationalism in Politics Oakeshott launches an argument against a certain cast of mind that appears both in individual conduct and in politics. At the heart of Rationalist morality is the idea that experience may be understood as a set of problems calling out for a solution. For the Rationalist, the conduct of affairs is a matter of solving these problems by the application of “reason”, unclouded by habit or tradition.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 121).

In the case of the political sphere, one may say that the application of reason would come down to an actual imposition of such reason onto society. And further, one may also say that when reason is applied or imposed onto society, it is done so in the form of a social ideology. By imposing reason qua ideology onto individuals, one willfully ignores the creative (in the sense of the Oakeshottian poetic) character of human activity.

For the rationalist, the indubitable sovereignty of reason amounts to a sovereignty of technique (or technical knowledge) – this sovereignty of technique, as already mentioned, needs to be contrasted to a society’s tradition of thought, which yields practical knowledge. The rationalist would of course be altogether suspicious of whatever traditional thought and the practical knowledge that such thought has brought forth – and he would be suspicious so long as such thinking and knowledge is not borne out by what he would call reason. The rationalist, therefore, would reject what he would see as traditional, customary, or habitual – above all, he would reject all forms of prejudice (we intend to examine the question of prejudice in much greater detail below). This is how Edmund Neill (op. cit.) presents a rationalist’s typical reservations concerning knowledge based on a community’s traditional habituality – rationalism, he writes, “is a direct consequence of the Enlightenment’s suspicion of anything that cannot be directly justified by reason, so that the rationalist is sceptical of ‘authority, of prejudice, of the merely traditional customary or habitual’ …” (p. 39).

Identifying technical knowledge as an ideology, Oakeshott himself goes on to explain how that type of knowledge must cleanse itself of all traces of preconceived prejudices – he writes as follows: “… the superiority of an ideology [technical knowledge] over a tradition of thought [practical knowledge] lies in its appearance of being self-contained. It can be taught best to those whose minds are empty; and if it is to be taught to one who already believes something, the first step of the teacher must be to administer a purge, to make certain that all prejudices and preconceptions are removed … In short, technical knowledge appears to be the only kind of knowledge which satisfies the standard of certainty which the Rationalist has chosen.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 12).

It is the rationalist’s need for and dependence on a self-contained ideology – and which must be imposed either on empty minds or otherwise be propagated through purges of the mind – that determines his notion of social change. For the rationalist, that which is customary and traditional – and which is materialized practically in the habitual – is ipso facto changeless. The rationalist would not acknowledge the possibility of social change or progress unless such change or progress is the result of conscious interventionism, and which must be expressive of his self-contained ideology. It is of course possible that his self-contained ideology may accept and include elements of traditional thinking within its own ambit – but it would only do so to the extent that such elements happen to satisfy the particular standards of certainty upheld by the closed system that such ideology is, and only to the extent that such elements are reduced to a set of formulae. In short, it is rationalist-based ideology per se that engineers social change as a top-down process, and it is an ideology – designed by ideologues – acting as a substitute for traditional, practical knowledge attained in the process of usage. Speaking of the typical rationalist, Oakeshott writes as follows: “He does not recognize change unless it is a self-consciously induced change, and consequently he falls easily into the error of identifying the customary and the traditional with the changeless. This is aptly illustrated by the rationalist attitude towards a tradition of ideas. There is, of course, no question either of retaining or improving such a tradition, for both these involve an attitude of submission. It must be destroyed. And to fill its place the Rationalist puts something of his own making – an ideology, the formalized abridgment of the supposed substratum of rational truth contained in the tradition.” (ibid., p. 4).

We know that gradually the modern western milieu would come to espouse such rationalist ideology as its basic understanding of the proper moral life – and it would be a question of social morality since such ideology would attempt to determine the mode of thinking and the ready-made code of conduct for all citizens. It would determine, in other words, an imposed understanding of the good and the bad of society. Being a hegemonic ideology, it would constitute the common understandings of the moral life of citizens (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 128). As a common understanding of the moral life, it would be embraced by the populace in its capacity as the many-too-many. Rationalist ideology would thus come to prevail in the western world – but it would at the same time be confronted by what we have elsewhere described as an orrery of cultural and/or moral paradigms that would often be antagonistic to that ideology or to elements of it, and which could be said to have ultimately divided the present-day collective west (cf. Nikos Vlachos, Paper 1: “Defining the West: An orrery of cultural paradigms”, Academia.edu, October 2022; Greek Social & Literary Review, October, 2022).

Now, and as has already been suggested, it would be precisely this ideology of rationalism that would inform the politics of faith, or the politics of mass ideals and mass idolatry. We need to delve into this a bit further – we need to examine the sense in which the ideology of rationalism would function as that particular mode of thinking that would be the determining substratum underlying the politics of faith. It may be argued that the ideology of rationalism would be the ideological mechanism generating those very specific concepts organizing the political discourse of the politics of faith.

To put this a bit more simplistically, one may say that the politics of faith depend on the ideology of rationalism – even more so, one may even go so far as to equate rationalism with the politics of faith. Corey writes as follows: “Both “faith” and Rationalism are examples of a faulty conception of morality in which ideals and rules take the place of personal, lived experience.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 19). But whether or not this may be a fairly simplistic reading of the Oakeshottian project is really beside the point – and it would be beside the point because it in any case does capture the basic implications of the Oakeshottian critique of both the ideology of rationalism and the politics of faith. What are these implications? One may argue that the rules devised by the rationalist mode of thinking (its rationalist-based formulae) inform the ideals of the politics of faith (viz. its socio-political ideals) – it is these rules, in other words, that determine the content of mass political idol-adoration. And it is such political idol-adoration that takes the place of lived experience. This substitution for lived experience takes place at two distinct but interrelated levels. At the personal level, it wishes to obliterate individual lived experience (and it does so despite the fact that, in the last instance, one only experiences oneself, at least in terms of the Nietzschean understanding of life). At the communal level, it wishes to obliterate the lived experience of a people as a morality of habit of behaviour (and it does so despite the fact that, in the last instance, a people cannot be a self-determined, creative people unless it wills its own, self-imposed morality and culture, again in terms of the Nietzschean understanding of history).

Corey goes further: she points out that the statal imposition of a rationalist morality on society (its ideals as informed by rules) comes down to the imposition of a dogmatic morality onto that society. She writes as follows: “When Rationalism infects morality, as it so often does, it appears as a propensity to formulate dogmatic moral rules.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 122). It is the rules and formulae of rationalism that determine the formulation of such dogmatic moral rules. These rules are therefore an expression of dogmatic values. These dogmatic values attempt to regulate the moral conduct of citizens. Conduct has little choice but to model itself on these dogmatic formulae and the concomitant ideals that they wish to impose on citizens. Who, in the western world, models himself – or more or less conscientiously attempts to do so – on the basis of these dogmatic formulae and dogmatic moral ideals? It is none other than the many-too-many that do so. And it is the politicians, the state functionaries, and the state-dependent intellectuals that also do so, and do so as the exemplary members of society.

Such a state of affairs, however, may be directly contrasted to social conjunctures and/or particular communities where rationalism has not been able to infect morality. Here, it is not rationalist rules and formulae that dictate moral values and conduct. Rather, it is the lived experience of individuals and/or communities that shapes moral values and conduct. Most importantly, it is not dogmatic values that are here the determining force of morality and conduct – the lived experience of individuals and/or communities is determined by self-created aesthetic values.

There is an obvious question that arises here, and it is this: why should the lived experience of a people or of an individual necessarily yield aesthetic values, and especially aesthetic values that can shape moral conduct? The answer is simple: the lived experience of a community or of an individual would not necessarily give birth to aesthetic values as determinants of conduct unless that community or that individual is of the exceptional type (either historically as regards a people; or in terms of the strength of personal will as regards the individual). It is only the exceptional type that can model his conduct on the basis of aesthetic values – it is only he that can model himself on the basis of Oakeshottian poetic creativity. That type, however, does not belong to the many: it can only but belong to the so-called otherworldly few (remember Nietzsche: “some of them will, but most of them are willed”).

Historically speaking, rationalist morality – based exclusively on the formulation of ready-made dogmatic moral values – has almost always been the prevailing ideology of the many-too-many and the state of those many-too-many. Both state and populace are in need of rationalist-based moral ideals and moral ideologies for their mutual material survival and maintenance.

This contrast between a rationalist-based morality for the many-too-many and an aesthetic-based morality for the few is perhaps best explained by considering the contrasting manner in which each of these moralities deals with the question of moral conduct. The rationalist simply relies on a ready-made ideology so as to decide on how to conduct himself in the world. By comparison, the typical Oakeshottian cive – a free adventurer quite reminiscent of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra – relies on none other than himself as to how to conduct his person in that same world. Corey here presents the Oakeshottian critique of rationalist morality in a manner that is truly striking – she puts this as follows: the rationalist, she writes, “relies on ideology as a shortcut to knowing how to conduct himself.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 196). Of course, by taking such a shortcut, the rationalist undercuts – or sacrifices – his own self. But, then, this is precisely what gives him his own small comfort in the world – Nietzsche would speak of the small comforts and the easy happinesses of the far-too-many (those “weary, ordinary, comfortable” types, as he writes).

For the many-too-many, the shortcut to conduct is based on rationalist ideology. Practically speaking, this is a shortcut that takes the form of particular rules of conduct as prescribed by a set of moral ideals. These moral ideals constitute a faith organized around a certain idol-adoration – for all ideologies presuppose an adoration of particular dogmatic moral values that delineate the good and the bad of human conduct. The delineation of good and bad is absolute – remember that Thou-shalt of the masses, and their absolute For and Against, as presented by Nietzsche. Being absolute, all must strive to be as good as possible to the point of perfection – all forms of idol-adoration point to a vision of perfection. Corey explains this Oakeshottian position as follows: “These rules [of rationalist morality] are believed to exist in advance of activity itself and must simply be applied as various circumstances arise in an individual’s life. Oakeshott observes that such Rationalist morality consists primarily in “the self-conscious pursuit of moral ideals”. It is the “solution of a stream of problems, the mastery of a succession of crises”, “what other peoples have recognized as ‘idolatry’”. It calls those who practice it to orient themselves by a “vision of perfection”…” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 122).

What are the implications of such a rationalist morality and its idol-adoration as regards human activity? For Oakeshott, that type of faith-based morality yields a moral activity that has lost its freedom to be inventive – what has been lost, in other words, is the creative (or the Oakeshottian poetic) character of human activity. Corey explains the implications of rationalist morality as follows: “… this view denies the fundamental characteristic of moral activity, according to Oakeshott: its freedom and inventiveness. The constant pursuit of moral ideals positively stands in the way of recognizing the poetic character of human activity.” (ibid.).

Such are the implications of a politics of faith as informed by rationalist morality. But these implications would not stand in the way of the many-too-many: these would have no need for, and would not in any case understand, the poetic character of human activity. For them, the idea that the fundamental characteristic of moral activity is its freedom to create and live poetically would of course be stigmatized as mere romanticism. The Oakeshottian critique of the politics of faith (as also the Nietzschean critique of such politics) is ultimately meant for the exceptional few.

For the many-too-many, the politics of faith – and the prescribed rules of its rationalist morality – constitute their own absolute necessity. They cannot possibly live outside the small comforts provided by idolatry, and they cannot survive outside the safe, easy, and steadfast commitments of their own For and Against.

The many-too-many, however, cannot easily tolerate those few that do not abide by their own For and Against, and they cannot especially tolerate such few when these in some way happen to threaten their own small comforts and moral self-assurance. And such absence of toleration is naturally also adopted by the state itself, and is adopted in the name of its people. Both state and populace cannot tolerate whatever threatens the uniformity of their society. In the modern – and especially in the postmodern – western world, one sees mass movements mobilizing around rationalist ideals of social justice and solidarity precisely so as to isolate whatever threatens their politics of faith, and the social uniformity that such politics promotes. Such movements and their ideals embed themselves in the state and its various institutions – and they especially embed themselves in the utilitarian state, the welfare state and/or the ubiquitous mega-state.

Rationalist morality, its politics of faith, and the issue of social uniformity are all inextricably linked to one another. The appointed virtues of rationalist morality and the ass-worship of the politics of faith – as Nietzsche has argued – are meant to lead to the homogenizing of modern western society. This homogenization – or social uniformity – constitutes the small comfort of the many-too-many: they feel safe and protected therein. We here need to take a slightly closer look at the relationship between rationalism and uniformity.

The imposition of the appointed, rationalist-based virtues of the politics of faith onto society amounts to the attempted imposition of perfection onto society – all citizens are called upon to meet the standards of particular social ideals. It is demanded of all that they live in the shadow of a projected vision of perfection. For Oakeshott, this attempted imposition of the ideology of perfection corresponds to the imposition of social uniformity. Speaking of rationalism and its rationalist politics, he writes as follows: “Political activity is recognized as the imposition of a uniform condition of perfection upon human conduct.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 6).

In fact, it is precisely this exact combination of perfection and uniformity that constitutes the exclusive definition of rationalist politics. This is how Oakeshott puts it: “They [rationalist politics] are the politics of perfection, and they are the politics of uniformity; either of these characteristics without the other denotes a different style of politics, the essence of rationalism is their combination.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 5). This combination of perfection and uniformity as a form of socio-political arrangement may or may not necessarily veer towards totalitarianism (the definition of which in any case still remains rather vague, and that, despite René Girard). But one thing is certain: such combination definitely wishes to destroy the morality of individuality, and especially the individual will.

Now, a rationalist-based perfection and uniformity would automatically mean the need to strive for absolute social equality. To achieve that social equality, the rationalist is bent on maximizing utility. In our presentation of the values of the market-place above, we had seen that rationalism generates a political ideology that attempts to mobilize the whole of society around these market-place values – these being the demand for material productivity and material progress for all. It would be demanded of the whole of society that it forget about the individual freedom to experiment in inventiveness and creativity, and to forget about the individual’s potential self-enactment as a self-rolling wheel. For rationalist faith-based morality, all of individual initiative has to be sacrificed on the altar of a perfect society based on a collisionless (classless) social order, and on the uniformity of social equality.

And thus, it may be argued, the ideology of rationalism has come to interpenetrate and deeply permeate – in fact, even invade – the politics of the modern and postmodern western world. Oakeshott, Edmund Neill (op. cit.) tells us, “believed that politics … was the area of society that had become most infested with rationalist thinking.” (p. 40). The invasion of western political thought and practice by rationalist ideology is presented by Oakeshott himself as follows: “How deeply the rationalist disposition of mind has invaded our political thought and practice is illustrated by the extent to which traditions of behaviour have given place to ideologies, the extent to which the politics of destruction and creation have been substituted for the politics of repair, the consciously planned and deliberately executed being considered (for that reason) better than what has grown up and established itself unselfconsciously over a period of time.” (Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 21).

The rationalist disposition of mind, invading western political thought and practice through the imposition of dogmatic ideological discourse and thus through the imposition of idol-adoration, reduces all of human experience to a set of dogmatic principles and formulae. Deliberately planned and executed by the famous wise ones, these principles and formulae themselves come to be worshipped as socio-political idols – and being so worshipped, society is expected to look down on and ultimately cancel the cumulative experience of time-past. The rationalist, Oakeshott writes, “reduces the tangle and variety of experience to a set of principles … He has no sense of the cumulation of experience, only of the readiness of experience when it has been converted into a formula: the past is significant to him only as an encumbrance.” (ibid., p. 2).

By reducing – through mere conversion – the complexity and richness of human experience to a set of politico-moral principles, rationalist-based politics could only but turn out to be inept, and it would turn out to be inept despite the powers of the mega-state. By looking down on, ignoring, and finally cancelling the experience of time-past, the ruling classes of the rationalist disposition would themselves simply be inexperienced. For Oakeshott, this would be quite evident in the politics of both premodern and modern Europe, let alone the political practices of the postmodern western world. He makes the following observations: “… the politics of Rationalism are the politics of the politically inexperienced, and … the outstanding characteristic of European politics in the last four centuries is that they have suffered the incursion of at least three types of political inexperience – that of the new ruler, of the new ruling class, and of the new political society – to say nothing of the incursion of a new sex …” (ibid., p. 23). As has been noted above, in his Thus Spake Zarathustra written in the 1880’s, Nietzsche would already be making a parallel observation – he would write as follows: “There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny than when the mighty of the earth are not also the first men. Then everything becometh false and distorted and monstrous … And when they are even the last men, and more beast than man, then riseth and riseth the populace in honour, and at last saith even the populace-virtue: ‘Lo, I alone am virtue!’ …” (p. 238). He was describing the ineptness of the ruling classes of his time – but he would also see such ineptness as reflective of a populace that had come to fully accept the rationalist politics of modernity, and thus the politics of mass ideology, and which would be accompanied by the gradual rise of the modern mass man with his petty virtues, all of which would be expressive of the rationalist formulae of utilitarianism and egalitarianism.

This invasion of western political thought and practice by rationalist ideology – and the ineptness that that has led to – may be put otherwise: it would mean that all members of society would be expected to adapt themselves and conform their habits to the faith and formulae of a particular ideology – it would be demanded of all that they comply with the ideals and dictates of an idol (it being ass-worship, according to Nietzsche). It would not be the real needs of a people that would be satisfied, but the needs of the ass-as-idol. And so Oakeshott would present the modern western world with the following advice – it is “inappropriate”, he writes, “to understand political activity itself as the activity of amending the arrangements of a society so as to make them agree with the provisions of an ideology.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 125).

We may now counterpose the morality of rationalism as a mode of thinking and living to that of the morality of habit of behaviour (or traditional morality). In a speech given at the Oxford Libertarian Society, on November 11, 2009, Kenneth Minogue would argue that the ideology of political idealism – the very ideals that it promotes and wishes to impose onto society – can function or has functioned as a hindrance to the spontaneous development of civilization (cf. Prof. Kenneth Minogue, “How Political Idealism Threatens Our Civilization”, YouTube, Oxford Hayek Society, uploaded February 18, 2020). What he was implying was that the emergence and development of western civilization would be the result of a spontaneous accumulation of experiences over time – or, to put it otherwise, it would be the result of a gradual and spontaneous evolution of a western habit of behaviour (and that, despite that orrery of cultural paradigms that would characterize that behaviour). It may further be argued that the spontaneous evolution of such collective habit of behaviour would often be hindered or even distorted by the interventionist practices of a rationalist mode of thinking imposing its ideals and ideologies on that historical spontaneity. It is in this sense that this type of rationalist interventionism would be a threat to western civilization.

One may therefore counterpose the element of spontaneity evident in a western morality of habit of behaviour to the element of a pre-planned interventionism evident in rationalist ideology. What does it mean to say that a civilization like that of the western world would emerge and develop on the basis of a spontaneous accumulation of experience? And, as importantly, what would that mean as regards the moral conduct of the peoples that composed that civilization?

A social historian would observe that when a people abides by its own traditional morality – viz. its self-imposed morality of habit of behaviour – its social practices are characterized by a freedom that allows for spontaneous inventiveness. We may consider such manifestations of inventiveness in three different but interrelated types of social practices.

The first type of social practice is a people’s engagement in popular arts and crafts (or what may be loosely termed the plastic arts). Here, innovation takes place through the gradual development of manual skills – but it also takes place at that moment when an individual of the community attains such a high degree of skill that he is able to alter the very style of what he produces. Other members of the community are free to model their own work in accordance with the demands of the new style.

The second type of social practice is the use a people make of their own language. Here, innovation takes place through the gradual development of that language based on changing needs – but it also takes place at that moment when an individual of the community attains such a high degree of language skills that he is able to introduce stylistic changes to that language. Again, other members of the community gradually adopt such changes in their everyday communication.

The third type of social practice is more or less a consummation of the types of innovations referred to above – this would be a practice creatively aesthetic in itself that would ultimately come to be autonomous (or maybe relatively autonomous) of the rest of the practices of the community. In this case, innovation takes place when both the plastic arts and the language of the community attain such a degree of skill that particular individuals of that community are able, not only to use such skills, but to also go beyond them, and thereby establish forms of art independent of all practice.

All such changes taking place within a community – based both on communal spontaneity and the spontaneity of individual initiative and capability – allow the individuals of that community to model their mode of being to that of artistic creativity. Individuals, in other words, are here free to model their lives on the aesthetic values of an art removed from practice (it being the Oakeshottian understanding of the poetic character of human activity). But by modeling their lives on the aesthetic (non-practical) values of art, such individuals are also determining their own moral conduct – here, moral conduct is above all an expression of aesthetic values.

Nowhere in this type of social arrangement – which may be understood as both a historically ideal type but also as an approximate reality of certain past civil associations – can one identify whatever vestiges of an imposed state ideology. In contrast to the gradual, creative spontaneity of traditional morality, a state-imposed morality is the commonplace morality of the modern and postmodern western world. Here, and as has already been argued above, one sees the externally-imposed morality of formulaic ideals yielding social practices based on rationalist constraints. Such constraints, and precisely because they are of a formulaic rationalist nature, deny a mode of life modeled on aesthetic values – they deny, in other words, the poetic dimension of human activity.

This is, more or less, how Oakeshott would himself present the contrast between the creativity of traditional morality and the constraints of rationalist morality – further, this is how he would more or less understand the relationship between art and moral conduct. Corey attempts to summarize such Oakeshottian thinking – this is what she writes: “Oakeshott illustrates this delicate relationship between art and conduct in his 1948 essay “The Tower of Babel”. There is a “freedom and inventiveness” at the heart of every traditional morality, he observes, and this moral inventiveness “may be likened to the sort of innovation introduced into a plastic art by the fortuitous appearance in an individual of a specially high degree of manual skill, or to the sort of change a great stylist may make in language.” Artistic creativity thus stands as the model for a certain kind of moral activity, and yet they are not the same activity. Oakeshott is nevertheless at pains to show that it would be better if moral activity were more often characterized as poetic. For the problem with commonplace morality – and particularly with Rationalist morality – is precisely that it denies the poetic character of human activity.” (Corey, op. cit., p. 119).

The Oakeshottian understanding of traditional morality argues that it is such morality which is best suited to generate a spontaneous creative inventiveness. And it is best suited for a very special reason. We should notice that Oakeshott speaks of “the fortuitous appearance in an individual of a specially high degree of manual skill”; and he further speaks of “a great stylist”. What he is implying is that the morality of habit of behaviour is such as to allow for the individual freedom to discover and practically implement such supreme inventive skills within the community, be these manual or mental. This type of community would therefore be supremely meritocratic. But further, this morality of habit of behaviour would allow the community to spontaneously model itself on the best of its best – viz. to model itself collectively on the individual who possesses exceptionally high manual or mental skills. It could even allow the community to model itself on the exceptional individual who operates beyond either manual or mental skills of the practical type – viz. to model itself on the individual who operates in the purely aesthetic field of art for itself. By modeling itself on the best of manual and mental skills, and by modeling itself on artistic creativity per se, the community would itself live a mode of life based on aesthetic values. And one may therefore conclude that traditional moral activity is itself spontaneously inventive (and if need be, continually self-corrective). It would be inventive because modeling oneself on the best of the best is not replicating the best – unlike the case of an imposed replication, spontaneous modeling can itself be a creative, individual inventiveness (what Oakeshott would call civil conversation amongst cives). Such inventiveness, by the way, is most clearly manifested in the case of the development of language, where the popular usage of language – modeled on a great individual stylist or on exceptional stylists – may give birth to different language games or language paradigms depending on different contexts (the concept of games here meant in the Wittgensteinian sense).

Now, in the case of traditional morality, actions must be understood as a form of sensibility – or, alternatively, as a form of cumulatively selected taste. The important thing is that they are definitely not expressive of whatever ideology. This is a basic element in the thinking of Oakeshott, and it would apply to both collective traditional morality as also to the appropriate mode of thinking for any independent individual living in the modern or postmodern world (we shall have to come back to this question of individual sensibility or taste when discussing the issue of self-organization in the present-day western world). Specifically as regards Oakeshott’s view of morality as a “habit of affection and conduct” pertaining to particular historical communities, Corey presents us with the following crucial observations: “In this kind of morality, actions are guided by a sensibility, by a way of acting that becomes second nature. Like a language, this kind of morality is learned by being observed and by being used … It is a tradition, not an ideology – a habit born of use. In this form of moral conduct, actions do not spring from ideals that have been formulated in advance, nor are they thought of as solutions to problems that constantly arise. Action is far simpler than this, being only a way of responding to others that is acquired by observing one’s elders. This kind of morality, however, is not (as some might suppose) static and unchanging. Nor is it uncreative. Indeed, as Oakeshott points out, it changes very much in the way a language does: subtly, and almost unnoticeably, but at a constant pace. And there is a “freedom and inventiveness” … at the heart of this morality that often goes unnoticed by those who advocate morality of a different sort.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 136).

This tight relationship between traditional morality and moral conduct as expressive of sensibility or taste is based on the Oakeshottian special understanding of knowledge, or his particular understanding of truth (as briefly presented above in our introductory discussion regarding so-called universal truths). And it is an understanding of knowledge and/or truth that is very much reminiscent of the Nietzschean position on this central epistemological issue. We have seen that, for Oakeshott, traditional morality is based on traditional – or practical – knowledge. What sort of knowledge does this approach point to? It points to a form of knowledge that is expressive of a probability, not an absolute universal truth. It is a truth, that is to say, based on probabilities, not formulaic dogmas of the rationalist school of thought. The Oakeshottian position is therefore as disruptive with respect to rationalism as is that of Nietzsche who, we need remember, tells us that whenever he had followed close to the heels of a certain truth, that same truth would often backfire and kick him on the face. For Oakeshott, knowledge qua probability would mean that truth can only be expressed in taste or connoisseurship. What does Nietzsche have to say of taste? As shall be further discussed below, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra puts the matter all too succinctly when he declares that “all life is a dispute about taste and tasting” (p. 114).

This is how Oakeshott himself presents the truths of traditional or practical knowledge – he writes as follows: “… it is a characteristic of practical knowledge that it is not susceptible of formulation … Its normal expression is in a customary or traditional way of doing things, or, simply, in practice. And this gives it the appearance of imprecision and consequently of uncertainty, of being a matter of opinion, of probability rather than truth. It is, indeed, a knowledge that is expressed in taste or connoisseurship, lacking rigidity …” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 10).

Since knowledge is merely expressive of taste or connoisseurship, the traditional modes of conduct are not binding rules regulating or even directing the lives of individuals – these would remain free and independent persons, at least as regards their private mode of being. Corey writes: “Oakeshott himself, of course, came down strongly on the side of traditional modes of conduct.” These modes of conduct, she explains, are “not binding commands or laws that tell us specifically what to do.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 146).

On the other hand, it is to be acknowledged that sensibility, taste, and connoisseurship can only but be informed by what Oakeshott would sometimes refer to as “a large unrecognized inheritance” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 12). And much of that large inheritance would often be unrecognized by its carriers since it would be carried more or less unconsciously. But the inheritance would be there, and the moral conduct that would be expressive of such inheritance would, as already noted above, be acquired by the members of the community through the observation of their elders.

The important implication here is that, at least as regards a community of people, sensibility, taste, and connoisseurship cannot easily be disentangled from a certain continuity. And thus, in a text written in 1951 with respect to modern western societies, Oakeshott would note the following: “… though a tradition of behaviour is flimsy and elusive, it is not without identity … Its principle is a principle of continuity: [its] authority is diffused between past, present, and future; between the old, the new, and what is to come.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 128).

And there is yet another important implication as regards the freedom and rights of an individual vis-à-vis other individuals within a community wherein traditional morality prevails, as in that of a civil association. Again, individual freedom and rights with respect to other individuals should only be understood in terms of that Oakeshottian principle of continuity. It is such principle that determines the political culture of a community informed by traditional morality – and it is only in the context of that particular political culture that individual freedom and rights with respect to others can be entertained. And further, it is the taste and disposition of that political culture – not at all whatever ideology – that is expressive of individual freedom and rights vis-à-vis others. Luke P. Plotica, in a text very aptly entitled “Disposition Not Ideology: Michael Oakeshott’s Unheeded Conservatism”, notes as follows: “… Oakeshott suggested that freedom and rights consist not in the truth of abstract [rationalist] propositions but in actual practices and procedures available to individuals in the context of particular political cultures.” (cf. Academia.edu, 2019, no pagination). It should of course be emphasized that that context of a political culture – the taste and disposition of a civil association – ought not to be viewed as a constraint on individual freedom and rights with respect to others: the political culture of a community informed by a western traditional morality has often been a culture based on the traditions of pluralist individuality (it has often been so, though not always – but Oakeshott wishes to dwell on the best that western traditional morality has had to offer).

In counterposing the morality of rationalism to that of the morality of habit of behaviour, one may here conclude that these two modes of thinking and living are diametrically opposed as to the manner in which they each view human activity. While rationalist morality sees human activity as something that should be determined by rules pointing to some ideal, traditional morality sees human activity as an enterprise best left to its own resources. Corey summarizes this essential difference as follows: “Unlike the views of [rationalist] morality that consist in “rule-following” or “the pursuit of ideals”, Oakeshott’s preferred moral understanding depends upon activity within established practices … Nevertheless, conduct is not determined by such rules [of established practices]. Instead, it contains an indefinable element of aesthetic activity.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 152).

Having clarified the basic differences between rationalist and traditional morality, we may now go on to examine the phenomenon of Christianity in the western world – to examine, that is, the issue of Christianity vis-à-vis, on the one hand, rationalism, and, on the other, habit of behaviour. As we shall see, such an examination shall help us understand, not only the Oakeshottian position on the matter of Christianity, but also his rather original and highly perceptive interpretation of the Nietzschean position on the history of that particular western religious practice.

Oakeshott’s critical examination of the history of western civilization, and the emergence of particular religious practices within that civilization, shall allow him to present us with an understanding of Christianity that is directly related to his study of rationalist morality vis-à-vis traditional morality. He wishes to argue that, at least with respect to particular cultural conjunctures in the history of the western world, Christianity as a cultural-cum-religious practice ought not to be understood as an ideological phenomenon – it should rather be treated as a tradition, and it is therefore an expression of the western morality of habit of behaviour. Corey notes as follows: “Readers who take time to examine Oakeshott’s work as a whole, [Timothy] Fuller observes, will likely “see a connection between his treatment of Christianity as a tradition – and thus not an ‘ideology’ – and his rejection of ‘rationalism’ in politics” …” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 8). The implication here is that the practice of Christianity in the western world should not simply be understood as a set of rules – or as a set of moral formulae – that have been imposed onto a people by external forces. While Christianity may have functioned as a set of imposed rules with the advent of the state and its network of ideological apparatuses (the church as an organized institution), it cannot be reduced to merely such function – much more importantly, Christianity has operated as a morality of habit of behaviour emanating from the cumulative lived experiences of a people or peoples.

“For Oakeshott”, Corey explains, “religion is essentially a way of thinking about the world and of acting in it.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 30). When such thinking and acting is willfully undertaken by individuals, and when such free individuals think and act collectively as in a civil association, one sees the emergence of a people’s Christian mode of life, and which is expressive of a particular aesthetic and/or cultural disposition. Christian morality is here a way of thinking about life and the world in terms of a particular popular sensibility – and it cannot therefore be reduced to a set of imposed rules based on an ideologically (or rationally) fabricated moral system. Such popular religious sensibility, moreover, can be absolutely respectful of the individual’s religious conscience – and can therefore be absolutely respectful of the manner in which the individual thinks of life and the world (as in the case of Protestant individualism, which would recognize the religious autonomy of the individual; though surely not as in the case of the Calvinist variant of Protestantism, with its particular form of tyrannical church government – cf., for instance, Stefan Zweig, Castellio against Calvin or A Conscience against Violence, Herbert Reichner Verlag, 1936).

For Oakeshott, the practice of Christianity as a mode of thinking and acting in the western world (and which is well beyond whatever state interventionism) would often be such as to posit the supremacy of the autonomous individual and his relationship to the world around him. Corey tells us that such an Oakeshottian approach “is a clear-sighted assessment of the universal human condition: for it recognizes at once man’s importance to himself and his unimportance to the world around him.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 95).

The fact that Oakeshott has been able to draw a distinction between, on the one hand, a Christianity that has historically functioned as a morality of habit of behaviour and, on the other, a Christianity that has historically functioned as an imposed moral ideology with the advent of the state in the western world, has enabled him to reinterpret the Nietzschean critique of that religion. Such reinterpretation, albeit original, nevertheless appears to be quite accurate as to what Nietzsche was actually trying to say, at least in his Thus Spake Zarathustra – therein, and as we have thus far seen, Nietzsche would be focusing on a critique of the western state, and how such state would mean the death of peoples capable of creating their own cultures and values (whatever be these cultures and values, and which could include particular cultural practices and interpretations of Biblical theology).

The central core of such an understanding of the Nietzschean critical enterprise comes down to this: Nietzsche is above all attacking Christianity in its capacity as a moral ideology, or as a set of abstract moral ideals (ideals which, as Oakeshott would put it, nullify the virtues of living the present religiously – i.e. revile the virtues of presentness). By attacking Christianity as an ideology – or as one form of idol-adoration – Nietzsche is attacking an imposed morality and is therefore attacking the role of the state in imposing that ideology; at the same time, he is also attacking the masses themselves – those superfluous many-too-many – that docilely have come to accept that imposition from the famous wise ones, having abandoned their role in history as a self-rolling, self-willed people.

Now, the Nietzschean attack on Christianity as a moral ideology – or at least as an imposed moral ideology that stood over and above a people’s morality of habit of behaviour – seems to be justified historically. And it seems to be justified since, and as alluded to above, it was only in particular (or even exceptional) cultural conjunctures in the history of the western world that Christianity would not function as a formulaic ideological system of rules and regulations dictating the good and the bad of human conduct. Of course, the function of Christianity as a spontaneous morality of habit of behaviour would be all too often stifled given precisely the gradual emergence of the Babelian state-as-idol. We know all too well, for instance, the plight of the Lutheran Reformation and the Protestant forms of state it would ultimately give birth to.

Oakeshott himself summarizes all this – as also his interpretation of the Nietzschean critique of Christianity – as follows: “… the moral inheritance of western Europe, both from the classical culture of the ancient world and from Christianity, was not the gift of a morality of habitual behaviour, but of a moral ideology. It is true that, in the course of centuries, this moral form went some way towards being reconverted into a morality of habit of behaviour. Such a conversion is certainly possible when moral ideals become familiar and, finding expression in customs and institutions which exert a direct pressure upon conduct, cease to be mere ideals … Nevertheless, modern European morality has never been able to divest itself of the form in which it first emerged. And having once committed the indiscretion of formulating itself in the abstract terms of moral ideals, it was only to be expected that its critics (who have never for long been silent) should seize upon these, and that in defending them against attack they should become rigid and exaggerated. Every significant attack upon Christian morality (that of Nietzsche, for example) has been mistaken for an attack upon the particular moral ideals of Christian life, whereas whatever force it possessed derived from the fact that the object of attack was a morality of ideals which had never succeeded in becoming a morality of habit of behaviour.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 78).

A critical appreciation of the moral inheritance of the western world in general – and especially a more or less Nietzschean-type critique of such inheritance – may therefore be roughly recapitulated as follows:

• To the extent that Christianity in the western world has at times been practiced as a mode of life informing the traditional habit of behaviour of a people, it may be said to have been expressive of a particular aesthetic and/or cultural disposition or popular sensibility – in this case, the sensibility would belong to a people that wills itself, it does not need (and does not allow) to be willed.
• To the extent that Christianity in the western world would come to prevail as a discourse articulated by statal or quasi-statal ideological apparatuses (such as the formal institutions of a church), it would take the form of rigid rules defining good and bad conduct based on abstract ideals – it would be expressive of a formulaic moral ideology and/or a morality of ideals.
• As a morality of ideals imposed on the masses, Christianity would be reduced to an ideology pointing to the future – the popular morality of habit of behaviour disposed to celebrating the presentness of life to the full, and as an end in itself, would be considered immoral.
• Having lost their presentness, and having lost the initiative to create such presentness as a value in itself, the modern-day Christians would no longer be individuals capable of value-creation.
• Incapable of value-creation, and resentful of all independent, self-determining individuals, the psychology of the masses would come to typify slave morality.
• Within such a western milieu, it is only the independent, self-determining individual who recognizes the need for a radical reevaluation of all values; it is only the exceptional individual who recognizes the need to master his own self as a self-willed Overman.
• What should such new values be? It is of crucial importance to emphasize here that Nietzsche’s Zarathustra absolutely refuses to prescribe whatever specific values that ought presumably to apply to all exceptional individuals. It is exclusively up to each and every self-determining individual to determine his own values, whichever these happen to be. Of course, based on such an understanding, one’s self-chosen values could even be of the Christian type – and that is why Oakeshott insists that the Nietzschean attack upon Christian morality has in fact been mistaken for an attack upon the particular values of the Christian mode of living.

Like Oakeshott, Nietzsche would be critical of the ideologically-laden moral history of the western world. Again like Oakeshott, the Nietzschean project was not meant to debunk whichever religion, Christianity included. And thus, in Walter Kaufmann’s classic study of the overall Nietzschean project – his Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist (Princeton University Press, 1974) – we read as follows: “Nietzsche never ceased respecting that sincere and “genuine Christianity” which he considered “possible in all ages” …” (p. 37).

We have thus far attempted to show that rationalist ideology, political ideology, and Christian ideology are all manifestations of a deep tripartite entanglement – and we have attempted to show how this would yield a generalized slave-morality amongst the many-too-many. But although this ideological entanglement has come to prevail in the western world, it has almost always been confronted by an assortment of contrarian traditions – these have at times been of a certain historical significance, while at other times they have been of only marginal importance, if at all. What might one say regarding whatever collective (and not only strictly individual) resistance to the western ideological juggernaught?

To begin with, one may say that this ideological juggernaught has in any case – and quite inevitably given its obsessions – always been at war with itself, and that, despite its apparent rationalism. Within the context of such a western misfortune – as Oakeshott chooses to describe such historical circumstances – one may argue that it would be wisest for either groups of people or for particular individuals experiencing such a world to learn to make the best of it.

In 1948, Oakeshott would consider this issue and write as follows: “The history of European morals … is in part the history of the maintenance and extension of a morality whose form has, from the beginning, been dominated by the pursuit of moral ideals. In so far as this is an unhappy form of morality, prone to obsession and at war with itself, it is a misfortune to be deplored; in so far as it cannot now readily be avoided, it is a misfortune to be made the best of.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 78).

But how does one make the best of such circumstances? Generally speaking, one would quite naturally say that whatever attempts – on the part of contrarian social groupings – to establish some type of civil association (or associations) within modern western societies would by now be ludicrously utopian. And thus the question as to how one makes the best of it – or, perhaps much more importantly, how popular contrarian elements of the western world have thus far actually made the best of it – remains a pertinent question. Even more crucial is the self-same question concerning the contrarian individual, and especially so when it comes to the exceptional contrarian individual: in his case, it is the matter of self-organization that raises its head (and which, as already mentioned, is of central concern to this study).

Of course, neither contrarian social groupings nor exceptional contrarian individuals living in the western world have ever been, so to speak, absolutely alone in such complex world. And, at least theoretically speaking, the fact that they have not been absolutely alone would mean that they would not necessarily have to ever compromise their anti-ideological disposition so as to assert their freedom and self-determination. It is for this reason that Oakeshott can write as follows: “… the freedom which we wish to enjoy is not an ‘ideal’ which we premeditate independently of our political experience, it is what is already intimated in that experience.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 121). Oakeshott is here reminding us of the fact that freedom (and the pluralism that goes with it) has been part of the western heritage, or has been a manifestation of the socio-political traditions of western society. To put it otherwise, western society has not only been dominated by the pursuit of western political/collective ideals and idol-adoration, it has also seen the rise of individualist morality and has celebrated its virtues within the traditions of pluralism.

One would have expected contrarian social groupings and individuals to have been tapping precisely these traditions. And yet, and especially so with reference to the modern and postmodern western world, resistance to state and/or mass ideology (be it of the rationalist, political, or religious brand) has more often than not come to take the form of an ideological paradigm itself. To put it slightly otherwise, resistance to rationalism has now itself been converted into an ideology, thereby generating a perfectly ideological struggle wherein one species of rationalism clashes with another (contrarian) species of rationalism. And thus it is that the contrarian who had once initially intended to stand well above all forms of idol-adoration (or ideal-adoration) finally comes to defeat his own intentions.

And so, in his discussion of the various forms of resistance to rationalist ideology, Oakeshott would observe that such resistance “has now itself been converted into an ideology.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 21). The formulaic planning that is intrinsic to all of rationalist political ideology is now countered by positing a counter-planning, and thereby itself taking the form of yet another doctrinal ideology. He writes: “A plan to resist all planning may be better than its opposite, but it belongs to the same style of politics.” (ibid.).

Why is it that both the ideology of rationalism and whatever resistance to such ideology have come to adopt that same style of politics? The reason for this lies in the hegemonic mode of thinking and conduct of the many-too-many: the psychology of the modern masses has been determined by the needs of the market-place, and the market-place organizes itself around both the materialistic values of the trader and the utopian values of idol-adoration. Both competitive materialism and egalitarian utopianism constitute a hegemonic ideological discourse – to engage with such discourse in a politically oppositional manner, one can apparently only but speak the ideological language of that discourse. To do politics at all in the modern and postmodern western world, one is obliged to speak its dominant language. Oakeshott puts this as follows: “It seems that now, in order to participate in politics and expect a hearing, it is necessary to have, in the strict sense, a doctrine; not to have a doctrine appears frivolous, even disreputable.” (ibid., p. 22).

Since whatever participation in politics – even of the oppositional type – presupposes a strict doctrine, the anti-rationalist is required to formulate an ideological discourse. But all ideological discourses are organized around ideals. Ideals, however, point to a mode of thinking and conduct that comes down to idol-adoration. And thus it is that the modern and postmodern western world (and by now not only the western world) finds itself in a catch-22 situation which seems almost impossible to escape.

The individual, on the other hand – and above all the exceptional individual – could escape such a situation depending on his personal will, and could do so without necessarily violating the public rules of the socio-political game. Making use of both Oakeshott and Nietzsche, we shall be investigating this question in much greater detail below – we may here simply note the following by way of preparing the ground:

• The exceptional individual is self-willed precisely because his life-project is to cultivate his own individualism – he cultivates that individualism by creating his own morality of individuality.
• But that morality of individuality is such as to at the same time respect and uphold the historically-rooted identity of his community – he would respect, in other words, those conscious or unconscious living dimensions of his community that are expressive of particular traditions of behaviour. And he would respect and uphold such traditional morality precisely because it has remained free of all statal intervention – it has survived as an unimposed popular disposition, cultural taste, and/or practical sensibility.
• Conversely, the community’s traditions of behaviour would themselves protect – via their own historically-rooted pluralism – the individual’s private morality of individuality. And the community would do so since such private morality would not in any way threaten either its pluralism or its identity.
• And thus, it would be precisely such a particular interaction between the individual as a self-rolling wheel and the pluralistic traditions of behaviour of his community that would allow the exceptional individual to enact his life in a way that he so wills – and which would also mean that he would will his life on the basis of a benign supreme neutrality and/or indifference towards whatever ideological struggles insist on ravaging his society.

Now, of course, this sketchy presentation of the relationship between a free individual and his community may be said to be romantically idealistic. It may also be said to ignore a number of apparent contradictions, especially as regards the mode of being of the individual and his morality of individuality vis-à-vis the rest. At this point in our presentation, both objections certainly seem to hold water. But before we even attempt to deal with such types of objections, we shall first need to examine the historical clash between the moralities of individualism and anti-individualism (each of which have been informed by the two different modes of thinking which we have already discussed above, that of rationalist ideology and that of traditional ideology respectively). We shall also need to examine Nietzsche’s own understanding of individualism and the exceptional individual.

5e. Of moralities: the anti-individual versus the individual

As has already been alluded to, the history of the western world – as also the moral history of that world – has been stamped by a conflict between the morality of the anti-individual and that of the individual. Both moralities have functioned as the extreme poles of a variety of in-between moral worldviews. We shall now have to examine these two extreme poles in some greater detail.

Oakeshott’s 1958 Harvard Lectures would, inter alia, focus on this conflictual relationship between the morality of anti-individualism (or the morality of collectivism) and the morality of individuality. Oakeshott would argue that both of these moral worldviews have contributed greatly to the shaping of liberal democracies in the modern western world (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin (Editor), Michael Oakeshott, Morality and Politics in Modern Europe – The Harvard Lectures, Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 1993).

And it is these two poles of conflictual moral worldviews – collectivism and individuality – that have corresponded directly to, on the one hand, the politics of faith and, on the other, the politics of skepticism. Oakeshott, Corey explains, “casts the faith/skepticism distinction in terms of collectivism versus individuality, even going so far as to call these categories (as he does faith and skepticism) “the poles of the modern European political character”. Collectivism postulates a common good that is chosen by government for the individuals who compose a society. This good is “preferred above all other possible conditions of human circumstance” and is believed “to be at least the emblem of a ‘perfect’ manner of human existence”. In other words, it is the politics of faith.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 170).

Such politics of faith, with its ideologically-based faith in social perfection, postulates a common good for all in society – the good cannot exist outside the collectivity. Anything outside the collectivity is bad – and thus, individualism is itself bad. But this wish to cancel the individual would not mean that the individual – and the virtue of individuality – would simply disappear. And since the individual would not retreat in the face of the collectivity, one would witness an on-going struggle between two opposing moralities in the course of the history of the western world. This struggle would come to be deeply etched in the nature of the modern western state.

Above, we have already drawn a fairly clear-cut distinction between, on the one hand, a purposive, teleocratic type of state projecting a particular goal (or ideal), and, on the other, a non-purposive, goalless type of state. It would be the individual – with his virtue of individualism – that would struggle for the purposeless, goalless type of state. And he would struggle for such a type of state because he would wish to assert his own purpose and his own goal as an independent, free-willed and self-rolling individual.

Of course, this naturally presupposes the actual existence of a purposive individual who has no need for and stands above whatever collective ideals and collective morality – and he could therefore be quite reminiscent of the Nietzschean higher man and his individual morality. But such purposive individual would also be reminiscent of the western type of man that would struggle for a form of state that respected and upheld individual differences and initiatives, as opposed to whatever common good. Such types of men have of course played their role in the history of various western milieus, as in the case of the modern European milieu. And thus one may say that the modern European (but also generally western) milieu has been characterized by a struggle between those who would support the need for an all-inclusive purposive state promoting a mass morality (or a Nietzschean-type slave morality), and those who would support the need for a goalless state that would respect individual purpose and individual morality. It would be this struggle that would play a major role in determining the very nature of the modern European (as also generally western) state.

And thus we may say that western modernity would be characterized by this particular conflict of values – this conflict, however, may also be seen as a matter of celebration, it being precisely the way in which Oakeshott would himself see it. It would be a reality to be celebrated since this clash of values – being on-going and never finally resolved – would simply highlight the role of pluralist individualism in the formation of western civilization. And it is for this reason that Edmund Neill (op. cit.) makes the following observation: “… Oakeshott conceptualizes modernity in a different way from Berlin, Aron and Popper, viewing its irresolvable conflict of values far more unequivocally as a matter for celebration, rather than regret.” (p. 95).

Oakeshott would be celebrating, as he himself writes, “This multiplicity of activity and variety of opinion” that would characterize the moral and political history of the western world (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 185). Such acquired multiplicity in the manner in which western man would conduct himself and such variety in his moral worldviews, he continues, would both be “apt to produce collisions” (ibid.).

In the last instance, the paramount collision within the history of the western world would take the form of a collision between, on the one hand, the sheer mediocrity of the modern mass man and, on the other, those exceptional individuals who are capable of thinking for themselves, of cultivating their passions, and of making choices for their own selves. Such philosophical approach certainly constitutes one fundamental element in the work of Oakeshott. Most importantly, it is precisely this fundamental element in the writings of Oakeshott that constitutes the central philosophical nexus bonding Oakeshottian thinking with that of Nietzschean thinking. It is here that Oakeshott truly meets Nietzsche.

And thus, Noël K. O’Sullivan, in an article entitled “Michael Oakeshott: Religion, Politics and the Moral Life” (International Dialogue, Vol. 3, Article 18, 2013) tells us that an important source of Oakeshott’s ethical inspiration is to be traced to the so-called “romantic tradition”. This, he explains, is “evident in his contempt for the mediocrity of modern mass civilization – a contempt he shares with … Nietzsche.” (p. 210). And he continues as follows: “Oakeshott’s Nietzschean sympathies were evident in a simple distinction he drew between “individuals”, defined as “persons accustomed to making choices for themselves”, and “anti-individuals” who have “feelings rather than thoughts, impulses rather than options, inabilities rather than passions.” …” (ibid.).

Now, this on-going, irresolvable conflict between the morality of individuality and the morality of anti-individuality is inexorably bound up with the question of the rationalist mode of thinking – and this is so because all of anti-individualist morality is a morality based on rationalism. The Oakeshottian understanding of poetry as a mode of life (but also other forms of play that are affirmative of presentness) defines the aesthetic unity of individualist morality. But in direct contrast, the morality of anti-individuality, based on the ideological morality of the rationalist, leaves neither time nor space for such aesthetic unity. And thus Corey writes as follows: “… there is another sort of morality that does not approach any kind of aesthetic unity at all. Such is the morality of the Rationalist, the “anti-individual”, and the ideologue, all targets of Oakeshott’s incisive criticism.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 127).

This long historical conflict between individualist and anti-individualist morality – or between aesthetic unity as a mode of life and the devaluation of aesthetics as a mode of life – has been part and parcel of the history of the Europeans. Kenneth Minogue has suggested that Oakeshott would see the whole history of the peoples of Europe in terms of the individualist versus anti-individualist morality – he explains that the course of events in the history of Europe “left a large population [of Europeans] who were ‘unable’ or ‘unwilling’ to make choices for themselves. These peoples were the materials of what Oakeshott calls a morality of ‘anti-individualism’ in which ‘security is preferred to liberty, solidarity to enterprise and equality to self-determination: every man is recognized as a debtor who owes a debt to society which he can never repay and which is therefore the image of his obligation to the collectivity’ …” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, op. cit., p. xi).

It so happened that certain European peoples (or at least certain sizeable communities within some of these European peoples) proved incapable of determining – and/or lacked the will to determine – their own lives as independent persons. These found it so much easier for themselves to rather opt for security, and the small comforts of that security – they would come to belong to that type of person that Nietzsche shall describe in his Thus Spake Zarathustra as the weary, the ordinary, and the comfortable. And further, being incapable and unwilling to rely on their own selves, they found it necessary to rely on the solidarity of those around them – they would therefore come to abide by the virtue of what Nietzsche shall call good neighbourliness. And, finally, since they were incapable and unwilling to experiment with individual self-determination, they would become fierce supporters of the virtue of equality – and it would of course be this virtue of equality that Nietzsche shall designate as the bedwarfing virtue of mediocrity.

We see here that Oakeshott’s presentation of certain European peoples – or of the sizeable communities that would emerge within such peoples – as being incapable of willing their own destinies is a critical presentation that clearly parallels Nietzsche’s own understanding of the history of the western world. And thus both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would explain the rise of the western-type Babelian state in terms of the needs of such incapable and unwilling peoples.

Being unremittingly obliged to their society, being dependent on their society as debtors, such peoples would not only espouse the collective ideology of the anti-individual – they would naturally also need to idolize the existence of the state, for it would be the state-as-idol that would organize their society in terms of their specific needs. And they would come to have an absolute need for such state, not being able to ever image their lives in the absence of such Babelian form of state. They would need, firstly, the state and its government to manage their desires – or, as Girard has put it, they would need the state to organize all of human desires. Secondly, they would need a state ideology to manage their feelings of inferiority, and to manage the guilt that goes with such inferiority. Thirdly, they would need both the force of the state and the ideology of the state so that they be protected from the threat of individuality, and especially that of exceptional individuality. Finally, and in confluence with the latter, they would need both state and ideology to protect them from whatever individuated aesthetic unity standing over and above them and which would therefore be deemed to be a threat to their own mass desires.

This was the new inclination amongst those European peoples who proved unable and unwilling to determine their own lives. Minogue continues his presentation of the Oakeshottian critical assessment of western history by writing as follows: “Oakeshott’s view of those exhibiting this new disposition is unequivocally negative: here we have a ‘mass man’ or what he calls ‘the anti-individual’. Such a creature is moved by envy and resentment, and his main desires are to be managed by a beneficent government and to create a morality which would relieve him of the feeling of insufficiency and guilt induced in such people by the dominance of individuality.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid.).

For such mass man, individual choice would be seen as a burden best avoided. But what would be a burden to the many-too-many amongst some European peoples would be a blessing to those celebrating their individuality and their free will to make their own life-choices. In his 1958 Harvard Lectures, Oakeshott would describe the situation in 16th century Europe – and the opportunities for free initiative that that century offered – as follows: “In a world being transformed by the aspirations and activities of those who were excited by these opportunities for individual choice, there were some people who … were less ready than others to respond to its invitation; and for many the invitation to make choices for themselves came before the ability to do so, and was consequently recognized as a burden.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 24).

By the 17th and 18th centuries, as the Age of Enlightenment (or the Age of Reason) continued to mature, one would also see the maturation of a mass sentiment of resentment regarding the burdens of individuality and those of free choice and initiative. This would further generate the ideology of the militant anti-individual. The seeds for this had already been sown way back in the 16th century, and it would be a truly militant ideology. It would be so militant that it would wish to impose its anti-individualist faith upon all of mankind – it would aim, in other words, at deposing the individual per se. So as to be able to effect precisely this, the incapable and the unwilling amongst the European peoples would look to the state-as-idol, and it would be thus that the Babelian-type state would emerge.

Oakeshott would be presenting this particularly critical – and at the same time highly perceptive – interpretation of western history in his aforementioned Harvard Lectures of 1958. As regards, on the one hand, the invitation to individuality and, on the other, the generation of the militant anti-individual, he would have this to say: “In some, no doubt, this inability to respond to the invitation to be an individual provoked merely resignation; but in others it bred envy, jealousy and resentment. And in these emotions a new disposition was generated: the impulse to escape from the predicament by imposing it upon all mankind. The man frustrated by his failure to live up to the invitation of the times became a man disposed to assimilate the world to himself by deposing the individual and destroying the moral prestige he had acquired: he became the militant ‘anti-individual’.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid.).

The feeling of mere resignation, though much more so the more intense feelings of envy, jealousy and ultimately even resentment for those capable of functioning as independent individuals, would altogether constitute an impulse – and it would be an impulse characteristic of the weakness of what ultimately came to amount to the many-too-many. It is this collective impulse that wished for and created both the state-as-idol and a particular morality of good versus bad. And thus, in a manner that is deeply reminiscent of the Nietzschean explanation of the modern world – it being a psycho-philosophical explanation – Oakeshott comes up with a particular interpretation of the rise of the Babelian-type state and of the prevalence of a distinct moral ideology. Both state and morality would befit the mass impulse. Both state and morality would serve the morality of collectivism, it being a morality of collective social justice. Oakeshott continues as follows: “In pursuit of this task [viz. to depose the individual] he [viz. the militant anti-individual] looked round for support and he found it in two directions. First, he looked to government to protect him from the necessity of being an individual, to make the choices on his behalf which he was unable to make for himself … This so-called ‘mass-man’ has made a great impact upon the political literature of modern Europe, but he did not … look only to government to support him in his adverse circumstances. He sought, in the second place, to develop a morality appropriate to his character and condition, a morality strong and convincing enough to relieve him from the feeling of guilt and inadequacy which his inability to embrace the morality of individuality provoked. I will call it the morality of collectivism.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., pp. 24-25).

The morality of collectivism is the morality of solidarity; the morality of solidarity is the morality of collective social justice, and the morality of collective social justice is the morality of equality. Such a moral ideology, Oakeshott would observe, had already begun to crystallize by the 17th century. This is what he says: “The emergence of the morality of the ‘anti-individual’, a morality, namely, not of ‘liberty’ and ‘self-determination’ but of ‘solidarity’ and ‘equality’ is … already clearly visible in the seventeenth century …” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 25).

As a morality wishing to impose itself on all, it could only but present itself as the common good. Oakeshott continues as follows: “The nucleus of this new morality was the concept of a substantive condition of human circumstance represented as ‘the common good’ or ‘the public good’ …” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., pp. 25-26). Similarly, of course, Nietzsche would himself be speaking of the tarantulas (the preachers of the morality of equality), and of the populace-mishmash in general (those espousing the public good), and how they would now all wish to be master of all human destiny – they would wish, in other words, to impose their morality of the anti-individual on the whole of society, and do so to the point that even the very concept of the individual higher man would be seen as absolutely evil.

Importantly, Oakeshott would go on to argue that this anti-individual morality of collectivism and solidarity would come to operate as an ideological nerve center organizing a string of related moral tenets and moral attitudes that would more or less permeate the whole of the modern western world. These tenets and attitudes would be veritable ideological satellites orbiting the core of the morality of the anti-individual – and they would come to determine western man’s understanding of issues such as privacy versus public life; or the possible exceptionality of an individual (vis-à-vis others) versus one’s purported resemblance to all others as mere replicas of himself, and so on. Oakeshott would encapsulate this position as lucidly as possible in the following manner: “Round this nucleus of ‘solidarity’ revolved a constellation of appropriate subordinate moral beliefs and sentiments … Indeed, privacy in any connection was recognized as an intrusion of individuality and therefore to be abrogated: an unequivocally ‘public life’ was perceived to be the counterpart of the ‘anti-individual’. And further, it was appropriate that the morality of the ‘anti-individual’ should be radically equalitarian: how should the ‘mass-man’, whose sole distinction was his resemblance to his fellows and whose sole escape from frustration lay in the recognition of others as merely replicas of himself, approve of any divergence from exact uniformity? All must be equal and anonymous units in a ‘collectivity’.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., pp. 26-27).

And it is thus that the morality of the anti-individual would come to morally repudiate the private life (and the very privacy) of the individual – it would view whatever autonomy of the private life of a person as an attempt at undermining the moral superiority of public life and that of its public structures, practices and codes of behaviour. Above all, whatever autonomously private life would be renounced as an attempt at undermining the public idol-adoration of the common good. For it would only be the common good of public life that could recognize the equality of all of its citizens; and it would only be the common good of public life that could enable all citizens to belong to a collectivity that offered them the safe identity of a public sameness – and such duplication of sameness amongst the many-too-many would constitute their sole distinction as persons. It would be none other than the state that would undertake to protect such sole distinction from the alien forces of individuality.

The distinction of the anonymous masses lay in a certain public uniformity and in the inevitable collectivity of that uniformity. Whatever external intrusion would need to be punished by both state and its subjects – the morality of the anti-individual would be a morality of collectivism that would censure individuality (and its private disposition) as an error or a crime, and it would ultimately castigate it as a sin. Nietzsche would make similar observations with respect to modern western societies. In our presentation of the way that Nietzsche would view the values of the market-place and its populace, we had noted that the morality of the anti-individual – a morality embedded in none other than the modern democratic spirit – would be such as to restrain the capacities and talents that make certain people superior to others by penalizing such capacities and talents. Nietzsche would be arguing, precisely as would Oakeshott, that such punishment of individual superiority would emanate automatically from the western moral ideology asserting the equality of all: the punishment would be a consolation for those who happened to be inferior in comparison with the capacity and talents of others.

The clash between individualism and anti-individualist collectivism would be a clash between the realities of inequality and the ideological faith in the equality of all. For good or for bad, the clash would translate into a major ideological struggle in the public life of the western intellectual world. As an ideological struggle, it would necessarily generate an endless series of theoretical discussions for and against individualism, and it is for this reason that Oakeshott would observe, as already noted, that the phenomenon of mass man and his demand for social justice and equality would come to dominate in the discussions of the political literature of the modern western world – all of western political philosophy would have to somehow deal with the issues of individualism, inequality and equality, and it would have to do so whatever its political inclinations (be these Left, Right, or Centrist).

In his consideration of such political literature, Oakeshott would be reviewing the work of a series of major western political thinkers – and he would attempt to identify this dominant theoretical trend that had or has wished to serve the wishes of the many-too-many. To make his point, he would – for instance – quote Adam Smith as follows: “… we are but one of a multitude, in no respect better than any other in it; and … when we prefer ourselves so shamefully and blindly to others, we become the proper objects of resentment, abhorrence and execration.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 64). As for John Stuart Mill, he would have this to say: “Mill shuffled his way towards a collectivist theory of government.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 79).

Being of the multitude, and being in no way superior to it, or shuffling towards a collectivist political ideology, would posit both the virtue of equality and the operational need to impose such equality so that the collectivity be served. Western society would thereby be divided into two basic political categories, both of which would be willing subjects in that hierarchy of commanding that Nietzsche has identified, whereby I serve, thou servest, we serve – and these two political categories would be the planners (for the masses) and the planned (of the masses). Of course, this would not at all mean that such willing subjects within the hierarchy of commanding would themselves desist from engaging in power struggles within the hierarchy – but the structure of this hierarchy would always be there, and it would always maintain the planners/planned dichotomy.

This collectivist form of state and government – based on the planners and the planned – would be evident throughout all of modern western democracies. It would, however, also be as evident in all of modern so-called popular democracies. By the 20th century, and as we all well know, state planning would be undertaken in its most extreme form in the USSR and its satellite countries.

The obvious implication here is that the western politics of faith, collectivist ideology, and the moral ideology of the anti-individual would reach its most tragic apex in Marxian philosophy and quasi-Marxian politics. It may be argued that Marxian theory and politics is the par excellence politics of faith viciously opposed to whatever traces of individuality – for the Marxist, all forms of individualism are typical of the class enemy, the bourgeoisie. As yet one other version of collectivism – but here in its most absolute form – the Marxian worldview is merely part of that typically “religious idiom” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 171) of collectivism that wishes to plan a society of equality and total uniformity.

We may conclude this presentation of the morality of the anti-individual by emphasizing that a planned society wishing to obliterate the individual can only but be based on the servile morality of the many-too-many (and which is a servile morality very much similar to that presented to us by Nietzsche). Apart from what has already been said above – such as the need for state protection on the part of those incapable and unwilling to make choices for themselves – the phenomenon of a servile morality amongst the many-too-many may alternatively be explained as follows. The typical state-planned society of the western world has been a rationally planned society – such rational planning being an expression of rationalist morality. This particular morality, championing the values of solidarity and social equality, would yield a rationalist-based collectivity, and which would ipso facto attempt to arrest whatever symptoms of exceptionalist individuality. The subjects of the collectivity would be expected to reject the individual (and his individualism) as a moral entity – and thus each citizen would be expected to reject his own self (as that of others). Much more than that, each citizen would expect it of himself to reject his self, and to thereby reject whatever need for self-understanding. But by rejecting the need for self-understanding, one also rejects the need for self-determination – and it is precisely the absence of such self-determination that defines a servile morality. As a substitute for the individual’s self, for his self-understanding and for his self-determination, the typical state-planned society of the western world would offer its citizens the pursuit of utilitarian policies, the idea of social equality aimed at a perfect future society, and a ready-made code of moral conduct expressive of such values. Being a ready-made code of conduct, the subjects of the collectivity would be submissively accepting standard notions of the common good and the common bad – and they would thereby be confirming the prevalence of a common servile morality.

This close-knit relationship between rationalist anti-individual morality and servile morality is clearly evident in the Oakeshottian intellectual enterprise. Corey tells us that Oakeshott identifies two basic types of moral characters that have played their role in western history: the one is informed by a liberal morality, and is typical of the morality of the individual; the other is informed by a servile morality, and which is typical of the morality of the anti-individual. She writes that there are “two kinds of moral character that appear time and again throughout Oakeshott’s corpus. The first type is what I designate “servile morality”. The primary characteristics of this morality are its markedly utilitarian character, its rejection of the task of self-understanding, its pursuit of perfection, and its propensity to favor a ready-made code of conduct. This is the morality of the Rationalist.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 127).

But what of that other type of moral character? What of the type informed by a so-called liberal morality? This question needs to be properly addressed because we well know that the western world has also been characterized by a grand tradition of pluralist individualism.

But to suggest that the western world has also been characterized by a tradition of individualism seems quite paradoxical – throughout this paper, we have thus far argued that the modern western world has come to be dominated by an omnipresent Babelian-type state operating as the regulating finger of God (as Nietzsche has put it). And we have also argued that such type of state expresses the needs and wishes of the many-too-many, and that it does so to such an extent that those many-too-many actually participate in the organs of the state through an inclusive and democratic hierarchy of commanding. Such socio-political circumstances, we have further argued, have yielded a rather high degree of social uniformity. Therein, however, lies the paradox: for how is it possible that within a world of such social uniformity one may also identify some grand tradition of individualism? How is it possible that Schrödinger’s cat be both dead and alive – or both servile and independent? We shall here be arguing that – at least as regards the history of western civilization – such cat has been both dead and alive, and that it has been so all at the same time.

Despite the attempts of the Babelian-type western state to obliterate both the individual and the morality of individuality, these have simply not been obliterated. And right alongside the servile many-too-many, there have always been social and individual forces that have asserted and pushed for pluralist individualism. Most importantly, and as we shall see, such forces have often asserted the moral virtue of individualism without having to resort to the application of individualist ideals and individualist rules – without resorting, that is, to the application or imposition of some form of an individualist ideology (although that too has of course occurred in the course of western history, and especially so in the postmodern western world – we have already considered the case of the self-defeating contrarian who wishes to debunk rationalist ideology by establishing his own type of ideology).

The morality of individuality and the will of the exceptional individual have both withstood the test of time. And it should also be noted that not all western political thinkers have chosen to serve the wishes and impulses of the many-too-many – not all, that is, have submitted to the politics of the collectivity and its egalitarianism as did thinkers such as Adam Smith or John Stuart Mill. One truly outstanding example of a western intellectual consciously celebrating the morality of individuality has been, of course, none other than Nietzsche himself. Consciously or unconsciously, the Nietzschean mode of thinking is a child of modern pluralist individualism.

Now, the fact that the western world has also been characterized by a vibrant tradition of individualism would allow the Oakeshottian intellectual project itself to actually dwell on certain positive aspects of modernity. And Oakeshott would dwell on the positive dimensions of modernity despite his deep appreciation of the role of traditionality (and its morality of habit of behaviour), and despite his consistent critique of rationalist ideology. It is perhaps Edmund Neill who has most convincingly presented this important dimension of Oakeshottian thinking – he writes as follows: “On a more political level, despite his respect for the role of tradition, and his worries about some of the effects of Enlightenment rationalism, I argue that Oakeshott becomes an increasingly strong advocate of the strongly pluralist individualism that he believes characterizes modernity, and hence of the form of government he believes most respects it – namely the ‘civil condition’ – since, as far as possible, this does prescribe individuals’ courses of action.” (cf. Edmund Neill, op. cit., p. 16).

In terms of the Oakeshottian reading of history, Neill explains, modern pluralist individualism as a mode of thinking and conduct would come to constitute an important development in the western European tradition – and it would do so starting from the 12th and 13th centuries, and would continue to develop as a mode of living onwards in historical time. But Oakeshott would go further and present such mode of thinking and conduct as a major accomplishment in the history of western civilization – pluralist individualism, he would assert, was to be celebrated, perpetuated and sustained. Neill writes: “Since Oakeshott comes to the view in the mid-1950’s that modern pluralist individualism is not merely an important development in the Western European tradition, but also an achievement that it is vital to celebrate and encourage, it is hardly surprising that he devotes considerable time and effort in the remainder of his career to identifying the system of government that is necessary to sustain such individualism.” (cf. Edmund Neill, ibid., p. 48).

Parenthetically, we may simply note here that the exact historical origins of pluralist individualism remain somewhat debatable – in his Harvard Lectures, Oakeshott states that the morality of individuality would emerge in western Europe roughly in the 13th century, and he adds that this new moral disposition would expand by the 16th century, more or less across the western European continent (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, op. cit., pp. 20-21). That more or less, however, surely secretes important dimensions of European history where the morality of individuality would be constrained by the rise of rudiments of the collectivist/anti-individualist type social organization that would ultimately mutate into the Babelian form of state.

But whatever the exact historical origins of pluralist individualism, the significant point here is that the morality of individualism has been an organic part of the development of western civilization – and it is for this reason that the morality of individualism is in fact part and parcel of a common western tradition. And since it is part of a common tradition, the moral individualist understands both himself and those around him as potential carriers of that tradition – all citizens of western societies may (and can) share in the identity that such particular tradition offers. And since there is such an underlying layer of shared identity, the morality of individualism does not necessarily fragment society – on the contrary, one may say that the shared tradition of the morality of individualism is such as to both unite society in itself and unite the individual in himself. Such double unity, however, would not mean that the individuals sharing that tradition also share a common purpose in life. Their purpose in life is strictly personal and private – what citizens do share is the right to live their own purpose as they deem fit.

This is more or less Oakeshott’s position with respect to the morality of individuality and its relation to western tradition. Such position constitutes both a critique of the modern ideology of the common good, as also a critique of the postmodernist obsession with the purported fragmentation of western pluralist societies and their citizens. Neill presents such dual Oakeshottian critique as follows: “Unlike … ‘the morality of the common good’, Oakeshott argues, the morality of individualism does not pretend that individuals naturally have a common substantive purpose; conversely, however, unlike the post-modernists, Oakeshott does not arbitrarily maintain that the pluralism inherent in modern society is so great that we can neither understand one another as being part of a common tradition, nor argue that the individual self must be seen as necessarily fragmented – for Oakeshott it remains, potentially at least, very much capable of unity.” (cf. Edmund Neill, op. cit., pp. 16-17).

Now, given that pluralist individualism is already an organic part of the western tradition, and given that it already constitutes an underlying layer of shared identity within the western world, its affirmation of the individual (and especially so of the exceptional individual) need not take the form of whatever ideology, let alone an abstract formulation of such a type of ideology. And it is not required of it to do so because the morality it expresses is already there, as a tradition – as a morality of habit of behaviour. All one need do is to tap what is traditionally pre-given. The important implication here is that pluralist individualism should never have to mutate into an ideology of high ideals articulated by its own famous wise ones and have it imposed onto a passive-receptive mass of people – for this would mean sliding back into a self-defeating servile morality, it being naturally incompatible with the morality of individualism. Neill sets forth the Oakeshottian position regarding the essential traditionality of individualism, and how this makes it unnecessary to either break with the traditional achievements of time-past or to resort to individualist rules and ideals – he does this by comparing Oakeshott’s thinking with that of the Cold War liberal theorists as follows: “Unlike the Cold War liberals … who tended to accept an essentially Weberian account of modernity whereby modern pluralism was achieved only at the cost of a radical break with tradition, as part of a radical ‘disenchantment’ with the world, for Oakeshott the situation is different. As far as he is concerned, a commitment to pluralist individualism is something that has been bequeathed to us as part of the Western tradition itself, so that it is unnecessary to support this by self-consciously applying individualist ‘rules’ or ‘ideals’ …” (cf. Edmund Neill, ibid., p. 95).

One may put this position in a slightly different way. One may argue that the morality of individualism – and therefore the self-conscious presence of the individual as such – would evolve within the traditions of the various forms of the western nation-state. Not all of the practices of the typical western nation-state would wish to accommodate such morality – as already discussed above in presenting Nietzsche’s critique of the state, all forms of state as enterprise associations are jealous gods that intend to secure their role as chief inspirers of whatever happens around them. But the gradual structuration of the western nation-state would at the same time be accompanied by particular clusters of society expressing a morality of habit of behaviour that asserted the morality of individualism, as also the self-conscious and independent initiatives of individuals as social entities. And thus, the western nation-state would have no choice but come to tolerate the grassroots morality of pluralist individualism emanating from particular cultural and/or economic clusters of society – in fact, and precisely so as to continue asserting its role as chief inspirer, it would often attempt to usurp the worldview of pluralist individualism as a component part of its own ideological discourse (Nietzsche would here point to the state-as-liar and/or the state-as-thief – remember, for instance, his assertion that “the state lieth in all languages of good and evil”).

But be that as it may, the morality of individualism in the western world carries within it the traditions and the cultural heritage of important dimensions of a series of western milieus, and of the various forms of western nation-state that such milieus would give birth to – and this would manifest itself in history both consciously and unconsciously. The essential intimation here is (and as Oakeshott would himself argue) that there is no need for whatever state (or political party) interventionism in support of individualism as a national ideal – in fact, it would be precisely that type of interventionism that would necessarily emasculate the morality of individuality by reducing it to a state (or party) ideology, and thereby neutralizing it as a traditional morality of habit of behaviour.

In terms of Oakeshottian thinking, the central most important point here may simply be expressed thus: individualism cannot be disentangled from pluralism, and both cannot be disentangled from the western tradition – and these cannot be disentangled from the western tradition since they derive from that tradition. Neill continues his presentation of the Oakeshottian position on traditionality and individualism as follows: “Rather than modernity being seen as a brand new situation where we cannot look to our traditions to help us very much, in other words, as the Cold War liberals argue, for Oakeshott the situation is different: a commitment to individualism and pluralism is something we can derive from tradition.” (cf. Edmund Neill, ibid., p. 96).

Elsewhere in his interpretation of Oakeshott’s political philosophy, Neill further examines how this particular version of conservative libertarianism can – and in fact must – combine traditionality with the liberty of the self-determined individual. He writes: “… although just like a liberal thinker Oakeshott constantly upholds the value of individuality, and on this basis advocates the importance of individual liberty, ultimately … this is something that he does on the basis that it is an important value that has been bequeathed to us by tradition.” (cf. Edmund Neill, ibid., p. 112).

The long and complex legacy of western civilization has in any case been such as to enable people to conceptualize themselves in terms of individualism, and do so despite the state and its subjects, the many-too-many. In his Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche would make the following important observation, this time as would a historian: “Creating ones were first of all peoples, and only in late times individuals; verily, the individual himself is still the latest creation.” (p. 56). We shall have to come back to this important Nietzschean observation and its far-reaching implications – here, we merely wish to point to a more or less parallel understanding of western history on the part of Oakeshott himself, who would also note the birth of individualism within such history. Neill explains: “While accepting that societies are bound together by common tradition, … for Oakeshott what was exciting about modernity is that (at least in Europe) mankind has learned – by and large – to conceptualize itself primarily in terms of individualism, rather than in terms of collective, communal organization. This has opened the way for mankind to enjoy a freedom little known before the onset of modernity, provided the right kind of state can be maintained to uphold such freedom …” (cf. Edmund Neill, op. cit., p. 78).

Modernity would enable the conceptualization of one’s person in terms of individualism; it could even enable the enactment of such conceptualization in the real world; and it could even allow for the accompanying enjoyment of one’s freedom in terms of individualism. For the citizens of western societies, however – and as Neill points out – such individualistic potentialities, and the ensuing gratification, would come to depend on the right kind of state. But we know, as did both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, that the Babelian-type state, or the state as enterprise (as opposed to civil association), would already be hatching even in pre-modern Europe – and it would thereby be neutralizing whatever individualistic potentialities for the many-too-many, who would themselves be viewing such potentialities as both threat and burden. And thus, yes, the individual would be born in the western world, but he would be more or less alone in that world, and he would actually come to choose to be alone (we shall have to discuss this question further below).

Having presented the tight relationship between individualism, pluralism, traditionality and the history of the western world, we may now delve a bit deeper into the philosophy of the moral individualist as such, and especially as that type of person would be investigated by Oakeshott himself.

To begin with, we may note that the Nietzschean understanding of the moral individualist commences with the quintessential observation that, in the end – and when all is said and done – one only experiences himself. The moral individualist is that type of person who is fully conscious of himself in terms of his own unique experience of the world, and he wishes to tap this experience in a manner that would enable him to forge his own moral and ethical evaluation of things. As such, the moral individualist sees man as an end in himself – being an end in himself, he is a self-rolling wheel. But to be a self-rolling wheel, he need possess the will to enact such mode of being.

Such mode of being is above all expressive of a particular moral disposition, and Oakeshott would fully endorse such a Nietzschean position – but he would go further in his capacity as a political philosopher. He argues that “this moral disposition makes it appropriate to regard human societies as associations of individuals, and not, in the strict sense, communities.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, op. cit., p. 23). And yet, and as has been discussed above, such associations of independent individuals would maintain – or conserve – a coherent identity in themselves. This coherent identity would be founded on a historical substratum informed by both pluralism and the patriotism of national consciousness (and both of which would be elements of a particular morality of habit of behaviour).

For Oakeshott in particular, the moral disposition of the moral individualist – and which is a disposition that cherishes the will to make one’s own choices in life – is in fact an acquired condition. It is a condition acquired through the morality of habit of behaviour – that habit is a carrier of the familiarity of heritage. And that historical heritage is such as to express a respect for – and love of – individualist pluralism. This is how Oakeshott presents the status of the moral individualist: “It is an acquired condition … It is the product, not of ‘human nature’ let loose, but of human beings impelled by an acquired love of making choices for themselves.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 185).

But although the status of the moral individualist is supposedly an acquired condition – and which is, as we shall see, also an acquired love of one’s own self – this has not at all meant that all persons born of such a heritage have come to welcome it. Few have, and we need to dwell further on the thinking of those few.

Consider, for instance, how Kenneth Minogue presents that type of exceptional creature – in his discussion of the “story of modernity”, he refers to “A morality of individuality … of the inner-directed man.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, op. cit., p. x).

What is it that drives such inner-directed individual? It is none other than sheer self-love – for the moral individualist, this self-love is a virtue. It follows that the deeper that self-love, the deeper and more authentic would such virtue be. The mode of life of the moral individualist is such as to be consciously and willfully directed inwards – this means that it is directed to one’s self. And since it is directed to one’s self, it has to be a love of that self. Were it not to be a love of the self, such inner direction would lead to a self-destructive nihilism. All this, of course, would not have to apply were one’s mode of life to be outer-directed – in that case, one’s mode of life would be directed to the collectivity, and it would therefore be directed to the morality of the collectivity. And such direction would mean a love for the collectivity, for otherwise one would again veer towards a destructive nihilism. Naturally, such outer-directed love of the collectivity would view whatever trace of self-love as an evil in itself – we know how western societies have gradually come up with a string of words to describe this alleged evil (words such as egotistical, selfish, or megalomaniac). Evil, in this case, is whatever is indifferent towards and presumes to stand over and above the collectivity – and by collectivity one here means both the many-too-many and the state of that many-too-many.

The inner-directed man and his love for his own self is a love of his own will to be free – and this freedom is precisely his supreme indifference vis-à-vis both state and populace. Oakeshott would point to this clash of moralities in his Harvard Lectures – this is what he would have to say: “… while the morality of individuality had recognized ‘self-love’ as among the legitimate springs of human activity …, the morality of collectivism pronounced ‘self-love’ to be evil and sought to replace it … by the love of the ‘collectivity’ itself.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 26). And thus, and as we have already noted above, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra would himself observe, “oh, how their game all along abused selfishness” – instead of acknowledging self-love as a legitimate spring of human activity, those pushing for a love of the collectivity would in fact constitute the world-weary. And it would be this weariness or lassitude with respect to self-creativity and self-initiative that would mean an abandonment and loss of self – being selfless (as Zarathustra puts it) would be the virtue of the morality of collectivism, and thus of the many-too-many.

The self-love of the moral individualist would naturally translate into a love for one’s privacy – and thus one would see the emergence of a morality of privacy, it being yet another dimension of the morality of individuality. Oakeshott notes the following as regards the 16th century: “A ‘privacy’ hitherto unknown began to make its appearance in European life.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 22).

The morality of privacy would mean that the individual is a separate creature vis-à-vis the rest – and being separate, he is a sovereign entity. Oakeshott writes as follows: “In the morality of individuality …, human beings are recognized (because they have come to recognize themselves in this character) as separate and sovereign individuals, associated with one another, not in the pursuit of a single common enterprise …: it is the morality of self and other selves.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 249). And thus, the morality of individuality is the morality of the self as a uniquely independent morality – and on this, Nietzsche would fully agree. But since selves do come to somehow associate with one another, the independent morality of the one self need respect the independent morality of some other self – again, Nietzsche would fully accept this, though would do so based on the notion of a self’s supreme neutrality vis-à-vis other selves (this is an important issue to be further examined below).

It is quite apparent that an individual that sees himself as separate and sovereign vis-à-vis others would need to be absolutely cautious about the manner in which he approaches whatever association with those others. He would of course have little choice but to actually associate with them in some way or another – but the association would have to be such as to consistently preserve and protect both separateness and sovereignty. And thus the moral individualist could only but espouse a particular politics of individuality. In our discussion of the politics of faith above, we had counterposed these politics to the politics of individuality, and had identified the latter in terms of the Oakeshottian concept of civil association. We here need to more or less reiterate such discussion, but this time with a specific focus on how the moral individualist would envisage the most appropriate political organization that would suit his disposition (it being above all, as noted, a disposition of self-love and a love for privacy).

What kind of politics would naturally suit the moral individualist? Without ever burdening himself with any form of engagement in the ideological discussions and struggles of his contemporaries, the moral individualist would be privately disposed to uphold certain principles of his own regarding politics – and such principles would naturally emanate from his love of his own person, and would as naturally emanate from the private world created by his own self and its cherished presentness. He would, for instance, have no need for whatever vision of some other world, other than the one he already experiences – he would be disposed to living his presentness as creatively as possible, depending on his own creative capacities. To live his presentness as he deems best, he would opt for a self-governance that would not deny his own passions – he is a man of passion in conducting his affairs. Wishing to be left alone in conducting his own private affairs, he would opt to minimize whatever collisions with other individuals – and in that, he would prefer a form of government that would merely operate as a neutral umpire preventing or settling such collisions. But although such umpire would have to be authoritative so that it fulfills its purpose, it would not ever be given that type of authority that would allow it to indulge in whatever concentration of power. These are some of the characteristics describing the political disposition of the moral individualist. Contrasting such disposition to the ideology of the politics of faith and its collectivist morality, Corey writes as follows: “The politics of individuality, on the other hand, springs from an entirely different conception of the role of government. Indeed, it has no “vision of another, different and better, world”, but takes its bearings from observations of “the self-government practiced … by men of passion in the conduct of their enterprises”. It calls not for great concentrations of power, but for an authoritative “ritual” that can minimize the chances for greater collisions between individuals. The government is thus merely “custodian” of this ritual, called “law”. Government’s functions, on this reading, are to minimize circumstances in which violent collisions of interest are likely to occur. It provides redress for those who have been wronged, maintains sufficient power to carry out its functions, and protects itself and its subjects from foreign threat. But unlike collectivism, the government of individuality is not in the business of generating grand visions that would guide an entire people.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 170).

Still on the political disposition of the moral individualist, one may add yet a few more – but definitely as important – observations. We know that the moral individualist would above all value his own experiences as a separate and sovereign individual – and he would value these experiences in their own uniqueness. One may further say that the moral individualist would also value the unique experiences of others – he would value these experiences in the more limited sense of respecting them (he would definitely not choose to relate the experiences of others to those of his own). But since he would value and/or respect the uniqueness of both his own experiences and those of others, he would view whatever attempts on the part of the state to unite individuals (around certain collective goals) as an artificial endeavour. Whatever attempts on the part of the state to unite individuals would constitute an act of disrespect for the diversity of individual experiences (and which would mean disrespect for individual practices or conduct, and disrespect for individual desires or passions). And thus whatever attempts on the part of the state to unite individuals would constitute an intervention that is alien to the political disposition of the moral individualist. Above all, state interventionism aimed at artificially uniting individual diversity would constitute a distraction of the uniqueness of experience. Edmund Neill writes as follows on the question of state intervention aimed at unification versus the political disposition of the moral individualist: “In particular, … Oakeshott stresses the necessity of avoiding government … that seeks to unite individuals artificially around a single, pre-determined end, arguing instead that it is the business of government to respect the diversity of individual practices and desires in society, so that ‘every subject … [is] secured of the right to pursue his chosen directions of activity as little hindered as might be by his fellows or by the exactions of government itself, and as little distracted by communal pressures’ …” (cf. Edmund Neill, op. cit., p. 48).

Now, in discussing the political disposition of the moral individualist, we have noted that that type of person, while respecting the experiences of others, would at the same time not choose to relate these experiences to those of his own. Such is the supreme independence of the moral individualist vis-à-vis others – and it is this unique exceptionality that would make of him a higher man. Individual morality is by definition independent morality – and on this question both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would concur.

The question of one’s supreme independence needs to be explored a bit further. We are saying that the uniqueness of the moral individualist’s experiences is not to be entangled with the experiences of others – this would be of vital importance as it would salvage that very uniqueness of experience. But one may go yet one step further: the will not to allow one’s experiences to be in whatever way entangled would also mean that the moral individualist would not allow himself to be disturbed, intimidated or in any way confounded by the conduct, thinking and desires of others. This would not be a case of mere tolerance (though it would be that too, given the respect for other individuals) – rather, it would be the will to maintain one’s supreme independence with respect to whatever flows beneath or (even) above one’s self. Such supreme neutrality would demarcate one’s space for self-creativity, it being the creation and re-creation of one’s own value-system. By the way, and as we shall see further below, Nietzsche would himself always underline the idea that each individual need create his own, unique value-system – and he would persistently emphasize that such value-system can be (or even need be) a moral language that no one else could possibly understand.

Such a position is clearly evident in Oakeshott’s own thinking – Edmund Neill, for instance, tells us that Oakeshott welcomes and praises “the individual who ‘is disinclined to be unnerved because there are other … [moral] languages to which he cannot readily relate his own’ … Oakeshott posits, and indeed advocates a fairly robust form of moral pluralism, associating this with modernity.” (cf. Edmund Neill, ibid., p. 60). We know that Nietzsche’s position on modernity (and given his focus on the market-place and its many-too-many) is far too pessimistic to be compared with that of Oakeshott’s – and yet he too would welcome and praise the individual who cherishes his own moral language without being in any way unnerved by the existence of other moral languages circulating around him.

Choosing and cherishing one’s own moral language would naturally translate into making particular types of choices in the world, and thereby pursuing particular courses of action and forms of conduct. Not all could make choices and pursue particular courses of action and forms of conduct based on a moral language that none other understands. Conducting oneself in terms of one’s own private moral language would be a burden (and definitely a risk) for the many-too-many – for the moral individualist, however, it would be an invitation to be taken up as an affirmation of life itself. And thus Oakeshott writes as follows: “Each of us is pursuing a course of his own … For some, the opportunities of making choices … are invitations readily accepted; others welcome them less eagerly or even find them burdensome …” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 184).

This brings us to a central Oakeshottian concept already alluded to, that of self-enactment, and which is also a thoroughly Nietzschean concept – viz. the willful creation of one’s unique moral system (and/or language), and the will to act on it. We intend to discuss this concept further – at this point, we may merely quote Edmund Neill, who writes as follows: “… this commitment to moral pluralism and individualism is confirmed by Oakeshott’s analysis of what he sees as the other vital aspect of morality [viz. apart from that of not being unnerved by the different moral languages of others], which he refers to as ‘self-enactment’ …” (cf. Edmund Neill, op. cit., p. 60).

The Oakeshottian position on the moral individualist – and the personal desire on the part of the moral individualist to enact his life in terms of a proud love of his own self – constitutes the culmination of a form of western thinking that had been articulated by a long list of political philosophers and men of letters. One such political philosopher would be Thomas Hobbes, and it is therefore to him that we shall now have to briefly turn. The thinking of Hobbes is of course open to a variety of interpretations – for Oakeshott, Hobbes represents the par excellence philosopher of the morality of individuality.

In what sense might one argue that the thinking of Hobbes is expressive of a moral individualism? We know that, for Hobbes, the vast majority of people – the Nietzschean many-too-many – are motivated by fear, shame, and the need for safety. And it is such fear, shame and the need for protection on the part of the many-too-many – and especially their fear of a shameful death – that calls for the necessary operation of the state (or for a sovereign power). Such types of motivations engender the morality of the tame man (Nietzsche would here speak of domestication). However, Hobbes would also observe that there are some people who are not at all motivated by such tame impulses – their own motivation is rather that of pride and the need for nobility (in the sense of a self-principled exceptionality and moral superiority). In terms of Hobbesian thinking, both the many-too-many and the exceptional individuals may come to accept the sovereign power of the state – but they would do so for absolutely different reasons (given their altogether different motivations), and they could therefore relate to such power differently. This is how Oakeshott interprets Hobbesian thinking – he writes as follows: “Fear of shameful death [i.e. not pride] … generates the morality of the tame man, the man who has settled for safety and has no need for nobility, generosity, magnanimity or an endeavour for glory in order to move him to behave justly. And, in so far as this was Hobbes’s view, he has been recognized as the philosopher of a so-called ‘bourgeois’ morality … But there are qualifications to be noticed which tend to confirm the view that … he was pre-eminently a philosopher of the morality of individuality.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 293).

For Hobbes, Oakeshott explains, the moral individualist is the type of person who upholds a morality of individuality that is essentially aristocratic – and by this term Hobbesian philosophy would be describing a certain version of higher man whose primary concern would be honour. He would not – and could not, given his moral system – be concerned with mere survival or material prosperity (both of which, as Nietzsche would argue, are the needs of the market-place and its flies). With respect to Hobbesian moral individualism and the aristocratic spirit, Oakeshott writes as follows: “This idiom of morality is ‘aristocratic’; and it is neither inappropriate nor unexpected to find it reflected in the writings of one who (though he felt constrained to write for those whose chief desire was to ‘prosper’) himself understood human beings as creatures more properly concerned with honour than with either survival or property.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, ibid., p. 294).

Thus, while Hobbes would view the aristocratic spirit of the moral individualist as a superior mode of being, he would – in his capacity as a political philosopher – have no choice but to examine the appropriate social conditions for the maintenance of social peace. And, as such, he would have to consider the minimum conditions for that social peace. He would argue that for such conditions to be sustainable in a society, one law would have to apply to all members of that society – i.e. that one law would have to apply both to the many-too-many as motivated by particular tame needs and to those exceptional individuals motivated by pride, nobility and honour.

To put it otherwise, that one law would be for both the ox and the lion – the ox, of course, would represent the anti-individualist, collectivist creature; while the lion would represent the exceptional individual. The ox would have to abide by that law out of fear, shame, and the need for safety. The lion, on the other hand, would voluntarily choose to abide by the selfsame law so that there be social peace – and the lion would wish such peace so that he could do whatever he wishes as regards his highly prized private life and individuality.

One may therefore draw the conclusion that Hobbes recognizes the needs of the many-too-many – but he also recognizes those few lions (he speaks of a dearth of such characters) that can to some meaningful extent predetermine their own individual destinies. The Hobbesian lion is the Nietzschean higher man, and such higher man is the Oakeshottian self-enacting individual – all three conceptions of human beings share one common, defining feature: they point to that type of individual who is willing and capable of deciding for himself what he shall do with his own life. Oakeshott writes of the Hobbesian minimum condition, and of the ox and the lion, as follows: “Hobbes was primarily concerned with motives for obeying civil law; he is less concerned with what a man might otherwise do with his life than with the minimum conditions in which the endeavour for peace could be the pattern of conduct for even the least well-disposed man. These minimum conditions are that there shall be one law for the lion and the ox and that both should have known and adequate motives for obeying it.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, ibid., p. 293).

Hobbes would be describing a western world that would gradually have to accommodate peoples characterized by the fear and shame of the tame impulses – and which is very much similar to Nietzsche’s understanding of the small existences and the small happinesses. But within such world of the domesticated many-too-many, Hobbes would uphold the higher virtues of the lion, it being the morality of the individualist.

The morality of individuality is also clearly evident in yet another important western thinker, that of Montesquieu. As with Hobbes, Oakeshott undertakes a critical examination of the work of this great political philosopher – he does so as part of his investigation of the character of modern western politics. According to Oakeshott, Montesquieu’s central political concept is that of Aristocratic Republicanism – and the central principle of this mode of political organization revolves around the superior value of individual honour. Very much reminiscent of the Hobbesian understanding of honour, therefore, Montesquieu would be arguing for the aristocratic virtue – or the aristocratic morality – of that ideal type of individual (beyond social class) who organizes his person on the basis of such honour. And again reminiscent of Hobbes, Montesquieu would understand individual honour as a virtue expressive of individual pride, and the personal dignity that goes with it.

But what is truly outstanding in the thinking of Montesquieu is the manner in which he approaches the whole question of aristocratic morality and the question of individual pride as a mode of life – he presents such morality in a manner which runs absolutely counter to whatever ideology of the morality of the anti-individualist and his collectivism. For Montesquieu, firstly, the individual is responsible for his own conduct. And secondly, but most importantly, one’s personal virtue (that of aristocratic honour and pride) is viewed as a mode of conduct which the person owes only to himself as an individual – he does not owe it to society; he does not owe it to whatever collectivity. Montesquieu’s thinking therefore posits itself against whatever anti-individualist morality – for such morality, and as has been discussed above, man must necessarily be seen as a debtor who owes a debt to society and its organized collectivity, and he ought to conduct himself accordingly. For Montesquieu, the individual does not in any way stand obliged to whatever collectivity – being responsible for his own moral conduct, he can only but be indebted to his own person as regards the virtue of aristocratic pride.

This is how Oakeshott presents his critical understanding of the thinking of Montesquieu, which he sees as part of the pro-individualist and anti-collectivist tradition – he writes: “By ‘honour’ Montesquieu means an aristocratic virtue but one which need not be confined to an aristocracy. He means the natural pride and dignity of a man who feels himself to be an individual among individuals, to be responsible for his own conduct, and who, because he is self-confident in making his own choices, is able to be frank without being arrogant. The ideal type of the character Montesquieu has in mind is, I think, the megalopsychos of Aristotle, the magnanimous man … As Montesquieu describes him, the man of honour is a man whose virtue is not understood as a conduct which he owes to others or to his society so much as to himself: he is a self-contained man who recognizes mean and ignoble conduct as undignified, a relapse into barbarism, a denigration of himself.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, op. cit., pp. 38-39).

Montesquieu’s understanding of the aristocratic self-contained individual, being self-contained, is the Oakeshottian type who engages in his own self-enactment – that type of individual, moreover, is none other than the Nietzschean individual qua self-rolling wheel. For Montesquieu – as also for Oakeshott himself – the form of government that is most appropriate to that type of individual is “an association of self-determined individuals” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 39). To the extent that the aristocratic self-contained individual is in any need of whatever form of governance at all, that form would be Montesquieu’s Aristocratic Republicanism.

It would be Aristocratic Republicanism, not democracy. And it could not be democracy since, for Montesquieu, that particular form of government yields a common mediocrity. We know that Nietzsche would of course be in full agreement with this position. But so would Oakeshott, at least when it comes to the democratic state as enterprise and its politics of faith. Oakeshott shall present Montesquieu’s own negative assessment of democratic societies (as opposed to Aristocratic Republicanism) as follows: in their case, “Individuality, or any suspicion of superiority in taste or enterprise, will arouse resentment, and a common mediocrity of ability and fortune will be recognized as appropriate in such a community …” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., pp. 39-40).

Apart from Hobbes and Montesquieu, Oakeshott shall go on to identify the intellectual tradition of individualism in a rather long string of other western thinkers. In the case of John Locke, for instance, he shall identify important elements of the morality of individuality. Oakeshott tells us that Locke’s work would recognize “the indestructible value of individuality”. For Locke, in fact, the very purpose of government would be to secure the “sanctuary” of such individuality. (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 56). Immanuel Kant, as well, would acknowledge “the supremacy of self-determination” (ibid., p. 59).

We in any case know that there have been other western intellectuals not examined by Oakeshott himself who have also investigated, in their own special way, this clash between the morality of individuality and that of anti-individuality. Consider the case of Stendhal. In his discussion of Red and Black, Erich Auerbach (op. cit.) tells us that Stendhal’s novel wishes to undertake an in-depth psychological investigation of the mindset of two fundamentally different types of personalities. On the one hand, there is that type of person that wishes to courageously assert his independent individuality whatever be the adverse circumstances that besiege him – he determines to stand over and above these circumstances, his basic aim being self-assertion. On the other hand, and in stark contrast, there are the rest – those trivial middle-of-the-roads (Nietzsche would himself speak of their moderation) – who are mere victims of historical circumstances and lack the will to rise above and/or resist such circumstances. Being trivial (or superfluous), they represent the anti-individualist and collectivist morality of the many-too-many. And so, with reference to Stendhal’s Julien Sorel, Auerbach observes that “… his courageous assertion of his personality [is set] against the triviality of the rising middle-of-the-roads …”, those who are incapable of resisting their historical circumstances (cf. Red and Black, op. cit., p. 446). And further, “the realism of this “fractious horse” [Julien Sorel] is a product of his fight for self-assertion.” (ibid.).

It is of course not for nothing that Nietzsche would so much come to admire the psychological perspicacity of Stendhal’s work – we know that he would view his discovery of Stendhal as one of the “most beautiful strokes of fortune in my life.” It would be Julien Sorel’s “virile and virtuous conduct” that would speak to Nietzsche’s own understanding of the moral individualist (cf. William R. Goetz, op. cit.).

Sorel’s courageous self-assertion cannot be expressive of the trivial many-too-many – such a disposition would simply not be appropriate, as Oakeshott puts it, “in the circumstances of an unadventurous, a slothful or a spiritless people.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 195). And on this, and naturally so, Oakeshott’s position would fully correspond to that of Nietzsche’s.

We may now sum up and close this discussion of the anti-individualist versus individualist moralities by trying to tie up what may be considered to be some loose ends. The first issue concerns the Oakeshottian understanding of associations of individuals as opposed to collectivities. We have emphasized all along the exceptionality of the individual as a higher man and how such individual consistently asserts his individuality on the basis of his own unique experiences. The theoretical question that immediately arises here is whether or not anyone would be able to participate in an association of individuals. Given, as we have seen, that Oakeshottian thinking does attach great value to pluralist individualism, the question remains meaningful within the context of the history of the western world. But the question is not in fact purely theoretical, as associations of individuals may yet still be in operation as independent cultural, political or economic clusters existing within the complex networks of Babelian-type states – and such associations may yet still exist in their capacity as relatively free zones (their actual existence naturally remains an empirical question). Who would be eligible for participation in such libertarian zones? One may say that literally anyone would be able to join an association of individuals, but only do so to the extent that he himself has nurtured his own self as an independent entity – he would not, therefore, belong to whatever clusters of modern mass man and their idol-adoration. And further, he would only be able to participate in an association of individuals to the extent that he is a conscious (or relatively unconscious) carrier of that western tradition that has come to be known as pluralist individualism, as also a carrier of the specific identity bestowed on westerners by its concomitant morality of habit of behaviour.

The second issue to be touched on is such as to complicate the response suggested above – precisely who would be eligible (but also willing) to participate in a libertarian zone typical of associations of individuals seems crystal clear at first sight. And yet, and as Kenneth Minogue has argued, many individuals may in fact be characterized by a balanced tension within their very own person between, on the one hand, an inclination for slavishness (typical of the collectivity) and, on the other, an inclination for self-determination and independence (typical of individuality). Minogue would be pointing, in other words, to the well-known Aristotelian distinction between the state of the natural slave and that of the natural master, and he would consider how these two states may come to interact within a single human being (cf. Prof. Kenneth Minogue, “How Political Idealism Threatens Our Civilization”, YouTube, op. cit.). It is not for us to determine how each and every single person organizes his own understanding of the world, and how he comes to decide on the manner in which he relates to that world (all psychological theories attempting to understand individual persons cannot possibly hold a candle to the complexity of the human brain, as Iris Murdoch would have said). And yet still, the question regarding the mode of conduct of the many-too-many as a social category seems more or less settled – one could not possibly expect much of those who seek the protection of the state against the creative initiative of self-rolling individuals. And those that seek the protection of the state would not even choose to consider whatever niche in an association of independent individuals.

In the last instance (and this constitutes the final interrelated issue), one need say that any free zone typical of an association of independent individuals would naturally come to resist whatever happens to threaten its identity – and its identity could be threatened either by persons that are simply resentful of its existence, or by the penetrative intervention of a jealously expansionist state. An association of individuals could resist in a variety of ways: for one, it could do so in a manner that ultimately preserves the independent disposition of its members, thus conscientiously absconding from whatever engagement in ideological battles with its opponents. Alternatively, and maybe even tragically so, it could submit to such engagement in ideological battles, thereby compromising the very purpose of its existence, it being the preservation of the inviolable independence of its members (this issue has already been discussed above, in our examination of possible forms of resistance to rationalist thinking). Either way, the original intention of the association of individuals would be to conserve an identity arising from the morality of habit of behaviour and its pluralist individualism (and which is not an ideology per se), and/or to conserve the identity of the strong self-willed individual wishing to be left alone. On the question of identity-threatening changes, and the individual’s resistance to such changes, Oakeshott writes as follows: “Indeed, wherever a firm identity [of individuality] has been achieved, and whenever [such] identity is felt to be precariously balanced, a conservative disposition is likely to prevail.” (cf. Michael Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 173). Such conservative disposition would have one object in mind: to thwart whatever intervention (usually dubbed an innovation), on the part of the collectivity, in the affairs of either the independent individual or those of an association of independent individuals.

5f. The individual as the latest creation

It may be argued – or perhaps it must be admitted – that both whatever particular morality of habit of behaviour (expressive of a historical people), as also whatever morality of a concrete individual (expressive of none other than that individual himself), do actually share at least one common feature. Which is that common feature?

Let us first consider the case of a morality of habit of behaviour – it may be argued that such morality is based on illusionary (or illusory-based) values of society. But despite the standard meaning of a term such as illusionary, we do not mean to say that a morality of habit of behaviour is in any sense self-deceptive for those that espouse its values – and it is not self-deceptive since the values they embrace are such as to meet their specific identitarian needs as a people. We therefore speak here of a socially functional illusion of values. And most importantly, we speak here of a set of values that have been created by the community itself – these are self-imposed values, not extraneously imposed values.

Similar observations may be made regarding the morality of a concrete individual. As an independent, creative individual, he possesses the inviolable right to create his own values, and to create these in his own world as created. And such creativity must necessarily be the production of an illusionary world – self-creativity is the creativity of an artist, and art is by definition the production of the imaginary. We should yet again remind ourselves here (but which is a matter to be further explored below) that the Oakeshottian conception of the moral life takes its bearings from poetry qua mode of life, and which is the activity of imagining or of making images for one’s own self as a unique entity.

And it is in this sense, therefore, that both a morality of habit of behaviour pertaining to a people, as also any morality expressive of an independent individual, are essentially illusionary – but both of these worldviews are self-created and self-imposed, and they stand over, above and against whatever mass ideology imposed by the state and its protected subjects.

Creators of values – whatever the status of such illusionary values – have emerged in the history of the western world as both peoples and as individuals. But Nietzsche would observe that there would come a time when it would only be the individual per se who could ultimately operate as an authentic creator. We have already noted above how Nietzsche would observe that, initially in the history of humanity, it would be peoples who would be creators of values and cultures, and who had possessed the will to power for such creation. But then he would go on to maintain that, in what he calls late times, the task of authentic creation would be transferred to individuals – indeed, he adds, the individual per se is the latest creation (but here certainly not in the sense ideologically manufactured by the state, as a mere replica of others). And it would now only be the individual who could potentially assert his will to power as a self-valuing and self-conquering creator since modernity would see the loss of peoples, and it would see such loss given the incursions of the state.

Generally speaking (and based on both Nietzsche and especially Oakeshott), one may say that, in the history of the western world, it is the individual per se that has been the most demonized, the most preyed on, and the most hunted as an existential entity within society. And yet, right at the same time, it is the individual per se that has been the most resilient as an existential entity – often enough in such history, the hunted has even turned hunter.

Often enough in this history, the individual has been noticed by the many-too-many – and he has been noticed as either a famous wise one in the service of the state, or he has been noticed as a public contrarian of sorts, and usually so with respect to a motley of public issues and controversies. But most often it seems, the individual has gone quite unnoticed – in fact, one may suspect that there has been that category of individuals that have determined to actually remain unnoticed (as Nietzsche shall tell us).

In the course of western history, there has been that type of individual who has overcome tribal behaviour, or stood above the tribal herd – and he could have paid the price for doing so. More often perhaps, there has been that type of individual who has swam with the tide of a community’s habit of behaviour, but has consciously done so without wholly submitting to that tide.

Often, as well, the independent individual has tried to show some understanding for the many-too-many and their idol-adoration – he has tried to show some understanding, in other words, for what Nietzsche has described as “the throng of [those] grey little waves”, these being the ideological waves that usually mesmerize mass man. More often than not, however, the independent individual has remained supremely indifferent or neutral as regards the many-too-many, and their volatile and ephemeral political faiths. He has often, and simply, adopted a stance expressed in that Nietzschean phrase referred to above, Let them.

In the last instance, and quite despite the rise of the Babelian-type state, one can observe that either more or less within or very much outside the space of that supposedly all-inclusive state, the independent individual remains a reality to be reckoned with.

Now, of course, the individual (or even the independent individual) cannot simply be equated to the Nietzschean higher man – on the other hand, and as shall be further examined below, the individual (and especially the independent individual) can relate to the higher man in a variety of discrete ways.

But unlike whatever type of individual, the Nietzschean higher man is above all a creator of values worthy of themselves, and they would only be worthy of themselves in terms of their own uniqueness and originality (it being a singular originality which – and as has already been suggested above – also happens to be the defining characteristic of whichever artist in relation to his art).

And yet, and as we shall see, the Nietzschean higher man is himself divided in his creativity, and deeply divided in a number of ways – the difference with respect to the rest, however, is that such exceptional individual can actually celebrate his internal divisions, and celebrate these precisely in his capacity as creator.

All this now needs to be discussed in some greater detail – and since it is the Nietzschean enterprise (perhaps above all in western thought) that specifically focuses on the individual and his various existential gradations, it must be it that we need to yet again tap.

6. The individual

6a. The state, and the loss of individuality

We have seen how, for Nietzsche, the western state has come to operate as a killer of all time-present: its preachers of death have come to articulate an ideology of death whereby the meaning of life is continually projected into an ideologically manufactured future. Such mass ideology has spelt the destruction of peoples. But, together with the demise of peoples who had once pursued a will to life, one would also witness an attempted destruction of the individual, in conjunction with his own morality of individuality and his natural sense of presentness.

In its capacity as a death-horse, the state wishes to allure to itself both the populace and the concrete individual. And when it has successfully enticed these to itself, it proceeds to chew and rechew its subjects to the point where they all come to lose whatever sense of self-determination and individuality. It is therefore this overarching destructive process that would also spell the loss of the individual as such. Writing of the western state as the grand new idol, Nietzsche describes this destructive process in his Thus Spake Zarathustra as follows: “See just how it enticeth them to it, the many-too-many! How it swalloweth and cheweth and recheweth them!” (p. 45).

The process of swallowing, chewing, and rechewing of people shall mean that they all come to lose their own selves, and they all lose their sense of selfhood within the nihilistic ideology of the state. Nietzsche continues as follows: “The state, I call it, where all are poison-drinkers, the good and the bad; the state, where all lose themselves, the good and the bad; the state, where the slow suicide of all – is called ‘life’ …” (p. 46).

It is within the western Babelian-type state that all lose themselves – they all kill their selves and their presentness. This suicidal loss of self has meant that men have come to lose their cohesion as independent selves – they have dissipated and scattered their bodies, and have thus by implication dishonoured their independent minds. “Verily, my friends”, Zarathustra says, “I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings! … This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and scattered about as on a battle- and butcher-ground.” (p. 137).

6b. The commencement of the necessary individual

For certain types of individuals, it so happens that the state, its governments, their policies and ideologies, all constitute a mode of life that is indifferent to them – such indifference is here a willfully selected disposition. There is an important sense in which, for these particular types of individuals, the state has ceased to exist. And by ceasing to exist, these types of individuals can begin to enact their own mode of life as necessary individuals. In a passage that may be considered pivotal to the thinking of Nietzsche as articulated in his Thus Spake Zarathustra, we read as follows: “There, where the state ceaseth – there only commenceth the man who is not superfluous: there commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the single and irreplaceable melody.” (p. 47).

There are a number of observations that one may make with respect to this position. Firstly, we should note that it is only once the state and its ideological politics of faith cease to dominate the mode of life of a person, that that person can commence to be a necessary individual – necessary, that is, to none other than his own self (if such mode of life also proves to be inadvertently necessary to certain others, however, then that person would let it be so – but he would let it be so with a number of important provisos, and which shall be examined further below).

Secondly, we note that Nietzsche makes use of terms such as song and melody – and he does so because he is referring to a mode of life, or a self-determined moral life, that takes its bearings from poetry or art (in the specific Oakeshottian sense). Nietzsche is thinking of the individual as a self-rolling wheel revolving around its artistic creativity.

Finally, one may say that the necessity of the non-superfluous individual is based precisely on the fact that such artistic creativity is exceptional and/or unique in its originality – it is the uniqueness of such creative mode of being that renders it necessary. That melody, Nietzsche tells us, is the single and irreplaceable melody.

It is only at that point where the supremacy of the state ceases, that the supremacy of the morality of individuality – and that of the individual himself – can be enacted. And it is only at that particular point where the higher man may also enact his own mode of being. That is the precise point, in other words, where the Superman as a mode of being can commence. Alternatively, one may say that the point where the supremacy of the state ceases is that point where one may prepare the ground (or build the bridge) for such higher mode of being as is encapsulated in the notion of the Nietzschean Superman. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra puts this as follows: “There, where the state ceaseth – pray look thither, my brethren! Do ye not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?” (ibid.).

There are two express clarifications that need to be made at this point. Firstly, when one speaks of the ceasing of the state, one does not mean to at all imply its material destruction in whatever way – such an implication would obviously be both ludicrous and absolutely utopian. For the concrete individual, the ceasing of the state would be exclusively enacted in his own personal disposition – and it would be so enacted by choosing to merely look down on (and thereby surpassing) whatever faith in state ideology, as also whatever faith in the ideological waves of the many-too-many.

Secondly, whatever eschatological approach to the concept of the Superman – and which is often quite evident in Thus Spake Zarathustra – simply needs to be bypassed. For us, as also for Oakeshott, whatever superior mode of being must remain a choice that can only apply to a concrete individual, and that can only apply here and now. But such choice, one need add, presupposes both personal will and (especially) personal capability – and this brings us directly to the question of self-determination.

6c. Existential self-determination

Central to the Nietzschean enterprise in Thus Spake Zarathustra is an investigation – and an affirmation – of the self-rolling individual as a self-conqueror. What, exactly, is a self-conqueror for Nietzsche? His definition of that type of individual is explicit, and it is faithful to his overall understanding of such a type of person. Contrary to what has so often been insinuated, Nietzsche is never ambiguous, and not ever self-contradictory, when it comes to presenting us with a definition of the self-rolling individual as a self-conqueror. In fact, one may say that his exposition of that type of individual in his Thus Spake Zarathustra is all too systematic – and it is systematic despite the apparently supercilious usage of various alternative and/or untimely figurative models. And thus, what we shall be presenting here correlates perfectly well with whatever has been stated above with respect to Nietzschean thinking.

To begin with, the self-rolling individual as a self-conqueror is invariably faced with what Nietzsche has termed the Thou-shalt of this world – viz. that Thou-shalt as articulated by the state, and that concomitant Thou-shalt as demanded by the many-too-many. In its place, the self-conqueror simply and naturally posits his own, individualist I will. That is how the spirit of the self-conqueror delineates its own free space. Nietzsche writes as follows: “What is the great dragon which the spirit is no longer inclined to call Lord and God? ‘Thou-shalt’ is the great dragon called. But the spirit of the lion saith, ‘I will’ …” (p. 22).

That much we know of, and have already spoken of above – but what does it really mean to assert one’s I will in the place of the other’s Thou-shalt? Asserting one’s I will certainly seems to declare one’s freedom as a person vis-à-vis that Thou-shalt of the rest – but such freedom really says little to nothing: it suggests that the individual has merely escaped from the encumbrance of the many-too-many, and the so-called conscience of the many-too-many. Any mere escape is easy – but it does not constitute an alternative mode of being. In one’s response to whatever Thou-shalt, one needs to forge a real substitute – and such real substitute can only emanate from one’s ruling thought. Many can escape from both the state and the many-too-many – few, however, can come up with a ruling thought of their own, and which must be a ruling thought substantial enough to replace whatever Thou-shalt. This is how Nietzsche begins to analyze what he calls “The Way of the Creating One” – addressing those who merely wish to escape the yoke of dominant ideology, he writes as follows: “Free, dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thought would I hear of, and not that thou hast escaped from a yoke.” (p. 59).

What is a ruling thought? What may its substance be? And what is it definitely not? Answering such types of questions is both simple and complex. It is simple because what Nietzsche has to say about them is actually crystal-clear – but it is also complex because the way one answers such questions really depends on the individual answering them. At a general level, one should say that whatever a ruling thought may be, it must above all operate as an authority. And it must be such an authority so as to be able to circumvent the authority of both the state and the many-too-many, and especially their shared anti-individualistic morality. To be able to circumvent a Babelian-type authority that takes the form of collective idol-adoration, that individual ruling thought must also be an original authority, unique in its own self-independence. It need necessarily be an original authority absolutely independent of all that circumscribes the individual, or that intends to circumscribe him. But to be able to be independent of all that circumscribes the individual, his original authority must be such as to enable him to live beyond lust. And most importantly, the individual’s original authority must be such so as to enable him to live beyond ambition – beyond, that is, all this-worldly ambition, this world being that of the market-place and its flies. Nietzsche has already observed that it is materialistic ambition that defines the populace as rabble, and he has made use of expressions such as the ambition-fidgeting to describe both the many-too-many and the famous wise ones in the service of the state. The ruling thought need be beyond whatever such ambition-fidgeting since such incessant fidgeting is a killer of presentness as a mode of life – and it should also be emphasized here that the whole of the Oakeshottian intellectual enterprise would be in absolute agreement with this Nietzschean position on the question of ambition.

With respect to the way of the creating one, and his ruling thought as an original authority, Nietzsche writes as follows: “Art thou a new strength and a new authority? A first motion? A self-rolling wheel? Canst thou also compel stars to revolve around thee? … Alas, there is so much lusting for loftiness! There are so many convulsions of the ambitions! Show me that thou are not a lusting and ambitious one!” (ibid.).

Beyond the lust and the ambition of the flies in the market-place, the authority of the self-conqueror can begin to create. Such creation would be self-creation – the individual would literally begin to create his own self. And he would create his own self in such a way that that self would itself be, above all, a creator. Addressing himself to the self-conqueror, Nietzsche tells him that he shall have to create his own “first movement”; he shall have to create his own self as “a spontaneously rolling wheel” – and he adds: “a creating one shalt thou create” (p. 66).

As a self-conqueror and self-creator, this type of individual would be the sole authority that would determine his own passions, and he would thereby create his own virtues – he would be a master of both, and thus he would be his own master. It is this that constitutes the will to power of the individual – and it is a will to power since that type of individual would have moved beyond animal necessity. Nietzsche writes as follows: “Art thou the victorious one, the self-conqueror, the ruler of thy passions, the master of thy virtues? Thus do I ask thee … Or doth the animal speak in thy wish, and necessity? Or isolation? Or discord in thee?” (ibid.).

The very first motion of the self-determining individual as a first movement would thus be the building of his very own self: “first of all”, Nietzsche advises, “must thou be built thyself, rectangular in body and soul.” (ibid.). And so, in his Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche shall undertake a highly systematic presentation of that first motion of building one’s self, and he shall go on to present a series of further steps conducive to the construction of the individual as a first movement. Below, we intend to analyze each of these so-called steps in some detail – at this point, we may merely name these as follows. Firstly, and as already touched on, there is that struggle to conquer one’s self and one’s own passions (not in the sense of simply denying them – rather, the question here is how to master and forge them in terms of one’s own independent identity). Secondly, there is the need to define one’s own absolutely independent space – this raises the question of a necessary solitariness vis-à-vis the rest of the world. Thirdly, there is that need to deny whatever duty to the world (this being a denial of duty to society or the collectivity, and which is a position fully expressive of Oakeshottian thinking – we need remember that such thinking rejects the idea that individuals ought to see themselves as debtors dependent on society). Fourthly, and having attained a state of solitary independence that stands in denial of whatever moral obligation to others, the individual as first movement can engage in the game of creation as a mode of being. Fifthly, that type of individual can engage in the game of creation by clearly differentiating between his ego and his self (both as self-defined), and by allowing such ego and self to interact in a manner determined by the individual. Finally, and by engaging in a game of creation that allows for this interplay between ego and self, the higher individual would be creating his own sense of virtue.

These are the various dimensions of enacting one’s self as a self-conqueror, and which certainly need to be clarified further. At first sight, one could object that all such so-called steps constitute a very tall order for anyone – and, as such, they ought to be dismissed as typical dreams of a tragic Don Quixote. And yet, and as human history has so often come to verifiably pronounce on the matter, there have been – or there are – those exceptions to the rule of mediocrity. Who, then, is entitled to such a mode of being?

To be able to understand what type of individual is entitled to that superior mode of being, one may begin by identifying those types of people that are not so entitled. The will to personal truth and the will to self-creative power are forces that are simply not equally distributed amongst humans. Nietzsche wishes to examine such unequal distribution of will by surveying the whole spectrum of human behaviour, from the weakest type of person (he who is born to obey) to the strongest type of (he who is born to command). “But wherever I found living things”, writes Nietzsche, “there heard I also the language of obedience. All living things are obeying things … And this heard I secondly: whatever cannot obey itself, is commanded. Such is the nature of living things … This, however, is the third thing which I heard – namely, that commanding is more difficult than obeying.” (p. 112).

Observing the world around him, Nietzsche comes to the conclusion that all living creatures have no choice but to obey someone or something – that is the natural law of life, and there are no exceptions to this rule. But while there are those who fulfill this rule by obeying others, there are also those who can fulfill that same rule by obeying their own selves. Naturally, those that cannot obey their own selves must be commanded by others; as naturally, those that can obey their own selves have no need for the commanding of others. While this privileges the latter by entitling them to a higher mode of being, such mode of being is in fact more demanding than that of simply obeying the commands of others. And it is more demanding – or more difficult, as Nietzsche puts it – since the mode of being that is self-determining requires both capability and will power. And it requires these as it constitutes a first motion beyond mere animal necessity (this being the necessity of material maintenance typical amongst the many-too-many).

And thus it is that all living creatures do obey, as does the western-type mass man living within a Babelian-type state and society – and it is precisely this that Nietzsche has described as the hierarchical chain of commanding traversing the whole of society. This is the natural order of things in the world. And yet, there is that type of individual who chooses to remain – and possesses the ability to remain – well outside that chain of commanding. But that too is in the natural order of things, since he who is outside the social chain of commanding is merely adhering to his own, personal chain of commanding (as we shall see, such personal chain of commanding shall have to revolve around the ego-self interface).

We are saying that it remains within the natural order of things for someone to obey himself, not others. And yet, that particular natural order is not of the same status as in the case of someone obeying others within a hierarchical chain of commanding. For when one commands and obeys one’s self, he at the same time surpasses animal necessity and the impulsive conscience of the herd. In other words, one’s self-rolling moral order of self-obedience and self-command lies beyond the animal needs of what Nietzsche calls a small existence (with its small happinesses and small miseries).

But remaining outside the social chain of commanding is not for all – it may be argued, and it is a historically verifiable manifestation of life itself, that obeying others (servitude itself) can be a virtue for those who cannot obey themselves. Nietzsche asserts this by writing as follows: “Art thou one entitled to escape from a yoke? Many a one hath cast away his final worth when he hath cast away his servitude.” (p. 59).

Naturally, this immediately raises the question of inequality: not all can have ruling thoughts; not all can be self-rolling wheels. Only some are entitled to live a mode of being outside of servitude – the rest are simply not born with (and therefore cannot nurture) either the will or the genius (or both) to self-obedience and self-command. And since they possess neither will nor genius, being free of servitude would most probably lead to anarchic self-destruction and/or anarchic social destruction – and it is for this reason that, for the many-too-many, servitude is their final worth.

In contrast to that final worth of the many-too-many, the exceptional individual possesses, not only his own will to self-power, but also the ability to orient that will towards a freely-chosen direction for himself. But by so orienting his will, he simultaneously orients himself in a particular manner in the world that circumscribes him. This particular orientation of one’s will in the world would be such as to move one’s self beyond mere animal necessity or mere animal needs, these being primarily the needs of material maintenance. Such an orientation would be a matter of personal choice – but, and as we are suggesting, this would be a highly demanding choice that would entitle some individuals to live such a mode of being while at the same time necessarily disqualifying other persons to do the same. It should here be emphasized that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would be in full agreement with respect to the particular orientation of the will as a matter of individual choice – but free choice is in itself not sufficient. Now, based on Corey’s presentation of the Oakeshottian position on this matter, one could at first suppose that each and every human being has the opportunity to make that type of free choice that places one’s person beyond social servitude and its hierarchical chain of commanding and obeying. And yet, Corey does clarify that the choice of self-determination presupposes someone who is capable of making that choice, and who possesses the will to make and stick to that choice. Perhaps most importantly, the choice presupposes that type of individual who would be prepared to both suffer and celebrate whatever be the ensuing consequences of that choice (and do both as would the Oakeshottian-type megalopsychos). Such preconditions are of course highly reminiscent of the Nietzschean understanding of the exceptional individual. This is how Corey presents Oakeshott’s position: “… there are alternative ways of orienting oneself in the world, and … every human being must make a choice between these orientations. However, this choice (viz. that of living or not living beyond servitude and/or the morality of the collectivity) demands someone who is capable of making it. It requires a self-determined, rational individual who can suffer or celebrate the consequences of his actions.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 34).

We now need dwell a bit further on this question of orienting one’s will, and the implications of this with respect to one’s existential self-determination. One may begin by saying that, for Oakeshott at least, the will is something to be exercised – what is it that exercises, and thereby nurtures, the will? In his 1933 text entitled Experience and its Modes, Oakeshott shall tell us that practice is the exercise of the will (and cf. also StJohnsPipeCasts, op. cit.). And on this, Corey writes as follows: “… we are blessed with the freedom to orient our wills as we see fit. The adventure of human life thus consists precisely in this exercise of will …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 24).

The idea that life is an adventure precisely because it involves this exercising of the will is clearly evident in the Nietzschean enterprise, with its well-known emphasis on the will to power as a virtue. It has also played a major role in the thinking of those select few who would continue to enrich the Nietzschean understanding of life in an exceptionally competent – and decidedly unbiased – manner. Heidegger’s concept of care, for instance, has certainly helped us to further understand the question of individual will and its practical nurturing. We know that the Heideggerian concept of care, consistently used in the neutral sense, is directly related to the question of individual will. For Heidegger, will is founded on care, it being always a modification of such care – and the being of being per se is revealed only in relation to will, which wishes for itself to be free and decisive. Whatever the on-going controversies over a definitive interpretation of the Heideggerian philosophical enterprise, one could in any case entertain the position that Heidegger’s concept of resoluteness (or willful resolve) may ultimately privilege becoming over being (as in the case of Nietzschean thinking) – and the process of becoming is necessarily tied up with the question of individual will. The question of both becoming and individual will, however, cannot possibly be disentangled from the Oakeshottian focus on practice as the exercising of the will, and its practical orientation.

The exercising of the will is the individual’s orientation of his will towards existential self-determination. But, by definition, self-determination is beyond whatever obedience to the other, beyond whatever knee-bending, and beyond whatever form of ideological idol-adoration. Nietzsche writes of this as follows: “O my soul, I have taken from thee all obeying and knee-bending and homage-paying …” (p. 215). And thus, the existentially self-determined individual is able to utter – as does Nietzsche’s Zarathustra – words expressive of a personal experience that is itself utterly beyond those who are in social servitude. This new Zarathustrian language, absolutely foreign to the many-too-many, goes as follows: “But I live in mine own light; I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.” (p. 103).

What does it really mean to live in one’s own light? Nicholas Davey has attempted to summarize, as accurately as that be possible, the defining characteristics of the existentially self-determined Overman. He writes as follows: “In Thus Spake Zarathustra the notion of Übermensch refers to … a life-form free from anxiety and guilt, and reliant upon the values it has created for itself.” (cf. Nicholas Davey, “An Introduction”, Thus Spake Zarathustra, ibid., p. xi). We also need to acknowledge here that the term existential self-determination belongs to Davey (ibid.).

6d. The loneliest wilderness

To be capable of orienting one’s will in the direction of existential self-determination, one needs to exercise one’s will, as Oakeshott has pointed out – and it is this exercising of the will that also constitutes the very adventure of life. But the exercising of the will would require that one goes into isolation (it being a matter of going unto thyself), as Nietzsche has put it. But as has already been suggested, undertaking such a life-adventure presupposes that he who does it has to be in possession of both authority and strength – it is therefore only that type of individual who is in possession of both that is entitled to do so. Both authority and strength are required since that adventurous mode of being would mean an entry into a certain affliction (a Nietzschean term). As we have already seen, and according to Oakeshottian thinking as well, one’s will to power (or self-determination) presupposes that one is prepared to both suffer and celebrate – viz. to also celebrate the suffering itself, or to celebrate the Nietzschean understanding of affliction.

And thus, when Nietzsche discusses the way of the creating one, he speaks of the necessary isolation of the creative individual vis-à-vis the many-too-many (it being the modern herd). He writes as follows: “But thou wouldst go the way of thine affliction, which is the way unto thyself? Then show me thine authority and thy strength.” (p. 59).

There is a key question that arises here, and which is a question that concerns both Nietzsche and Oakeshott – this question may be put as follows: can one still effectively isolate oneself while living right within the all-consuming and ubiquitous network of the modern Babelian-type state? Nietzsche shall argue that, if the individual does in fact have the appropriate authority and strength, then he can withdraw from the realm of state idolatry and its maze of Thou-shalts – there are, yet still, sites for the lone ones. He writes: “Open still remaineth the earth for great souls. Empty are still many sites for lone ones and twain ones, around which floateth the odour of tranquil seas.” (p. 47). This ability to withdraw from state idolatry – as also the idolatry of politics itself – is as central to the Oakeshottian intellectual project as a whole as it is to the Nietzschean: both would wish to uphold the supremacy of individual privacy, and both would investigate the conditions (or the sites) for upholding this supremacy.

Going into isolation, or going back to one’s own individualistic self, means consciously selecting one’s own personal site well outside of all state idolatry, and well outside of whatever mass ideology, and the protection that both are supposed to offer. In doing so, the individual overcomes the animal needs of material maintenance – he does so in the sense that such needs do not predominate as a raison d’être in his mode of being. We know all too well that almost all of the policies of the modern western state, as also almost all of the demands, ideologies, and ideological mobilizations of the masses, spring from one basic source: that of satisfying material needs. The necessarily lonesome but tranquil seas of the self-determined individual (tranquil because therein one celebrates affliction itself) would constitute a site over and above such material realities of the market-place. The practical implication here is crystal clear: living a mode of being in isolation from the many-too-many, and doing so in terms of a self-affirmation within one’s sovereign site, would mean that one does not engage in the struggles of the populace for material maintenance, or for the betterment of such maintenance. And this would therefore mean that the self-determined individual chooses to possess little – and he would choose to possess little since the less he possesses, the less would he be possessed by others (or by the state). Nietzsche asserts that living such a life is yet still possible, even within the realities of the modern western state. And it is yet still possible if only because the will – for those who have it and can orientate it according to their independent disposition – is well above and well beyond the contingent circumstances that surround it. This is what he writes: “Open still remaineth a free life for great souls. Verily, he who possesseth little is so much the less possessed: blessed be moderate poverty!” (ibid.).

There is no doubt that one of the major themes running right across the whole of Thus Spake Zarathustra is precisely this admonition to run away from the market-place of the modern western world, and to do so by entering the loneliest wilderness of one’s own self. Naturally so, Nietzsche explains, the mass herd would eschew such an admonition – but even the exceptional individual could himself harbour his own reservations as to the efficacy of such an admonition, and he could do so since he would himself have been tempted by the so-called solidarity and the little comforts offered by the collectivity of the herd. Regarding the attitude of the many-too-many towards self-isolation, but also that of the exceptional individual, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra has this to say: “… ‘He who seeketh may easily get lost himself. All isolation is wrong’: so say the herd. And long didst thou belong to the herd.” (p. 59).

Having lived amongst the collectivity of the herd, the exceptional individual has had to suffer both the noise and the stings of the market-place. He has been continually bombarded, in other words, with two different – albeit tightly interrelated – forms of ideology. On the one hand, he would have been bombarded with the sophisticated intellectual discourse of the great men – such noise would invariably argue for the virtues of collective solidarity and the social engagement of all, and would stigmatize anyone who abstains from the collectivity as an idiot (as belonging to the idiotes). On the other hand, the exceptional individual would have been bombarded with the popular morality of the anti-individual as expressed by the little ones (those constituting the many-too-many) – such stings would wish to poison whatever smacks of egoism, apparent arrogance, and self-love. But, Nietzsche argues, it is precisely such noise and such stings that the exceptional individual shall need to overcome – and he could only overcome these through self-isolation. Zarathustra advises, simply, as follows: “Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise of the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones.” (p. 48).

The grand intellectual noise of much of western social philosophy, together with the permeating sting of the moral beliefs of the many-too-many, have come to constitute the dense fluid of mass ideology – as already indicated, such mass ideology expresses an absolute need for a for and an against with respect to whatever in life, down to the smallest little detail. This is the absolute Yea and the absolute Nay of the masses and their organic intellectuals – this is the terrain of the market-place, or the site of the masses (usually referred to as the public space in present-day terminology). Fully aware of how such noise can deafen and how such sting can poison, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra asks of the exceptional individual to flee from these into the security of his own private wilderness – this would be the terrain or the site of the sovereign self, it being a free zone in the world. Therein, one would be free of whatever external assailment, for it is only in the market-place that such assailment occurs. Zarathustra continues his advice as follows: “On account of those abrupt ones [or those absolute ones], return into thy security; only in the market-place is one assailed by Yea or Nay.” (p. 49).

This return to one’s private wilderness, however, would be an absolute abomination for the collectivity – it would fly in the face of their absolute sense of moral justice. It would unsettle their absolute faith in a moral justice that wishes to defend the equality of all – such justice would automatically declare its absolute Nay to whoever decides to be more equal than others by devising his own sense of justice, and who does this in a site that is not of the collectivity. It so happens that the absolute Yea and the absolute Nay of the collectivity constitutes an absolute measure of virtue that leaves no room for – and would not ever tolerate – whatever alternative understanding of virtue. And when such alternative virtue dares question and disown the very site of the masses, that doubting virtue would have to be extirpated by the noise of the great men and by the stings of the masses. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra advises as follows: “And be on thy guard against the good and just! They would fain crucify those who devise their own virtue – they hate the lonesome ones.” (p. 60). And in his discussion of what he calls old and new tables, Nietzsche goes on to repeat the selfsame observation – he writes: “The good must crucify him who deviseth his own virtue! That is the truth!” (p. 206). And it should be noted here that rarely would Nietzschean thinking speak generally of the truth, and yet Nietzsche does so in discussing the sense of justice amongst the virtuous many-too-many.

The flight of the exceptional individual into his loneliest wilderness is a flight that simply has no time for the small, the pitiable, and the vengeful. Zarathustra reminds the exceptional individual of how the many-too-many truly feel about his exceptionality – this is what he says: “Flee into thou solitude! Thou hast lived too close to the small and the pitiable. Flee from their invisible vengeance! Towards thee they have nothing but vengeance.” (p. 49).

Why is it that the many-too-many wish to avenge the exceptional individual? Why is it that they hate him so? Is there any other reason for such hatred apart from the fact that the exceptional individual has been able to devise his own table of virtues? One may observe that they would also hate him because, unlike them, he manages to remain free of the ideological fetters to which they have come to so religiously subscribe (this being their politics of faith). Unlike the many-too-many, the exceptional individual is free of all idol-adoration. He adores neither state nor collectivity – he is not a knee-bender. And since it is only he who is entitled to be free of all knee-bending, the rest can only but despise him. Nietzsche puts this as follows: “But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf by the dogs – is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods.” (p. 100).

This dweller in the woods constitutes the Nietzschean metaphor for self-isolation, or Zarathustra’s own loneliest wilderness – its antithesis, of course, is the market-place. But this is not really a question of geographical location (though it could, practically speaking, be that as well). What we have here, rather, is a dweller in the woods in the sense of the individual dwelling within his own, private site, this essentially being what we may call a dispositional site. Nietzsche shall here suggest that, to maintain such dispositional site as a free zone, the exceptional individual need remain the least known amongst the populace. This is a logical move, despite its apparently dramatic implications. To salvage one’s disposition as a free-rolling wheel revolving around its own table of self-devised virtues, the exceptional individual cannot risk – or simply has no time for – public exchanges with the subjects of the market-place, be they great ones or little ones. And thus, in remaining one who is least known, the exceptional individual cannot belong to a society’s famous wise ones; and he cannot belong to that society’s so-called great men. Not being known, he cannot possibly be famous – and not being famous, he could not ever be recognized as great. He does not in any case produce the noise of either the famous or the great. And thus he preserves his exceptional originality and unfettered independence. We need to carefully examine how Nietzsche presents us with this apparently dramatic line of reasoning.

Firstly, Nietzsche notes, there have been individuals who have denied life itself if only because of the many-too-many, or of what he calls the rabble. Such individuals simply did not wish to share with the rabble whatever they have found to be of value in life – and they did not wish to indulge in such sharing because the rabble adulterates whatever is of value. This type of exceptional individual does not simply wish to remain the least known amongst the masses so that he can salvage the delights of life – in a sense, he chooses to destroy both himself and the rabble so that the delights of life remain unadulterated. But the basic point here is that the individual who is aware of the delights of life refuses to share his experience of such delights with the many-too-many: what he wishes to forgo is whatever exchanges (let alone public exchanges) with the subjects of the market-place (be these great or small). Nietzsche writes of such cases of individuals as follows: “And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only turned away from the rabble; he hated to share with them fountain, flame and fruit.” (p. 94).

The Nietzschean position, of course, would not espouse self-destruction – what is definitely embraced is the need to maintain one’s dispositional distance from the market-place. And by maintaining this dispositional distance away from the rabble, the exceptional individual discovers his own independent site as a free zone, or as a free mode of life receptive to the delights of the earth. Zarathustra can therefore declare: “Oh, I have found it, my brethren! Here on the loftiest height bubbleth up for me the well of delight! And there is a life at whose waters none of the rabble drink with me!” (p. 95).

There, on the loftiest height, there is a life of gratification – and which therefore does not require whatever proclivity towards self-destruction. But this is a form of life of which the many-too-many cannot partake. And the many-too-many cannot do so since such lofty heights presuppose that the exceptional individual has retained his status as the least known amongst those that populate the market-place.

Nietzsche is crystal clear on the question of fame – in his discussion of the flies in the market-place, his forewarning as addressed to the exceptional individual goes as follows: “Away from the market-place and from fame taketh place all that is great; away from the market-place and from fame have ever dwelt the devisers of new values.” (p. 49).

And as to the importance of being, not merely unknown, but actually being the least known, he writes the following: “The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the strongest, the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.” (p. 311).

Specifically as regards the question of fame, Oakeshottian thinking would support a similar position. Oakeshott would argue that, for the individual to be able to preserve his morality of individuality and therefore his own sovereign independence, he ought not to be of this world – all individuals have, however, no choice but to be in it (as in the case of Nietzsche, Oakeshottian thinking is clearly devoid of whatever self-destructive disposition). In terms of Oakeshottian thinking, it follows that since the individual should not be of this world and its market-place, he cannot be famous – and he therefore cannot be recognized by society as one of its famous wise ones.

For Oakeshott, as for Nietzsche, the problem of worldliness and its overcoming (i.e. saving the individual from worldliness, as Corey, op. cit., p. 32, puts it), is directly related to the question of one’s reputation in the world. How does Oakeshott relate the problem of worldliness and its fettered mode of being to that of reputation? His reasoning may be summarized as follows. Firstly, Oakeshott argues, the only things in life that are of lasting value are our own selves and the cultivation of our sensibilities as selves. Secondly, therefore, it is only through our insight that we can appreciate the things of life, and it is only through such self-insight that we can come to possess those things of life. But thirdly, the cultivation of our sensibilities and/or of our individual insight is obstructed by none other than our reputation in the world.

In what manner does a person’s reputation in the world function as an obstacle to selfhood and its insight regarding the things of the world? Oakeshott argues that the achievement of a certain reputation in the world would function as an external force that could hide an individual’s de facto lack of whatever insight. Lack of insight is loss of insight – and loss of insight emaciates the will to joy for life itself. Corey summarizes this Oakeshottian position as follows: “For Oakeshott, the only things of permanent value are our selves and the sensibilities we choose to cultivate over the course of our lives. Once we see that “the richest possessions are valueless apart from our possession of them by insight”, the way of the world loses its charm. “The worth of a life is measured, then, by its sensibility, not by its external achievement of the reputation behind which it may have been able to hide its lack of actual insight” …” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 33). We may naturally add here that, the less an individual achieves a certain reputation in the world, the less would he be prone to hiding his lack of insight from himself – this, of course, brings us back to Nietzsche’s virtue of being the least known.

For Nietzsche especially, this need for the least known higher man is directly related to – and it is in direct response to – what he regards as the decadence of the modern western world (we have seen that the Oakeshottian assessment of the modern western world would itself come down to a critique of the Babelian-type state and its decadent politics of faith). It is in the context of the decadence of modern society that Nietzsche needs to speak of that dweller in the woods – this being the self-isolated individual who chooses to abscond from the noise of the great organic intellectuals of the western world, as also from the stings of modern mass man. And it can only be through such absconding that the exceptional individual can live a life of free aesthetic creativity over and above the decadence of the market-place. For Nietzsche, therefore, such dweller in the woods can only but be both untimely and least known – and it is precisely this that constitutes Nietzsche’s disruptive wisdom, as Alan Rosenberg (op. cit.) has suggested. Nietzsche thereby disrupts the thinking of both western intellectuals and the conventional wisdom of the many-too-many – and to do just that he needs “models and exemplars”, and which necessarily need to be untimely and unknown. With reference to the Nietzschean untimely individual who is a free spirit, Rosenberg observes as follows: “Nietzsche believed that the contemporary world was short on actual existing heroic “models and exemplars”. Thus the figures [viz. the various Nietzschean metaphorical figures, such as Zarathustra] also offer Nietzsche “brave companions and imaginary free spirits” – in the absence of any actual existing ones – that help keep him (and his readers) “in good spirits while surrounded by ills”, e.g., the decadence of modern society …” (cf. Rosenberg, ibid., p. 7).

It surely does make full sense that Nietzsche would have responded to what he saw as the decadence of the modern world by presenting us with untimely “models and exemplars”. On the other hand, such an approach does raise a number of questions – one such question touches on the Nietzschean (but also Oakeshottian) position regarding the issue of fame, reputation and/or being the least known as a self-determining individual of free aesthetic creativity. To put it simply, one would be tempted to counter-argue that all “models and exemplars” (pertaining, for instance, to some free spirit living in his loneliest wilderness) are just too idealistic in conception – they cannot be considered actual possibilities in the real world.

Whatever “models and exemplars”, it may be argued, cannot be realistic possibilities if only because they usually contain unavoidable incongruities with respect to the complexities of the human condition. The model of the least known individual, for instance, can be said to be incongruous with respect to the realities of the human experience in a number of ways. For one, the status (and which is in fact a lack of status) of remaining unknown can function as a mere consolation for those who so remain – and thus in their supposedly splendid isolation they would be prone to harbouring illusions of grandeur. For such cases of individuals, their obscurity – or being the least known – cannot be a virtue. But secondly, and as regards individuals who happen to have attained a certain reputation in their society – and who may have done so given a certain natural talent – the virtue of being the least known would remain practically inaccessible to them.

But, then, the relevant question that arises here is this: under what circumstances, if any at all, is remaining the least known individual a genuine virtue? Alternatively, one may put the selfsame question as follows: for what type of individual is remaining the least known a real virtue? What, in fact, would constitute the appropriate counter-response to those who would reject the model of the least known individual for its purported idealism? Such counter-response could actually be quite simple. One would say that remaining the least known is a virtue for the individual who simply wishes to be left alone – and he would wish to be left alone because he happens to know what he wants to do with his life, and do this without the recognition of others. Being absolutely aware of the unique opportunity that has been offered him to live on this planet (and to do so for a very short span of time), his only desire is to live life in its unique exceptionality – and to live such exceptional life to the utmost. But since such wish to be left alone presupposes a personal knowledge of what is to be done with one’s life, it is a wish that cannot apply to the mediocrity typical of the many-too-many – applying the model of the least known to mediocrity would certainly be unrealistic, and here the model would itself be idealistic. It follows that the model of the least known can only apply to that rare, exceptional individual that knows how to live life in and for itself. For him, moreover, whatever consolation or whatever illusions of grandeur would simply be redundant – and were he to have already acquired a certain fame in society, such fame would also be quite redundant.

Yet still, and while only applying to the exceptional individual, all “models and exemplars” pertaining to the virtue of being the least known do require a certain – and absolutely important – qualification. We shall be arguing below that the exceptional individual who has selected to be least known could nonetheless engage in a certain interaction – or a certain intellectual commerce – with the society (or elements of that society) in which he lives, and he would be able to do so without violating his independence as a self-rolling wheel in its own abiding loneliest wilderness. Such capacity, we shall attempt to show, is based on a very particular understanding of the manner in which any exceptional human being functions – or has historically functioned – in the world. We shall be arguing that the mode of being of the exceptional individual is organized – or, rather, possesses the capacity to be organized – around a bipartite structure. What is such bipartite structure? It may be said that the psyche of the exceptional individual is composed of two interlocking components, that of the self and that of the ego. While the self maintains its absolute independence vis-à-vis the world, the ego is such as to actually be capable of engaging in the world (while at the same time avoiding whatever form of compromising entanglement).

Now, one may understandably object that this bipartite understanding of the exceptional individual is merely yet another theoretical model that requires verification – and we know that whatever models attempting to explain the so-called human psyche are beset with the problem of oversimplification. But such an objection would in this case be quite unfair – and it would be unfair since we are not at all proposing a certain model of the brain, so to speak. The differentiation between self and ego is a simple, down-to-earth and all too concrete a differentiation, and which is obvious to empirical observation: it is undeniable that all humans – whatever their degree of exceptionality – are in possession of a private self and of a public self (and which we choose to name ego, but for reasons to be explored below). The exceptionality of the individual – and of his morality of individuality – is defined by the extent to which such individual is capable of maintaining a strict distinction between his self and his ego (in the case of the many-too-many, such distinction is blurred to the point of disappearance). Put slightly otherwise, one may say that the exceptionality of the individual is defined by the very specific relation that he wills to determine between his self and his ego (in the case of the many-too-many, that relation is determined by external forces such as the state and its ideological apparatuses).

Now, having said all that, we need to stand back and make an important admission: this differentiation between self and ego is not at all ours – it is a differentiation presented to us by none other than Nietzsche himself in his Thus Spake Zarathustra. But we shall here have to rest our case on this matter until such time as we come to consider how Nietzschean thinking approaches what we may call the ego-self interface. For the moment, we shall need to further investigate what Nietzsche (but also Oakeshott) mean by a mode of life that is beyond fame or reputation. What is it that constitutes the content of the Nietzschean loneliest wilderness, and which is the site of the self (as opposed to the ego)?

Generally speaking, one may say that, for Nietzsche, one’s loneliest wilderness is one’s veritable home – and it is therein that the individual can struggle for his own perfection. And it is of importance to note here that, as Oakeshott has argued, the question of perfection can only apply to the concrete individual, not to society – for Oakeshott, of course, the application of perfection to society invariably leads to the politics of faith, it being a loss of the individual human experience.

In his Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche writes of The Return Home – and there we see that when Zarathustra finally does return back to his own cave, his first reaction is as follows: “O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness!” (p. 178). By going back to his own home, Zarathustra has returned to the lonesome site (or free zone) of his own self – and it is only there that he may speak of perfection, or of a perfect world. And thus, in his drunken song, Zarathustra asserts both his independence and his personal experience of perfection – this is what he says: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not! Hath not my world just now become perfect?” (p. 311). As in the case of Oakeshottian thinking, therefore, Nietzsche presents us with that type of individual who wishes to be left alone since it is only in the terrain of personal independence (my world) that one can taste the experience of perfection – by wishing to be left alone, both the Nietzschean and the Oakeshottian exceptional individual chooses to reject whatever idea of social perfection. And social perfection needs to be rejected because it presupposes both ideological idol-adoration and the ubiquity of the Babelian-type state.

Despite their clearly disparate sociocultural backgrounds, their dissimilar philosophical starting points, and their unquestionably different temperaments, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott do speak the exact same language when it comes to the idea of the individual as an alien sojourner in the world.

For Nietzsche, the individual – and especially the exceptional individual – can only but be an alien sojourner in the world given the sheer ubiquity of the many-too-many in this world. The flies of the market-place – be these great men or little men – seem to be everywhere, and they even seem to be getting closer and closer to the very site of the individual’s own home, the site of his own self. They swarm the peripheries of that free zone to such an extent that the free individual has no choice but to continually reset and redefine his own boundaries – and in so doing, the individual is a natural alien sojourner. Zarathustra, as the par excellence model of such a sojourner, speaks of this continual attempt – on the part of the many-too-many – at invading his own kingdom, or this “crowding in his mountains”. This is what he says: “It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my kingdom is no longer of this world; I require new mountains.” (p. 263).

Those that swarm the peripheries of the individual’s free zone have little to share with the free individual – they are simply of a different disposition. This further explains why the exceptional individual must be an alien sojourner. And this difference in disposition applies both to the vast majority that hate the free individual, as also to those few within the many-too-many that wish to somehow approach him. And thus Zarathustra shall speak of, and reject, the coarseness of all those that wish to besiege him and the site of his self. With respect to the vulgarity of the worldly type, he speaks thus: “O world, thou wantest me? Am I worldly for thee? Am I spiritual for thee? Am I divine for thee? But day and world, ye are too coarse …” (p. 311).

In response to the attempted swarming of the exceptional individual’s free zone by the coarseness of the worldly many-too-many, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra selects not to be of this world right at the same time as he is in it. Such willful selection is a disposition that surely corresponds absolutely with the Oakeshottian concept of the individual as a stranger in the world (or, and has already been discussed above, with Oakeshott’s understanding of the resident stranger). Nietzsche shall clearly speak of the exceptional individual as a stranger in the world throughout his Thus Spake Zarathustra, but perhaps this is most accurately expressed in the following excerpt – he writes: “And therefore do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not, that my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness … I know not you men …” (p. 141).

To stay free of the ever-swarming coarseness that attempts to besiege him, this alien sojourner or resident stranger protects the site of his self by continually creating boundaries around him – doing that, however, is also a dimension of his own creativity. And thus his boundaries are in themselves holy. Zarathustra speaks of this as follows: “I form circles around me and holy boundaries; ever fewer ascend with me ever higher mountains; I build a mountain-range out of ever holier mountains …” (p. 202).

The convergence of thinking between Nietzsche and Oakeshott, the precise manner in which their thinking interlocks when it comes to the role of the individual in the modern world, requires further research. But the convergence is certainly there: both would argue that the free individual cannot be reduced to that of a mere cog engaged in some common, mechanically-driven enterprise with the rest of whatever collectivity. We have seen how Nietzsche would reject the ideology of what he calls neighbourliness – likewise, we have also seen how Oakeshott would reject the notion that individual members of any collectivity can be reduced to the role of comrades engaged in some common, social undertaking. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, the free and healthy individual is a wanderer or pilgrim in the world travelling on his own, lonesome path (he is a pilgrim journeying back to his own self, being in love with that self). But this could only apply to the self-determined individual, not to the regimented type – and we here borrow the term regimented from the well-known Robert Frost poem asserting that I have none of the tenderer-than-thou / Collectivistic regimenting love / With which the modern world is being swept (cf. Robert Frost, Selected Poems, Penguin Books, 1973, p. 22).

The central notion that individuals are all residents in the world but nonetheless remain strangers within it (not of the world) seems to underlie the thinking of both Nietzsche and Oakeshott – and this, we say, requires further research. And such research would need to span a much wider field in the history of western thought: one may in fact identify an unconscious chain of similar thinking stretching back to Augustine’s civitas peregrina; and from Augustine one may move on to Nietzsche’s loneliest wilderness as embodied in his Zarathustra; and finally dwell on Oakeshott’s own contribution to the understanding of human conduct vis-à-vis the morality of individuality in a world beholden to the Babelian-type state. It may even be argued that the Oakeshottian enterprise is such as to ultimately reunite two absolutely antagonistic modes of thinking (that of Augustine’s and that of Nietzsche’s) around one central existential question – viz. that of the alien sojourner thrown in the world of the market-place, and how such sojourner may live over and above such market-place.

Corey summarizes the overall Oakeshottian enterprise by writing as follows: “The challenge, for Oakeshott as for Augustine, was to live fully in the world without becoming worldly” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 10). But to live fully in the world would demand that one stays away from the everydayness of that world, and such everydayness is what constitutes the Nietzschean understanding of the market-place. How does Oakeshott himself deal with the question of everydayness? Corey tells us that Oakeshott would remain fascinated by the idea of a mode of life that frees – or “removes” – individuals from the “everydayness of ordinary life.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 6).

It is this capacity for removal from the ordinary life of commonness and regularity (and which is a regularity primarily focused on mere material maintenance as represented by the politics of faith) that is expressive of the individual’s self – and which must therefore be a self that remains supremely indifferent to the little dramas of all ordinary life. To the extent that such self does maintain its supreme indifference, the possessor of that self is a stranger to the world of ordinary life and its everydayness. On the other hand, however, this removal from the ordinary life cannot possibly exclude a certain interaction with the world – this interaction would be expressive of the individual’s ego. To the extent that the ego’s interaction with the world can be both practical and (even) intellectual, the possessor of that ego would be a resident of the world of ordinary life and its everydayness. Yet still, such interaction could only but take place from a certain selective distance vis-à-vis the world of everydayness, and it would be selective to the extent that the ego is accountable to the self (Nietzsche shall have much to say on this, as we shall see below).

It is obvious that both the self and the ego are located in the world. But the self is not worldly – and the ego need be accountable to the self. And since the self is not worldly and since the ego is accountable to the self, it is the self that rules the free individual. And thus, the individual as a united, coherent identity is – in the last, determining instance – removed from the everydayness of the market-place and its ideological idol-adoration. And being so removed, the individual is an alien sojourner living his loneliest wilderness. What is implied here is that a resident ego and an alien self presupposes that site of the loneliest wilderness from which the individual can launch his own enactment as a self-rolling wheel.

Nietzsche shall attempt to encapsulate this idea of the potentially free, self-rolling individual by speaking of the spirit of the lion, and how such lion shall have to first of all secure its own free zone for self-enactment. The initially “load-bearing spirit”, Nietzsche writes, “hasteneth … into its wilderness”. What is it that occurs therein? He continues as follows: “But in the loneliest wilderness happeneth the second metamorphosis: here the spirit becometh a lion; freedom will it capture, and lordship in its own wilderness.” (p. 21). Therein, the individual creates an absolutely free zone for his own self, and it is a zone outside of all human relations. Most importantly, the individual is here in full control of that zone – it constitutes the laboratory wherein he shall create and re-create his own mode of being.

Whatever attempted lordship within one’s own wilderness can be an extremely hazardous enterprise. Being hazardous, not everyone can – or should – even entertain the idea itself. Not everyone is entitled to do so – as has already been suggested, not everyone possesses the authority and the strength to undertake such an experimentation on his own person. And as we have also seen, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would argue that the individual who does attempt to forge a lordship within one’s wilderness – and which also means forging that wilderness himself (i.e. building one’s own cave) – should be prepared to both suffer and celebrate the practical consequences of such an exclusive mode of being. The exclusive entitlement is an obvious sine qua non at this level of experimentation – and it is obvious since solitude and isolation can lead to nihilism and self-destruction. The Nietzschean injunction on this is very cautious – his Zarathustra puts it as follows: “But one day will the solitude weary thee; one day will thy pride yield, and thy courage quail. Thou wilt one day cry: ‘I am alone!’ … One day wilt thou see no longer thy loftiness, and see too closely thy lowliness; thy sublimity itself will frighten thee as a phantom. Thou wilt one day cry: ‘All is false!’ …” (p. 60).

The exceptional individual who chooses the lonesome way of the creating one certainly does run the risk of ultimate self-destruction – but, then, the many-too-many have already submitted to the preachers of death, who are the killers of their own presentness. Unlike the many-too-many, the way of the loneliest wilderness is a mode of being that is indebted to no one but its own self-enacting self, and it thereby submits to no one but its own will.

6e. Denial of duty

We have stated above that there are a number of motions (or steps) identified by Nietzsche that are conducive to the construction of the individual: all such phases would constitute what he calls a first movement. We have seen that the exceptional individual’s very first motion is to conquer his own self and his own passions (and that this conquering of the passions would not be a matter of their denial but rather of their creative redirection). We have further argued that, once this first motion has been accomplished, the individual would need to undertake a definition – and thereby a veritable creation – of his own absolutely independent space, it being his solitary wilderness. This would enable him to move yet one step further – viz. to deny whatever duty (either practical or moral, or both) to the world.

Of course, we have already referred to the Oakeshottian position on the question of social obligation or collective duty – Oakeshott, we have seen, would not acknowledge whatever indebtedness to society or the collectivity on the part of the independent individual. And since the individual is not a debtor dependent on society, he is not duty-bound to whatever collectivity (apart from abiding by the rule of law as a matter of convenience, given that such rule of law is a neutral structure or umpire protective of individual freedom).

We have also referred to Montesquieu’s position on the question of social obligation or collective duty. We have seen that, for Montesquieu, personal virtue is a mode of conduct which the person owes only to himself as an honourable and/or proud individual – he does not owe it to society or the collectivity.

Generally speaking, then, one may summarize this stance on obligation and duty as follows: one may argue that since the individual is only indebted to himself, he is not bound by any duty to society, and especially as regards that society’s dominant, state-sponsored ideology of morality. Now, it is precisely this type of viewpoint that constitutes Nietzsche’s third motion conducive to the construction of the individual as a first movement. Speaking of the spirit of the lion, Nietzsche writes as follows: “To create itself freedom, and give a holy Nay even unto duty: for that, my brethren, there is need for the lion.” (p. 22).

When Nietzsche suggests that the individual-as-lion (and which is itself reminiscent of the Hobbesian ox-lion dichotomy) need “create itself freedom”, he is telling us that the exceptional individual has to create that exclusive individualist space necessary for his own individualist freedom. But in doing so, he would be asserting his own Nay with respect to all duty – at least in the sense of all duty reflective of dominant social values, and the morality that underpins these values. It should also be observed that here Nietzsche seems to be implying that there is a certain fuzziness as regards the apparently discrete definitions of each of the various motions or steps consummating the individual as a first movement – he seems to be conjoining the creation of one’s free zone with one’s denial of all duty (on the other hand, and by way of just one example, he can also speak of the three metamorphoses as three clearly discrete stages).

6f. The individual as creator of his own values

The fourth motion or step conducive to the progressive consummation of the individual as a first movement or as a self-rolling wheel – and which is a step that presupposes the three steps referred to above – may be described as the game of creation, and which itself constitutes a particular mode of being. This game of creation is the game of the individual as creator of his own values. But this should not in any case be assumed to constitute the final stage in the motions of self-enactment, if there could ever be such a stage.

Throughout our presentation, we have all too often spoken of creation, values, and the self-creation of such values (as undertaken by the exceptional individual, though as has also been undertaken by free, exceptional peoples in the course of western history). We shall here endeavour to further investigate what Nietzsche actually said when he was presenting this game of creation in his Thus Spake Zarathustra. Intellectuals have devoted their lives to interpreting Nietzsche – our objective is here much simpler: let us merely sit back and listen to his own words (and which would allow us to compare his thoughts on the self-creation of values to those of someone such as Oakeshott). Sitting back and listening, however, would not mean a passive reception of Nietzschean thinking – we shall of course need to comment on what is said.

The conquering of one’s passions, the creation of one’s absolutely independent space of solitary wilderness, and the concomitant denial of whatever duty to the world – all such accomplishments are necessary to the process of enacting one’s individuality as a first movement. Nietzsche shall tell us that all these existential exercises are such that the individual-as-lion can actually accomplish for himself. But there are things that the lion cannot do. And, in any case, all these exercises would be pointless unless they were such as to enable the individual to do just one thing – viz. to engage in his own value-creation. To be able to engage in his own value-creation, he has to move from the state of the lion to that of a child.

On this, Nietzsche writes as follows: “To create new values – that even the lion cannot yet accomplish: but to create itself freedom for new creating – that can the might of the lion do.” (ibid.). What else is needed for value-creation? He continues as follows: “But tell me, my brethren, what the child can do, which even the lion could not do? Why hath the preying lion still to become a child?” (ibid.) Why does the game of value-creating demand the state of being a child? Nietzsche explains: “Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea.” (ibid.).

The game of creating one’s own world of values presupposes that the individual has reverted to innocence and forgetfulness – but innocent and forgetful of what precisely? The individual need be innocent and forgetful of – and therefore free of – the standards of certainty which western rationalist thinking has devised and attempted to implant into the minds of the many-too-many. Unless the individual can forget such rationalist implants, he shall never be able to engage in the creation of his own world of values – it being that holy Yea to life per se. All this, it should be noted, brings us back to Oakeshott’s own critique of western rationalism.

When the individual creates his own independent zone and denies whatever obligations outside that zone, he renders himself free from the small existences and their idol-adoration. But in doing so, he is immediately faced with an existential vacuum – and therein the standards of certainty articulated by the modern Babelian-type state and its rationalist formulae inevitably stare him in the face, and do so imperiously. And thus what truly concerns Nietzsche is not the question of being free from whatever but rather the question of being free for something in particular. And that particular would have to be a creation and re-creation of something at least as self-convincing as that of the certainties of rationalism – in fact, whatever it is that is created would have to be a disposition superior to whatever formulaic certainties. As regards this question of being free from vis-à-vis being free for, Nietzsche writes as follows: “Free from what? What doth that matter to Zarathustra? Clearly, however, shall thine eye show unto me: free for what?” (p. 59).

It is only when the individual has a clear and ready answer to that for what question that he may be said to have entered the fourth motion conducive to the consummation of his own person as a first movement. At this stage, the individual’s attained innocence and forgetfulness of rationalist formulae would not only mean that he is free of the rationalist syndrome – it would also mean that he is now ready to respond affirmatively to his own existentialist question as an independent individual. He is now free for whatever form of creation beyond rationalism – or in any case beyond whatever elements of rationalism he chooses to discard in terms of his own needs.

It is at this stage, in other words, that the individual has purged himself of all external obligations so that he may assert his right to a new internal obligation – viz. the right to new values. “To assume the right to new values”, writes Nietzsche, “is the most formidable assumption for a … reverent spirit.” (p. 22).

New values means new valuing, and new valuing means creating – it is in valuing per se and in creating per se that the independent individual discovers and re-creates his own self. At the same time, he also discovers the value of things that surround him. But by now he has also come to fully understand that when he himself does not value things, things do not have any value at all. Nietzsche writes as follows: “Valuing is creating; hear it, ye creating ones! Valuation itself is the treasure and jewel of the valued things.” (p. 56). And he continues: “Through valuation only is there value; and without valuation the nut of existence would be hollow. Hear it, ye creating ones!” (ibid.).

The fourth motion conducive to the progressive consummation of the individual as a self-rolling wheel answers that free for what question by establishing within the world of the individual one central mechanism – viz. the mechanism of being one’s own judge (and therefore also one’s own jury) with respect to whatever it is that is being valuated. Such mechanism is an absolute necessity since what the independent individual is now in the process of doing amounts to the creation of his own sovereign law. And he shall have to judge his valuing practices in terms of nothing other than that particular law.

One may put this slightly otherwise – one may say that valuing things means defining and creating the good and the bad of things. And by so defining and by so creating, the independent individual establishes a private law for his own self and over his own self. There is no single or collective other that can judge him on his thoughts and actions – he is his own singular judge, and he judges in terms of what he has defined and created as good or bad. It is this that constitutes the freedom of the independent individual – he is precisely free for this and this only. Nietzsche writes: “Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and thy good, and set up thy will as a law over thee? Canst thou be judge for thyself, and avenger of thy law?” (p. 59).

We have seen that the process whereby the individual establishes his lordship within his own wilderness can be an extremely hazardous process – and it can be hazardous because the individual would have to suffer the multifarious consequences of that process. But now, it would also have to be admitted that establishing one’s own law and acting as one’s own judge could be twice as dangerous. And it could be twice as dangerous since the individual who chooses to live by his own law could find himself falling victim to that law – or he could find himself being punished by that very judicial mechanism that he has set up for his own self. Writing of those living things that choose to live by their own law and thus command their own selves, Nietzsche observes: “Yea, even when it [the living thing] commandeth itself, then also must it atone for its commanding. Of its own law must it become the judge and avenger and victim.” (p. 112).

That is the real price of freedom – the price of being free for the creation of one’s own law. And yet, this is the individual’s singular motion whereby he can accomplish an authentically independent and exclusively original creativity for his own self. Such high degree of independence and originality is encapsulated in Nietzsche’s understanding of the higher man – and to him he speaks as follows: “If ye would go up high, then use your own legs! Do not get yourselves carried aloft; do not seat yourselves on other people’s backs and heads!” (p. 280). Nietzsche speaks here of a radical independence – he speaks of the individual’s creation of values as a process that steers absolutely clear of the modern waves of intellectual fashion, faith and fantasy (to remember Roger Penrose). Even more than that, Nietzsche asks of the higher man not to build his own evaluation of the world on other people’s backs and heads – the exceptional individual should, in other words, ignore what we may call the bibliography of rationalist learning. The independent value-creator stands over and above all academic peer group norms, above academic chairs in general, and above the learned famous wise ones – he also stands over and above the so-called conventional wisdom of the many-too-many (the throngs of grey little waves, as Nietzsche has put it).

That which is to be created must be unique – it has to be one’s own, exceptional creation, and one can only be pregnant with such creation if one is independent of all the rationalist ideology of the famous wise ones and their collective politics of faith. This is how Nietzsche asserts what he sees as the absolute importance of creating one’s own world of the good and the bad of things – he writes: “Ye creating ones, ye higher men! One is only pregnant with one’s own child.” (ibid.).

The process of independent self-creation – that of giving birth to one’s own child – can only take place outside the realm of the state, outside the academic or intellectual spheres of the famous wise ones, and well outside the whims of the many-too-many. Nietzsche makes it absolutely clear that the independent individual does not create for his neighbour; he does not create because of his neighbour; he does not create in response to his neighbour. In the last instance, the independent individual acts, thinks and creates for his own moral world, and in response to it and nothing else. And thus, he does not allow his own self to be imposed on by the other; and he does not allow his own moral world to be put upon (or exploited) by the other. Nietzsche addresses himself to the creating ones as follows: “Do not let yourselves be imposed upon or put upon! Who then is your neighbour? Even if ye act ‘for your neighbour’ – ye still do not create for him! … Unlearn, I pray you, this ‘for’, ye creating ones; your very virtue wisheth you to have naught to do with ‘for’ and ‘on account of’ and ‘because’. Against these false little words shall ye stop your ears.” (ibid.).

We have spoken here of the individual as a creator of his own values, and we have ascribed to him a number of qualities following the thinking of major pioneers such as Nietzsche, or Hobbes, or Montesquieu, or Oakeshott himself. We have said that this type of person must be an exceptional individual who takes risks, does not require the protection of the state, is independent of all comradeship and/or neighbourliness, and who is capable of answering that crucial free for what question. But, then, who can possibly belong to such a category of people? This is a concrete question – and yet it remains extremely difficult to answer. Oakeshott, who would himself place great emphasis on the virtue of creating one’s own moral world, would go on to advise us that whatever attempt at answering this type of question would have to reject at least three types of approaches. We should reject, firstly, any approach based on some universal human nature – such nature simply does not exist. Secondly, we should reject whatever approach based on the censorious opinion of outsiders with respect to someone (or some others) striving for independent self-creation and self-valuing. And thirdly, he would advise us to reject whatever approach based on the analyses (and presumed predictability) of the so-called social – or political – sciences.

This Oakeshottian caution obviously requires further explanation. By rejecting a universal human nature, Oakeshott would also be rejecting the notion of human equality – and he would therefore also be rejecting the idea that all humans are necessarily equal to the task of creating their own moral world. Not all are equal, and especially given the impulse of modern mass man to be a follower of the politics of faith. And further, by rejecting the assessment of whatever outsiders with respect to the capacities of individuals, he would also be rejecting whatever so-called scientific predictability as to who is exceptional as a self-creator and who is not – and this would imply that the will and the capability of any particular individual remains outside the intellectual and moral reach of society and its well-trained organic intellectuals (and who nowadays belong to a variety of academic disciplines, such as that of social psychology).

In his rejection of whatever social (or external) estimation regarding the capacity of the independent individual, Oakeshott would rather focus on the subjective ability and the subjective will of certain particular individuals to be morally creative for and within their own selves – this form of enactment, however, could only belong to the private domain of their lives, and which would be a domain beyond the judgmental mores of society. Self-valuing and self-creativity, therefore, cannot apply to the all too public many-too-many – it cannot apply to the collectivity and its collective dreams for a social utopia or a social perfectionism.

Corey more or less summarizes this Oakeshottian position as follows: “Understanding human beings was no easy task for Oakeshott, because he was not one to ascribe a universal “human nature” to the diverse lot of persons he observed around him. For what he found most remarkable about people was their ability to be morally creative and to envision alternatives for their lives that could never be predicted by an outsider – indeed, not even by a well-trained political scientist.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 6).

Was Oakeshott – perhaps in contrast to Nietzsche – overly optimistic as regards the ability of people to be morally creative? We know that Oakeshott’s thinking would often suggest a deep pessimism as regards the modern mass man of his own time – it seems that whatever optimism he did retain, he reserved it for the unpredictable individual that he could observe around him (unpredictable, that is, in terms of the social theories and expectations of the famous wise ones).

One could say that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would remain highly pessimistic as regards the modern masses of the western world and their capacity to be creators of their own values. Their respective pessimism is fairly easily explainable. When, for instance, the many-too-many come to lose their sense of collectivity – and this could happen when their idol-adoration enters a period of protracted crisis (as has happened once in a while in western history) – they react by succumbing to a miserable sense of isolation which yields a warped or perverted form of individualism, it being an individualism of animal maintenance and the small passions. And thus they in fact come to operate like the herd, but do so in a relative isolation – and so they live their mundane lives as would hurt animals. They cannot – and do not even wish to – cultivate their own world of self-creation, self-valuing, and self-morality. They are terrified of acting as their own judges of their own independent world. They sulk in their miserable little passions, and thus they are always on the lookout for particular social issues that could galvanize them as a collective mob. And they have been taught to look to political parties for their mobilization as a mob. Of course, when the emotional thrill of the particular social issue fades, they revert to their existential misery and warped individualist nihilism. This state of affairs, however, cannot be said to apply to all members of a western society – it is possible that at least significant minorities of such societies insist on abiding by a morality of habit of behaviour that they have inherited from their historical past – and such morality enables them to preserve their identity as a proud historical people, thereby more or less protecting them from the misery of the little passions and the banality of mere animal maintenance. And yet, here too, such sections of a populace can be overwhelmed by new mass ideologies expressive of their particular conservative disposition – and thereby, yet once more, one sees the rise of a new idol-adoration, as also the manipulation of such idol-adoration by new political formations. In the last instance, therefore, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would come to see the process of self-creation and self-valuing as a process belonging exclusively to none other than the entitled, exceptional individual living his own world outside that of the market-place. Who it is that would come to belong to such a category of persons remains unpredictable – but it is precisely that unpredictable individual that is also a necessary individual, as Nietzsche would put it.

6g. The game of creating

Before we proceed any further, we shall need to yet still linger over the significance of what Nietzsche has called the game of creating – it would also be of some interest to compare this classically Nietzschean concept to one of its more distant relatives, that of Hannah Arendt’s natality.

We have referred to the fourth motion – conducive to that consummation of the individual as a first movement – as the game of creating, it being the creation of the individual’s own values. For Nietzsche, we have seen, it is only the child that can indulge in such a game – for original creation is, in the last instance, a child’s game. And it can only be a child’s game since that game has to be predicated on innocence and forgetfulness – it is a game that says its own Yes to life in its own innocence and forgetfulness.

Being innocent and forgetful, therefore, such game is a Yes beyond all rationalist-based morality and its socially-imposed formulae. For one, the fact that it is a game predicated on innocence would mean that the game of creation asserts its Yes to life in a manner that is beyond all sense of guilt – it is an absolutely guilt-free game. And thus, the moral formulae of rationalist ideology are of no moral concern to the individual who indulges in such game of creation. And secondly, the fact that it is a game predicated on forgetfulness would mean that the game of creation asserts its Yes to life in a manner that is wholly indifferent to the affairs of the world. And thus, the moral formulae of rationalist ideology – and especially as regards the practical impact of such formulae on the everyday lives of the populace – are of no interest to the individual indulging in such game of creation.

For Nietzsche, this guilt-free game indifferent to rationalist morality constitutes the nut of existence, and it is a nut that wins its own world, outside of society. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra puts this as follows: “Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren, there is needed a holy Yea unto life: its own will willeth now the spirit; his own world winneth the world’s outcast.” (p. 22).

The fourth motion towards winning one’s own world is that motion whereby one gives birth to one’s own child – and by giving birth to one’s own child, one moves towards constituting one’s self as a first movement. This first movement constitutes the individual as a new beginning. But both the notion of giving birth to one’s own child and the notion of the individual as a new beginning do in some ways resonate with Arendt’s concept of natality. Writing specifically in response to regimes that are said to aim at erasing whatever form of pluralism in society, Arendt has argued – albeit with a rather naïve optimism that remains unverifiable – that each individual is inherently capable of beginning something new. Rooted in the fact of being born – it being the condition of natality – human beings are endowed with the capacity to begin the world anew. Beginning the world anew, one would be engaged in the capacity to create a first beginning. Now, this capacity to begin anew may be said to be a distant relative of Nietzsche’s own understanding of the will (or the will to enacting the game of creativity). We know that when Nietzsche spoke of the will as exercised by the higher man, such will was not ever meant in the sense of some blind force asserting itself in the world – rather, it would be seen as a conscious choice of the self-determined individual. Likewise, Arendt would herself see the capacity to initiate something new as the expression of a person’s free will.

One may therefore close this brief discussion on the question of creativity as a child’s game by simply observing that, much like Nietzsche’s own concept of the will (as also, by the way, Heidegger’s concept of care as discussed above), Arendt’s understanding of natality (or the broader concept of nativity) was meant to point to the human capacity to begin things anew, it being reminiscent of giving birth to one’s own child. But very much unlike Arendt’s belief that all human beings are capable of such an initiative (for all are naturally born in the world), Nietzsche would focus exclusively on the select few capable of moving towards winning their own world, and who would do so as free and independent self-rolling wheels. For him, it is only the exceptional individual that is capable of creating his own art of living – it being an art of valuation and self-made culture. Whether or not such art of living and especially such culture do rub off on others in society is an absolutely separate matter, and which calls for an altogether different type of discussion.

6h. The ego, the body, and the self

The game of creation – as the already discussed fourth motion of the self-determined individual – both presupposes and further allows for a fifth motion in that individual’s struggle towards winning his own world. What is it that defines this fifth motion? Above, we have already made mention of what we have called the ego-self interface, or that psyche of the exceptional individual organized around a bipartite structure of the ego and the self. Keeping such interface in mind, it may be suggested that the fifth motion would be the individual’s engagement in the game of creation by consistently and clearly differentiating between his ego and his self. And this would be a consistent and willed differentiation between, on the one hand, his ego as a mode of being that publicly engages with the world and, on the other, his self as a strictly private mode of being that preserves its absolute independence with respect to that same world.

We have also suggested that this differentiation between the ego and the self is not ours – it has in fact been elaborated in Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra. Therein, Nietzsche shall define the difference between ego and self, and he shall explore the manner in which these two existential forces come to interact within the psyche of the exceptional individual. His examination of the ego and the self shall also – and inevitably so – lead him to bring in the role of the human body in the interplay of these two existential forces.

To the casual (and perhaps often prejudiced) reader, Nietzsche’s presentation of the relationship between the ego, the body, and the self may appear to be rather slippery, at times even somewhat internally contradictory. Our purpose here is to show that the Nietzschean understanding of the human psyche is in fact quite coherent. Before examining precisely what it is that he has to say, we shall first attempt a tentative and rough summary of his basic thinking on the matter – we shall in due course see the extent to which such a preliminary interpretation of Nietzsche’s position does justice to Nietzsche himself. The basic – apparently axiomatic – points may be put as follows:

• On the surface of things – and which is a public surface – the ego is the measure of all things.
• That ego, however, speaks of the body.
• But the body itself is a plurality.
• As a plurality, it is the body that does ego – since it is the body that does ego, the body is greater than the ego. But, then, in what sense is the ego the measure of all things?
• The ego measures all things as it is enacted by the body.
• Now, the body itself has an instrument – its instrument is the spirit (obviously not in any religious sense).
• But such spirit is an instrument of the self.
• It is therefore the self that rules – it is the ruler of the ego.
• For the exceptional individual, the self-cum-body concurrence reigns supreme.
• And therefore, while the ego functions as an expression of public (or social) surface, the self is the productive core of the individual – it is the individual’s uniqueness in his self-rolling wilderness.

We may now go on to further explore (but also test) these axiomatic points in terms of what Nietzsche himself has to say.

One may begin by noting that, for the exceptional individual, the ego is a force that willfully counterposes itself to the state and its mass ideology. The ego speaks of its own being – it does not listen to, and it does not need to respond to, the discourse of the state and how such state wishes to interpret the question of a person’s being-in-the-world. The ego of the exceptional individual speaks of its own game of creating – not that of the state’s; it speaks of its own willing – not of the purposeful ideologies and petty policies of the state; it speaks of its own valuing of things – not of the good and the bad as defined by the state and its famous wise ones. For the exceptional individual, it is his ego that is the measure and the value of all things – it is not the state that is that measure, and it is not the state’s organic intellectuals that determine whatever measure and valuation of things. It is the ego that measures and values – it is not the state and society that does the measuring for it.

While at this point not directly concerned with the state and its innate intention to function as the moral evaluator of all things, Nietzsche wishes to emphasize that, in the case of the independent ego, it is it and none else that does the creating, willing, and valuing for itself. His Zarathustra therefore speaks as follows: “Yea, this ego, with its contradiction and perplexity, speaketh most uprightly of its being – this creating, willing, evaluing ego, which is the measure and value of things.” (p. 28).

There can be contradiction and perplexity within the ego as it speaks of its being in itself and especially by itself – and there can be a certain contradiction and perplexity because the ego is a public or social surface, and all such surface is always contradictory and perplexing for whatever or whoever. As a potentially surface force in the world, the ego nonetheless insists on speaking of its own being. But by so speaking it can find itself unconsciously (or maybe even willfully) engaging with both the state and society. This engagement need not at all be a formally public debate – it may simply take the form of some degree of interaction with a concrete other (or concrete others) in the market-place of the world. The contradiction and perplexity that would ensue would be quite natural were the ego to merely operate by itself in the world – but for the exceptional individual, at least, the ego would never operate in such manner. And thus Nietzsche would go on to tell us that the ego does not merely speak of its being in general (or in abstracto), and it never does so by itself – the ego, in fact, speaks of the body (or rather, its body), and it does so in relation with other dimensions of the individual’s psyche.

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra continues as follows: “And this most upright existence, the ego – it speaketh of the body, and still implieth the body, even when it museth and raveth and fluttereth with broken wings.” (ibid.). The ego, Nietzsche explains, learns to speak – and it learns to speak by operating within the world as a public or social surface, wherein everyone speaks a public language. And by learning to so speak, it most authentically speaks of the body, and thus naturally also of the earth. But speaking of the body and of the earth in its capacity as a public or social surface, it need bestow on these none other than public titles and public honours. The ego therefore speaks of its body (and of the earth that gave birth to it) in public by naming and honouring the body in the public sphere. That is the most upright thing that the ego can yet do within a world of contradiction and perplexity. Nietzsche continues: “Always more uprightly learneth it to speak, the ego; and the more it learneth, the more doth it find titles and honours for the body and the earth.” (ibid.).

In so doing, the ego teaches the individual of a new pride – Nietzsche writes: “A new pride taught me mine ego, and that teach I unto men: no longer to thrust one’s head into the sand of celestial things, but to carry it freely, a terrestrial head, which giveth meaning to the earth!” (ibid.). The ego, we are told, can teach of a new pride – and it is such pride that enables the individual to give a meaning to the earth, and to thereby bestow earthly life itself with meaning in its most authentically terrestrial dimension. On the other hand, the ego can so teach only to the extent that it recognizes the body as (what Nietzsche calls) the big sagacity – or otherwise as the great reason.

Presenting the body as the big sagacity or the great reason, Nietzsche shall go on to describe such body as a plurality, but it is a plurality which is at the same time of one sense. Making use of typically metaphorical language, Zarathustra explains this as follows: “The body is a big sagacity, a plurality with one sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a shepherd.” (p. 30).

With respect to Nietzsche’s understanding of the role of the body in the life of an individual, Leo Strauss writes as follows: “Your body is not a mere body – three-dimensional, organic, studied by anatomy, physiology, etc. – but it is also a self. The body is more than the anatomist and physiologist can say about it.” (cf. Richard L. Velkley (Editor), Leo Strauss on Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, University of Chicago Press, 2017, pp. 38-39). The body is not a mere body, Strauss explains, since it operates as the great reason. And it is the great reason because it consists of a ruling element. While it is a plurality – it being both herd and shepherd – the body can rule the herd within itself via its own shepherd.

What the individual calls spirit, Nietzsche shall argue, is itself an instrument of the body. His Zarathustra speaks as follows: “An instrument of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my brother, which thou callest ‘spirit’ – a little instrument and plaything of thy big sagacity.” (p. 30).

What, then, is the exact relationship between the ego and the body? The ego, we have said, does not operate in itself and by itself, and it does not speak of being in abstraction. The ego operates with and speaks of the body. In the last instance, it is the body itself that does ego – and it is in terms of this understanding that the ego (as that which is being done or being enacted by the body) is the body itself. And therefore one may say that the individual’s body is the higher sagacity, reason, or wisdom – higher, that is, in relation to the ego. Nietzsche writes: “… ‘Ego,’ sayest thou, and art proud of that word. But the greater thing – in which thou art unwilling to believe – is thy body with its big sagacity; it saith not ‘ego’, but doeth it.” (ibid.).

But now, both sense and spirit are in fact instruments of the self. More specifically, both the bodily eyes of the senses (which seek and feel) and the bodily ears of the spirit (which listen and discern) are instruments of none other than the individual’s own self. Nietzsche continues: “What the sense feeleth, what the spirit discerneth, hath never its end in itself. But sense and spirit would fain persuade thee that they are the end of all things, so vain are they … Instruments and playthings are sense and spirit; behind them there is still the Self. The Self seeketh with the eyes of the senses, it hearkeneth also with the ears of the spirit.” (ibid.).

Having spoken of ego, body, and self, one may now ask the following question: what is the relation between the ego and the self? Put simply, one may say that the self is the ultimate ruler – and thus it is the exceptional individual’s self that rules the ego. Nietzsche writes as follows: “Ever hearkeneth the Self, and seeketh; it compareth, mastereth, conquereth, and destroyeth. It ruleth, and is also the ego’s ruler.” (ibid.).

For Nietzsche, then, it is none other than the self per se that is the individual’s mighty lord – and it is the mighty lord so long as the individual recognizes its function and discrete power vis-à-vis the surface space of the ego. More than that, the self is the mighty lord so long as the individual comes to recognize precisely what this self is to be equated to – Nietzsche explains: “Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my brother, there is a mighty lord, an unknown sage – it is called Self; it dwelleth in thy body, it is thy body.” (ibid.).

And thus one may now draw the conclusion that, for the exceptional individual who is capable of differentiating between his surface ego and that mighty lord which is his own self, it is the self-cum-body concurrence that comes to rule supreme in his own mode of being. Such mode of being, however, does not simply presuppose an intellectual recognition of the difference between ego and self – it also presupposes the individual’s willful choice to empower the self to exercise its own right as mighty lord. That is its will to power.

We may here refer to Leo Strauss’s own interpretation of Thus Spake Zarathustra to further clarify – as also perhaps verify – this understanding of the ego-surface interface as presented above. Strauss writes as follows: “… the ego is not sovereign; it belongs to a being which is in a body … At any rate, the ego includes a thought-content or mind. In other words, the ego is a surface phenomenon. It is controlled by what Nietzsche calls the self; hence the origin of all meaning is not the ego … but the self … Nietzsche makes here the extreme statement that the self is the body.” (cf. Richard L. Velkley, op. cit., p. 38). “Why”, asks Strauss, “is not the ego the self?” He explains the difference between ego and self as follows: “… the ego as Nietzsche understands it lives in the world of names, of universals, of roles, of what is common to a man with all men.” (ibid.). The ego, in other words – and very much unlike the self – is a public phenomenon. The implication of this is of absolute importance to Nietzsche and his understanding of the self-determining creative individual – it tells us that the ego, unlike the self, cannot ever assert its own uniqueness to itself.

The ego cannot assert the uniqueness of individuality since it operates in the world. It operates within the terrain of what Nietzsche understood as the market-place and its flies – viz. in the world of (public) names, of (public) roles, of what is (publicly) common to all citizens and the many-too-many. The ego of the individual in the world – an ego in itself and by itself – cannot assert an authentic uniqueness and originality since it operates in the world of conventions (and the variety of laws that either express such conventions or go on to supplement them in alignment with the formulae of so-called progress). The ego, in itself and by itself, has no choice but to recognize such conventions – it may quietly abstain from these when they shout and scream the ideologies of idol-adoration; or it may respect at least certain elements of a popular morality of habit of behaviour.

Whether in its quiet abstinence or in its humble respect of the world around it, the ego has in any case no choice but to learn its own art of adjustment. To the extent that the ego is a person’s social surface, it is also his acceptance of and adjustment to convention and law.

Since the ego belongs to the realm of social convention, it is not an entity reciprocal to and expressive of nature itself. On the other hand, since the self-as-body is independent of all social convention, it is that entity which is reciprocal to and expressive of nature itself within the individual’s psyche. And it is that naturalness within the individual that constitutes his source of creativity – it constitutes that fountainhead of creativity whereby the individual creates the values of his own individual exceptionality. The self, in other words, contains the individual’s core of productive creativity. And so while the ego quietly observes and adjusts to social convention, the self asserts its own private independence from all social convention so as to make way for its own productive core of creativity.

It is Strauss that most lucidly presents us with this radical distinction as regards the particular functionality of the ego vis-à-vis that of the self. He writes as follows: “The ego belongs to convention in the widest sense of the term, and is therefore distinguished from something like nature. If Nietzsche had still been free to use these traditional distinctions, he would have stated this proportion: ego to self like convention to nature …” (ibid.). And, most importantly, Strauss continues as follows: “The self is the productive core of man and inseparable from the body. There is no human spirituality which is not specific or, rather, individual – i.e. Goethe’s spirituality differs from Shakespeare’s spirituality – and no spirituality is possible without a corresponding specific sensuality. For example, the way Shakespeare and Goethe perceived smells corresponds to their difference in the purely intellectual. This productive core in man is inseparable from his core, and Nietzsche goes beyond that and says it is his body.” (ibid.).

To put it otherwise: the individual’s self is an exceptional self since it is part and parcel of an exceptional body with its own exceptional bodily sensuality – this constitutes the individual’s exceptional source of so-called intellectuality as a valuing and creating being. This is the individual’s unique and uniquely independent productive core, and the fountainhead of his self-creativity. In contrast to the self as creative core, the individual’s ego – if left to its own resources and in its inevitable engagement with the world – can only but simply adjust to the conventions that encircle it. And thus the self-determining individual has no choice but to radically redefine the relationship between his own ego and his own self.

As already intimated above, such redefinition would come down to an understanding of what it is that the ego in the world can – and what it is that it cannot – achieve. Strauss explains that Nietzsche’s understanding of the ego was such as to demarcate its functional limitations for the individual as a free-rolling wheel. He writes as follows: “The ego is not the seat of the uniqueness of individuals and therefore of what can be his best, of his “productive uniqueness” …” (ibid.).

The self operates differently from the ego – enabled or empowered to rule over the surface needs of the ego, the self is activated as the productive core of individuality. In its supreme activation, the self produces its own unique content informing its own morality of individuality. What is it that allows the self to create such unique content? Why, in other words, may one speak of a productive uniqueness? As Strauss explains, the individual body is possessive of a sensuality that is unique unto itself – Goethe would not ever experience smell in the manner that Shakespeare would. Of course, this corresponds to the Nietzschean assertion that one only experiences one’s own self. And since individual experience is unique unto itself, the productive core of the self can yield a productive individuality and creativity that Oakeshott shall himself describe as a supreme form of idle play (to be discussed in due course).

Both for Nietzsche and for Oakeshott, the self – in its free and idle play – is the source of aesthetic creativity. And for both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, of course, aesthetic creativity as a mode of being is the very purpose of being. Since the self is nature, and since nature is the body, and since the body is the carrier and activator of sensuality, it is that sensuality that is the source of aesthetics for the self – it is through this sensuality that the individual can engage in the idle play of creation. Such creation is the creation of aesthetic values and therefore of meaning in the world.

This understanding of the relationship between sensuality, creativity, aesthetics, and the self is such as to place the individual and his own morality of individuality in command, and to place it strictly over and above the conventions and laws of the worldly market-place. The self of the exceptional individual is here recognized as the purposive value-creator and the creator of aesthetic values. Here, the self is one’s unique individualism – and it is therefore the private individual that is recognized in all his existential supremacy. As a private and unique self, the self of the individual is the originator of all meaning.

We have thus far suggested that the distinction between ego and self has been a distinctly Nietzschean contribution – Oakeshott himself, however, has as much to say about the workings of the self in particular, and it is to this Oakeshottian dimension of the debate that we now need to turn. At a general level, Noël K. O’Sullivan (op. cit.) tells us that one of the primary intentions of the Oakeshottian intellectual exercise was to investigate the relation of the self to the world. More specifically, Oakeshott wished to investigate the role of the self in the history of the western world, and to investigate such self in its capacity as the original existential core of the individual. He wished to investigate, in other words, the role of the individual, the morality of individualism, and therefore the role of the self itself, in what he would understand as “the historicity of human experience” (p. 210). We know that it would be these investigations – and which would also involve much empirical research around the history of the western world – that would allow Oakeshott to identify the historical role of civil associations vis-à-vis enterprise associations.

What, then, is the self for Oakeshott? He shall argue that the self is above all an activity. But much more than that, the self is a primordial activity – being of the primordial type, the self may be correlated to nature itself (an idea which more or less echoes the Nietzschean position). And yet, although the self manifests itself as a primordial activity, it does so in varying degrees of intensity depending on the particular individual (and/or depending on an individual’s particular circumstances). The implication is that although the self is a primordial activity, this activity is not equally distributed amongst all individuals. Of course, such an understanding of the self may be said to tie up neatly with Nietzsche’s understanding of the higher man. Oakeshott introduces us to his own so-called theory of the self by writing as follows: “The self appears as an activity. It is not a ‘thing’ or a ‘substance’ capable of being active; it is activity. And this activity is primordial; there is nothing antecedent to it. It may display varying degrees of strength or weakness …” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 204).

Before we proceed any further with Oakeshott’s understanding of the self, we need briefly dwell here on his suggestion that there is nothing antecedent to the self. While making such an explicit observation, he can elsewhere in his writings also state that “the self-made man is never literally self-made, but depends upon a certain kind of society …” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 12). But, when all is said and done, these two positions are in fact quite compatible: one may say that Oakeshott thereby recognizes the distinction between, on the one hand, a person’s primordial self which is bar all antecedents and, on the other, a person’s overall identity in the world as one expressive of a certain (or relative) social dependence – it is precisely this latter dimension of individuality which we have identified, following Nietzsche, as the ego.

Now, we further notice that the Oakeshottian understanding of the self-as-activity clearly wishes to differentiate between “varying degrees of strength or weakness” pertaining to that type of activity. And we have suggested that this understanding of the self does echo the Nietzschean position on the higher man – how fair is such a suggestion? What, in fact, does Oakeshott really mean when he speaks of self-as-activity? And in what sense would such an activity display different degrees of intensity amongst different individuals? Is Oakeshott here referring to different degrees of creative activity? And what form does such creative activity take?

Oakeshott’s response to such questions brings him very close to the Nietzschean position on creativity, self-creation, and the game of creation as discussed above. For Oakeshott, the key term that may explain the creative activity of the self is that of imagining. Above, we have already referred to the Oakeshottian understanding of the realm of poetry as a mode of life; we have also referred to his understanding of poetry as an individual act of creativity; and we have referred to creativity as the act of imagining. Such imagining, we noted, was the act of making images for one’s self and/or creating a universe of poetic images for one’s self. It is this form of superior activity that constitutes the productive core of the individual’s self (as opposed to his ego), it being the productive core of the self for its own self.

In a nutshell, one could therefore present Oakeshott’s position on the self and its creative imagining as follows: the self is activity; as activity it is the act of creating; as creating it is the making of images; the making of images is the creating of a universe to which the imagining self and its images belong. This is the idle play of the self – this is its productive core, and it is this core that renders the individual a self-rolling, independent will of self-creativity. It is this very core, indeed, that is the source of truth for the individual (an issue to be examined further below in discussing the question of truth itself).

With respect to the self and the concept of imagining, Oakeshott writes as follows: “I call this activity ‘imagining’: the self making and recognizing images …” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 204). What does such activity yield for the individual? Oakeshott tells us that this activity of imagining creates a “universe of discourse to which our imagining … belongs …” (ibid., p. 205).

The self as the creator of images is a willing self – and one may argue that such self desires what it wills and wills what it desires. The self as the creator of images is therefore a desiring self. Oakeshott shall argue that every image created by the self is a reflection of that desiring self. And by creating such images, the desiring self is engaged in constructing its very own world – this world is independent of the world of the market-place and of the truths of the market-place. Being independent of the moral truths and the rationalist formulae of the market-place, the independently desiring self constructs and engages in its own sense of pleasure. Oakeshott writes: “In practical activity, then, every image is the reflection of a desiring self engaged in constructing its world and in continuing to reconstruct it in such manner as to afford it pleasure.” (ibid., p. 207).

This desiring self-as-activity, we note, can display different degrees of intensity from person to person. Such varying degrees of intensity point to different degrees of strengths and weaknesses pertaining to the ability to engage in poetic activity – to engage, that is, in the making of images for one’s own self. This Oakeshottian acknowledgement that there are different degrees of strengths and weaknesses amongst people corresponds to the Nietzschean insistence that the world is inhabited by both higher and lower men – we are not all equal when it comes to self-creativity, or to the enactment of one’s self-as-activity. Oakeshott shall clearly go on to observe that not everyone has the will or the capacity to speak in the idiom of poetry. And not everyone can speak in the idiom of poetry since, while the self is by definition unique in its own creativity, it just so happens that not all people can come to possess such uniqueness. Perhaps more accurately, one should say that although everyone is in natural possession of a self, the relative intensity or strength of such self-as-activity can be such as to render it atrophic in the eyes of its ego – atrophic, that is, vis-à-vis the machinations of that surface ego to survive in the public surfaces of the world (here, it is the ego that would rule the self, not vice versa).

Oakeshott has often attempted to explain why not everyone in society was (or is) meant to engage in the creative image-making of his self – he writes, for instance, as follows: “By ‘poetry’ I mean the activity of making images of a certain kind and moving about them in a manner appropriate to their character. Painting, sculpting, acting, dancing, singing, literary and musical composition are different kinds of poetic activity. Of course, not everyone who lays paint upon canvas, who chisels stone, or moves his limbs rhythmically, or opens his mouth in song, or puts pen to paper in verse or prose, speaks in the idiom of poetry …” (ibid., pp. 216-217).

It is not everyone who speaks in the idiom of poetry. Many may try to do so, and these may even live in the twisted, self-established illusion that they actually speak in such idiom. Many do try to speak so, but very few can achieve that idiom of poetry for their own selves – achieve, that is, an idiom that is original in itself. But even outside the question of originality, few possess the right to create their own poetic images, and as few are ever prepared to pay the cost for doing so – as Ludwig Wittgenstein would explain to his friend, Norman Malcolm (cf. Norman Malcolm, Ludwig Wittgenstein – A Memoir, Oxford University Press, 1984, p. 37; and p. 47). Wittgenstein, by the way, would himself write and speak in a style that remains a monument to both acute precision and stylistic originality – but he could also whistle musical melodies in a manner that few could match; but, further, he could also sculpt, play the clarinet, design airplane propellers, design houses, compose musical pieces, and so on. The point we are here making is simple but quite undemocratic: not everyone may do what the exceptional individual can do – we are not born equal. Here, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would agree, both being mercilessly honest with respect to human will and human capacity.

Now, the creation of images for one’s own self is a creation beyond all the so-called good and evil as designated by the state and its many-too-many. Oakeshott explains that “the image in contemplation … does not attract to itself either moral approval or disapproval.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 218). This would mean that the self, as a creator of images, would enter into a state of independent contemplation – such contemplation would speak the language of the self, not that of the world. But by speaking its own private language, the contemplative self would be indulging in image-making that would be beyond the good and evil of the world – it would be beyond the moral approval of the world. This is surely highly reminiscent of the Zarathustrian project – it would also be a highly dangerous project, and thus definitely not meant for the many-too-many (not for everyone, as Oakeshott would put it.).

We may round off this discussion of the ego, the body, the self – and how such a discussion is necessarily related to the question of individual creativity and an individual’s productive core – by making a number of comments about art itself and its relation to morality. It has been suggested that the self’s image-making is beyond the moral approval of the other. Such image-making, however, does constitute moral conduct as such for the individual engaging in it. And that very moral conduct is art per se (the only possible definition of art is that designated by the self of the individual in its own enactment). But it should be kept in mind that that moral conduct – as an expression of aesthetic practice – is always art, not ever nature. Why is this so? As discussed above, the self – in its naturalness and in its sensuality – is the source of creativity, and therefore the source of art, not art itself. The implications of this are of absolutely critical importance as regards the individual’s relationship to himself and society – Oakeshott puts this as succinctly as possible when he tells us that “moral conduct is art, not nature.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 248).

From a slightly different perspective – but which does come down to making the exact same point – one could say that this Nietzschean/Oakeshottian understanding of both art and moral conduct point to the health and proper functioning of an individual’s stomach (which must be, for both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, a desiring primordial organ). Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows on the human stomach: “For verily, my brethren, the spirit is a stomach!” (p. 200). What he says makes full sense, being reflective of what has been asserted above – viz. that the self is nature; that nature is the individual’s body; that that body is the carrier of sensuality; and that therefore the body is the source of aesthetics and art, and is therefore the source of whatever sense of spirit. And thus one may say that body is spirit, and in that sense the spirit is the stomach (this being somewhat reminiscent of Feuerbach’s observation on eating). But what of that particular stomach of those who are weary-o’-the-world, of the many-too-many? As regards that particular stomach, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “For a ruined stomach, is their spirit; it persuadeth to death!” (ibid.). This ruined stomach of the many-too-many is their ruined productive core – it is their ruined passions. This may be said to be the nihilism of modern mass man – it being his acquired and conceded incapacity to create values and morality by himself and for himself. A ruined stomach is a ruined body. A ruined body is a ruined self, or it is a ruination of the self-body supremacy in the individual. And it is therefore the reduction of the individual to a surface ego enmeshed in a web of idol-adoration together with an endless multitude of surface egos in the world of the modern market-place.

It is this conceded mass incapacity to create and self-create that opens the door to the intervention of the state, or to the intervention of the state as an enterprise association (to come back to Oakeshott). The state, one might here say, thrives on ruined bodies or ruined stomachs. It thrives on the nihilism of modern mass man. And thus it is that the vast majority of people in the western world are a willed people (or at least they seem to be so – this must remain an empirical question, and it is a question subject to the particular locality and conjunctural time span under investigation). But one may very generally observe that they are a willed people in the sense that their everyday conduct more or less reflects the will of the state and its famous wise ones. They are a willed people in that both their ego and their self (both their public and their private lives) are subject to an imposition of values and aesthetic paradigms as articulated by the state qua enterprise association. Therein, all individuality and purposive value-creating and/or image-making by the self can be challenged by extraneous ideological forces, or they can be crushed by such forces. Under such circumstances, the person can get lost in the world – he can get lost, in other words, in a world where productivity is no longer the Oakeshottian idle play (as expressive of one’s productive core). Human productivity is here reduced to the production and consumption of commodities as the primary mode of life.

The majority are thus willed – but some insist on willing. These latter are obedient, not to the will of the state, but to that of the ruling self. Such ruling self, however, is only exceptional when it knows for itself what it is that it desires to will.

6i. Of the passions, and virtue

We have thus far traced all the motions, steps, or mutually interacting stages that need be enacted in the building of one’s independent and supreme self – all such motions (we have identified five such) would be necessary to the construction of the individual as a first movement in the Nietzschean sense. We noted that the very first of such motions involved the conquering of one’s passions. This must, however, be based on a presupposition – viz. that the passions of the individual are not already ruined (as in a ruined stomach).

To the extent that the passions are neither ruined nor subject to the control of external forces (such as that of state ideology), the exceptional individual would now be free to enter the sixth and final stage of his self-consummation – what would such final motion involve? This final motion – but which would inevitably have to be continually produced and reproduced according to the strengths and desires of the will – may simply be described as follows: the passions of the individual need beget the very sense of virtue of that individual. We shall now very briefly turn to this higher, or perhaps the highest, dimension of self-creation.

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks of the exceptional individual, and how such individual must be a creator of new virtue – this is what he says: “The new would the noble man create, and a new virtue.” (p. 40).

But where would such new virtue come from? Nietzsche shall assert that it can only come from the individual’s already existing passions. We know that the self of the individual is his body (his stomach) – such body, however, is naturally beset with natural passions. It is these passions that constitute the productive source of the individual. But the latent productive source (the passions) can only become an active productive core (art) when the self comes to understand its body as its own plurality – and within such plurality, the self recognizes both the flock of its passions and the shepherd of that flock. And it is only when the shepherd within the body becomes the ruling element of the individual that the passions of the individual can be transformed into a new virtue.

Of which passions in particular is Nietzsche talking about? And how exactly are these to be used for purposes of creation and self-creation, or for purposes of the Oakeshottian-type of image-making? Nietzsche does not wish to provide whatever answers to such questions – and he does not wish to do so because he simply cannot answer them. He cannot answer such questions because it all depends on the individual himself. Not one thinker – Nietzsche included – could possibly define or determine the creative wheel of the individual self-rolling wheel. Were it to be defined or determined by the other, that wheel would no longer be self-rolling. To put it otherwise: the passions of the body can only be said to be translated into art and virtue when such art and virtue is original unto itself – its uniqueness is beyond definition or determination by the other. Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott do not wish to offer whatever general formulae regarding the question of self-creativity – doing so would be self-defeating. And it would be self-defeating given that their whole intellectual project comes down precisely to surpassing the ideological constraints of rationalist-based formulae as to how one should live one’s own life (by the way, this Nietzschean/Oakeshottian aversion to general formulae or general theoretical formulations regarding life forms is also somewhat reminiscent of the Wittgensteinian aversion to all theoretical generalization concerning language).

Now, at a very general level, what does Nietzsche’s Zarathustra have to say about the passions? And how may these generally relate to one’s virtues? He speaks as follows: “Once hadst thou passions and calledst them evil. But now hast thou only thy virtues; they grew out of thy passions.” (p. 32). And further: “Thou implantedst thy highest aim into the heart of those passions: then became they thy virtues and joys.” (ibid.).

The natural passions of the body, shepherded by the self – and as it injects these passions with its own highest aims – are reappropriated by the individual in their transformed form as virtues. And they are transformed as the joys of his very own personal virtue since they are now the source of his own artistic creativity. Nietzsche may go on to list a variety of passions, and he may point to their ultimate transformation as virtues and art – but he can only do this through metaphorical language as he has to steer clear of whatever putative formulae. We thus have here a willful transformation of the passions into a new world of virtues as embodied in the joys of art itself, or as embodied in the idle play of Oakeshott’s idiom of poetry as mode of life.

Both like and very much unlike John Climacus in his The Ladder of Divine Ascent, Zarathustra shall attempt to describe these passions and their mutation into the virtues of art – he shall do that in a number of metaphorical ways. We read as follows: “And though thou wert of the race of the hot-tempered, or of the voluptuous, or of the fanatical, or the vindictive, all thy passions in the end became virtues, and all thy devils angels … Once hadst thou wild dogs in thy cellar; but they changed at last into birds and charming songstresses … Out of thy poisons brewedst thou balsam for thyself; thy cow, affliction, milkedst thou – now drinketh thou the sweet milk of her udder … And nothing evil groweth in thee any longer …” (ibid.).

Of course, the notion that no evil whatsoever now grows within the individual (or is externalized by him) shall have to be seriously qualified – the matter would all depend on the degree of internal cohesion attained by the individual within his own self. This major issue shall require further investigation – we intend to do this further below.

6j. Of virtue and everyday wisdom

It is impossible for whoever to be at all specific with respect to the content and proclivities of any individual’s passions, and as to how such passions may or may not translate into a new world of virtues. But while one cannot say much about an individual’s passions and virtues, one can at least clarify that the new virtues of the independent individual cannot ever take certain particular forms. What forms can they never take? To put it as simply as possible, one may say that such virtues cannot ever be of any practical value in the world – and we need say that Oakeshott has himself all too often emphasized precisely such insight throughout his work. It is absolutely clear that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would yet again agree on this one central issue – viz. that the practical values of the market-place, those of a person’s practical maintenance and his concomitant practical achievements in the world, cannot define the moral and aesthetic world of the free individual (this being his own world of virtue).

The small values of the market-place – their everyday little wisdoms – would be beyond the exceptional individual. In his discussion of joys and wisdoms, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “An earthly virtue is it which I love; little prudence is therein, and the least everyday wisdom.” (ibid.).

Nietzsche speaks of an earthly virtue – and it must be earthly since its source is the body itself. And it is also an earthly virtue since it is a love of life in its presentness. Such virtue has no need for whatever utopian ideology, and it has no need for – and which comes down to the same thing – any ideological theology pointing to the future. But further, such virtue contains, if it does at all, only a little prudence – it is therefore not of any practical value with respect to the needs of everyday life. And similarly, informed as it is by the least everyday wisdom, it is a virtue expressive of Oakeshott’s idle play.

The Nietzschean understanding of virtue is, simply, a virtue without reward. Addressing himself to the virtuous, Zarathustra has this to say: “Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want reward for virtue, and heaven for earth, and eternity for your today? … And now ye upbraid me for teaching that there is no reward-giver, nor paymaster? And verily, I do not even teach that virtue is its own reward.” (p. 91).

Why is virtue of no practical value? Why is it informed of the least practical wisdom? And why is it bar whatever practical reward in the world? Zarathustra explains as follows: “Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be paid for her love?” (ibid.). In the last instance, Zarathustra tells us, it is the individual’s own self that is virtue itself – as he so clearly puts it: “It is your dearest Self, your virtue.” (ibid.).

The exceptional individual has created for his own self a virtue that defines that self – and it is a self-virtue beyond all practical value and all practical reward since the will of the self-rolling individual has come to determine its own, independent needs. We have here a redefinition of the very content of need itself by the will of the individual. On this role of one’s will, Zarathustra proclaims as follows: “O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need, my needfulness! Preserve me from all small victories!” (p. 208).

Such virtue, such need, such self – these now come to constitute a form of life that is exceptional vis-à-vis the rest of society. Beyond and above the many-too-many, the higher man and his virtue are simply uncommon. The virtue itself is uncommon because it is, as Nietzsche says, unprofiting. It is unprofiting since it only endows its own self with its own values – and such values only satisfy the newly-acquired needs of the self. The self does not in this sense profit – it is merely being itself, which is its virtue. This virtue is committed only to its own self – by simply being its own self, it only honours its own self. And it therefore gains nothing with respect to the honours of the world. Speaking of the bestowing virtue, and comparing this type of virtue to gold, Nietzsche writes as follows: “Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always bestoweth itself … Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to the highest value. Goldlike beameth the glance of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace between moon and sun … Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting; beaming it is, and soft of lustre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue.” (p. 71).

Such virtue – that which “accumulates all the riches in your soul” – is uncommon because the exceptional individual is uncommon. And thus Nietzsche asks of the exceptional individual to consider the following simple question: “What should ye have in common with cats and wolves?” (ibid.).

The assertion that the bestowing type of virtue is by definition uncommon implies that the virtue of the higher man is a virtue held in common with no one else – and that would still be the case whether that other else is of the exceptional type or of the many-too-many. Such a radical understanding of virtue requires further examination.

6k. A virtue in common with none else

Perhaps the most radical intimation on the question of virtue as presented in Thus Spake Zarathustra is when Nietzsche writes as follows: “My brother, when thou hast a virtue, and it is thine own virtue, thou hast it in common with no one.” (p. 32). Although such thinking is truly radical, it can neither surprise us nor shock us – and it is authentic Nietzschean thinking since it yet again affirms and locks in with the morality of individuality as systematically articulated throughout Thus Spake Zarathustra.  That type of intimation simply asserts the morality of individuality as explored by both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, each in their own way – both have emphasized the exceptionality and necessary originality of the independent individual. Both have celebrated the uniqueness of individual experience – but whatever uniqueness of individual experience can only but beget a uniqueness of individual virtue.

For Nietzsche, as we have already seen, virtue is the individual’s “dearest Self” – it cannot therefore be shared with anyone else, whoever that anyone else happens to be (and that other may be inferior or even superior to that dearest self). When the individual has his own virtue, he has his own self – and he has his own self by re-creating and thereby rediscovering his own self. This re-creation and rediscovery of the self cannot be shared – and thus the virtuous self of the exceptional individual has its own good and evil, and it is a good and evil that can only express that individual and absolutely none else. And it is for this reason that, at least for the exceptional individual, there is no general good and evil that supposedly applies to all and sundry in society. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra has this to say as regards the exceptional virtue of the exceptional individual: “He, however, hath discovered himself who saith: ‘This is my good and evil.’ Therewith hath he silenced the mole and the dwarf, who say: ‘Good for all, evil for all.’ …” (p.189).

He who speaks of his own good and evil has already discovered his own exceptional self – his mode of being belongs only to his own self. Such mode of being does not model itself on the modes of being of other people (however exceptional such people may happen to be); and such mode of being cannot serve as a replica for others. It is a mode of being – or a virtue – that is never to be repeated by whosoever. And thus Zarathustra speaks as follows: “… ‘This – is now my way. Where is yours?’ Thus did I answer those who asked me ‘the way’. For the way – it does not exist!” (p. 190).

6l. The problem of naming one’s own virtue

A virtue held in common with no one else, we have said, is a virtue that cannot be shared with anyone else – the implication of this is obvious: that type of self-bestowing virtue simply cannot be communicated to others; it constitutes an incommunicable language all of its own. This makes full sense: since virtue is – or is of – the self, such self does not engage in the world, as also in the conventions of that world. Unlike the ego, and as already discussed in considering Nietzschean thinking, the self does not live in the world of names – it cannot therefore name its virtue to the world. And as also discussed in our consideration of Oakeshottian thinking, the individual’s creation of images (or the self-creation of images in contemplation) likewise constitutes the language of the self and none other – again, it is not a communicable language in the world of surface conventionality.

That much we apparently do understand. And yet, another as important a question arises at this point. Can the individual name his own virtue at all, or in any way? Could he name it, for instance, to himself? The problem here is that when one attempts to name his virtue – when he decides, that is, to call his virtue by name – he immediately or automatically finds himself being one with the herd (and thereby sees his private self being reduced to his public ego). On this question of naming one’s virtue to one’s self, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra warns the exceptional individual by saying the following: “To be sure, thou wouldst call it [your virtue] by name and caress it; thou wouldst pull its ears and amuse thyself with it … And lo, then hast thou its name in common with the people, and hast become one of the people and the herd with thy virtue!” (p. 32).

And thus, the individual’s self-bestowing virtue need remain nameless – it must remain indescribable and beyond words. It must remain unnamed so that such virtue not be of – and not be reduced to – that of the herd. Still on the question of one’s own virtue, Zarathustra continues: “Better for thee to say: ‘Ineffable is it, and nameless, that which is pain and sweetness to my soul, and also the hunger of my bowels.’ …” (ibid.).

And he continues with his all too consistent advice as follows: “Let thy virtue be too high for the familiarity of names; and if thou must speak of it, be not ashamed to stammer about it.” (ibid.). The self-bestowing virtue must remain unfamiliar to the language of the world and its market-place. And if there do arise circumstances where the exceptional individual finds it necessary to somehow speak of his virtue (or of his conduct) to the world, he shall have to do it in a way that remains more or less incoherent – he must teach himself to merely stammer about it. That would be a technique of the ego that has learnt to survive (and be tolerant of) the world around it: stammering would here be mere speech signals functioning as safety valves for the self itself. Being a language system of safety valves, the individual need not feel whatever shame about such so-called stammering (and which would be a language practice more or less unique to the individual – it could take an endless variety of literary or verbal forms).

Stammering would secrete and protect the virtue that cannot be named to the world – and it cannot be named because it is not a virtue expressive of human needs and of human relations. The self-bestowing virtue is simply too high for the familiarity of human (or statal) law, and the human needs and relations that such law wishes to organize in society. Zarathustra continues as follows: “Thus speak and stammer: ‘That is my good! That do I love, thus doth it please me entirely, thus only do I desire the good … Not as the law of a God do I desire it, not as a human law or a human need do I desire it; it is not to be a guidepost for me to superearths and paradises.” (ibid.).

The individual’s self-bestowing virtue is a virtue beyond all of statal law organizing human relations; it is beyond the small happinesses of human needs; and it is beyond all of this-worldly and/or all of those other-worldly utopias that have permeated rationalist-based ideologies and theologies. It is therefore silent to the world and to its laws, as it is silent also to all the practical needs emanating from that world. And it is for this reason that Zarathustra may speak as follows: “Oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!” (p. 104).

One may at this point reiterate that Nietzsche has identified two basic types of so-called necessary virtues that have come to permeate the history (as also the psychology) of the western world. The one type is that of what he calls the small people, and which is meant to serve their small happinesses. On this, he makes the following observations: “I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open; they do not forgive me for not envying their virtues … They bite at me, because I say unto them that for small people, small virtues are necessary – and because it is hard for me to understand that small people are necessary!” (p. 163). And he continues as follows: “To small virtues would they [this people] fain lure and laud me; to the ticktack of small happiness would they fain persuade my foot.” (p. 164). There is, however, that other type of virtue which – as we have seen – is meant for the exceptional individual who has no need for such small virtues and their everyday small happinesses.

In the former case, whatever set of virtues need necessarily be of the masses – they therefore need necessarily be common (or social) virtues. Within such social terrain, the ego of whichever individual has no choice but to interact with such virtues through a more or less common language – in the case of the self-consciously independent and/or exceptional individual, however, such language would have to be such so as not to compromise the independence of that individual. The individual here finds himself in the world of names and roles, and commonly recognized good or bad conduct – therein, the independent individual must pass through the people, but must do so as he keeps his eyes open.

In the latter case, virtue is of the individual and for the individual – it obviously cannot be a common virtue. And because it cannot be common, the exceptional individual must retain a silence towards the world with respect to the disposition entailed in his own self-bestowing virtue. By not at all naming such uncommon virtue to the world or even to himself, the individual confirms the uniqueness of his own self.

There are now two final comments we wish to make on the question of the necessary silence of the self, or – and which is of course the exact same thing – on the essentially incommunicable nature of an individual’s self-bestowing virtue.

The first comment – and which is a very rough and tentative observation – concerns the thinking of Nietzsche vis-à-vis that of Wittgenstein. Nietzsche’s suggestion that the virtue of the exceptional individual is ineffable and nameless (and thus beyond language) may be said to somehow relate to Proposition 7 of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, which famously asserts that “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one be silent.” The Nietzschean and Wittgensteinian assertions on the question of a silence beyond language may or may not at all be related to one another, depending on how one chooses to interpret Wittgenstein’s understanding of ineffable truths pertaining to questions of an ethical nature. The well-known controversy revolves around the manner in which one is to understand the idea of the so-called nonsensical realm beyond or outside language. It also revolves around interpretations of the Tractatus Proposition 6.421, where Wittgenstein tells us that “ethics cannot be put into words”. And here, most interestingly by the way, Wittgenstein equates ethics to aesthetics – as does both Nietzsche and Oakeshott.

Whatever the measure of philosophical commerce between Nietzsche and Wittgenstein on the question of ethics, there is at least one point which could be said to constitute a certain common ground between them: an individual does harbour realms of thought within him that are beyond words, or that are beyond public language, or that are beyond the common naming of things. If this be the case, the individual can stand beyond the herd – and by so standing beyond the herd, the individual can discover and affirm his self-rolling independence. This would be the individual’s discovery and affirmation of his own self per se vis-à-vis the surface egos of the market-place. On the other hand, however, it should also be observed that an individual can harbour thoughts within himself that are both beyond public language and at the same time inferior to the culture of such public language – in such case, the individual would not stand beyond and above the herd but quite below it. Such a condition would of course be the antithesis to Nietzsche’s higher man (or it would be the individual aping Zarathustra’s Superman).

Now, and this is the second comment we wish to make, it may be said that there are in fact special cases where the practice of virtue would not be – or need not be – designated by any degree of ineffability or silence (we are obviously here not at all concerned with the publicly shared values of idol-adoration as witnessed in the market-place). It should also be parenthetically added, however, that in proposing such a qualification, we would be digressing from the basic purpose of this subsection – it primarily being to consider the concrete individual and his particular problem of naming or not naming his self-virtue to others in the world. Veering off course, we may in any case propose that the language of a self-imposed virtue can in fact be – or has in fact been – a truly shared language amongst particular independent and historical peoples of the western world. In their case, the ineffability and silence of virtue would not apply – and it would not apply since such peoples would share their virtue as a common morality of habit of behaviour (how the independent individual bearing his own internal self-virtue comes to interact with such external common morality of behaviour would depend on nothing else but that individual’s own will and chosen disposition – we have already asserted that there can be no set formulae for whatever interaction between individual and community).

On the other hand –and having said all of the above – it should also be noted that, while there would be no silence amongst people sharing a morality of habit of behaviour as to their common understanding and/or experience of such morality, the language of that morality would nonetheless remain ineffable and silent to whoever lives outside of that community of people. In Wittgensteinian terms, one could perhaps say that the language games of a particular people would not be understood by other peoples – the language games of the one would remain ineffable and silent vis-à-vis the games of the other. Here, we may yet again remind ourselves of what Nietzsche has to say on this matter – as he puts it: “… every people speaketh its language of good and evil; this its neighbour understandeth not …” (p. 45).

6m. Silence, privacy, and the new language of being and becoming

Nietzsche, we have seen, has warned the exceptional individual who wishes to be ruled by his independent self not to fall into the trap of naming his virtue in whatever manner – by so doing, the individual would find himself being one with the heard. And yet, the silence of his self-bestowing virtue is not to be a mute and dumb virtue – on the contrary, and as we have repeatedly emphasized, the Nietzschean understanding of virtue cannot be disentangled from the world of aesthetics. It therefore follows that the Nietzschean understanding of the self-bestowing virtue is a virtue that does come to talk its own language – but this is a language beyond the individual’s ego and certainly beyond the language of the world. It is the language of the individual’s unique being and of his unique becoming – such language need be the language of his unique artistic creativity.

The language of being and becoming – it being the aesthetic mode of being – presupposes the ineffability and the silence of the self-bestowing virtue. It therefore also presupposes the privacy of the exceptional individual – for it is within the world of such privacy (Nietzsche shall refer to it as the return home) that the individual may materialize his own forms of self-enactment. And it would be precisely such self-enactment that would constitute the new language of being and becoming. Therein, via a language that is altogether autonomous of all social language, the exceptional individual may begin to utter anything he so wills and wishes. Such utterances would certainly be of the Oakeshottian image-making and/or poetic creativity, as discussed above.

We need to briefly examine here how Nietzschean thinking shall gradually move from the private state (or lonesome wilderness) of individual being, to that of the ineffability and silence of its virtue, and ultimately to the homecoming of learning how to talk a language that is beyond all worldly language – this being the language of being per se and especially the language of becoming as a life process.

Nietzsche wishes to affirm the individual’s private terrain and hermetic silence as the site of his ultimate will – this being the will to establishing his own virtue. No one is to be given the right to eye such private terrain or to penetrate such hermetic silence. He writes as follows: “That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate will – for that purpose did I devise the long clear silence.” (p. 169).

Within this self-created long and clear silence, the individual is now at home with his self – being at home and within his very own privacy, he is now both ready and free to utter whatever he so wishes. He is ready, in other words, to utter anything in terms of his new, self-determined needs as a self-rolling wheel. Speaking of the individual’s return home, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra for the first time declares the possibility of a new self-language and thereby of a new self-understanding – this is how he puts it: “Here, however, art thou at home and house with thyself; here canst thou utter everything, and unbosom all motives; nothing is here ashamed of concealed, congealed feelings.” (p. 178). Within his private home, in other words, the individual is now free to understand his true wishes and intentions, to reinterpret his needs, and to thereby overcome the self-imposed silence of the self as to its own virtue.

While, as Nietzsche writes, “Down there [in the world] … all talking is in vain”, this is not so within the private world of the individual’s own home. It is within such home that the new language of being and becoming is created by the individual. On this, his Zarathustra speaks as follows: “Here fly open unto me all being’s words and word-cabinets; here all being wanteth to become words; here all becoming wanteth to learn of me how to talk.” (p. 179).

This new self-communication on self-virtue is the language of the private self as it enacts both its being and its reproductive becoming – as it is a private language, it cannot take place outside the terrain of a supreme privacy. Privacy, however, has been one of the central cultural and psychological endowments of western civilization – but it has also been an endowment that that very same civilization has, through the ages, abused, defamed and censured, depending on historical circumstances. Yet still, the long-standing traditional pluralism of western civilization – at least as identified by the Oakeshottian enterprise – has meant that the virtue of privacy has remained a major privilege of the western world. We may here remind ourselves of what Oakeshott has observed with respect to the 16th century – viz. that by that time a privacy hitherto unknown to mankind would make its appearance in the cultural and economic life of Europe (though this is not meant to imply that all other civilizations would necessarily ignore or stifle the moment of human privacy – we shall have to let such exclusively historical issue remain a historian’s open question).

For the western world in particular, it would be such cultural endowment of traditional pluralism that would point to the emergence of the supreme individual in his supreme moment of privacy speaking a language of his own being and becoming. But this, too, would give birth to a new aesthetics – and it would do so both for the exceptional individual as artist for-himself as also (though only potentially so) for the rest of society with which the surface-ego of that artist interacts (the precise interaction between, on the one hand, the realm of supreme privacy/individualistic creativity and, on the other, the realm of culture and art within the western world itself – or, rather, within particular dimensions of that world – is a complex entanglement that we do intend to touch on in forthcoming sections below).

6n. The disposition of indifference towards the populace

The impact of the exceptional individual onto society – if (but also when and how) such impact does ensue – remains a highly complex sociological issue. And, in any case, such impact would depend, not only on the circumstances of that society, but also and above all on the disposition and will of the exceptional individual himself. But whatever form such disposition takes, it would have to be characterized by a supreme indifference towards the many-too-many and the values of the market-place. This, obviously, is not an iron rule that all exceptional individuals do follow or have followed – the famous wise ones and the state’s organic intellectuals, for instance, do not abide by such rule or have rarely done so. On the other hand, the independent, self-rolling individual whose self determines to rule its ego can only but remain supremely indifferent vis-à-vis the populace and its idol-adoration – it is precisely for this reason that whatever impact on the part of the self-rolling intellect onto society is usually of the untimely type (and being untimely, such impact is often received in distorted form by its contemporaries, as it most famously was so received in the case of Nietzschean thought).

Specifically on the question of indifference (or of being unconcerned vis-à-vis the rest of the world), Nietzsche writes as follows: “He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays and tragic realities … Courageous, unconcerned, scornful, coercive – so wisdom wisheth us; she is a woman, and ever loveth only a warrior.” (p.36). The lack of concern – the indifference – is directed towards the little tragedies of everyday life. On the other hand, the courage, the scorn and the coercion are all directed towards the independent warrior himself – it is only in such manner that the individual can preserve his independent indifference. It is only through such type of courage that the self can rule the surface-ego – and it has to be so ruled since the ego finds itself entangled in the world with its tragic plays and tragic realities.

Were the independent individual not to preserve a disposition of indifference towards the little tragedies of everyday history (or even, as we shall see, towards the so-called great events of that history), he would soon find himself being reduced to what Nietzsche calls a fly-flap. He writes as follows about how to respond to the many-too-many and their manner of thinking and living in the world: “Raise no longer an arm against them! Innumerable are they, and it is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.” (p. 49). Although the exceptional individual is a warrior with respect to his own self and its independent preservation, he is not at war with the many-too-many – he does not care to raise an arm against them. He knows that their sheer numerical presence – and the ideological values of democracy and equality that emanate from such numerical presence – is a social force that cannot easily be confronted. In fact, the very idea of whatever form of confrontation with the many-too-many and their ideologies would be a sheer waste of time – the independent individual simply cannot waste the limited years of his life on earth by focusing his attention on the myriad flies swarming the market-place. His intellect and creativity cannot be dissipated in activities involving flies – chasing after them, driving them away, or killing them would all be beyond the needs of his creative disposition.

As an independent, self-rolling intellect, the exceptional individual is not really against anyone, and especially not ever against the populace. This does not mean that he has no intellectual enemies – he does, but he is inclined to treat them from a position of indifference. While the many-too-many cannot themselves be considered enemies, the so-called priests of the populace may be said to constitute some type of enemy – but there again, the exceptional individual would maintain his indifference by simply refusing to despise all famous wise ones. And if there is to be a certain hatred, it would have to be a superior form of hatred – it need be a hatred from a distance, steering clear of all emotional contempt. Such emotional distance would itself be an expression of indifference. This is how Nietzsche advises the exceptional individual: “Ye shall only have enemies to be hated, but not enemies to be despised. Ye must be proud of your enemies; then the successes of your enemies are also your successes.” (p. 44).

The exceptional individual may “hate” his intellectual enemies – but this would be a hatred free of all whatever emotion-based or ambition-based disposition. His hatred is not that of worldly hate; it is not that of the hatred one witnesses in the market-place of ideas and ideologies – and we may here once again remind ourselves of how Nietzsche has already described the hatred amongst the famous wise ones evident within the market-place: “They devour one another”, he writes, “and cannot even digest themselves.” (p. 46). In stark contrast, the exceptional individual may even be proud of his intellectual enemies and their intellectual successes. It would precisely such disposition – beyond and outside of the dog fights of public intellectuals – that the exceptional individual may be said to maintain his supreme indifference vis-à-vis all his so-called enemies.

One may go one step further and suggest that the supreme indifference of the exceptional individual would be confirmed by the fact that such individual would choose not ever to engage in whatever form of resistance vis-à-vis the other, whoever such other may be. “Resistance –”, writes Nietzsche, “that is the distinction of the slave.” (p. 44).

The basic point here is that the disposition of supreme indifference towards the populace and their famous wise ones simply cannot allow for either contempt or resistance.

6o. The disposition of tolerance towards the many-too-many

The exceptional individual that has achieved a mode of life expressive of an independent and self-rolling intellect does not feel the need to hate the many-too-many. But while the many-too-many are not to be at all hated, the exceptional individual can nonetheless see that they are superfluous. But yet still he can also see that such superfluity has its own needs. He therefore needs to recognize the superfluous needs of the many-too-many. How does Nietzsche’s Zarathustra recognize such needs? This is what he says: “Full is the earth of the superfluous; marred is life by the many-too-many. May they be decoyed out of this life by the ‘life eternal’!” (p. 41). The inherent superfluity of the many-too-many in this life is such as to ask for another life elsewhere. This need ought to be recognized – and by recognizing such need, the exceptional individual comes to tolerate both the masses and their needs. By being tolerant, the exceptional individual operates within the old, western tradition of pluralism.

The many-too-many may do whatever it is that they to wish to do; they may do whatever is in accordance with their own, socially-determined needs. And so, in what is called the drunken song, Zarathustra simply tells the world at large that people may – if they so feel and so need – grasp after some God. They may do so, so long as they do not try to grasp after him. While Zarathustra may be fully aware of the woeful dead-ends of all worldly idols, he does not wish to intervene in the affairs of the many-too-many and their idol-adoration – and he shall not intervene so long as he is left alone by the many-too-many. In fact, he has so determined his own position in the world that he would not find it necessary to ever have to intervene. He speaks as follows: “God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me! What am I! A drunken sweet lyre …” (p. 311).

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra does not merely recognize the needs of the many-too-many – and he does not merely tolerate such needs and the right on the part of the many-too-many to satisfy them. He goes further: he actually approves of them. And by recognizing, tolerating and even approving of the needs of the masses, he might even wish to conserve them – and such conservation would definitely apply to needs sprouting from a primeval morality of habit of behaviour (as opposed to state-imposed ideological needs).

The implications of such an understanding of mass needs are radical, and they are radical from the perspective of western pluralism: Nietzsche is thereby suggesting that there can be – or should be – a certain condition of co-existence between individual morality and mass morality.

How does Nietzsche’s Zarathustra express his approval of the needs of the many-too-many? This is what he has to say of the wishes of the populace: “They would fain be dead, and we should approve of their wish!” (p. 41).

But this approval and tolerant co-existence could not ever mean that the exceptional individual would at some point allow the wishes of the populace to permeate his own, independent needs. The exceptional individual should always guard against and be cautious of the wishes of the many-too-many. He should beware of the many-too-many and their wishes, for the many-too-many may also wish to grasp at and after those few who choose to be left alone. And thus Nietzsche continues as follows: “Let us beware of awakening those dead ones, and of damaging those living coffins!” (ibid.).

Very importantly, we see here that Nietzsche is not only asking of the exceptional individual to stay well away from the masses – he is even advising such individual not to dare awaken these masses. This, of course, brings us back to the question of supreme indifference vis-à-vis the many-too-many. When he asks of the exceptional individual not to awaken the masses, he is asking of him not to attempt to enlighten them. Nietzsche does not wish to have the masses re-educated, or to have them mobilized towards such re-education. His is a position of supreme non-intervention, it being precisely that position of supreme indifference towards the many-too-many as discussed above. On the other hand, such supreme indifference goes hand-in-hand with a position of toleration and co-existence as regards the needs and wishes of the populace.

Whenever the exceptional individual has found himself amongst the masses, he has often had to disguise himself – and he has had to disguise himself so that he could endure the masses. It is in the nature of his person to choose to endure them, but such disguise could also lead him to a misjudgment of his own self. Toleration of the many-too-many is therefore called for, but it needs to be handled with the greatest of caution so that the self of the individual be protected – and self-protection means that the individual does not come to misjudge his own self. Zarathustra speaks as follows: “Disguised did I sit amongst them, ready to misjudge myself that I might endure them, and willingly saying to myself: ‘Thou fool, thou dost not know men!’ …” (p. 180).

It is such type of experience on the part of the exceptional individual in being amongst the masses that has come to teach him not to indulge the masses in his presence (while yet still tolerating their own presence as such). And thus on the question of indulging others, Zarathustra has this to say: “In indulging and pitying lay ever my greatest danger; and all human hubbub wisheth to be indulged and tolerated.” (ibid.).

The exceptional individual is thereby advised not ever to pity the masses – one may approve of and understand the needs and wishes of the masses, and one may even be courteous towards the small annoyances of such masses. But indulging the masses and pitying them for their little everyday tragedies would be a compromise of the self. Human hubbub – the noise pollution of the market-place, the chaos of competitive ambitions, the very bedlam of the Babelian-type society – stands in need of the empathy of the other and his compassion. Such type of disposition, however, would remain the greatest of dangers for the exceptional individual – and it would remain so since it could yield a misjudgment of his own self.

While pity is a danger to the self, courtesy is not – and the exceptional individual can only but be courteous towards the small virtues and the small annoyances of the many-too-many since he has to acknowledge to himself that such small virtues and annoyances are necessary in terms of the needs of the masses. Since they are necessary, they must be tolerated – and since they must be tolerated, one should be courteous towards the carriers of these small virtues as also to these virtues themselves. Comparing himself to a cock and the populace to hens, Zarathustra speaks as follows: “Here am I still like a cock in a strange farm-yard, at which even the hens peck; but on that account I am not unfriendly to the hens … I am courteous towards them, as towards all small annoyances; to be prickly towards what is small seemeth to me wisdom for hedgehogs.” (p. 164).

Being not unfriendly and being courteous towards the many-too-many means that the many-too-many must be allowed to live their lives as they wish – or need – to so live. This is the essential disposition of pluralist tolerance that defines the exceptional individual. As has already been noted above, Nietzsche would express such tolerance towards the modern western world by proposing that the exceptional individual should simply let the world be as it is – “Let there the trader rule”, he propounds. Let them live as they wish, though they – the modern-day masses – are “unworthy” (p. 204).

Nietzsche’s will to a revaluation of all values – at least as that is presented in his Thus Spake Zarathustra – does not really concern society at all; it does not concern its collectivities, their collective ideologies and their concomitant collective values. It concerns the individual as a self-rolling wheel – it is addressed to the individualist and his morality of individualism as a self-rolling mode of life. Of course, whenever Nietzsche does wish to point to a future wherein his higher man is both paradigm and hegemon, he inadvertently falls into the trap of a utopian teleology – it seems that even untimely thinkers are not impervious to time and its fashions.

But apart from such imperfections in the Nietzschean project, one may safely say that his Zarathustra only truly wishes to address the individual in all his existential exclusivity. The Zarathustrian-type individualist remains supremely indifferent towards the many-too-many – but it is precisely such indifference that constitutes his toleration of people and nations. Yet it is also that selfsame indifference that constitutes his choice to go his own way in the world (as does Oakeshott’s alien sojourner). This combination of both indifference and independent choice is most lucidly encapsulated in the following Zarathustrian injunction: “Go your ways! and let the people and peoples go theirs!” (ibid.).

It is in this sense that the morality of individuality may coexist with the morality of the masses. They coexist as two radically different modes of being in the world. But this does not mean that the exceptional individual severs all interaction with the world and its market-place – he cannot: he, too, is composed of a surface ego that understands and speaks the language of a particular people. This, however, calls for his self-organization in the world. It is to this issue that we must now turn – and which constitutes the very core and purpose of this presentation of Nietzschean and Oakeshottian thinking.

7. Self-organization

The exceptional individual, being exceptional, identifies his own being and becoming in the world as unique in the world. Being unique, the exceptional individual is by definition of the contrarian type. The exceptional contrarian individual is an individualist who is capable of forging his own manner or mode of self-organization in the world. What he organizes is his individual sensibility and his individual taste.

Synonymatic with the term self-organization – and as this term shall be used here – is the Nietzschean concept of will. When the exceptional contrarian individual organizes his own self, he wills that self.

What exactly is it that is organized – or willed – within that self? The exceptional individual organizes, not just his thoughts, but above all his own disposition, his own mood, his own aesthetic taste. Very importantly, he selects and organizes all of these in terms of his own absolutely free will – he therefore selects and organizes his disposition and taste however prejudiced these may happen to be. Prejudice, we shall be arguing, is a virtue and an entitlement of the exceptional individual – and it is so over and above all the moral and/or cognitive standards of the world.

We are suggesting that self-organization does not necessarily mean the organization of one’s thoughts – and we say this because whatever organization of one’s thinking would simply mean the organization of one’s self around particular formulae. Formulaic thinking, however, is merely the mode of thinking of all rationalist-based morality. The absolute moral freedom of the exceptional individual presupposes or recognizes one single absolute truth – viz. that there is no absolute truth in the world. He senses that there is no single truthful thought that cannot be countered by yet another as truthful thought – he thereby lets the world sort out the consequentiality of all such thoughts for itself.

That there is no one absolute truth in the world has even been recognized by thinkers who have operated in the field of the so-called physical sciences, such as, for instance, Niels Bohr – we may here remind ourselves of his famous assertion that “The opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth.” The exceptional individual is thereby courteous towards all worldly thoughts, but remains indifferent towards them. It is the disposition of the self and the aesthetic taste of the self that the exceptional individual cares for. Such a position calls for a reexamination of the relationship between mass ideology and individual disposition – it is to this that we now need turn.

7a. From mass ideology to individual disposition

In our discussion of the exceptional individual and his own self-enactment, we have attempted to present – following both Nietzsche and Oakeshott – a series of motions or steps that would be conducive to the progressive consummation of such self-enactment. And yet, not one of these motions or steps would be at all possible for any individual unless that individual has successfully taught himself one fundamental lesson in life – such a lesson may succinctly be put as follows: to unlearn all of mass ideology.

One may refer to all of worldly mass ideology as human hubbub. And thus, when Nietzsche’s Zarathustra finally returns to his own home, he may safely declare to his own self that he is now free of all such ideological hubbub – this is how he puts it: “With blessed nostrils do I again breathe mountain freedom. Freed at last is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub!” (p. 181).

To be able to be free of all human hubbub is to have unlearnt all of mass ideology. And to have unlearnt all of mass ideology is to have unlearnt one’s trust in the worldly manner of naming things in the world – it is to have unlearnt one’s reliance on whatever names or words as used in the public languages of the world. Zarathustra’s shadow speaks of this to Zarathustra himself as follows: “With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and worths and in great names.” (p. 264). One may say that when Zarathustra’s shadow speaks of words, he is referring to mass public discourse; when he speaks of worths, he is referring to mass idol-adoration and the valuation of things that such adoration implies; and when he speaks of great names, he is referring to the so-called great events that are said to dominate the public histories of the many-too-many. The varieties of mass discourse, the mass evaluation of all things based on such varieties of discourse, and the great events that come to define the mass identity of the many-too-many – all such are social phenomena that the exceptional individual has to unlearn and to delimit as surface phenomena. And it is for this reason that Zarathustra’s shadow continues as follows: “When the devil casteth his skin doth not his name also fall away? It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps – skin.” (ibid.). For the exceptional individual, it cannot be such skin that constitutes the determinant of his own mode of being.

To unlearn mass ideology is to unlearn the very particular understanding of freedom that all such ideology stands for and which it is meant to struggle for. This is meant to be a social, collectivist freedom – and it is therefore a freedom that can only be accomplished through the political and social struggles of the many-too-many and their leaders. The exceptional individual looks down on and remains indifferent towards the so-called great historical events that have attempted to materialize a freedom and equality for the many-too-many within the history of the western world. But to look down on and to be indifferent towards all great events presupposes an unlearning of the so-called historical significance of such events. This unlearning, however, also presupposes a radical self-organization of the individual vis-à-vis the masses, their ideologies, and their history. With respect to this-worldly social freedom and this-worldly great historical events, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “… “Freedom,” ye all roar most eagerly; but I have unlearned the belief in “great events”, when there is much roaring and smoke about them.” (p. 129).

The exceptional individual need reorganize his own self in such manner that he is able to stand over and above that which is this-worldly – and by the term this-worldly we here specifically mean that which is of the modern western world and the values of its market-place. Such type of individual self-organization is an absolute necessity within the modern western world for a number of reasons – but one basic reason is the manner in which both the western masses and especially their famous wise ones have come to view life itself. And they have come to view life in a manner determined by the specific ideological lens that the famous wise ones have so meticulously refined precisely for such type of viewing. This lens, founded on their rationalist-based ideology, simply refuses to acknowledge the limiting conditions of life itself – its calculations and its formulae are incapable of considering the implications of human mortality as such. Corey tells us that the Oakeshottian project was an investigation of precisely such limiting conditions of the human experience – the undeniable fact of human mortality – and the inevitable “frustrations of the search for power after power” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 25).

Often consciously and as often unconsciously, the western Babelian-type state and its mass ideology would ignore the limiting conditions of the human experience and the sheer fact of human mortality, and it would thereby focus primarily (or even exclusively) on the question of power for the sake of power. All of its existence would be focused on the search for political power, or on the will to impose its political power on others. Its raison d’être would come to revolve around nothing else but an endless – and futile – series of power struggles within itself and amongst its many-too-many. As to the latter, we may here remind ourselves of Nietzsche’s observation that “At present … everything low hath become rebellious” and that “the hour hath come … for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insurrection: it extendeth and extendeth!” (p. 260). This endless search and struggle for political power – obsessively recorded and naively celebrated by Marxian and Foucaultian historians amongst others – simply wishes to forget or escape from the reality of human mortality. It also forgets that most or all of the power struggles that have ever taken place or that continue to take place cannot possibly be fully resolved in one way or another given the sheer fact of the limiting conditions of all human experience – inequality, exploitation, domination, and so on, have always been an integral part of the human condition and shall remain to be so.

The exceptional individual cannot expend his limited time on earth by engaging with or by allowing himself to get entangled with the little tragedies of the worldly man. From the point of view of the western worldly man, these little tragedies are of such major importance to his person that they can absorb the whole of his personal existence – when they take the form of tragic plays in the so-called grand historical theatre of his civilization, these can fracture his personal identity to the point of its irredeemable disappearance. The little tragedies and the tragic plays of the worldly man are part and parcel of the search and struggle for this-worldly power within society.

This search and struggle for power is thus evident at both a personal and at a collective level – both levels often being closely interrelated. At a personal level, worldly man is a deeply (or at times even a bitterly) concerned person – he is concerned with the need to achieve in the practical world (most of such achievement being reducible to consumption). At a collective level, worldly man is often deeply concerned with making some sort of a contribution to the great, collective enterprise and collective ideals of his society (for he definitely wishes to be remembered when he is gone).

But it is precisely because of such obsessive concerns that the western worldly man finds himself continually postponing his own fulfillment as an individual – his own individual self-enactment is continually being postponed for the future. And this is so, despite the limiting conditions and the mortality of his being. Oakeshott wishes to contrast the independent individual who is bent on accomplishing his self-enactment in his own presentness – and who is thus fully aware of his own mortality – to the type of the worldly man lost in the collectivity. With respect to the latter, Oakeshott’s position is presented as follows by Corey: “… the worldly man is concerned with getting and spending, with practical achievement in the world of affairs, and with “making a contribution” to some greater enterprise or field of study. His life is spent in the pursuit of immanent ideals. Fulfillment is postponed to the future, and he values himself and others solely on the basis of [worldly] accomplishment.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 26).

Again, we notice here how the western worldly man can mingle his practical pursuits in the world of affairs (and its market-place) with a predetermined adoration of quintessential abstract formulae expressive of certain so-called immanent social ideals. In both cases, he is obsessed with achievement and contribution – like the rest in his society, and as Nietzsche has observed, he is continually engaged in public cackling, having unlearnt the art of sitting quietly on his nest so that he may hatch his own private eggs. He must, like the rest, make his own contribution to the world – he cannot suffer the art of being the least known in his own self-creative wilderness.

Living his life within the dense, illusive fog of rationalist ideology – and it is illusive since it systematically obfuscates the fact of one’s mortality – the western worldly man has come to believe in the permanence of whatever it is that surrounds him. Given such steady but illusive sense of permanence, the western worldly man has also come to believe in the need for the progressive betterment of whatever it is that is supposed to permanently surround him. And since permanence calls for and allows for progress, the so-called progressive western worldly man has come to devote his life to an endless series of works in progress – it is therefore to projects that he devotes his life. He can and does devote near endless hours to the meticulous planning and the supposed fulfillment of such projects. Of course, all such rationalist-based projects are, by definition, projects that can only but project man’s life into the future. This is a supposed future of well-being and happiness that rarely materializes as planned or as imagined. And when there is a certain materialization of a particular plan, it often comes too late for the planners themselves – and so these planners love to think of their works as contributions meant to be appreciated by future generations. Nurtured within the ideology of rationalism, however, their descendants also live their lives in similar fashion. Corey summarizes Oakeshott’s critical position on the western worldly masses and their ideology of rationalist projection as follows: “To be worldly is to believe in the permanence of the things we see around us and to put our faith in progress and projects.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 30).

Western worldliness, although ultimately expressive of the raw survivalist (or animal) needs of the market-place, has attempted to sublimate these material needs into mass ideological ideals. And there have been numerous instances where people have even wished to sacrifice their own lives in the name of such ideals – the obvious implication is that they have come to see these ideals as something more real (or as even more permanent) than their own lives. The value of their own life comes to be measured in terms of their contribution to such ideals – and these ideals are always an expression of the so-called greater good.

One important form of western worldliness, therefore, has been to put one’s faith in ideals – and to thereby assume that one makes history or that one contributes to the making of history in this world. And when such faith in ideals and such faith in History (in itself and by itself) leads persons to self-sacrifice, one may say that this-worldliness is being taken to its most extreme forms. This, however, has truly been a major dimension of modern western history – and it is this that Nietzsche would come to call mass idol-adoration. For Oakeshott, this mode of life is both empty and futile – and for him, moreover, sacrificing one’s life for the so-called greater good is simply yet another (albeit more extreme) dimension of living one’s life in terms of the materialistic values of the market-place. Corey presents this Oakeshottian position – or, rather, this Oakeshottian philosophical disposition against the different versions of western worldliness – as follows: “Oakeshott … rejects the common view that the way to overcome worldliness is to put one’s faith in ideals. If worldliness consists in placing money, comfort, sensual pleasure, and progress before all else, so their argument goes, then self-sacrifice in the pursuit of some greater good must be its opposite, and therefore closer to religion … But this pursuit of ideals does not save us from worldliness, Oakeshott observes. Indeed, it only reinforces the mistaken view that life in this world is permanent and stable. Could any notion of life “be more empty and futile”, Oakeshott wonders, than the idea that the value of one’s life is measured by one’s contribution to “something thought more permanent than life itself – a race, a people, an art, a science or a profession?” Not only is this view no different than the worldly view, it is worldliness taken to an extreme.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 32).

The exceptional individual need organize his self outside of the mode of being of such western worldliness (whatever be its particular version) – and he even need organize his self beyond whatever feeling of guttural contempt for all forms of western worldliness. And yet, there can be a feeling of some sort of contempt for this mode of life, but only so long as such so-called contempt is at the same time buttressed by a supreme indifference – as has already been discussed above, this would be a certain superior form of contempt held from a distance. It has been noted that, even since the 1920’s, Oakeshott would himself express his “contempt … for the modern concern with worldly success and material gain.” (cf. Noël K. O’Sullivan, op. cit., p. 210). Nietzsche would of course have harboured similar feelings for the contemporary world that surrounded his own person. Ideally speaking, neither Nietzschean nor Oakeshottian contempt would have been such as to seriously affect individual disposition. It is to this absolutely crucial question of disposition – and to its internal organization within the independent world of the exceptional individual – that we shall now turn.

Mass ideology, we have argued, is necessarily expressive of a For and an Against; it is always expressive of a Yes and a No – and it is always thus with respect to an array of interrelated absolute truths that are all subsumed within one grand Truth. This is a mass need – it is a necessary need of the many-too-many. It can take the form of an openly fanatical mass need depending on circumstances (as in the case of the early 20th century communist movement) – if not openly fanatical, however, it can and does take the form of a latent but absolute conviction with respect to a list of socio-existential issues. None can question, for instance, the absolute historical necessity of the masses-as-masses in the world (as opposed to their superfluity), and above all none may question their natural equality. All of their famous wise ones persistently assert the natural wisdom of the masses – they may do so by adding a number of subtle caveats to the effectivity of such wisdom, but such mass wisdom is nonetheless presented with apparently profound metaphysical underpinnings. All and sundry within the masses are convinced of their own, trustworthy evaluation of the affairs of the world and of the great events of their history – their public opinion on affairs, issues and events is measured as an expression of simple factuality through continuous opinion polls, and it is governmental policy that is determined thereby. All and sundry, further, consider their particular role in the affairs of the world and in all greats events as the supremely determinant factor of things – it is the masses, as the Marxists would insist, that make and move history. None may question the notion of justice upheld by the many-too-many. None may question their sense of good and bad; their understanding of what is good and what is evil. And when such questions do happen to arise depending on conjunctural circumstances, various alternative ideologies – all of which are yet again expressive of current mass sentiment – are correspondingly articulated by the famous wise ones.

It is such a western social or collective paradigm that has come to constitute the world of mass ideology and its absolute truths – and it is precisely this that is to be counterposed to the individual disposition of the exceptional individualist. Oakeshott’s political position has often been dubbed conservative – and yet, and as we shall further see, one may argue that such a position did not at all constitute an alternative political ideology (alternative, say, to that of the Left). His position constituted a disposition – as a disposition, it belonged to him as an individual espousing the dispositional morality of individuation. Exactly as in the case of Nietzschean thinking, the Oakeshottian intellectual enterprise must be viewed as an enterprise beyond the world of this-worldly politics.

One may present this Nietzschean and Oakeshottian stance in a slightly different manner, although the matter would come down to the exact same thing. The world of this-worldly politics, being a Yes-No or a For-and-Against symptomatic of all mass ideology, is a world revolving around vengeance. Vengeance, however, cannot possibly characterize the disposition of the independent individual. As a self-rolling wheel, he can only but be absolutely independent of whatever emotion of vengefulness – by definition, that is, a self-rolling wheel cannot be disposed for or be disposed against whichever Other. And thus, and to the extent that the independent individual does maintain a certain political understanding of the world, such political understanding could not ever take the form of a support for a particular political camp and a concomitant vengeful contempt for some other political camp. The political stance of the independent individual would be a political disposition informing his own self and none other. He could, for instance, be disposed towards a certain sympathy for the libertarian social currents of his society struggling to escape the tentacles of an overarching Babelian state; or he could be disposed towards a certain sympathy for the conservative social currents of his society struggling to preserve traditional morality in the face of state-imposed mass ideology – in either case, the independent individual could not ever partake in the activities of mass mobilization for or against whatever social forces. Vengefulness would in any case debauch his independent disposition – the self-enacted will and the self-created identity of the individual would willy-nilly be dissolved within the collectivity and its collective idol-adoration. The independent individual could not therefore partake of the so-called great events of whichever many-too-many: these would kill his own, unique presentness.

It is above all this uniqueness of his presentness that the exceptional individual has to salvage for his own self – and to compromise the presentness of his disposition in the name of mass politics, mass ideology, and mass movements would amount to a loss of that dispositional presentness. And it is for this reason that the many-too-many – or what Nietzsche calls the petty people – may be considered to constitute a potential danger for the exceptional individual and his individual disposition. It is the politics and the ideology of these petty people that have come to dominate the western world through the democratic practices of the Babelian state – and it is this near-absolute ideological hegemony of mediocrity (this being viewed as a democratic virtue) that renders the many-too-many a possible danger to all higher men. And it renders them so to the extent that these higher men could find themselves compromising their own independence and superiority at the inviting altar of mass idol-adoration. Addressing the higher men, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra advises them as follows: “These masters of today – surpass them, O my brethren. These petty people: they are the Superman’s greatest danger!” (p. 277).

Zarathustra advises the exceptional individual that it is preferable for him to despair rather than to submit to whichever mass ideology – and it is only thus that he lives best. He lives best, that is, by cultivating his own, unique and independent disposition. And he thus lives best despite the possible pain of despair – for a refusal to submit to mass idol-adoration can always be painful and apparently untimely. Zarathustra here speaks as follows: “And rather despair than submit yourselves … For thus do ye live – best!” (ibid.).

Not to submit to mass ideology means to cultivate one’s very own taste. For Oakeshott in particular, such taste would take the form of a very distinct – and very personal – so-called conservatism. Here, conservatism would not at all be an expression of whatever form of mass idol-adoration for particular values and against other, anti-conservative or non-conservative, values. A taste is here neither for nor against something – it is a mere Yes to an individual disposition beyond all social ideology and beyond all ideological battles and the so-called great events that such battles have given birth to.

And thus, it may be said that whatever conservatism on the part of the exceptional individual would not constitute a political position as such – and it would not constitute a political position as it would be a personal taste outside all of ideology and outside all of ideological idol-adoration. Since such conservatism would not be a political stance in the conventional sense of the word, and since it would consciously stand outside all of social ideology, it would be an individual’s dispositional taste – and being so, it would be a particular expression of the morality of individuation.

But what does it really mean to say that a conservative disposition is merely an expression of one’s individual taste? The response to such a question is actually rather simple: it means that such personal taste would determine the particular manner in which the individual decides to live his own life (and cf. here Corey, YouTube, op. cit.). It would decide that and nothing more – on the other hand, such a decision would certainly come to permeate the whole mode of being of the individual. It would determine, in other words, the manner in which the individual would organize his own self vis-à-vis his own ego.

Further, and within the particular context of such willed self-organization, the Oakeshottian understanding of the conservative disposition would decide on how the individual lives his own life “by consulting inheritance” (cf. Corey, YouTube, ibid.). This, it should be emphasized, would be mere consultation – and by mere consultation, one would mean the process whereby the individual’s superior self would engage in a certain commerce with its own surface ego. The commerce between self and ego would be the consultation itself.

What exactly would be the content of such consultation between self and ego? And what type of content, in contrast, would be of no or little interest within such consultation? The consultation would not much entertain – or could even reject – whatever content relating to state-imposed ideology and the moral formulae expressive of such mass ideology. On the other hand, it would certainly entertain and interact with inherited conventions, these being precisely what Oakeshott has termed a society’s morality of habit of behaviour. And thus one may say that the inherited social conventions (or the morality of habit of behaviour) secreted within – and as experienced by – the surface ego of the individual would inform the supreme self of the individual, and would do so consultatively. The supreme self, which (and as has been argued above in our presentation of the Straussian interpretation of Nietzsche) constitutes the productive core of the individual, would work on – or rather play with – such inherited conventions for its own creative purposes. It could work creatively on such habit of behaviour given that it is exclusively such habit of behaviour that has remained free of state intervention and state-imposed idol-adoration – it is it, in other words, that has remained more or less independent of the rationalist formulae of what is good and what is bad in society. Of course, and as in Oakeshottian thinking, the Nietzschean intellectual enterprise would itself recognize this consultation between supreme self and surface ego with respect to age-old inherited values – as we have elsewhere noted, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra would be in continual consultation with the exceptionalist identities of bygone creative peoples and their civilizations.

Now, given that here conservatism takes the form of consultation within the individual (or within his own morality of supreme individualism), and that it does so for the single purpose of activating his own productive core, such conservatism is a disposition that could never take the form of any creed or doctrine. And it is therefore in this sense that the Oakeshottian understanding of conservatism cannot be reduced to a political ideology. In his presentation of “On Being Conservative”, Oakeshott explains as lucidly as possible what he means when he speaks of conservative conduct – this is how he puts it: “My theme [viz. that of conservative conduct] is not a creed or a doctrine, but a disposition. To be conservative is to be disposed to think and behave in certain manners … it is to be disposed to make certain kinds of choices.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 168).

That being so, the Oakeshottian understanding of conservatism may freely and openly speak for the nation-state, for patriotism, for national tradition, and so forth – and not ever thereby imply that such for expresses a support for a creed, a doctrine, or some sort of dogma. As we have seen above, and according to Edmund Neill (op. cit.), there is in Oakeshottian thinking a rather strong sense of the value of the nation-state, of the value of patriotism in general, and of the value of national tradition as opposed to global, so-called humanistic ideals. And yet, none of these values would – for Oakeshott – constitute a creed or set of formulae to be set up against other creeds and formulae at the level of politico-ideological struggles fought in so-called public spaces. These are, rather, purely personal values determining personal thinking, personal behaviour, and personal life-choices. And thus, when Oakeshott wishes to value the nation-state, he is basically wishing to relate to such type of state in its capacity as a neutral umpire with clearly delimited and constrained powers (and he knows full well that is only the nation-state itself that can be so delimited and constrained). He is fully aware that such state no longer exists: he is confronted by a state functioning as a huge enterprise association (and which would in due time come to function as a globally-based enterprise association) – and thus his disposition is to have as little as possible to do with whatever state. He respects the reality of the state, but quietly keeps his distance.

Likewise, when Oakeshottian thinking speaks of the value of patriotism, it does so as a mere appreciation of the aesthetic heritage that patriotism in general has come to symbolize. And since this is above all an appreciation of the aesthetic dimensions of patriotism, it translates into a very personal appreciation of such dimensions in the form of one’s individual taste and sensibility (and which therefore has absolutely nothing to do with whatever political creed).

And again likewise, when Oakeshottian thinking speaks of the value of national tradition, it does so as a personal appreciation of the age-old and popularly-rooted morality of habit of behaviour that one may yet still discover within the thinking and conduct of a people – and one may yet still discover such elements of traditional habit of behaviour despite the ravages of the modern state.

The Oakeshottian appreciation of the value of the nation-state, of patriotism, and of national tradition would constitute aesthetic data informing nothing else but the disposition of the independent individual – and this would mean that the independent individual would live his life by consulting inheritance. We have already alluded to the process of such consultation – i.e. the process whereby the aesthetic data of one’s national heritage, as experienced by the surface ego, would be offered by that ego to the individual’s supreme self as an incentive for internal deliberation. And such data would be so offered (in deliberation) for one and only single purpose – that of enacting the individual’s artistic creativity, or that of enabling the individual’s poetic image-making for his own self.

Specifically as regards the Oakeshottian understanding of patriotism, one may further state that it constitutes a basic component of the independent individual’s self-realization. Given that patriotism is symbolic of aesthetic heritage, it is an expression of aesthetics per se. As an expression of aesthetics, it is a manifestation of the individual’s emotional taste; it is also a manifestation of the individual’s intellectual taste. But since aesthetics is itself the very definition of morality, the independent individual’s appreciation of the value of patriotism is an appreciation of a people’s morality of habit of behaviour. And thus, the independent individual’s emotional and intellectual taste for patriotism constitutes an important element of his own version of morality. This would imply that, for him, patriotism is in fact one of the important elements constituting the very basis of his own morality. Both as an aesthetic force and as a moral force (and both of which in any case come down to the exact same thing), the patriotic disposition can function as a catalyst that may activate the productive core of the creative self. By activating the productive core of the individual, that individual achieves his own self-realization – this is therefore the virtue of patriotism. Oakeshott would more or less be suggesting such an understanding of patriotism in his 1925 essay entitled “Some Remarks on the Nature and Meaning of Sociality”. Therein, he would write as follows: “Patriotism is the basis of all morality, in short, is the greatest emotion and intellectual effort of which we are capable.” (cf. Noël K. O’Sullivan, op. cit., p. 210). Being the greatest emotional and intellectual effort of any individual, Oakeshott would thereby assert that the virtue of the patriotic disposition informs that individual’s own “self-realization” (ibid.).

Here, in any case, patriotism can in no way be understood as a political ideology – and it is perhaps Oakeshott’s particular understanding of the patriotic disposition that most clearly elucidates the Oakeshottian dethronement of politics as a matter of primary importance in the life of a person. Placing aesthetic disposition in command, Oakeshottian thinking dethrones the moment of politics once and for all – and in so doing, such thinking confirms the Nietzschean critique of the state, of state ideology, and of the idol-adoration of the western masses.

We shall need to delve a little bit further into such a revolutionary dethronement of politics – and this is all too revolutionary as it announces the alternative enthronement of both the morality of individuality and of the aesthetic disposition of such morality. It would be such enthronement that would reorganize the self of the individual, it being a reorganization of the relation between self and surface ego.

Primarily in the course of the decades of the 1960’s and 1970’s, westerners – and especially western youth – had been taught to believe that everything is political. Politics – so students were told by highly articulate university professors of various radical persuasions – was just too important to be left to politicians. Oakeshott would himself not deny the importance of the political moment in the life of an individual or in that of a community – but he would be absolutely against the notion that all dimensions of human existence are of a political nature. Such an understanding of life would be an exceedingly narrow understanding of life. Challenging the conventional wisdom that everything in life is political, Oakeshott would argue that what is of much greater importance in life is to preserve and – above all by so preserving – to actually enjoy the best of things already existing around us (cf., for instance, Corey, YouTube, op. cit.). This would mean that the individual would allow himself to both critically consult all of his cultural inheritance, and at the same time to appreciate such inheritance in a personally creative manner. Of course, the art of appreciating and creatively interacting with one’s cultural inheritance is not something that everyone can do – such capability and such will belongs to the (naturally entitled) few. And it is for this reason that the vast majority of a populace (those many-too-many) finds it easier to comfortably lose itself in the ideologies of mass politics. The youth of those many-too-many – in their supposedly educated resentment of what they perceive to be the status quo – devote their fledgling intellectuality to political activism. And thus they assume that everything is political – such an assumption, however, is an assumption expressive of a resentful mediocrity lost in the idol-adorations of various collectivities and sub-collectivities.

For Oakeshott, politics as an activity needs to be strictly delimited and checked in terms of its impact on a person’s life. Above, in our discussion of the politics of faith as opposed to the politics of civil association, we have already noted how Oakeshott would envisage such delimitation and check on politics as a human activity. Political activity, he would argue, is not something to be pursued at all times; and it is not something to be pursued in all places. One might add here that, even were one to assume that politics is present at all times and in all places, the independent individual owes it to his own treasured independence to will his indifference towards such dismal ubiquity – such ubiquity can be (and is) a reality for the amorphous masses, not for his own self-created world. On the other hand, since Oakeshott would be realistic enough to recognize the possible consequences of state or governmental policy with respect to the life of a person (and especially so in the case of the Babelian-type enterprise association), he would go on to qualify his position by adding that political activity would need to be exercised on certain specified occasions – this, however, would be a mere burden on the individual. The duties of such burden would have to be executed as quickly as possible and then expunged completely from the terrain of the self. Yet still, we are all nonetheless fully aware of how certain intellectuals in the history of western literature would make use of their painful experiences in the world of everydayness to inform their own art – consider, for instance, the deeply esoteric work of Rainer Maria Rilke, and how such work would attempt to investigate the relationship between the “essential artist” and the “modern world around him” (cf. Ranjit Rodrigues, “Why Did They Write? Rainer Maria Rilke and George Orwell”, Academia.edu, October 9, 2014, p. 3).

The central Oakeshottian point here is that the concern of the independent individual should not ever be to wish to change the world (and cf. Corey, YouTube, op. cit.). Since, for instance, the patriotic disposition is not a creed, a dogma, or an ideology, such a disposition cannot take the form of an activism bent on changing the world in terms of its own so-called vision. Given that the Oakeshottian understanding of conservatism constitutes a personal taste determining (in part) the individual’s mode of life, such conservatism cannot ever be a matter of engagement with the political ideologies and ideological struggles of society and the world that such society stands for. Of course, this Oakeshottian anti-activist stance interlocks perfectly well with the Nietzschean admonition that the exceptional individual should always stay away from the market-places of the world – therein, we are reminded, it is nothing other than the ideological noise of the great actors and the ideological buzzing of the poison-flies that has come to prevail.

For Oakeshott, civic sentiment – in the very specific sense of individual taste and individual sensibility – should have nothing to do with political activism. The latter constitutes an oversimplification of life itself – and, as such, whatever form of political activism is mere mental vulgarity. Highlighting “Oakeshott’s dismissive view of politics”, Noël K. O’Sullivan goes on to write as follows: “Despite his [Oakeshott’s] praise of patriotism …, he wrote in “The Claims of Politics” (1939) that “political action involves mental vulgarity,” not least because of “the false simplification of life implied in even the best of its purposes” … Although in his late work he valued civic sentiment highly, political activity itself he always regarded with suspicion.” (cf. Noël K. O’Sullivan, op. cit., pp. 212-213).

It is for this reason, therefore, that all forms of politico-ideological resistance – whatever be the alleged high intentions of such resistance – are a manifestation of the vulgar in human thought and conduct. The unrefined or even profane in human thought and conduct cannot possibly be expressive of whichever higher man – to the extent that vulgarity is a reality of human life, it is a reality that most often flourishes amongst the many-too-many and their representatives (and as is all too often the case in the party politics of the western democratic world). And thus, when the exceptional individual finds it necessary (for his own purposes) to have to resist rationalist ideology, he would have to do so within the exceptionalist realm of his own disposition – it would take the form of a dispositional resistance to all rationalist-based morality and the politics of such morality (and being merely dispositional, it could even manifest itself as a personal choice based on one’s self-defined virtue of prejudice). Were such resistance to go beyond the realm of disposition, it would willy-nilly take the form of an ideological resistance. And in that case, the very mode of thinking of the exceptional individual would be a component part – or a so-called organic part – of the ideological sentiments of the many-too-many. It would be a mode of thinking, in other words, that would be as vulgar as that of all idol-adoration.

Now, we well know that, in the history of the western world, there have been numerous cases of exceptional individuals – or exceptional intellectuals – who have found themselves compromising with the mental vulgarity of their age (or compromising with the vulgarity of politics itself). On the one hand, such compromise has constituted their own personal tragedy (and which could take the extreme form of ultimately taking one’s life, as in the case of Stephan Zweig). On the other hand, their compromise may be understood in terms of the exceptional circumstances that had come to surround them – one such exceptional circumstance would be to witness the utter destruction of all the historical and traditional values that one has come to appreciate in one’s life (again as in the case of Zweig).

Circumstantial necessity in the present-day western world has often led exceptional intellectuals to actively engage with the affairs of the world. Any one western society allegedly under siege – or that generally feels itself encircled by what it perceives to be alien cultural forces – could give birth to political movements of a nationalist conservative orientation (this term being expressive of the thinking of Yoram Hazony, the well-known Israeli-American philosopher). Such a society would feel that its own cultural inheritance – that very morality of habit of behaviour defining its own historical identity – is under serious threat. And one may observe that many exceptional intellectuals belonging to such a society would find it necessary – and find it so despite their valued independence as individuals – to participate intellectually in such political movements. They would choose to fuse their libertarian individualism with a collective consciousness of nationalist conservatism (a state of affairs somewhat reminiscent of American 1960’s fusionism, as has been discussed above). Such intellectuals would thereby find themselves having to compromise with the vulgarity of politics. Their very intellectual enterprises – whatever the actual merit of their work, and which is certainly of the highest merit in the case of Hazony – would necessarily be expressive of an entanglement with political ideology, as with the mental vulgarities of all ideological battles. Constituting an entanglement with the so-called great ideological events of the world, the very thought and conduct of such intellectuals could only but seriously undermine their independence as self-rolling wheels (certainly in the Nietzschean sense of this term; though also in the Oakeshottian anti-political sense).

Exceptional intellectuals – or exceptional individuals – that opt to respond to the historical needs of their people may nonetheless survive the consequences of social and ideological entanglement. And they may salvage their independence as self-rolling wheels by intervening in the historical affairs of their people from a safe distance. But it should here also be noted that exceptional intellectuals have more often than not exercised a positive influence on their own people – or predisposed their people towards a particular cultural ethos – in ways that, in the last instance, have been neither deliberate as such nor consciously planned as such on their part.

In direct contrast, those types of exceptional intellectuals who come to devote their lives exclusively to organizing or reorganizing their (besieged) society ideologically – by making their own contribution to that society – do so at the expense of organizing their own selves existentially. Such would be their personal tragedy. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, whatever be the meaningful mode of life for each individual, it would be a mode of life that lies well outside the realm of the market-place and its flies (irrespective of the particular circumstantial needs of the latter). For both, personal tragedy means losing your own self within the swarm of all such flies.

The Oakeshottian position on politics, political struggles, and the battles of political ideology may best be summarized as a position of quietism – and it is a quietism based on a skepticism regarding all things political. It is perhaps Ojel L. Rodriguez Burgos who best encapsulates the political skepticism and the political quietism of the Oakeshottian position – he writes as follows: “Oakeshott’s writings encourage skepticism about human political knowledge, and they repeatedly stress the limitations of what can be achieved in political activity. This approach to conservatism is challenging for many modern conservatives, due to its quietism and the difficulty in formulating a political programme that follows from its acceptance.” (cf. Ojel L. Rodriguez Burgos, op. cit., p. 64).

Oakeshott’s quietism is of course deeply reminiscent of the type of disposition clearly articulated and consciously selected as his own by Nietzsche’s Zarathustra – it is the disposition that is naturally expressive of the exceptional individual, whatever be the circumstances that circumscribe him. The Oakeshottian-type quietism is a position aimed at salvaging the independent individual from what Nietzsche calls the inventors of new noise; or from the noise of the great actors; or from all populace noise and all market-place cackling. Being a quietist position, further, Oakeshottian so-called conservative thinking cannot possibly yield whatever political programme. Formulating whatever programme, in fact, would mean establishing particular formulae for political action – that, however, would immediately smack of the rationalist mode of thinking, which would be self-defeatist for Oakeshottian thinking.

Of course, modern-day western conservatism – and especially that of the New Right variety that has sprouted in the 21st century given its own circumstantial necessities – can only but constitute a political movement. And being a mass political movement, it is characterized by its own mass idol-adoration and its own inevitable false simplifications and mental vulgarities. Oakeshottian quietist thinking, however, is beyond all collectivist movements and the activism that goes with these. Such quietist conservatism is an individualist disposition outside the politics – and the political noise – of whichever western market-place. This is a quintessential Nietzschean-type disposition – it being the mode of self-organization of the exceptional individual. It naturally goes without saying that whatever exclusive focus on the self-organization of personal disposition cannot sit well with political activism and the collectivist mode of thinking that such activism presupposes.

Self-organization is a question of self-selected taste – and taste is a question of a self-selected manner of living one’s life. Oakeshott perhaps best expresses such a position when he considers the question of education. Adopting an obviously anti-rationalist position with respect to all forms of educational practice, Oakeshott argues that true education is not a matter of instilling rules, laws, and formulae in the mind of the learner – doing so would simply amount to ideological indoctrination, or to the imposition of a particular ideological paradigm onto unsuspecting victims. Educational practices should rather be such as to allow the learner to discover and nurture his own manner of life; his own manner of enquiry; and his own personal style (cf. Corey, YouTube, op. cit.). For those learners who shall be capable of ultimately discovering and nurturing their own personal style in life, these would ultimately come to nurture their personal taste as individual and independent self-creators.

The implication is that, for Oakeshott, education should not be a matter of preparing learners to live their future lives as passive supporters of – or as active participants in – ideological movements or collectivities for so-called social justice. Educational practices should not aim at instilling in learners dogmatic formulae of justice – such practices should not, in other words, engender a politics of faith. And we know that all politics of faith is such as to steer educated youth towards supporting the so-called virtues of social justice as a matter of an acutely personal mission (and whereby they lose their person within the mission). Often enough, moreover, the more capable amongst them go on to support the virtues of social justice via an appropriate political or quasi-political career.

The Oakeshottian understanding of education would object to whatever notion that learners should above all be prepared for whatever professional career, be it a career in politics or via some form of political activism (through their participation, for instance, in present-day so-called non-governmental organizations). For Oakeshott, in any case, the primary purpose of education should have little or even nothing to do with the training of learners in the pursuance of a future career – careerism in itself kills the presentness of the independent individual. Above all, education ought to prepare the individual for the cultivation of his personal sensibility.

What does it mean to organize one’s own self around a self-selected personal sensibility? One would have to first of all emphasize that personal sensibility is what Corey (op. cit., p. 128) describes as “a positive alternative” to all types of “servile morality” – such positive alternative Corey further designates as a “liberal morality”, it being a morality of individual freedom beyond the dictates of all rationalist morality (and it is liberalistic in the sense of the libertarian individualist dimension of the conservative disposition).

Now, the personal sensibility of a non-servile morality would mean that the individual’s self does not ever adhere to or obey whatever rules imposed on the individual by the state and the moral dictates of idol-adoration as practiced by the many-too-many. It would mean that the individual’s self does not adhere to any ideology – the individual’s one and only loyalty is to his own self. And it would mean that the individual’s self does not postpone any of its own satisfactions for the future (such postponement being symptomatic of all ideologies).

The self-organization around – and the cultivation of – a personal sensibility, Corey explains, would mean to strive “to live fully in the present” (ibid.). And she continues as follows: “Such morality is learned through observation and action, not by internalizing a set of intellectual principles that are then “applied” to conduct. This kind of morality is natural, creative, and habitual. At its highest reaches, it may also be called aesthetic.” (ibid.).

In what sense is the morality of personal sensibility natural, creative, and (even) habitual? It is natural as it is of the body itself. It is creative as it emanates from the self, it being the productive core of the individual. And it can even be habitual as it borrows consultatively from a people’s morality of habit of behaviour. For the highest man, however, it is above all an aesthetic self-enactment. Being aesthetic, it is a supreme moral disposition.

At its most unexacting and rudimentary level, personal sensibility means satisfying the real needs and desires of the autonomous individual. As such, it adopts a position of quiet indifference towards all abstract ideals and all socially constructed systems of ideology. All versions of abstract ideology and the particular ideologies of various collectivities can only but remain alien and unnatural to the personal sensibility of the concrete, independent individual. We know that such a stance has most brilliantly been presented to us by Henry James’s The Bostonians, where the real needs and desires of the conservative-minded Basil Ransom are set in a revealing juxtaposition to the grandiose pomposity of a supercilious feminism as practiced by a particular female collectivity (and cf., especially, chapter xxxviii of the novel).

In the case of the exceptional individual, such real needs and desires take the form of a higher individualistic aesthetic creativity. We shall here need to delve a little bit deeper into the intricacies of such aesthetic morality and its aesthetic taste. Such morality and such taste would have much wider implications with respect to the self-organization of thought and conduct on the part of the exceptional individual – and these too, we intend to consider in some greater detail.

In his discussion of the sublime ones, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra tells us that all of life revolves around just one basic issue – and that issue is nothing other than that of aesthetic taste. The question of taste has always remained a disputed question in the life of human beings – and it is always the particular manner in which such dispute is settled that has determined the differentiation between the higher man and all the rest. Zarathustra speaks as follows: “And ye tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting! … Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas, for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and scales and weigher!” (p. 114).

But then Nietzsche’s Zarathustra shall go on to utter a thought that shall sound absolutely outrageous to all the rest – taste, he shall tell us, is neither good nor bad in terms of the truths of society. What truly matters is that taste be absolutely and exclusively expressive of the exceptional individual – and none other. And absolutely so. This is what he declares to the world: “Neither a good nor a bad taste, but my taste, of which I have no longer either shame or secrecy.” (p. 190). That is precisely how the exceptional individual settles his own dispute around the question of taste, aesthetics, and the morality of such aesthetic taste. Such internal settlement, however, must necessarily involve a series of self-consultative procedures that shall have to be further illuminated below – and we shall obviously have to investigate such self-consultative procedures since the vital question remains as to exactly how the exceptional individual does finally come to decide on his own particular taste.

Zarathustra’s radical position on self-taste may be restated in a slightly different manner – and by so restating it the real implications of such a position shall be further highlighted. Taste, it is said, determines the individual – and it is a particular type of taste that determines the exceptional individual. This determinant is the latter’s unique taste – being unique and accountable to no one, it is a prejudiced taste. It is a unique and prejudiced taste that can never be reduced to a replica or to a reflection (or even a mediated reflection) of the social values and the social ideals of the many-too-many. This constitutes a uniqueness and a prejudice that organizes the aesthetically reproductive self of the exceptional individual, and it does so outside all of the rest in the world that surrounds that individual. As an organizational mechanism of the individual, taste can be neither good nor bad vis-à-vis the set values of society – and such values can be either of the state-imposed ideological type, or they can be of the type belonging to a traditional morality of habit of behaviour, or they can even be a combination of these. For the exceptional individual, aesthetic taste is just, just because it is the self-organizing mechanism of his own individuality. That is his one and only virtue – and none ought to share it, or mimic it (as monkeys would).

As in the case of Nietzschean thought, so too would Oakeshott insist that life is a question of taste – for him too, aesthetics is the sine qua non of life. Immersed as he was in the tradition of Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater, he would (as did Roger Scruton later on) think of life in primarily aesthetic terms. Aesthetics and individual taste – it is this dimension of life that, for Oakeshott, truly matters (and cf. Corey, YouTube, op. cit.).

Corey considers Oakeshott’s appreciation of poetry (and the aesthetic moment in general) as the one and only mode of authentic being for the free individual as his most significant contribution to his critique of rationalism – and it is this treatment of life in the spirit of art that allows Oakeshottian thinking to present us with an alternative understanding of the individual’s fee self-organization in the world. She writes as follows: “To treat life in the spirit of art and to pursue activities in which human conduct may best display its “poetic character” is to reject the Rationalist conception of life …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 121).

Free self-organization in the spirit of art is conducive to an aesthetic (or liberal) morality – and such morality is the direct opposite to servile (or Babelian-type) morality. Aesthetic morality is such as to activate the individual as a self-rolling wheel, wherein life is creativity as an end in itself. In contrast, servile morality is a mode of life wherein creativity itself is servile to Babelian idol-adoration. Aesthetic morality creates for the mere sake of creating – it is an essentially non-purposive activity. Servile morality, on the other hand, is such as to be chained to past shame and past secrecy; and it is such as to be chained to the chimerical needs of whatever future utopia. With respect to the non-purposive character of aesthetic morality and its practices, Corey writes as follows: “… poetry (by which Oakeshott means all kinds of artistic activity, as well as contemplation) takes on a radically nonpurposive character in which it may be enjoyed entirely as an end in itself, with no thought for past or future … some such conception of experience also informs Oakeshott’s views on morality … It is what I term “liberal” or “aesthetic” morality, as opposed to the “servile” morality that Oakeshott criticizes.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 18).

Now, when the exceptional individual willfully selects to organize his individuality around a morality informed by the aesthetic, non-purposive moment, he at the same time willfully selects to organize his individuality around a very personal – and therefore an absolutely exclusive – sense of justice. This understanding of justice resonates perfectly well with the Nietzschean position on justice. We may here remind ourselves of how Nietzsche’s Zarathustra expresses himself on the matter: it is the Superman, he says, that he has at heart – “that is”, he continues, “the first and only thing to me – and not man; not the neighbour, not the poorest, not the sorriest …” (p. 277). It is not even “the best” (ibid.) amongst the many-too-many that is of any concern to Zarathustra. The aesthetic, non-purposive moment of the exceptional individual does not care for whatever notion of social justice; and it cannot even care for whatever notion of human justice, or for a justice-centered humanism. The aesthetic, non-purposive moment of the exceptional individual cares only for its own self-justice. And it is for this reason that Nietzsche writes of “So much justice and pity, so much weakness.” (p. 165).

By rejecting the imposition of the ideology of social justice (and even that of a justice-centered humanism, for this, too, is an ideology) – the exceptional individual can only recognize his own concept of justice vis-à-vis himself and others. Such sense of self-justice emanates from the aesthetic workings of the self-cum-body as supreme ruler of the individual. It therefore emanates from the individual as a private disposition – one’s sense of justice is thus merely a question of private taste.

Justice as private disposition and private taste would determine (or, rather, organize) the thought and conduct of the individual – such sense of justice constitutes a conscious movement away from all social ideologies of social or human justice towards the justice of the sovereign individual. Such an understanding of justice, however, would not in whatever manner threaten the freedom of others – and it could not threaten the freedom of others as it would be based on a disposition of aristocratic indifference towards the many-too-many. We have already discussed how the exceptional individual is exceptional only unto himself, and therefore tolerant of the non-exceptionality of others.

The aesthetic moment of the exceptional individual, as also the sense of sovereign self-justice of that individual, are both dimensions of the morality of individuality. But the morality of individuality is an expression of the individual will. And the individual will is an expression of one’s self-determination. We shall here need to further investigate the notion of individual will, as also the notion of self-determination.

Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott are, in the last instance, concerned with the lived experience of the individual in society – and they are concerned with such actual lived experience of concrete persons because they wish to emphasize the vital importance of the will of the individual and his self-determination within the society that circumscribes him.

And it is for this very reason that Oakeshott would undertake a critique of the conventional political theories articulated by most of his contemporaries. Most such theories, he would argue, are not grounded upon the concrete experience of concrete individuals – most such theories are based on abstract ideological categories that are deliberately forgetful of both individual experience and of individual will (cf. StJohnsPipeCasts, op. cit). If one truly wishes to understand western society, Oakeshott would argue, one would have to avoid the ideal as much as that be possible, and one would have to avoid all abstractions – attempting to understand the world in terms of ideal types and in terms of abstract constructions drives one’s understanding of life in the real world outside the realities of individual experience (cf. StJohnsPipeCasts, ibid.). But it is precisely therein – viz. within that realm of individual experience – that one may identify the workings of the will, as also the workings of the absence of the will. It is precisely therein that one may witness the self-willed and self-determined individual, but as also the willed, servile morality, of the person (as willed, that is, by state-imposed ideology). And it is only once one has identified such forms of experience within individual experience that one can then go on to identify either exceptional individuality or the loss of all individuality within the many-too-many (the latter being, not an abstract sociological category, but a concrete manifestation of the loss of the morality of individuality).

If we are to at all understand so-called politics, we would have to understand such politics in the context of individual practice (and cf. StJohnsPipeCasts). And to do so, one would first have to delimit the practice of the moment of politics in its operation as structures and practices, and move from such structures and practices on to the individual as an entity expressive of a particular mode of being. For the many-too-many, of course, it is the ideology imbuing such structures and practices of the political moment that animates both body and mind (in their own respective practices). For the exceptional individual, in contrast, the delimitation of politics means placing the will in command. Here, practice is individual practice, and it is the practice of the individual will; the practice of the individual will is the practice of the individual’s disposition and taste; it is therefore the practice of the individual’s aesthetics; and it is therefore also the practice of the individual’s virtue – it is, in other words, the practice of the individual’s own world as centered around the self-body axis.

Individual will is here the mechanism of individual self-organization. At least as regards the exceptional individual, this presupposes the operation of a free will. What is free will? We know that western philosophy (as also western theology) has much tormented itself since time immemorial with this particular question – and surely rightly so. And yet, it seems to have addressed such question of free will always in keeping with the all-consuming social ideology of political correctness whereby all and sundry have an equal and fair access to the possibility – or the relative impossibility – of free will. The problem of free will, in other words, is dealt with in a general, abstract manner based on the assumption that all are either capable of acting according to their free will or are victims of the absence of such free will, or find themselves falling somewhere in-between such two extreme situations. What western philosophy has rarely done is to address the matter in terms of the concrete individual – some individuals are simply more free than others to identify, to inform, and to exercise their own free will. Such an individual capacity can depend on a variety of factors – above all, however, it depends on the level of intelligence of the particular individual (and we know how much of a taboo issue it is for political correctness to even raise the question of an unequal distribution of intelligence amongst human beings). Free will, it may be argued, depends on the intelligence of the individual – and intelligence is one mark of the exceptional individual. Oakeshott himself does not much beat about the bush in his attempt to explain the practice of free will – he offers us a simple and lucid explanation of such human capacity, it being an explanation that cannot escape the matter of intelligence. For him, free will is responding to one’s situation and constructing one’s own situation via one’s intelligent engagement. The implication is that free will is exercised when the individual operates in a consciously intelligent manner beyond mere animal instincts – human will, in other words, is human intelligence. Corey presents the Oakeshottian position on free will as follows: “A person may be said to have a free will, according to Oakeshott, “because his response to his situation, like his situation itself, is the outcome of an intelligent engagement.” Without an intelligence that can recognize alternatives of better or worse, more and less desirable, actions must be determined simply by organic urges and animal instincts. Human “will” is thus equivalent to human intelligence.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 40).

When Oakeshott designates the will as “intelligence in doing” (ibid.), he immediately recognizes the possibility of human freedom (and therefore the possibility for self-organization and self-determination) – and this is naturally of vital importance both for the Nietzschean and the Oakeshottian intellectual enterprises. But the designation of the will as intelligence in doing may also be said to imply a rejection of deterministic explanations of human behaviour in general. It is this Oakeshottian rejection of deterministic explanations of human behaviour that allows Corey to point to at least one dimension of the striking parallels between the thinking of Oakeshott and that of Augustine. On this, she writes as follows: “There are other striking parallels between Oakeshott and Augustine. Coats [i.e. Wendell John Coats Jr., whose work has explored Oakeshott’s thinking in relation to his contemporaries] highlights both writers’ preoccupation with human freedom, pointing out that both argue against deterministic explanations of human behaviour.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 28).

Of course, it is definitely beyond all doubt – and as we have seen elsewhere in this paper – that Oakeshottian thinking had been deeply influenced by Augustinianism. On the other hand, and despite the Augustinian influences in Oakeshottian thinking, one may nonetheless point out that the literal implications of the Oakeshottian concept of intelligence in doing can introduce a major qualification to the anti-deterministic explanation of all of human conduct. It surely goes without saying that since human freedom is based on human intelligence, and since human intelligence is not at all evenly distributed, human freedom is itself not evenly distributed. There are therefore those who do possess the necessary intelligence to respond to and to reconstruct situations in accordance with their own individual free will. And there are also those who simply allow themselves to be determined by others. One sees that, in the case of the latter, the deterministic explanation of human behaviour does apply – and it can apply when whatever intelligence in doing is reduced to the mass mediocrity of the many-too-many (or when reduced to crowd psychology, as Gustave Le Bon would put it in his 1895 study of the popular mind).

Self-organization and self-determination is an entitlement based, inter alia, on intelligence (and especially that type of independent intelligence that stands outside the psychology of the crowd). And it is only the Nietzschean higher man who is so entitled – for it is only he who is capable of re-imagining his life in terms of his own aesthetic creativity. In his On Human Conduct, Oakeshott would himself refer to that type of individual who simply has the nerve to live his life as a “self-employed adventurer of unpredictable fancy” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 21).

Now, there is a sense in which the question of self-organization and self-determination can be somewhat paradoxical. It may be argued that that type of person who does not wish to be an adventurer of unpredictable fancy – and who thereby simply wishes to have his life be determined and protected by others – has actually chosen to live that mode of life. His self-determination, in other words, is such as to be other-determined (and by other we mean the ideological operations of the state and the idol-adoration of the masses). But, here again, this would be a choice based on the absence of an intelligent will – it would be a choice expressive of a blind submission to the animal instincts of mere survival (or of a survival in the mass consumerist culture of the modern western world). Here, we would not have a choice based on the independent intelligence of the free individual – it would be a choice blindly expressive of the impulses and instincts of the collectivity. One may therefore speak here of a crowd intelligence in doing, and which Nietzsche has referred to as the plebeian ignorance of the rabble.

On the basis of such a clarification, we may therefore say that we have here two types of choices that help describe the mode of being of any individual person – and it is this clash between these two radically different types of choices that has come to define the history of western civilization: we have here either a choice that is dependent on this-worldly activity and the state that organizes such activity, or a choice based on absolute self-determination (and where statal politics would merely be a second order activity). This either/or distinction is clearly evident throughout much of the thinking of Oakeshott – Corey presents this truly radical differentiation between self-determination and other-determination as follows: “One can either put one’s hopes in worldly activity, viewing human activity and government as ways of achieving fulfillment, or one can reject the idea that government or, for that matter, any kind of human achievement can ever offer the fulfillment desired. Oakeshott’s own opinion on the matter is clearly expressed in a verse from Samuel Johnson that he quotes in an early notebook on Plato’s Republic: How small, of all that human hearts endure, / The part which laws or kings can cause or cure … Politics is a distinctly second-order activity for Oakeshott, though this is not to say that it is unimportant. A properly ordered politics is a necessary prerequisite for the kind of fulfillment that can only be achieved outside the political realm.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 22).

The Oakeshottian reference to cause or cure should here be noted – and it should be noted since it bears directly on the question of determinism. For those who put their hopes in this-worldly activity and in the state and/or government, their wished-for fulfillment depends on external forces. By being dependent on such external forces, the lives of such people are caused and presumably cured by such forces, these forces being primarily the state and the collectivity collecting around that state. In such case, one may say, laws do deterministically cause (and attempt to cure) that which the collective human heart endures. Even internal contradictions within state structures, and whatever attendant extra-statal practices, are themselves, in the last instance, more or less overdetermined in some way or another. The collective human heart – as a mass entity – allows itself to be moved in accordance with the laws of the market-place. Being so moved, its hoped-for self-fulfillment continuously awaits for the dawn of its own little utopias – that is its protective illusion. This may be contrasted to the intelligence in doing of the independent individual – this is such as to remain supremely indifferent to the worldly affairs caused by all of this-worldly law. And by maintaining this supreme indifference, it is in no need of whatever cure emanating from that law. The political moment is peripheralized – self-fulfillment is outside the realm of the political. The very concept of human achievement in the world of the market-place (an ideological concept) is redefined by the self-determined individual. The very concept of hope (also an ideological concept pointing to the future) is absolutely rejected – presentness takes its place. And thus all of human need is redefined – remember Nietzsche’s “O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need …” (p. 208). Such self-defined need is neither caused nor cured by state law – the latter is just too small to cover either of the two, these being what the independent individual has selected to endure.

The independent individual is responsible for who he is and who he becomes. And it may also be said that the dependent individual is himself responsible for who he is and what he becomes. The former is and cultivates his own self; the latter is what he is as cultivated by external causes and cures. Keeping in mind the ineluctable divergence in the levels of human will and intelligence – and how some hope for their self-fulfillment via the collectivity (the anti-individualists) while others proudly abide by their own morality of individuality – Oakeshott often wishes to celebrate the self-determined being. This would constitute the more optimistic dimension of his thinking with respect to the western world (though he could often be all too terribly pessimistic in much of his work). With an emphasis on the celebratory approach to the question of human self-determination, Corey wishes to present the more optimistic side of Oakeshott – and so she writes as follows: “Oakeshott … argues throughout his corpus that each person is responsible for who he becomes. Each of us is “wholly responsible for his own experience; each makes his own choices and conducts his own life on the basis of judgments he makes by reflecting on his own experience of the world.” Oakeshott believed that human beings are unavoidably self-determined and that there is no single pattern of conduct to be imposed upon them.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 29).

To the extent that the individual retains his individuality, there can of course be no single pattern of conduct that can be imposed on him either by the state or by the collectivist truths of the many-too-many. The populace, of course, is itself responsible for its own collective choices and collective truths – but such choices and truths, being collective, do constitute a more or less single (or more or less uniform) pattern of conduct. All uniform patterns of thought and conduct can only but remain alien to him who conserves his own individuality.

The individual that conserves his individuality does so because he delights in his own self, and he does so because he delights in the life such self experiences. Since he delights in his own self and its experiences, he demarcates the limits of the state and government vis-à-vis himself. He sees the whole of the political moment as an essentially inferior activity of the second order – this, and as has already been expounded on, is the specifically Oakeshottian understanding of the so-called conservative disposition towards whatever political. The type of individual who adopts such a disposition does so because he wishes to salvage as much room as possible for his own personal delight. Oakeshott himself describes the disposition of the so-called conservative individualist as follows: “Indeed, a disposition to be conservative in respect of government would seem to be pre-eminently appropriate to men who have something to do and something to think about on their own account, who have a skill to practice or an intellectual fortune to make, to people whose passions do not need to be inflamed, whose desires do not need to be provoked and whose dreams of a better world need no prompting. Such people know the value of a rule which imposes orderliness without directing enterprise, a rule which concentrates duty so that room is left for delight.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 194).

The individual who delights in his own self as a self-rolling wheel is also that type of individual who delights in life as such – he has that sense, as Roger Scruton would put it, that the world per se is lovable. He delights in his own free choice, and he delights in his own moral creativity. The latter is a test of the level of individual intelligence – it is also that which comes to form one’s character. As Corey puts it: “… the formation of character through intelligent choice is a kind of moral creativity.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 40).

To delight in a life that is lovable is to delight in that free space that one forges for one’s self so as to indulge in the play of one’s moral-cum-aesthetic creativity – that is the room that one salvages for one’s own self, it being a room outside state and populace. What exactly is it that thrives within such room? That which thrives is none other than the focused genius of the exceptional individual. What does such genius focus on? What is it interested in? In his 1939 essay entitled “The Claims of Politics”, Oakeshott contrasts all of political activity or all of political activism to the work of “those whose genius and interest lie in the fields of literature, art, and philosophy.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 107). What is presupposed here is that the individual, not only salvages a room for his own delight, but also possesses the genius to know what to do within that room – this, of course, is the well-known free for what question tabled by Nietzsche himself. The Oakeshottian position expressive of the self-determining adventurers of unpredictable fancy further presupposes that such adventurers are well versed in the fields of literature, art, and philosophy. For such type of individual, whatever form of political activity can only but be a boring and simplistic mental vulgarity. One may of course reason as a political theorist, but one may reason in such manner precisely so as to understand why politics is a killer of literature, art, and philosophy qua activities that inform the self-determination of the individual.

And so it goes without saying that Oakeshott’s apparent celebration of the self-determined being comes with its highly significant caveats – and the basic underlying caveat is that of the human reality of inequality. Oakeshott argues for a clear-cut distinction between, on the one hand, the poet, the artist, and the philosopher, and, on the other, those who belong to the ordinary folk. These are two different categories of people – like Nietzsche (but certainly more so), Oakeshott is courteously respectful of most such ordinary folk. And while Nietzsche, as already noted above, simply declares that he is not unfriendly to the hens and is courteous towards them, Oakeshott places all of his hopes (with respect to western civilization) in the morality of habit of behaviour as carried by the ordinary folk.

This clear-cut distinction between the exceptional individual and the ordinary people is definitely evident throughout the Oakeshottian enterprise – for one, his distinction between the state as an enterprise association and the state as a civil association points to the distinction between the many-too-many dependent on the protection of the state and those individualist alien sojourners who are in little need of whatever state. But such distinction between the exceptional individual and the populace as ordinary folk is perhaps most lucidly articulated in his essay, “The Claims of Politics”. Corey informs us as that this particular essay “marks the beginning of Oakeshott’s move toward separating out the poet and artist as persons who, like the philosopher, are somehow different from ordinary folk. At the very least, he has begun to question the appropriateness of placing the poet and artist unambiguously within practice [viz. within the practice of everydayness and its materialist survivalism].” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 108).

The Oakeshottian distinction between the poet/artist and the rest of the ordinary folk in society is of course reminiscent of the Nietzschean distinction between the Overman and the many-too-many. This Oakeshottian qualitative differentiation between types of persons and the corresponding Nietzschean discrimination between the Overman and the rest – both pointing to the archetypal fact of human inequality – may be compared and contrasted in a near-endless variety of ways. But the basic differentiation or discrimination is in any case common to both thinkers – being common, one needs to come up with some shared understanding of what it is that makes one exceptional as a person and what it is that does not.

It seems quite impossible, however, to come up with some serious definition of the type of individual who stands out from the ordinary folk and who qualifies as exceptional. Whatever attempt at such a definition would amount to an abstract formula – and, as we know, all formulae simplify the rich complexities of life. It is at any rate life itself that determines the exceptional in its own mysterious ways, whoever and whatever that may be.

But very generally speaking, one could make a number of rough observations regarding individual exceptionality. We may identify at least three general categories of the exceptional individual as these have appeared in the history of the western world.

The first clear category is that of the Nietzschean Übermensch – viz. he who lives absolutely beyond the expectations of the other; who adopts a self-determining mode of life beyond whatever be the ensuing consequences (and which could be tragic); and who is in no need of whatever social recognition. It is difficult to point to concrete examples of such types of persons – one may think of cases which satisfy some of the suggested criteria, though rarely all of these criteria and all at the same time. It may be someone absolutely devoted to his own artistic, intellectual or creative enterprise irrespective of the truths, fashions and expectations of those around him – one may here tentatively speak of someone truly outstanding in the history of the western world, such as the polymath Leonardo da Vinci. Or it may even be someone completely unknown to the world but who is nonetheless extraordinarily self-willed in his own terrain of life, such as Hemingway’s old fisherman, Santiago.

The second clear category would include all those types of individuals who are absolutely devoted to both their personal freedom and their own creative enterprise while nonetheless – and right at the same time – being fully cognizant of the superiority of others (of those others, that is, belonging to the first category). This second category of the exceptional type of person would be willing to sincerely admire and celebrate the superiority of others – he would not be dismayed by such superiority (or by the implicit inequality). This type of person would display (and do so unto himself) a humility towards the superior, but which would be a humility absolutely devoid of whatever humiliation. One may perhaps rather tentatively refer here to the brilliant theoretical physicist (and as brilliant a teacher) Leonard Susskind, and his humble – though not ever humbling – admiration of the thinking of Richard Feynman.

The third category would be more profuse in terms of numbers – it would include the Oakeshottian-type cives bent on self-determination outside the protective embrace of the state as enterprise association.

All three categories – and despite their hierarchical discrimination in terms of quality of will and intellect – would be expressive of the Oakeshottian self-employed, purposeless adventurer. All would be characterized by that non-deterministic unpredictable fancy of self-creativity.

It is Corey who best sketches this Oakeshottian understanding of the diverse variety of the exceptional individual, or of that exceptional group of individuals within a society that steers clear of forming a uniform collectivity. In a passage that is truly worth contemplating in all its rich details, and which is based on Oakeshott’s On Human Conduct, she writes as follows: “The characters who appear on this stage [viz. the player’s stage of life itself] are, however, infinitely diverse. Though they share the disposition to enjoy freedom, they are not all masterful egoists in the image of Aristotle’s magnanimous man or Nietzsche’s Übermensch. Some, of course, may be of this type, “careless of the concerns of others” and disdaining “consequences or recognition” in their self-assured courses. But others embrace their freedom even as they display an “undismayed acknowledgement and admiration of the superiority of others” and a “humility devoid of humiliation.” All these lovers of freedom, however, share the disposition to “prefer the road to the inn, ambulatory conversation to deliberation about means for achieving ends, the rules of the road to direction about how to reach a destination.” … This, then, is the character of the cives who engage in civil association … They have learned to enjoy the “purposelessness” that may be intentionally cultivated even in a world that prioritizes enterprise and achievement.” (cf. Corey, ibid., pp. 184-185).

The exceptionally superior Übermensch, as also the freedom-loving exceptional individual who cherishes his humility in celebrating the superiority of others, as also the freedom-loving cive who does not need to be directed by others in reaching his own destination – all these constitute types of individuals that are absolutely independent of the ideological dictates of modern western mass civilization while at the same time being children of that civilization. And it is this type of modern mass civilization that celebrates mediocrity and stigmatizes exceptionality – and does so all in the name of the ideology of equality. Above, we have noted – following Noël K. O’Sullivan – how Oakeshott would share with Nietzsche a contempt (if that be the appropriate term) for the mediocrity of modern mass civilization. And we have also noted how Oakeshott would share with Nietzsche this critical need to distinguish – or even discriminate – between the morality of the independent individual and the collective morality of the anti-individual. The latter, we further noted, does not wish to make any life-choices for himself; he harbours feelings rather than coherent thoughts; he is motivated by mass-based impulses rather than independently arrived at personal options; he is characterized by personal inabilities rather than personal passions.

And so, whatever understanding of self-determination would have to be based on this need to separate the poet/artist/philosopher from all ordinary folk. It would, however, also have to be based on the need to distinguish – within the very ranks of that ordinary folk – the individualist from the anti-individualist. The latter is emblematic of the mediocrity of modern mass civilization – the former lives both within that civilization and outside of it.

The fact that the individualist also lives outside of his own civilization requires of us to briefly reconsider the status of the independent self versus the all-inclusive Babelian-type state. One may say that the relationship between the individualist and the state is both simple and complex. The self-determined individual who organizes his own self and its disposition vis-à-vis an all-inclusive state is faced by the simple hostility of both state and its populace. And yet, it may also be argued that the exceptionally superior individual (he, at least, if not also those of relatively humbler intellectual capabilities) could ultimately have a long-term impact on society, and could do so in terms of the inauguration of new values within that society. This is the complex dimension of the relationship between the exceptional individual and the society he lives in. It is a complex dimension because the new impact on values may be completely unintentional, indirect, and even absolutely distortive of the original thought of the exceptional individual (but, then, such problematic type of impact may not necessarily apply – it would all depend on the conjunctural circumstances of the day, as it would also depend on which section of the populace actually receives the impact).

How may we here reconsider the interface between the independent self and the state? On the one hand, we know that the independent self is expressive of a private disposition – and we also know that the state (as an enterprise association) wishes to crush whatever private disposition by systematically displacing it with the imposition of collective moral values, a potpourri of collective aesthetic dogmas, and a variety of collective political ideologies. And so it is that the independently disposed individual does not love whatever relates to politics, political discourses, and political practices (and cf. Corey, YouTube, op. cit.). One may here observe that, while the many-too-many may have a love-hate relationship with the state and government, they all do love to talk of politics, political parties, and the on-going political affairs of the day. We have also noted, however, that the self-determined individual has himself no choice but to recognize the relative importance of politics, given the attempted all-inclusive role of the modern western state as an enterprise association and its incursion into the private life of the individual.

Oakeshott has described the befitting interface between the self-determined individual and the state/government in very lucid terms – wishing to define “the appropriate attitude to a government”, he tells us that such an attitude is “not love or devotion or affection”. It should, rather, be “loyalty …, respect and some suspicion.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 192). One’s attitude ought to be loyal and respectful to the extent that the state/government functions as neutral umpire preserving social peace amongst citizens – but one should also maintain a certain suspicion as the state/government comes to assume functions outside the strict limits of a civil association.

Now, it is absolutely important to emphasize that the Oakeshottian understanding of the interface between the self-determined individual and the state is, in fact, a deeply radical position. In what exact sense is such position radical? One may say that the self-determining individual, while maintaining a conservative – and at the same time a deeply a-political – disposition with respect to the state and all forms of government, it is also a potentially extreme disposition with respect to any other form of human activity. Such potential extremism with respect to all of possible human activity (but well outside of the political moment) is none other than the Nietzschean radicalism of the independent self-rolling wheel.

Oakeshott is clearly and consciously emphatic with respect to the radicalism expressive of the self-determined individual – he writes as follows: “it is not at all inconsistent to be conservative in respect of government and radical in respect of almost every other activity.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 195).

This revolutionary disposition with respect to every (or almost any) other human activity outside the realm of the state and outside the realm of ideological idol-adoration could yield a free and open experimentation around questions pertaining to the possible advent of new values (moral, social), and it could yield a free and open experimentation around questions pertaining to the possible advent of new aesthetic sensibilities. What we are saying is that the creative work of the exceptionally superior individual can have, in the course of history and in the last unintentional instance, a potential impact on the moral and/or aesthetic values of the society to which that individual belongs (or on the civilization as a whole of which he is its child).

Such unintentional instances of western history wherein society (or sections of that society) has received the impact of the creative work of the exceptionally superior individual have of course occurred, and they have not been infrequent. But here the question is this: how may the exceptionally superior individual ultimately have a certain impact on the values of society? Or: how might the exceptionally superior individual ultimately have had such impact despite belonging to the Nietzschean understanding of that category of Übermensch that is said to be the least known? Such types of questions are of special interest for our purpose here – and they are of special interest as they obviously do touch on the matter of the self-organization of the individual. Would the independent, self-creative enterprise of the exceptional individual be in any way compromised when the fruits of his creativity happen to be received by society itself? Would such reception have some kind of impact on his own life and work?

To begin with, when we speak of new values or new aesthetic sensibilities we mean values and sensibilities that consult the inheritance and the artistic canons of time-past. This would mean that such new values and aesthetic sensibilities have absolutely nothing to do with the ideological noise produced by the state and its famous wise ones. Nietzsche would himself draw a sharp distinction between what he would consider to constitute new values as such and what he would call new noise. The latter is an invention of organic intellectuals usually responding to so-called great events; new values as such are expressive of the creative enterprise of individuals belonging to the category of the Übermensch.

Unlike mass ideological noise, new values neither reflect nor respond to the so-called great events of the day – they can germinate, hibernate and silently circulate in the stillest hours of a particular civilization. In our case, what concerns us here are those stillest hours of western civilization. And these new values can gradually come to the surface of the civilization in ways that are inaudible and imperceptible, and well outside the noise of both state and the many-too-many. In his highly critical discussion of great events, Nietzsche writes as follows: “And believe me, friend Hollaballoo! The greatest events – are not our noisiest, but our stillest hours … Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new values, doth the world revolve; inaudibly it revolveth.” (p. 129).

Nietzsche wishes to insist that new values – creations of the exceptional individual – can germinate, hibernate, silently circulate, and ultimately have an important impact on the world, and do so even to the extent that that world comes to revolve around these particular values. While Nietzsche therefore clearly recognizes the possible impact of the creators of new values on a particular society, the quality and configuration of such impact remains an open – a historically open – question. So does the very specific manner in which such impact actually happens.

Very much like Nietzsche, Oakeshott himself recognizes the potential impact of the poet, the artist and/or the philosopher on a particular society. Corey notes that, for Oakeshott, “those who “create and recreate” the values of society are … designated as the poet, the artist, and the philosopher.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 107). The important – albeit somewhat elusive – implication here is that it is not at all the politicians that are the creators and re-creators of the values of society. With respect to this apparently delimiting role of the politicians (and their politics) on the values of a society, Corey further explains the Oakeshottian position as follows: “As Oakeshott observes in a 1939 essay entitled “The Claims of Politics”, although the achievements of politics are significant [viz. as a necessary activity to lessen the consequences of human conflict], they are by no means “the most valuable things in the communal life of a society.” The “real” life of a society inheres in the activity of artists and poets and of all those who “create and recreate the values of their society” …” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 180).

One might therefore say that, like Nietzsche, Oakeshott does not see the politicians (and their famous wise ones) as those who have the deepest impact – in the last historical and unintentional instance – on the life of a society. While the impact of the state (and its ideological state apparatuses) remains all-inclusive in its intentional functionality, such impact is nonetheless essentially ephemeral and ultimately constrained by the bounds of conjunctural contingencies. And the impact of state ideology is ephemeral since it is incapable of establishing a deeply-rooted and long-lasting morality of habit of behaviour.

But now, and having said this, one also needs to reiterate a number of highly important provisos with respect to social value-creation – these provisos must naturally refer us back to whatever we have already reflected on as regards the functions of the modern western, and especially Babelian-type, state (either as presented to us by Nietzsche in his Thus Spake Zarathustra, or as presented to us by Oakeshott’s analysis of the western state as enterprise association). One cannot but observe that the Babelian-type state has been able to produce mass ideological paradigms that have no (or little) need for whatever forms of a traditional morality of habit of behaviour – and when that type of state does make use of such morality, it does so by manipulating its content to serve its own purposes (remember Nietzsche’s presentation of the state as a thief of the values of time-past). By destroying, displacing, or distorting such types of traditional moralities, the state’s organic intellectuals are able to establish new ideological spaces that function as substitutes for these moralities – and therein they are able to invent grand ideological narratives that mould generations upon generations of western citizens who come to gradually forget (or even consciously look down on) whatever self-determined moralities of habit of behaviour had once signified their own identities as a people. The point is that such grand narratives of grand ideological noise cannot easily be taken to be merely ephemeral. Within such circumstances, little or minimal space would be left for the creators of new values outside state apparatuses (outside institutions such as universities or, say, the press) to have any serious moral or aesthetic impact on society. And to such constricting circumstances as regards the social role of independent intellectuals, one should also add a pinch – and what a pinch indeed – of Heideggerian pessimism. We refer here to the rise and the all too grossly ostentatious role of the global subject within the politico-economic structures of the western world (and of course well beyond that by now). Such global subject, it is said, “is now free to impose its techno-think and techno-do on everything there is and to dictate the terms to which significance (being) must conform.” (cf. Thomas Sheehan, “Heidegger’s Being and Time – Paraphrased and Annotated”, Academia.edu, 2025, p. xxiii).

Based on such observations, one must draw the conclusion that politicians (and the famous wise ones of the state and its apparatuses) do or can have a deep and lasting impact on modern-day western society (and that, despite the at times problematic Nietzschean presentation of the Superman as the type of exceptional individual that shall ultimately salvage humanity from the state; and that, despite the at times elusive presentation of the political moment in the Oakeshottian intellectual enterprise).

And thus, one needs to reconsider the relationship between the state, the various types of creators of values, and the many-too-many. For Nietzsche – as also for Oakeshott – we surmise that there are at least two different types of creators, and the differentiation between these is quite clear-cut. There are, on the one hand, the famous wise ones – these are the servants of the state and of the populace itself. Their impact on society may be ephemeral, conjunctural or contingent on particular needs, depending on as particular historical circumstances. Or their impact can be deep and long-lasting, again depending on very particular historical circumstances. Either way, they are the servants of a superfluous populace – and being mere servants of a superfluous mass of people, their status as authentic creators can be rather dubious. They may in fact merely reflect the needs and fashions of the day, but can do so in an especially articulate manner. On the other hand, there are the exceptional individuals – the Oakeshottian poets, artists, and philosophers – who are not of their society and its market-place. These can be the least known or the most misunderstood (and who are more often than not deliberately misinterpreted). Their work often does have an untimely impact on society – but its reception may be mediated and distorted by a variety of extraneous social forces; or it may more deeply and even directly impact on certain sections and/or individuals of a particular western society. For these types of creative or self-creative intellectuals who refuse to operate as anyone’s servants, the question of self-organization – the particular forms it takes – is obviously of absolutely central importance.

The mesh of relationships between the state, these two basic types of creators as discussed above, and the many-too-many, can take a number of forms – the consideration of all such relationships is of vital interest as it can again bear heavily on the question of the self-organization of the independent creator. A serious analysis of these various types of relationships is well beyond our purposes. Very schematically, however, one may simply point to three different forms of relationships particularly applying to the independent creator within his own society. All three forms are what we may call discordant relationships – the content of these relationships is nonetheless quite dissimilar.

Firstly, the independent creator of values – the morally and aesthetically self-rolling individual – is in a discordant relationship with the state and the political moment in general. He wishes to live and think well beyond the boundaries of all aspects of the political – politics simply bore him with their insufferable vulgarity.

Secondly, the independent creator of values is in a discordant relationship with the many-too-many as a whole. He is nonetheless courteous but supremely indifferent towards them and their slavish-like plight.

And thirdly, the independent, self-rolling creator is in a discordant relationship with the creators of social values operating as servants of both the state and the many-too-many. He may at times converse with them, albeit selectively, obliquely, and always from a safe distance. He steers clear of all theoretical controversies and the polemics of the mass media – he has absolutely nothing to do with those who vomit their bile and call it a newspaper (as Nietzsche notes).

But we need notice here the term converse – it refers to that specifically Oakeshottian concept of conversation, and as that has been articulated in his studies of what he calls “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 197). For Oakeshott, western civilization – or, more accurately, particular historical dimensions of that civilization – has been (or has also been) the product of the voice of poetry, art, and the aesthetic moment. And it has been that as well despite the emergence of the state and its famous wise ones. To put it slightly otherwise, the aesthetic moment has itself constituted a mode of being in the conversation – that long and internally contradictory conversation – of the western world. And there have been different forms that such conversation has taken.

We may here refer to some of these different forms of conversation within the history of western civilization – for instance:

• There has been conversation amongst the various Overmen of the western world – either contemporaneously or across historical time;
• There has been conversation between the various Overmen and sections of the western peoples (and especially those sections of a people that have maintained a proud distance from state-imposed idol-adoration);
• There has been conversation as an expression of pluralist individualism (and which has yielded conversation even between various Overmen and various intellectuals operating as servants of the state and its populace);
• There has been conversation within the very selves of a range of exceptional individuals, such as those who preserve the absolute freedom of their own conversing selves but are nonetheless cognizant of the superiority of others (maintaining a humility devoid of humiliation).

But now the pertinent question that need be posed is this: how does the free individual engaging in such types of conversation actually organize his own self? To be able to answer such a question, we shall need to consider the site from which the exceptional individual conducts whatever conversation, and consider what it is that he does within that site. Such type of conversation as a mode of being emanates from a creator who is free from the world – the creator preserves his own free zone outside the market-places of society. This would mean that the creator does not ever create within the practical realm of life. And he does not therefore produce whatever form of practical knowledge. He does not wish to participate in whatever conversation based on a creativity that is intentionally meant to yield some form of knowledge that is practically interventionist. The creativity of the exceptional individual is never meant to solve whatever practical problems of society, or solve whatever practical problems of some section or group of that society. The creativity of the exceptional individual is essentially purposeless – its only purpose is artistic creativity for the sake of that creativity. And it is this purposeless mode of creativity that informs whatever engagement in conversation. Here, the independent creator has escaped from the conduct of a particular mode of western life – he has escaped from the conduct of the survivalist market-place and its ever-raging ideologies. Corey presents this Oakeshottian understanding of the independent creator and his potential role in society as follows: “The philosopher, however, as we recall from [Oakeshott’s] Experience and Its Modes, is someone whose activity cannot ever be called practical. Philosophy, after all, is an attempt “to escape from the conduct of life” and to “throw off the responsibility of living.” Therefore, to associate the poet with the philosopher, as Oakeshott does here, would seem to signal that he has begun to question whether the poet ought to be classified unambiguously within practice. Indeed, he observes that the poet, artist, and philosopher must be free from the world in order to make their most profound contributions.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., pp. 107-108).

Truly profound contributions are consummated when the creator has been able to move away from the mundane noise of ideology (which is always related to practical intentions – or related to what the Marxists have pompously referred to as praxis). By so withdrawing, he is able to endow his own self – but perhaps also some of those around him – with new aesthetic and moral values. But to move away from the mundane and its noise, one has to operate beyond all sense of responsibility with respect to the exigencies of life. The self-rolling creator is thus both purposeless and irresponsible.

Being purposeless and irresponsible, the self-rolling creator is naturally beyond all social posturing – but, most importantly, he does not intend to present his person and mode of life as some kind of noble example for others to follow; he does not care to inspire others (we know that he wishes to be left alone, even to the point of being the least known). And thus (and despite whatever contributions he might ultimately make to society), the self-rolling creator does not ever aim at having whatever impact on society or on whichever individuals within that society. He follows his own movements, not those of society.

Posturing as a noble example, wishing to inspire, or aiming at some sort of impact on the world outside of his own free zone or site – all such intentions would imply an intervention in the practical (and therefore also ideological) realm of life. But that is precisely that realm of life that the self-rolling creator consciously wishes to eschew. He does not care to in any way either protect or change the customs and habits of the populace (these in any case may undergo their own evolution in time without any external intervention); and he does not aim at in some way re-orienting the prevailing ideals of the many-too-many. The self-rolling creator is not what Marxists call an organic intellectual – he cannot operate as the servant of the state, or of the populace. His work cannot ever be reduced to a reflection of whichever so-called movements of that populace. He is his own movement – as is his very life, such movement is absolutely unique. He does not replicate, and he is not replicated.

In what sense, then, may one say that the poet, the artist, or the philosopher can make a profound contribution to society? In what sense can he create and re-create the values of a society (when and if he does so)? Corey presents the Oakeshottian approach to this issue by writing as follows: “On the one hand, this [potentially profound contribution] might be read as a kind of encouragement for the poet, artist, and philosopher to make noble examples of themselves or to “inspire” other members of their society by their work. Such a reading would imply that the activities of the poet, artist, and philosopher are in some sense practical, in that they aim to make an impact on other members of their society – perhaps changing customs or reorienting ideals.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 108).

Such a reading of the Oakeshottian position, Corey explains, would obviously constitute an absolute misreading of what Oakeshott wishes to say of the creator. For the independent, self-rolling creator, there is just one thing that he need do, and that is to remain true to his own genius – and that is one basic reason why he need be removed from practice. And thus the question of remaining true to one’s genius is simply non-negotiable. But precisely by remaining true to his own genius, the independent creator may – in the last, lonely, and unintentional instance of a society – have a certain impact on that society. Such an impact could take a number of forms – but there are at least two ways in which society may be positively impacted. Firstly, it would for the first time become aware of its own ignorance – the myth of the many-too-many as a historical agency would have to be mitigated, checked or assuaged. But secondly, society (or perhaps just some section of that society) would for the first time see itself as something other than a mere political entity. Its mode of being would acquire an authentic status informed by a historical identity outside of politics, outside of the state, and outside of all collectivist ideological idol-adoration. Corey herself more or less continues along this line of thought in her interpretation of the Oakeshottian position – she writes as follows: “But Oakeshott sees both the poet and the philosopher as engaged in another kind of activity that, if it is not altogether removed from practice, does not wholly take place there either. The task of artists, poets, and philosophers is to “remain true to their genius, which is to mitigate a little their society’s ignorance of itself.” Through their activity, society “becomes conscious and critical of itself, of its whole self,” and not just of itself as a political entity. Thus the activity of poets, artists, and philosophers takes place in a more profound sphere of consciousness.” (cf. Corey, ibid.).

Exactly how the exceptional individual may have an impact on his society is extremely difficult to delineate – and it is extremely difficult to do so because whatever general theoretical formulae regarding the role of such intellectuals in society would fall short of the stated theoretical objectives. Since the exceptional individual is by definition unique, his work is unique – and thus his alleged contribution to society is also unique. But, then, so also would be his manner of contribution (and which would itself be determined by the needs of conjunctural circumstances). But here just one thing is absolutely clear – whatever contribution on the part of the exceptional individual to society would not be a contribution that would happen through whatever form of political activity. Again, it would be a matter of remaining true to one’s genius – and therefore also true to one’s self and work – that would enable such contribution to materialize somewhat positively at a social level. To put it slightly otherwise, one may simply say that all the exceptional individual need do is remain active in his own very particular sphere of creativity – and society may or may not receive the fruits of such creativity depending on the needs of its historical milieu. Corey expresses such an Oakeshottian position on the role of the exceptional individual as follows: “… they [the poet, artist, and philosopher] create and re-create the values of their society. But exactly how do they do this? It is certainly not through political activity, but instead by “remaining true to their genius” and being active in their particular spheres.” (cf. Corey, ibid.).

At a general, fairly abstract level, one may now go on to observe that independent poetic creativity, independent artistic creativity, and independent philosophical creativity all possess the capacity – at some stage in time and in some way or another – to actually inform the practical realm of life (such informing of the practical would be their contribution to the practical from a distance). It may in contrast be said that the practical – strictly in itself and by itself – cannot inform poetry, the arts, or philosophy. And it cannot do so given, inter alia, its disunited and amorphous nature. Yet still, we should here immediately add (and based on what we have already discussed above regarding the ego-self interface) that the practical realm – such as, say, a traditional morality of habit of behaviour – can inform poetic, artistic and philosophical creativity via what we have called the ego-self consultative function. That seems to be the exclusive manner in which the practical can be of value to the independent creator – it can be of informative value as raw material or as mere fodder for his work. But the realm of the practical can offer no meaningful direction (or whatever form of evaluation) to the work of the independent creator – in itself and by itself, it has nothing to say. It is only made to speak when the independent creator begins forging values around the raw material of the practical. Here, we need remind ourselves of what Nietzsche has to say as regards the world of the practical: the practical, he asserts, is not thinkable in itself, it is something to be made thinkable via the creative process of the valuing of things around us. (p. 111).

The natural implication of all this is that the practical in itself and by itself cannot inform the morality of the creator – it is only the creative realm that can do this. Corey presents this Oakeshottian position as follows: “poetry”, she writes, “appears as the ideal of activity” for the independent creator. And she explains this by pointing out that “[Poetry] may inform morality as a model, but it should be clear that morality [in its capacity as moral conduct in the real world of everyday life] (as a less unified experience) can have nothing relevant to say to poetry …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 120).

One final observation to make at this point is that the impact of aesthetic values on moral conduct (and as such values would be articulated by the exceptional individual) can in no way be compared to the impact of dogmatic values on moral conduct (and as such values are articulated by the moral rationalist). The respective impact on the social morality of a society would be radically divergent. Our examination of rationalist ideology as opposed to the morality of habit of behaviour (cf. above) allowed us to elucidate on such a divergence in as accurate a manner as that be possible (based primarily on Oakeshottian thinking). We may now restate this divergence keeping in mind our present discussion regarding the possible impact of the exceptional individual on a society. On the one hand, the impact of dogmatic values on the moral conduct of a person would be such that that person would model himself mechanically on dogmatic formulae and ideals (those of the state and those of a slavishly emasculated many-too-many). On the other hand, the impact of aesthetic values (as articulated by an Übermensch) on the moral conduct of a people would be such that that people would model itself on the poetry of these aesthetic values – and the manner in which it would so fashion itself would itself be poetically and/or freely expressive. This latter case naturally appears to be a rather idealistic impossibility in the real world – often enough, however, the exceptionally superior few can have an impact on particular groupings of individuals within a society, and given particular historical periods (remember the Hobbesian reference to the lions of a society; or yet still to Nietzsche’s own reference to the laughing lions of a society). These particular groupings of individuals model themselves on the aesthetic values of exceptional individuals in a manner that does not violate their own individuality within a community. Or they ultimately turn out to be aesthetic models of their own selves within the life of that community (both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would identify such historical instances within the course of western civilization – most such instances, however, would refer to ancient peoples, or at least to peoples of a Proustian-type time-past).

Now, when the work of an exceptional individual does have a certain impact on society, that individual risks an entanglement with the affairs of the world – and that would certainly constitute his most dangerous moment as an independent creator. We know that, above all, the self-rolling individual needs to experience a mode of being that is well beyond the illusion of all public affairs. To be able to maintain a consistent awareness of such illusion, he would need to activate his self-organizational will to self-power at full throttle. We shall here have to examine in some more detail the precise relationship between the Übermensch (and related categories of exceptional individuals) and the matter of public affairs.

Nietzsche’s position regarding public affairs is well known and has been much discussed throughout this paper – but what precisely is Oakeshott’s own position? For Oakeshott, it is the moral rationalist (or the Babelian-type of citizen) who is immersed in and becomes obsessive with public affairs – or, rather, with the illusion of public affairs. He thereby suffers a loss of self within such illusion. In contrast, the independent individual organizes his being in such manner that he stands over and above the illusion – and he thereby attains an understanding of his own self. This self-understanding operates as a footing for self-cultivation (cf., as well, the Nietzschean-type steps or stages towards self-consummation as discussed above).

For the moral rationalist or the Babelian-type, and as Corey explains, “the illusion of affairs” acts as “a substitute for self-understanding” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 128). It is as if the moral rationalist makes use of public affairs so as to forget his own person. The same would apply to those vast masses of people who are themselves immersed in and obsess over public affairs – they wish to forget the poverty of their own so-called individuality. Both the organic intellectuals of the state and the many-too-many thus indulge in a certain self-deception.

We may unpack this notion of self-deception by making the following observations. One may begin by making the simple observation that life in itself is empty. And it remains empty unless it is somehow filled in. Some fill it in through the genius of creativity. Others – most – simply try to cover up the emptiness (this covering up being precisely the self-deception). How do they try to cover up this emptiness? There are very many ways in which this is done – but there is one generic, collective, or rather usual manner which may here best be described by considering it in its most extreme form. People try to cover up the emptiness of life by devoting themselves to a singleness of purpose. Such singleness of purpose can range from the obsession to accumulate wealth, or to attain fame, or to change the so-called political system. With respect to the latter case, consider – for instance – the singleness of purpose as expressed by someone as banal as Sergey Nechayev, or as expressed by someone as brilliant a political strategist as was Vladimir Lenin.

Many of those devoted to a singleness of purpose invest all of their energies in such singleness – this means, however, that they actually reduce all of life to such singleness. By so reducing all of life, they avoid life itself. And by avoiding life itself, they come to avoid their own selves.

One may describe this human condition in a more general manner by observing that those engaged in self-deception wish to achieve in the world of illusion – and so they devote their lives to achievement in the absence of any understanding. Their singleness of purpose is part and parcel of the illusion of affairs – the pursuit of whatever ideal (materialistic or ideological) is immersed in an illusion of affairs without the joy (and the necessary pain) of self-understanding.

Corey summarizes this characteristically Oakeshottian position on worldly achievement – and the self-deception that such type of achievement entails – as follows: “This is the familiar “illusion of affairs” to which Oakeshott returns many times as he considers the human condition. People are constantly inclined to ignore or avoid the episodic nature of human life [in the sense of its contingent, irregular, or sporadic attributes], believing that the “greatness of an agent’s devotion to his aims and … his singleness of purpose” suffice to cover up the emptiness of achievement without understanding. But investing all one’s energies in the pursuit of an ideal is, according to Oakeshott, one of the most serious mistakes a human being can make. Human beings are not simply the sum of their achievements, and no amount of worldly achievement can make up for a lack of self-understanding.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 133).

Specifically as regards the sphere of western political ideology, this devotion to a singleness of purpose translates – or has often translated – into a devotion to a common purpose. The ideological notion of a single purpose becomes a purpose for all in society – and the implication here is that the self-delusional mutates into a collective illusion. The collective illusion is aptly encapsulated in the term comradeship (and which is a term more or less akin to Nietzsche’s neighbourliness). Comradeship points to common purpose; common purpose points to a regimented community; and a regimented community is a collectivity of people enclosed within a formulated communal identity. This particular form of imposed communal identity, however, means that there is a loss of distinct identities (this being a loss which stifles the inventiveness of civil conversation). The loss of distinct identities within the collectivity means a loss of identity for the concrete individual – and this leads to a decline in the moral character of the members of that collectivity.

It is this ideological notion of a political singleness of purpose – yielding the collective illusion of comradeship within the illusion of affairs – which ultimately gives birth to what Oakeshott has identified as the Babelian-type of person discussed above (viz. the comradeship of Babelians in the building of their Tower of Babel). But a society that has come to stifle the inventiveness of distinct identities is a society wherein its members lose themselves in the collective identity of their Babelian state. They lose themselves, in other words, in an illusion of public affairs which the exceptional individual himself has no choice but to deny – he determines to remain absolutely free of whatever entanglement with such illusion.

It is precisely this critical understanding of self-deception in the illusion of political or public affairs that allows Oakeshott to develop this potent metaphor of The Tower of Babel. Corey writes as follows on Oakeshott’s very specific critique of all Babelians and their so-called comradeship: “… there is a great sense of comradeship among those who are involved in building the tower. There is much talk of common purpose and of “community”. Babel thus acquires a communal identity instead of the distinct individualities that its citizens formerly possessed. It is quite clear that Oakeshott perceives the loss of identity as a precipitous decline in the moral character of the Babelians. It is always a corrupting enterprise to force all citizens into a single overarching project, and the consequence of this enterprise is to kill the diversity from which civil conversation springs. The story [it being this metaphor of Oakeshott’s Tower of Babel] is a fictional illustration of the emptiness of life oriented only toward achievement.” (cf. Corey, ibid.).

It is incumbent upon the exceptional individual to preserve his own distinct individuality. He thus selects to organize his own self outside the Babelian-type state and outside the Babelian-type many-too-many. He selects, in other words, a mode of being that denies the tyranny of the western market-place (and not merely in its specifically economic dimension), and is in personal denial of the manner in which such public space has developed in the modern and postmodern eras. This means to say that he denies the tyranny of the practical terrain – viz. the tyrannical issue of practical survival as the dominant life-question, and especially the issue of practical achievement in the world. The exceptional individual denies the tyranny of the illusion of public-practical affairs. He thereby also denies the tyranny of all future ideals, and has thus nothing to do with politics and all political movements. He therefore stands above the politically-motivated utilitarian common good as a future ideal (he does not necessarily, however, dwell much on whatever denial – he would rather dwell on his own affirmative self-enactment and independent creativity).

Oakeshott shall himself have much to say as regards the tyranny of practice – for him, the Babelian-type world is an example of the practical-utilitarian mode of life taken to its most extreme form. Babelians, he would argue, cannot ever escape the tyranny of the small passions of practice – the implication here being that, by now, it is only a few (or perhaps the few) that can actually effect such an existentially-motivated escape within the western world. Corey summarizes this Oakeshottian pessimism by writing that “The Babelians are … a dramatic illustration of the practical life taken to its furthest extreme … The Babelians can never escape the tyranny of practice.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 134).

All this, and yet again, brings us back to the Oakeshottian – but as also Nietzschean – quiet detachment from politics and the mental vulgarity of political activism. The exceptional individual’s quietist withdrawal from the tyranny of practice is also a withdrawal from the false oversimplifications of all political ideologies. And thus the independent individual does not care to intervene in the illusion of affairs that constantly bombard western societies. He does not therefore care to organize ideas and concomitant human conduct within such illusion of affairs, or within the context of the so-called great events of the day.

For the Übermensch – as also for the various types of exceptional individuals somehow approximating the qualities of such an Übermensch – life itself is infinitely more plentiful than all of the ideological eschatologies or theoretical nuggets put together. The self-created world of the independent individual is infinitely more complex and so much richer than the world of the regimented and replicated many-too-many. Organizing the self and its disposition, therefore, takes priority above all else and is quietly placed in supreme command. Doing this, however, requires a creative genius that is in love with its own self. We now need to examine such question of self-love a bit more closely.

7b. Loving yourself as the individualistic disposition

The question of self-love immediately posits a vitally necessary question. What is it precisely that defines the relationship between the exceptional individual and the multitude? And here, when one speaks of the multitude one may mean it either as a mass of people or as concrete persons belonging to that multitude, or both at the same time.

For Nietzsche, the multitude as a mass of people ought to be seen as a problem (and not at all as a historical solution to historical impasses, as the collectivists and/or all Marxian theoreticians would wish to believe). The multitude as a mass of people is a problem in the sense that it has taken the form of an affliction upsetting the very psyche of western civilization. Nietzsche points to this affliction when he writes as follows: “Today sufferest thou still from the multitude, thou individual …” (p. 59).

The multitude as a concrete person belonging to that multitude is as much a problem, and it is as much an affliction. That multitudinous concrete person is one’s neighbour – and one’s neighbour is someone that one uses to escape to, it being an escape from one’s own self. Even worse, such escape within one’s neighbour is presented as a standard western virtue – viz. the universal western virtue of unselfishness. Nietzsche is typically merciless in his attempt to penetrate the so-called virtuous psyche of the western collectivist – he writes: “Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a virtue thereof; but I fathom your ‘unselfishness’ … (p. 57).

Being an escape from one’s self, however, neighbour-love is merely the poverty of all bad love – Nietzsche observes: “Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have fine words for it. But I say unto you: your neighbour-love is your bad love of yourselves.” (ibid.).

On the basis of such irrefutably sincere thinking, therefore, Nietzsche’s natural advice to the individual is not neighbour-love but rather neighbour-flight. And so he writes: “Do I advise you to neighbour-love? Rather do I advise you to neighbour-flight …” (ibid.).

Who is the independent individual’s real neighbour? His authentic neighbour is none other than his own will – it is, in other words, his will to creation. In his discussion of the higher man, Nietzsche writes as follows: “Where your entire love is – namely, with your child – there is also your entire virtue! Your work, your will is your ‘neighbour’: let no false values impose upon you!” (p. 281).

The individual’s only authentic neighbour is his own self-creating self – and this is so since one only experiences one’s own self. And one does so, not only in the last and final instance of one’s life, but throughout all instances of one’s life – from the beginning of one’s being in the world and right through to its final end. The collectivist, anti-individualist ideology of neighbour-love has obfuscated the simplest truth of all things human – which is that truth? Nietzsche’s Zarathustra – a self-rolling wanderer or an Oakeshottian alien sojourner – expresses this simple truth as follows: “And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience – a wandering will be therein, and a mountain-climbing; in the end one experienceth only oneself.” (p. 149).

The self-rolling wanderer or alien sojourner dares to both claim and fully own that supreme reality of his own self-experience, this being his entitlement. He therefore dares to believe only in his own self. And by believing only in his own individuality, he also believes in all the existential forces that compose his own psyche – these forces being (and as has been discussed above) the ego, the body, and the self. And thus – and referring as he does to these existential forces as one’s inward parts – Zarathustra shall declare: “Dare only to believe in yourselves – in yourselves and in your inward parts!” (p. 121).

He who does not believe in his own self – he who claims to believe in neighbour-love – is a victim of the collective ideology of comradeship. Since all ideologies deceive, he who says he believes in others deceives himself – he lies to himself and others. And so Zarathustra adds: “He who doth not believe in himself always lieth.” (ibid.).

That simple truth of all things human as presented to us by Nietzsche – viz. that one only experiences one’s own self, and which one does in a manner that is all too verifiably so – is fully endorsed by Oakeshott himself. In his 1958 Harvard Lectures, he would make the following observation: “For each man the starting-point of his knowledge is his own experience – not that of others or of a community.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, op. cit., p. 22).

The masses experience themselves through the illusion emanating from the affairs of the market-place – that is their own starting-point. In contrast, the exceptional individual determines to experience himself through the supremacy of his own self (and as that self interacts with its body and its ego). The masses experience themselves through the rationalist-based morality imposed on them by the state and its conventional wisdom (that of the famous wise ones). In contrast, the exceptional individual experiences himself through his own self-created morality. Either way, both the masses and the exceptional individual experience themselves primarily through their ethical world. Knowledge of one’s experience is, above all, a knowledge of one’s sense of good and bad vis-à-vis that which surrounds them. And thus one may say that it has been in the life-field of ethics that one has the clearest reflection of human experience. Hobbes, it is said, was one of the first moralists of the modern western world to have made such an observation – and he had been able to make such an observation with the rise of privacy as a mode of life within parts of the western world (and especially with respect to the concomitant experience of individuality). And thus, when Oakeshott affirms that an individual’s starting-point of knowledge is his own experience, such experience would be primarily in the life-field of ethics, or in the overarching world of moral values. With reference to individual experience and ethical theory in particular, Oakeshott writes as follows: “… it was in the field of ethical theory that the clearest reflection of this experience [viz. that which is the starting-point of an individual’s knowledge] appeared … This is unmistakable in Hobbes, the first moralist of the modern world to take candid account of the current experience of individuality.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid.).

But then Oakeshottian thinking goes one important step further. He argues that since each individual’s knowledge of his own experience is in the field of ethics – since it is an ethically-based knowledge – each independent individual ought to be understood as a moral world in himself. And since each independent individual is an independent moral world, each such individual ought to be regarded as an end in himself (or as an ethical end in himself). And thus Oakeshott goes on to draw a cardinal conclusion which is also an admonition addressed to the modern western state – he writes as follows: : “The moral law is to acknowledge each man as an independent personality and to regard him not as a means but as an end in himself.” (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, ibid., p. 23).

The Oakeshottian announcement that the independent individual is an end in himself – and who cannot ever be seen as a means to whatever – points to yet another announcement, and which is clearly reminiscent of Nietzschean thinking. The announcement is clear: the individual who sees himself as an end – as an ethical end – in himself is an individual who loves his own self. Self-love is a love for one’s own original moral values as an end in themselves – and they are an end in themselves since such values are of an aesthetically creative and self-creative nature.

We may at this point summarize this Nietzschean-cum-Oakeshottian position as follows. We may say that, not only does the exceptional individual only experience himself, he also experiences himself and his own mode of being as a moral/ethical evaluation of life. It is such evaluation that renders him an end in himself – it is this that entitles him to live his life as a self-rolling wheel. This, however, would also mean that the exceptional individual is a self-rolling wheel of healthy self-love.

But although this must be a case of healthy self-love, one cannot escape the fact that such love presupposes that each independent self lives in a world of its own. And by living in a world of its own, each independent self is a stranger vis-à-vis others. Oakeshott shall himself observe that when an independent self comes to inhabit a world of its own, it inhabits a world of very personal images reflective of its own desires – and, by inhabiting a world of very particular personal desires, the self is in a selected state of solitariness. Being in a state of solitariness, the self is intrinsically incapable of recognizing – or unwilling to recognize – other selves. This, of course, could mean a possibly unavoidable war amongst different independent selves. Oakeshott considers this problem by writing as follows: “Each self inhabits a world of its own, a world of images related to its own desires; solitariness, the consequence of its inability in this activity to recognize other selves as such, is intrinsic, not accidental. The relations between such selves is an unavoidable bellum omnium contra omnes.” (cf. Oakeshott, op cit., p. 208).

Is it true to say that self-love would inevitably lead to a war of all against all? Rationalist-based morality would certainly wish to draw such a conclusion. And yet, this would mean a total misunderstanding of the Nietzschean – as also the Oakeshottian – understanding of individualistic self-love. It would constitute a gross misunderstanding of the notion of the Übermensch and his approximations. What rationalist-based, anti-individualistic morality would in this case forget is that one of the central, most defining characteristics of the Übermensch is his own supreme disposition for self-control. That, precisely, is his self-organization.

Oakeshott makes use of the thinking of Duns Scotus to clarify his own position regarding the issue of self-pride and self-love. For Scotus, self-love is self-knowledge – self-knowledge, however, is self-respect. And such self-respect means that the self is not ever delusional – it does not therefore wish to entertain whatever delusion of power over others. Self-respect recognizes just one sense of power, this being a power over one’s own person. This power over one’s person is self-control – and self-control is the will to self-organization. The exceptional individual organizes his own self vis-à-vis his own inward parts and thereby organizes his own self vis-à-vis the external world.

The exceptional individual’s self-controlled organizational will over his own person would render him invulnerable to all external social forces (be these the state, the discourse of the famous wise ones, or the mass ideologies of the many-too-many). Being invulnerable to all external forces, he would also remain impervious to the antipathy that such forces may express against him as an independent, self-loving individual. But by being thus invulnerable and impervious, the exceptional individual would at the same time be able to preserve a personal capacity to perhaps offer his magnanimity and generosity towards – at the very least – other selves. Such magnanimity would avert that bellum omnium contra omnes, at least as regards the exceptional individual’s own stance and disposition. Healthy self-love, therefore, is not at all a belligerent disposition – it is, in fact, a courage that generates peace (or at least a self-organized peace with the rest of the world so as to facilitate the self-enactment of aesthetic creativity).

With respect to the question of self-love and the thinking of Duns Scotus, Oakeshott writes as follows: “self-love appears as self-knowledge and self-respect, the delusion of power over others is replaced by the reality of self-control, and the glory of the invulnerability which comes from courage generates magnanimity and magnanimity, peace.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 291).

One may now go one step further and say that self-love in the sense of self-organization is a virtue – this, however, is precisely the virtue of selfishness as asserted by Nietzsche. And it is in this very particular sense that one may further assert – as does Nietzsche himself – that the self (as also its body and ego) is holy.

We need to dwell on the question of selfishness as a virtue a bit further – as also on the concomitant idea that the self (with its own inward parts) can be holy. Nietzsche asserts that the self is blessed when selfishness itself is blessed – and when selfishness is blessed, the ego is itself wholesome and it is holy (p. 186).

Now, there is a healthy – and thereby holy – selfishness; and there is a sickly – and thereby unholy – selfishness. With respect to the latter, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which would always steal – the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness … With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that is lustrous; with the craving of hunger it measureth him who hath abundance; and ever doth it prowl round the tables of bestowers.” (pp. 71-72).

Healthy selfishness rejects sickly selfishness as a cowardly disposition – and being cowardly, it is not virtuous. Zarathustra rejects sickly selfishness as “Bad – that is cowardly!” (p. 185). And it is cowardly because this is a selfishness that craves after whatever it opportunistically or temporarily deems expedient for itself – the sickly selfish are those who “pick up the most trifling advantage” (ibid.).

In contrast to the cowardice of sickly selfishness, healthy selfishness emanates from the powerful self – it is an expression of self-power. Zarathustra speaks of “the blessed selfishness, the wholesome, healthy selfishness that springeth from the powerful soul” (p. 184).

The blessed type of selfishness – that which springs from the powerful soul – is a self-enjoying selfishness. Informed by the will to self-enjoyment, it is a virtue. Zarathustra goes on to speak of “the dancer whose symbol and epitome is the self-enjoying soul. Of such bodies and souls the self-enjoyment calleth itself ‘virtue’ …” (p. 185).

And thus, the self-enjoying blessed selfishness of the exceptional individual is a virtue that shuns whatever be deemed cowardly – “Away from itself”, Zarathustra asserts, “doth it banish everything cowardly” (ibid.).

By shunning whatever be considered cowardly, the virtue of healthy selfishness may be directly contrasted to the mode of slaves. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra shall speak of how blessed selfishness spits on the submissive type of person in particular, as also on the slavish mode of life in general – this is how he puts it: “Hateful to it altogether, and a loathing, is he who will never defend himself, he who swolloweth down poisonous spittle and bad looks, the all-too-patient one, the all-endurer, the all-satisfied one; for that is the mode of slaves … Whether they be servile before Gods and divine spurnings, or before men and stupid human opinions, at all kinds of slaves doth it spit, this blessed selfishness.” (ibid.).

Healthy selfishness – as a virtue – is therefore a selfishness that rejects whatever smacks of submissiveness. And there is a certain type of submissiveness that is informed by its own utilitarian wisdom – such wisdom, however, is the wisdom of slaves. Slave-wisdom is unhealthy selfishness. Zarathustra tells us how healthy selfishness regards the unhealthy selfishness of submissive slave-wisdom – he speaks thus: “Baser still it regardeth the obsequious, doggish one, who immediately lieth on his back, the submissive one; and there is also wisdom that is submissive, and doggish, and pious, and obsequious.” (ibid.).

Whatever be the differences in their mode of thinking, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would here agree on one basic interpretation of human conduct – viz. that the individual who is not selfish (in the healthy sense of such a disposition) is in fact a selfless individual. For these selfless types, of course, such selflessness is in fact promoted to a personal virtue. And it is just such persons sans a well-defined self that come to abuse whatever virtue of healthy selfishness defines powerful souls. We have already discussed above what Nietzsche would observe regarding those selfless abusers of selfishness – it is worthwhile in this context to recall yet once more what Nietzsche’s Zarathustra has to say on the selfless type of persons. This is what he says: “The spurious wise, however – all the priests, the world-weary, and those whose souls are of feminine and servile nature – oh, how hath their game all along abused selfishness! … And precisely that was to be virtue and was to be called virtue – to abuse selfishness! And ‘selfless’ – so did they wish themselves with good reason, all those world-weary cowards and cross-spiders!” (pp. 185-186).

It is in the nature of the selfless person to be absolutely obsessed with how the world perceives him – the vacuum inside him (his selflessness) requires that it be filled in with the perceptions of others, as also with a hope in some better future. Such concern throws him into a constant state of anxiety. In contrast, when the self is defined by the virtue of selfishness, that self takes the measure of itself from within its own self, and none else. The self is thereby free of worldly measure and worldly anxiety – being free of worldly anxiety, it experiences the state of a self-enjoying selfishness. Such self-enjoying selfishness is the terrain of self-love – and the terrain of self-love is the terrain of self-cultivation. Self-cultivation is aesthetic creation for one’s self.

Corey has herself examined the Oakeshottian position on the question of selflessness versus selfishness – in doing so, she considers the work of Glenn Worthington and his own interpretation of the philosophy of Oakeshott (with a special focus on the religious and/or poetic experience – cf. Glenn Worthington, Religious and Poetic Experience in the Thought of Michael Oakeshott, Imprint Academic, 2005). Worthington has observed that Oakeshott provides us with two different types of characters – each of these is representative of “two [distinct] systems of value” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 27). What is it that distinguishes these types and their respective so-called systems? That which distinguishes them is how they approach “the worth of the self” (ibid.). “In other words,” Corey explains, “he [Worthington] observes that Oakeshott’s moral characters have fundamentally different orientations. Those who are worldly are in a state of constant anxiety, for their focus is always on the future. On the other hand, [there are] those who … avoid this intrinsic dissatisfaction by refusing to engage in speculation about the future or about how the “world” perceives them. [For the latter,] … value “is realized in a self that takes the measure of itself from within itself” …” (ibid.).

By taking the measure of one’s self from within one’s own self, one rejects selflessness as a virtue – here, one’s one and only measuring rod is one’s individuality, and not at all the perceptions of the outside world. This naturally yields a morality of individuality – and it is such morality that speaks of self-love. And as already suggested, self-love is the precondition for self-cultivation. Oakeshott has argued that self-love is a legitimate spring of human activity, and which is to be contrasted to one’s love for the collectivity and its common good (cf. Shirley Robin Letwin, p. 26, as discussed above). It is such legitimate human activity that allows for one’s self-enactment, it being one’s own self-cultivation. It is to the question of self-cultivation that we now need turn.

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is prepared to give up almost everything in the world so that he may be able to concentrate on – and thereby cultivate – his very own thoughts. “What did I not surrender,” he tells us, “that I might have one thing: this living plantation of my thoughts, and this dawn of my highest hope!” (p. 157). He, too, hopes – but such hope is focused on his own self, not on the perceptions of others; he, too, hopes – but such hope is a hope for the presentness of his creative pregnancy.

The Nietzschean plantation of the self must be a pregnant plantation – and it is pregnant because pregnancy spells creativity. Such pregnancy, however, can only but presuppose a great love of the self. Zarathustra upholds this presupposition when he speaks as follows: “For in one’s heart one loveth only one’s child and one’s work; and where there is great love to oneself, then is it the sign of pregnancy: so have I found it.” (ibid.).

What is it that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott have found? They have found that particular dimension of life which is of stable and permanent value so long as one remains alive – and they have therefore also found what it is that is not at all stable and permanent in life. Oakeshottian thinking, for one, recognizes that whatever belief in the stability and permanence of some social ideal is mere illusion (cf. Corey, op. cit., pp. 32-33). That which is of stable and permanent value in life is, firstly, the individual’s self. And secondly, it is the selection and cultivation of that self’s sensibilities. And at the same time, it is the nurturing of a will capable of enjoying (as opposed to constantly appropriating) the fruits of life. (ibid.).

For Oakeshott, self-cultivation is the cultivation of the individual idiom – and it is above all within that individual idiom that one may discover the possibilities of originality, poetic imagination, and an overall creative resourcefulness. He asserts this as follows: “There is room for the individual idiom, it affords opportunity to inventiveness …” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 123).

This Nietzschean and Oakeshottian emphasis on the virtue of self-love, on the individual idiom, and on the existential primacy of self-cultivation may of course also be ascertained in a variety of other major western thinkers – above, we have already referred to Stendhal and his own understanding of the aristocratic spirit. Such spirit, we noted, would stand over and above the masses – and it would do so precisely because it would view individualistic self-cultivation as a sovereign virtue prioritized above all else in life. What truly mattered for Stendhal was a self devoted to the cultivation of love, music, passion, intrigue, and heroism (cf. Erich Auerbach, above). Such self-cultivation would naturally go hand-in-hand with a supreme self-assertion of one’s personality and individuality (this being Stendhal’s own Sorelian fractious horse).

Self-love is self-cultivation, and self-cultivation is in itself an art, or the finest of arts – at the same time, it may also be said to generate art in itself. As the finest of arts, it is also a gamble. We need to delve into this understanding of self-cultivation as being both a fine art and a gamble.

Self-love is the art of self-cultivation – and the art of self-cultivation is being able to be with one’s own self without at the same time being in need of the other. Such art of self-cultivation would further suggest that – and depending on personal circumstances – one is able to endure one’s own self without the help of some other. For Nietzsche, self-love and self-cultivation is not based on whatever commandment (as in the case of Thou shalt love thy neighbour). Self-love – and the existential implications of such love – is something that is to be learnt. And it is to be learnt precisely because it is a very subtle art in itself. This is how Zarathustra puts it: “One must learn to love oneself – thus do I teach – with a wholesome and healthy love, that one may endure to be with oneself, and not go roving about … Such roving about christeneth itself ‘brotherly love’; with these words hath there hitherto been the best lying and dissembling, and especially by those who have been burdensome to every one … And verily, it is no commandment for today and tomorrow to learn to love oneself. Rather is it of all arts the finest, the subtlest, last and most patient.” (p. 188).

We know that for both Nietzsche and later on for Heidegger, and as much – one need say – for Oakeshott himself, it is the question of the finitude of life that ought to determine the mode of living for the individual. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott in particular it is this finitude that asks of us to learn to love our own self and its own cultivation. Given such finitude, Oakeshott poses an absolutely vital question: what ought we to recognize as the most valuable thing in life? His response shall be to assert that this finitude asks of us to cultivate a mind of our own. He goes even further: we ought to cultivate a mind and a self that are at all times uniquely one’s own.

At some point in his lifetime, Oakeshott would give a talk to new LSE undergraduates on the purpose of a liberal education. Therein, he would speak openly of both looming death beds and of the concurrent need to cultivate one’s mind and one’s self in their own respective independent uniqueness. Noël K. O’Sullivan (op. cit.) has presented us with a summary of this seminal Oakeshottian speech – he writes as follows: “This [i.e. liberal education], he told them [told the undergraduates], is not merely to acquire facts, or skills, or training for a career but is, rather, to acquire “what in the end, on [your] far distant death beds, [you] will recognize as one of the things most worth having,” which is “a mind and some thoughts of your own” … The aim, in other words, is to transform the ready made, off-the-peg self with which life begins into a self uniquely one’s own.” (pp. 208-209).

For Nietzsche, we have noted, this process of transforming one’s self (the one with which we begin in life) into a self that is uniquely one’s own is a process that is to be learnt – and this learning happens through the acquisition of a fine art that is subtle, that requires the greatest of patience, and which would constitute an individual’s final achievement in life. And it is this very process of self-transformation that would come to define Oakeshott’s own understanding of a certain so-called spirituality. This particular understanding of spirituality may be said to more or less resonate with the Husserlian understanding of the body as spirit-cum-motivation – for Oakeshott in particular, it would be a matter of seeing the body (and its self) as spirit-cum-enactment. And such spiritual enactment would yield a self that would be the child of its very own accomplishment. Such spiritual enactment, further, would yield a self that would be a carrier of its own constitutive meaning and its own constitutive value.

Noël O’Sullivan (ibid.) writes of such particular Oakeshottian spirituality as follows: “In line with the British Idealist tradition, Oakeshott describes his own ideal of spirituality as the realization of a self which is “its own achievement,” in the sense that it carries “within each of its moments its whole meaning and value.” (p. 210).

Now, of course, such an understanding of self-enactment would be no mean feat for whoever selects to undertake such an enterprise, whatever be his intellectual gifts – much more than that, however, it could also spell total disaster for any individual (on the other hand, such disaster could take the form of a self-affirming tragedy, as Jaspers would argue). How could all this lead to a personal disaster? Let us consider more carefully what it is that is here being suggested. Self-love would translate into a will to self-cultivation. This process of self-cultivation would translate into a wish for a self that would be its own achievement. And it would translate into a wish for a self that would be the absolutely independent carrier of its own unique meaning and exclusive value-creation. Naturally, therefore, such a process of self-cultivation would ultimately come to mean the establishment of a self determined by its own moral activity, it being a lonesome activity outside the state (and its protective structures) and outside the moral values of society (and their protective functions). The implication here is quite obvious: the individual would be engaging in a gamble, and the gamble could yield a personal tragedy that may prove quite irremediable.

Of course, the exceptional individual – and especially the exceptionally exceptional individual (as in the case of the Übermensch) – would have to be prepared to face what Oakeshott has termed the ordeal of consciousness (cf. above). And especially so when the particular intentionality of such consciousness is to achieve an independent, self-created self that carries its own sense of good and bad. And so as to be prepared to face such ordeal, the individual would need to think and live as a laughing lion – or think and live in terms of the spirit of the lion (as Nietzsche has of course put it). He would, in other words, have to be quite unafraid of whatever consequences.

“Human life”, Oakeshott has observed, “is a gamble” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 60). This observation perhaps calls for a certain qualification – while there is a general sense in which life is in fact and in any case a gamble for all, there is also the more strict sense in which life is not on the whole a gamble as such but can in fact be made to be so (it all depends on what one takes the term gamble to imply). In the stricter sense of the term, some accept the idea that life can be seen as a gamble and undertake to live accordingly – their selected mode of being is of the experimental type. Others cautiously keep away from whatever risky experimentation – they can be prudent and risk-averse (they seem to be aware of their own fears and personal limits).

On occasion, Oakeshott has argued that the individual must be allowed to gamble (cf., for instance, Oakeshott, ibid.). Of course, the idea that someone ought to be allowed to do something (such as opt to gamble in his life) can suggest a paternalistic or patronizing approval of one’s behaviour as determined by some other – it implies a validation of conduct from a certain authority. But it may also imply – and this seems to be Oakeshott’s primary intention – that the state itself has no right to disallow any citizen from gambling in life, or experimenting with his own life.

But what is of so much greater significance here is to assert that the individual ought to allow himself to gamble in his own life. More accurately, one may say that the exceptional individual ought to allow himself to gamble in his own life so as to achieve – or in any case pursue, as Oakeshott puts it – his own perfection.

For Oakeshott, the issues of life-gambling, self-experimentation, and the pursuance of self-perfection are issues that belong exclusively to the individual idiom and the morality of individuality – they cannot or should not ever be entertained at the level of society. For him, the concept of perfection – or, more accurately, that of pursuing perfection – cannot or should not apply to society as an entity in itself.

Why is it that perfectionism cannot apply to society? The pursuance of a perfect society is a utopian-based gamble, and all utopian-based ideological gambles imply a certain idol-adoration – all forms of idol-adoration, however, could ultimately lead to a totalitarian-type social formation. The perfectionist social gamble could simply translate into the need to impose the perfect ideal onto all the rest in society. Alternatively, one may also argue that – and again following Oakeshottian thinking – the pursuance of and struggle for social perfectionism constitutes a type of gamble that society itself should not ever be allowed to taste. And society cannot be allowed to gamble in such manner because it can lead to the rise of conflicting interests and conflicting ideologies – and such conflictual social relations may lead to chaos. Social chaos usually needs to be resolved through some form of absolute rule – and this would, yet again, lead to different forms of totalitarianism.

Such types of collective risks do not apply to the individual. Gambling, experimentation, and perfectionism – these are meant exclusively for the individual. Much more accurately, these struggles are meant only for the very exceptional individual. And when one asserts that perfectionism is only meant for the exceptional individual, one should here understand whatever measure of perfectionism in terms of the individual’s own measure of his own self, as discussed above. But since such sense of perfectionism would depend exclusively on the personal measure of one’s own self, it would be an anxiety-free pursuance of perfectionism.

The anxiety-free pursuance of perfectionism on the part of the exceptional individual would further mean that that type of individual would presumably be ready and prepared to handle the tragedy of a possible personal failure and defeat. For the Übermensch, at least, the personal reward of pursuing perfectionism – that independent sojourn within the realm of self-enactment – would compensate for any final defeat. And it would compensate for the penalty of self-defeat since life would constitute an absolutely unique gamble for perfection, it being a perfection in aesthetic creativity and self-creativity. Such type of compensation, in contrast, could not ever apply to whichever society or collectivity – and it could not apply to these given, as already noted, the inherent proneness of all collectivities towards internal conflict, chaos, and the hazards of authoritarianism.

With respect to the question of perfectionism – and the implicit issue of gambling in life – Oakeshott writes as follows: “The pursuit of perfection … is an activity … suitable for individuals, but not for societies. For an individual who is impelled to engage in it, the reward may exceed both the penalty and the inevitable defeat … For a society, on the other hand, the penalty is a chaos of conflicting ideas, the disruption of a common life, and the reward is the renown which attaches to monumental folly.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 59).

To put it in a nutshell, one may simply say that self-love and self-cultivation can be a major personal gamble – but such gamble is meant for the Nietzschean-type Übermensch, not for the populace. It is only the Übermensch – and/or related categories of individuality – that can experiment and gamble with the pursuance of his own self-perfection. And it is only he who may do so since such experimentation and gambling involves his own moral activity. And for him, further, all moral activity takes the form of artistic self-creativity. But since the choice of moral activity (and the concomitant artistic self-creation) is his and his only – and since he is fully aware of other possible alternatives – such choice can be dangerous as regards his own person, though not ever as regards others (despite a possible unintended influence on others).

Oakeshott presents the question of perfection, moral activity, art, and gambling in life generally as follows: “The activity with which we are concerned [viz. human life as a gamble for perfection] is what is called moral activity … The moral life is human affection and behaviour determined, not by nature, but by art.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 60). But since the moral life is not determined by nature as such, there are alternatives to whatever chosen moral activity – he continues as follows: “It is conduct to which there is an alternative.” (ibid.). Therein, of course, lies both the independent creativity of the exceptional individual and his own gambling – and therein too, therefore, lies the life-risk.

Such life-risk is not meant for the rest – the popular masses. All Nietzsche can do is offer his own untimely advice to the small people – his Zarathustra cautions the many-too-many to first and foremost come to love their own selves. Only then may they also come to love their neighbours (p. 167). This is the substance of the individualistic disposition towards the question of love.

7c. Living the present as self-organization

Organizing the self around self-love and self-cultivation is organizing the self around its love for its own present (or for its own present moment). Self-organization is therefore a love for, and living of, the present as it is – or, more accurately, it is a love of the present as it is for the self (though as it also is for all those inward – and often contradictory – parts that compose the psyche of the individual). We have already, and often enough, referred to the notion of presentness – it is this notion of presentness that points to the self’s love of its present moment. Presentness points to the self’s living of its present in an affirmative, creative, and joyous manner (and that, despite the inevitable tragedies inherent in whatever loving attempts at claiming and living the present). We shall now need to delve a bit further into this notion of presentness in the context of an individual’s self-organization.

Presentness as self-organization is to claim the moments of an individual’s life as ends in themselves. It stands in stark contradistinction to that mode of life wherein a person lives his life awaiting the future. Presentness is living and loving the present, and the moments of that present. It is in many ways related to the art of poetry, which – perhaps at its supreme best – aims at freezing the present and its moments, and the individual experience of these.

Good poetry has done that – exceptional poets can do it. So can the exceptional individual – and we need remember that the exceptional individual is himself a poet in the strictly Oakeshottian sense. The popular masses – at least taken as a bloc – cannot and do not claim the moments of their life as ends in themselves. They await the future – and such waiting is aided and abetted by a very powerful, all-inclusive and all-knowing creature, this being the modern western state. In aiding and abetting such mass-based anticipation, the state functions as a double-thief.

In what ways does the modern western state function as a double-thief? For one, since the state always functions in the name of some imagined future for its subjects, the state needs to steal – and invariably does steal – the present from the individual. At the same time, and again in the name of some future, it always needs to steal the (historical) past from the individual – but since such historical past can also inform the present of a person, the state yet again tries to expropriate the present of the individual. The state as a double-thief of the present, but also the popular masses as equivocally expressive of that double-thief, are inclined to participate in an incessant game of anticipation: they wait for the future, look to the future, and struggle for the future (both in the sense of the short, and in the sense of the long, term).

The idea of the state as a thief of individual presentness has already been corroborated in our presentation of Oakeshott’s critique of the politics of faith. Therein, Oakeshott would argue that the cardinal virtue of the modern western state – as embodied primarily in its financial planners – is measured in terms of its ability to deliver to its subjects apparently feasible projects aimed at securing their future (short-term and/or long-term). Its primary operational purpose is to submit to its subjects a series of policies and programs for their future well-being, as also for that of their offspring. And thereby, whatever sense of presentness is itself postponed for the future.

Systematically, and incessantly on a day-to-day basis, the state (with its famous wise ones) weaves an ideology pointing to the future – its technocrats plan meticulously for that future; its politicians operate as insurance salesmen (as Oakeshott himself puts it). And thus, that which comes to prevail in the minds of most in the modern western world is “the bogus eternity” expressive of all of western ideology (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 29). This, one should emphasize, would apply to ideologies both of the so-called Left and of the so-called Right, as also to all those ideologies that place themselves somewhere in-between Left and Right. For the popular masses and their politicians, this bogus eternity constitutes a quick and easy getaway from the finitude of time and from the fortuities of time. Oakeshott asserts that such bogus eternity comes down to operating as a “quick escape” from “the intricacy of the world of time and contingency” (ibid.). This certainly applies to both politicians and their followers.

Both politicians and the many-too-many cannot understand – and cannot easily tolerate – whoever dares not be anxious about or care for the future. The presentness defining the Übermensch as his mode of being is utterly alien to them – and it is alien because they view such mode of being as irresponsibly arrogant, foolishly reckless, irrationally idealistic, and above all uncomradely. The Übermensch and his likes cannot participate in whatever care for the future, or in whatever visions pertaining to the future – their type does not espouse the universal virtue of what has come to be called social solidarity in fighting for a better common future.

Since the truly exceptional individual is in no need for whatever quick escapes from the finitude of time and its fortuities, he is in no need of whatever bogus eternities. And thus the truly exceptional individual orients his creative will in a manner that fully engages the self in each of its moments – and in as creative a manner, this type of individual never forgets his own mortality (memento mori). Very much unlike the state and the popular masses, therefore, the exceptional individual has no time for postponing whatever to the future – he has no time for whatever ideals pointing to whichever future.

Now, such a mode of being may certainly sound irrationally idealistic – or it may in any case sound thus for those not belonging to the category of the truly exceptional type of individual. Making use of Glenn Worthington’s appreciation of Oakeshottian thinking (cf. above), Corey attempts to explain how Oakeshott’s position regarding the present vis-à-vis the future is not at all irrationally impractical in the modern western world. Corey writes as follows: “Oakeshott’s … [exceptional] man, by contrast, does not postpone fulfillment to the future but is fully engaged in each moment. He finds meaning in present activity and lives life as its own end rather than as a means to some future satisfaction. He understands practical endeavors as activities that have a distinct, though limited, value. Activities that do stand as ends in themselves – for example, love, friendship, and contemplation – are the … [exceptional] man’s true focus. And although he must take part in worldly activities to survive, the spirit in which he undertakes such actions clearly distinguishes him from the worldly man.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., pp. 26-27).

The exceptional individual, very simply, delights in the present. It is such disposition (it being a particular propensity and taste) that organizes the self of the exceptional individual. Such self-organizational propensity, taste, or disposition, however, is also that which defines Oakeshott’s own understanding of the conservative disposition. Corey writes of this Oakeshottian conservative disposition as a sheer delight in the present as follows: “In his 1956 essay “On Being Conservative”, Oakeshott describes conservatism as the propensity to “use and to enjoy what is available rather than to wish for or to look for something else; to delight in what is present than what was or what may be.” …” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 125).

Such a disposition does not come easy, and it is not for the everyman of the market-place. To delight in the present presupposes the self-organizational will to do so – above all, however, it also presupposes the creative artistry to be able to do just that. It further presupposes both a love for one’s own self and the disposition of memento mori.

The conservative disposition and its delight in the presentness of experience is not at all, therefore, some so-called political position – it is a mode of life expressive of a particular existential perspective of the world. Such a perspective would be based on the individual’s exceptional capacity to reflect upon the world – for Oakeshott, such reflection would bring to light “an appropriate gratefulness for what is available” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 168). And such gratefulness would constitute “the acknowledgment of a gift” (ibid.) – the gift, that is, of time-present (but which would be a time-present that carries within itself the positive gifts of time-past).

To put it all in a fairly crude nutshell, one may simply say that the everyman’s rationalist-based morality is a worldview that points to the future. In contrast, the morality of the exceptional individual that organizes the self in terms of the conservative disposition points to the present. Corey quite accurately summarizes this Oakeshottian position when she writes as follows: “If the ends of the Rationalist are thrown ever forward into the future, poetry may be engaged in a fully “present” experience.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 123). As has already been noted, the exceptional individual lives a mode of life that resonates with the poetic mode of being – and it is poetry per se that wishes to freeze the present experience so that it may claim it for itself.

The mode of being that loves its self is a mode of being that loves the presentness of the self – and to love such presentness is to love the earth. But love of the earth also means a love for all that one experiences upon the earth – so much so, that one can assert a love even for the suffering that life offers to the presentness of the individual upon the earth. To love one’s self, one’s presentness, and all the suffering that such presentness can offer, the exceptional individual requires the courage of the morality of individuality. It is such courage that allows the exceptional individual to assert that Nietzschean Once more! with respect to all of the joys and all of the sufferings that presentness offers him. On the question of courage and the acceptance of all experiences in the life of the exceptional individual, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “Courage is the best slayer; courage slayeth also fellow-suffering. Fellow-suffering, however, is the deepest abyss; as deeply as man looketh into life, so deeply also doth he look into suffering … Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which attacketh; it slayeth even death itself, for it saith: ‘Was that life? Well! Once more!’ … In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath ears to hear, let him hear.” (p. 153).

It is such Once more! that expresses a love of the earth, and all that the presentness of the earth offers. This triumph of love for the earth and of the presentness of life is not for all – it is exclusively for that exceptional individual who has the appropriate ears to hear that sound of triumph. Such ears possess both the capacity and the aristocratic entitlement to rejoice at all of the human creativity that the earth has thus far offered. And it is for this reason that Nietzsche’s Zarathustra may speak as follows: “There are on the earth many good inventions, some useful, some pleasant: for their sake is the earth to be loved.” (p. 201).

Following both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, we are saying that to love one’s self is to love one’s presentness – and to love one’s presentness is to love the earth itself. But now this means to come to love all of the experiences one has on earth – and these would include both those of the past and those of the present. More specifically, this would mean loving the present as such present carries within it the experiences of time-past. It would also mean loving time-past to the extent that it has helped mould the present. Further, it would also mean that one would also come to love whatever it is that shall befall one in the moments of time-future. This, of course, is encapsulated in the concept of the Nietzschean Once more! – it is also directly related to that well-known concept of the Nietzschean eternal recurrence, it being a concept expressive of one’s love of presentness (or of momentary presentness).

The Nietzschean understanding of eternal recurrence is an absolutely central concept in any attempt at understanding that mode of being organized around a love of presentness. We well know that that famous idea of the so-called eternal recurrence has often been misused, abused and often deliberately mangled – we also know that it would be Nietzsche’s own handling of that idea that would often itself be responsible for such conceptual despoliation. Putting all such aside, we shall here consider the concept of eternal recurrence only insofar as it helps us understand the question of presentness – the rest is of no concern to us and for our purposes.

To begin with, one should say that the Nietzschean concept of eternal recurrence is based on an apparently simple but in any case absolutely lucid understanding of what it is that constitutes presentness – or, in other words, what it is that constitutes this very moment. Each and every dimension of this very moment is a combination of time-past and time-future. Diverging somewhat from the Nietzschean position (which is itself not always absolutely consistent with itself), one may further add that neither time-past nor time-future may be reduced to one another – although they do fuse into one another within this very moment, they nonetheless remain structurally independent and therefore discrete experiential entities. This would mean that this very moment is not really a simple combination of time-past and time-future – it in fact constitutes a complex combinatory of these, in the sense that it upholds the discrete independence of time-past and time-future within the momentary fusion. Such an observation is not meant to engage in mere academic trifling – it is meant to underline the fact that each and every combinatory of time-past and time-future is unique in itself. The implication is that no combinatory can ever be repeated or reproduced down to its littlest details – and this is important as it points to the near-absolute uniqueness of all experience (and which is itself reflective of the uniqueness of the exceptional individual and how such individual relates to the unique reality of his own presentness). Here, what is of vital importance is not the eternal recurrence of a particular moment in time (which in any case smacks of a peculiar metaphysics) but, rather, the eternal recurrence of the uniqueness of each and every moment in itself (and which may be verified experientially by the individual).

Although such observations would not fully resonate with some dimensions of Nietzschean thinking in his Thus Spake Zarathustra, one may nonetheless safely endorse Nietzsche’s presentation of what he calls This Moment – his Zarathustra speaks as follows: “… ‘Look at this gateway, dwarf!’ I continued. ‘It hath two faces. Two roads come together here; these hath no one yet gone to the end of … This long lane backwards, it continueth for an eternity. And that long lane forward – that is another eternity … They are antithetical to one another, these roads; they directly abut on one another – and it is here, at this gateway, that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: “This Moment” …’ …” (p. 154).

How is the presentness of This Moment to be lived? It is to be lived as that ever-constant junction where time-past meets time-future. And this means that it is to be lived as that ever-constant junction where joy is entangled with pain. But, then, each of these momentary junctions is to be lived in such manner that one would come to desire their very recurrence. And this would mean that the exceptional individual would come to wish for the so-called eternal recurrence of the uniqueness of each and every momentary junction composing his own life. Obviously, this does not in whatever sense imply that This Moment somehow recurs by and of itself – what is being suggested is that the exceptional individual would nurture such a love for each and every of his unique moments that he would wish to see their repetition.

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra would, more or less, echo some such thoughts – this is what he says in his drunken song: “Pain is also a joy, curse is also a blessing, night is also a sun – go away, or ye will learn that a sage is also a fool! … Said ye ever Yea to one joy? O my friends, then said ye Yea also unto all woe. All things are enlinked, enlaced and enamoured – … Wanted ye ever once to come twice; said ye ever: ‘Thou pleasest me, happiness! Instant! Moment!’ then wanted ye all to come back again! … All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and enamoured. Oh, then did ye love the world – …” (pp. 312-313).

What, then, is presentness? Presentness as a mode of being is asserting a Yes to everything of the earth, past, present and future – it is therefore asserting joy in itself and for itself. Zarathustra speaks of this as follows: “Joy, however, doth not want heirs, it doth not want children – joy wanteth itself, it wanteth eternity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth everything eternally-like-itself.” (p. 312).

Presentness – experiencing This Moment as joy in and for itself – is the terrain of perfection. We need remember here that Oakeshott would wish to delimit the terrain of perfection to that of the individual (as opposed to society) – likewise, Nietzsche would speak of perfection in the context of that type of individual who is capable of asserting that joyful yes to each and every of his unique moments. “Hath not my world,” Zarathustra asks, “just now become perfect?”

The question of presentness as that mode of being allowing for individualistic perfectionism – and which is that wished-for recurrence of This Moment – has been discussed by a variety of major western thinkers, and with special reference to Nietzschean thinking. Here, one should note that the notion of the Nietzschean eternal recurrence is open – or has been open – to an array of independent interpretations (apart from the numerous offhand dismissals). And yet, there is one particular sense in which that notion remains of primary, and here of certainly unambiguous, importance – and this is to understand eternal recurrence as an ethical (and therefore also as an aesthetic) principle.

In what sense does the notion of eternal recurrence point to an ethical understanding of this present moment? And in what sense does it at the same time point to the primacy of the aesthetic mode of being? As an ethical principle, it posits the following question for the individual: how does one decide (or will) to live one’s life now, at this present moment? The notion of eternal recurrence presents the individual with a number of inescapable answers to this particularly existential type of question – we may consider some such answers by tabling a number of assumptions.

Let us assume, firstly, that the notion of eternal recurrence implies a possible return of the present moment across time ad infinitum. In such case, the individual would ask himself: what if it in fact returns? And if it in fact returns, how should I live this present moment both ethically and aesthetically? How should I wish to live the moment now so that I may live it likewise in its return?

Let us assume, secondly, that the idea of the actual return of the present moment is to be dismissed as sheer metaphysical claptrap. In such case, the individual may in any case decide to live his present moment as if that moment will in fact return (we would here have a shift from the what if to the as if question). Again, living the present moment as if it would recur ad infinitum would lead the individual to ask himself how he should live that moment both ethically and aesthetically. Presumably, the individual would choose to live the present moment in a way that he would wish to have it relived.

Finally, let us assume that the individual is absolutely convinced that his present moment shall not ever return again. But since that present moment would not ever recur again, it is an absolutely unique moment – and its uniqueness is a value that cannot ever be squandered to the winds. Here again, the individual would ask himself how he should live his present moment ethically and aesthetically knowing that such moment is absolutely unique, not ever to return (and here we would have a second shift from that as if question to the Oakeshottian-conservative what is question). In such case, the individual either grabs or simply loses the incontrovertible opportunity of living a uniqueness that always returns as a totally original possibility.

Generally speaking, it should be emphasized that the notion of eternal recurrence as an ethical-cum-aesthetic principle must at all times be understood as a purely assertive Yes! to all of time, and especially so with respect to the passage (or transit) of all of time through nothing other than the present moment. And thus the Nietzschean notion of the eternal recurrence is meant to express a life-affirmation (as opposed to a mere resentment) of the passage of time-past into time-future as embodied in all of presentness. It cares (in the Heideggerian sense) for the present moment, and the living of such moment. This implies that each and every moment is a becoming of the self, as such self authenticates itself in its presentness – and by so authenticating itself, each moment of the self is an aesthetic act (or an aesthetic act of self-enactment, as Oakeshott would put it). The Nietzschean notion of the eternal recurrence is also an expression of the will to power over one’s self, as also over the time-present of one’s self. To put it otherwise, finally, one may say that the notion of eternal recurrence is an ethical-cum-aesthetic principle pointing to the aesthetic production of the self recurring ad infinitum within the natural limits of an individual’s life-span.

Both the notion of eternal recurrence and the presentness it wishes to glorify are accurately (and perhaps most coherently) encompassed within the Oakeshottian understanding of the conservative disposition – this of course being a celebration of what is. It is the Oakeshottian conservative disposition, we need remember, that declares its own Yes! to the what is of the present – and, without ever idolizing whatever of time-past, it also declares its own Yes! to the past (thereby acknowledging an appreciation of those gifts of time-past that help inform the what is of time-present).

The Oakeshottian celebration of the present – and which constitutes the essence of the conservative disposition – expresses a love for the what is since it is that particular experiential phenomenon (and that only) which is always the most familiar to the individual. Oakeshott himself writes as follows on the question of presentness and its exceptional familiarity: “What is esteemed is the present; and it is esteemed not on account of its connections with a remote antiquity, nor because it is recognized to be more admirable than any possible alternative, but on account of its familiarity: not, Verweile doch, du bist so schön [“Stay a while, you are so beautiful”], but, Stay with me because I am attached to you.” …” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 168).

We know – and based on what has thus far been said regarding the conservative disposition – that Oakeshott is not at all saying Yes! to his present as someone thrown into some random present. He is saying Yes! to his present as an independent individual who both respects and creates his own unique individuality within the esteemed what is of that present (and he does so within the what is of a pluralist individualism, which he upholds as such precisely as an independent individual). He respects both the what is of his present and the becoming of his own self because, not only is he most familiar with these, but also because such double familiarity allows him to care for both. Familiarity leads to care-for, and such care-for facilitates the ethical and aesthetic self-cultivation of the Oakeshottian individual idiom.

It is this essential familiarity with one’s self and with what is (and which allows for one’s care-for and one’s self-cultivation therein) that renders both the self and its what is absolutely supreme. And it is for this very reason that Oakeshottian thinking would express “the conviction that life should be taken as it is” – and such thinking would thus also express the conviction that, if the individual is to live authentically, he would need “to live in the present” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 30). Of course, the conviction that life should be taken as it is – as the what is of the self – clearly echoes the Nietzschean Thus would I have it! (the further implications of which shall have to be discussed below).

This assertion that one should live in the present is above all a moral vision – and it is so both for Nietzsche and for Oakeshott. For the latter in particular, this moral vision entails a graceful acceptance of one’s what is. And it is a graceful acceptance of one’s situation based on whatever personal interpretation one chooses to ascribe to that situation – viz. whether it is interpreted on the basis of the what if, or on the as if, or on simply the conservative what is as such. The Oakeshottian graceful acceptance is a willful acceptance of the Nietzschean This Moment, and it is an expression of the joy of that moment’s Once More!

For Oakeshott, the individual’s graceful acceptance of This Moment is an acceptance both of the in-built limitations of that moment and of the open possibilities of that very moment. And thus to live in and for the present is to enjoy what one has and to enjoy the possibilities of what one has.

Such a graceful acceptance of the limits and possibilities of the present, however, is at the same time a conscious rejection of worldliness – put otherwise, it is a rejection of the small passions and miseries of the market-place, and all that such mode of being entails. It is a rejection of the need to pursue whatever accomplishment as defined by the social order of the market-place. It is therefore a rejection of worldly success and social recognition. It is also a rejection of the worldly obsession for the acquisition of material goods exchanged within the market-place. It is a rejection of the idol-adoration of the goods of the market-place, and therefore a rejection of mass consumerist subculture. The implication is that the graceful acceptance of the present – or the mode of being of presentness – is a mode of being in the world without being of the world.

Corey has attempted to present this Oakeshottian moral vision of the graceful acceptance of the present as accurately as that be possible, albeit with somewhat religious undertones – she writes that the Oakeshottian moral life is “a graceful … acceptance of human limitations and human possibilities … The possibilities depend upon a clear-sighted assessment of one’s situation and are most likely to be achieved by living the present, enjoying what one has … In short, this moral vision rejects the worldliness in pursuing accomplishment and material goods, and strives to be “in” the world but not “of” it.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 11).

This Oakeshottian moral vision is also – and naturally so – an aesthetic vision. And it is an aesthetic vision pertaining to the personality attributes of any particular individual – or, more accurately, pertaining to that type of individual who is capable of living his life in terms of an aesthetic presentness. Corey observes that Oakeshott’s moral vision is “an essentially … aesthetic vision of the character of human beings, in which life is understood as something that ought to be enjoyed and cherished in the present moment, so far as it is possible.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 3).

The present moment can be most enjoyed and most cherished when that moment is lived aesthetically – for Oakeshott, the most consummate form of presentness is above all attained through the individual’s aesthetic sensibility. It is only through such sensibility that the individual (as opposed to society) can attain his own self-perfection – it being the selfsame perfection of the aesthetic moment itself. As Corey observes: “… Oakeshott finds that the most complete form of “presentness” is possible not in religion, but in the aesthetic experience …” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 74).

Presentness is an aesthetic experience – and it is such aesthetic experience that, for Oakeshott, yields (what we have already identified as) the individual’s self-enactment. An individual’s self-enactment within its presentness, however, depends on that individual’s personal insight (and which must invariably imply that such capacity cannot be possessed by the superfluous many-too-many). Corey herself writes as follows on the Oakeshottian understanding of presentness, self-enactment, and individual insight: “Indeed, self-enactment (a form of moral activity that Oakeshott discusses in On Human Conduct) depends on … [insight]. Insight is essential to living a moral … life.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 84).

Self-enactment is the independent individual’s form of moral conduct – and moral conduct is to live all of presentness aesthetically. This means that for the individual to live This Moment aesthetically, he would live it through his individual insight – and this is the individual insight of poetry, or it is the individual’s poetic imagination vis-à-vis the world and the moments of this world. But to be able to live presentness through the aesthetics of poetry – or through the aesthetics of the poetic imagination – the individual need acquire a state of indifference with respect to the consequences and outcomes of his life-choices; and he would need to attain a state of indifference with respect to both the achievements and the frustrations of his life. He would, in short, need to sustain a state of indifference with respect to the future itself (and cf. Corey, ibid., p. 119).

Perhaps it should be noted at this point – and more or less following Oakeshottian thinking – that by now (in the postmodern western world, at least) it is only the individual who can actually enact such a mode of being as is suggested here. And it is only the individual who can do this as all of traditional morality is being peripheralized. One may further elucidate on this observation by very briefly explaining that, as the morality of habit of behaviour of the western cives – those once independent, self-created peoples – gets marginalized or distorted to the point of disappearance, it is the all-powerful state that takes over as the creator of values (with its ideology of social justice and equality). And therein, all forms of popular self-enactment are checked, scrutinized, and demonized as mere anachronisms that go against the dominant ideological grain of so-called progress. All space for independent self-creation is thwarted – and it is for just this reason that it is only the independent individual who can yet still attempt his own self-enactment, and thereby struggle to salvage his own presentness. To salvage, that is, the very holiness of his This Moment.

And thus, all too prophetically, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra would declare: “… ‘All days shall be holy unto me’ – so spake once the wisdom of my youth: verily, the language of a joyous wisdom!” (p. 109).

That all days shall be holy for the individual means nothing other than that, for the individual, This Moment shall be holy unto him in its own uniqueness. And that This Moment shall be holy in its own uniqueness would mean that that moment is indifferent to worldly success and worldly power. For some – for certain exceptional individuals – this state of being can be brought to the surface as they (alas) await their own death (and we need remember here Oakeshott’s own reference to the death bed – cf. above). In the case of the Sorelian experience referred to above, the question of time (its finitude) and the presentness of the moment is fully illuminated precisely as Stendhal’s Julien Sorel becomes fully aware of the fact that he is dying (activation of his memento mori). Such an awareness goes hand-in-hand with a consciousness of absolute presentness. In such terminal state of being, Sorel lives for This Moment and nothing else – he loses all sense of ambition, and he no longer cares for the future (cf. George Poulet, “Stendhal and Time”, in Red and Black, op. cit., p. 473).

We might as well briefly restate the Sorelian experience and draw out its implications by summarizing its tragic life-span. Julien Sorel races across his life to achieve his social ambitions – his mode of life is thus fully tensed towards the future. He races so fast that he soon finds himself out of breath, so to speak. It is then that he falters and acts impulsively – and he does so in reaction to a momentary provocation. It is then, and only then, that he lapses into a loss of his person – but this loss is in fact a finding. He lapses into a loss that is a finding of his own self within certain singular moments of his life – his singular presentness is illuminated. And it is therein that he finds himself. This happens, above all, when his death is imminent – for, being imminent, there is no extra time for the achievement of any ambition whatsoever. It is within such state of mind that the dying Sorel can now live his life as would a Montaigne – and Montaigne had once declared the following as regards his own mode of life: “I live each day as it comes; my plans extend no further”. (cf. George Poulet, ibid.).

Loving the earth within the limits of the finitude of time and loving presentness within such finitude is – and quite naturally so – a celebration of life. But what does it really mean to celebrate life and its duration within time? It means, simply, to indulge in idle play. We need to investigate this idea of idle play a bit deeper. We have, thus far, already made a number of pertinent observations regarding the question of idle play based on both Nietzschean and Oakeshottian thinking. Idle play, it has been suggested, is the idle play of the individual’s self per se – and the idle play of the self is the productive core of that self. And the productive core of the self is that which transforms the passions into a self-sustaining world of virtues. It is such transformation which constitutes the individual’s idiom of poetry – and it is this very idiom of poetry which is the idle play of the self. Such idle play, it has also been asserted, is based on the least everyday wisdom – it operates well beyond and above the wisdom of the herd. And since it must operate beyond and above the wisdom of the herd and its statal representations, idle play is the supreme source of self-truth – it is truth as such for the independent individual engaged in idle play.

We may now further investigate this central concept of idle play as an organizer of the presentness of the self. Examining the whole of human history – and perhaps above all that of the western world – Nietzsche comes up with a truly dramatic diagnosis. This is what he says: “Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin!” (p. 85). Such a diagnosis certainly confirms the Oakeshottian observation that the typical western-type mass man has given up on living and enjoying his presentness – and he has done so given his obsession with materialistic ambitions and this-worldly success and this-worldly recognition. For Oakeshott, as for Nietzsche, man has forgotten the virtue of enjoying himself in his presentness by projecting such presentness into an idol-adoration pointing to some (usually utopian) future.

For the typical western-type mass man, what matters is utilitarianism and the ultimate possession and utility of all the things that surround him – it is usefulness that counts, not uselessness and the idle play of whatever forms of uselessness. And yet, and as George Steiner has himself argued (cf., for instance, “George Steiner on how to reform the Humanities”, The Nexus Institute, 11.06.2012), uselessness ought to be seen as a core virtue of humanity as it is the source of cultural and civilizational vitality – and in that sense, uselessness is useful, so to speak. And thus too is all idle play (although it does all depend on who does the playing).

The figures or figurative models in Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra are meant to present us with cases of types of individuals who do, or who potentially could, or who could not ever live their lives in an affirmative joyful idleness. With respect to the Nietzschean notion of living one’s presentness joyfully and affirmatively, Alan Rosenberg (op. cit.) writes as follows: “Figures such as “the scholars”, the “philosophical laborers”, the “higher men”, provide a kind of imaginative “litmus paper” test for whether or not one can live one’s life “joyfully” and “affirmatively” according to that figurative model.” (p. 9).

The virtue of idle play and uselessness within the joy of This Moment means that all the so-called little things composing that moment are actually of supreme – or exclusive – importance for the independent individual. The absolutely vital importance of one’s choice of food, place of residence, climatic conditions and all that goes to satisfy the aesthetics of the body within its presentness have to be relearnt by the individual – and in relearning the absolute significance of these little things one must also forget the (political) affairs of this world, forget the pearls of wisdom of the famous wise ones, and forget the highfalutin exhortations of the so-called great men of the day (and their bad and/or sick instincts). It is the idle play of recreation within This Moment that truly matters in life – it is such recreation that re-creates (and thereby revitalizes) one’s self.

Now, although this paper focuses exclusively on Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, we may here in any case quote a passage from his Ecce Home, if only because of what Nietzsche has to say in this book about the so-called small things that constitute life. Therein, he writes as follows: “… these small things – nutrition, place, climate, recreation, the whole casuistry of selfishness – are inconceivably more important than everything one has taken to be important so far. Precisely here one must begin to relearn. What mankind has so far considered seriously have not even been realities but mere imaginings [viz. ideologies] – more strictly speaking, lies prompted by the bad instincts of sick natures … All the problems of politics, of social organization, and of education have been falsified through and through because one mistook the most harmful men for great men – because one learnt to despise “little” things, which means the basic concerns of life.” (cf. Ecce Home, “Why I Am So Clever”, Section 10).

It is none other than those little things that constitute the what is of the individual – and it is within such what is that idle play, one’s self-recreation, takes place. The Oakeshottian conservative disposition is a disposition that moves, from a Yes! to all what is, to a Yes! to idle play within that what is. By so moving, the Oakeshottian position constitutes a critique of the western concept – and practice – of work.

As a virtue, idle play is ill-disposed towards this-worldly achievement – it is therefore ill-disposed towards all achievement as defined by the subculture of the western market-place. And thus idle play looks down on all work oriented towards career achievement, it being a prevailing mode of life in the modern and/or postmodern western world (cf. Corey, YouTube, op. cit.).

And thus one may say that the Oakeshottian moral-cum-aesthetic vision is a position that stands against the prevailing modern western ideology that wishes to marshal all humans, all of their relationships and all of their activities so as to serve one single idol – viz. that of work, and which is itself directly related to the idol-adoration of progress and productivity. Corey writes of the Oakeshottian position on work and its corollaries as follows: “Oakeshott’s writings are a continual protest against the modern call (now some five centuries old) for all activities and relationships to be put in the service of work, progress, and productivity.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 3). Nietzsche, of course, would himself assert that it was precisely such modern type of call – the call of the flies in the market-place – that would reduce this-worldly modern affairs to the affairs of traders and shopkeepers. And by so reducing the affairs of the modern western world, that world would – via the state – kill all of presentness. And therein, it would only be the exceptional individual who could reassert the value, not of work, not of progress and of productivity, but that of idle play itself – it being the mode of being of self-enactment, or of one’s re-creation within one’s presentness.

By rejecting the primacy of work, progress, and productivity, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would wish to reject the utilitarian concept of use as the determinant factor defining the individual’s mode of being – and in its place they would declare the virtue of enjoyment. The value of work (as that of progress and productivity) constitutes the ideologically-determined disposition of the modern worldly man where the usage of all things takes exclusive priority – all forms of activity that are of any real value are those that fulfill that very usage. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, it is not use-oriented work that truly counts – what truly counts for the exceptional individual is the enjoyment of things and activities as ends in themselves (and which again points to the notion of uselessness as a primary virtue).

Corey presents us with this Oakeshottian dichotomous polarity between use and enjoyment by drawing on the work of Wendell John Coats Jr. (whose studies have investigated Oakeshottian thinking as a philosophy of the “creative” – cf. above). Corey writes as follows: “Wendell John Coats Jr. expresses the difference between Oakeshott’s two ideal types as a distinction between “use” and “enjoyment”. The disposition of the worldly man is to view all things according to their actual or potential utility.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 28). The other-worldly man, in contrast, “seeks activities that are ends in themselves and that may be “enjoyed” in their performance …” (ibid.).

For Oakeshott, enjoyment as a virtue points to a playful or an aesthetically playful mode of life – such mode of life has no time for work as a virtue in itself. Playful human conduct stands over, above, and against what Oakeshott has referred to as the deadliners of doing – work deadlines being all too typical of the modern and postmodern western world. Corey summarizes this Oakeshottian position as follows: “Human conduct … has a playful, aesthetic character that removes it from the “deadliners of doing” and from the interminable practical considerations of work.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 181).

Oakeshottian thinking on the question of enjoyment would yet again appeal to death bed considerations. In his address to the new LSE undergraduates referred to above, Oakeshott would also go on to assert that, towards the end of an individual’s life – in his perhaps far distant death bed, that is – the individual would need to ask himself how much he had truly enjoyed the moments of his time-past. Noël K. O’Sullivan (op. cit.) presents us with this aspect of Oakeshott’s address to the students by summarizing it as follows: “When success is the goal, the ability to enjoy the present which is the essence of the spiritual life is lost since only future accomplishments … are valued.” (p. 209).

And similarly, when Nietzsche’s Zarathustra decides to address himself to what he calls the small and comfortable people, this is what he has to tell them: “Ah, that ye would renounce all half-willing, and would decide for idleness as ye decide for action!” (p. 167). If, in other words, anyone belonging to the small and comfortable ones wishes to discover his own exceptionality (and to the extent that such exists), then he ought to decide – or will – for nothing other than his own personal idleness. He ought not to decide for action (or, its concomitant, activism). He ought not to decide for action in the sense of deciding to devote one’s self to everyday practical considerations, these being synonymous with work as such. What one ought to sustain for one’s own self is one’s strong-willed idleness.

For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, this stance on work versus play would necessarily emanate from the manner in which they understood the notion of the self – for both, and as we have already seen, the self constitutes the productive core of the individual. And this productive core is the self’s own uniqueness in the world. This constitutes the productive individuality of the person. But what precisely is one’s productive individuality? It is none other than the idle play of the individual’s self – for it is only through idle play that the individual can create for the sake of creating as an end in itself.

Both Nietzsche’s advice that one ought to decide for idleness and Oakeshott’s vision of the playful mode of living point to the aesthetics of leisure – Corey informs us that this understanding of life is also evident in a number of other important western thinkers. She writes as follows: “Oakeshott’s exposition on man’s “playful” character recalls other thinkers – such as Joseph Pieper and Johan Huizinga – who recognize the vital importance of leisure as a means of facilitating contemplation and what might be called the “life of the spirit” …” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 3). Reminding us here of the work of both Pieper and Huizinga is surely of the utmost importance if one is to place the aesthetics of leisure in its historical context – viz. within the context of the history of western thinking. We know that Pieper – a German Catholic philosopher – would investigate the aesthetics of idle play in his Leisure, the Basis of Culture, originally published in 1948. And we further know that Huizinga – a Dutch historian – would undertake an investigation of the role of aesthetics, art, and spectacle in the history of both the western world and of humanity as a whole. His historical research would focus on the significance of idle play – of fun itself – as a cultural phenomenon of vital importance to civilizational practices.

Oakeshottian thinking would in the last instance be a celebration of present laughter – and it would counterpose such present laughter to all of so-called utopian bliss. Present laughter is accepting the circumstances of one’s life – it is accepting and laughing with whatever destiny befalls one’s self in its presentness. Present laughter is accepting one’s own capacities and capabilities bar whatever dependence on others. In essence, one may simply say that present laughter is laughing with the present bar whatever hope in the future, and bar whatever anticipatory anxiety for the future. Oakeshott would himself express this celebration of present laughter by writing as follows with respect to the conservative disposition: “To be conservative … is to prefer … present laughter to utopian bliss … It is to be equal to one’s own fortune, to live at the level of one’s own means, to be content with the want of greater perfection which belongs alike to oneself and one’s circumstances.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 169). Such thinking, surely, echoes all too clearly the classical Zarathustrian disposition (and such echoing of the Zarathustrian disposition on the part of Oakeshott is quite remarkable – and it is so keeping in mind that the mindset of an Englishman such as Oakeshott can in no way be compared to the emotional intensity typical of a Nietzsche).

The classical Zarathustrian disposition may be even further compared to the Oakeshottian conservative disposition with respect to the question of presentness and the idle play of presentness. For Oakeshott, as for Nietzsche, what truly matter in life is the dramatic moment – and such dramatic moment stands over, above, and against all types of utilitarian moments. What matters in all of one’s presentness is the dramatic, non-utilitarian moment of such presentness – and a dramatic, non-utilitarian moment is a moment of existential exhilaration and experiential delight. Oakeshott shall write of the dramatic, non-utilitarian experience as follows: “The relationship of friend to friend is dramatic, not utilitarian; the tie is one of familiarity, not usefulness; the disposition engaged is conservative, not ‘progressive’. And what is true of friendship is not less true of other experiences – of patriotism, for example, and of conversation – each of which demands a conservative disposition as a condition of its enjoyment.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 177).

Pivotal to the thinking of Oakeshott, therefore, is this basic distinction between work and play. To take work as a virtue in itself is to reduce life to a never-ending struggle aimed at satisfying an overwhelming barrage of material needs – and Oakeshott would argue for the existential need, on the part of the self-enacting individual, to emancipate himself from just such futile struggle. Put as simply as possible, one asks oneself the obvious question: what is the point of living those few years on earth by continually struggling to satisfy one’s animal needs? And what does such mode of living mean as regards the cultural quality of a civilization? Corey tells us that Oakeshott would ultimately come up with a clear distinction between work and play – and undertake a rather lucid analysis of the implications of such a distinction – in an essay entitled “Work and Play” (written circa 1960). She writes: “In this short piece he defines work as the activity humans undertake to satisfy an endless stream of wants. Play, on the other hand, is activity that is emancipated from wants … The danger Oakeshott identifies and laments is the modern tendency to recognize only the value of work and to ignore the supremely civilizing influence of play.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 34).

The Oakeshottian position in particular – and one may add here in some contrast to that of the Nietzschean – is to argue for a civil association that allows for aesthetic activity amongst its members. Oakeshott, in other words, would stand for a type of western society organized in the form of civil associations that allow for aesthetic play – or that allow for poetry and other, related, activities of play.

However, to say that one needs a civil association that allows for such types of activities presupposes that there are already existing individuals who are both willing and capable of engaging in such types of activities. There is no reason to assume that such types of individuals do in fact exist. Alternatively, one may pose the following sort of question: what if such types of individuals do exist but are nonetheless marginalized? Or what if such types are already slowly disappearing? In any case, the point here is that the Oakeshottian vision of a western civil association would be a form of social organization that would, not only allow for aesthetic play, but which would at the same time require the existence of a certain type of moral person. And Oakeshott, as we have already seen above, would not fall for the idea that there is some universal human nature that somehow guarantees a propensity for free, aesthetic play amongst humans. At least in terms of present-day reality, such issues can be said to be rather perplexing.

Writing of Oakeshott’s supposedly more mature understanding of the concept of civil association, Corey presents this allows vis-à-vis requires complication as follows: “… we may observe in his mature political theory an emphasis on a kind of civil association that allows – perhaps requires – the kind of moral persons who know how to engage in the sorts of activities that make one most fully human. Poetry and other kinds of “play” express this highest part of human experience.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 126).

For Nietzsche, of course, the underlying perplexities of such a position (allows vis-à-vis requires) are overcome by simply – and perhaps more realistically – asserting that aesthetic play is only for the few, these being the exceptional type of self-loving individualists.

Oakeshott in any case wishes to celebrate the mode of being of cives as that of a self-determined, a self-improvised and – in the last instance – a spontaneously free dance. In her discussion of Oakeshott’s understanding of the mode of being of cives, Corey tells us that such cives are engaged in “a continually extemporized dance” – and their world is “seen as a player’s stage” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 184). With respect to the question of dance, of course, we know that this is a concept that is also absolutely central to the whole corpus of Nietzschean thought – his own Zarathustra is a dancer. Zarathustra dances – as does Dionysus – for life, for This Moment, as for the joy-in-idleness. For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, to dance in one’s own self-determined manner is to create values (poetry) for one’s own self.

Before we close this section on the question of living one’s presentness as a form of self-organization, we may perhaps add a number of more general observations on the question of idle play as a virtue. We have already indicated that the notion of idle play has been investigated, apart from Nietzsche and Oakeshott, by thinkers such as Joseph Pieper and Johan Huizinga. But the notion of idle pleasure as a virtue has in fact been recurring in much of western philosophy, literature, and history, and it has done so from a number of radically different perspectives.

Mikhail Bakhtin, for instance, would investigate the practice of idle pleasures amongst the popular masses, and would do so through a particular interpretation of the work of Rabelais (cf. his Rabelais and His World, MIT Press, 1968). In keeping with a peculiar form of Marxian metaphysics, Bakhtin would wish to invest the popular masses with the qualities of the Nietzschean Übermensch – he would wish to endow the collectivity with what can only belong to the exceptional individual (and which could only belong to the exceptional individual for reasons discussed throughout this paper). Of course, his deterministic sociological imagination regarding the historical capacities of the proletariat (or of the so-called lumpen proletariat of the Middle Ages) has in no way been verified in the real world. On the other hand, however, it should also be said that various independent peoples abiding by their own morality of habit of behaviour within the history of the western world have certainly lived in celebration of their presentness and in celebration of the idle pleasures of such presentness. And they would be able to do so despite the difficult material conditions imposed on them by class-based circumstances. And one may therefore assert that the depiction of the popular carnival in the work of Rabelais does in fact point to a popular practice whereby social hierarchy and social norms are temporarily bracketed in time so as to merely enjoy life in itself. Such carnivalesque social inversions, however, presuppose that the popular masses maintain their own independence (their own morality of habit of behaviour) well outside the state, the famous wise ones, and the political parties of the organic intellectuals. To put it otherwise, the popular masses can live in celebration of their idle pleasures – and thereby temporarily suspend their sufferings – only to the extent that they are free of all state-imposed ideology and the idol-adoration of such ideology.

Now, if Bakhtin focused – for his own ideologically dogmatic reasons – on the idle pleasures of the popular masses in the Middle Ages, Proust would himself write of such idle pleasures, but this time as practiced by the French aristocracy at the time of the Third Republic. The final remnants of this aristocracy, it may be argued, represent the most historically authentic representatives of that western mode of life dominated exclusively by self-love, a love of all time-present, and of an absolutely guilt-free devotion to the idle pleasures of a work-free presentness (cf. Nikos Vlachos, “From Proust’s Aristocracy to Sartre’s Outcasts”, op. cit.). The underlying aristocratic ideals secreted within the overall Proustian literary enterprise may of course be compared to those of Stendhal himself who – as has already been noted – upheld the aristocratic instinct as a virtue in itself. The Proustian aristocratic ideal, as in the case of the Stendhal ideal, would celebrate love, music, and aesthetic passion as superior modes of conduct expressive of presentness, and the joyful living of such presentness.

Both Bakhtin and Proust would focus on the question of idle pleasure as practiced by social collectivities – be these plebeian or aristocratic. And yet, while the quasi-Marxist Bakhtin would wish to see the collectivity itself as a historical socio-cultural force, Proust would dwell almost exclusively on the conduct of concrete individuals belonging to a particular social grouping.

We know that, in contrast to both the thinking of Bakhtin and Proust, Oakeshott would focus on the capacities of the modern western individual – his so-called political philosophy would be concerned with the potentialities of the free, self-determined individual as a concrete person whatever be his original class position. Oakeshott would envisage the possibility of idle play within any one individual, and within the context of a western, historically-rooted pluralism (or an individualistic moral pluralism). But his thinking would in any case have to presuppose the existence of a certain type of moral individual capable of living a creative exceptionality within that very western social context.

Likewise, though definitely all the more demanding, discriminating and aristocratically selective, Nietzsche would examine the virtue of idle pleasure (especially in the sense of the gay, Dionysian mode of life) as practiced by the truly exceptional individual – viz. as practiced by his Übermensch and/or variations of such a type of individual. As in the case of Oakeshott, however, the Nietzschean exceptional individual – and the practice of idle pleasure as a virtue – may certainly be located in walks of life completely independent of social collectivities or class position (remember the old fisherman, Santiago). But what truly matters for Nietzsche is that such type of exceptional individual indulges in aesthetically superior idle pleasures well outside the collectivity – and even to the point of being a least known self-rolling wheel.

The question of idle play or idle pleasure, it is to be finally noted, has also been investigated by a variety of western intellectuals and artists whose work stretches right through to late modern or postmodern times – to end, therefore, we here definitely need to refer to the work of Jacques Tati, that truly brilliant filmmaker-cum-philosophical essayist who would devote his art to a meticulous and subtle investigation of the practice of idle play in the world of western modernity. We shall have to limit ourselves to a number of very basic observations.

Generally speaking, one may commence by observing that Jacques Tati’s films are all an exploration of the complex question of free and idle recreation within (and despite) the context of the up-and-coming ultra-modernity of the western world of the 20th century, and especially as regards the milieu of France.

In his Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday (1953), he would focus exclusively on the all-too-human pains and pleasures of recreation, or on the modern western practice of holidaying. All along, the recreational activities of the modern western individual prevail in all their paradoxical glory – but they prevail within a space of time which we know shall soon come to an end, and where thereafter work shall have to take over. And yet both the practice of idle play and that of work can co-exist and potentially inform each other respectively. The film is a study of recreation vis-à-vis the absent presence of work. In his review of the film, Roger Ebert would summarize its theme with the following apt phrase: “to play instead of work” (cf. Roger Ebert, “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday”, RogerEbert.com, November 10, 1996).

In his Mon Oncle (1958), Tati would delve even deeper into the question of idle pleasures – or on the idle pleasures of the western individual in 1950’s Paris. He presents us with the popular practices of an idle pleasure based on a traditional morality of habit of behaviour (in the Oakeshottian sense) rooted in a time-honoured and well-established Parisian lifestyle – and he would starkly contrast such mode of life to that of an up-and-coming ultra-modernity besieging such lifestyle. Put slightly otherwise, one may say that Tati’s Mon Oncle is a study of the simple, everyday idle pleasures of Frenchmen – all such pleasures being expressive of a Parisian morality of habit of behaviour rooted in time-past and yet still remaining vibrant and vivacious in time-present. Therein, work per se takes second place (or, more accurately, is in fact quite non-existent, as in the case of the public street cleaner – he never really gets round to sweeping whatever litter lying on the street). This popular social cluster of Parisians – brimming with its own élan vital – remains unaffected by and is proudly independent of the clinical-type lifestyle expressive of the new ultra-modernity. Tati’s presentation of such ultra-modernity is such as to highlight the manner in which that particular style of life is organized around the primacy of work (be it blue-collar or white-collar), and the plastic commodities that that work constantly produces for the western market-place. It is not at all idle pleasure that prevails in this case: here, it is the factory and its products that both organize a sterile life-style.

Tati’s approach to western modernity, however, is not at all a simple (let alone a simplistic) rejection of that reality. His Play Time (1967) presents us with the what is of modernity as an experience that is to be lived (or that can be lived) affirmatively – modernity is to be lived (and can be so lived) imaginatively and creatively, and should be so lived depending on the independent perspective of the individual. Modernity may be dehumanizing (for want of a better term) – but the individual can assert his individuality within the modern western world. “I want to proclaim,” Tati has asserted, “the survival of the individual in a world that is more and more dehumanized.” (cf. “How Jacques Tati Directs Beautiful Comedy”, YouTube, October 5, 2020).

Importantly, Tati’s critique of modernity in Play Time echoes that of Oakeshott’s – viz. that the individual has to accept the what is of modernity and therein perform his own extemporaneous dance. Tati shows us how individuals can actually do that – how they do it, till the rooster crows.

In his review of Play Time, Roger Ebert makes use of Jonathan Rosenbaum’s observations on the film so as to explain Tati’s delectably creative approach to the world of western modernity. He writes as follows: “… “Playtime” is Rosenbaum’s favorite film … he doesn’t believe it’s about urban angst or alienation. In a lovely passage, he writes: “It directs us to look around at the world we live in …, then at each other, and to see how funny that relationship is and how many brilliant possibilities we still have in a shopping-mall world that perpetually suggests otherwise; to look and see that there are many possibilities and that the play between them, activated by the dance of our gaze, can become a kind of comic ballet, one that we both observe and perform …” …” (cf. Roger Ebert, “A magical mystery tour de force”, RogerEbert.com, August 29, 2004).

Tati’s understanding of the modern western world is complex. Being complex, such a world is viewed as contradictory, paradoxical, and ambiguous – and being ambiguous, it offers that space for the independent individual to freely explore and create the endless possibilities of his own mode of being (again, reminiscent of the Oakeshottian position). The ineluctable ambiguities of western modernity amount to a pluralistic cultural infrastructure that allows for individual creative innovation – ambiguity means that the world is open to individual free interpretation and a concomitant free individual performance therein. For those who happen to be in some need of a relatively agreeable cultural context of pluralistic openness (as in Oakeshott’s society of civil associations), the sheer reality of a paradoxical ambiguity may be said to allow for the play of the individual will – for the free play of such will.

Jonathan Rosenbaum’s own appreciation of Play Time would above all focus on how the film explores this tension between the what is of modernity and the potential force of individual agency. In his analysis of the film, Rosenbaum writes as follows with respect to what Play Time wishes to provoke in the minds of viewers: “… once our observation starts to superimpose a playful dance of scanning exploration and improvisation across the rigid space of the buildings – we can spend our time as creative citizens in an interactive community.” (cf. Jonathan Rosenbaum, “PlayTime”, posted October 11, 2024; written in 2013 for a 2019 Taschen publication).

One could observe here, inter alia, that Rosenbaum’s reference to creative citizens – these being Tati’s own conceptualization of individual agency as a carrier of open possibilities in the western world – is certainly analogous to that of the Oakeshottian cives.

As in Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday and in Mon Oncle, Tati’s Play Time above all wishes to declare the supremacy of the virtue of idle pleasure – the virtue of playing, of partying, of living life within the context of the modern western world as a free individual will opting to participate and perform in a recurring merry-go-round. Tati’s Play Time, to put it otherwise, wishes to celebrate the free individual will of the modern western individual who determines to enact his own extemporaneous dance within that merry-go-round.

It is in that sense that Play Time is synonymous with party time as such – and such partying is all enacted in a fictional high-class restaurant, Tati’s purpose-built iconic The Royal Garden. Therein, the viewer’s eye can only but feast on a truly wild cornucopia of guests who all go boisterously wild in an endless frenzy of joyful partying, and all this happens as almost everything within the restaurant gradually falls apart. But none cares, and feels authentically thus in a carefree zone of time and place – this being the epitome of a gay indifference to the things of the world.

The partying in The Royal Garden restaurant is idle play par excellence – it is an absolutely carefree, an absolutely hilarious surrender to play. Such play happens in the world of western modernity – and it all happens in an apparently sharply differentiating contrast to the film’s initial portrayal of a clinical, sterile this-worldly materialist reality. But this sterile materialist reality is neither self-contained nor insulated from alternative dimensions of modernity. In fact, it is those selfsame people operating mechanically in the ultra-modern office blocks of the city – stuck anonymously within a grid of cubicles – that engage in such spontaneous partying. Their imposed anonymity is overcome – and they conduct themselves as individuals with their own, peculiar personalities. The Royal Garden is thus a garden of intoxicated children – all traces of machine-like spiritless productivity evident in the world of so-called progress is utterly forgotten, or simply overlooked. The functional space of the office (or the factory) gives way to the spontaneous enactment of free play. Put otherwise, whatever form of rationalist functionality – it being Oakeshott’s own understanding of collective western rationalism – is transcended: it gives way to individual self-enactment beyond the needs of a rationalist-prone market-place.

Now, this disintegration of rationalist sterility and its transubstantiation into an endless play of the carnivalesque state of mind is certainly not limited to the so-called upper classes of society – although The Royal Garden is itself a high-class restaurant, the partying that takes place therein engages all possible social strata. Members of the so-called middle classes (or even those of the upper middle classes) intermingle freely with hotel employees and other so-called common working people who happen to be on the premises – all likewise let their hair down (and which echoes both the Nietzschean and Oakeshottian position that the capacity for individual idle play is extraneous to the question of one’s class position).

The point here is that the presentness of idle play as a mode of being can be enacted by whoever, whenever and wherever – it all depends on the extent to which the particular individual possesses both the will and the genius to stand over and above the material circumstances of the world that he is thrown into. The idle play portrayed in Tati’s Play Time might take place despite the circumstances of a prevailing ultra-modernity – but it does in fact take place, and it does so till the small hours of a Parisian morning.

Interestingly, Rosenbaum (ibid.) informs us that an early and tentative title of Play Time was none other than Récreation, or Recess. But to live a mode of being of presentness is – for the self-rolling individual – to live a life of continual recreation. That is part and parcel of his own self-organization.

7d. Redeeming the past as self-organization

Above, we have maintained the position that living the present in its direct presentness constitutes the definitive mode of being of the independent, self-rolling individual. And it is in that sense that all time-present – The Moment – is to be recurrently redeemed. But, then, no present can be truly redeemed unless the past is itself redeemed. We shall here focus on the question of time-past and its own necessary redemption as a mode of self-organization.

Redeeming the past, we shall be arguing, constitutes an essential component of the morality of individuality. The independent individual need salvage his own time-past in a self-organizational manner that affirms his individuality and the originality of such individuality – the self-rolling creator, in other words, need roll his own past (each and every aspect of it) in terms of his own creative imagination, or in terms of his own forms of poetization. And he need do all this in terms absolutely expressive of his own unique sense of what is good and what is bad. The presentness of individuality cannot be enacted unless time-past itself is redeemed absolutely in guilt-free, self-virtuous creativity. It is the supreme selfishness of the independent individual that selfishly redeems his own time-past in ways that indulge his own sense of virtue.

In our consideration of the question of time-past, we shall have to first of all examine the concept of the past as articulated by the state, and as experienced by its own ideologically-prone populace. We shall see that both state and populace view all of time-past as a matter of practical history – they view the past, in other words, in terms of their own practical needs, economic interests, and preferred ideological rationale. As we shall see, whatever ideologically-dominated perspective of time-past – or whatever form of practical history – immediately raises the question of nihilism as a mode of thinking within the western world.

We shall then go on to contrast such a particular – but dominant – understanding of time-past with an alternative conceptualization of all time-past that can belong neither to the state nor to the superfluous many-too-many. This alternative conceptualization speaks of the past of the valuing and self-valuing individual. Here, the valuing individual reinscribes the noble in all of his own time-past, and the noble in all of a selective it was – and he reinscribes such quality of the noble in terms of the measure of his own sense of virtue. The valuing individual remains supremely indifferent to whatever practical dimensions raise their head both within his own time-past and within the it was of all of human history. He is above all engaged in the re-creation of the past – and he is engaged in such re-creation in terms of his own individual morality. What, with respect to the past, is expressive of individual morality? Here, the morality of individuality is the will as a force of reconciliation with all of time – it is a reconciliation of the it was with the what is.

Now, one may make the empirical observation that, at least as regards the western world, the manner in which the state and its organic intellectuals present the question of history has a determining impact on the way in which the populace itself comes to view its own understanding of its own history – above all, such manner also determines the way in which people come to assess their very own personal time-past. And thus it is that the state’s focus on practical history comes to influence the personal understanding of the person’s own private history – here too, each member of society assesses his own story in terms of practical considerations. With this in mind, this section will therefore also have to briefly consider the question of historical time-past as inclusive of the traditionality of past moralities of habit of behaviour, and their exceptional role in the history of the western world – such moralities have informed both independent peoples and independent individuals in ways that remained relatively or wholly independent of the state and its famous wise ones (with respect to independent individuals, remember the ego-self interplay vis-à-vis the world, as has been discussed above). Theirs, we shall be asserting, was an understanding of history beyond the merely practical dimension of survival – and thereby they were able to forge proud and independent civilizational cultures that remain unique in themselves. But while, as we shall see, such peoples or individuals would acknowledge the gifts of time-past, they would not ever idolize such time-past. They lived beyond such idolization because they lived outside the realms of political (or religious) ideology.

Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra and Oakeshottian thinking both express lucid positions on the question of time-past – be that as regards historical events in general or as regards the mode of living of concrete individuals vis-à-vis their own private histories.

Our discussion regarding the question of the historical past has to begin by considering the manner in which western civilization has come to deal with its own time-past (as also with that of other civilizations). The state and its ideologically-prone populace have come to establish a very particular understanding of the past – the state and its intellectual organs have done so at a so-called academic level; the populace do so at the level of popular, conventional wisdom (and, at least in terms of method and rationale, they all think and feel alike regarding the meaning of the past whatever ideology they happen to espouse). Both state and populace have come to reinterpret the past in terms of their practical needs. By reinterpreting the past in terms of their needs, they have come to abandon the history of the past to the needs of their current politico-economic conjuncture. They have come to abandon the gifts of the past to the ideological whims and transient rationalities of the current generation – they abandon history as such to their own this-worldly market-dominated nihilistic follies.

This, in fact, is the Nietzschean position on present-day modern historiography, as expressed in his Thus Spake Zarathustra – and it is a position that, as we shall see, clearly resonates with Oakeshott’s critique of the dominant ideology of the practical past, as used and abused by activist academics, politicians, and the many-too-many. With respect to the past, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “It is my sympathy with all the past that I see it is abandoned – Abandoned to the favour, the spirit and the madness of every generation that cometh, and reinterpreteth all that hath been as its bridge!” (p. 197).

But it is not simply that the current generation does the reinterpretation of the past – the interpretation of the past is restricted, regulated, and reinterpreted in terms of the needs of the current ruler of that generation (or its own ideological hegemon). The ruler writes history to serve his needs – or to serve the needs of hegemonic legitimation. Zarathustra more or less expresses this as follows: “A great potentate might arise, an artful prodigy, who with approval and disapproval could strain and constrain all the past, until it became for him a bridge, a harbinger, a herald, and a cock-crowing.” (ibid.).

But while the ruler restricts and regulates time-past for his own practical purposes, the populace itself constrains time-past in its own way – it has a short-term memory of the past; it is simply forgetful of the distant past and of the gifts of such distant past. And thus the historical past is restricted by both the hegemon and his populace. With respect to the manner in which the many-too-many relate to time-past, Zarathustra observes as follows: “This however is the other danger … : he who is of the populace, his thoughts go back to his grandfather – with his grandfather, however, doth time cease.” (ibid.). Time thus ceases for the populace given its restrictive short-term memory – and its memory is short-term given that the mindset of the populace is merely practical. Its practicality is focused on material survival, the small passions, and a politics of faith obsessively pointing to a better future.

What happens when the restrictive and practically-oriented historical memory of the many-too-many itself becomes totally hegemonic? What happens when the so-called democratic masses come to directly determine the manner in which the state interprets history? When the masses become master within state formations, time-past is ultimately drowned in the banal myths of a trivial superficiality. Zarathustra warns as follows: “Thus is all the past abandoned; for it might some day happen for the populace to become master, and drown all time in shallow waters.” (ibid.). It is precisely this idea of the shallow waters drowning the past that echoes the Oakeshottian critique of the popular, mass-based understanding of time-past as mere practical history.

To drown history in shallow waters is nihilistic – and, being nihilistic, it is destructive of presentness itself. And it is for this reason that the independent individual needs to redeem history for his own self, and for the presentness of his self. He thus needs to salvage the past so as to reconcile it with the uniqueness of The Moment. He need reconcile the it was with his what is.

But to be able to do this, the independent individual needs to comprehend time-past in a manner that shall completely reject all interpretations of history as woven by the utilitarian intentionalities of both state and populace. To reject all established interpretations of history, to salvage and to reconcile the it was with the what is, would yield a new, creative reinterpretation of the past. It would mean to reassess history in terms of a new, self-created virtue. Such new, independent virtue would necessarily reinscribe the quality of the noble in all of time-past as selected by the valuing individual.

For Nietzsche, only a new nobility could possibly undertake such a task – and such nobility would undertake this task for itself only (whatever happen to be the ultimate, unintentional reverberations with respect to whichever outsiders): such task of reinterpreting history would not yield a new historiography meant for the purposes of either the state or the masses. Such nobility, of course, is none other than that special case of the individual embodied in the Nietzschean Übermensch.

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks quite lucidly of the exceptional individual – his Übermensch or the so-called new nobility – and how the moral individuality of such individual would reject both state and popular historiography so as to inscribe the noble in his own selectively salvaged it was. This is how he puts it: “Therefore, O my brethren, a new nobility is needed, which shall be the adversary of all populace and potentate rule, and shall inscribe anew the word ‘noble’ on new tables.” (ibid.). It would be these new tables of vice and virtue that shall salvage the past so as to confirm a guilt-free present Moment for the individual.

We have suggested that the alternative to such form of salvaging the past for the present leads to nihilism. And we suggested that this nihilism springs from a practical understanding of the past. We therefore need to delve a bit deeper into the implications of an ideology that wishes to reduce all of the it was to a political practicality.

It is certainly (and apart from the Nietzschean perspective) the Oakeshottian critique of western historiography that helps us much in understanding the nihilistic implications of such historiography – it helps us understand how practical history is conducive to the destruction of the identity of autonomous peoples within western civilization (and thereby also destructive of the autonomous morality of individuality). It may be said that Oakeshott commences his critique by arguing that the past ought to be seen as a particular mode of experience that is distinct in itself – and being distinct, it is distinct from all practice and all practical experience. There is that discrete mode of experience, Corey tells us, that Oakeshott presents as distinct from practice, and this mode is history per se (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 61).

Given that history is a distinct mode, the past cannot be assimilated to a practical present. Being a distinct mode, the historical past need be protected and defended from the political practicalities of whichever socio-political and/or ideological conjuncture. It needs to be protected and defended, in other words, from the encroachments of the practical present (and the consequences of such encroachment can quite easily be seen in the case of the Christian tradition and its cultural heritage within the western world – such tradition and heritage have come to be used and abused for practical reasons to the point of having reduced both to a mere state ideology). One may say that Corey does an excellent job in presenting this Oakeshottian defense of the historical past as a discrete mode of (so-called) human knowledge – she writes as follows: “History’s most important postulate is its concern with the idea of the “past”. But what kind of past is this? Oakeshott attempts to define a specifically “historical” past, a past that cannot merely be assimilated to the practical present. His task here is one of definition, but also of protection: he aims to defend history, that is, a particularly pure understanding of history, against its most common misunderstandings and misappropriations. Practice, because it is so immediately pressing, tends to invade the territory of other modes [of knowledge] and to insinuate itself into areas of experience where it does not belong. It certainly does this in the case of history – “history is only important for what it can tell us about the here and now”, practice argues – and Oakeshott expends much effort defending history from this encroachment.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 62).

For Oakeshott, the historical past cannot be used (and should not ever be used) to help us understand or explain the present – such mode of experience is not meant to illuminate the present. The historical past cannot be presented to the masses – and as it is in fact being presented – as a didactic form of knowledge meant to warn them of how they ought to think and how they ought to conduct themselves in practice. History is what it is for its own sake – it is concerned with the past for the sake of that past. And it is only such history that can be reconciled with the presentness of The Moment. Corey goes on to present us with this sharp Oakeshottian critique of an illuminatory and/or didactic understanding of history – she tells us that, for Oakeshott, “History does not exist to “illuminate the present” or to “provide lessons” for practical conduct. While practice is the realm of action … where all decisions have consequences for an imagined future, history is concerned with the past for its own sake.” (cf. Corey, ibid.).

But since history exists for its own sake, it constitutes a realm of so-called human knowledge that is outside any moral and/or causal judgments as determined by the ideological worldviews of modern contemporaries – it remains a realm of experience beyond all the ideologies of the state (their singular understanding of causality) and that of the many-too-many (their singular sense of right and wrong). Corey presents this alternative vision of the Oakeshottian historical past by writing as follows: “This alternative vision is the “historical past” … in which there is no place for moral or causal judgments.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 64).

On the other hand, it need here be stressed that the noble that can be inscribed in history remains the absolutely exclusive prerogative of the morality of individuality as determined by the independent individual – he inscribes such noble quality for his own self and only for himself, and which constitutes a necessary part of his own reconciliation with all of the it was. Such inscription is not at all an ideological evaluation, and it would not be intended as a didactic initiative meant to inform the many-too-many. Above all, to inscribe the noble within time-past would constitute a reinterpretation of that time-past in the sense of an individual disposition, or in the sense of an individual sensibility as a mode of self-organization.

One may now state that there are two types of pasts – the one is the so-called practical past, and which is in fact a mere dimension of the practical present as expressive of a current conjuncture. Corey notes as follows: “Oakeshott observes that there are two different meanings of the term past. The first is what he calls the “practical past”, and it is the counterpart of the practical present.” (cf. Corey, ibid., p. 63). And there is that other past, which is essentially an end in itself. The first understanding of the past is an ideologically manufactured past – it is manufactured by ideologically informed organic intellectuals at the service of a particular conjuncture; and it is as much manufactured by the small passions of the many-too-many. But it is the second understanding of the past – that which is beyond all collective ideology and all practical intentionality – that is to be salvaged. And it is to be salvaged so that there be a reconciliation with it within the idle play of the present Moment. It is only the exceptional individual that has the capacity – or the genius – to do such salvaging and such reconciliation.

The state itself is incapable of salvaging such an understanding of the historical past – it needs to usurp and use the past so as to secure its own hegemony and so as to serve its own functionality. The state (and therefore all of politics, and especially the politics of faith) usurps history in the form of a practical past for its own purposes – it usurps it for its political and ideological usefulness. The past, interpreted as a practical past, serves the state (and its politics) as it would an autocratic master. The historical past as an end in itself is well-nigh cancelled – as Nietzsche has asserted, the state steals the historical past from the individual. And it steals this from the individual in the same way as it steals living in the present from the individual.

It is therefore precisely for this reason that there is this need for an autonomous form of historical identity – and Oakeshott would argue for such an identity, counterposing it to the prevailing practical historical identity. It is of such a fine distinction in the thinking of Oakeshott that Noël K. O’Sullivan (op. cit., p. 211) would refer to when he writes as follows: “… a very original refinement of his early analysis emerged in Experience and Its Modes, where he distinguished between an autonomous form of historical identity, on the one hand, and the “practical” historical identity sought for example in religion and politics, on the other.”

We notice here that Noël K. O’Sullivan includes the realm of religion as a victim of practical history – the implication being that the practical interpretation of history has also invaded the world of western religiosity. As already alluded to, such encroachment has had a major impact on religious practices in the western world – the impact being destructively nihilistic. The autonomous historical identity of the Christian tradition and heritage, as embedded in the consciousness of western peoples, would ultimately be overridden and/or debased by an ideologically informed practical historical identity – Christianity would be reduced to a state ideology, or it would in any case be systematized and thereby reduced to a useful ideological discourse as articulated by academic philosophers, theologians, and even those operating in the field of so-called sociological studies. The time-past of Christianity would come to be stolen by the state, its organic intellectuals, and the slavish conventional wisdom of its populace – and this practical reinterpretation of Christianity would come to mould the socio-cultural formation of much of the western world. Briefly speaking, one may say that as Christianity would come to mutate into a practical historical identity, it would take the form of a functional state ideology – as a functional state ideology, it would speak of equality and social justice. And thus it would come to yield the ideology of democracy – but democracy and its discourse of neighbour-love would lead to the slum cities of the many-too-many, or would lead to the Nietzschean flies in the market-place. And it is in this sense that the state-imposed ideology of practical history would convert the autonomous identity of a popular morality of habit of behaviour (viz. the popular customs and traditionality emanating from Christian popular cultural practices, as also the supreme cultural products of Christianity as celebrated by a Proustian love of the Gothic-type cathedral) into a self-denying, effeminate nihilism. This, however, would herald the gradual decay and death of western civilization itself.

Beyond and above the decay and death of whatever civilization, the valuing individual establishes his own original and autonomous relationship to the historical past – and it is a relationship that is by definition informed by a self-rolling creative understanding of a past as an end in itself. We have already argued that the valuing individual salvages the past as an end in itself by reinscribing the word noble in it, and he does so contra both state and populace. Here, no longer is the past in itself abandoned; no longer is such past a practical ideological tool of state and populace. And while the state and its organic intellectuals make use of public discourse – language – to promote the ideology of a practical, didactic past, the valuing individual salvages the past in silence vis-à-vis the public. It is in silence – as that least known morality of individuality – that the independent individual revalues the past in terms of his own sense of nobility and virtue. And it is thus that the independent, valuing individual salvages the historical past of the western world from a practical past of state and populace bent on nihilistic self-destruction.

We need to further investigate the mode of being of the independent, self-rolling individual as regards his relationship to the past, or as regards his relationship to all of the it was of human history. What does it really mean to redeem what is of the past? It is Nietzsche who answers such a critical question most decisively. He writes as follows: “To redeem what is past, and to transform every ‘It was’ into ‘Thus would I have it’ – that only do I call redemption!” (p. 138). The redemption of the past is its creative transformation – and it is transformed in such a manner that it may be properly possessed by the “I” of the self. It is therefore a transformation of the past in terms of the virtue of the self (and none other), this being the virtue of the individual’s supreme selfishness. That which is being transformed is each and every aspect of the it was – each and every aspect of the past is accepted as an end in itself, and it is on the basis of such acceptance that each and every aspect of the past may be transformed in terms of the individual’s own table of values (and it is this very table of values that selects the exceptionally noble in the past).

It would be this transformation and reclaiming of the past that would allow the exceptional individual to assert that affirmative disposition declaring: Thus would I have it. That the individual would have reclaimed the past in such manner – as transformed – would mean that the individual would have eradicated whatever guilt feelings regarding the past; he would eye the past bar whatever miserable little passions; and he would eye the past without the need to cancel any aspect of it. Of course, such a mode of being with respect to the past is precisely a reconciliation with each and every aspect of the it was – and it is such reconciliation that allows for the enactment of the free and creative presentness of the joyfully idle Moment.

It is the exceptional individual’s will – his will to empower his own independent self for itself – that enables him to reconcile with all of the it was. It is such will to power that facilitates this reconciliation with time per se – and it is precisely this reconciliation that Nietzsche speaks of when he discusses the question of redemption. Reconciliation with the past is based on this redemption, and redemption is to will backwards. This is how Zarathustra puts it: “All ‘It was’ is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance – until the creating Will saith thereto: ‘But thus would I have it.’ … Until the creating Will saith thereto: ‘But thus do I will it! Thus shall I will it!’ … But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed from its own folly? … Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing? … And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher than all reconciliation? … Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the Will to Power; but how doth that take place? Who hath taught it also to will backwards?” (139).

The power to will backwards, of course, can only belong to the exceptionally independent individual with the genius to do so – this type of capacity for reconciliation and joy-bringing can only belong to the Übermensch, or to types of individuals approximating such ideal archetype.

The Nietzschean notion that the exceptional individual need reconcile himself with all of time-past – and thereby reclaim in terms of his own values whatever fragments, riddles, and fearful chances of all time-past – is certainly echoed in the fundamentals of Oakeshottian thinking. “Like the wise man,” Oakeshott writes, “we remain reconciled with our past” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 48).

For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, reconciliation is a process of creation. Oakeshott, we have already seen, would argue for a morality of individuality that necessarily indulges itself in the aesthetics of poetization and the creative imagination with respect to both time-past and time-present. And Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “I taught them all my poetisation and aspiration: to compose and collect into unity what is fragment in man, and riddle and fearful chance …” (p. 193).

For both thinkers (and despite their various differences), the exceptional individual is above all – and is so by definition – a composer. Zarathustra continues as follows: “As composer, riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance did I teach them to create … all that hath been – to redeem by creating … The past of man to redeem, and every ‘It was’ to transform, until the Will saith: ‘But so did I will it! So shall I will it’ … This did I call redemption; this alone taught I them to call redemption …” (ibid.).

For both, therefore, the past is redeemed and reconciled in the self (outside whatever collective and institutionalized so-called wisdom) by being re-created and re-willed and thus transformed and accepted (such acceptance being precisely the Oakeshottian conservative disposition).

It is this redemption and reconciliation with the it was that allows Nietzsche’s Zarathustra to in fact rejoice over all of time-past – he thus naturally speaks of a blessed remote past (p. 204). And one may contrast this reference to a remote and distant past with the typical thinking of the many-too-many – the practical memory of the latter, as Nietzsche has observed, only goes back to their grandfathers. Being both unwilling and incapable of rejoicing over their historical identity, the many-too-many simply forget the distant time-past – and they need forget since they have been taught to harbour deep guilt feelings about their historical origins. In contrast to both the Nietzschean and Oakeshottian disposition with respect to a non-practical past, the many-too-many have no time for the historical past as an end in itself – for them, time ceases; it ceases there where practical utility also ceases.

For Nietzsche and Oakeshott, reconciliation with all of time-past – however remote – takes place within the self. It is only within the so-called soul of the self that all of time – past, present, and therefore the future itself – comes to fuse into one experience. And it is therefore within the self that all of time is reconciled for the self. The fusion brings together the remotest of pasts with all that has come to succeed such historical past – and since such reconciliation is that extensive, so too is the soul of the self. But a soul that is thus extensive is also a comprehensive soul. Such all-inclusive reconciliation means joy – or the creative joy of the idle Moment of the self-rolling individual. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks of such joyful all-inclusive reconciliation within the soul of the individual as follows: “O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth … Filled and weighted by thy happiness … O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closer together than with thee?” (p. 216).

The all-inclusive fusion and reconciliation composes the very presentness of the individual – that is how the joyful individual now asserts his own self – that is how he now stands forth.

We have seen that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would argue for a reconciliation with all of time-past – all of the it was (being a historical past beyond whatever practical and/or utilitarian intentionalities) is to be allowed to fuse within the terrain of an extensive and comprehensive self. But although all of time-past is to be accepted as such, some of that time-past may be selected as exceptional in terms of the virtues it happened to express (and such selectivity, as already clarified, would be a matter of purely individual disposition). Nietzsche has spoken of the noble in a certain remote time-past; Oakeshott has himself lauded the role of the independent individual – and that of the cives in civil association – within the course of western history. We shall therefore end this section by very briefly considering how both speak of the virtues of time-past.

Nietzsche expects of the individual not to restrict his awareness of the historical past to that of his own grandfathers – and yet, and right at the same time, he can advise the individual as follows: “Walk”, he writes, “in the footsteps in which your fathers’ virtue hath already walked! How would ye rise high, if your fathers’ will should not rise with you?” (p. 281). For Nietzsche, therefore, the fathers’ virtue is expressive of a certain virtue of the past.

Similarly, whenever Oakeshott turns to a discussion of the question of education – and especially that of tertiary education – he advises students to above all see themselves in the reflection of their own inheritance (cf. Corey, YouTube, op. cit.). Oakeshott argues that when a student sees himself in the reflection of his own inheritance – and primarily in the reflection of the most positive (or noble) dimensions of that inheritance – that student shall ultimately be able to attain a certain level of (what Oakeshott calls) self-understanding. Of course, Nietzsche would himself speak of the critical importance of self-understanding – it being a self-understanding based on one’s reconciliation with all of one’s inheritance. But, need we say, to reconcile oneself in such manner is to also see one’s own individuality as reflected in the inheritance bestowed by time-past.

Edmund Neill (op. cit., p. 111) has observed that Oakeshott would remain “adamant that upholding the best parts of our tradition is a vital part of ‘disclosing’ and ‘enacting’ ourselves successfully, to use the terminology of On Human Conduct.” And we are suggesting that this Oakeshottian need to uphold the best parts of our tradition may certainly be compared with the Nietzschean advice that the exceptional individual need walk in the footsteps of his fathers’ virtue.

Generally speaking, then, we may say that both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would argue for the need to uphold the most noble dimensions of time-past – and especially when such time-past involved proud peoples that had had the courage and self-respect to will their own fate. On the other hand, such upholding of one’s own inheritance – that need to see one’s own individuality in the inheritance bestowed by the historical past – cannot be allowed to in any way violate or compromise the supremacy of presentness (or the joyful confirmation of The Idle Moment). And thus, while the Oakeshottian conservative disposition would acknowledge the inherited gifts emanating from time-past, such a disposition would in no way wish to idolize time-past – all idolization and idol-adoration would in any case be an anathema to Oakeshott (let alone to Nietzsche). And thus, when Oakeshott writes of a gift or an inheritance from the past, he immediately adds: “… but there is no mere idolizing of what is past and gone.” (cf. Oakeshott, p. 168).

7e. Creating the world in one’s likeness – the question of truth

Whatever degree of self-organization on the part of the individual would remain absolutely fruitless and as absolutely meaningless unless such self-organization could be centered around its own sense of truth. Truth, it may be trenchantly argued, is to create the world in one’s very own likeness – such a suggestion, of course, apparently sounds all too far-fetched. But such apparent far-fetchedness ought not to dissuade us from a serious consideration of the suggestion – defining truth in any case remains elusive, if not up for grabs. We well know that even a thinker such as Max Weber would himself have no ready answer to that pertinent epistemological question put to him by one of his frustrated Viennese students – viz. what does so-called objective knowledge of the world really mean? This section shall therefore have to deal with the rather controversial question regarding truth per se – and the function of truth per se vis-à-vis the self-organization of the exceptional individual.

We know that all of Nietzschean thinking would be characterized by a relentless mistrust of whatever so-called universal claims regarding the realities of life. Such mistrust would be a symptom of healthy, original, and truly independent thinking. Being the fruit of an authentic health, originality and independence, such mistrust would not simply be an expression of an apprehensive negativity – it would in fact affirm the spirit of the supremely independent individual. And the spirit of the supremely independent individual is by definition enigma-intoxicated (and thereby creative).

The supremely independent individual, being independent of the market-places of this-world, maintains a supremely indifferent disposition towards whatever takes place within such world. As already discussed, he remains supremely indifferent or neutral towards the many-too-many and their ephemeral political faiths, and their as ephemeral so-called great events. He is and so remains – unmoved. At the same time, however, his spirit is alive with and fully receptive to all the enigmas and paradoxes of life per se. Such enigmas and paradoxes bring him joy and engender a healthy laughter in his soul (remember here the Oakeshottian celebration of present laughter as opposed to utopian bliss) – the orrery of enigmas and paradoxes does not and cannot ever cause him whatever sense of existential misery. And thus Nietzsche’s Zarathustra may aptly speak as follows: “Unmoved is my depth; but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and laughters.” (p. 114).

The truth (or, better still, the truths) of life is not an absolute (and all absolutes smack of the metaphysical) – whatever truth is an enigma, a paradox, and a laughter. It is of great interest at this point to observe that even a mathematician can acknowledge such reality – and that, despite all one’s logico-mathematical truths. One may, by way of an example, consider here the quasi-philosophical albeit lucid thinking of someone such as Edward Frenkel, the important Russian-American mathematician in his discussions with Lex Fridman. Therein, Frenkel would argue that to acknowledge and recognize the paradoxes and riddles of reality is a mode of thinking that sets one free from dogmatic truths and dogmatic formulae. Frenkel wishes to emphasize the freedom that such paradoxes and riddles bestow on us as thinking individuals, and this as opposed to the sheer tyranny of dogma. (cf. “Reality is a Paradox”, Lex Fridman Podcast 370, YouTube, April 10, 2023).

The freedom bestowed by paradoxes and riddles is such as to intoxicate the creative individual – Zarathustra addresses himself to that type of free, creative individual as follows: “To you, the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked with cunning sails upon frightful seas … To you the enigma-intoxicated, … whose souls are allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf …” (p. 152).

What is it that the enigma-intoxicated individual dares? Where lies the gamble? Oakeshott shall himself speak of such gamble. For him, the independent individual engages in a conversation wherein there is no truth to be discovered, no proposition to be proved, no conclusion sought. Such conversation is above all just an idle gamble – but it is precisely therein that the joy and freedom of The Moment is fulfilled. This is how Oakeshott considers the type of conversation taking place amongst independent individuals, and the concomitant question of truth: “… it may be supposed”, he writes, “that the diverse idioms of utterance which make up current human intercourse have some meeting-place and compose a manifold of some sort. And, as I understand it, the image of this meeting-place is not an inquiry or an argument, but a conversation … In a conversation the participants are not engaged in an inquiry or a debate; there is no ‘truth’ to be discovered, no proposition to be proved, no conclusion sought … Every entrant [in the conversation] is taken at its face-value and everything is permitted which can get itself accepted into the flow of speculation … It is with conversation as with gambling, its significance lies neither in winning nor in losing, but in wagering.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 198). And he then goes on as follows with respect to the situation in the modern western world: “To rescue the conversation from the bog into which it has fallen and to restore to it some of its lost freedom of movement would require a philosophy more profound than anything I have to offer. But there is another, more modest, undertaking which is perhaps worth pursuing. My proposal is to consider again the voice of poetry; to consider it as it speaks in the conversation … And if what is now needed is some relief from the monotony of a conversation too long appropriated by politics and science, it may be supposed that an inquiry into the quality and significance of the voice of poetry may be something in this interest.” (ibid., pp. 202-203).

It would be as early as 1959 that Oakeshott would express such deep skepticism with respect to the monotonously formulaic truths of both political ideology and scientific discourse – and it would be to the paradoxical and riddle-ridden language of the voice of poetry that he would turn instead. As such, his own understanding of the concept of truth would be highly disruptive. Such disruptive thinking on the part of Oakeshottian thinking with respect to the question of truth certainly does echo Nietzsche’s own disruptive wisdom, as alluded to above (cf. Alan Rosenberg, op. cit.).

It is such type of disruptive thinking on the question of truth and objectivity that allows the independent individual to assert his right to articulate his own sense of personal truth. It enables the individual, in other words, to assert the right to, and the power for, his self-seeking with respect to truth. The implication here is that the many-too-many and their state (or, for that matter, one’s neighbour; or the other) do not possess whatever right – and do not in any case possess the power – to obstruct such individualist self-seeking in whatever manner. And thus Nietzsche’s Zarathustra may speak to the exceptional individual as follows with respect to the many-too-many vis-à-vis the question of self-seeking: “Ye creating ones, ye higher men! One is only pregnant with one’s own child [viz. with one’s own truth] … ‘For one’s neighbour’ is the virtue only of the petty people; there it is said ‘like and like’, and ‘hand washeth hand’ – they have neither the right nor the power for your self-seeking!” (pp. 280-281).

Self-seeking directed to one’s self-truth constitutes a mode of being that need be located well beyond the so-called natural order of all social values. This means surpassing the so-called natural order of society. But to be able to surpass the social order one needs to surpass a self that remains servile to its socially-oriented ego – one needs to overcome that type of condition wherein the public ego dictates to the private self as to what is good and what is evil in the world. Such overcoming is a self-surpassing whereby the self as such ultimately mutates into a ruling thought, a self-authority, and a self-conqueror. And it is thus that the self is activated to function – and as has been already discussed – as the productive core of the individual. It would be this productive core that becomes the self-seeker – the seeker of one’s unique self-truth.

Seeking one’s own unique self-truth is surpassing the so-called natural order of good and evil. To surpass such order, the individual needs to activate his own will to truth. And thereby the individual mutates into a self-rolling movement – he moves from the so-called natural order of good and evil (as defined by social justice) to an affirmation of his will to his own truth as to what is – or is not – virtuous. That, however, presupposes a power over one’s own self (a self-surpassing) whereby the self is now of a higher order – it is now an independent, self-rolling productive authority determining its own truth of the world and of its relationship to that world.

Now, specifically as regards the question of good and evil, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “Verily, I say unto you: good and evil which would be everlasting – it doth not exist! Of its own accord must it ever surpass itself anew.” (p. 113). Within such apparently eternal flux, the exceptional individual is called upon to determine his own sense of good and evil. This now brings us to the question of the thinkableness of all being – as also to the role of the will within such thinkableness.

In his discussion of the question of self-surpassing, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows: “But that ye may understand my gospel of good and evil, for that purpose will I tell you my gospel of life, and of the nature of all living things.” (p. 111). Before we proceed any further, there are a number of issues that need a certain clarification as to what Nietzsche is really implying when he speaks of the nature of all living things. To begin with, it should be emphasized that Nietzsche’s reference to nature is obviously not meant, at least at this point, to present us with some particular theory of human nature. On the other hand, and as we have seen above, Nietzsche does have a very specific understanding of the relationship between the ego, the self, and the body. But since these existential forces composing the psyche of the individual may relate in a wide variety of combinations within persons, there can be no universal human nature. In fact, it may be argued that the general Nietzschean understanding of human nature is not altogether dissimilar to that of Oakeshott’s – and we know that Oakeshott rejects (and has no need for) whatever conceptualization relating to some universal human nature. Nietzsche here wishes to speak of the nature of all living beings – and he speaks of such nature based on his own individual (or even consciously individualistic) experience of the world around him. His Zarathustra expresses such very personal experience as follows: “The living thing did I follow; I walked in the broadest and narrowest paths to learn its nature … With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its glance when its mouth was shut, so that its eye might speak unto me. And its eye spake unto me.” (ibid.).

Nietzsche shall argue that it is in the nature of all things to strive for a certain will to power. And yet, it is only the exceptional individual – the unpredictable and entitled higher man – who possesses that particular will to power that strives for its very own will to truth (and here this specifically Nietzschean position on the unpredictability and the entitlement of certain exceptional individuals may be contrasted to that of the Weberian understanding of the autonomous personality within the western milieu).

The exceptional individual’s own will to truth is his exceptional creative force to make all being thinkable in terms of his own values – it is the capacity to make all being thinkable via an absolutely independent self-valuing of all things. And he is able to attain such moral status as a moral individualist that interprets all things in terms of his own selfhood not because of the conjunctural circumstances that happen to circumscribe him, but rather despite such circumstances.

Very importantly, Nietzsche shall write as follows with respect to the will to truth, and the possible thinkableness of things: “… ‘Will to Truth’ do ye call it, ye wisest ones, that which impelleth you and maketh you ardent? … Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do I call your will! … All being would ye make thinkable: for ye doubt with good reason whether it be already thinkable … But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you! So willeth your will. Smooth shall it become and subject to the spirit, as its mirror and reflection … That is your entire will, ye wisest ones, as a Will to Power; and even when ye speak of good and evil, and of estimates of value.” (ibid.).

Nietzsche is here asserting that, for certain individuals, all being can be forged in such manner that it can be made subject to their creative spirit – and not vice versa (and which would be expressive of the servile state of mind). All being can be reinterpreted in such form that it need adjust to and be wholly expressive of the creative power of the individual. Being would here be determined by – and thereby have to reflect – the will of the individual, and not vice versa.

Since here all of being is determined by the individual’s will, that will wills being in its very own likeness – and it is this that constitutes the truth of the will, as also the truth of what is good and what evil in all of being. But to be able to materialize such a creative possibility, the individual must possess the capacity – the genius – to make all being thinkable. Not everyone can do that. More than that, not everyone can engage in such truly risky life-gamble.

The will to truth is the will to create the meaning of life as the mirror reflection of one’s own self – it is to create truth in terms of one’s own likeness. In his presentation of the happy isles, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks of precisely such type of creativity as follows: “Could ye conceive a God? But let this mean Will to Truth unto you, that everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out to the end! … And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you; your reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones!” (p. 82).

Truth is here to be determined by the will of the exceptional – the discerning – individual. And thus the truth of all being – and thus the truth of the world itself – is to be created in accordance with the will of that type of exceptional individual. It thereby follows that the world and its truth can only but be that individual’s own reason. And further, given the self-love of the exceptional individual, the world that he creates can only but be – and as it so righteously must be – in his very own likeness. By so creating the world and the truth of that world, the exceptional individual attains his own all-consuming joy – his mode of being would be expressive of the Oakeshottian present laughter (or what Nietzsche simply calls bliss).

One’s creation of (what one calls) the world in terms of his own likeness – or as a reflection of his own image – would mean that one creates one’s own singular truth. And any singular truth is by definition a supremely exclusive truth. Now, such a position may at first sound like a typically extreme Nietzschean epistemological aberration. Apart from the fact that such a position is simply and absolutely consistent with Nietzsche’s general understanding of the morality of individuality vis-à-vis the world of the western market-place, it should also be acknowledged that this Nietzschean epistemological position is not much different from that of Oakeshottian thinking. We may remind ourselves here of what Oakeshott has written on the question of truth, and especially with respect to the notion of exclusive truth – as has already been quoted above, Oakeshott would celebrate the individual’s propensity to make his own choices in life and thereby find his own happiness; he would celebrate the diversity of beliefs held by each individual; he would celebrate the individual’s conviction for his own exclusive truth; he would celebrate inventiveness and changefulness; and he would above all celebrate the individual’s impassioned excess and impassioned over-activity with respect to his exclusive truth.

For Nietzsche, either one creates the world in terms of his own image or he submits to the ass-worship and mass idol-adoration of the market-place. Were he not to create the world in his own image, he would have to live in a world created in the image of the ass. Speaking of the ass or, rather, of the idol of the ass, Zarathustra observes as follows: “Hath he not created the world in his own image, namely, as stupid as possible?” (p. 302). The individual who creates the world in terms of his own image creates a world determined by his own self-created values; in contrast, the individual who accepts a world as created by ass-worship and idol-adoration has to submit to the appointed values of such adoration. But all appointed values are expressive of mediocrity – and mediocrity is the foundation of mass stupidity.

Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott – each in his own manner and style – would thereby argue for the supremely exclusive truth of the independent individual. Oakeshott would argue that there exists no single objective truth whatsoever, and he would go so far as to emphasize the vital and paramount status of aesthetic knowledge and/or aesthetic truth, as determined by the individual. We have already noted above that, for Oakeshott, there are radically different ways of interpreting the truth of things in the world – and each manner or mode of interpretation constitutes a specific language (or voice in a conversation) with respect to a certain understanding of things in the world. A historical knowledge of things can be related to a scientific knowledge of these things – and yet such scientific knowledge is an absolutely different type of discourse when compared to historical knowledge. Both a historical and a scientific knowledge of any particular thing could more or less be related to a practical knowledge of that thing – yet still, practical knowledge is completely different from both historical and scientific discourse. Unlike historical, scientific, and practical knowledge, the exceptional individual is entitled to an exceptional aesthetic knowledge of the things of the world. And, by here neatly combining the best of both Nietzschean with Oakeshottian thinking, one may argue that the aesthetic truth of a thing is the individual’s creation of that thing in his own image – and it is for this reason that aesthetic truth is a mode of knowledge that must be seen as paramount in the life of an individual. And it must also be seen as such because it is a mode of knowledge that constitutes a process of value-creation.

Without wishing to go any deeper into an analysis of the Oakeshottian understanding of knowledge, we may in any case further note in this context that Oakeshott would also differentiate between what he calls a technical knowledge and a practical knowledge of things in the world. Technical knowledge, he would argue, is typically “formulated into rules” and is “susceptible to precise formulation”; on the other hand, practical knowledge need be seen as “traditional knowledge”, and which “exists only in use” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 8). Knowledge that has been formulated into rules (and is thereby systematized as an ideology) is knowledge imposed by the state and its organs onto a people; practical knowledge is knowledge received from the past and may be used by a people as an informed morality of habit of behaviour. Both have had their respective impact on the history of the western world and its peoples – but both remain inferior to whatever thinkable truths as created in the likeness of a person’s supreme individuality.

We here need to briefly reexamine how Oakeshott would himself approach the question of creating the truth of the world in terms of one’s own likeness. Strictly speaking of course, the notion of creating the world in one’s own likeness belongs to the Nietzschean mode of thinking – and yet likewise, Oakeshott would present us with the notion that truth is to be created in terms of one’s own creative imagining. But such creative imagining need be of an order that reflects the truths – the self-created values – of none other than the self. As has been discussed above, Oakeshott would see the self as an activity, or as a potential process of continual self-enactment. Such activity, being an act of creativity, is the making of images. But this making of images is the creation of a universe – a total universe – to which the imagining self and its images belongs; it is also a universe which the imagining self recognizes as its own (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., pp. 204-205). Such sense of belonging and recognition necessarily implies that the individual is creating a universe of images in his own likeness. And since the universe that he creates constitutes the truth of his world, the individual is in fact creating a particular form of truth which is in his own likeness.

Now, the obvious question that arises here is this: if the creative self creates a particular form of truth which is only in his own likeness, what is it that constitutes a fact for him? Oakeshott is quite naturally fully consistent with his particular understanding of the truths of the world – he writes as follows: “As I understand it, the distinction between ‘fact’ and ‘non-fact’ is a distinction between different kinds of images …” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 207).

These images reflect the self, as Nietzsche would himself argue. And for Oakeshott, as well, every created image is a reflection of the self – or, as he puts it, it is a reflection of the desiring self. On this, we here need to re-quote Oakeshott himself, and which would help confirm that his epistemological position echoes the Nietzschean idea that the individual creates the world in his likeness – Oakeshott writes as follows: “… every image is the reflection of a desiring self engaged in constructing its world and in continuing to reconstruct it in such manner as to afford it [its own sense of] pleasure” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid.). For both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, therefore, truth itself is determined by the self-rolling, creative self – and being so determined, truth need be a mirror image of such self.

Now, such an epistemological position – and which is in fact an epistemological disposition – immediately raises the question of so-called prejudice. One could perhaps embark on a consideration of the controversial issue of prejudice by simply observing that such issue has, quite paradoxically, almost always been approached in a highly prejudiced manner itself, at least in the thinking of the western world. Above, we have considered the notion of a self-defined virtue of prejudice as a privileged entitlement of the exceptional individual. And we have spoken of a prejudiced aesthetic taste as that which helps organize the productive core of the self. We now need to further investigate this issue of prejudice in a manner that could help elucidate its quintessential and intrinsic virtue as a privileged entitlement for certain categories of individuals.

All along, we have focused on that type of individual who may be considered to be a self-rolling wheel – or, rather, a self-rolling will. We know that that type of individual selects, forges, and wills his own estimates of value, and thereby wills his own sense of truth. We have seen how Oakeshott would speak of different modes of truth, and how he would consider the supreme mode of any truth as that which is expressive of the individual’s aesthetic imagination. We have also dwelt on Nietzsche own position on the question of truth, and especially his own understanding of the relativity of truth. Both the Nietzschean and the Oakeshottian understandings of truth allow for the primacy of individual choice as to what constitutes the truth of things. But the primacy of individual choice points to the individual’s right to adopt prejudice as a mode of thinking and evaluating. Such type of thinking and evaluating, it may be argued, can be a virtue in itself. In what way can prejudice be viewed as a virtue?

Of course, it is one thing to argue for the right of the individual to adopt prejudice as a mode of thinking and evaluating – one may even go on to assert that any individual has the right to think in a stupid way about the things of the world. But it is quite another thing to argue that adopting prejudice as a mode of thinking is a virtue in itself – or, even, that it is a superior mode of thinking. Where, then, lies the virtue and the superiority of prejudice?

The exceptional individual as a self-rolling, value-creating being can choose – indeed need choose – his own relative truths. Such truths can be – indeed need be – prejudiced. And this is so because prejudice can be potentially expressive of certain relatively real truths of the world that merely await to be refined – in such case, prejudice must be seen as a starting-point for the refinement of a certain existential and/or aesthetic disposition with respect to life itself. Prejudice is therefore a necessary starting-point for original value-creation on the part of the exceptional individual.

Now, such a radical interpretation of the question of prejudice is certainly not ground-breaking on our part. In fact, it is a position that has been articulated and rather persuasively defended by the American philosopher, Allen Bloom (cf. Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr., February 3, 2017, Episode S0735, Recorded on April 15, 1987). Bloom’s “fundamental belief” is that “one only first sees the world by having strong opinions [or prejudices] about it. Those opinions may need refinement.” (ibid.).

How does Bloom defend such a position with respect to an individual’s strong opinions – or original prejudices – about the world? Bloom is for a “lived reformulation of the Socratic teaching”. His reformulation of such teaching goes as follows: “… you have to begin with opinions to examine them. Plato says we are all born in caves … and … what constitutes these caves are strong prejudices … But without those strong prejudices you would have no interpretation of the world which would give you a picture of the world and then that critical faculty that ever arises wouldn’t have anything to work on, I mean a kind of indifference, a kind of gray sameness, they’re all values …” (ibid.).

Based on the above – and which is a mere sample of a public discussion between Buckley Jr. and Bloom – one may reiterate this rather original position on the question of prejudice (and draw its logical implications) as follows. First, one would have to acknowledge that all thinking about the world – however complex or sophisticated – can only but commence with simplistic or primitive notions of that world (we are all born in caves). These simplistic or primitive notions about the world are in fact strong prejudices attempting to interpret the world. Now, these strong prejudices constitute the individual’s necessary material with which his minds works and on which it reflects – it is precisely this material that allows him to gradually articulate his interpretation of the world. This means that the critical faculty of the individual is thereby activated – the critical faculty (to the extent that such exists) undertakes an examination of that material and a refinement of one’s interpretation of the world. We need notice here that such refinement presupposes the original strong prejudices – in fact, it is precisely this set of strong prejudices that mother the refinement. Finally, and most importantly, it may be argued that, without an individual’s own prejudices, a value-based interpretation of the world would be imposed on that individual by the ideological apparatuses of the state, as also by the ideological idol-adoration of the masses.

Plato’s allegory of the cave certainly allows us to argue that we all do live in our own cave – and it therefore also allows us to say that such cave can only give birth to prejudices as presupposed ideas. But the pertinent question here is this: who is it that shall ultimately come to refine these ideas? Who is it that shall systematize them? Who is it that does the valuing of what is good and what is bad within the context of such refinement? Who, in other words, is allowed or empowered to interpret all such presupposed ideas?

Within the context of the Nietzschean understanding of the western market-place, or within the context of the Oakeshottian understanding of the state as an enterprise association, it is the state that poses and presents itself as the grand interpreter of all presupposed ideas. In fact, the state as an enterprise association adopts its own prejudices (and which are reflective of mass ideology) – and it proceeds to impose such prejudices on all within society as values (based on a refinement of the adopted prejudices). These can – and do – clash with the prejudices/values of a free-thinking individual citizen. And thus one may witness a clash between individual self-rolling prejudices and state-imposed prejudices. The level of refinement in both cases could depend on the socio-cultural conjuncture enveloping both the individual and the state – or it may depend on subjectively contingent factors (more or less as understood by Weberian thinking).

We know that the western state as enterprise association – and as has been discussed above – has been permeated almost through and through with rationalist ideology. Being thus permeated, it is suspicious of whatever forms of prejudice articulated and refined by intellectual forces other than itself; and it is suspicious of whatever forms of prejudice that remain unfiltered and uncodified by its own rationalist ideology (and cf. Edmund Neill, op. cit., p. 39). And yet, and as Bloom (ibid.) would argue, prejudice is presupposed in the western cultural tradition of tolerance. Oakeshottian thinking would add that the culture of tolerance had been traditionally embedded in the functioning of any civil association (it being, and as we know, a form of self-governance that has – or had – in fact manifested itself in the history of western civilization). Prejudice as a mode of thinking and as a popular disposition would be tolerated by the pluralist culture of civil associations. Such type of tolerance, of course, cannot apply to an all-inclusive state-as-leviathan bent on obsessive social intervention and peddling an all-inclusive politics of faith. And thus the independent individual in the modern western world need assert and define both his prejudices and their refinement outside of and contra to the ideological whims of such leviathan-type state. For, while prejudice is presupposed in the traditional western culture of tolerance, it is not at all presupposed in that type of faith-based and mission-oriented state formation that has come to dominate the lives (even the private lives) of western citizens.

And it is precisely on the basis of such reasoning that Bloom (ibid.) would declare that we are all prejudiced to believe that we are unprejudiced (and cf. Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind, Simon & Schuster, 1987).

But then, and if that is more or less so, we may now go on to reassert the central most important epistemological notion underlying both Nietzschean and Oakeshottian thinking – viz. that knowledge (truth itself) is a question of taste. Oakeshott himself would even speak of knowledge and/or truth as, in the last instance, a question of connoisseurship.

Above, it has all along been suggested that all knowledge is, in the last instance, a matter of probability. Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott have argued to that effect and, in his own way, so had Weber in the field of so-called political science and sociology. And one cannot fail to notice that the matter of probability has come to be almost fully accepted within the field of the natural sciences and related areas of research. One could simply mention here Werner Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, it being a fundamental concept in quantum mechanics. And one could further make mention of the fine-graining and coarse-graining processes used in statistical mechanics to describe systems – since all knowledge of such systems can be either microscopically detailed or deliberately simplified by smoothing over the details of that system, all knowledge of these systems remains probable. And, finally, one may also simply point to the major importance of the various strains of probability theory and probability calculus in modern-day mathematics.

And thus, and at least in the field of human values and the human valuing of things, so-called human truth and human knowledge can only be expressed via individual taste or individual connoisseurship. We may here remind ourselves yet once more of Nietzsche’s all too decisive observation that all life is a dispute about taste. The implication of such a stance is absolutely crucial for the mode of life of any independent individual. What is the crucial implication of such stance? To put it as simply as possible, one need conclude that all so-called human truth and human knowledge cannot ever be equated to (or ever lead to) laws or rules regulating the lives of independent individuals. Taste and connoisseurship – and the manner of thinking and conduct that goes with these – cannot be violated by the imposition of whatever state regulatory laws (bar, of course, that category of regulatory laws that are expressive of the Oakeshottian – or even Hobbesian – imperative that the state maintain a framework of civil association protecting individual freedom and safety).

The imposition of state regulatory laws that are supposedly expressive of a certain truth of the world would constitute a violation of the mode of life of the independent individual for one very basic reason – viz. all such regulatory laws presuppose the existence of a certain complete truth about the world. But we know that there are no such complete truths – the fact is that knowledge and truth cannot ever be complete for whoever, and this is so even in the case of that exceptional type of individual endowed with the superior genius to discern the complexities of the world in his own extraordinary manner. It so happens that even a Nietzschean-type higher man possessive of the genius to create his own truths and values does remain a child of a certain inheritance and of a certain historical conjuncture (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 12) – his knowledge, in other words, can only but be informed by the legacy of a time-past and by the social realities of a time-present. And since his perception of the world is thereby mediated by a certain degree of received information, he does not simply begin the process of value-creation from an absolute zero – and thus his own understanding of the world is not unadulterated. But, then, given such human-all-too-human circumstances, both the knowledge and the truths of the exceptional individual need remain probable and uncertain – for both Nietzsche and Oakeshott, value-creation remains an idle gamble.

The knowledge and truth of the exceptional individual is a refined prejudice, a combination of creative paradoxes, a gamble of uncertainties and experimental probabilities – yet still, it is a knowledge and a truth in his very own likeness. It is such likeness that structures his own particular taste and connoisseurship. And since such taste and connoisseurship pertaining to knowledge and truth is above all a self-rolling uniqueness and originality, the wisdom of the exceptional individual can only but be disruptive.

For Nietzsche, it is such taste and creativity – be it in the form of art or poetry – that can liberate the individual from formulaic state-imposed truths. It is such taste and creativity that can deliver the individual from all state-imposed regulatory truths as to what is ethically (or so-called politically) correct or incorrect. Much more than that, taste and creativity can liberate the individual from the nihilism of both the state and its market-places (both of which are bent on obliterating the presentness of the idle Moment of individuality). Following Maurice Blanchot, one could here simply observe that the artistic creativity of the independent creator is not some means to so-called truth – it is, in fact, a truth-making activity. Artistic creativity generates its own truth, its own sense of value, and therefore its own meaningful understanding of life. And by so doing, it liberates the individual from the nihilism of the flies swarming the ubiquitous western market-place.

Artistic creativity is coming to terms with a world that kills all of its gods so as to replace these with a motley crowd of traders and shopkeepers. But it comes to terms with such nihilism by re-creating it own truths of the world.

However, and as has been argued all along, the creation and re-creation of one’s own truth in terms of one’s own poetic imagination and in terms of one’s own likeness presupposes a condition of supreme indifference. We need once again remember Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, who would declare his own sense of supreme indifference vis-à-vis the affairs of the many-too-many by simply telling us that Unmoved is my depth – and yet his self sparkles with creative enigmas and self-affirming laughters. It is on this issue of over-standing indifference that we shall now focus as a necessary precondition pointing to one’s own knowledge and truth of the world.

7f. The over-standing indifference

Effective self-organization means that one is not of the world, and one’s truth is not of such world. More accurately, one should say that the self of the individual – that which sparkles with the laughter of paradoxes – is not of the world. That, of course, does not mean that the self is not in the world – like the individual’s ego (that which constantly converses with public conventionality), the self can only but find itself in the world. But its relationship to that world is radically different – unlike the ego, the self remains indifferent to the world (this being its unmoved depth). It remains indifferent to the state/government and to its many-too-many, and it remains indifferent to the so-called great events that incessantly consume both. The supreme indifference of the individual’s self is expressive of the self-as-nature and of the self-as-body. Such supreme indifference is expressive of the sensuality of the self – viz. it is expressive of the self as a higher creative order, or as a higher productive core.

Such higher productive core consults, reflects, and works on the selective material it receives from the world (via the mediation of its own ego) for its own creative purposes – but to do so, it need maintain its own detachment from the world itself. The woes of the world are not its own woes – and neither are all the woes of the idols that the state and the many-too-many happen to worship. Both those who worship and that which is worshipped are all riddled with woes – and they are so riddled since both are permeated with a dead-end nihilism. The self’s productive core over-stands such nihilism – and to over-stand such nihilism it need be left all alone.

Nietzsche, as we know, shall speak lucidly of worldly idols and their woeful dead-ends – and he shall speak as lucidly of the independent indifference of the self with respect to such woes. As already cited above, the Zarathustrian drunken song shall confirm such stance on the part of all higher men – it shall clearly underline three basic dispositions: first, it shall respect the right of others to lose themselves in idol-worship; second, it shall point to the dead-end agonies of such worship; and third, it shall above all reserve the right on the part of the higher men to be left alone so that they may stand over the events of this world. As quoted, Zarathustra speaks as follows: “God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me! What am I! A drunken sweet lyre …” (p. 311).

To be left alone so that the individual may stand consistently over and above the woes of this world can be nothing else but a sheer blessing. And it would be a sheer blessing for the individual since such indifferent standing-over would allow him to experience the fruits of a certain inner peace – and he would be able to attain such certain inner peace as he would be able to stand over the paradoxes and riddles of life through his own self-organization. Much more than that, he would be able to handle the possible conflict of values that could torment his own self (exactly how he would be able to do that would of course depend on the particular individual – below, we shall in any case attempt to show how an internal conflict of values may arise within the self of the individual, and how such conflict may be resolved without at all compromising the supreme independence of that individual).

The supreme indifference of over-standing as a disposition would thereby be a blessing for the individual as it would allow him to experience the inner peace of his very own heaven. But the attainment of such inner peace without at all compromising one’s own supreme independence vis-à-vis the world would also constitute one’s own security vis-à-vis that world.

The idea that the disposition of over-standing (or of one’s supreme indifference to the affairs of the world) is a blessing, and that it is so since it is capable of bestowing the independent individual with his own heaven and with his own so-called eternal security, is clearly expressed by Nietzsche’s Zarathustra – this is how he puts it: “This, however, is my blessing: to stand above everything as its own heaven, its round roof, its azure bell and eternal security; and blessed is he who thus blesseth!” (p. 161).

For the independent individual, everything must flow under him – what exactly is it that must flow under him? Nietzsche’s Zarathustra explains as follows: “Uncloudedly to smile down out of luminous eyes and out of miles of distance, when under us constraint and purpose and guilt steam like rain.” (p. 160).

It is here clear that that which must flow under the exceptional individual – or that which the exceptional individual must look down on (and do so with a smile) – is a world characterized by at least three basic realities. One such reality is that of constraint or social restriction – and this is the compulsion imposed by the state and the many-too-many that one ought to adhere to the rationalist-based ideology of what is good and what is evil. It is the compulsion to accept the norms – or the politico-ethical correctness – of social justice and social equality as determined by state ideology and conventional mass wisdom. To some extent, constraint is expressive of a mass ideological discourse that wishes to define that which is decent and that which is not.

The second reality that the exceptional individual must look down on is that of purpose, or worldly purpose – it is the rationalist-based ideology of worldly objectives, or the social objectives of the market-place. That which must flow under the exceptional individual is purpose as determined by all socio-political ideology, this being idol-worship as articulated by the state-as-mission. This is the purpose of the Oakeshottian politics of faith – and which is a politics bent on realizing a better society in the future. Often enough, it takes the form of wishing to realize a better world for future generations (and which usually comes down to hoping to simply secure better material/economic conditions for such generations) – and all this in the name of progress, humanism, and the sanctity of human history. Alternatively, one may say that such purpose – to which the masses ought to and do generally adhere – is the purposive planning of the lives of all citizens by the state, by its bureaucratic technocrats and by the near-endless categories of specialized organic intellectuals. Purpose, therefore, here translates into planning the lives of subjects.

The third reality that must flow under the exceptional individual is that of guilt – this being the guilt-ridden psyche of the state and its masses with respect to the specifically western history of all time-past, as also with respect to the personal or private history of each and every person belonging to the western world.

All three realities as delineated by Nietzsche – constraint, purpose, and guilt – have come to characterize the modern western world. And that is precisely why Nietzsche asks of the exceptional individual to stand over all three. Were he to be able to do so, he would be blessed.

But to be so blessed, the individual would also need to be blessed with the virtue of pride (a notion to which we shall have to return yet once more in our final section). It would be quite impossible for any individual to stand over the hard realities of constraint, purpose, and guilt without having attained and without having refined his own virtue of pride. Such pride is needed so that the thinking self (its mind) is informed of its power – or its will – to stand over the affairs of the world. For it is only such type of mental power that can effect that refined indifference to the affairs – and the incessant woes – of the state and the many-too-many. Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would (each in his very own way) fully agree on the need for such individual pride – and which would be a form of pride absolutely free of all petty arrogance, as also absolutely free of those miserable little passions craving to dominate others (something which Sartre would, for some reason or other, see as inevitable in all human relations). Oakeshott, as we know, would examine the question of a virtuous pride in his study of Hobbesian thinking (the lion as opposed to the ox). And he would go on to compare Hobbesian thinking with that of Spinoza’s understanding of the world. For the latter, the individual need make use of the power of the mind so that he be able to escape and thereby stand over the circumstances of human life. Oakeshott writes as follows: “Spinoza, considering the same problem as Hobbes, indicated two alternative escapes into peace from the competitive propensities of human nature; the one generated by fear and prudential foresight which results in the law and order of the civitas, and the other the escape offered by the power of the mind over the circumstances of human life.” (cf. Oakeshott, p. 292).

For both Hobbes and Spinoza – as also for Oakeshott himself – the question for the individual is how best to stand over the circumstances of human life. Alternatively, the question comes down to this: how is it that one may escape into peace. Of course, such question clearly echoes the Nietzschean blessing referred to above – viz. that of bestowing the individual with his own heaven as his own inner peace. The force of the individual will – or the sheer power of the individual mind – allow for such over-standing mode of being. That, however, presupposes the will to a virtuous pride. But, then, the virtue of pride itself presupposes the virtue of hardness.

In the absence of the virtue of hardness, the individual cannot possibly stand over and be indifferent to the woeful affairs of the world. The act or disposition of over-standing need be proud – and it need be pitilessly hard. Zarathustrian teaching goes as follows: “All creators are hard, all great love is beyond their pity.” (p. 257). In fact, it may be argued that the virtue of indifference or over-standing could mutate into a vice unless it were bolstered by a proud and pitiless hardness (and it could mutate into a vice were it to be allowed to wither into a self-destructive vortex of inner conflictual values, and which could willy-nilly plunge the individual into a state of utter chaos).

But why exactly need one be hard? And hard as to what? It is Oakeshottian thinking that provides us with an exceptionally convincing description of those types of circumstances wherein the independent individual would need to deploy his own self-protective – and therefore pitilessly hard – resources so as to survive particular threats to his own mode of being (these being threats to his very own identity). Oakeshott refers to social circumstances surrounding an individual which can in some way attempt to threaten his individuality and imaginative creativity – and they could threaten his individuality with the introduction of radically interventionist changes to the world around him as he has come to interpret it. Now, generally speaking, the independent individual may simply stand over such changes – at worst, he may even have to suffer such changes as mere disturbances. However, if a particular disturbance – viz. a particular attempt at imposing a change – is such as to endanger his own identity as a self-willing man, he shall then have to deploy all his resources so that he may protect himself, his identity, and his mode of being. Such deployment naturally presupposes both self-pride and, especially, a pitiless hardness. One may put this state of affairs slightly otherwise, as follows: it is by definition true that everything in the world flows beneath the Overman – but if such flow (or, rather, change of flow) affects him personally, then he would have no choice but to react bar all pity for the world and its affairs.

Oakeshott presents this type of individual reaction to external disturbances in the context of the conservative temperament, and with respect to such temperament’s possible reaction to state-imposed social changes – gently but incisively, he describes such reaction by writing as follows: “Changes … have to be suffered; and a man of conservative temperament (that is, one strongly disposed to preserve his identity) cannot be indifferent to them. In the main, he judges them by the disturbance they entail and … deploys his resources to meet them.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 171).

Oakeshott here speaks of none other than the exceptional individual – viz. that type of individual that is strongly disposed to preserve his own identity, this being his own conservative disposition. Such strong disposition would mean that he would have to judge whatever interventionist changes may attempt to besiege his person. Depending on his judgment of things, he would have to react appropriately. Of course, the implications of such a position are rather momentous as regards the principle of the individual’s supreme indifference to the world – such supreme indifference does have its own limits, being dependent on the level of external disturbances. Such qualification, however, would not be inconsistent with the Nietzschean understanding of over-standing and/or of one’s supreme indifference to the affairs of the world – very simply, Nietzsche’s suggestion that one ought to be hard towards the affairs of the world and its many-too-many is not at all, in itself, a neutrally indifferent disposition.

Both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would fully agree on at least one thing – that the individual with a firm self-identity need be left alone. More accurately, they would agree that such a type of individual possesses the will to be left alone. Where need be, the individual who has been able to attain a firm self-identity would come to resist particular identity-threatening changes – and he would employ his pride and hardness to resist these particular changes without ever compromising his will to detachment.

And yet, such notion of resistance on the part of the independent individual can easily be misunderstood – it would be absolutely spurious to wish to present the independent and/or exceptional individual as some sort of guerrilla fighter engaged in his own war of the flea against the state (and which would be sadly reminiscent of Don Quixote waging war with the windmills of his mind). So that this question of resistance be clarified once and for all, we may here restate the mode of conduct of the exceptional individual vis-à-vis external disturbances by making the following observations. For the exceptional individual, firstly, the will to supreme indifference gradually comes to roll all by itself – it comes to do so both habitually (or even automatically) but also self-consciously. Such will is supremely indifferent to the world, not because it needs to engage conflictually with that world as a declaration of its independence, but simply because it needs to concentrate on its own creative self-enactment. And thus the individual wishes to remain at peace with himself (the Nietzschean understanding of heaven and security) and at peace with the world that surrounds him (let them …) so that he may create and re-create the world in the image of his own self. Constraint, purpose, and guilt are modes of being that are simply of no interest (and of no use) to the exceptional individual – his own mode of being is enacted well outside all such worldly phenomena.

And yet, and as we have already argued, such supreme indifference does have its own limits. There may come a time when the exceptional individual would need to deploy that Zarathustrian principle that “One thing is [or becomes] more necessary than the other” (p. 266), depending on the occasion. Circumstances may arise, in other words, where the exceptional individual may have to reconsider his own hierarchy of necessities. Particular circumstances may be such so that one may have to readjust one’s hierarchy of necessities whereby the protection of one’s identity is placed in command – the protection of one’s identity, that is, as a self-rolling individual. Here, what becomes of paramount importance is the need to protect that identity from outside disturbances.

But such need for self-protection does not and cannot define the self-rolling morality of individuality – it can never be the raison d’être of such morality. And this is the central point that we need to highlight in this context – in fact, and as should be obvious by now, what defines such morality is standing over all worldly constraints, purposes, and guilt feelings. It is not at all a matter of waging one’s war with the world – the disposition of the self-rolling individual has absolutely nothing to do with whatever sense of activism, let alone with any sense of political activism (and we know that Oakeshott had himself been fully opposed to all forms of social activism).

This is the Oakeshottian (as also Nietzschean) mood of indifference. But it is not easy to acquire such mood, and it is not always easy to sustain such mood. Oakeshott would be fully aware of the difficulties of such an accomplishment, and which would also depend on who decides to undertake the realization of such a feat.

We need here to briefly reconsider the Oakeshottian presentation of the difficulties of such mood of indifference, and briefly touch on how such difficulties may be bypassed or overcome. We have noted above that, for Oakeshott, the conservative disposition towards the state/governance is what it is – viz. conservative, at least in the sense that the state/governance should be conserved in its most limited structural formations, and in its most limited expressions of interventionist power. But we have also noted that such conservative disposition is also, and right at the same time, absolutely radical in respect of almost every other activity. Such radicalism would above all take the form of an independent indifference vis-à-vis all the affairs of statal and governmental activity. All such activity is simply just too vulgar for whoever wishes to engage his own presentness in the valuing creativity of his own world. Now, it is precisely here that Oakeshott points to the exceptional difficulties of affirming and maintaining such superior mood of indifference – he would, in 1956, write as follows: “Nobody pretends that it is easy to acquire or to sustain the mood of indifference which this manner of politics [the conservative disposition] calls for.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 195). That it is not at all easy to acquire and sustain such mood would, in the last instance, mean just one thing: that it is only the exceptional individual that can attempt such mode of life.

For Nietzsche, such mode of life is achievable whatever be the socio-political circumstances that happen to face the Overman – it all depends on the genius of the self, its self-love, self-pride, and hardness. For Oakeshott, on the other hand, such mode of life calls for a very specific political framework that would allow for and facilitate the mood of indifference expressive of the independent individual – it would be such framework that would help bypass or overcome the difficulties of the mood of indifference. And it is precisely for this reason that Oakeshott is especially critical of whatever political interventionism that attempts to disrupt or disturb such mood of indifference – or that attempts to deform his ideal political framework (the civil association). We shall end this section on the question of supreme indifference by very briefly summarizing the Oakeshottian conservative disposition with respect to the form of governance best expressive of the morality of individuality and its mood of indifference.

On the one hand, the state/governance – the very act of governing the lives of others – should be limited. And it should be limited so that there is that sovereign space for individual choice. This delimitation of the structural framework of state/governance is not at all a question expressive of a certain morality. It is what it is for purely practical purposes – viz. that the individual is enabled or allowed to make his own personal choices as to how he should live his own life. It is such sovereign space that can facilitate the free existential gamble of the independent individual – it is such gamble that enables or allows for the individual’s creation of his own morality of individuality, and which enables or allows for the individual’s own authentic living of his present Moment (the experiencing of his own presentness). Oakeshott argues for the delimitation of the structural framework of the state/governance, and speaks of the concomitant question of free individual choice, as follows: “… what makes a conservative disposition in politics intelligible is nothing to do with a natural law or a providential order, nothing to do with morals or religion; it is the observation of our current manner of living combined with the belief … that governing is a specific and limited activity, namely the provision and custody of general rules of conduct, which are understood, not as plans for imposing substantive activities, but as instruments enabling people to pursue the activities of their own choice with the minimum frustration, and therefore something which it is appropriate to be conservative about.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., pp. 183-184).

To delimit the state/governance to a mere provision and protection of certain general rules of conduct is to facilitate the individual’s initiative to pursue activities of his own choice – and such activities could obviously include a person’s choice to indulge in a certain existential gamble organized around a particular morality of individuality, and organized around a particular appreciation of presentness.

But while the individual has the right to indulge in the creation of his own sense of morality and in his own aesthetic disposition as to what is good and what is evil, such individual morality and such individual disposition ought not to violate the moral framework of the society in which he lives – and it ought not to violate such framework since he would be violating the moral pluralism of that society (it being precisely such pluralism that recognizes his own right to his own morality). To put it otherwise, Oakeshott wishes to combine his understanding of a limited state/governance (not at all a moral question) with that of a particular socio-cultural framework that does point to a certain tradition of western morality – viz. a morality of habit of behaviour that recognizes the virtue of plurality. Such western morality of habit of behaviour, while upholding pluralism as a moral social virtue, would nonetheless protect society from gambling with its own fate (as may happen, for example, in the case of a radical social revolution or a political struggle for the imposition of some all-inclusive totalitarian social ideal). Gambling or radical experimentation at the level of society as a whole can only but yield its own victims (and we know that such victims would also include many of those who had once initiated the radical social engineering). The conscious need to avoid whatever social gambling, whatever radical social experimentation and imposed engineering would, of course, mean that society and its institutions would consistently – albeit always critically – acknowledge the gift emanating from its own time-past. And such acknowledgement of the gift of time-past would secure the socio-political framework wherein the free and independent individual could create and re-create his own aesthetic sense of presentness from a position of supreme indifference.

Now, such framework always runs the risk of being disrupted – and such disruption could mean the possible frustration of individual free choice. It could also mean the possible frustration of the individual’s right to organize his own mode of being on the basis of a supreme indifference vis-à-vis both state and the masses.

It is perhaps the state above all that may attempt to effect such disruption of individual free choice – and such disruption would be effected by intervening in a society’s morality of habit of behaviour. By so intervening, the state would threaten the space within which the individual can make his own choice regarding his own mode of being – and it could thereby attempt to neutralize whatever form of free existential gambling on the part of the independent individual. The state would thereby be disrupting the identity emanating from a people’s morality of habit of behaviour – but as importantly, it would also be disrupting the identity of the self-willed individual. And it would especially be in the latter case where the Zarathustrian principle mentioned above would be activated – viz. that one thing becomes more necessary than the other. What is it that here becomes the most necessary? Here, it is the protection of individual identity – and its right to supreme indifference – that would take priority.

7g. The conflict of virtues – pride as self-organization

It has been stated above that the independent and/or exceptional individual may come to experience a conflict of virtues (or values) within his own self. In this section, we shall have to examine this possibility – in doing so, we shall be considering the possible causes of such an almost inevitable internal conflict of virtues. Most importantly, however, we shall have to examine the precise manner in which the individual can come to resolve such internal conflict of virtues. We shall be arguing that there is only one way in which any conflict of virtues may be overcome – and that singular way would be to posit the supreme virtue of pride over and above whatever virtues happen to be in conflict within the self of the individual. It is only the virtue of self-pride, we shall be arguing, that can – and must – over-stand whatever conflict of virtues. In arguing such a position, we shall have to reiterate some of the most substantive reasoning already considered above – by so doing, we shall be clarifying how all such reasoning does relate directly to both the question of internal conflictual values, as also to the question of pride as a mode of being. Such further clarification of the positions we have been presenting above shall here be finally rounded off and all brought to their most logical conclusion.

Nietzsche asserts that the independent and/or exceptional individual is he who is able to forge his very own singular and unique sense of virtue, and who can do that despite the world that surrounds him. Once the individual has been able to accomplish such sense of singular and unique virtue, there will no longer be any evil in him, and no evil whatsoever shall henceforth grow in him. And yet, and as he goes on to assert, there can be a major exception to such a virtuous and evil-free mode of being. In what case would such an exception apply? Nietzsche’s response is straightforward: evil can come to grow even within the independent and/or exceptional individual when the self of that individual comes to be besieged by its own, internal, conflict of virtues. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is absolutely lucid as regards this possibly tragic reality – he speaks as follows to whoever has been able to create his own sense of virtue: “And nothing evil groweth in thee any longer, unless it be the evil that groweth out of the conflict of thy virtues.” (p. 32).

The word unless is here especially portentous. And because it is so portentous, the individual first needs to come to understand how it be possible that such conflict of virtues could have come to riddle his own mode of being. Generally speaking, Nietzsche shall argue that a conflict of virtues may come to riddle the self of the exceptional individual when such individual also harbours the concealed populace in his very own self.

How may the exceptional individual harbour the populace within his own self? This question is of critical importance, especially since such harbouring of the many-too-many within the individual’s very own person may happen in a manner that is camouflaged or disguised – or it may happen in a variety of surreptitious ways so that the individual simply fails to clearly suspect the actual presence of such populace within his own psyche. To deal with this portentous question, we need to go back to our consideration of the ego-self nexus. We have seen how the self of the individual, being inexorably tied up with the individual’s ego, need always and necessarily consult with such ego. The mentally healthy individual cannot possibly escape such continual ego-self consultation. But the consultation may be such as to yield a burden – and even a tragic burden – for the independent individual. And it could yield a burden for a variety of reasons, some of which are in fact quite explainable.

What could such reasons be? For one, the individual may feel the burden of what may be referred to as its ego-recollection – viz. the stream of memories encompassing the ways in which the individual’s ego had ever so often found itself having to compromise with the conventionalities of the world (or, even, memories of how the ego had once related to such conventionalities in its own mistaken ways and maneuvers). Alternatively, the individual may feel the burden of what may be referred to as its ego-self recollection – viz. the stream of memories encompassing the ways in which the ego had ever so often been ill-disposed towards the independence of the self (or even vice versa, when the self had not heeded the implications of its consultative conversations with the voice of the ego).

Generally speaking, the individual could feel the burden of conflictual relations simmering within himself – simmering, that is, within the myriad corners of his ego, his self, and those of his ego-self interface. It is within such conscious, semi-conscious, or even darkly unconscious corners that the individual could feel an incessant conflict within his own person – and he could feel so as though an alien mischievous creature (or psychic force) dwells and acts within such corners.

Now, it may be said that such alien force operating within the independent individual is none other than the concealed populace that has come to settle – in the course of time – within the various corners of the individual’s identity. But what is it that characterizes such concealed populace within the independent individual? That which most accurately characterizes such mischievous creature within the independent individual may be described metaphorically as the dwarf within that individual. This metaphor of the dwarf is of course meant to suggest that the independent individual can carry within his very own psyche (or within the stream of memories harboured in his psyche) those small, miserable passions that are characteristic of the many-too-many (the small existences of the flies in the market-place).

It is precisely this type of human condition that can yield a major existential burden for the independent individual. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra summarizes this condition by speaking all too incisively as follows: “On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recollection; many a mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners. There is concealed populace also in you.” (p. 272).

One may now – and at a slightly more concrete level – speak of at least two identifiable types of conflicts that can come to burden the independent, creative individual. The first possible type of conflict may be caused by a clash between the existing morality of habit of behaviour (and to the extent that such morality still happens to exist in a society) and the individual’s own chosen self-virtue. Much more accurately, one should say that this first type of conflict could ensue when the manner in which the individual’s ego receives such morality of habit of behaviour comes to clash with the self’s own virtue. This type of conflict would therefore, and in the last instance, be a clash between the individual’s ego and his own independent self.

The second possible type of conflict may be caused by a clash of conflicting virtues within the individual’s own self. This kind of conflict would ensue when the self has come to select a hierarchy of conflicting virtues that ever so often contradict one another – and this may be the outcome of the different ways in which the self in itself and for itself has opted to respond to its consultative engagement with the ego. This type of conflict would therefore, and in the last instance, be a clash between some one version of the independent individual’s identity (or aesthetics) of self and some other version of that same individual’s identity (or aesthetics) of self.

Both of these identifiable types of conflicts could constitute a tortuous burden for the independent individual. And since these can be such a tortuous – or even a tragic – burden, the individual would need to overcome such burden by resolving the inner conflict. But such resolution can only be effected through the will and capacity for self-organization.

Self-organization, we shall be arguing below, presupposes three basic factors: First, that the individual recognizes his own self-as-a-whole as a potential battlefield of virtues. Second, that the battles taking place within that battlefield can only be resolved – and be thus resolved in the name of inner peace and security – when the individual can finally settle on the selection of a single virtue (however creatively synthetic that single virtue may turn out to be). Third, that the individual cannot possibly resolve and select his own single virtue unless he makes use of a supreme tool that would need to be nurtured and sharpened as a weapon of war – and this can only but be the supreme tool of self-pride.

Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra refers to such “battlefield of virtues” (p. 33) – and Nietzsche shall therein go on to declare that the individual’s war for self-organization is a war for the creation and attainment of a single virtue. And it is for this reason that when his Zarathustra entertains the question of an individual’s joys and passions, he does not fail to focus on the absolute importance of having attained such singleness of virtue on the part of the joyous individual. Zarathustra speaks here as follows: “My brother, if thou be fortunate, then wilt thou have one virtue and no more: thus goest thou easier over the bridge.” (ibid.).

What is it, more exactly, that Nietzsche has to say with respect to such war? The individual need be aware of the conflict – or the potential conflict – that occurs or that can occur within his own identity as an independent individual. But the awareness of the battlefield within him is not enough – the individual would further need to identify the real enemy within such battlefield, and thus he would be further required to seek out that enemy. This means that he would need to identify the precise form in which the presence of the concealed populace has taken within his own thoughts. He would therefore wage war within his thoughts, and for the sake of his thoughts – and he would do this so that the presence of the concealed populace within him is both brought to light and ultimately neutralized.

When the independent individual becomes aware of the conflict, when he demarcates the configurations of the battlefield, and when he identifies and wages war with the real enemy within that battlefield – when he can do and does all that – than he shall be able to salvage his own uprightness with respect to his proud independence and his as proud originality. What truly matters is that such uprightness is consistently sustained and salvaged (and it may be sustained and salvaged even as the war may finally be lost at a particular point in time – remember the Oakeshottian understanding of the life-gamble as discussed above).

Of course, all this would mean that the independent individual is in constant war with his own thoughts. Paradoxically, therefore, the Nietzschean understanding of inner peace and security (as referred to above) is based on the need for continual vigilance as regards the presence of the concealed populace within the identity of the independent individual. Such individual’s peace is based on the possibility of (as also the necessity for) new wars – wars, that is, over his own thinking and his own values. “One can only be silent and sit peacefully”, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra observes, “when one hath arrow and bow; otherwise, one prateth and quarrelleth. Let your peace be a victory!” (p. 43).

It is such type of war within the independent individual, however, that mothers the very creativity of the individual – it mothers his own taste and disposition. His is a war for the aesthetic creation of new values and a new standing over and above the many-too-many. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra summarizes this Nietzschean understanding of war within the context of the morality of individuality by advising all of such type of warriors as follows: “Your enemy shall ye seek; your war shall ye wage, and for the sake of your thoughts! And if your thoughts succumb, your uprightness shall still shout triumph thereby! … Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars – and the short peace more than the long.” (ibid.).

For Nietzsche, it is only this that constitutes the good war – and this is the good war since, and as we shall see, it is a war for independent self-organization; and it is the good war since it upholds the virtue of self-pride, this being precisely the individual’s supreme uprightness. With respect to this understanding of the good war for personal uprightness, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra speaks as follows to the warriors who are engaged in this war within their own selves: “Ye say it is the good cause which halloweth even war? I say unto you: it is the good war which halloweth every cause.” (ibid.).

This good war waged within the thinking and disposition of the independent individual – this inner battlefield of virtues – has just two sole combatants, these being the individual’s ego and the individual’s self (whereby the ego is engaged in a war with the self; and/or where the self is engaged in a war with its own self). These are the two sole actors (or the two sole soldiers) fighting within the demarcated configuration of an absolutely private battlefield – and such configuration of this private battlefield is none other than that Nietzschean loneliest wilderness as has been presented above (or it is the free zone of the Oakeshottian alien sojourner, as has also been presented above). It is within such loneliest wilderness (or within such alien sojourn) that both self and ego wage their war in the myriad corners of the individual’s own psyche – and it is in precisely such corners that the ego-self interface itself conceals the presence of the populace.

Having demarcated the battlefield, and having identified the two sole combatants in the Nietzschean good war of the independent individual, we may now proceed to reexamine the relationship between ego and self – we shall need to reexamine their conflictual behaviour within the thoughts of the independent individual. Importantly, this reexamination shall finally allow us to draw the central most important conclusion as to how the ego-self conflict may be ultimately resolved for the independent individual – the form that such resolution could take would certainly constitute the core concept of this project, as also the one and only purpose of the project. It would be such core concept that shall allow us to redefine the meaning of what we have termed self-organization – and the concept of self-organization shall further allow us to ultimately redefine the meaning of order within the self of the individual.

We know that the role of the ego within the individual is that of mediator. And we know that the role of the self within the individual is that of guardian – it wishes to guard the supreme individuality of the individual, and thereby guard its originality in the world. Unlike the ego, the self is defined by – and further guards – its own unique secrecy with respect to the world.

As mediator, the ego is public; as guardian, the self is private. The ego and the self of the individual are therefore two discrete components of the identity of individuality. And yet, while these two salient components of individuality are clearly and distinguishably discrete, they are also inescapably entangled and continually interactive with each other – they cannot but consult each other (each on their own terms, being discrete).

The ego is public – it is social surface. Being social surface, the ego is prone to adjustment. It usually attempts – or is usually inclined – to adjust to conventions, social roles, and the social naming of things. The ego finds that it has to do so since it operates in the world – and since it need in some manner respond to conventions, social roles and the social naming of things, it can also (or even) be said to be of the world.

But this inclination to be of the world – and to be of a world that is in any case composed of the flies of the market-place – compromises and ultimately destroys individuality and the morality of individuality. And thus the ego – its thoughts, its dispositions, and its conduct – needs to be continually reorganized and ordered vis-à-vis the private self. And it needs to be continually reorganized and ordered by the self since it is only the self that can operate as its independent guardian and as the benefactor of its unique originality (and to the extent that the genius of such originality is at all feasible within the particular individual).

The self can function as organizer since it is beyond all social surface. And being beyond all social surface, it is the only force capable of organizing the private world of the independent individual. Nietzsche would declare – and as has already been discussed above – that the self (which is the body per se beyond its mere organic three-dimensional anatomy) need be the ruling element of the individual as-a-whole. It need be the shepherd of the herd that is secreted within its own plurality (the herd being the concealed populace).

While the self of the individual is a plurality (secreting both the herd and the shepherd of that herd), it is nonetheless a plurality with one sense – and it is a plurality with one sense since it is expressive of the body, which itself always wishes to operate as the great reason of being. And yet, such one sense, expressive of such one great reason, can and often does find itself entangled in a conflictual relationship with the ego – and such conflictual relationship can ultimately undermine the ruling element of the self as the element of self-organization.

This dissipation into the ego-self conflictual entanglement is fairly easily explainable and has already been alluded to above. We may here restate such human condition by simply describing it as follows: while the ego relates to a morality of habit of behaviour (the populace), the self relates only to itself (at least in the last instance) – it wishes to relate to its own body, the sensuality of such body, and to the uniqueness of such experience.

Within such conflictual entanglement, the self can operate as the ruling element – it can potentially operate as the shepherd of the herd (both of the inner herd qua concealed populace, and of the outer herd qua the world of the many-too-many). The self can potentially so operate, but it often may simply not do so and ultimately may not carry its own weight – and this can happen since the self finds itself locked in an interminable and protracted tension with the ego, a tension which first needs to be resolved before the self can even attempt to reassert its own ruling element. But the resolution of such tension presupposes the imposition of a certain order on the individual as-a-whole.

To further explain this core concept of order and self-organization as regards the ego-self interface, we need at this point to reiterate our basic argument in slightly different terms, and which shall allow us to draw our final key conclusions on the question of such order and self-organization. This core concept of order revolves around the contradistinction between what we may call the disposition inclined towards replication (that of the ego) and the disposition inclined towards uniqueness (that of the self).

It may be said that this contradistinction between replication and uniqueness describes the cause of the burden – or of the burdens – of the exceptional individual (on his shoulders presseth many a burden). The fact that the ego interacts with the morality of habit of behaviour would almost automatically imply that some or even much of its thoughts and conduct are prone to a certain replication of such habit of behaviour (one responds positively to habit via the public exhibition of a similar habit).

In direct contrast to such proclivity, the self as the self-rolling wheel (or will) of the individual tends to be supremely indifferent to whatever need for replication. One may go even further and say that the self is, not only indifferent to the need for replication, it is also pitilessly hard towards all forms and all vestiges of replication – it actually forswears all traces of replication. And the self forswears all forms and vestiges of replication in thought and conduct since it wishes to create and salvage its own uniqueness in the world (and it in any case knows that it is only born once, it itself being a unique event).

It is obvious that replication stands in direct and utter contradistinction to uniqueness – but since both such proclivities occur within the singular body of the individual, they can only but cause a psychological and existential tension within the exceptional individual. They can lead to inner friction, inner antagonism and self-antipathy. Such symptoms within the exceptional individual could ultimately point to a loss of his sense of self-pride. Naturally, such loss could mean self-destruction.

The only way in which such a nihilistic condition can be countered is through the will of the self, assuming that such cultivated will exists. Such will activates the body-self as the ruling element of the individual-as-a-whole. The body-self thereby operates as shepherd ruling over the herd within its own person – ruling over, that is, the replication of the herd as detected in the proclivities of the ego.

Such ruling element is none other than self-organization, and the order around which such organization orbits. That order, however, is itself none other than pride – and it is only the pride of the morality of individuality that can respond to the potential loss of pride, to the potential nihilism, and to the potential self-destruction. It is, in other words, only the pride of the morality of individuality that can counter that loss of self-pride which occurs when the individuality of the individual scatters within the replicative automaticity of the collectivity.

From a bird’s-eye view, one clearly sees here that the problem for the exceptional individual arises when he is faced by two absolutely distinct realities – viz., on the one hand, the reality of a people’s morality of habit of behaviour (obviously, the state-imposed mass ideologies of the many-too-many need be altogether ignored here) and, on the other hand, the reality of independent individuality. For the individual’s self, these two alternative realities stand in absolute conflict with each other. For the individual’s ego, these two alternative realities have to be somehow accommodated. It is this absolute conflict versus the need for accommodation that causes the tension – and the burden of such tension – within the individual.

It is, we are saying, precisely this tension that has to be settled – and we are asserting that it is to be settled through the imposition of a higher order. Such higher order is the pride of the Overman. And, importantly, it is a higher order beyond all moral ideology. This would of course point to the resolution of the Nietzschean problem of the conflict of virtues as described above. But such core concept pointing to a final resolution of the conflict of virtues runs a basic risk – it may be construed as a mere formulaic settlement of the inner tension of the independent individual. Much worse than that, it may even be said to be an empty formulaic resolution of the problem.

Generally speaking, of course, this problem of the independent individual may be reduced to one simple question – and the question is this: how should the independent individual connect to his own society? No set of formulae whatsoever could possibly answer such a question. Speaking of exceptionally creative individuals, Corey makes the following useful observation: “The poet, artist, and philosopher clearly have a connection to their society, but the precise nature of this connection is somewhat difficult to specify.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 108).

One may argue that Corey’s observation is both wrong and right. The observation may be taken to be wrong in the sense that it fails to underline the fact that the creator does have a very specific connection to his society – or, much more accurately, it fails to underline the fact that the creator ought to have a very specific connection to his society so that the tension between replication and uniqueness (the inner conflict of his virtues) would not lead him to self-destruction (or, to say the least, would not lead to a destruction of his own independent creativity). But Corey’s observation may be taken to be quite right in the sense that there is no general formula that could guarantee the resolution of the inner conflict of virtues – exactly how the exceptional individual goes about handling his connection to society is a strictly private matter. The exceptional individual has no choice but to order his relation to society – but precisely how he does this ordering would depend on his own uniquely independent and uniquely private self. The exceptional individual has no choice but to order his relation to society in terms of his own individual values – but, again, such values are of his own private creation. And, since they are of his own private creation, they cannot possibly belong to public conventions determining good and evil. The exceptional individual has no choice but to effect a self-organization orbiting around an order expressive of self-pride – and yet, precisely how he understands such self-pride cannot be categorized in terms of set, publicly shared, formulae.

Needless to say, one could easily counter such an approach to the mode of being of the exceptional individual by simply saying that such an individual does have a choice – he may choose to apply his genius to the needs, the desires, and the tastes of the many-too-many. This would fully align the values of his private self with those of an ego that has decided to accommodate itself to the masses by serving the masses – such choice would make of him an organic intellectual of the state. Of course, the servility of this mode of being would neutralize his independence as an Overman – his own sense of pride would have absolutely nothing to do with that type of pride that wishes to salvage the uniqueness of the self.

But, then, what is pride? Is there anything at all that one can say about it? We know that the notion of pride is not – or cannot be – an abstract problem-solving formula of sorts. It is a concrete disposition that many wish to have; and it is a disposition that many do have but often lose along the way. It is something that many imagine that they have – for most, however, pride is a disposition that is absolutely dependent on the accreditation of others. Here, the person is proud of himself whenever the many-too-many recognize his own achievements in the world of the market-place – were such recognition to be at some point withdrawn, pride could mutate into depression and self-deprecation.

For the very few, pride is a disposition that defines their being – and it defines their being in a manner that is absolutely independent of the need for whatever accreditation and whatever recognition (or of whatever possible sentiments) on the part of others. For these few exceptional individuals, such self-pride is their own order of things, this being a strictly private (and therefore deliberately lonesome) order. And exactly what such self-pride really is as a disposition is something that only they happen to know – and they only know this for themselves. For these exceptional individuals, pride is their very secret virtue.

Keeping such caveats in mind, we need here to briefly reexamine the question of pride (if only from an outsider’s point of view). And we need to do this given that the question of pride is so absolutely central to our core concept of self-organization.

The question of pride has been addressed – directly or indirectly – by a great many thinkers of the western world. Amongst them (and apart from Nietzsche), it is perhaps Thomas Hobbes who stands out as the greatest and most articulate celebrator of pride – or of the proud individual. He celebrates pride by presenting it as a moral virtue that prevails over all other virtues. In his particular interpretation of Hobbesian philosophy, Oakeshott concludes that that philosophy may be summed up as “the moralization of pride itself” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 289).

For Hobbes, it is pride that defines individuality, or defines the higher individual – it is the catalyst of the self-moved individual (a notion clearly reminiscent of Nietzschean thinking). The self-moved individual is pride per se. Oakeshott shall go on to compare such Hobbesian understanding of pride with the thinking of Montaigne – for the latter, a proud person is he who “knows how to belong to himself” (ibid., p. 290). Self-belonging, and the technique or the art of self-belonging, is based on the virtue of pride. Alternatively, one may say that self-belonging is being self-moved – and both are mothered by the virtue of pride.

How does Hobbes describe the thinking and conduct of the proud individual? Whatever be the particular manner in which the proud individual connects to society, that connection is predicated on his own sense of pride (and which is a disposition running opposite to that of the many-too-many, whose thinking and conduct is predicated on fear). Oakeshott explains this as follows: “He [Hobbes] recognized that a man may keep his word, not merely because he fears the consequences of breaking it, but from ‘a glory or pride in appearing not to need to break it’ …” (ibid., p. 291).

The exceptional individual moves in the world without fear – he moves and lives in the world on the basis of his own self-respect (this being his glory), and on the basis of his own independent self-belonging and self-movement (this being his pride). He therefore connects to the world around him in terms of his own virtue of pride.

Oakeshott shall further present us with a historical explication of the virtue of pride – he shall explore the various modes of thinking in the history of the western world which, in some way or another, would celebrate such virtue. The Oakeshottian investigation of the concept of pride as a virtue in the history of western thought spans the whole history of the west since its apparent birth in the Classical world of the ancient Greeks. And he would attempt to show how such concept had been understood by both the ancient Greeks and by the later medieval moral theologians – and he would correspondingly go on to show how such concept would be interpreted or reinterpreted by thinkers such as Hobbes, Montesquieu, and even Spinoza (we have already touched on the thinking of such philosophers in our discussion of the morality of individuality above, as also in our discussion of the question of over-standing indifference).

Oakeshott, we know, would identify the concept of pride as a virtue in the Aristotelian understanding of megalopsychos. For Aristotle, the individual who is megalopsychos is someone who knows his own worth; it is someone who is unconcerned with – or remains indifferent to – the minor matters of life; and it is someone whose pride is his own virtue – and he does not therefore compete for status with others (his pride is in no way dependent on others).

For our purposes, we may here further expand on our understanding of the Aristotelian understanding of pride by briefly considering what W.D. Ross has to say on the matter (cf. his Aristotle, Methuen & Co Ltd., 1977; Greek edition, Athens, 1991, pp. 295-297). According to this Scottish Aristotelian philosopher, the concept of megalopsychos may be summarized as follows:

• The concept of megalopsychos expresses the correct or proper sense of pride – and the correct or proper sense of pride is self-respect.
• Such sense of pride is a virtue that, not only does it presuppose all other virtues, it can actually even supersede or surpass all other virtues.
• Pride is in fact the supreme virtue that organizes all other virtues (and it may therefore be argued that it can thereby resolve whatever conflict of virtues – that type of conflict, that is, as delineated by Nietzsche).
• Pride, therefore, and in a nutshell, is the virtue of all virtues – it is the kosmos (or adornment) of all other virtues.
• Pride is self-honour – it is the honour that one bestows on one’s own self.
• Pride is not therefore interested in the bestowment of honour by others – it is not interested in competing for honour with others.
• Pride moves in terms of its own will – it does not ever move in terms of the will of others (although here Aristotle would see the possibility of a certain commerce – or conversation – between wills taking place amongst friendships of virtue, this being the exceptional case of a supreme form of philia).
• Pride is indifferent towards the mundane affairs of the world – it remains unmoved by such affairs (or by such minor matters). The proud individual remains impassive – very much reminiscent of the Nietzschean disposition, the proud individual feels no pity for such matters.
• Pride does not care for the minor matters of the world – it cares for aesthetic beauty beyond whatever considerations of use-value (and here, yet once more, both Nietzsche and Oakeshott would be in full agreement with Aristotle).
• Throughout, Aristotle presupposes that that type of person who ascribes to such pride possesses exceptional qualities – he speaks of the truly exceptional individual. It may be argued that such truly exceptional individual as presented to us by Aristotle is obviously comparable to the Nietzschean-type Overman.
• Such Aristotelian presentation of pride expresses an individualistic – or even an all too egocentric – understanding of the exceptional individual. At least this particular dimension of Aristotelian thinking therefore belongs to the long tradition of western thought celebrating the morality of individuality (as opposed to the morality of collectivist anti-individualism).

Now, Oakeshott shall go on to argue that this Aristotelian understanding of pride would come to resurface – and do so in a variety of modified forms – in the Hellenistic period of ancient Greek philosophy through the teachings of the Stoics. In his Aristotle (ibid.), W.D. Ross would certainly confirm this – he would speak of a prefiguration of the notion of pride as articulated in the thinking of Aristotle. Ross shall observe that the Aristotelian understanding of pride would be more or less adopted by the Stoic philosophers – adopted, that is, in their own definition of the wise man (or of human wisdom). For the Stoics, the mode of being of the wise man is informed by the virtue of pride.

And it is precisely such virtue, Oakeshott continues, that would yet again reappear in the teachings of the medieval moral theologians of the western world – importantly, it would do so in the form of sancta superbia. The term superbia, of course, refers to pride; and that of sancta refers to holy – that the medieval theologians were thinking of a holy pride hearkens back to the Aristotelian understanding of a pride that is correct or proper (and which quite obviously implies that pride can be of the unhealthily improper, or sinfully unholy, type).

It is within such context of the surfacing and the resurfacing of the notion of pride as a virtue in the course of western history that one needs to understand that particularly Hobbesian contribution to the question of pride. Hobbes shall of course take up the matter of pride in his investigations around the problem of maintaining socio-political order in the societies of the western world. In his examination of the question of order, he would ultimately come to interpret pride as that mode of being that stands in contradistinction to that of fear – he would thereby be counterposing the virtue of pride to that all too common frame of mind motivated by fear and shame.

The intellectual movement in the history of western thought on the question of pride from Aristotle and right through to Hobbes is summarized by Oakeshott as follows: “This is the virtue of pride … the pride which is reflected in the megalopsychos of Aristotle and at a lower level in the wise man of the Stoics; the sancta superbia which had its place in medieval moral theology; and which was recognized by Hobbes as an alternative manner to that suggested by fear and reason of preserving one’s own nature and emancipating oneself from the fear of shameful death and from the strife which this fear generates.” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 292).

As has already been discussed above, the question of pride as a virtue would also be taken up by Montesquieu himself. While Hobbes would come to revitalize the Aristotelian notion of megalopsychos in his capacity as an English philosopher, Montesquieu would in his own way be doing the same thing in his capacity as a French philosopher. Having investigated the revitalization of the notion of megalopsychos in the thinking of Montesquieu, Oakeshott would come up with a number of basic conclusions, some of which we have already noted above. All we need say here is that, while for Aristotle the megalopsychos is an exceptional type of individual, for Montesquieu it is the aristocratic individual (and here, the aristocratic qualities of an individual would not necessarily be reflective of the social stratum to which that individual happens to belong). For both Aristotle and Montesquieu, the type of individual who is a megalopsychos is a self-contained, self-determined individual who is indebted to himself – and he does not need to ever feel in whatever way indebted to others (be it society or the state). For both Aristotle and Montesquieu, this is precisely the virtue of pride that defines the individual who is megalopsychos.

While Hobbes would revitalize the notion of pride in his response to the English Civil War of the 17th century, and while Montesquieu would himself revitalize the notion of aristocratic pride in his response to the prevailing political conditions of 18th century France, Spinoza’s own understanding of pride would itself be a response to the political and religious climate of the Dutch Republic in the course of the mid-17th century. Like Hobbes, Spinoza would counterpose the type of individual that is motivated by fear to that type of individual who deploys the power of his independent mind to stand over the mundane and/or tumultuous circumstances of life. Such standing over, of course, is the Aristotelian notion of indifference vis-à-vis the affairs of the world – and it is such indifference as informed by the power of an independent mind that is proud of its independence.

It nonetheless seems that it was Hobbesian thinking above all that best encapsulated the notion of that type of individual that may be described as a powerful and proud soul (âme forte). What, for Hobbes, such type of individual is – or is not – is presented to us as concisely as that be possible by Oakeshott as follows: “Now, a man of this sort … is in a high degree self-moved. His endeavour is for peace; and if the peace he enjoys is largely his own unaided achievement and is secure against the mishaps that may befall him, it is not in any way unfriendly to the peace of other men of a different kind. There is nothing hostile in his conduct, nothing in it to provoke hostility, nothing censorious. What he achieves for himself and what he contributes to a common life is a complete alternative to what others may achieve by means of agreement inspired by fear and dictated by reason; for, if the unavoidable endeavour of every man is for self-preservation, and if self-preservation is interpreted (as Hobbes interprets it), not as immunity from death but from the fear of shameful death, then this man achieves in one manner (by courage) what others may achieve in another (by rational calculation). And, unlike others, he not only abstains from doing injury but is able to be indifferent to having to suffer it from others. In short, … there is nothing in it [i.e. in this character; the powerful soul; âme forte] which conflicts with Hobbes’s psychology, which, in fact, identifies differences between men as differences in their preponderant passions and can accommodate the man in whom pride occupies a greater place than fear.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 290).

Based on this Oakeshottian presentation of Hobbesian psychology, one may conclude that the independently proud individual is characterized by the following cardinal features:

• He is self-moved.
• He is not hostile or condemnatory with respect to all other persons of a different calibre.
• He achieves by courage what others may achieve through fear.
• He is indifferent to the doings of others.
• He possesses and cultivates a powerful soul (âme forte).
• Above all, he is different from others in that he is that type of individual in whom pride occupies a greater place than does fear.

Being self-moved is the self-movement of the self – and it is not, therefore, that of the ego. And thus pride itself is not of the ego – it is of the self. A proud self is proud of the self-knowledge that it has attained for itself – such self-knowledge enables the individual to exercise a high measure of self-control over his thinking and his conduct. Self-control is therefore self-organization – it is that exceptional human condition whereby the self organizes each and every component part constituting the psyche of himself-as-a-whole. That is the pride of the self.

Throughout, we have either asserted or implied that the human condition of the Aristotelian – or Hobbesian – megalopsychos is an exceptional human condition. Being exceptional, it is a phenomenon that is simply rarely found in whichever western society and in whichever historical period of western civilization. To suggest that the exceptional individuals are few and far between is of course a clearly tautological statement – and yet, it is also a clearly verifiable statement of fact: the western world has not ever given birth to an endless list of creative polymaths such as Leonardo da Vinci (and in any case not all creative polymaths would necessarily belong to the category of the megalopsychos). Both Oakeshott and Hobbes (and surely both Aristotle and Nietzsche as well) would fully acknowledge the rarity of individuals who may be said to belong to the category of the megalopsychos. With respect to the character of the megalopsychos as discussed in Hobbes, Oakeshott writes as follows: “Indeed, it is a character which actually appears in Hobbes’s writings … ‘That which gives to human actions the relish of justice’, he says, ‘is a certain Nobleness or Gallantness of courage (rarely found)’ …” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 290). And Oakeshott confirms such rarity by further adding that, for Hobbes, there is a “dearth of noble characters”. (ibid., p. 292).

Perhaps one should also observe here that, even in the case of a man’s fear of shameful death, there is the presupposition of the need for pride – for otherwise, why would someone fear a death that is shameful? And yet, it just so happens that not all can achieve the requirements for such pride. For pride rests on the genius of self-organization – and such will for self-organization cannot belong to all (and even if such propensity did belong to most, it would not belong to them in equal measure – and it is this mercilessly hard reality that flies in the face of the ideology of social equality).

Now, having established the (albeit abstract) rudiments of the proud individual, we are at this stage in a position to consider the possible relationship – or the possible connection – between that type of individual and the rest of society. Here again, however, we need keep in mind that the manner in which an exceptional individual relates or connects to society cannot be reduced to any set of formulae – it all depends on the case of each single and/or unique individual. We shall here merely be considering abstract and tentative axioms that could possibly describe the existential horizon of the exceptional individual delineating general modes of connecting with the society of the many-too-many (or, alternatively, with the society of an independent people).

In this final and concluding section, we intend to round off our discussion on the question of individuality and its morality, and how such morality relates to the rest within any western society. In doing so, we shall again have to restate much of what has already been covered above – at this point, however, we shall restate some of our basic positions in a way that brings them to their final, conclusive implications.

By way of clarification, we need say that when one speaks of the rest, one can be referring to at least three different categories of people comprising a society in the western world (we say at least since there could be many in-between cases of citizens that do not clearly or absolutely belong to any of these three categories). First, there are always those who have come to accept imposed values (imposed on them by the state and its organic intellectuals; or in any case imposed on them through their own uncritical acceptance of the dominant, conventional wisdom). Second, there are those who consciously (or more or less even unconsciously) resist – or wish to resist – any imposition of whichever values. Third, there are those who do not merely resist or wish to resist whatever imposition of values – they are that category of citizens that consciously choose to abide by inherited values and/or values embedded in the customs and historically-rooted cultural practices of their people.

One may here observe that all three categories as presented above would engage in socio-cultural practices that are in some way or another collective (even in the case of the second category, those who mean to resist the imposition of values usually come to adopt their own alternative values primarily as a collectivity, and it is that collectivity that prescribes norms of conduct – the 1960’s counterculture movement of the hippies is a case in point). In direct contrast, when we speak of the exceptional individual we refer to all possible varieties of such individual that need nonetheless be delimited by the ideal type that is ultimately a law unto his own self. Standing outside whatever collectivity, such individual is a law only for his own self, not so for any other or others – and his own virtue need ultimately be a single virtue that should be of no concern to the rest. His own singular law and singular virtue is expressive of his own personal society – very much as expressed in Emily Dickinson’s famous poem, his soul selects its own society, then shuts the door. As has already been indicated, the exceptional individual would only be able to attain such an absolutely independent status given a certain degree of internal self-organization, this being the internal organization (or ordering) of the ego-self relationship. Such capacity, we have further argued, presupposes the virtue of pride (or the virtue of the megalopsychos).

The virtue of pride is definitely not the vice of some haughty arrogance – on the other hand, however, such virtue reserves the right to maintain a selective disposition vis-à-vis the rest. And thus the exceptional individual may recognize and respect those categories of people who abide by their own customs and cultural practices. And he especially does so when such people have attained a sense of historical identity which enables them to co-exist in a society of their own making and without the operations and interventions of an all-consuming state apparatus. He would here recognize and respect the independence of a category of a people that has come to reject whatever form of slavishness. At the same time, nonetheless, the exceptional individual insists on abiding by his own self-made law – and he wishes that such law is meant for himself only and none other. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra more or less expresses such a position when he speaks to those who uphold their own cultural practices, and as he compares them to the exceptional type of individual – this is what he tells the traditionalist type: “Be of good cheer … as I am. Abide by thy customs, thou excellent one; grind thy corn, drink thy water, praise thy cooking – if only it make thee glad! … I am a law only for mine own; I am not a law for all. He, however, who belongeth unto me must be strong of bone and light of foot …” (p. 275).

But such a potentially complex relationship with the various categories of the rest – and which could also take the form of a dual relationship expressive of both respect for certain categories of the other but also independence vis-à-vis these very categories – raises a number of apparently paradoxical questions. While the individual as an independent creator of his own values needs to maintain his own independent morality of individuality (so that he lives both his own presentness and his own sense of memento mori), he need also tolerate his inevitable co-existence with the masses (and it usually so happens that large numbers of such masses passively accept and/or worship and mobilize around certain mass ideals of idol-adoration). Any possible resolution of such contradictory circumstances could only point to tentative axioms describing the individual’s relation to both the state and society.

The exceptional individual has to tolerate his co-existence with those masses of people whose psyche is permeated with mass idol-adoration (and he need tolerate such masses of people if only because, in the absence of toleration, he could find himself entangled in the endless and futile conflicts of the world of the market-place). But specifically with respect to such masses of people, he need maintain a pitiless indifference towards their thoughts and conduct. Now, and has already been suggested, not all peoples can be reduced to a set of servile masses worshipping a state-imposed (or a party-imposed) ideology. In fact, western societies have often been characterized by a conflictual relationship between a traditional morality of habit of behaviour and a commonplace rationalist-based morality. Those members of society adhering to a traditional morality of habit of behaviour live their lives in terms of certain cultural and aesthetic values that define their cohesive identity as a people. Those members of society adhering to a commonplace rationalist-based morality live their lives in terms of technocratically-defined, instrumentalist, and/or utilitarian values – their identity does not constitute a people in the proper sense of the word (and it does not constitute a people at least in the sense once defined by Carl Jung).

The exceptional individual does not belong to either of these two categories – and yet, he does not relate to each of these in a similar way. His public ego is naturally more empathetic towards an aesthetically informed morality of habit of behaviour – and it is naturally dismissive of all commonplace (or market-place) utilitarianism, and especially so when such utilitarianism is an imposed ideology manipulating the animal instincts of the many-too-many.

But the exceptional individual, further, may also be confronted by yet another set of circumstances. He may find that he lives in a society wherein a faith-based or mission-oriented state is locked into a conflictual relationship with masses of people who would be rejecting the values of such faith or mission. Such categories of citizens would be rejecting a state the apparent ideological project of which would be to impose a particular value-system on all and sundry, and which would thereby be attempting to both penetrate and assert its presence in the private lives of each and every member of society. But in rejecting the ideology of such faith or mission, the contrarians would be responding by manufacturing their own mass ideology. Their rejection of state ideology would be such as to transform their own spontaneously arising morality of habit of behaviour into a set of formulae expressive of an ideological paradigm as guilty of idol-adoration as that of state ideology. Here, one ideology (that of the state) would be giving birth to a counter-ideology (that of the contrarians) – both paradigms would be merely reflective of one other; both would constitute forms of mass idol-adoration organized around the western ideological plague of isms. Both, in other words, would constitute alternative or oppositional politics of faith.

The individual as a self-rolling value creator cannot possibly subscribe to whatever ism; he cannot possibly follow – or even wish to himself articulate – whatever form of ism meant to express the needs of whichever category of people embroiled in the ideological struggles of the market-place (and even so when such ideological struggles are pivoted around issues of a people’s identity and/or its own popular culture). Since the self of the exceptional individual (as opposed to his public ego) is a uniqueness that only experiences itself, it cannot join forces with whatever sections of the populace – and, were it to do so, it would come to lose the uniqueness of its own experience. Much worse than that, the self would also come to lose its own independence – the individual-as-a-whole would be reduced to a mere servant of the populace. But further, his own taste and disposition – both supreme components of his psyche – would themselves be reduced to systems of formulaic axioms typical of all ideological isms. And it precisely in terms of such mode of thinking that the Oakeshottian understanding of conservatism is not ever a political position as such (at least not in the conventional sense of the term) – it is an individual’s personal taste standing outside of all ideology, and whatever be the source or intentions of whichever ideology.

The implication here is obvious – since the exceptional individual cannot lose himself in the isms of the day, he need maintain his own supreme indifference with respect to all isms.

There is yet another set of circumstances that the exceptional individual can be confronted with as an alien sojourner within the societies of the western world – this set of circumstances, however, can be said to be the possibly most generic of all. Such state of affairs can be described as the breakdown of social consensus – or the potential breakdown of such consensus. What, within such possibly chaotic state of affairs, would the stance of the exceptional individual be?

Before we attempt to respond to such a complex question (and it is complex since whatever particular stance on the part of the exceptional individual would, in the last instance, depend exclusively on that individual and none other), we need to first of all clarify what it is that we mean by that state of affairs characterized by a chaotic breakdown of social consensus. We know of course that consensus can break down for a wide variety of reasons – and yet, it is a particular type of breakdown that can truly destabilize a western social formation. How may one describe such a set of circumstances? One may begin by observing that any form of western state would be expected, first, to simply safeguard the identity of its people – and this would mean to simply safeguard the common historical experience of its citizens. And second, it would be expected to safeguard that common – and traditional – political framework that respects the individuality of all citizens, and which comes down to a safeguarding of the morality of pluralism. Now, when the state fails to safeguard either identity or pluralism or both, it can lose its legitimacy in the eyes of at least certain sections of the populace that it is meant to somehow represent. Loss of legitimacy obviously means a breakdown of consensus – such breakdown may lead to a crisis of the traditional nation-state, and it is possible that such crisis may itself yield different degrees of chaos within the structures and practices of the state-as-a-whole. In the last instance, one may observe that chaos is characterized by a lack of trust between members belonging to different state apparatuses, and a concomitant lack of trust between state functionaries and sections of the populace. And the chaos is even further exacerbated when large swathes of the population begin to mistrust one another (or their very neighbours, so to speak).

How, then, would one expect the exceptional individual to react to such a state of affairs? It is quite obvious – and based on our understanding of such a type of individual – that he would remain supremely indifferent to whatever degree of social chaos within the society that wishes to circumscribe him. That, at least, seems crystal clear – but what are the practical implications of such indifference? Here, one need say that, being supremely indifferent, the exceptional individual would not ever desire to contribute to the social chaos in whatever manner – and thus he would not in any way ally himself with those responsible for the breakdown of the social consensus (and he would not do so even in cases where he might possibly see eye to eye with some of their political demands).

Such a stance may be described in a slightly different way – one may argue that, although the exceptional individual maintains his position of supreme indifference, he would nonetheless still recognize the need to avoid whatever forms of nihilistic chaos. And he would in any case wish to see the avoidance of the rise of whatever violent revolutionary forces – usually those of the malcontented masses – aimed at the nihilistic destruction of the cultural values of a society’s time-past (and, in this case, he would not ever see eye to eye with such forces).

The exceptional individual could therefore recognize the authority of the state vis-à-vis the masses of people constituting a social formation – but he would only be doing so on condition that that state is not a vast enterprise association based on an intrusive and all-consuming ideological mission (in cases where the state is in fact intrusive, he would of course concentrate on salvaging his own privacy, as has been discussed above).

But here the question of recognizing and/or accepting the authority of a certain type of state needs to be thrashed out a bit further. It is of course not Nietzsche but, typically, Oakeshott himself that most accurately attempts to clarify both the issue of authority and that of its recognition and/or acceptance on the part of the independent individual. It is to this matter that we now need turn.

Specifically at the public/political level, it may be argued that there are two basic types of citizens. The one type is he who is willed by the state – it is this type that one may describe as the followers, or as the servile adherents to a particular mass idol-adoration. The second type is he who wills his own recognition and his own acceptance of the authority of the state. Both types may be said to represent mere abstract ideals of two contrasting states of mind – and yet, such apparently abstract types can certainly manifest themselves as concrete forms of socio-political conduct in the real world.

The independent individual would naturally belong to the second type of citizen. But the independent individual who is also an exceptional individual would not belong to either of these two categories. And he would not belong to either of these two categories since his own mode of being cannot be said to operate at the level of the public/political. His exclusive sphere of operation is only the private/apolitical. From within such sphere of operation, however, the independent and exceptional individual would himself will his own recognition and acceptance of state authority – and this stance would naturally align him with the second type of citizen operating at the public/political level. But although his stance would align him with the second type of citizen, he could not ever be reduced to the state of mind of that second type of citizen. And he could not be so reduced for at least one very basic existential reason: the exceptional individual wills his recognition and acceptance of state authority while right at the same time remaining an alien sojourner within society.

What are the practical implications of reserving one’s entitlement to live as an alien sojourner within society? It would mean that the exceptional, self-valuing individual may participate in a recognition and acceptance of state authority in his capacity as a public ego – or, to put it otherwise, he would be passively recognizing and accepting state authority in his capacity as a being with a social surface. And thus his so-called participation would happen from a great distance, or it would happen from afar (and it would also happen selectively, depending on the form of state). Such absolutely remote distance would mean that the exceptional, self-valuing individual would be retaining his autonomy as a self – in the last instance, he would be salvaging the autonomy of his own body, it being the great reason of all things (or the big sagacity, as Nietzsche has put it).

Such an approach to the problem of state authority – or to the more specific problem of how the exceptional individual would approach the question of state authority – constitutes a tentative interpretation of the Oakeshottian position. It is also an attempt to amalgamate Oakeshottian with Nietzschean modes of thinking as regards the question of authority.

Is this perhaps a distortion of the political philosophy of Oakeshott? Let us examine how Corey herself presents this dimension of Oakeshottian thinking. The central concept one needs to grasp here is that of individual insight vis-à-vis authority – it is a self-enactment based on insight that determines the exceptional individual’s relation to state authority. Corey writes on this as follows: “Insight is an essential part of what it means to act within the bounds of law and to accept authority. As he [Oakeshott] observes in … The Authority of the State, authority – one might as easily substitute religion here – does not consist in the commands given by someone or something utterly external, but in our willing acceptance of the ground of that authority. In other words, neither law nor religious precepts are in themselves authoritative for us until we grasp them by insight – by understanding them for ourselves. “An authority”, Oakeshott observes, “is not a person or institution whose experience we decide to accept and make use of where our own appears deficient, for such an ‘authority’ is secondary and compels not by its own but by a borrowed power; a real authority is the whole ground upon which our acceptance or rejection of anything is based. To have a belief it must be ours, and even if it were derived from some external source, that which actually compels us to hold it is the ground on which it has been accepted, that is, the whole world of ideas into which it has been fitted and in the light of which it has been understood and appropriated.” Insight is what provides meaning in the moral life … it is also … a crucial part of what it means to act politically.” (cf. Corey, op. cit., p. 84).

Corey’s presentation of the Oakeshottian position on the question of state authority may be reiterated and/or reinterpreted by focusing on the following basic points. Firstly, one should observe that the independent insight of the exceptional individual with respect to authority would not ever be such as to cause him to be a lawbreaker – his public conduct would always remain within the bounds of the law (bar, of course, all instances where state authority would seriously attempt to violate his supreme privacy), and it would always remain within the bounds of the law despite his own morality of individuality (it being a morality meant exclusively for his own self-rule). Secondly, the fact that the exceptional individual would not ever be a willing lawbreaker would merely be symptomatic of his own willing acceptance of the moral grounds of state authority – his stance is a willed acceptance of authority. Being willed, such acceptance is not at all a matter of being obedient to anyone’s commands – it would not therefore be symptomatic of whatever form of slavishness. Thirdly, and in consistence with the previous point, the exceptional individual’s willed acceptance of authority is not at all a symptom of slavishness since it would be founded on the absolutely independent insight of that individual with respect to all authority – his own appreciation of a particular political formation would be expressive of his own autonomous discernment of the world around him (to have a belief it must be ours). Fourthly, and following from what has been asserted thus far, it is of absolute importance to assert that whatever acceptance of authority on the part of the exceptional individual would not ever be based on his own deficiency. His acceptance of authority would not stem from a position of any deficient weakness on his part – quite the exact opposite: it would stem from a position of insightful pride of knowledge (his own self-created knowledge). His acceptance of authority would therefore be a symptom of self-pride.

Now, and going slightly beyond this particular Oakeshottian understanding of the question of authority, we may superimpose the following position regarding the selfsame question: we may say, firstly, that the public ego of the exceptional individual more or less compromises in its interaction with the state and society – and it compromises since it really has no time at all to spare for whatever conflictual activity regarding the affairs of the market-place. For such a type of individual, such affairs are the miserable obsessions of what Nietzsche has described as the small existences of the many-too-many. But secondly, we also need to say that, when the public ego of the exceptional individual compromises in its interaction with the state and society, it does so as a willing acceptance informed by the morality of its own independent self – informed, that is, by the moral insight of that self and none else. But the independent moral insight of the supreme self is the selfish pride of the individual-as-a-whole.

Based on such a reading of the question of authority, one may generally conclude that the authority of the state can be quite compatible with the autonomy of the individual. Such positive compatibility between state and individual would depend on the extent to which the exceptional individual would come to accept the moral grounds upon which authority is predicated. Noël K. O’Sullivan (op. cit.) also points to this dimension of Oakeshottian thinking when he writes of “… Oakeshott’s insistence that political authority is moral, and therefore distinct from mere power or domination.” (p. 211). And he continues as follows: “Only when the moral status of authority is acknowledged is it possible to speak of obligation to a non-voluntary association (viz. the state) and to maintain … that the authority of the state is perfectly compatible with the autonomy of the individual.” (ibid.).

What are the basic moral grounds that the exceptional individual would find acceptable in a state formation? As has already been alluded to, the exceptional individual would acknowledge the moral status of a state formation when such formation safeguards the identity of its citizens as a people; and when it safeguards the morality of pluralism – and especially so when it does both in its capacity as a civil association absconding from whatever politics of faith. But, then, what if – to put it as simply as possible – the moral values of the state do not agree with those of the exceptional individual? Or, to put it otherwise, what if the state would be seen as immoral in terms of the morality of the exceptional individual? This is a real and all-too-concrete question – and it is real and concrete given that the modern western state has generally matured into an all-powerful and all-intrusive state-as-enterprise. Would the exceptional individual in such case break the law? It may be argued that, even under such tragic circumstances, the exceptional individual would generally not attempt to break the law – unless of course such law would itself directly attempt to break his own independent individuality. In principle, the exceptional individual would not break the law since doing so could mean his personal entanglement with the state and its legal apparatuses – such entanglement would constitute a loss of his own time, or it would constitute a violation of his own treasured presentness. Instead of reducing himself to a mere public lawbreaker, he would rather choose to object to such type of state from afar – such objection would merely constitute a moral, dispositional stance that he need share with no one but his own self.

Whatever be the form of state, the exceptional individual always has one supreme objective in mind – and that objective is to preserve his own self (and the unique identity of such self) by protecting it from its dissolution. This supreme need for self-preservation can become urgent whenever the individual finds himself having to more or less practically interact with the state and its functionaries (and there shall naturally come occasions when such interaction would prove unavoidable).

The risk of self-dissolution has of course been addressed by Oakeshott himself – he writes as follows with respect to the required personal aptitudes of the independent individual: “The skill in desire and aversion is knowing how to preserve the practical self [which in our terms translates into the public ego] from dissolution.” (op. cit., p. 208).

Self-preservation is commensurate with self-organization, and it is expressive of the pride of such self-organization. But the preservation of the self – as also its public ego – does not only become urgent in one’s dealings with the state. Self-preservation can become as important in one’s dealings with others. For the exceptional individual in particular, self-preservation needs to be sustained even in his relations with that type of friend (based on the Aristotelian philia) with whom he may often indulge in an Oakeshottian type of conversation.

The question of preserving the identity of the self in the face of others has of course again been addressed by Oakeshott. As we know from what has already been noted above, Oakeshott would observe (as would Nietzsche) that each self inhabits a world of its own. And he would even go on to speak of a possible war of selves. How, then, would the exceptional individual be expected to think and act within the context of such virtual battlefield?

This virtual battlefield is in fact an all-too-real actuality – and it is so in a very special sense when those in the battlefield happen to be those types of individuals who belong to the exceptional, desiring selves. Such types of selves are inclined to eschew whatever obligation to the world of other desiring selves. They might even wish to go so far as to question the validity of the rights of other desiring selves (such questioning would of course not apply to the innocuous rights of the many-too-many – these latter are simply enmeshed in their own senseless struggles for so-called equality). With respect to the overly selfish (or rather unhealthily proud) proclivities of desiring selves, Oakeshott writes as follows: “The desiring selves enter into no obligation, recognize no right; they admit the subjectivity of other selves only in order to make use of it for their own ends.” (ibid., p. 209).

On the other hand, the Oakeshottian understanding of the morality of individuality (concomitant to healthy pride; or to that of the Aristotelian megalopsychos) allows for a balanced compromise between all exceptional, desiring selves. In terms of such an understanding of the morality of individuality, moral activity on the part of a desiring self would include a balanced accommodation vis-à-vis other desiring selves (in terms of our own understanding of the ego-self interface, such balanced accommodation could only be effected at the level of public egos). Such balance would mean that a desiring self would be recognized by some other desiring self as an end in itself – and it would mean that none can be a slave to the desires of some other self. The Oakeshottian correction to the proclivities of unhealthy pride is expressed as follows: “In general … moral activity may be said to be the observation of a balance of accommodation between the demands of desiring selves each recognized by the others to be an end and not a mere slave of somebody else’s desires.” (cf. Oakeshott, ibid., p. 210).

The battlefield of selves – and the resolution of whatever conflictual exchanges amongst them – may be summarized as follows. Firstly, it needs to be acknowledged that the self per se constitutes a world of its own. And that the self does in fact constitute an independent and creative world of its own would depend exclusively on the will of the individual-as-a-whole. As such, the primary impulse of the independent self vis-à-vis other selves is to consistently protect its own world and its own identity from dissolution. But secondly, the independent and creative self needs to acknowledge a balance of accommodation with respect to other suchlike selves – since such an acknowledgement would be enacted from a position of self-organized pride, it would in no way threaten the world and identity of the self that acknowledges other selves (and it would not therefore induce whatever degree of dissolution). Thirdly, and as importantly, such balance of accommodation between selves would imply that no independent selves would ever accept a relationship of slavery vis-à-vis whatever other selves.

But, then, what of individuals who slavishly follow others? This type of question points to two different but closely interrelated problems. Firstly, how is the independent individual expected to relate to those many-too-many whose idol-adoration appears to be more or less innocuous (at least as regards his own independent preservation)? This type of problem has been dealt with fairly rigorously in our discussions around the question of the relationship between the Nietzschean Overman and the flies in the market-place. But, secondly, the question of slavishness points to a perhaps even more substantial issue – and such issue is none other than the question of the relationship between the morality of individuality and that of social (or even ontological) equality.

Here, one may clearly distinguish between two absolutely different notions of the morality of individuality – and the distinction between these two notions revolves around the central question of human equality. More specifically, it posits the issue of an ontological inequality amongst all human beings. Although we have elsewhere reflected on the question of human (or social) so-called equality or inequality, we shall here very briefly attempt to relate such question to that of the morality of individuality (and which, as we are asserting, is above all a morality expressive of self-organization and the disposition of pride that informs it).

It may be argued that the morality of individuality can be subdivided into two irreconcilable perspectives. On the one hand, one may wish to support that all individuals are supposedly equal in their self-determination and personal competence. Such a perspective is a moral worldview expressive of a particular ideology (or set of ideologies which may in themselves yet still be mutually conflicting). It is precisely this type of perspective that has come to yield the modern democratic spirit of the western world (and which to a large extent is embedded in the philosophical discourse of thinkers such as Immanuel Kant – cf. Terence Irwin, op. cit.). On the other hand, one may assert that all individuals may be potentially equal in their self-determination and personal competence, but not all do in fact come to possess the necessary measure of will and competence to achieve such potentiality. It is this empirically verifiable reality that has yielded the self-rolling individual who is simply superior to all the rest that belong to the category of the populace – and it is for this reason that the self-rolling individual lives a morality that is over, above, and beyond the morality of the populace.

The self-rolling individual is a desiring individual that possesses the will and the capacity to plan (or organize) his own life on earth (and do so in all its littlest details). Those belonging to the category of the rest are themselves a desiring set of people – but these desire to be planned (or organized) by the state and its wise organic intellectuals. Their desire is based on the need for protection, it being a need symptomatic of a certain relative inferiority (and which therefore takes the form of a certain human weakness). And it is for this reason that one may speak of an ontological inequality amongst humans.

Now, the self-rolling individual can coexist with the morality of the populace, but only so long as such populace does not impose its morality as an ideology – or as an idol-adoration – on superior, self-rolling individuality. Only so long, that is, that the populace – via the state – does not restrain or penalize the superiority of the exceptional individual. But it may be argued that, in the case of the collectivist-democratic type of state and society – and which is the Oakeshottian understanding of the state-as-enterprise – the populace often does attempt to restrain and/or penalize independent individuality, and especially so when such individuality does not comply with the codes of mass morality. Western civilization has of course witnessed a number of extreme cases of such collectivist interventionism in the lives of the self-rolling type of individual – and one may here refer to Soviet-style socialism, Mussolini-style Fascism, or Hitler’s own version of National Socialism (it yet still remains an open historical question as to whether or not what may be described as postmodern globalist monoculturalism shall itself yield a form of totalitarianism that would willy-nilly intervene in the lives of independent individuals).

Whatever be the particular social circumstances or cultural conjunctures, one would nonetheless expect of the exceptional individual to preserve both his identity and his mode of being as a self-rolling creator of his own aesthetic values. Such self-preservation on the part of the exceptional individual has in any case manifested itself all-too-concretely right across the history of western civilization – we know that western civilization has in fact given birth to what Thomas Carlyle would call great men (although at least some of his so-called individual heroes could fall under the category of the state-sponsored famous wise ones). But it was precisely so as to reinforce the conditions for the self-preservation of individuality that Oakeshott would himself argue for a form of state that would be conducive to such an independent mode of being. As has been noted throughout this project, Oakeshott would be arguing for a form of state that would be limited in its scope and social operations – and being thus limited, it would function as a neutral umpire within a society of independent citizens. Within such social framework, citizens would be living their lives in terms of their own morality of habit of behaviour – they would not, therefore, be living in the shadow of a state-imposed mass ideology. For Oakeshott, such framework would allow for – and encourage – the self-determining superior individual (this being the great man, but being so only for-himself).

But then, and having articulated such a political philosophy, Oakeshottian thinking seems to be running counter to the idea that the exceptional individual would be expected to preserve his exceptionality under whatever social circumstances. It is precisely here that the Oakeshottian perspective seems to diverge from that of the Nietzschean – in terms of the latter, the self-organizational pride of the self-rolling individual ought not to be in need for whatever type of protection; pride per se would not need whatever preconditions so as to preserve itself. The Oakeshottian concept of the civil type of state, however, is a form of protection for the independent individual – worse still, it seems to suggest that independent individuality can only come to fruition given certain social preconditions. On the other hand, it should also be noted that such a deterministic reading of Oakeshottian thinking does not really do justice to the complexity of such thinking, and which would in any case span a period of approximately 60 long years of theoretical reflection and ultimate maturation – and thus one may add that the divergence in the thinking of Nietzsche and Oakeshott is not ever such as to constitute an unbridgeable divide.

The distinction between different notions of the morality of individuality is absolute – and it is absolute given the irreconcilable perspective regarding the question of the ontological inequality of human beings. Here, however, one could introduce a possibly important caveat – one could argue that, while ontological inequality is empirically/historically verifiable, whatever distinction between the superior and the inferior human being is not always absolute and clear-cut, and it is not so at least when one proceeds to undertake a finer-grained examination of the history of the western world. As has already been observed above, it would be Kenneth Minogue (cf. “How Political Idealism Threatens Our Civilization”, op. cit.) who would argue that the attributes of the natural slave and those of the natural master are perhaps present in all individuals – that these attributes may coexist can be a cause of tension in everybody’s life. Yet still, it is only that type of individual who can resolve such tension through the pride of his self-organization that can ultimately achieve the status of a self-rolling excellence. And further, it is only that type of individual who can resolve such tension through a respectful detachment vis-à-vis the many-too-many that can ultimately achieve the status of the Overman. But it is precisely in such manner, however, that the reality of ontological inequality is yet again confirmed.

Having come thus far, we may now condense the notion of self-organization into the following very basic points. First, the exceptional individual need organize his own self vis-à-vis the many-too-many and their proclivity for idol-adoration (and which could itself take the form of various political or quasi-political movements, or the form of various ideological-cum-cultural blocs). Second, the exceptional individual need organize his own self vis-à-vis the state and the moral discourse of its various organic intellectuals. Third, the exceptional individual need organize his own self vis-à-vis a people’s morality of habit of behaviour. All such moves towards self-organization (and which would not always be necessarily contrarian in themselves) would most probably cause internal tensions within the exceptional individual – but such tensions would have to be creatively resolved through the independent pride of that self-organization itself. Such pride, however, cannot be contingent on whatever form of external protection – it cannot depend on the benign support of whatever father protector (such as a civil association).

But the notion of self-organization does go one step further – as implied throughout, self-organization means being in the world but not of it. This, however, automatically suggests that the exceptional individual need preserve his own secrets vis-à-vis the world – and it is by preserving his own secrets that he preserves his own independent self. Now, the suggestion that one preserves one’s own secrets vis-à-vis others may at first sound morally sinister. And yet, the preservation of secrecy can be seen as a natural and/or necessary precondition for whoever (or whatever) intends to maintain his (or its) sovereignty. Take the state (and especially some central state apparatus) as a case in point – in such case, none can truly deny the need of the state to protect all of its classified data. But if such secrecy is necessary for the operation of any state, it is just as necessary for any individual who lives his life as a state-unto-himself.

Oakeshottian thinking would more or less presuppose such need for secrecy on the part of the independent individual; Nietzschean thinking would openly assert such need for secrecy on the part of the exceptional individual. It is of importance to briefly investigate here how one would undertake an affirmation of the need for secrecy as a virtuous disposition. Much of what shall be considered has already been touched on above – again, we mean to carefully reconsider such thinking so as to round off and finally draw some key conclusions pertaining to the question of self-organization and the implications of such self-organization.

We are suggesting that the need for secrecy on the part of the independent individual is a position that is more or less presupposed in the thinking of Oakeshott. Such an assertion may at first sound rather controversial – standard readers of Oakeshottian political thinking could object that we are here guilty of misrepresenting Oakeshott’s own understanding of what it means to be a proper cive within a civil association. And yet, it may be argued that Oakeshott’s particular interpretation of Augustinian thinking – and especially with respect to the core concept of civitas peregrina – certainly would lead to the idea that the independent individual need preserve his own secrecy vis-à-vis the rest of the world, and it would certainly imply that such preservation of secrecy is a virtue in itself. Of course, that this is so requires further clarification.

Corey (op. cit.) presents the key conceptual nexus between the thinking of Augustine and that of Oakeshott by writing as follows: “The challenge, for Oakeshott as for Augustine, was to live fully in the world without becoming worldly – that is, to appreciate the beauty and goodness of creation while avoiding the corruption inherent in pursuing worldly goods for their own sake.” (p. 10). The suggestion that the individual should live fully in the world without at the same time being (or becoming) worldly may be said to imply a double disposition – it implies, on the one hand, a disposition of compromise (this being an acknowledgement that one is in the world); on the other hand, it also implies a disposition of detachment (this being one’s will not to be of the world).

Obviously aware of the internal tension inherent in such a double disposition, Corey shall go on to simply but importantly observe that “… it is possible to live in the world without being of it … Both thinkers [Augustine and Oakeshott], in quite different ways, remained “otherworldly in the world” …” (ibid., p. 23).

Is it really possible to both live in the world and at the same time not be of it? Could an individual – or how could an individual – be “otherworldly in the world”? And what would be the implications of being – or rather doing – both? Being – or doing – both at the same time would mean to integrate a disposition of compromise with a disposition of detachment, and it would mean to do that with respect to the selfsame object (the world), and it would further mean to do all that within the arena of the selfsame subject (one’s very own person). We know that, for Nietzsche, one can live in the world by compromising with it in a manner that suggests pluralistic tolerance – “Let them …”, he advises the exceptional individual with respect to the mode of being of those in the market-place. But, he would add, one should let society (and its many-too-many) live its own mode of being without personally caring for such mode of being – one should “Let them” be as they are from a position of detachment.

And thus it is that the ego interacts with the world (it is thereby in the world), while at the same time the individual-as-a-whole remains beyond all state and mass ideology (and he is thereby not of the world).

But, then, one immediately notices here that this in-but-not-of the world already points to a disposition of secrecy on the part of the individual. Can one say that much of Oakeshottian thinking itself? One certainly can – to show this, we need to carefully reconsider the real meaning secreted behind the notion of resident stranger (civitas peregrina). Wishing to expound on the Oakeshottian idea that the independent individual lives in the world but is not of it, Corey writes as follows: “Perhaps the most vivid way of expressing this idea is to consider the image of the civitas peregrina. Oakeshott borrows this phrase from Augustine as a way of conveying his conception of human beings as “resident strangers” – people who take part in worldly affairs but simultaneously maintain a certain detachment from them. In the final section of On Human Conduct Oakeshott makes a case that his preferred understanding of human association (civil association, or societas) is a reflection of the civitas peregrina, which he describes as an association “of adventurers each responding as best he can to the ordeal of consciousness”, and of partners in “a practice of civility the rules of which are not devices for satisfying substantive wants”. For while pursuing substantive wants is certainly a vital part of life, it cannot be understood as the entirety of human experience. Oakeshott thus wants to preserve the freedom of human adventurers to recognize and pursue those things that concern more than worldly survival and achievement.” (ibid.).

Such an understanding of the human experience – and especially given its emphasis on the freedom of human adventurers – can only but imply the virtue of secrecy as an integral part of the morality of individuality. How is this so? We would argue that the virtue of secrecy is the secrecy of the resident stranger (or that of the civitas peregrina) – it is a necessary virtue emanating from and functional to the very nature of such mode of being.

What, in fact, is a resident stranger? On the one hand, he is an individual who may take part in – or, much more accurately, may interact with – the affairs of the world (albeit from a very safe distance indeed). Now, it would of course be the individual’s public ego that would be engaged in such an interaction with society. And thus one would say that the individual’s public ego is none other than the resident subject as such. The Oakeshottian concept of resident (or civitas) is here clearly equivalent to the term public ego (or, simply, the ego of the individual).

But although the individual is a resident subject, he is also a stranger (peregrina) – in terms of this alternative dimension of individuality, it is as an independent foreigner, or as an independent alien, that the individual may or may not interact with society (and when he does so happen to interact, he in any case does that as mediated by his public ego). As a stranger, he maintains a certain detachment from the world. And thus it would be the individual’s private self that would be disengaged from the world – and he would be disengaged as a veritable stranger to that world. One may conclude therefore that the Oakeshottian concept of stranger (peregrina) is here clearly equivalent to the term private self (or, simply, the self of the individual).

The detached stranger (or the individual as a private self) is defined by such detachment and by such foreignness. And it is in his detachment and foreignness that he carries his own secrecy vis-à-vis the rest of the world – the peregrina state of being is the secrecy of that being.

What would the content of such secrecy be? The content of such secrecy would be the creative content of the self – it would be the productive core of the self. For Oakeshott, it would be a content informed by the independent subject as an adventurer in the world. Being a free adventurer is being secretive – it is to carry the secret of one’s own independent being, and it is to carry the secret of one’s love for one’s own independent being as a creative adventurer. What, further, could the inner content of such secret-for-one’s-self be? The inner content of such secret would be the special – or unique – way in which the free adventurer-cum-stranger responds to the ordeal of his own consciousness. And thus there can be nothing at all morally sinister in harbouring the secret of his own particular response to an ordeal that concerns nothing short of his very own body – it being the body of a stranger (for none else can feel his own toothache).

The response of the adventurer-cum-stranger to the ordeal of his own consciousness (or to the ordeal of his own body) can only but be secret, it also being the response of a stranger to a world that cannot be reduced to his own consciousness and to his own body. It need be secret – but it need not be blind or anarchic (or blindly anarchistic). We would argue, to the contrary, that the secret of the self is itself an order of that self. Why need this be so?

The secret of the self is what it is – a secret outside, beyond, and despite the world. But although such secret is outside, beyond, and despite the world, it cannot ever be an anarchic secret. And it cannot be anarchic wherein anything goes without any holds barred since it cannot be a blind secret – it cannot be an anarchically blind force of the self. Blind forces are rarely if ever creative – and the sheer blindness of such forces can turn out to be nihilistically destructive (for others) and/or nihilistically self-destructive.

Much more accurately, the secret of the self cannot be blind given that – and as we have asserted throughout – the self remains in constant consultation with the ego. The ego, however, is in constant communication with a people’s morality of habit of behaviour – it is in constant communication with such people’s inherited tradition and the morality of such tradition. The ego both respects and selects – for the purposes of the creative self – whatever it deems to be the best of such inherited tradition (and it thereby also rejects whatever is the worst of that tradition). The perspective of the independent individual is not therefore reducible to a blind and disordered force – and the secret of his own self is therefore also not reducible to whatever anarchically blind and disordered force. Corey attempts to capture such Oakeshottian form of thinking – but which is also Augustinian – by writing as follows with respect to the question of individual creativity: “… this moral creativity takes place among other people and within inherited traditions; and in neither Oakeshott nor Augustine is the importance of the individual perspective “ever radicalized into some sort of anarchistic, blindly willful individuality” …” (ibid., p. 43).

Moral creativity – which happens within the productive core of the self – is an evaluation and a reevaluation (even an absolutely total one) of all that pertains to life and its meaning. But evaluation and reevaluation constantly consults with an ego that can recognize and acknowledge a people’s independent morality of behaviour. Such consultation means that the valuing activity of the self need take into account the ensuing tensions between itself and the experiential data of the ego. Such tensions need be ordered and overcome via the virtue of pride. But since order must be imposed on such tensions, the secret of the self must itself be an order. Being an order, it cannot be either blind or anarchic. That which orders is pride itself – but this is not ever either a blind or a recklessly anarchic pride.

This, of course, seems to paradoxically suggest a certain constraint on the freedom of individuality – this very constraint is, however, the necessary constraint of creativity. Constraint is order – but order is a basic presupposition for creation, and especially as regards artistic creativity. The point here is that while the exceptional individual need be absolutely original in his own artistic creativity, such creativity ought not to ever sacrifice aesthetic beauty on the altar of whatever anarchic or blind so-called originality. For a variety of reasons that need not concern us here, we know that anarchic or unfettered creativity would of course be rejected by Plato in his Republic; Aristotle’s Poetics would further argue for the importance of structure and order in all of art; and 20th century philosophers such as Roger Scruton would attempt to explain to the modern western citizen why it is that beauty as such matters.

Now, whatever it is that defines beauty, it is in any case that which constrains the meaning of beauty per se. And such constraint is a child born of a civilization’s morality of habit of behaviour – beauty is a discipline the definition of which is embedded within the long history of that civilization’s aesthetic practices. And it is precisely with these aesthetic practices that the ego-self interface constantly converses – by so conversing, it exercises a willed discipline upon itself as creator. It may be argued, in contrast, that rationalist-based morality – and which is concomitant to the mass-based morality of modernity and postmodernity – has come to blindly and anarchically embrace a cult of ugliness (as Scruton would put it). And such cult of ugliness may be said to be expressive of the ultimate loss of time-past and its embedded sense of beauty. This naturally leads to a self-destructive nihilism – and nihilism cannot define the psyche of the self-rolling exceptional individual.

The self of the independent and exceptional individual thus secretes its own proud order – and yet, such proud order is also and at the same time a gambling order. Such an assertion, however, may at first sound all too perplexing – the idea that the secret of the exceptional individual is itself expressive of a willfully chosen personal gamble can suggest a certain and deliberate risk-taking recklessness on the part of that individual, and such proclivity may itself be suggestive of a self-destructive nihilism. In any case, it seems rather implausible to wish to combine a secret that is neither blind nor anarchic with a type of conduct that is also and at the same time reminiscent of wagering.

There is of course a clear and straightforward resolution to such predicament – we need simply remind ourselves that, although the exceptional individual does indulge in a gamble, he does so in a manner that is always constrained by the conversation that takes place between his ego and his self. And thus the gamble of the creative individual is constrained by the discipline of a proud, self-organized will. The free self gambles in a way that is wisely cognizant of the experiences of his ego (in the case of the exceptional individual, of course, such ego naturally has an exceptional ear – or an exceptionally critical ear – for the so-called chattering classes of the market-place; that very same ear, however, can at the same time be exceptionally empathetic towards any proud and independent people).

We should at this point also remind ourselves that, while the secret of the self is a gambling secret, such type of secret cannot – or should not – ever apply to society as a whole (and which would constitute a public secret, so to speak). As we know, Oakeshott would argue (and Nietzsche would here absolutely see eye to eye) that neither the state nor its populace should ever engage in whatever form of gambling – or engage in whatever form of social/collective gambling (also referred to, inter alia, as social engineering). Such type of gambling would endanger both a people’s morality of habit of behaviour as also an individual’s own morality of individuality (it being his freedom as an individual citizen).

Oakeshott would here argue that existential gambling on the part of the individual “may have its reward when undertaken within the limits of a society which is not itself engaged in the gamble” – when society does itself engage in gambling, however, that “is mere folly” (cf. Oakeshott, op. cit., p. 70).

The individual’s particular moral activity can constitute a secret gamble since his own self is not of the collectivity and its market-place. But he must gamble in a manner that recognizes the needs of his public ego, which can only but remain in society (it being within the limits of a society). Society, however, cannot and should not engage in whatever collective gambling – when it does so, the exceptional individual would consciously strive to preserve his own identity as a person, as also preserve the discrete identity of his own secret gambling.

We may now conclude here by making the very general observation that self-organization is invariably dependent on the virtue of secrecy – and secrecy is the realm of the supremacy of the private, gambling self. The exceptional individual need therefore salvage and preserve his secret reason for being-so-in-the-world, and being precisely so vis-à-vis the rest of those in the world. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra summarizes such thinking as follows: “Have a good distrust today, ye higher men, ye enheartened ones! Ye open-hearted ones! And keep your reasons secret! For this today is that of the populace.” (p. 279).

8. Of being-in-the-world as an Overman in the history of western civilization

Who is it that has actually lived his life as an Overman in the history of the western world? Is being an Overman an ideal-type? Given the natural human weaknesses that may be ascribed to all humans as a species, should one have to admit that being-in-the-world as an Overman is merely a chimerical ideal (and tragic at that)?

The history of the western world has certainly witnessed exceptional individuals whose intellectual and cultural adventures have been enacted over and above the fashions, the faiths, and the fantasies of their epoch (to remember Roger Penrose). Who such individuals have been – or who they are in the midst of us – is for the historian to determine. Identifying them is sometimes quite an easy task – the lives of such persons simply stand out as a landmark in the history of the western world (and they often do so despite their personal intentions). On the other hand, such task can be difficult and controversial – we in any case know that there is a wide variety of gradations of exceptionality. And there are also cases of exceptionality that have remained utterly obscure for ages on end until such time as some peculiar moment of history happened to be such as to need to unearth them.

Whatever the gradations (as also whatever the status of a possible and ultimate societal recognition), one may safely assume that the exceptional individual possesses qualities of will and genius that are simply all too rare to come by. But such naturally rare double entitlement would not mean that the exceptional individual does not have to undergo personal struggles and face personal challenges so as to identify, preserve, and cultivate his own potentialities (that being his adventurous and secret gamble in life).

It is surely needless to say that writing (or thinking) of the phenomenon of individual exceptionality would not at all mean that he who does so is himself in any way exceptional (the controversial case of someone such as Thomas Carlyle remains a case in point) – almost any so-called intellectual could write (or think) of the Overman in history, depending on his skills and training as a researcher. Many may be able to do just that – this would, however, say little to nothing either about their will or their genius as persons. And yet, there have been some thinkers who did dare write of exceptionality (and thereby did articulate an exceptional understanding of the morality of individuality), and who at the same time were themselves exceptional individuals. Few would wish to deny that Nietzsche was himself an exceptional person, despite his various failings and contradictions. So was, one might say, Oakeshott himself – and he was an exceptional individual in his own humble way (and, again, despite his own failings and weaknesses).

Neither of them consciously pursued fame or recognition – both were devoted to their own untimely thinking about the meaning of life in the modern western world. Both struggled to practically enact in the life that they lived their own particular understanding of the self-rolling independent individual. Each did so in his own peculiar way – the one as would a German philosopher of the 19th century; the other as would an Englishman operating in the academic world of the 20th century. Both meant exactly what they wrote – and they honestly did so despite the internal contradictions of their thought and conduct.

Both struggled to be exceptional and think exceptionally. We shall have to end this project with a number of very brief observations concerning both the character-type of these two thinkers and their struggles in the world.

For the case of Nietzsche, we shall make use of Walter Kaufmann’s classic study already referred to above, Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist (op. cit.). Our intention is to merely present a few snippets of the very private thoughts – or very private letters – of Nietzsche, and as these have been recorded in Kaufmann’s work.

We shall not be bothered with the person to whom Nietzsche expresses such thoughts, and we shall not be concerned with the particular circumstances in which he penned these letters. What is here of paramount interest to us is that such thoughts revolved around the matter of his own self, and how such self would relate – or would intend to relate – to those around him (the other vis-à-vis his own person). What follows is a presentation of these few snippets, and which are accompanied by some rudimentary remarks.

• To begin with, Nietzsche shall acknowledge that, yet still, much remains to be overcome within his own self as an individual. He writes as follows: “There is an awful lot to overcome in my self.” (cf. Kaufmann, p. 57).
• Given that much as yet remains to be overcome within his own self, Nietzsche recognizes that his own person is continually engaged in a struggle to overcome whatever weaknesses of his own self. The personal experiences of such struggle, however, are in themselves holy. One may explain this a bit further – we may say that this struggle on the part of Nietzsche to overcome the weaknesses of his own self would throw onto his own shoulders, so to speak, the sheer burden of his self-chosen solitary wilderness. Living a life of solitude was no easy matter – and thus he would come to privately express a feeling of personal brokenness. And yet, and right at the same time, it would be precisely such type of agonizing emotional state that would – for Nietzsche – raise a key question regarding his own person and his own life: could he possibly discover within his own struggling self that particular alchemist’s trick that could transform all such painful experiences into gold? The discovery of such an alchemist’s trick would constitute for him that exceptional and beautiful opportunity to prove to himself that all of human experience is both existentially useful and existentially holy, however painful all such experience might turn out to be. The discovery of that trick would have major implications with respect to life per se, and especially human life itself (it would mean that both were to be loved and cherished absolutely). Were Nietzsche to fail in discovering such a trick, he felt that he would be lost to himself, as he would be lost to life itself. That, however, was Nietzsche’s own very personal gamble. And it was precisely such tormenting thoughts and such search for the alchemist’s gold that would lead him to the creation of his own masterpiece, Thus Spake Zarathustra. Nietzsche would express all such thoughts in a private letter, part of which read as follows: “I tense every fiber of my self-overcoming – but I have lived in solitude too long, living off my “own fat”, so that now, more than anyone else, I am being broken on the wheel of my own feelings … If I do not discover the alchemist’s trick of turning even this – filth into gold, I am lost. – Thus I have the most beautiful opportunity to prove that for me “all experiences are useful, all days holy, and all human beings divine”!!!…” (cf. Kaufmann, ibid., p. 59).
• The fact that Nietzsche would come to see his own struggles for self-overcoming as useful and holy – this being the very process whereby he would be able to discover the alchemist’s gold in affirmation of life itself – would often induce him to draw one simple, albeit dramatic practical conclusion as regards his own mode of being. What would such decision be? He would come to the conclusion that, given the existential usefulness and the existential holiness of his own personal struggles, such struggles should be taken to their utmost limits. Naturally, that in itself would mean that he would be compelled to stretch his own lonesome wilderness and his own denial of the world of the market-place to its most extreme point of no return. That could not possibly have been an easy decision – one may assume that there must have been recurrent moments in his life when Nietzsche would surely waver as to the extent of such so-called utmost limits. This is what he writes: “A few times I also thought of the opposite: driving my solitude and renunciation to its ultimate point …” (cf. Hoffmann, ibid.). Here, one need notice his phrase, a few times – and yet, his own Zarathustra would be much more consistent and all the more decisive as to all utmost limits. This would of course point to Nietzsche’s all-too-real existential intentions as to the mode of being of his own person.
• Nietzsche’s decision – or his innermost intention – to drive his solitude and renunciation to its utmost limits would mean that he could prove pitiless as regards his own self. For him – and as has been discussed above – pity ought to be seen as a general vice in itself; it would also be rejected as a deeply troubling personal emotion. He would write as follows: “Pity, my friend, is a kind of hell …” (cf. Hoffmann, ibid.). But since Nietzsche would be pitiless towards his own self, he could likewise be as pitiless towards others – in what particular sense could he have been pitiless towards those around him? This brings us to a consideration of how his own self would relate – or ultimately intend to relate – to other selves.
• His pitilessness towards those around him was meant to determine a very specific type of relationship with other selves, or at least as regards those other selves that were close to him, and/or that he truly valued. Nietzsche would wish to see such types of relationships as a rendezvous between selves that were above and beyond all common souls – such selves would therefore have to somehow be exceptional in themselves (this very personal expectation regarding particular friends or acquaintances may therefore be said to be highly reminiscent of the Aristotelian philia as discussed above). Nietzsche would thereby wish to willingly renounce all familiarity (or proximity) with other persons unless such familiarity (or proximity) took place at a sphere the intellectual demands of which were such that common souls do not and cannot ever live up to. In other words, he wanted to meet and interact with the other on terms that simply could not be met by the so-called ordinary populace. He writes as follows: “I gladly renounce all familiarity and proximity if only I may be sure of this: that we feel at one where common souls don’t reach.” (cf. Kaufmann, ibid., p. 57).
• Nietzsche felt that he did not wish to interact with other persons unless such persons were able to raise themselves to a height that met his own expectations – they would necessarily have to satisfy particular intellectual standards that allowed for a level of conversation (in the Oakeshottian sense) that would be expressive of a certain exceptionality. Unless they did so, Nietzsche could not possibly feel at one with them. But if they nonetheless persisted in interacting with him in a manner that would not meet his expectations, then he would have no choice but to feel contempt for them – and therein lay his own pitilessness. Nietzsche would once write as follows: “I wish you would raise yourself up before me so that I need not feel contempt for you.” (cf. Kaufmann, ibid.).
• One may therefore conclude that Nietzsche would be highly self-protective – he would wish to protect and preserve his own struggling self vis-à-vis others (and which would naturally mean that all his relations with others would be very carefully vetted). Such an expressly vigilant disposition with respect to others would constitute one core element of his personal self-organization. It would be such particular will for self-organization that would make of Nietzsche an exacting type of individual – and such severity could make him pitiless towards both himself and others. He would write that “All proximity makes one so exacting – and in the end I am after all an exacting person.” (cf. Kaufmann, ibid., p. 56).

What of Oakeshott as a character-type? For his case, we shall briefly refer to a number of observations made by Kenneth Minogue, who of course happened to know Oakeshott personally (cf. Kenneth Minogue, https://manwithoutqualities.com, October 2, 2007).

• How may one generally describe Oakeshott’s relationship with his own self? According to Minogue, it would above all be self-sufficiency that would describe such a relationship. Throughout his life, Oakeshott would preserve his own independence as an individual – and he would likewise consistently uphold his own independent and original philosophical thought (and he would do so despite A.J. Ayer’s dismissive, off-hand remarks regarding the questionable originality of Oakeshottian philosophy). For Oakeshott, autonomy was one existentially vital element composing his own thought and conduct. Minogue informs us simply that “This marvelous philosophical self-sufficiency was vital in his life …” (ibid., no pagination).
• Oakeshott would attempt to establish some kind of correlation between his thought and his conduct in life – his was a mode of thinking that could be enacted in his own person, as it more or less seems to have so been. His thought would inform his personal mode of being – the Oakeshottian understanding of the morality of individuality would be personally enacted as a way of life. His mode of being was not simply that of an academic (and definitely not suggestive of the usual academic stuffiness) – it would above all be a philosopher’s mode of being. And thus Minogue would observe that “… Oakeshott was a philosopher down to the tips of his toes.” (ibid.).
• In what way would Oakeshott’s mode of thinking be enacted in his own person? Such enactment would take two superimposed forms – on the one hand, he would be of the other-worldly type; on the other, and at the same time, he would consciously and efficiently be in the world. Oakeshott’s thought and way of life would be essentially other-worldly in the sense that his disposition would be such as to locate itself beyond and outside the values of the market-place (and therefore beyond and outside the politics of such market-place). But such private dispositional thinking and conduct (it being the psyche of his authentic self) would not prevent him from dealing practically and efficiently with the outside world – his public ego and its functionality (functioning, that is, as an academic and/or as an academic administrator) would be superbly efficient. “For all his unworldliness”, Minogue tells us, “he was a marvelous administrator, who ran the Government department at LSE quite brilliantly for nearly twenty years.” (ibid.).
• Although Oakeshott did operate all too efficiently in the world (that of academia), it was nonetheless his other-worldly disposition that would prevail within his own self. What more can we say of such a peculiarly Oakeshottian other-worldly disposition? One may observe a tripartite dimensionality composing that disposition – firstly, it would be a disposition that was above all tensed towards an affirmation of life per se. But secondly, such tension would at the same time be carefully informed by a sense of memento mori. And thirdly, given that it was thus informed, it would also be a disposition that could remain supremely indifferent towards the affairs of the world (and especially its market-place). Oakeshott’s thinking and conduct would certainly affirm life itself – he would be for the cultivation of the individual’s creative imagination (and its very own mode of truth); he would see the poetic dimension of existence; and he would see life as a gambler’s adventure. But such an affirmation would at the same time involve a proper preparation for death. Such a relationship with death – that persistent sense of memento mori – would naturally mean a supreme indifference towards the mundane and small passions of the masses of the market-place (and which he would often describe as the ignorant masses). Oakeshott’s philosophical indifference to the world would mean his own personal detachment from the materialistic obsessions of such world; it would also mean a detachment from the ideological idol-adoration of the masses and their representative organic intellectuals (peddling their politics of faith); and it would therefore also mean a detachment from a world that placed politics in command of all aspects of human existence. It would be such tripartite dispositional dimensionality that would define his other-worldliness. Minogue informs us of Oakeshott’s particular sense of unworldliness by writing as follows: “He took over from Montaigne the Socratic view that philosophy is a preparation for death, a systematic detachment from the desires and passions of ordinary life.” (ibid.).
• Oakeshott’s other-worldly stance – both as a mode of thinking and as a mode of personal enactment – could in the last instance be described as an existentialist disposition. Such a disposition, however, would be as much (so-called) political as it would be existentialist. It would in fact be a deeply political disposition, and which was expressed in his unwavering respect for any people’s morality of habit of behaviour (and therefore a concomitant respect for much of the rich cultural heritage secreted within such habit of behaviour). Oakeshott would therefore maintain a deep personal respect for all peoples (and especially for all concrete individuals belonging to such peoples), so long as these remained an independent and proud subject in the history of the western world. In that particular sense, therefore, his detachment from – or his supreme indifference to – the affairs of the world would certainly not be unmitigated. On the other hand, his existentialist disposition would be such as to wish to delimit and constrain the role of the political moment in the life of human beings – and as also in his own life. But his was an essentially Englishman’s existentialist disposition – it was therefore largely devoid of the angst, the tragedy, and the possible melodrama that one could perhaps detect in some of the Germanic (or generally Continental) philosophical-existentialist mindset. Minogue writes briefly of Oakeshott’s existentialist disposition as follows: “… his philosophy dealt with many of the themes of existentialism, but without the angst and the melodrama.” (ibid.).
• What of Oakeshott’s relationship with those around him? We know that Oakeshott had in fact nurtured his own understanding of the world, and as such understanding would come to be expressive of his own creative imagination. We also know that Oakeshott the philosopher would come to see himself as an adventurer. Such a personal stance – and which was above all a personal disposition – would to a large extent determine his relations with others. With respect to others, he could be selective and exacting in his own way. Oakeshott would expect of the other to have cultivated his own imaginative understanding of the world. Similarly, he would seek out fellow adventurers. “For Michael,” Minogue writes, “to know someone was to enter in some degree into that person’s own imaginative world. A human life was an adventure, and he was very considerate of his fellow adventurers.” (ibid.). Such very particular expectations, however, would perhaps not necessarily apply when it came to his personal relations with the opposite sex (according, at least, to what has been said of his personal life). In the case of women, Oakeshott’s criteria seem to have been of a primarily sensual disposition – that, of course, would be his deeply personal prerogative as a unique and independent individual reserving the right to all his own value-creation.

Nikos Vlachos (né Paul N. Tourikis)

April, 2026

The post The morality of individuality: from Nietzsche to Oakeshott appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

• Divergent modes of being in the history of the Western world
• An absurd world
• The bourgeois masses
• The elites
• Manufacturing illusions
• Guilt-ridden shame
• Authenticity versus inauthenticity
• Proust: the anthropologist of a tribe
• The spirit of an era
• The spirit of an era, and its understanding of equality
• The spirit of an era, and the question of vices
• The bastion of the aristocracy, and its vulnerabilities
• High society, and the phenomenon of snobbery
• The bastion of the aristocracy vis-à-vis other elite groups
• High society vis-à-vis the commoners
• The fall of the aristocratic milieu
• Resurrecting the aristocratic ideal
• The Proustian versus the Sartrean worldview – some introductory remarks
• The question of time, history, and memory
• Of things in the world
• Of the arts
• Of churches and church buildings
• For a unitary Western tradition
• A case of conflicting humanisms
• Sartrean ethics
• The carriers of salvation (as opposed to an aristocratic resurrection)
• Sartrean politics: exploding the system

Divergent modes of being in the history of the Western world

The study that follows constitutes Paper 2 of a wider project attempting to define the so-called Western world (cf. Paper 1: “Defining the “West”: An orrery of cultural paradigms”, Academia.edu, October 2022; Greek Social & Literary Review, 17.10.2022).

Before we consider the manner in which the Proustian and Sartrean worldviews may help us in the general project of defining the West, it would be useful to clarify rather more precisely what we mean by the term defining and why such an endeavour is at all necessary. Our project is based on the assumption that the history of the Western world has been characterized by different – or even radically divergent – modes of being (all of which may nonetheless be said to belong, or to have belonged, to a definable historical experience constituting the collective West). Our purpose is to therefore investigate the differences and divergencies evident in such Western modes of being across time, as also to point to the possible implications of such a reality with respect to the present.

It seems absolutely incumbent on us to investigate such divergent modes of Western being across historical time (it being that “orrery of cultural paradigms” as described in Paper 1) given the very nature of Western history, and especially as that may be directly contrasted to the history of the non-Western world. When, for instance, Ernest Gombrich – in his seminal work of art criticism, The Story of Art (first published in 1950) – wishes to introduce us to the history of the visual arts in the 13th century, he needs to clarify right at the start that “there is one respect in which Western Europe always differed profoundly from the East. In the East … styles lasted for thousands of years, and there seemed no reason why they should ever change. The West never knew this immobility. It was always restless, groping for new solutions and new ideas” (cf. Chapter 10, p. 131).

Such Western restlessness – this “groping for new solutions and new ideas” – would of course not only be limited to the field of art. While art styles can certainly not be reduced to a mere reflection of particular socio-economic conjunctures, the latter would in any case be prone to continual changes or reformations and even ruptures, and these would in turn be more or less accompanied by the groping for new styles of artistic expression (though always in keeping with their own artistic terms). Thus, one essential historical characteristic of the Western world would be its self-questioning nature: it would not only be questioning a certain prevailing art style – there would also be a continual production of different or divergent cultural motifs, relatively different or divergent moral systems and thus different or divergent milieus. It would be the self-questioning nature of the Western world that would give birth to what we have termed the “orrery of cultural paradigms”, and which could often come to compose a self-contradictory “orrery”.

This historical reality of the West may in some ways be contrasted to the case of the East – one may, in other words, speak of a relatively static East, wherein it could take a protracted period of time before a cultural motif or a discrete milieu would undergo significant changes and thereby yield something altogether new, at least in the field of cultural practices or in that of moral systems. Specifically as regards the Muslim world, and rather controversially, it has been the work of the British-American historian Bernard Lewis that has so emphatically pointed to this essential difference between the West and the Muslim world pertaining to historical change and development. In his book, What Went Wrong? – The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East (Harper Perennial, 2002), Lewis has argued that, in contrast to the West, the Islamic world would fail to modernize. This lack of modernization, which he deems to characterize all of recent Muslim history and especially following the failure of the second Ottoman siege of Vienna in 1683, would mean that the Islamic world would not experience a continuous production of radically divergent milieus and modes of being as would the West. In effect, the Islamic world – and despite important internal religious splits – would remain statically closed to itself. Its anti-modern and so-called dogmatic worldviews, therefore, may be directly contrasted to the self-questioning restlessness of the West, a restlessness that would yield a series of self-contradictory values at times amounting to a veritable self-cancellation of Western identity itself.

It is not for us to judge which of these two different historical courses – that of the West or that of the East or Middle East – would prove to be in some sense superior in the last instance in the course of global history: what matters for our purposes in this paper is that the Western historical process of modernization has given birth to a variety of worldviews that would be unthinkable (or perhaps unnecessary) for the non-West in general. Two of such type of worldviews would be that of the Proustian and that of the Sartrean varieties, at least as embedded in some of the thinking of these two intellectuals. The contrast between these two particular worldviews seems to encapsulate a central ideological contradiction within the recent history of the Western world and its process of modernization. Of course, such central contradiction remains absolutely foreign to the needs and tastes of the East.

One could roughly postulate the historical existence of a Proustian form of Western milieu and that of a Sartrean form of Western milieu, and further postulate that these two forms of milieus stand in stark contradistinction to each other – one may even go so far as to predicate that these are two irredeemably hostile historical experiences (or historical modes of being) within the course of Western civilization. On the other hand, one would have to observe that such an approach is not merely rough but in fact inexcusably careless: Sartre’s writing, for one thing, has been marked by a wide variety of theoretical convolutions the public reception of which has not always been expressive of a consistent worldview. Further, the Proustian literary enterprise has itself been such as to not always allow one to identify the often hidden intentionalities of the writer himself – Proust is often ambiguous as to what social ideology he espouses as a thinker, and especially so in his earlier writings. The point is that we do not always intend here to define the personal worldviews of these two major Western thinkers – our primary purpose, rather, is to identify the socio-cultural milieus willy-nilly embedded in their respective writings.

Before we proceed any further, therefore, we need to clarify the basic objectives of this paper slightly more explicitly. We intend to investigate certain particular scraps of thought expressed in the overall work of Proust and Sartre. Our interest in such scraps shall take two forms: a) how these two Western thinkers differed in their understanding of the Western world that circumscribed them; b) how their different understandings reflected segments of the real world that they found themselves in. It is the latter dimension of their work that shall be of primary importance for our purposes. And it is within such specific delimitations that we shall attempt to answer the key question posed in this paper – viz. how does the Proustian worldview and the Sartrean worldview (and to the extent that these two worldviews may be coherently articulated based on the scraps investigated) help us to uncover two different and contradictory Western milieus in the general history of Western civilization?

Of course, a study that is merely based on the calculated selection of a writer’s scraps of thought would render it a rather dicey project, and all too subjectively speculative. While that may be so, it needs to be emphasized that our decision to focus on specific scraps of literary thought retrieved from the Proustian and Sartrean enterprises is essentially reflective of a method of work adopted by Walter Benjamin himself in his own attempt to likewise salvage whatever relevant scraps from what he regarded as the so-called wreckage of culture (cf., further, Paper 1 of this project regarding the question of scraps of history). In our case, we intend to salvage scraps of thought excavated from the writings of both Proust and Sartre that illuminate the distinctive manner in which these two major thinkers of the West understood specific aspects of the Western world – and we aim to show how their respective understanding of such aspects of Western life reflected two different and necessarily contradictory Western milieus. As we shall see, the selected scraps shall bring to light different approaches to aspects of life such as the following: a) the question of the past and the related question of history; b) the question of evaluating things or objects in the world; c) the question of the Arts; d) the question of churches and/or cathedrals; e) the question of Western tradition, and so on. Prior to examining such Proustian and Sartrean divergent approaches to aspects of Western life, we shall attempt to show how these two intellectuals would further – and necessarily so – be at variance in their respective understanding of social groupings such as the French aristocracy or the so-called outcasts of French society.

Whether or not our method of work nonetheless amounts to mere subjective speculation remains a moot point – and it remains so to the extent that our selection of scraps of thought is based on a certain (biased) imagination. Our simple rejoinder to such a problem is that, and as Richard Feynman had himself once asserted, even a hard science such as physics requires imagination, so long as such imagination is placed in a straitjacket.

We shall end these introductory notes by simply quoting a scrap of early Proustian thought retrieved from The Complete Short Stories of Marcel Proust (compiled and translated by Joachim Neugroschel, First Cooper Square Press edition, 2001). Proust states the following: “A fashionable milieu is one in which each person’s opinion is made up of everyone else’s opinions. Does each opinion run counter to everyone else’s? Then it is a literary milieu” (p. 48). This quote – its former part at least, and which is of primary interest for our purposes – seems to suggest that the young Proust certainly had a sense of milieus and what these are composed of. Based on what he writes, one may assume that a milieu is a cohesive, self-reproducing and independent social entity closed in unto itself and expressive of a series of cultural practices reflective of that which is deemed by all to be “fashionable”. For Sartre, and as we shall see below, a milieu is that which is formed by social classes (more or less in the Marxian sense). The implications of such relative dissimilarity in understanding the concept of a milieu shall become evident below.

An absurd world

Sartre’s Nausea, first published in 1938, expresses a philosophical position that is well known and has of course been much discussed – the reality of the world, it is said therein, is quite absurd. In his introduction to the English version of this philosophical novel, James Wood would write as follows in 2000: “As Beckett does, Sartre uses the fictionality of his fiction to ask us to reflect on the fictionality – or at least, the arbitrariness – of reality itself. Nausea’s very subject is the randomness, the contingency, the superfluity of the world …” (pp. viii-ix).

There is, it has often been suggested, a radical fatalism in such Sartrean position, and Wood’s introduction to Nausea seems to more or less espouse such a view as well. To make his point, he argues that the absolutely fatalistic position expressed in Nausea may be contrasted to the thinking of someone such as Camus – unlike Sartre, the writer of The Myth of Sisyphus “continued to live under a religious shadow, wherein the battle was always with the terms handed to us by life – a secular version of man’s battle with the Gods” (p. xix). Elsewhere in his introduction, Wood observes that “For Camus, the realization that life is absurd is the beginning of a stoic battle against that absurdity” (p. xviii). Along a similar vein, one may further contrast the apparently absolute fatalism of the Sartrean position – and, in this case, even Camus’s own thinking – to “the theologically consistency” of someone like Simone Weil who, not only believed in God, but also in Christ’s incarnation (Wood, p. xx).

There is, however, a key question that needs to be addressed at this point and which must be resolved right at the outset – and it calls for an immediate resolution as it bears a direct relation to the Sartrean quintessential understanding of the question of Western milieus. How absolute, in fact, is Sartrean fatalism? Wood goes on to willingly admit that, for Sartre, mankind “must continue to live” – even more significantly, Sartre “had an almost religious faith in man’s ability to be free” (ibid.). But, then, the next obvious question that arises is this: free in relation to what?

Based on extremely significant scraps of Sartrean thought, we shall attempt to show that, for Sartre, it is not merely a matter of life per se being absurd – rather, absurdity is especially evident in a very particular mode of being. This is a Western mode of being, and thus a specifically Western milieu expressive of particular power relations (the latter may be imposed on others that happen to belong to the non-Western world as such). We shall attempt to show that, for Sartre, the absurdity of life is the absurdity of bourgeois life itself. This, we shall be arguing, becomes crystal clear on a closer examination of his Nausea and is as much manifested throughout most of the Sartrean project – in the last instance, and in terms of Sartre’s long-term philosophical biography, it is all too obvious that the Sartrean project was above all an essentially political project (and, as is well known, a highly radical political project at that).

Nausea itself – and on this Wood would fully agree – is politically charged philosophical literature: the book is riddled with political undertones that often mutate into bitter attacks on the milieu that circumscribes Roquentin, the novel’s protagonist and narrator. Thus, when Wood informs us that the novel is “devoted to the logical exploration of a world without meaning” (p. vii), we need to further ask ourselves which particular world Sartre has in mind – and we are justified in posing such a question because when Sartre speaks of man’s freedom, he means it in the sense of man’s choice to be free of (or in relation to) that particular world which he finds to be meaningless. When, further, Sartre’s Roquentin feels the “The Nausea isn’t inside me: I can feel it over there on the wall, on the braces, everywhere around me. It is one with the café, it is I who am inside it” (p. 35), the writer raises a question of major socio-political implications. We, who happen to experience the world of Nausea, are not merely circumscribed by it – we are in it in the sense of having been absorbed by it and therefore of it. And to the extent that we are of it, we are a part and symptom of that milieu. This perspective of Western man shall allow Sartre to adopt a very specific stance regarding all who willingly accept to view themselves as proper Western citizens. As we shall all too clearly see below, that stance shall be a radically hostile one aimed at them, and naturally so in terms of the Sartrean worldview.

Within that Western milieu, however, there are particular groups of people who do not – or cannot – view themselves as proper Western citizens. These are the types who happen to be conscious of and/or practically sensitive to the absurdity of that Western world, and are therefore deeply critical of it (in a variety of different ways depending on their circumstances) – here again, of course, the Sartrean perspective asserts a position of major socio-political implications. Who are these people? In a brilliant biographical study of Jean Genet, Saint Genet, Comédian et Martyr (first published in 1952; and cf. Saint Genet – Actor and Martyr, University of Minnesota, 2012), Sartre informs us that, “Beyond certain limits of horror, honest minds are no longer sensitive to anything but the absurdity of the world” (p. 47). For Sartre, the absurd mode of being of the Western bourgeois milieu is “the prison” that one needs to “simply explode” (as Wood puts it, p. xx) – and such exploding of the prison can only be undertaken by those whom Sartre calls “honest minds”. As we shall see below, these are the outcasts of that milieu. We shall further see that these outcasts are the veritable carriers of all salvation – and it is on them that Sartre pins his (almost religious) hopes for such salvation. A basic objective of this paper will be to compare the Sartrean view regarding such outcasts with the Proustian view regarding the Parisian aristocracy.

In a rather weak and simplistic paper on the politics of Sartrean thought, Alfred Betschart undertakes some sort of a survey of Sartre’s philosophical journey, which is said to commence with what is termed “early individualism” – emphasizing notions such as absurdity, freedom and responsibility – and which later turns to Marxism, in the form of existential Marxism (cf. “Sartre was not a Marxist”, Sartre Studies International, vol. 25, issue 2, 2019, pp. 77-91). He wishes to argue that one cannot at the same time be both an existentialist and a Marxist. Betschart, of course, simply ignores the historical fact that most of Western Marxist thinking that appeared in the 20th century would take a wide variety of forms well beyond the original thinking of Marx himself and almost all forms would even veer radically from whatever orthodoxy happened to persist at the time (as it did in the USSR). Sartrean political thinking can only but be viewed in such context. Now, while it is true that one may speak of a somewhat pure existentialism in Sartre’s early work, this would not mean that even such abstract existentialist thinking – as articulated in his Being and Nothingness published in 1943 – was devoid of political implications, albeit not of any Marxist hue as yet. These particular implications were to be clarified by Sartre himself in his 1945 public lecture, Existentialism is a Humanism. But the point we wish to emphasize here – and which will be verified in what follows – is that even supposedly pure existentialist notions such as absurdity, freedom and responsibility would, for Sartre, all be interpreted in the very special context of bourgeois society – and this is most obvious in a work such as Nausea. Thus, even Sartrean early existentialism would above all be meant as a critique of a particular Western milieu. Whether or not this would qualify him to be a bona fide Marxist is really beside the point.

To understand Sartrean politics, one may simply consider how Sartre himself viewed the Proustian literary enterprise as a whole – perhaps such a view is best summarized by Shawn Gorman, who writes as follows: “… Sartre’s musings on Proust read like nothing so much as displaced self-criticism in which the ‘bourgeois’ Marcel Proust is a stand-in for the guilty ‘bourgeois’ Jean-Paul Sartre” (cf. “Sartre on Proust: Involuntary Memoirs”, L’Esprit Créateur, John Hopkins University Press, vol. 46, no. 4, Winter 2006, pp. 56-68). The important question of guilt – and especially as that feeling should, for Sartre, apply to the bourgeois citizen given his particular mode of being – shall be further considered below, and it shall be compared and contrasted to the case of the Parisian aristocracy as described by Proust.

The bourgeois masses

The events in Nausea unfold in the port town of Bouville – Wood informs us that the name of this town may be translated as Mudtown (p. viii). The name is of course deliberately derogatory, and it must be so given the social milieu that defines it. “Here”, writes Sartre, “there is nothing but darkness” (p. 42).

The milieu is indubitably and classically bourgeois – and there is something intrinsically indecent about all things bourgeois. Sartre, for instance, writes of “the indecent look of bourgeois streets” (p. 43). As Roquentin takes his incessant walks around the streets of Mudtown, he “watches his solidly bourgeois fellow-citizens” (Wood, p. viii). He feels, as Woods notes, a “Céline-like contempt for the bourgeois masses” (p. x) that he sees around him. Who belongs to this category of people? Who is a bourgeois and who not? The masses of the town of Mudtown are its solid, proper citizens – in fact, in the eyes of Roquentin, all of his fellow-citizens are a part and symptom of the bourgeois milieu. For Sartre, and as we shall further see, being a solid and proper citizen are attributes that one ought to be ashamed of. Roquentin’s contempt for all of these citizens is persistently expressed throughout Nausea – he tells us that “I’ve seen enough of living things, of dogs, of men, of all the flabby masses which move about spontaneously” (p. 41). These bourgeois, flabby masses are all conceited and narcissistic, and quite unaware of how disgusting they are in their typical mannerisms and habits. Roquentin would himself be accused of such bourgeois behaviour by his old lover, Anny – she would pick a fight with him by saying things such as the following: “You blow your nose solemnly like a bourgeois, and you cough into your handkerchief as if you were terribly pleased with yourself” (p. 93).

For Sartre, the citizens of Mudtown are all self-satisfied bourgeois idiots – their inherent class-based idiocy defines a mode of being (and hence a total milieu) that is absolutely contemptible. Such mode of being is described by Sartre’s Roquentin in the most lucid manner possible. We read as follows: “How far away from them I feel … It seems to me that I belong to another species. They come out of their offices after the day’s work, they look at the houses and the squares with a satisfied expression, they think that it is their town. A ‘good solid town’. They aren’t afraid, they feel at home. They have never seen anything but the tamed water which runs out of the taps, the light which pours from the bulbs when they turn the switch, the half-breed, bastard trees which are held up with crutches. They are given proof, a hundred times a day, that everything is done mechanically, that the world obeys fixed, unchangeable laws. Bodies released in a vacuum all fall at the same speed, the municipal park is closed every day at four p.m. in winter, at six p.m. in summer, lead melts at 335⁰c., the last tram leaves the Town Hall at 11.05 p.m. They are peaceable, a little morose, they think about Tomorrow, in other words simply about another day; towns have only one day at their disposal which comes back exactly the same every morning. They barely tidy it up a little on Sundays. The idiots. It horrifies me to think that I am going to see their thick, self-satisfied faces again. They make laws, they write Populist novels, they get married, they commit the supreme folly of having children …” (pp. 224-225).

Sartre’s Roquentin is here describing a total milieu, and which is a mode of being all too familiar to Western man. It is a mode of being defined by the meaningless humdrum of habitual routine. And yet, those who practice such mode of being seem to be self-satisfied with it – so much so that “they feel at home” with that manner of living. And they feel that much “at home” that they consider the town as their very own – it being the typical proprietorial instinct of the bourgeois masses. For them, that which they own can only but be a “good solid town”.

It is quite obvious that, although Roquentin speaks of the town of Mudtown in particular, his observations are meant to describe – as we have suggested – the entirety of the bourgeois milieu of the 20th century (at some point in this sample quote, by the way, Sartre even refers to “towns” in general). The domestication of nature, the mechanical operation of society, as also the illusive idea that the world as a whole “obeys fixed, unchangeable laws” – these are all symptomatic of such milieu and of the “the idiots” that compose it.

There are three interrelated aspects in this Sartrean portrait of “the idiots” that are of special importance to us and which we shall have to deal with in some detail further below. The first concerns the manner in which the bourgeois citizens of a “good solid town” experience the question of time – for them, their today (or, in Proustian terms, time present) is merely reduced to yet another of their tomorrow, or they think of it as “simply … another day”. This issue is naturally of much interest as it may be directly contrasted to the manner in which Proust himself – as we shall see – understands time present and time future and how these relate to time past. The second aspect concerns the issue of law-making and law-makers (Sartre tells us that it is “the idiots” who “make laws”), and it is of interest to us as it may again be contrasted to what Proust has to say with respect to the laws that govern the behaviour of the Parisian aristocracy. The final aspect concerns the question of culture (Sartre writes of the production of “Populist novels”) – we shall have to consider how Proust himself would understand what is to him an issue of the highest importance, viz. that of culture both in its high and in its supposedly low (or popular) forms.

It may be said that Sartre’s portrait of the bourgeois “idiots” as presented in Nausea is yet again reproduced and further expanded on in his Saint Genet, and especially so in his “Self-Portrait of the Good Citizen” (cf. Appendices, p. 601-606).

With respect to Sartre’s view of the bourgeoisie, Thomas R. Flynn presents us with a typical Sartrean statement made in the 1950’s – the quote reads as follows: “there is crap in the bourgeois heart” (cf. Sartre – A Philosophical Biography, Cambridge University Press, 2014, pp. 300-301).

The elites

One may identify in many of Sartre’s writings a certain kind of distinction between, on the one hand, the good bourgeois citizens of the Western world (the so-called “flabby masses”) and, on the other, the bourgeois elites occupying the top of the social hierarchy. On a particular Saturday afternoon, Roquentin decides to yet again visit Mudtown’s museum. Observing the portraits hanging on its walls, he describes his reaction as follows: “… I felt the gaze of a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes upon me” (p. 122). Who were these people gazing at him rather menacingly from their portraits? He explains to us that “All who belonged to the Bouville élite between 1875 and 1910 were there, men and women, meticulously depicted by Renaudas and Bordurin” (ibid.). Roquentin’s visit to the museum shall allow Sartre to present us with a certain socio-historical analysis of this category of people.

Commenting at length on the various portraits exhibited in the museum, Sartre’s Roquentin identifies a series of attributes that are meant to define all bourgeois elites. We may focus on one such portrayed personage – a certain Olivier Blévigne – and consider what is said of him. Roquentin, we are told, had already looked him up in the Petit Dictionnaire des Grands Hommes de Bouville, and had copied out the relevant article on this purportedly important member of the town’s elite. The article, as presented in Nausea, reads as follows: “Blévigne, Olivier-Martial, … born and died at Bouville (1849-1908), studied law in Paris and obtained his degree in 1872. Deeply impressed by the Commune insurrection, which had forced him, like so many other Parisians, to take refuge at Versailles under the protection of the National Assembly, he swore, at an age when young men usually think of nothing but pleasure, ‘to devote his life to the re-establishment of Order’. He kept his word: immediately after his return to our town, he founded the famous Club de l’Ordre which, every evening for many years, brought together the principal businessmen and ship-owners of Bouville. This aristocratic circle, which was jokingly described as being more exclusive than the Jockey Club, exerted until 1908 a salutary influence on the destinies of our great commercial port. In 1880 Olivier Blévigne married Marie-Louise Pacôme, the youngest daughter of the merchant Charles Pacôme … and on the latter’s death founded the company of Pacôme-Blévigne and Son. Soon afterwards he turned to political life and presented himself as a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies … ‘The Country’, he said in a famous speech, ‘is suffering from the most serious of maladies: the governing class no longer wants to govern. But who is going to govern, gentlemen, if those whose heredity, education, and experience have rendered them the most fit for the exercise of power, turn from it out of resignation or weariness? As I have observed, to govern is not a right of the élite; it is the élite’s principal duty. Gentlemen, I beg you: let us restore the principle of authority!’ …” (pp. 133-134).

There are a number of important points made in this quote which may be said to describe certain attributes that define all of the bourgeois elites, and which constitute the mode of social and political power typical of a particular Western milieu – we may reiterate and briefly comment on these as follows:

• All members of the elite feel naturally threatened by insurrectionary movements – Blévigne, although supposedly “impressed” by the Communards, had to take refuge at Versailles for his own personal protection. What is of interest to us here is the manner of presentation of Versailles itself as a protective “refuge” from social disorder – in contrast, when we come to examine Proust’s own presentation of the place, we shall see that the Palace of Versailles and its gardens constitute a symbol of aristocratic culture, as also a tragic reminder of the gradual fading of such culture. The causes and implications of such cultural demise shall be considered further below.
• The bourgeois elites are above all functionaries of social order and its maintenance – but more than that, theirs is an exclusivist order. Their exclusivism, however, is such as to bring together – as did the Club de l’Ordre – different elements of the capitalist class (“the principal businessmen and ship-owners”), and which would constitute the “aristocratic circle” of society. As we shall see below in considering the writings of Proust, it would be the interpenetration between the commercial classes and the old (or authentic) aristocracy that would lead to the demise of the culture that had once been established by the latter. There is therefore a sense in which, for Proust, the bourgeoisie represented a certain type of (cultural) disorder. We shall further discover that the Sartrean worldview would in any case see an explicit continuity in all forms of oppressive power throughout the history of the Western world, starting from the Roman aristocracy through to that of the Parisian, and up to and including Sartre’s contemporary Western bourgeois milieu. It is for this reason that he may so easily speak of the Mudtown business world as an “aristocratic circle”.
• The Sartrean worldview emphasizes what is definitely the key to the understanding of the role of all elites, and especially that of the bourgeois elite as represented by Blévigne – viz. the implementation of a necessary “principle of authority”, and as such authority is based on “heredity, education, and experience”. It is a combination of these particular qualities that renders them the only category of people “fit” to exercise power over the rest. So much so, in fact, that governance on the part of the bourgeoisie is not merely a right but a “principal duty”. Again, in examining the Proustian worldview, we shall discover that what is of primary importance for Proust is not the question of political power per se, but the functioning of a rather different sphere in a milieu’s mode of being – viz. the importance of maintaining, developing and further enriching French culture itself, and which he sees as a component part of the overall Western tradition.

The Petit Dictionnaire article on Blévigne as presented in Nausea goes further, adding yet another vital dimension to the exercise of power in the Western bourgeois milieu – it tells us that such milieu maintains social order, not merely through the exercise of political power, but – and in the last instance – through the exercise of military force. The article continues as follows: “He [Blévigne] was in Paris in 1898 when the terrible strike broke out. He returned immediately to Bouville, where he became the moving spirit of the resistance. He took the initiative of negotiating with the strikers. These negotiations, inspired by a generous conciliatory spirit, were interrupted by the riot at Jouxtebouville. As is well known, calm was restored by the discreet intervention of the military” (p. 134). Of course, Sartre is therefore further suggesting that the bourgeois elites have both the right and the “principal duty” – if need be – to make use of the military so as to maintain order in society. The vital importance of the military in bourgeois society would be generally evident throughout the museum’s Bordurin-Renaudas Room as it would house portraits of important personages in military uniform – these, Roquentin informs us, “represented the French Army” (p. 137).

One could say that the bourgeois elites glory in their power – but it is not only the exercising of power as such that interests them (that is in any case a necessary duty, and which can at times even be shunned). What is of as great an interest for them is to secure what Sartre calls “pure privilege”. With reference to yet another portrayed personage in the museum – this time someone by the name of Jean Parrottin – Sartre’s Roquentin has to say the following: “This man possessed the simplicity of an idea. Nothing was left in him but bones, dead flesh, and Pure Privilege. A real case of possession, I thought. Once Privilege has taken hold of a man, there is no exorcistic spell which can drive it out; Jean Parrottin had devoted the whole of his life to thinking of his Privileges: nothing else” (p. 129-130).

It is power and privilege that above all define the bourgeois elites – and it is through such power and privilege that they have come to establish the Western bourgeois milieu. This milieu, however, enslaves whatever comes into contact with it – this includes the whole of nature itself. Roquentin presents this total bourgeois conquest over all and sundry in the West as follows: “They [the “great figures” of Mudtown] had been painted with minute care; and yet, under the brush, their features had been stripped of the mysterious weakness of men’s faces. Their faces, even the feeblest, were as clear-cut as porcelain: I looked at them in vain for some link with trees and animals, with the thoughts of earth or water. The need for this had obviously not been felt during their lifetime. But, on the point of passing on to posterity, they had entrusted themselves to a celebrated painter so that he should discreetly carry out on their faces the dredging, drilling, and irrigation by which, all around Bouville, they had transformed the sea and the fields. Thus, with the help of Renaudas and Bordurin, they had enslaved the whole of Nature: outside themselves and in themselves. What these dark canvases offered to my gaze was man re-thought by man …” (p.131).

Based on what has been presented above, it is obvious that the Sartrean existentialist project, going even as far back as the 1930’s, was an overtly political project. This openly political existentialism was intended, amongst other things, to constitute an ideological attack, not only on a particular milieu in toto, but also on whoever espoused right-wing politics and wished to conserve the traditions and values of the Western bourgeois milieu. Wood’s introduction to Nausea attempts to explain the novel’s objectives as follows: “… Sartre intends us to register that the town’s notables are not only myopics of bad faith, but representatives of France’s right wing … Blévigne’s biography fairly screams ‘conservative’; again, we may feel that Sartre’s hammer is a little heavy here. But perhaps something subtler is intended. For though his novel seems to be set in the 1920’s, Sartre may mean us to ponder the conservative ideology that had been burgeoning throughout the 1930’s, and that would bloom, in some quarters, into Nazism and collaborationism a few years after the publication of Nausea” (pp. xiv-xv).

Wood’s explanation is both accurate and quite inaccurate. He is quite right to wish to explain the anti-conservative politics of Nausea in terms of the historical context in which the novel had been written. On the other hand, we all know that Sartre’s far-left radicalism would be sustained and developed right through to the end of his life, and thus well beyond the context in which Nausea had been authored. While we intend to analyze his political positions further below, we may here simply emphasize three basic points on the Sartrean worldview pertaining to the so-called bourgeois “notables” and to the Western bourgeois milieu as a whole:

• Sartre’s utter contempt for the bourgeois elites is perhaps best encapsulated in what Roquentin has to say as he departs from the Mudtown museum – this is what he says: “I had walked the whole length of the Bordurin-Renaudas Room. I turned round. Farewell, you beautiful lilies, elegant in your little painted sanctuaries, farewell, you beautiful lilies, our pride and raison d’être, farewell, you Bastards” (p. 138).
• All things bourgeois – whatever it be that reflects that particular Western milieu – are to be absolutely rejected and systematically renounced. His 1963 Les Mots, for instance, would be a work renouncing literature itself as a bourgeois substitute for real commitment, action and far-left radical ontological choice. This autobiographical book may therefore also be seen as a direct critique of the Proustian project as a whole, it being a supposedly bourgeois-type literary enterprise that runs counter to engaged literature (littérature engagée).
• We shall attempt to show below that the Sartrean rejection of the Western bourgeois milieu would itself constitute a sub-milieu within a milieu – in fact, one may even argue that such oppositional sub-milieu would come to constitute the prevailing ideological paradigm expressing large masses of people in France (as also elsewhere in the Western world), and would be especially popular amongst those involved in the production of ideas (intellectuals, students, and a variety of other activists). Sartre would be just one amongst many others espousing such an oppositional ideology – on the other hand, his particular philosophical brand may be said to be highly reflective of the events of May 1968. Despite the apparent popularity of such an anti-capitalist ideological paradigm, however, we know that de Gaulle’s conservative party would win the greatest victory in French parliamentary history in the legislative elections held a month after those events. Indicative of a deep ideological crisis within French society, this rupture would continue to plague most of the Western world right through to the 21st century, and would do so in a variety of ways (some of which have been discussed in Paper 1 of this project).

Manufacturing illusions

For Sartre, the bourgeois milieu is to be rejected because it is essentially a mode of being wherein both the bourgeois masses and its bourgeois elites live their lives through what we may call manufactured illusions (this concept has also been discussed in some depth in Paper 1). Sartre argues that both masses and elites hide the reality of their existence from themselves. As we shall see, the question of living life in some set of manufactured illusions is one that is of central importance to what shall be discussed below – we shall attempt to show how the Sartrean worldview regarding illusions may be directly contrasted to that of the Proustian worldview. The latter, we shall argue, saw the manufacturing of certain types of illusions amongst the Parisian aristocracy – these being primarily related to questions of morality – as a practice altogether functional to its own cultural milieu. Before we deal with the Proustian approach – and which is not merely limited to questions of ethical behaviour and/or morality – we shall need to briefly consider what Sartre would have to say on the matter.

In Nausea, Roquentin asserts the following: “Everything is gratuitous, that park, this town, and myself. When you realize that, it turns your stomach over and everything starts floating about … that is the Nausea; that is what the Bastards – those who live on the Coteau Vert and the others – try to hide from themselves with their idea of rights. But what a poor lie: nobody has any rights; they are entirely gratuitous, like other men, they cannot succeed in not feeling superfluous. And in themselves, secretly, they are superfluous, that is to say amorphous and vague, sad” (p. 188). Both the bourgeois masses and the bourgeois elites – such as those families of businessmen and ship-owners living on the Coteau Vert – live their own lie. This shared lie is the illusion that has been manufactured around the bourgeois ideology of the Rights of Man, or the Rights of Citizenship. For Sartre, this is all “a poor lie” that cannot make up for, or successfully conceal, the superfluity of everyone living in this mode of being – he is thereby suggesting that the illusion is itself dysfunctional. As already alluded to, we shall see that in Proust the aristocrats’ practice of trying to hide a certain type of ethical behaviour from themselves – and which naturally presupposes a lie – is in any case socially functional in itself (their own illusion, of course, has little to do with the Rights of Man).

Wood explains that, for Sartre, the bourgeois “Bastards” do not merely conceal their amorphous superfluity from themselves – they are also of the illusion that they are the preservers of all the everlasting accomplishments of the past. One the one hand, Wood writes, Sartre feels revulsion for the bourgeois elites since “they have concealed from themselves the awful dilemma of their existences”. On the other hand, and perhaps more importantly for our purposes, “These pompous civilians imagine that their lives have meaning, and they believe that these paintings [those in the Mudtown museum] solemnize and preserve their imperishable achievements” (p. xiii). This Sartrean understanding of the bourgeois elites and their illusory relationship with things past is of course of major interest to us – it may be argued that it clashes point-blank with the Proustian approach regarding the relationship between time present and time past. While Sartre sees the matter of preservation as a deleterious illusion, the Proustian worldview would place a special value in the preservation of at least certain things past, be it in one’s memory or, as importantly, in terms of their actual material conservation (as opposed to their wanton “assassination”, this being a term which, as we shall see, Proust himself chooses to use with respect to cathedrals). One should in any case add here that there is an element in Sartre’s position which partially dovetails with that of Proust’s: while Sartre utterly rejects whatever preservation of past achievements by the bourgeoisie (or whoever, for that matter), Proust is himself critical of the ability on the part of the commercial or financial classes to undertake such preservation. We shall have to examine the question of preservation (or conservation) in much greater detail below – and shall have to do so as it underlines the radically different types of milieus embedded in the Sartrean and Proustian worldviews.

The question of the manufacturing of illusions in the bourgeois world may be considered from a slightly different perspective. The bourgeois masses and the bourgeois elites see themselves in the various ways that they do given the manner in which they evaluate their being in the world, which is itself a mechanism of manufacturing self-illusions – what matters to them is, not what they truly are, but rather what they appear to be in the eyes of the rest of bourgeois society itself (and they thereby wish to differentiate themselves from all social outcasts). The bourgeois milieu is one in which its beings can only evaluate themselves through social mirrors (we shall see that it is only outcasts and outsiders that do not make use of mirrors in such manner, at least not in the sense of wishing to submissively equate themselves with bourgeois values). Sartre’s Roquentin muses to himself as follows: “People who live in society have learnt how to see themselves, in mirrors, as they appear to their friends” (p. 32).

The phrase “as they appear to their friends” is of vital importance to Sartre. We shall be arguing, however, that it is as vital for the Proustian worldview, though in a rather different sense. We shall see that, for Proust, the manner in which one appears to one’s aristocratic friends – and the manner in which such friends then allow (or enable) one to appear to the rest of the world – is precisely the medium whereby a certain functional ethical order and its codes of conduct are established. We shall further see that there are certain preconditions for this mechanism to operate, as there are also specific problems peculiar to the functioning of this mechanism. For Proust, in any case, this could only apply to people that belong to the circles that have come to compose the aristocratic milieu.

All this is of course an anathema to Sartre. Whoever chooses to understand his condition and evaluate his own person through social mirrors – be it the mirrors of the aristocracy or those of the bourgeoisie – simply hides from the reality of his own existence and in any case does so through “a poor lie”. But there are those others that do not belong to the “People who live in society”. Those who are outside of society cannot as easily understand their own person, given that they are lonely outcasts without access to any social mirrors. Roquentin asks himself, “Do other men [such as himself] experience as much difficulty in appraising their face?” (ibid.).

And yet, and unlike the bourgeois masses, these lonely outcasts have salvaged their own authentic nature – in fact, they are nature itself, not the enslaved type of nature as “re-thought by man”. They are, in other words, nature without the alienating transformations of bourgeois civilization. Roquentin muses as follows: “Perhaps it is impossible to understand one’s own face. Or perhaps it is because I am a solitary? … I have no friends: is that why my flesh is so naked? You might say – yes, you might say nature without mankind” (ibid.). For Sartre’s Roquentin, mankind is akin to Western bourgeois civilization, and as that civilization operates in places such as Mudtown. As a solitary, outcast intellectual, Roquentin would like to see himself as belonging to that category of outcast people who are both outside social mirrors and outside the bourgeois mode of being in its entirety.

Sartre seems to be absolutely repulsed by – and ideologically dismissive of – whatever mechanisms of illusion and whatever social lies that happen to operate through the appearances of social mirrors. All such mechanisms and all such manufactured lies yield what he sees as the inauthentic individual. The Sartrean worldview cannot tolerate whatever compromise on this matter, and would therefore not tolerate either Proust or Camus. We know that the latter has suggested (in his The Myth of Sisyphus) that people may attempt to outwit the absurd by living various roles in their life – these could include roles such as that of writer, conqueror, seducer, actor, and so on (cf. Wood, p. xix, though he uses this Camusean notion for purposes contrary to our own). The point here is that the practice of outwitting the human condition suggests that one may use various techniques of cunning or ingenuity to deceive the absurdities of such condition. Such deception, we are suggesting, is absolutely foreign to the Sartrean position – we shall see that Proust, adopting a much more realistic stance with respect to the realities of life, shall accept certain mechanisms of deception so as to salvage his experience of a particular milieu. Sartre leaves no such space for his own understanding of Western bourgeois life – all one should feel is guilt.

Guilt-ridden shame

There is no salvation whatsoever for the Western bourgeois world and all those – its proper citizens – that subscribe to its norms. All they should feel about their mode of being and their very own selves is a guilt-ridden shame. Wood tells us that Sartre’s Roquentin promises himself to ultimately write a novel that would be “beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence …” (p. vii; and cf. Nausea, p. 252).

The stigma of a Western bourgeois guilt-ridden shame should not be seen as a motif exclusively limited to the Sartrean worldview. We have already noted that the Sartrean rejection of the Western bourgeois milieu would itself constitute a major oppositional sub-milieu within a particular Western milieu. This radical politico-cultural movement of the 1960’s – but which would be endowed with ideological roots extending to both its past and its future – would itself adopt the idea that the Western bourgeois masses should bear the stigma of a guilt-ridden shame. However, since this politico-cultural movement would emerge primarily from within these Western bourgeois masses (or otherwise sections of the educated middle classes), this guilt-ridden shame would be a self-imposed stigma. And thus, and to the extent that Sartrean thought would itself be one of the major exponents of this stance, one may conclude that Sartre would come to constitute the conscience of bourgeois France (it would be so, of course, in the eyes of that oppositional sub-milieu). The matter may be put slightly otherwise: a) Sartre despised France’s bourgeois masses (though not really only those of France); b) Sartre was the conscience of France’s bourgeois masses; c) therefore the bourgeois masses must have – or at least ought to have – despised themselves. And so it is in this very particular context that Thomas R. Flynn, in his philosophical biography of Sartre already mentioned above, writes as follows: “At his [Sartre’s] death, one Parisian publication lamented: France has lost its conscience” (p. 19).

Authenticity versus inauthenticity

For Sartre, the collective stigma of a guilt-ridden shame can only but be the inescapable outcome of a milieu peopled by inauthentic individuals. When Flynn observes that Sartre had been lamented as the conscience of a people following his death in 1980, he is really telling us that this thinker had been the conscience of an inauthentic people, at least in terms of the Sartrean worldview. In his Nausea, Flynn tells us, “[Sartre] is diagnosing a (moral) malady which he will subsequently name ‘inauthenticity’ …” (p. 145). Even Roquentin’s own character is ultimately deformed by the reality within which he finds himself – and it is this nihilistic deformation of character that embodies his relative inauthenticity as an individual.

Sartre’s notion of inauthenticity goes well beyond the Marxian concept of alienation – in contrast to the latter, which would (or in any case had to) allow for the emergence of various levels of proletarian class consciousness despite the reality of alienation, the Sartrean understanding of inauthenticity asserts that each and every individual within the bourgeois milieu constitutes a total representation of that milieu, and is therefore as inauthentic as is that milieu. It is such universal inauthenticity that allows Sartre to refer to all the citizens of Mudtown as its bourgeois masses (as already mentioned, and as shall be discussed further below in some greater detail, it is only the outcasts who may escape the total inauthenticity of the bourgeois milieu).

It would be precisely because the Sartrean understanding of inauthenticity would be so radically dismissive of all and sundry within Western capitalist society that even fervently Sartrean Marxists such as Frederic Jameson would have no choice but voice their objections with respect to this particular question. In our discussion of Jameson’s position below, we shall see that this Marxist political theorist would be critical of what he calls Sartre’s “fallacy of an ‘expressive’ totality”, whereby each particular individual is a total expression (or total representation) of the milieu to which he belongs (cf. Frederic Jameson, “Sartre’s Actuality”, New Left Review, 88, July-August 2014). The specifically political implications of such Sartrean radicalism – and which may certainly be said to be of the ultra-left variety – shall be investigated as a conclusion to this paper.

Sartre does discuss the possibility of authenticity in an inauthentic world – in terms of the Sartrean worldview, such authenticity would be evident in the criminal life of someone such as Jean Genet. And it is for this reason that this type of individual is presented as Saint Genet in Sartre’s biographical study of this French criminal-cum-social outcast turned writer. Flynn explains that, throughout this study, Genet is presented as “the model of as ‘authentic’ an individual as he [Sartre] ever depicted” (p. 275). Elsewhere in his book, Flynn reiterates: “Genet seems to be the most ‘authentic’ individual on Sartre’s biographical rooster” (p. 404). Jean Genet is the Sartrean model of authenticity because he is the type of individual that conscientiously practices the anti-social ritual of burglary within the bourgeois milieu. The act of burglary is an authentic mode of being since it is the art of stealing from the bourgeois masses. By stealing their property, Genet negates all property rights – and he thereby negates the whole of the supposedly moral system that upholds such rights. We shall have to come back to this issue and consider its profound political implications – it shall also allow us to compare this particularly anti-Western mode of being with the aristocratic ideal as embedded within the Proustian worldview.

Proust: the anthropologist of a tribe

By way of an introduction to the Proustian worldview, one may begin by noting that Proust describes and comments on the world of the Parisian upper classes – and especially that of the aristocracy – in a variety of early texts. These include The Complete Short Stories, as these have been compiled by Joachim Neugroschel. Therein, Proust’s Pleasures and Days – as also his noteworthy Dedication to his dead friend Willy Heath, written in July 1894 – is highly representative of his views regarding the aristocratic mode of being. There are other texts in Neugroschel’s compilation that are certainly as useful in understanding the different dimensions of the Proustian worldview.

As is obvious to anyone even slightly familiar with the work of Proust, this is not to suggest that the Proustian worldview on the aristocratic mode of life is limited to Proust’s early writings. Allen Thiher’s excellent research work attempting to present us with a truly holistic understanding of the Proustian literary enterprise informs us that “The world of the Parisian upper classes is the setting of his novel [In Search of Lost Time]” (cf. Understanding Marcel Proust, University of South Carolina Press, 2013, pagination unavailable for this book).

We well know of the Proustian socio-cultural environment and how deeply saturated Proust himself was in such an environment. In his Saint Genet, Sartre writes as follows: “… a rich Jewish intellectual, [Proust] was a city man … his environment was that of ‘fashionable’ society, that is, of the sophisticated upper bourgeoisie and of the declining aristocracy …” (p. 229).

The fashionable society which Proust frequented was not merely a preference based on personal whim or taste – for him, it constituted a field of research on the mores and manners of a discrete tribe, that of the Parisian aristocracy. This is how Thiher puts it: “The young Proust preferred to find the universe in those social relations he cultivated with the enthusiasm of both a socialite and, increasingly, an anthropologist studying a tribe that quickly adopted him as one of its own”.

The spirit of an era

How may we describe the historical context in which Proust wrote? Thiher informs us that this was “the social world of the triumphant nineteenth-century bourgeoisie, in which aristocratic values were making their final stand against the combined onslaught of Enlightenment values and the power of money”. We need not consider here how the Parisian aristocracy would view whatever Enlightenment values – we may, however, keep in mind how someone like Camus would himself evaluate such types of values. In his The Rebel (The Times of India Press, Bombay, 1960), he refers to these values as “the religion of virtue” and/or as “the religion of reason”. The Enlightenment, he tells us, constitutes “the Feast of Reason” whereby “Eternal principles govern our conduct: Truth, Justice, finally, Reason”. And thus, he continues, “we have the new God”. These are the principles of the Enlightenment as embodied in someone like Saint-Just. With respect to Saint-Just’s thinking and its socio-political implications, Camus writes as follows: “The religion of reason quite naturally establishes the Republic of law and order … ‘Outside the law’, says Saint-Just, ‘everything is sterile and dead’ …” The end result of such thinking is summed up as follows: “Every form of moral corruption is at the same time political corruption, and vice versa. A principle of infinite repression, derived from this doctrine, is then established” (pp. 93-95).

Now, while it is obvious that the harsh political realities of 18th century France can in no way be equated to those of the following century, the fact remains that the general ideological paradigms of the Enlightenment and its specific values would come to prevail and reinforce themselves in Proust’s own time, as would the inherent materialism of the bourgeoisie. Proust would thus be writing in the context of just such onslaught against the values of the declining Parisian aristocracy, and which would itself be engaging in its final ideological and cultural resistance to what would be so inexorably unfolding.

The Proustian project was to above all capture and salvage that (declining) spirit of the aristocratic era. He would, as Adam Gopnik explains, consciously choose to belong to the Parisian world of aristocratic high society and fashion, and he would as consciously attempt to present us with the beauty of the place and time in which such spirit would manifest itself. Gopnik writes as follows: “… Proust was part of the beau monde of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and … his enthusiasm for the high life – call it snobbery, as Gide did – was unmistakable … Proust had conventional Parisian haute-bourgeois tastes of the time … Along with everything else he did that was more academically respectable, he offered a picture of a particularly beautiful place and period in the world’s history” (cf. “What we find when we get lost in Proust”, The New Yorker, 03.05.2021).

Thiher has written that Proust was an anthropologist studying a particular social tribe – Gopnik would fully agree with such an observation. Proust, however, would be studying a tribe – and its particular social world – in a manner that revealed a personal admiration for that type of historical milieu (and despite that milieu’s paradoxes, internal contradictions, and shortcomings). Gopnik’s article clearly confirms this as follows: “Proust has been called a novelist of manners, meaning a student of mores, of social rituals, but he is also a novelist of manners in another sense, a writer to whom courtesy is of exceptionally, almost supremely, high value. He admired the French aristocrats’ gift for making awkward moments easier – he even inserts into the book [viz. in Swann’s Way, the first volume of In Search of Lost Time] abstract details of good manners …” (ibid.).

Many texts included in The Complete Short Stories attempt to capture what Proust calls “the spirit of our time” by referring to the apparent richness and grace of the aristocratic salon. In an important piece entitled “The Fan” (pp. 51-54), Proust writes as follows: “Madame, I have painted this fan for you … May it, as you wish in your retirement, evoke the vain and enchanting figures that peopled your salon, which was so rich with graceful life, and is now closed forever” (pp. 51-52).

The richness of the aristocratic milieu lay in its ability to absorb and transfigure into its own conspicuous aesthetics the best of all past milieus as these had existed in different parts of the world. Describing what has been painted on the fan, Proust continues: “The chandeliers … illuminate objects d’art of all eras and all countries. I was thinking about the spirit of our time as my brush led the curious gazes of those chandeliers across the diversity of your knick-knacks” (p. 52.).

The fact that the aristocratic spirit of a particular historical period had been able to absorb different milieus originating from different countries suggests that such spirit was prone to a certain inclusive diversity. Of course, the term diversity would come to acquire a very specific ideological status – and as specific a political orientation – by the 21st century. And as we also know, such status and orientation would be closely entangled with the ideological concept of inclusion. But this is not to suggest that the inclusive diversity of the aristocratic spirit is in any way related to the ideological paradigms of the present century. The cultural diversity of the aristocratic milieu was of a very peculiar type, and it may be differentiated from the postmodern sense of diversity in at least three ways: a) it would be highly selective as to which non-Western objects d’art it would accept within its own Western milieu; b) it would transform whatever it selected in terms of its own aristocratic tastes; and, most importantly, c) it would not share whatever cultural artifacts stemming from its inclusive diversity with the rest of society – the aristocratic milieu was of course a world closed unto itself. Such delimiting peculiarities of the aristocratic milieu, however, would not at all hamper the degree to which it could creatively entertain – for its own special needs – diverse samples of philosophical/ideological paradigms and diverse samples of modes of being. Proust continues: “… the spirit of our time has contemplated samples of thought or life from all centuries all over the world. It has inordinately widened the circle of its excursions” (ibid.).

It was precisely that strict selectivity of the aristocratic milieu that would enable it to create “a particularly beautiful place and period” in the course of world history, as Gopnik has observed (op. cit.). And it would be within that very selective context that that milieu would be able to entertain – or contemplate – such diversity of samples pertaining to both thought and life. And yet, the practice of aristocratic selectivity is not enough to explain that ability to create whatever beautiful in time and space. What one would also require – and which the aristocracy had definitely acquired – was the luxury of free time. Free time gave its members the leisure and, above all, the pleasure to selectively create the beautiful. When Proust tells us that the aristocratic spirit had widened “the circle of our excursions”, he continues by explaining how this had happened – he writes: “Out of pleasure, out of boredom, it has varied them as we vary our strolls …” (ibid.).

The question of pleasure vis-à-vis work is addressed by Thiher’s study, and especially with reference to Proust’s Pleasures and Days – this text, he tells us, intimates the value of pleasure in aristocratic circles and the role it would play in creating a “luxurious culture”. Thiher writes as follows: “There is something Voltairean, or indeed Ovidian, in the title’s playful suggestion that pleasures have replaced the work of those earlier, unfortunate times that did not enjoy the beneficent, luxurious culture of contemporary France, a culture in which pleasure is held in the highest esteem, and the title says much about Proust’s attitude toward society at the time”. And thus, we may add, Proust’s Honoré in Pleasures and Days, the young socialite who has just had dinner in high society, takes the following decision: “… he would never again do anything but dine and drink so well in order to see … beautiful things” (p. 106).

Given the historical context within which Proust was writing, however, this “beneficent, luxurious culture” of idleness, pleasure and aesthetic beauty would find itself making its last stand against a surfacing new mode of life that was intrinsically hostile to its own aristocratic values – as it was gradually dying out, the aristocracy could only protect itself by looking askance at the emergence of cultural practices alien to its own milieu. More accurately, it would prefer not to even look at the apparent ugliness that was rearing its head around it. This is how Proust puts it in The Complete Short Stories: “… and now, deterred from finding not even the destination but just the right path, feeling its strength dwindling and its courage deserting it, the spirit of our time has lain down with its face on the earth to avoid seeing anything, like a brutish beast” (p. 52).

Proust’s presentation of the decline of the aristocratic milieu is also very much evident in the manner in which he discusses the Palace of Versailles and its gardens, and which may be taken to be a major symbol of Parisian aristocratic culture. On the one hand, Proust speaks of the old, intoxicating grandeur of the place – on the other hand, he feels that it is as symbolic of the melancholy of his own time present. He writes as follows in Pleasures and Days: “After so many others (especially Mssrs. Maurice Barrès, Henri de Régnier, and Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac), I would hesitate to utter your name, Versailles, your grand name, sweet and rusty, the royal cemetery of foliage, of vast marbles and waters, a truly aristocratic and demoralizing place, where we are not even troubled by remorse that the lives of so many workers merely served to refine and expand not so much the joys of another age as the melancholy of our own. After so many others I would hesitate to utter your name, and yet how often have I drunk from the reddened cup of your pink marble basins, drunk to the dregs, savoring the delirium, the intoxicating bittersweetness of these waning autumn days …” (p. 110).

Proust’s thoughts on Versailles are portentous as they are also crystal clear: the joys of life belong to another era; time present is oppressively melancholic as it compares itself to what has been lost. But it would perhaps be useful to reiterate Proust’s thinking with the help of Thiher, who explains that while Versailles was once a quest for lavish beauty, it now simply triggers sadness. This is Thiher’s commentary: “… the prose poem ‘Versailles’ points out that the extravagant quest for beauty undertaken in the construction of the gigantic palace ended up creating a ‘royal graveyard’. It has hence served less to create joy for an earlier historical period than to produce a sense of sadness in us now. Even the garden’s ponds are redolent of sadness, for they resemble ‘urns offered up to the trees’ melancholy’ … Versailles is an enormous stone monument to depression”.

In the eyes of Proust, the decline of the aristocratic milieu and its principled values would also be evident in a variety of other ways found in people’s mode of living. To illustrate some of these ways, he presents us with examples of the manner in which many women of his day would think or behave, and he contrasts such contemporary manners to those of the past. With specific reference to females, he makes the following observations (at least some of these points, however, could perhaps also be extended to many males):

• While in the past one could entertain any series of paradoxes, these paradoxes have now lost their enigmatic quality and are reduced to mere prejudices – and in any case what is mere prejudice now was once a symptom of freshness and experimental innovation. Proust writes as follows: “Today’s paradoxes are tomorrow’s prejudices, for today’s grossest and most disagreeable prejudices had their moment of novelty, when fashion lent them its fragile grace” (The Complete Short Stories, p. 114).
• Now that there is an absence of a fashion that could grace prejudices with a certain novelty, women have turned to the abandonment of all prejudices – but what they have really given up is, in fact, principles. That too, however, comes down to being a form of prejudice. While wishing to retain his polite affirmation of the delicacy of femininity as such, Proust sees this new type of female prejudice as “heavy” – he writes: “Many women today wish to rid themselves of all prejudices, and by prejudices they mean principles. That is their prejudice, and it is heavy even though it adorns them like a delicate and slightly exotic flower” (ibid.).
• This emergence of a new prejudice amongst many women, it being in fact an absence of principles, has led them to being indifferent towards what Proust calls “perspective depth”, and therefore, and as we shall further see, has also led them to an absence of female depth. This is of course a Proustian observation that may usefully be compared and contrasted to Nietzsche’s own (apparently ambiguous) observations regarding the depth and/or shallowness of women, as expressed in works such as his Twilight of the Idols. But for Proust in particular, such absence of depth amongst females would mean that they can no longer classify and thereby judge things around them – and thus they can no longer be selective in their tastes. The underlying implication is that many women have now come to lose that type of selectivity that had once been intrinsic to aristocratic aesthetics – that prevailing selectivity, in other words, that had once given birth to what Gopnik has described as “a particularly beautiful place and period” characteristic of the aristocratic milieu. Without here directly referring to the selective demands of the aristocratic milieu, Proust nonetheless points to the decline of such milieu by writing of his contemporary females as follows: “They believe there is no such thing as perspective depth, so they put everything in the same plane. They enjoy a book or life itself like a beautiful day or like an orange. They talk about the ‘art’ of a dressmaker and the ‘philosophy’ of ‘Parisian life’. They would blush to classify anything, to judge anything, to say: This is good, this is bad” (pp. 114-115).
• This abandonment of principles amongst many women, and which has meant an enfeeblement of their selective judgment, has given birth to a particular type of female immorality. Ultimately, this has caused them to be characterized by a certain superficiality or some degree of shallowness. Proust even goes so far as to refer to many Parisian women of his time as “belated parrots” of contemporary intellectual fashions (and which again calls for some comparison with Nietzsche’s observations regarding females). The implications here are double-edged: on the one hand, and quite ineluctably, the grace of femininity has now declined and become withered; on the other hand, one may say that feminine grace is yet still appealing, suggesting that whatever remaining grace is a remnant of the past – viz. of a past when women would use their minds to indulge in selective judgment. Most importantly, such remnants of feminine grace help to remind us of a past that has been – or is being – lost, and which was a past defined by an exceptionally “refined” mode of being.
• Of course, the assumed accuracy of such an interpretation regarding Proust’s observations on Parisian women and time past (at least as presented in The Complete Short Stories) need not be taken for granted. All we can do here is simply quote Proust’s own words – we read: “In the past, when a woman behaved properly, it was the revenge of her morals, that is, her mind, over her instinctive nature. Nowadays, when a woman behaves properly, it is the revenge of her instinctive nature over her morals – that is, her theoretical immorality … In an extreme loosening of all moral and social bonds, women drift to and fro between that theoretical immorality and their instinctive righteousness. All they seek is pleasure, and they find it only when they do not seek it, when they are in a state of voluntary inaction. In books this skepticism and dilettantism would shock us like an old-fashioned adornment. But women, far from being the oracles of intellectual fashions, are actually their belated parrots … dilettantism still pleases them and suits them. While it may cloud their judgment and hamstring their conduct, one cannot deny that it lends them an already withered but still appealing grace. They make us rapturously feel whatever ease and sweetness existence may have in highly refined civilizations” (p. 115).

It was the spirit of the Parisian aristocratic era that had once expressed that type of a “highly refined” Western mode of life. We have seen how Proust would present this milieu as an exceptionally refined civilizational state marked by a “quest for beauty” through a selectively inclusive diversity. We have also seen how such quest would yield a “luxurious culture” that had been “so rich with graceful life”, and so on. We have further discovered, finally, that that type of milieu had been founded on very particular principles – this now raises a major question: what was the moral system that defined such milieu? We shall have to begin by examining how the aristocratic mode of being viewed the question of equality.

The spirit of an era, and its understanding of equality

A 19th century novelist such as Charles Dickens – who we know would often describe the tragic consequences of social inequality in Victorian England – could nonetheless be said to have maintained a rather complex stance when it came to the moral system that defined the aristocratic milieu in general. He could, on the one hand, ridicule “the Aristocracy – and Blood” nexus, as he did in his David Copperfield (Penguin Popular Classics, 1994, pp. 310-311). On the other hand, he could also show a certain sympathy for the French aristocracy as against the animalistic, bloodthirsty mobs obsessed with mindlessly murdering aristocrats during the French Revolution (as he did in his A Tale of Two Cities – a position, by the way, that would also be upheld by someone like Camus in his The Rebel). Now, the Proustian worldview with respect to the moral principles of the Parisian aristocracy is as complex as that of Dickens, although in an altogether dissimilar sort of way, and the details of which will be explored further below. But embedded in the writing of Proust is a clear picture of what he calls the aristocratic “politesse”, it being a moral system explainable in itself and with important implications regarding the question of equality.

Few would doubt that the meaning of equality – both as a philosophical concept and as a material manifestation in the real world – has varied radically depending on the particular milieu and/or conjuncture that has prevailed in the Western world. Each Western milieu – as also each conjuncture and sub-conjuncture that would periodize internally each of those milieus – has produced definitions of equality that would only express its own particular needs and possibilities. And, to add to the elusive relativity of the concept, all ideologically dominant definitions of equality corresponding to a milieu and/or conjuncture would be almost perpetually contested by different social agents operating within a milieu and its conjunctures. It is such Western historical reality – characterized by what Gombrich has referred to as a restless, self-questioning nature “groping for new solutions and new ideas” (op. cit.) – that we have to keep in mind when we suggest that the moral system of the aristocratic milieu, and its peculiar understanding of equality, should be seen as a system both explainable and understandable in its own terms.

What Proust would see as a “highly refined” mode of being – viz. the Parisian aristocratic world – had created its own as “highly refined” understanding of equality. Being a closed system, it would also be a highly selective system – and it would therefore determine, for itself, its own criteria as to who it would include within its closed ranks as an equal. Those categories of persons that would be included would be bestowed with the system’s “equal sympathies”. One may thus generally state that the Parisian aristocratic milieu had a mechanism of selection defining equality as an expression of such “equal sympathies” – such sympathies, however, and as we shall see, were not at all arbitrary.

In Proust’s “The Fan”, one has a fairly clear picture of what categories of individuals would be included within aristocratic salons, and how such inclusion would be expressive of an understanding of equality logical unto itself. Proust writes as follows to the retired Madame of the Parisian salon mentioned above: “Despite the small format of this picture [painted on the fan], you may recognize the foreground figures, all of whom the impartial artist has highlighted identically, just like your equal sympathies: great lords, beautiful women, and talented men” (p. 52).

This aristocratic understanding of equality – the mechanism of distributing “equal sympathies” to particular categories of individuals – would mean a fusion of fairly disparate human qualities within a cohesive and discrete social circle, and it would be a fusion that could be seen by outsiders as a somewhat audacious enterprise. At least in the eyes of all outsiders, furthermore, this fusion would also be seen as unjust. And it would in fact be unjust merely in terms of what may be referred to as common reason. Proust writes that this synthesis of great lords, beautiful women and talented men would be “A bold reconciliation in the eyes of the world” – more importantly, it would also be “inadequate and unjust according to reason” (ibid.).

But, then, what was the internal logic behind such patently unjust mechanism distributing “equal sympathies” to a few select categories of individuals? Despite being unjust for “the many too many” – as Nietzsche would put it – it would nonetheless establish a type of world far superior to the world of those outside it. Addressing the Madame of the salon, Proust acknowledges – as he does – the inconveniences of the aristocratic mode of being as regards outsiders, but points to its superiority as follows: “yet it turned your [aristocratic] society into a small universe that was less divided and more harmonious than that other world, a small world that was full of life and that we will never see again” (ibid.).

The alleged superiority of this aristocratic mode of being may be explained in two interrelated ways:

• Firstly, it had been able to reconcile a particular social standing, that of the aristocratic lords (with their leisure, proneness to pleasure and the free time devoted to the quest for that “beneficent, luxurious culture”), with two basic natural traits, that of natural beauty and that of natural talent. The privileged social element would thus intermix and share its qualities with those possessive of certain superior natural qualities.
• Secondly, such intermixing could be established precisely because the aristocratic milieu was capable of recognizing (and thus appreciating) such superior natural qualities. It had a lucid understanding of these traits as objective, natural facts.

The aristocratic notion of equality thereby consolidated both social position and a natural ability that was conducive to the creation of a higher aesthetics – it could therefore only but remain unjust in the eyes of those who had neither the one (the position) nor the other (the ability), and had to remain outsiders.

It is of absolute importance to emphasize here that this aristocratic mechanism of “equal sympathies” bringing select persons together, and that would stand over and above “the many too many”, had one singular purpose in the last instance of its operation – viz. the creation of a certain aesthetic beauty, and the salvaging of the truth of that beauty. To be able to realize such a task, it was absolutely necessary for the aristocratic salon to bring social position and artistic ability together in a manner that would not compromise that very artistic ability – and hence the all-round equality of sympathies within the closed social circle. It would be this equality of agents within the social circle that would ensure the absolute autonomy of artistic talent functioning within the circle – the implication here being that the artist would not at all serve the social rank that protects it. By not serving social rank, the work of the artist would be able to serve artistic truth, and thereby create that higher aesthetics. On the other hand, and to the extent that social position was a social truth in itself – in the sense of a real material reality in the world – the artist had no choice but to portray such a reality in as precise a manner as his artistic truth obliged him to do so. This would mean that a work of art had to recognize and reflect social rank as – what Proust himself would call – “a principle of differentiation”. This “differentiation” based on social rank would be as real as any differentiation expressive of people’s nationality, race, and suchlike. But the artist would have to portray all such “differentiations” without necessarily paying whatever biased homage to any of the parties conducive to such “differentiations”.

To confirm this primacy of artistic truth within the aristocratic milieu, as also the “principle of differentiation” that the artist need take into account in his work, we may here consider what Proust himself would have to say on the matter (and as presented to us in Thiher’s study) – we read as follows: “… in a journalistic text written in 1903 for Le Figaro and republished in Chroniques, about the salon of the Princess Mathilde, he [Proust] observes: ‘An artist should only serve truth and have no respect for rank. He must simply take it into account in his portrayals, insofar as rank is a principle of differentiation, much like, for example, nationality, race, background. Every social condition presents its own interest, and it can be just as curious for an artist to show the manners of a queen as the habits of a seamstress’ …”

For the aristocratic milieu, this “principle of differentiation” was a de facto natural reality – it distributed “equal sympathies” to those who naturally belonged to its closed system, and considered all outsiders as naturally unequal with respect to such system. The implication of such “differentiation” is that social rank was as much a natural, objective truth as was belonging to a particular nation or racial category. Inequality was thus considered to be an eternal, universal truth – it was a natural symptom of the human condition. A text in The Complete Short Stories gives us some idea of how members of Parisian high society would converse around issues of social inequality. Proust informs us that inequality would be taken to be “a fateful law of nature” (p. 105). Madame Fremer, one of the participants in a dinner organized by high society, would have this to say as regards the political views of anarchists: “What good does it all do? There will always be rich and poor people” (ibid.). For very specific reasons that shall be explored below, Proust himself would not fully espouse all that was being voiced within such Parisian circles – we shall see that he would be highly critical of the manner in which the system of “equal sympathies” would be corrupted by the influx of what he sees as snobs. But he can nonetheless still appreciate the fact that, despite the dire social and/or material consequences of the “principle of differentiation”, the members of the aristocratic milieu would in any case be able to sustain their own clear conscience – Proust tells us that, while Madame Fremer and her companions are busy discussing the realities of social inequality, they could at the same time drain their flutes of champagne “with hearty cheerfulness” (ibid.). Such aristocratic clear conscience, of course, needs to be directly contrasted to the Sartrean guilt-ridden shame discussed above.

The clear conscience of the aristocratic milieu would be expressive of a moral system organized around a “politesse” that could only be explained and appreciated in itself and by itself. Proust states that the small, harmonious universe created by the aristocracy can simply not be viewed – and ought not to be viewed – by outsiders. With reference to the fan mentioned above, Proust makes the following telling confession to the retired Madame: “I therefore would not want my fan to be viewed by an indifferent person, who has never frequented salons like yours and who would be astonished to see [the workings of a very specific type of] ‘politesse’ …” (p. 52).

Proust states that all outsiders – the uninitiated – must not and ought not to behold the workings of such “politesse” because they would be shocked by what they would see. What is it particularly that would shock them? They would be baffled by that peculiar distribution of “equal sympathies” within the aristocratic world that would amount to a reconciliation consolidating an unholy unity between rank and natural ability. The uninitiated would simply be shocked by a peculiar aristocratic justice that would be clearly unjust in their own eyes. And yet, Proust claims, the superior “politesse” of the salons would be such as to “unite dukes without arrogance and novelists without pretentiousness” (ibid.). The uninitiated would not be able to digest the fact that such unholy unity would help eradicate both the inbred arrogance of social rank and the usual pretentiousness of artists and/or intellectuals.

This eradication of arrogance on the part of the aristocracy would inevitably help redefine their social relationship with the rest of society (the outsiders). At the same time, the eradication of pretentiousness on the part of artists would help secure their fidelity to artistic truth. It would be precisely these types of accomplishments that would allow Parisian high society to acquire a mode of clear conscience that would be incomprehensible to all outsiders (as also, might we add, to the Sartrean worldview).

These types of reflections, Proust writes at some point in The Complete Short Stories, can only apply to the aristocratic milieu, and that only – as he puts it, “If these reflections [as inspired by high society] … were applied to any other, they would lose their validity” (p. 58).

For Proust, such reflections can only apply to – and be comprehended by – those belonging to the inner circles of the Parisian aristocracy. The rest cannot comprehend them, and they cannot because the “politesse” of the salons accomplishes an unholy unity between rank and talent that is in any case based on certain vices – and so Proust announces that all who are outsiders, all who are “strangers” to the aristocratic spirit, are not able to “comprehend the vices of this rapprochement” (p. 52). We shall therefore now need to examine the very specific manner in which the aristocratic milieu would both harbour particular vices and at the same time creatively thrive on them.

The spirit of an era, and the question of vices

The particular rapprochement that takes place within aristocratic circles, we have noted, cannot be appreciated by strangers to those circles. If, hypothetically, strangers to this small universe would be allowed to scrutinize the terms on which such rapprochement operates, they would all too soon realize that such terms are sinful. They would realize, in other words, that the reconciliation that has accrued between rank and talent is based on some sort of verbal agreement between the parties – a type of social contract between them – to hide their own vices from the rest of society.

But it is not merely the case that outsiders are not ever given the chance to observe the inner realities of high society – much more than that, the participants of high society have established mechanisms of illusion whereby their own particular vices are cleverly hidden from all outsiders.

Now, the Proustian worldview shall certainly present us with a complete and rational explanation as to why both the existence of vices within the aristocratic milieu and their concealment from outsiders are absolutely necessary historical phenomena that could not possibly have been avoided by whichever “highly refined civilization” – we intend to deal with this Proustian problematic at a later stage in this paper, and draw the implications of this as regards the overall Proustian aesthetic project. For our purposes at this point, we may simply state that the mechanisms of illusion established by the aristocratic milieu – whereby its vices are cleverly camouflaged – must be seen as a necessary consequence of what Proust considers to be a universal law of all time present, and that, without exception. Such mechanisms, and such concealment, are an inevitable by-product of the all-too-human flaws of human nature as such, and thus of the habits that plague such nature. We shall see that Proust would even use the biblical concept of “the Fall” (from Grace) to explain both the existence of aristocratic vice and the need for its clever concealment from outsiders.

The fact that vices are so cleverly hidden is yet another basic reason why the aristocratic milieu retains its clear and tranquil conscience. We need to examine more closely how this would be effected, as also the wider social implications of this. Functioning in its own time present (and which is inevitably flawed), the aristocratic milieu can only but operate through self-created and self-vindicating mechanisms of moral illusion. This self-vindication enables the milieu to establish its own clear conscience – but in so doing, it also enables itself to be charitable towards all outsiders (and given that the members of the aristocratic milieu have in any case overcome the need to behave arrogantly toward such outsiders in the context of their rapprochement with natural talent).

The mechanisms of moral illusion, which allow a successful and functional elite society to hide all its vices both from others and especially from own itself, are based on a primary presupposition – most of those who operate within and via such mechanisms are personalities with a great natural distinction. They are the types of personalities that have been able to salvage their own private mode of being as a sphere that is wholly independent of the public sphere. They are able to live that private-public distinction in such manner that it does not disrupt either their own lives as an aristocratic elite or the lives of the lower social strata. It is of great importance to note here that the aristocratic milieu represented that “highly refined civilization” that was able to uphold this absolutely major distinction between private and public space, and uphold it for its own members. We know that such vital distinction would finally collapse by the time of Auguste Comte, whose thinking would be highly expressive of the anti-aristocracy and pro-bourgeoisie Enlightenment. As Camus points out in his The Rebel, the work of Comte would abolish the distinction between public and private life by subsuming both under the all-consuming political sphere, thereby forging a new religion amounting to “social idolatry”. The Comtean positivist milieu, as Camus notes, would be one “where private life would be absolutely identified with public life”, yielding a form of despotism based on “the enlightening powers of science” (p. 167).

In terms of the Proustian worldview, of course, such collapse of the distinction between the private and the public sphere would be an anathema. For it, individuals of certain natural distinctions possess the right to preserve the autonomy of their private vis-à-vis their public sphere in life, this autonomy constituting the ambit around which the aristocratic moral system functions. Proust writes as follows in a text included in Pleasures and Days: “Life is strangely easy and pleasant with certain people of great natural distinction, people who are witty, loving, but who are capable of all vices, although they do not indulge in any vice publicly, so no one can state that they have any vice at all” (p. 42).

The aristocratic mode of being, in other words, is a mode of living that is “strangely easy and pleasant” because it revolves around personalities with at least two natural capabilities – viz. a) the capability of indulging in all human-all-too-human vices; and b) the capability of hiding such vices by maintaining the private-public dichotomy in their human affairs. Because of the preservation of such dichotomy, “no one can state that they have any vice at all”, which sustains the vital and superior functionality of the aristocratic milieu – its superiority therefore lies in the fact that vice cannot be located in the public sphere of such aristocratic milieu (its ultimate demise would be primarily due to the impact of external, historical factors, and not necessarily due to whatever flaws internal to such moral system).

However – and as shall be further discussed below – not all of those who belonged to the circles of the Parisian aristocracy would necessarily be individuals of what Proust calls a “great natural distinction”. How would the mechanisms of moral illusion, as established by those of a certain distinction, be able to deal with those others of a lesser caliber? While it would be the selfsame mechanisms of concealment that would also apply to frequenters of salons without any clear natural distinction in their personality, the aristocratic milieu would further activate additional procedures so as to endeavour to protect its own standards from the ravages of incoming snobbery. Our investigation of Proustian texts allows us to identify at least three such additional procedures – these include: a) those of a lesser caliber would be forced to adapt to an imposed “ideal type”; and/or b) they could be forced to occupy more “juvenile” positions within the social circles; and/or c) they could even be ostracized (such ostracism, however, could be at the unfortunate expense of “original” individuals, but who could not easily be made to fit some “ideal type”).

We can here consider what Proust himself has to say with respect to the functions and procedures operating as mechanisms of illusion of the aristocratic milieu. Thiher’s select extracts retrieved from Proustian texts seem to be a good starting point regarding the manner in which at least the snobs of high society would operate – or have to operate – within such society. We read as follows: “[snobs] use their social station to practice vices mechanically … Vice is always cleverly hidden. It suffices in society to ‘reprove one person’s snobbism, another’s libertinism, or the harshness of a third’ so that, having paid tribute to benevolence, modesty, and charity, ‘one can go give oneself over without remorse, with a tranquil conscience that has just proved itself, to the elegant vices that one practices all at one time’ … For Proust …, the socialite is immoral though not unmindful of the pleasures of a good conscience”.

With respect to the imposition of a certain “ideal type” on those who have come to operate within aristocratic circles, and who require such imposition given the internal contradictions of their personalities, Proust himself writes as follows: “In their true character, … [certain individuals of high society] may differ from the types that they irrevocably embody in the sagacious eyes of society; but this divergence holds no danger for them, because society refuses to see it. Still, it [viz. the divergence between “true character” and the “type”] does not last forever … The absurd, crushing, and immutable persistence of their types, from which they can endlessly depart without disrupting their serene entrenchment, eventually imposes itself, with an increasing gravitational pull, on these unoriginal people with their incoherent conduct; and ultimately they are fascinated by this sole identity, which remains inflexible amid all their universal variations” (The Complete Short Stories, p. 56).

The aristocratic milieu, therefore, may be said to function on at least two levels. On the one hand, we have seen that there are those individuals of high society who possess a “great natural distinction”, and are thus fully capable of behaving in such manner that there is no evidence of vice detectable in the public sphere (these are capable of protecting themselves). On the other hand, there are also those individuals characterized by an “incoherent conduct” and who are ultimately forced to adapt to an imposed “sole identity” and/or “ideal type”, and thereby also unwittingly secure the sustenance of the aristocratic milieu (these are protected by high society).

Whether or not Proust himself scoffs at such latter procedures – or bewails a declining aristocratic milieu that is now in need of such procedures – is of little concern to us in this paper (and which is a matter better left to the connoisseurs of Proust’s literary enterprise). Whatever his personal stance, Proust nonetheless allows us to eavesdrop on the participants of Parisian salons and observe how they would have to deal with individuals of an originally “incoherent” or internally contradictory nature. He writes, for instance, as follows: “During conversations at soirées, each person, untroubled by the contradictory behavior of these figures and heedless of their gradual adaptation to the imposed types, neatly files every figure away with his actions in the quite suitable and carefully defined pigeonhole of his ideal character …” (p. 57). And so each one of “these figures” is thereafter free to indulge in whatever personal vices within his own private sphere.

The adaption to an imposed “ideal type” is just one procedure whereby those without a “great natural distinction” are dealt with by the rest of high society. We have noted that there are at least two other procedures used to protect the (gradually falling) standards of aristocratic circles. Proust writes: “We must also add that at times a man may appear for whom [high] society has no ready-made character, or at least no available character, because it is being used by someone else. At first society gives him characters that do not suit him. If … no character is the right size, then society, unable to try to understand him and lacking a character with a proper fit, will simply ostracize him; unless he can gracefully play juvenile leads, who are always in short supply” (p. 58).

The operation of mechanisms and procedures of moral illusion as organized around the aristocratic “politesse” now raises a pertinent issue, and which concerns the question of personal freedom and originality within a “politesse” that would so peculiarly deal with questions of human vice via a rather complex imposition of “ideal types”. The issue is also pertinent as it would allow us to contrast the workings of this “politesse” to Sartre’s own understanding of society as a whole vis-à-vis personal freedom and originality, or with respect to the role of collective groupings vis-à-vis freedom and personal authenticity. While we intend to deal with the Sartrean perspective at a later stage, we may here briefly outline how the Proustian worldview would deal with the question of personal freedom and originality within the aristocratic milieu – the basic points to emphasize would be the following:

• Personal freedom and especially personal creativity within the aristocratic milieu are to be located either in the terrain of aesthetic creativity (for those possessive of a natural talent) or in the terrain of one’s private world (including the indulgence in one’s “elegant vices”).
• In both cases – and which would here imply both the public and the private sphere – one would enjoy the aristocratic freedom expressive of a clear conscience (the latter would simply provide the mental space for the activation and living of one’s personal freedom).
• The aristocratic milieu, in any case, would above all be meant as a terrain of personal freedom and personal creativity for those whom Proust would describe as “superior creatures”. Such personalities would enjoy the “equal sympathies” of high society, and therefore the opportunities offered by such society for personal, aesthetic creativity, bar whatever servile dependencies (as already discussed above).

The question of vice (or whatever form of weakness) within the aristocratic milieu cannot possibly be disentangled from the mode of existence of individuals who may be said to belong to the category of a “superior creature” – the vices and weaknesses of such types of individuals are not to be judged in terms of the moral systems of the inferior rest. Even the virtuous deeds of the latter cannot hold a candle to the noble weaknesses of “superior creatures”. In a Proustian short story entitled “Before the Night”, we read as follows: “You are a creature so superior to anyone else that any weakness of yours would have a nobility and beauty that are not to be found in other people’s good deeds” (The Complete Short Stories, “Early Stories”, p. 182). The implication is that a superior man – he who belongs to those of a “great natural distinction” – does have weaknesses, but these are expressive of a noble beauty and an aesthetic creativity that are well beyond the good and evil of the many-too-many. The moral values of the “superior creatures” are simply not the same as those of an inferior caliber.

As to the question of superior vices, we may further consider how Proust presents the social ambitions of two types of personalities that wish to join the circles of Parisian high society – using the Flaubertian characters Bouvard and Pécuchet for his own purposes, Proust introduces them with the following dialogue: “… ‘Now that we have positions’, said Bouvard, ‘why shouldn’t we live a life of high society?’ … Pécuchet could not have agreed with him more; but they would have to shine, and to do so they would have to study the subjects dealt with in society … Contemporary literature is of prime importance” (The Complete Short Stories, p. 59). Studying things such as literature, however, would not be enough so that they “shine” within the circles of high society – to be able to truly join the ranks of other “superior creatures”, they would have to reevaluate their own moral values regarding vice and virtue. This reevaluation would have to be such as to stand over and above the restraints of the many-too-many – they would therefore necessarily have to be immoderate in their conduct. And so it is for this reason that Pécuchet makes the following announcement: “But immoderateness per se is proof of a rich nature” (ibid., p. 60).

Aristocratic immoderateness would be vindicated by an inherent grace and nobility coupled with a vivacious strength of character. It would also be vindicated by a type of logic that would be informed by an irony that would look down on conventional thinking. Proust continues the dialogue as follows: “… ‘Yet it can’t be very difficult,’ Bouvard thought, ‘to express one’s ideas clearly. Clarity is not enough, though; you need grace (allied with strength), vivacity, nobility, and logic.’ Bouvard then added irony …” (ibid., p. 61).

We have stated that the vices and weaknesses of the aristocratic personality would have to be cleverly hidden from outsiders, and have further argued that such mechanisms of moral illusion were absolutely necessary for the sustenance of the aristocratic milieu. To the extent that such mechanisms would have to be gradually stretched and expanded to the point of covering up for the conduct of incoming snobbery, one would also observe the decline of that milieu (this being a mere symptom of such decline, and not at all its primary cause). In his Saint Genet, Sartre would himself point to the fact that the “fashionable society” of the aristocracy would ignore the moral vices of its members so long as such vices were properly hidden from the rest of society – this is how he puts it: “[the declining aristocracy] readily closed its eyes to vices, provided they were not flaunted. The enemy did not dwell in its consciousness” (p. 229).

For Sartre, of course, the aristocracy would not wish to display its vices in public for the sole purpose of guarding its own class interests – such practice would constitute the typical secretiveness of the oppressor attempting to protect its “pure privilege”. And the aristocracy would be doing exactly what all ruling classes had done in the past and would continue to do so in the future, as in the case of the bourgeoisie itself. In fact, Sartre would see a continuity in the oppressive – and secretive – practices of the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy with respect to all the outcasts of society. For Sartre, further, the fact that “the enemy” did not dwell in the consciousness of the aristocracy would merely be a case of self-deception, and would therefore embody its own bad faith (and which would be comparable to what we have referred to as the bourgeois manufacturing of illusions).

There is no doubt that all of human history thus far has been characterized by the existence of elites. And there is also no doubt that all elites – whichever be the milieu in which they had operated – had attempted to hide their own vices from outsiders. The practices of a Diocletian, Edward Gibbon tells us in his The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, were marked by a “profound dissimulation”. The English historian writes, for instance, that the abilities of such a great Roman emperor may be summed up as “above all, the great art of submitting his own passions, as well as those of others, to the interest of his ambition, and of coloring his ambition with the most specious pretences of justice and public utility” (p. 375). Dissimulation on the part of elites seems to have been – and surely still is – a historical necessity. The Freudian worldview would of course go even further – it would argue that the practice of secretiveness (the mechanisms of moral illusion effected through censorship and self-censorship) would be an absolutely necessary evil for all types of civilized societies, for all the social strata within these societies, as also for each and every individual existing therein. And one may further argue that, to the extent that censorship and self-censorship are necessary mechanisms of survival within civilizations, they cannot be reduced – as the Sartrean worldview would reduce them – to symptoms of bad faith and/or of inauthenticity.

From the particular perspective of the Parisian aristocratic elite, however, the question of secretiveness regarding its vices would be pivoted around two issues:

• The extent to which they would be successful in operating their mechanisms of moral illusion.
• The extent to which they would be able to utilize such success in salvaging their own interpretation of aesthetic beauty.

There are a variety of ways in which many Proustian texts attempt to deal with these two major issues – we shall attempt to analyze these below.

The bastion of the aristocracy, and its vulnerabilities

What one may refer to as the hard core of the Parisian aristocracy would once be located in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, a historic district of Paris. Since the 18th century and right up to Proust’s time, this would be the home of the oldest and most prestigious aristocratic circles. It remains to this day one of the most exclusive districts of Paris (it being currently part of the 7th arrondissement of Paris).

On the one hand, this cultural (and, once, also political) stronghold of the aristocracy was apparently impermeable and inaccessible to the rest of French society – and it would typically maintain its “brilliant social life” (as Wikipedia puts it) even well after the aristocracy as a social class would be marginalized politically. In The Complete Short Stories, Proust writes of “the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that bastion of aristocracy” constituting “a compact and isolated whole” (p. 62). On the other hand, however, Proust adds that “the Faubourg seeps in everywhere and looks like a compact and isolated whole purely from a distance!” (ibid.). From a historical perspective, nonetheless, such compactness and willful social segregation would at least initially be a defining characteristic of the aristocratic milieu – it would thereby guard both its privileged position and its own cultural aesthetics (both of which would be manifested in its “brilliant social life”).

The definitive autonomy of the aristocratic milieu – including its as definitive inclusion of “superior creatures” with their “great natural distinction” – would be recorded by Proust in The Complete Short Stories. He would write of such milieu as including “the most gifted people, in the most exclusive salons, in the most self-contained sceneries” (p. 79).

This self-containment of the Faubourg Saint-Germain aristocratic bastion would be part of the mechanism whereby the moral conduct of its members would be concealed from outsiders – it would be precisely such self-containment that would maintain the dichotomy between the private and public spheres of its aristocratic members. “The Faubourg Saint-Germain”, Proust’s Pécuchet opines, “concealed the libertinage of the Old Regime under the guise of rigidity” (p. 63).

How did the aristocratic elite of the Faubourg Saint-Germain exercise its power – for the period of time that it did – over the rest of society? And how is one to explain its demise? Exclusively from the elite’s own highly subjective perspective, one may note the following points:

• The manner of the elite’s exercise of power would be of a dual nature: a) externally, it would assert its ideological hegemony by virtue of its sheer elegance, combined with a certain code of honour as demonstrated by its chivalrous conduct; b) internally, it would indulge in its own sins – these would, however, sustain it (and do so with an absolutely clear conscience).
• The aristocratic elite would demonstrate their graciousness towards commoners – it simply had no need to be arrogant towards them, given its position of an incomparably superior cultural ethos (we have spoken above of its charitable attitude towards outsiders in general).
• But the aristocratic elite would at the same time express a hatred or acerbity with respect to all those particular outsiders who had acquired the economic power to penetrate their once exclusive, highly selective salons (a selectivity, we have suggested, that had been based on natural beauty and/or natural talent).
• It would be the seeping in of external, alien forces into the cultural bastion of the aristocratic elite that would spell the demise of their milieu – it would, in other words, destroy their original self-containment.

All of the points presented above are more or less – directly or indirectly – made by Proust’s Pécuchet. This is what he says: “Every nobleman had mistresses, plus a sister who was a nun, and he conspired with the clergy. They were brave, debt-ridden, they ruined and scourged usurers and they were inevitably the champions of honor. They reigned by dint of elegance, invented preposterous fashions, were exemplary sons, gracious to commoners and harsh toward bankers. Always clutching a sword or with a woman in pillion, they dreamed of restoring the monarchy, were terribly idle, but not haughty with decent people, sent traitors packing, insulted cowards, and with a certain air of chivalry they merited our unshakable affection” (ibid.).

The demise of the aristocratic elite and its milieu, we are suggesting, would not only be due to the particular historical conjuncture at the time – viz. the rise of the bourgeoisie and the concomitant penetration of non-aristocratic elements within the self-contained cultural bastion of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. As we shall further argue, it would also be the intrinsic flaws of life itself – the constraints of all time present – that would compromise the hegemonic self-containment of that bastion of cultural and political authority. One major manifestation of such compromise would be the influx of a particular mode of conduct within the aristocratic salons which Proust identifies as pseudo-aristocratic snobbery.

High society, and the phenomenon of snobbery

There is that type of female person that wishes to deny high society, while at the same time utterly devoting her life to that which she allegedly denies. She is a case of the typical pseudo-aristocratic snob (one may safely assume that this type of person may also be found amongst males). Why would such type of person deny high society? Proust explains that that type of person is well aware that there are other personalities in high society that are superior to him/her – and it is such awareness that triggers the denial. Snobbery, therefore, is an expression of one’s inferiority complex. The implication is that high society is not meant for the conceited, the arrogant and the naturally inferior. For these types of persons, Proust seems to be insinuating, high society is a weakness. Focusing on the case of females, Proust writes as follows: “A woman does not mask her love of balls, horse races, even gambling … But never try to make her say that she loves high society: she would vehemently deny it … It is the only weakness that she carefully conceals, no doubt because it is the only weakness that humbles her vanity. She does not feel inferior to anyone simply because she commits a folly; her snobbery, quite the opposite, implies that there are people to whom she is inferior or could become inferior by letting herself relax. Thus we can find a woman who proclaims the utter foolishness of high society yet devotes her mind to it, her finesse, her intelligence …” (The Complete Short Stories, p. 44).

The now-modern phenomenon of snobbery, however, would come to gradually permeate the whole of the aristocratic milieu (definitely not all of its representatives, but it would become a rampant symptom). One would thus also have the corruption of the aristocracy itself through its ruinous interaction with what Proust shall call the “trivial contemporaries”.

What specific form does such snobbery – born of that ruinous interaction – take within certain Parisian salons? Individuals trapped within such circumstances make particular sacrifices so as to achieve new ambitions in the social circles of high society. What is it that they choose to sacrifice? Proust tells that they sacrifice their own freedom and, as importantly, their hours of personal pleasure. The implication here is that they actually sacrifice that mode of life that was originally characteristic of the aristocratic milieu per se – viz., and as discussed above, a) the aristocratic freedom for the “elegant vices” of one’s private world, and the concurrent aristocratic freedom of one’s conscience; and b) that highly esteemed aristocratic value of pleasure, or that “beneficent, luxurious culture” of idleness that had once mothered aesthetic creativity.

The new, ruinous interaction that begets this form of snobbery means that the once self-contained circles of high society are now gradually being impregnated with new faces of the rising modern world – precisely those “trivial contemporaries” of modernity – and who are by and by imagined by certain members of high society to be the supposed links to some ancient and splendid French past. The implication is that the “trivial contemporaries” of Proust’s time could not possibly constitute such link.

When newly-formed dreams and ambitions interlock past and present via such new and “trivial contemporaries”, one inevitably slips into vain chimeras. Dreams and ambitions based on such vain chimeras of the past are the sine qua non of a vain snobbery – and it is this that leads to the corruption and final demise of the aristocratic milieu.

Our presentation of Proust’s critique of his “trivial contemporaries” – and the effect these have on the aristocratic milieu – is based on the following extract which is addressed to a particular “female snob”, as it appears in The Complete Short Stories: “Your soul is certainly, as Tolstoy says, a dark forest. But its trees are of a particular species; they are family trees. People call you vain? But the universe is not empty for you; it is filled with coats of arms. It is quite a dazzling and symbolic conception of the world. Yet do you not also have your chimeras in the shape and color of the ones we see painted on blazons? … In reading the chronicles of the battles won by ancestors, you have found the names of the descendants whom you invite to dinner, and this mnemonic technique has taught you the entire history of France. This lends a certain grandeur to your ambitious dream, to which you have sacrificed your freedom, your hours of pleasure … For the faces of your new friends are linked in your imagination to a long series of ancestral portraits. The family trees that you cultivate so meticulously, whose fruit you pick so joyously every year, are deeply rooted in the most ancient French soil. Your dream interlocks the present and the past. The soul of the crusades enlivens some trivial contemporary figures for you, and if you read your guest book so fervently, does not each name allow you to feel an ancient and splendid France awakening, quavering, and almost singing, like a corpse arisen from a slab decorated with armorial bearings?” (p. 46).

The pseudo-aristocratic snobs would have their own, illusory perception of the gradual demise of the aristocratic milieu. They would of course see it already happening in their own time, though they could only but misunderstand the nature of its occurrence, as also their role in it. In their own eyes, the originally self-contained and compact autonomy of the aristocratic salons would seem to continue to exist – and they would see themselves as its upholders and perpetuators. As its upholders, however, they would also see themselves as people besieged by the new and up-and-coming conjuncture of modernity – ironically, they would therefore prefer to see themselves as exiles within Parisian society.

What the snobs would not wish to understand was that the boundaries of aristocratic self-containment had in fact now become so porous – and the “trivial contemporary figures” (of which the snobs themselves were a part) so prevalent – that their self-proclaimed status as exiles was simply an expression of their ostentatious imagination. And although the Proustian worldview would certainly place a high esteem on imagination per se, Proust would feel that this particular imagination of the pseudo-aristocratic snobs would be of an absolutely dull and poor brand. Writing of Madame Lenoir, a typical participant in the dinners of high society, Proust notes: “She felt truly exiled in modern society and she always spoke tearfully about the ‘elderly noblemen of the old days’. Her snobbery was all imagination and, moreover, was all the imagination she had” (The Complete Short Stories, p. 102).

We have thus far identified three basic dimensions of snobbery that could be said to have been evident amongst aristocratic circles in Proust’s time. By way of reiteration, we have noted the following interrelated dimensions: a) snobbery as an inferiority complex within aristocratic social circles; b) snobbery as an outcome of the ruinous interaction with “trivial contemporaries”; and c) snobbery as an expression of imagined exile. We may here add yet another interrelated manifestation of snobbery, and which was clearly a sign of the changing socio-economic milieu – an array of individuals who in some way remained attached to the Parisian aristocratic circles would choose snobbery as a self-defensive mechanism against the rising bourgeoisie. Such individuals, in other words, assumed the conduct of a snob so as not to sink within the rude ranks of the rising bourgeoisie. Proust writes of Madame Fremer (mentioned above as one of those regular participants in dinners held by high society circles) as follows: “Madame Fremer’s snobbery was, for her female friends, and that of her female friends was, for her, like mutual insurance against sinking into the bourgeoisie” (p. 101).

Now, in the course of the decline and fall of the aristocratic milieu, two things would occur: on the one hand, the essential distinction within the aristocratic circles between those who had belonged to the category of the “superior creatures” and those who, for instance, had been beset by an inferiority complex, could only but have survived (this being a distinction ordained by nature) – Proust himself writes of “profound differences” amongst the members of the aristocratic circles at the time. On the other hand, however, such essential distinction would in any case be somewhat swept aside by the prevalence of what Proust shall call a “collective madness” within a generally declining aristocratic milieu, and which had taken the form of snobbery (as explained above). This “collective madness”, to put it otherwise, would be literally superimposed on the naturally surviving “profound differences” amongst those still attached to the aristocratic circles. This is how Proust describes the situation: “… despite their profound differences, they all seemed alike … their sole common trait, or rather the same collective madness, the same prevalent epidemic with which all of them were stricken: snobbery” (p. 104).

It is of absolute importance to emphasize here that the phenomenon of snobbery (or vanity) within the aristocratic circles is not at all to be explained in terms of the particular nature of the aristocracy itself – we have already seen how the aristocratic milieu did not mean to be (and did not need to be) haughty towards commoners. Further, and as importantly, aristocratic snobbery cannot even be explained merely in terms of the tragic circumstances of its historic demise. Snobbery, as is often naively assumed, is not a feature specific to the aristocracy – in the last instance, it is a manifestation of the human condition, and especially so amongst those who exercise power in society. But it can also corrupt whoever and at any time of human history. Thiher makes this important point as follows in his review of texts in The Complete Short Stories: “[Proust’s] indictment of society continues in ‘Un Dîner en ville’ (‘A Dinner in High Society’) … his satire aims at late nineteenth century decadence as well as the eternal, all-embracing vanity found everywhere at any time”. This point is of importance because, as we shall see below, it would have a decisive influence on the general Proustian worldview regarding the role of the aristocratic milieu in Western civilization.

The bastion of the aristocracy vis-à-vis other elite groups

So as to map the existence of various elite groups within the French capital – and so as to explain their particular position vis-à-vis the aristocracy itself – Proust presents us with what he calls “an exact plan of Parisian society” as a whole. This plan was meant to be a description of the different social categories and/or strata that would either forge an unholy collaboration with the aristocratic circles (that unholy unity with people of natural talent, as discussed above), or would attempt to penetrate the ranks of the aristocracy as external and alien forces, and which would do so for reasons that were exclusively self-interested (such as those “trivial contemporaries” that would fear the possibility of sinking into the ranks of the bourgeoisie). While Proust was not a sociologist, there is much of sociology in the Proustian literary enterprise. His subtle social analyses, however, would not dwell on abstract social categories (as would the Marxists) – for Proust, social groupings were manned by real individuals with often paradoxical intentions. One such individual was Proust’s Flaubertian character, Bouvard (cf. the dialogue between him and Pécuchet above). With respect to Bouvard, Proust writes as follows: “[He] declared that in order to know where they would socialize, toward which suburbs they would venture once a year, where their habits and their vices could be found, they would first have to draw up an exact plan of Parisian society. The plan, said Bouvard, would include Faubourg Saint-Germain, financiers, foreign adventurers, Protestant society, the world of art and theatre, the official world, and the learned world” (The Complete Short Stories, p. 63).

What were the attributes of those that manned the various social groupings of Parisian society? We may begin by considering what Proust has to write of that particular social stratum referred to as the financiers – his observations, of course, are meant to express the reactions of those members of the old aristocratic circles that would feel besieged by whichever financiers had already begun penetrating their own once compact world. Proust writes as follows: “On the other hand, the eminent and sullen world of finance inspires respect but also aversion. The financier remains care-worn even at the wildest ball. One of his numberless clerks keeps coming to report the latest news from the stock exchange even at four in the morning … You never know whether he is a mogul or a swindler: he switches to and fro without warning; and despite his immense fortune, he ruthlessly evicts a poor tenant for being in arrears with his rent … Moreover, the financier … dresses without taste …” (ibid.).

This highly informative extract speaks for itself as regards the various issues we have already raised above – we may nonetheless highlight the following:

• The old Parisian aristocratic circles feel the threat of alien forces penetrating their ranks – note, for instance, the use of the term “aversion”.
• One need contrast the “sullen” and “care-worn” materialistic world of the financiers to that of the aristocratic milieu’s pleasure-loving and creative idleness – viz. its “brilliant social life” and its capacity to attract the best of natural talents.
• While the old, compact circles of the aristocracy had acquired a steadfast self-knowledge of their vices and virtues, the financiers represented a mutable and volatile social element – they could easily switch from being “moguls” today to being “swindlers” the next, and do so “without warning”.
• While the aristocratic milieu would be charitable towards commoners, financiers could be “ruthless” with poor tenants.
• Perhaps above all, the aesthetic tastes of the aristocratic milieu could not digest the bad tastes of financiers (as in the case of attire).

Generally speaking, one may say that many financiers and bankers in Proust’s time would naturally remain devoted to the pursuance of their materialistic/economic interests while at the same time pretending to belong to those “superior creatures” that had once dominated the culture of Parisian society. In some paradoxical manner, they could be described as fence-sitters in terms of moral and aesthetic values – and they could be fence-sitters in much the same way as they could switch to acting as swindlers “without warning”. It would be such mutability and volatility that would characterize many such characters, and which would unsettle the social life and established norms of the old aristocratic circles.

We have referred above to a certain Madame Fremer, who had loathed the possibility of sinking into the ranks of the bourgeoisie – she wished to be seen as an aristocrat. But this lady was in fact a banker’s wife. Proust describes what this would mean for the life of the banker himself – he writes: “As for Monsieur Fremer: working at his bank all day, dragged into society by his wife every evening or kept at home when they entertained …” (ibid., p. 103). Unwittingly, the hard-working Monsieur Fremer could only but have been a fence-sitter within the Parisian aristocratic circles.

The fence-sitting banker would be dragged into what remained of the Parisian aristocratic circles by a wife who had once herself belonged to the financial world but who would now wish to conquer the world of the aristocracy (and thereby avoid sinking into the bourgeoisie) – and, in some way, she would actually achieve such conquest, but to the ultimate detriment of the original norms and values of the aristocratic milieu. Proust writes of the lady as follows: “… Madame Fremer mirrored her blond beauty in the charmed eyes of the guests. The twofold reputation surrounding her was a deceptive prism through which everyone tried to fathom her real traits. Ambitious, conniving, almost an adventuress, according to the financial world, which she had abandoned for a more brilliant destiny, she was nevertheless regarded as a superior being, an angel of sweetness and virtue, by the aristocracy and the royal family, both of whom she had conquered” (ibid.).

This extract does provide us with an excellent example of the penetration of the aristocratic milieu by an outsider originating from the world of finance – but we also clearly see here that someone like Madame Fremer would bring to the circles of the aristocracy a variety of personality traits that were typical of the financial world and which would have been foreign to an originally compact aristocratic world more concerned with aesthetic taste. And thus participants of the aristocratic social circles frequented by Madame Fremer would be perplexed by the “deceptive prism” of her reputation, and would have much difficulty in fathoming the lady’s “real traits”.

Apart from the financiers and bankers that would besiege the old world of the aristocracy, there would also be a variety of other fence-sitters, in-betweens and hybrids that would add to the confusion and ultimate corruption of the aristocratic milieu. Madame Lenoir mentioned above – the lady who had felt truly exiled in the modern Parisian world – was no aristocrat at all in terms of social origins. Madame Lenoir was one amongst many at the time who were what Proust calls “self-made” aristocrats (ibid., p. 101). These outsider types would pursue a deliberate strategy aimed at entering the world of aristocratic circles at any cost – they would sacrifice whatever so as to achieve a personal goal which they would come to see as what Proust calls a “social career” (with respect to the question of sacrifice, we need call to mind how snobs would even go so far as to relinquish their personal freedom and pleasure so as to fulfill their social ambitions – cf. above). This is what Proust has to say with respect to a certain Spanish lady who would participate in dinners held by Parisian high society: “… a superb Spanish woman was eating ravenously. That evening, serious person that she was, she had unhesitatingly sacrificed a rendezvous to the probability of advancing her social career by dining in a fashionable home” (ibid.).

The ultimately irremediable intermingling of different types of personalities within the aristocratic circles – both outsiders and insiders and a motley of in-betweens – would wreak havoc on the traditional values and titles of peerage that had once secured the hierarchical compactness of the aristocratic order. This would be evident in even the most sought-after Parisian salons of Proust’s time. In a text of The Complete Short Stories entitled “The End of Jealousy”, Proust gives us an idea of just such a situation as follows: “The salon of Madame Seaune, née Princess de Galaise-Orlandes … remains one of the most sought-after salons in Paris. In a society in which the title of duchess would make her interchangeable with so many others, her nonaristocratic family name stands out like a beauty mark on a face; and in exchange for the title she lost when marrying Monsieur Seaune, she acquired the prestige of having voluntarily renounced the kind of glory that, for a noble imagination, exalts white peacocks, black swans, white violets, and captive queens” (p. 160). It is all too obvious that, with the intrusion of outsiders into aristocratic circles, the very nature of such circles would undergo a radical alteration, and which would denote a debasement of all original values and titular orders that had once defined such circles.

Now, that “exact plan of Parisian society” would further include a variety of other social, cultural or religious groupings that would in some way or other (directly or from a distance) relate to the circles of the Parisian aristocracy. One such category of individuals would be what is referred to as the “society” of Protestants. Proust informs us of the attitudes and feelings of people like Bouvard and Pécuchet with respect to Parisian Protestants as follows: “Nor did Bouvard and Pécuchet feel any keener love for Protestant society: it is cold, starchy, gives solely to its own poor, and is made up exclusively of pastors … Protestants fear merriment too deeply not to have something to hide …” (The Complete Short Stories, pp. 63-64).

It would probably be fairly accurate to assume that such reservations on the part of the Parisian aristocratic circles towards French Protestants had little to do with whatever prejudicial predisposition in the 1890’s, when Proust had been penning his short stories. We say this because, despite the essential catholicity of the French monarchical tradition and its age-old religious-cum-ideological discourse, a largish number of aristocrats had in fact converted to Protestantism following the Reformation in Europe. It has in any case been argued that the idea of a Protestant conspiracy against the throne of France is a mere historical myth – French Protestants were to be found in every political camp throughout French history (consider here the work of Burdette Crawford Poland, French Protestantism and the French Revolution, Princeton Legacy Library, 1957). But then, how is one to explain the absence of any affection on the part of aristocratic circles for Protestant society? Proust informs us that Bouvard and Pécuchet would not feel “any keener love” for Protestants – he is of course comparing this absence of love with what would also apply to financiers and bankers, and herein, perhaps, lies the clue that may allow us to understand the relationship between the aristocratic circles and Protestant society in Proust’s time. The aristocratic aversion for the world of finance could be said to have been akin to its aversion for Protestant society, and would have been so to the extent that at least the pastors of such society would more or less reflect the tastes and lifestyle of a social grouping that itself belonged to the typical French urban bourgeoisie. Like the “sullen” financers and bankers, the Protestant pastors – and to a large extent their urban bourgeois mentors – would be “cold” and “starchy” in their conduct (and while the members of the Protestant urban bourgeoisie in France would not necessarily be overly devout personalities, they would nonetheless uphold the traditions and conventions of their Protestant origins). Above all, it should be emphasized, the aversion on the part of aristocratic circles may be put down to a central dissonance between those circles and Protestant society as to their respective mode of living: while, as we have seen, the aristocrats would focus their lives around idleness and pleasure, Protestant society – and especially the pastors as its representatives – would “fear merriment” (and would do so in a manner reminiscent of financiers and bankers). Fearful of any merriment, Protestant pastors would hide impulses and emotions that they could not indulge in – and this would stand in stark contrast to the way of life of the aristocrats, who would simply hide what they actually indulged in (their carnal vices).

Yet another grouping included in the “plan” of Parisian society would be the Parisian art world. Bouvard and Pécuchet inform us as follows about this particular sub-world which, as we have seen above, had established an unholy unity with aristocratic circles: “The art world, equally homogeneous, is quite different; every artist is a humbug, estranged from his family, never wears a top hat, and speaks a special language. He spends his life outsmarting bailiffs who try to dispossess him and finding grotesque disguises for masked balls. Nevertheless artists constantly produce masterpieces, and for most of them their overindulgence in wine and women is the sine qua non of their inspiration if not their genius; they sleep all day, go out all night, work God knows when, and, with their heads flung back, their limp scarves fluttering in the wind, they perpetually roll cigarettes” (ibid., p. 64).

This exquisite extract allows us to make a number of important observations, all of which would clearly confirm what we have already noted above regarding the relationship between the aristocratic milieu and those special personalities endowed with a superior natural talent (and which would therefore be a thoroughly positive relationship altogether dissimilar to the case of financiers, bankers and other fence-sitting adventurists and/or snobs). The points to emphasize here – presented in accordance with the order in which they appear in the extract – are the following:

• Those individuals belonging to what Proust calls the world of art would maintain their own homogeneity – and they would do so as did various other groupings interacting with the aristocratic circles. Their own homogeneity, however, would be of a “quite different” type: its purpose was meant to preserve and protect the group’s artistic vocation. As already noted, they would reject whatever dependence on the aristocratic circles so that they could serve, not any such circles, but artistic truth itself. Their independence would be propped by such homogeneity.
• Very much like the aristocracy, those belonging to the world of art would be deliberately deceptive in their conduct (“every artist is a humbug”) – their own deceptive behaviour would again have its own distinct purpose, it being the protection of their artistic creativity. But such creativity was one absolutely important dimension of the pursuance of aesthetic beauty expressive of the aristocratic milieu in general.
• To further preserve and protect their style of life as artistic creators, artists would even choose to remain independent of familial ties. Such a mentality would be tolerated or even quite appreciated by an aristocratic milieu that had already placed much emphasis on (or experimented with) the significance of selfhood and individuality, albeit in the terrain of one’s strictly private life (on the issue of the aristocratic sense of selfhood, cf., for instance, Jonathan Dewald, Aristocratic Experience and the Origins of Modern Culture, University of California Press, 1993).
• The artistic world’s internal homogeneity and autonomy within the aristocratic circles would also be sustained by the fact that its exceptionally endowed personalities would speak their own “special language” amongst themselves. They thereby created barriers of communication between their own kind and others that were difficult to cross, and which would thus discourage whatever external intervention regarding their work.
• The aristocratic milieu would tolerate the fact that artists would “outsmart bailiffs” – suggesting that the aristocratic order would willfully sanction the relatively unlawful behaviour on the part of artists, presumably as regards their various fiscal obligations (bailiffs would try to “dispossess” them). And they would sanction such conduct since the aristocratic milieu had placed the creation of aesthetic beauty and culture above that of economic expediency (we know how typically lazy and unproductive aristocrats would be with respect to the economic functionality of their regime – Sartre’s Saint Genet itself explores the “parasitism” of the aristocracy).
• Individuals belonging to the art world would naturally participate in the balls organized by the aristocratic salons – this being one manifestation of their unholy reconciliation with aristocratic rank. Yet again, however, the manner in which they would behave in the course of such balls would be such as to confirm their autonomy as artists – they would come up with their own most “grotesque” of disguises.
• The values and mode of life of the aristocratic milieu were such as to fully recognize and appreciate the significance of what artists were capable of producing – it would be that particular milieu that could savour and honour that which was an artistic masterpiece (and reject that which was not), and it could do so by being selective as regards natural talent. And so Bouvart and Pécuchet could confidently assert that artists associated with aristocratic circles “constantly produce masterpieces”.
• The mode of life of the artists was such as to enable them to use their talent so as to “constantly produce masterpieces”, and it was a mode of life very much similar to that of the aristocrats’ own mode of life in at least one important sense: both overindulged. Such overindulgence in the case of the aristocracy was seen as “proof of a rich nature” – above, we have already referred to this as the “immoderateness” of the aristocratic milieu. In the case of artists, such overindulgence – or immoderateness – was a definitive feature of their artistic inspiration or their artistic genius. In the case of both social groupings, need we say, this overindulgence naturally revolved around vices – and these related, inter alia, to “wine and women”. One may therefore generally conclude that artists and aristocrats had actuated a particular cultural cohabitation for themselves that would ultimately define the milieu, at least prior to its decadence.
• The pleasures of overindulgence or immoderateness went hand-in-hand with idleness. We have seen that idleness and pleasure would be a mode of being for the aristocrats – again confirming such cohabitation with the aristocrats, artists would themselves “sleep all day, go out all night”. One sees here what must have been a rather perfect marriage between these two groupings, albeit unholy in the eyes of outsiders and/or hybrid in-betweens.

The “plan” of Parisian society would also include a group of individuals that was very closely related to those belonging to the art world – what may obviously be considered a sub-group to the world of artists was the world of theater. Bouvart and Pécuchet have this to say of actors and actresses: “The theater world is barely distinct from the art world: there is no family life on every level; theater people are eccentric and inexhaustibly generous. Actors, while vain and jealous, help their fellow players endlessly, applaud their successes, adopt the children of consumptive or down-on-their-luck actresses, and are precious in society, although, being uneducated, they are often sanctimonious and always superstitious. Actors at subsidized theatres are in a class of their own; entirely worthy of our admiration, they would deserve a more honorable place at the table than a general or a prince; they nurture feelings expressed in the masterpieces they perform on our great stages. Their memory is prodigious and their bearing perfect” (ibid., p. 64).

This extract allows us to make the following rough observations as regards the relationship between the aristocratic circles and the world of the theater:

• It is here quite apparent that, exactly as in the case with artists, the aristocratic milieu would also wish to forge an unholy reconciliation or unity with the world of the theater (actors and actresses are clearly viewed as “precious in society”).
• However, given the general state of affairs prevailing in the world of actors and actresses at the time (for instance, their lack of education, which would yield a sanctimonious and superstitious disposition), such reconciliation or unity had not been fully consummated.
• Bouvart and Pécuchet have nonetheless no choice but to express their genuine admiration of the theater world – it is that world which performs the epoch’s masterpieces on “our great stages” (and which is something naturally savoured by the aristocratic circles). Bouvart and Pécuchet therefore expect of the aristocracy to fully co-opt actors and actresses while at the same time fully recognizing their autonomy as “a class of their own”.
• As in the case of artists, actors and actresses were not to serve the aristocratic milieu. In fact, Bouvart and Pécuchet are suggesting that the aristocratic milieu should justifiably look up to the world of theater – actors and actresses, we are told, “deserve a more honorable place at the table” of the Parisian salons.

In examining the so-called bastion of the aristocracy and its relations with various other elite groupings, we have made a series of observations most of which would point to what Thiher has described as “a slow process of degradation” – the aristocratic milieu would gradually be swamped by a new epoch dominated by the bourgeoisie, and which Proust would parody in much of his The Complete Short Stories from the perspective of a symbolist aesthete. We have seen how Bouvart’s “exact plan of Parisian society” – described in such texts – would reveal that the aristocratic milieu would both forge unholy collaborations with aesthetically creative groups such as artists and actors/actresses, while at the same time allowing itself to be penetrated by external, alien forces that were themselves characterized by a spurious attitude towards whatever aesthetic values. We have noted how such penetration would denote a gradual debasement of all original values and titular orders that had once defined the self-containment of the aristocratic milieu.

Now, it is of some historical importance to further note at this point that such “process of degradation” cannot at all be attributed to the role of the so-called commoners of French society. It would not be they, in other words, that would contribute to the debasement and degradation of the aristocratic milieu. On the other hand, their historical role in the events of 1789 and the long-term implications of such events are well known. What has perhaps not been much discussed is the precise – and all too contradictory – attitude of the French commoners in general towards the aristocratic milieu itself. We shall now have to very briefly focus on this particular question.

High society vis-à-vis the commoners

We need not dwell on the precise role of the commoners in the decline and fall of the aristocratic milieu – excellent sources around this issue are Jules Michelet’s populist historiographical perspective as expressed in his History of the French Revolution; or the Camusean critique of the French Revolution and the Enlightenment, both of which are seen as expressive of totalitarian terror in his The Rebel; or the Sartrean perspective in Saint Genet contrasting the productive role of commoners to the “parasitism” of the aristocracy; or the more clearly sociological approach adopted by someone like Anthony Giddens, in his attempt to analyze the role of the popular masses in the establishment of post-traditional societies (such as those beyond the aristocratic milieu). Keeping such sources in mind, one need nonetheless note a social phenomenon that has been more or less quite downplayed by analysts. This social phenomenon may succinctly be put as follows: it may be said that long after the French Revolution, certain sections of the popular masses of French society – those placed well outside or in some external proximity to the social circles and institutions of the elite groupings – would, quite paradoxically, continue to look up to and admire the aristocratic milieu, and especially as regards its specific mode of life. That, at least, is the impression Proust gives us in his The Complete Short Stories.

Certain particular categories of the popular masses – but especially those whose social position was such as to ultimately deny them some form of entry into the aristocratic salons – would harbor what Proust calls “famished imaginations” concerning the life of those in high society. Unlike the pseudo-aristocratic snobs who – as discussed above – would apparently deny high society, there would be outsiders who would desire to partake in the activities of the salons as would “savage beasts”. This is how Proust describes this phenomenon in his short stories, at least as regards French females: “Only women who are not yet part of high society or have lost their social standing refer to it [viz. high society] by name with the ardor of unsatisfied or abandoned mistresses. Thus, certain young women who are just beginning to ascend and certain old women who are now sliding back enjoy talking about the social standing that others have or, even better, do not have. In fact, while those women derive more pleasure from talking about the standing that others do not have, their talking about the standing that others do have nourishes them more effectively, providing their famished imaginations with more substantial fare. I have known people to thrill, more with delight than envy, at the very thought of a duchess’s family connections. In the provinces, it seems, there are female shopkeepers whose brains, like narrow cages, confine desires for social standing that are as ferocious as savage beasts. The mailman brings them La Gaulois. The society page is devoured in the twinkling of an eye. The fidgety provincial women are sated. And for an hour their eyes glow with peace of mind, their pupils dilating with enjoyment and admiration” (p. 45).

The exact magnitude of the prevalence of such “famished imaginations” with respect to the lifestyle of the aristocratic salons and/or the apparently ferocious “desires for social standing” amongst the French popular masses at a time well after the French Revolution are issues that remain underresearched. We do not know the extent to which such possible sentiments would apply to females as opposed to males; or the extent to which such sentiments would be shared by particular age-groups; or the extent to which these types of sentiments would vary in accordance with one’s discrete socio-economic position, and so on. Although one would expect at least certain research findings on such issues in an area that is of course already heavily overresearched – viz. the history of France and the French Revolution itself – the results are all of rather negligible value. This is quite explainable, given the widespread academic hostility towards an erstwhile milieu that no longer expresses the democratic values of the modern or postmodern Western world. And yet, these are open historical questions that remain to be answered – and it may be said that the Proustian literary enterprise does provide us with some clues guiding such possible lines of research. Ironically, it should be added, it is only websites such as Nobility Titles (established in 1977) that are at all appreciative of the values of the aristocratic milieu and its noblesse oblige, wherein aristocratic privilege is said to have been counterbalanced by social responsibility – this particular international website, by the way, simply wishes to sell so-called “nobility titles” to present-day “minorities”.

The fall of the aristocratic milieu

The Proustian understanding of the fall of the aristocratic milieu may be said to be highly sophisticated – its complexity, however, is constructed in such manner that it is capable of serving a very particular intention. What is Proust’s latent intention throughout his literary enterprise? He wishes to provide us with a type of explanation that would at the same time allow him to speak of the possible (or even recurrent) resurrection of what may be called a moral aristocracy – a resurrection, that is, of a moral ideal based on aristocratic values. Proust’s explanation of the fall, therefore, is such as to explore the issue beyond whatever factors emanating from a particular socio-historical conjuncture.

We shall attempt to present this thread of Proustian thinking as succinctly as possible – rather schematically, we shall argue that the thread is spun around the following basic concepts:

• The fall of the aristocratic milieu is a symptom – even a necessary moment – within the fallen world of time present.
• The fallen world of time present carries with it the flaws of the human condition (time present can only but be a fallen world, and a fallen world can only but be a flawed world – and the flaws of the human condition themselves sustain the fallen world).
• The flaws of the human condition are manifested in an overriding human weakness, that being the force of habit. Such force is a universal law.
• Habit takes the form of vanity and/or snobbery.
• The fallen world of time present – as a universal law itself – is demonstrative of the tragic recognition of the limits of life per se.
• Within the tragic limits of life per se – its inescapable time present – Western society needs to salvage the aesthetic values of the aristocratic milieu.
• Within such tragic limits, further, a select few need to yearn for the utopian realm of aristocratic self-realization, and thereby resurrect a moral aristocracy. Alternatively, one may say that only a select few can come to attain the values of a moral aristocracy or the aristocratic ideal – in their struggle to avoid a decadent or nihilistic pessimism, they would have to operate intellectually in a utopian realm of being.

Now, to begin with, and as regards Proust’s concern with the question of flaws and their implications, Thiher informs us as follows: “Whatever be the mode of writing Proust uses in them [viz. the texts in Pleasures and Days] – narrative, poem, portrait, essay, pastiche – most of them portray the flaws of individuals and of society that destroy the possibility of an aristocratic mode of being …”

With respect to Proust’s understanding of the phenomenon of human habit and its relation to a fallen world or to the Fall (in the specifically Christian sense, but which explains as much the fall of the aristocratic milieu itself), Thiher writes: “Habit is another overriding Proustian theme: indeed it is another law. Samuel Beckett wrote … that in Proust’s work the force of habit is the ballast that chains a dog to its vomit … Habits must be extirpated if one is to find salvation, though doubts about that possibility are certainly allowed. Proust’s pessimism in “Violante or High Society” [a text in Pleasures and Days] overlaps Christian belief, not only in the portrayal of the Fall but also in the story’s view of human weakness …”

The law of habit contravenes the aristocratic ideal as a mode of being. In another Pleasures and Days text entitled “The Stranger”, Proust places the pleasures of the noble mode of being in counterposition to the vulgarities of habit. We are told that the main character in this narrative, Dominique, “sensed he had just sacrificed a noble happiness at the command of an imperious and vulgar habit …” (p. 130).

The universal law of habit manifests itself in the form of vanity (or snobbery). This is a perennial Proustian theme running across all of his writings, whether early or mature. Vanity, as a habit reflective of the human law of the Fall, limits human freedom – viz. the freedom to realize the aristocratic ideal. Thiher explains as follows: “for him [Proust], now and later, vanity is habit, and habit is a universal law limiting freedom in the fallen world of time present. Few characters in Proust have the strength of character to overcome habit, though it might be argued that this is what the narrator does at the end of In Search of Lost Time. It appears that he may free himself from the ballast”.

Human flaws, the force of habit, the phenomena of vanity or snobbery – all these are the offshoots of human nature, and of the universal laws that determine such nature. The aristocratic milieu and its mode of being are not above any of these laws (though there are those “superior creatures” with the strength of character to perhaps extirpate or somehow overcome habit). Since the milieu as a whole is not above such laws, its demise is not merely the product of a particular historical conjuncture – the ultimate decadence brought about by the vanity and snobbery within its aristocratic circles is a form of decadence symptomatic of the human condition itself. For the Proustian worldview, snobs are a timeless phenomenon, and which is a timelessness of all time present. Wishing to explain that the particular historical context (the rise of the bourgeoisie and its own values) is not enough to explain the self-destructive phenomenon of pseudo-aristocratic snobbery in the late 19th century, Thiher writes as follows: “The historical context is diffuse, however, for the narrative perspective in these texts [in The Complete Short Stories] usually suggests a kind of timeless allegory in which snobs are perpetually victims of their own delusions …”

The timelessness of snobbery, it is suggested, is rooted in all of time present – and so also are all delusions. Thiher thus notes that “the dominant theme in Pleasures and Days … is that of the ongoing delusions born of the present moment”. And it is at least in this sense, Thiher points out, that the Proustian worldview would concur with Mallarmé’s position regarding “the impossibility of the transformation of existence”.

A deluded existence, which is the ineluctable human condition in whatever historical conjuncture, is inescapable as it is rooted in the present moment (or time present) – such moment harbours what Proust sees as “an incurable imperfection”. Referring to the text entitled “Critique of Hope in the Light of Love” in Pleasures and Days, Thiher writes as follows: “… the text asserts that … we fail to suspect that the very essence of the present moment is that its harbors within it an incurable imperfection. This is why we rationalize circumstances to account for our misery and do not relinquish our never-disabused confidence in some dream … which will always eventually turn out to be a disappointed dream. Nonetheless we make constant appeal to a dreamed-of future, which also serves to condemn our present moment. The present is forever tawdry in comparison to what the future once promised, precisely for having become the present”. In confirmation of Thiher’s interpretation of the Proustian position with respect to the “incurable imperfection” of all time present, we may here also quote Proust himself in Pleasures and Days, who writes: “… we are like the alchemist who attributes each of his failures to some accidental and always different cause; far from suspecting an incurable imperfection in the very essence of the present, we blame any number of things for poisoning our happiness: the malignity of the particular circumstances, the burden of the envied situation … [etc.]” (p. 143).

Nothing at all can escape the inherent tragedy (the “incurable imperfection”) of a civilization’s time present – absolutely nothing bar one dimension of time, that being its past, and the best which such past happens to secrete within itself. And the implication is that the past can escape the “incurable imperfection” of time present by preserving the erstwhile aristocratic ideal for Western civilization. By so doing, it would also allow the future itself to escape that “incurable imperfection” of time present.

Such a perspective, we shall attempt to show in some detail below, is clearly articulated in various texts of the Proustian literary enterprise – it is this, we shall be arguing, that constitutes Proust’s most valuable realization. But there are also signs of this worldview (as a first realization) in Proust’s early writings, as is evident in Pleasures and Days. Thiher, by way of an example, writes as follows: “The prose poems usually turn on the realization that the present moment is irrevocably a moment of decline and that only the past and the future can escape deception”. Making use of the Tolstoyan worldview, the early Proust then attempts to abort such allegedly irrevocable decline by salvaging the aristocratic quality of the personalities he writes about, especially those that die. Thiher continues: “Young Proust drew upon Tolstoy’s narration [viz. his portrayals of death] as a way of preserving the aristocratic nature of his heroes even in death”. It would therefore be the preservation of an aristocratic ideal emanating from the past that would both check the “incurable imperfection” of the Proustian present moment and at the same time redeem the future.

It is the limits of the human condition that demand of modern Western civilization to salvage – in whichever time present of its history – the aesthetic values of the aristocratic milieu. This need be seen as a utopian project, for it ignores the hard material realities of socio-historical conjunctures. And yet, it may be argued that even the various schools of historical materialism – with Sartre’s own existential Marxism included – would certainly contain elements of utopian hope in their own revolutionary worldview. Fully aware of the demise of aristocratic values in his time, and of the Western world’s resolution to “assassinate” the aesthetic accomplishments of the past (as we shall see), the early Proust would slip into yet another form of utopianism – viz. the need to achieve some form of aristocratic self-realization amongst the select few, and do so despite a tragic recognition of life’s inherent limits. With respect to Proust’s own tragic experiences, Thiher writes of this form of utopianism as follows: “[I]t is certain that his friend’s death and his own illness had also brought him up against limits: these limits are strongly illuminated by the contrast between, on the one hand, a yearning for a utopian realm of aristocratic self-realization and, on the other hand, the tragic recognition that death limits every attempt at transcendence in life”.

Proust can see that delusion and fatality define all of human relations, whatever the historical era – and it is in that very particular sense that one may argue that the Proustian worldview is in fact less utopian than that of all the Marxian schools. But he nonetheless needs to salvage the aristocratic ideal because he wishes to steer clear of whatever nihilism and whatever form of decadent pessimism – in this respect, it would be the philosophical approach of someone like Nietzsche and that of the moralist classics that would safeguard him from such futile pitfalls. In his general appraisal of Pleasures and Days, Thiher makes the following observations: “In general, then, these prose poems depict the loss and deception characterizing all human desire … However, others [viz. other texts therein] are ironic and wittily flippant, which suggests that Proust, like Nietzsche confronting Schopenhauer, knew the value of ironic comedy and sardonic wit in overcoming the temptation of nihilism. Like Nietzsche, Proust was seconded in his resistance to decadent pessimism by his masters in irony, the moralist classics …”

Resurrecting the aristocratic ideal

We have attempted to show that there is a prevailing strand in the Proustian worldview that would wish to see a certain resurrection of the moral and aesthetic values of what was once the aristocratic milieu – and, further, that such resurrection would need to be instituted at the level of Western society in general, or at least at the level of certain individuals within such society. We shall need to further dwell on this notion of resurrection, and do so if only because it can take a variety of subtly different forms in the thinking of Proust.

There are texts in The Complete Short Stories that hint at the notion of resurrection at the level of society, and how such cultural resurrection may occur even within a time present for which one feels a certain antipathy. Consider a world, for instance, in which all sense of style and all sense of taste are lost. What has not been lost, however, is imagination – but this is an imagination that has the capacity to do two things at the same time: on the one hand, it can harbour contempt for the aesthetic values of the present world, albeit a secret one; on the other hand, this disparagement would only be transitory, and, being so, would be able to release a cultural rejuvenation from within the dust originating from time past. It would be precisely such dust – in the sense of the civilizational accomplishments of time past – that would deliver the dream of a new, culturally flourishing milieu. Such thinking (and especially the absolutely vital role of imagination in the notion of cultural resurrection) is evident in a text of Pleasures and Days – this is how Proust puts it: “A collection of bad love songs, tattered from overuse, has to touch us like a cemetery or a village. So what if the houses have no style, if the graves are vanishing under tasteless ornaments and inscriptions? Before an imagination sympathetic and respectful enough to conceal momentarily its aesthetic disdain, that dust may release a flock of souls, their beaks holding the still verdant dream …” (p. 127).

At the level of the individual – or, more accurately, at the level of the select few – the young Proust envisages the functioning of elite groupings whose cultural and intellectual undertakings would be far removed from the dull vulgarities of the many-too-many. In his Pleasures and Days, Proust sees himself as a member of such circles – in fact, he considers such mode of being as his personal life-plan. Thiher notes: “Proust dedicated the book [Pleasures and Days] to a deceased friend, Willie Heath … He goes on to say that he and his friend entertained ‘the dream, almost the plan of living more and more with each other, in a circle of select and magnanimous women and men, sufficiently distant from stupidity, vice and evil so as to feel that we were secure against their vulgar arrows’ …” Thiher thus concludes that “Proust’s ideal world delimits itself by excluding the vulgar and the stupid”.

To the extent that society at large would fail to resurrect the aristocratic ideal (or at least certain salient aesthetic values of such ideal), there would nonetheless still be those “select and magnanimous people” who would resurrect autonomous social circles within French society that would be superior to the cultural vulgarities of time present. This envisaged resurrection of the aristocratic ideal at the level of the individual – or individuals – is fully consistent with the Proustian distinction between the “social self” and the “deep self”. While the former is, in the last instance, a contingent category, the latter is not at all so. The “deep self” can be autonomous of and superior to the social circumstances determining one’s “social self”. On this matter, Thiher informs us as follows: “… in a review of a book … for Le Figaro in 1907, he [Proust] uses critical categories … to wit, the distinction of the social self (le moi social) and the deep self (le moi profond)”. Since le moi profond is not contingent upon the exigencies of society – or upon the particular socio-economic conjuncture characterizing such society – it possesses the superior will to resurrect for itself a mode of being based on the aristocratic ideal.

But the point that needs to be emphasized here is that, whether at the level of society or at the level of the individual, the Proustian project (or dream) is, as Thiher writes, “to found a moral aristocracy”.

The notion of a moral aristocracy in the specific sense of a social ideal is clearly evident in our discussion of “The Fan” above. There are a number of important points made in that text which at this point require some further elaboration. Firstly, we have seen that Proust presents the aristocratic milieu as an ideal mode of life given that its society is a small, harmonious universe, and is so in contradistinction to all other forms of social organization. But secondly, and which is of major significance, such ideal is no historical chimera at all – it had in fact once been realized in the history of the Western world. And thus thirdly, Proust openly expresses the urgent need for a utopian resurrection of such ideal that had once already materialized within French society (elsewhere, Proust will present the resurrection of this social ideal as a necessary precondition for the salvaging of Western civilization as a whole, at least as regards its cultural and aesthetic values). Thiher’s understanding of this Proustian wish is especially useful for our purposes – this is how he interprets Proust’s presentation of the 19th century fan: “Metaphorically, then, Proust’s prose text presents itself as a painted fan, offering through description an iconic representation while also taking the form of homage directly addressed to the deceased Madame de Saussine … Not unlike what one finds in some of Mallarme’s occasional verse, Proust first describes in glowing terms the social ideal that was once realized in this woman’s salon. In lines that echo the wish for utopia evoked in the dedication of Pleasures and Days, Proust says that on the fan she will see … a more harmonious universe than found in the world outside”.

Proust, of course – and as already argued – certainly recognizes the split between time past and time present, it being a split ensuing from the inevitable Fall of the human condition in all of time present. Thiher presents this dimension of the Proustian worldview as follows: “Proust then undermines the description of the [social] ideal by going on to describe other scenes on the fan with a more ‘realistic pessimism’ … With this portrayal Proust anticipates the salon life of the Guermantes [cf. The Guermantes Way, the third volume of In Search of Lost Time] and its radical fall from the ideal the young narrator dreams. This split between a possible ideal world once realized in the past and the real, present world sets out the configuration that leads Proust to the structure of In Search of Lost Time.” Proust, Thiher tells us, would suffer great anguish over this split.

It was Proust’s “realistic pessimism” that would torment him. But we have noted that this pessimism was not a decadent pessimism, and the personal anguish was not ever nihilistic. And thus the Proustian project would make a positive attempt to discover a bridge that would reconcile time present with time past, thereby overcoming the split. This would be seen as a necessary precondition for the survival of French and/or Western civilization – thus, one may say that were such bridge not to be discovered, it would have to be invented. What was that bridge? We shall allow Thiher’s own interpretation of Proust to answer such vital question – this is what he writes: “Proust’s forays into high society, written for Le Figaro and other journals, show that, despite his revels in pessimism, he never stopped being fascinated by the idea of a utopia, as sketched out in the dedication of some of the poems of Pleasures and Days. In his journalism … he projects at times onto his aristocrats a brilliant light to show that they represent an ongoing historical continuity of the best that society once had to offer, always something like a resurrected utopia, as if only the past harbored the conditions of possibility for the ideal”.

The central points of this quotation deserve reiteration:

• Despite the split, aristocratic values yet still constituted an “ongoing historical continuity”.
• That which continued was in fact “the best” that Western civilization could have offered thus far.
• Thus, that which was “the best” had to be continually resurrected.
• Although such resurrection was apparently a utopian project, it nonetheless rested on real “conditions of possibility” emanating from the history of Western civilization.

But the Proustian notion of resurrection requires further clarification. Resurrection is here not meant in the sense of simply repeating the practices of one’s cultural inheritance, or of mechanically reproducing – ad infinitum – an aristocratic cultural milieu in a static and/or commemorative manner. By the way, it would be of much interest to note at this point that the Proustian notion of cultural or aesthetic resurrection may be compared and contrasted to the philosophical thinking of someone like Michael Oakeshott, who would himself argue for a continuity in cultural inheritance, though in a manner that would above all allow people to fully savour their everyday life in the modern world. As in Proust, further, Oakeshott would argue that it is the cultural and aesthetic practices of the individual that should take precedence over politics per se and the workings of the State – it would not be for nothing that Oakeshott would be attacked as the “Proust of Political Science” (cf. Luke O’Sullivan, “Michael Oakeshott and the Left”, Journal of the History of Ideas, vol. 75, no. 3, July 2014, pp. 471-492).

What, then, did Proust mean when he yearned for a “resurrected utopia”? Thiher’s study selects an important extract of Proustian thinking (retrieved from the writer’s journalistic writings) that clarifies the manner in which a resurrection is envisaged. We shall here present Thiher’s own introduction to this extract, followed by the longish quotation itself – we read as follows: “… in depicting how grandly the present Count d’Haussonville inhabits the château of Coppet that belonged to his great grandmother, the celebrated Madame de Staël, Proust describes a scene, again reminiscent of Rabelais’s Thélème Abbey, in which the then-contemporary aristocrats indulge in idle play: ‘It is divine to arrive at Coppet … to come into this rather chilly eighteenth-century residence, both historic and lively, inhabited by descendants who possess both ‘style’ and ‘life’ … It [the château] is a church that is already an historic monument, but in which mass is still celebrated. Mme de Staël’s room is occupied by the Duchesse de Chartres, Mme Récamier’s by the Comtesse de Béarn, Mme de Luxembourg’s by Mme de Talleyrand, the Duchesse de Broglie’s by the Princess de Broglie. They chat, they sing, they laugh, they go out for motor car excursions, they have supper, they read, they do things their own way and without the affectation of imitating the behavior of those of a bygone era, they live. And in this unconscious continuation of life among the things to which they are accustomed, the perfume of the past is emitted more acutely and strongly than in those ‘reconstructions’ of ‘old Paris’ where in an archaic setting the ‘characters of the period’ have been set out and costumed. The past and the present rub shoulders. In Mme de Staël’s library we find M. d’Haussonville’s books of choice’ …”

This extract makes a number of extremely interesting points, all of which allow us to form some idea of how Proust understood the question of resurrection (or of conjoining the aristocratic ideal of the 18th century with at least that of the late-19th century and/or early-20th century):

• The aristocratic ideal (“the best that society once had to offer”) affirms its historical continuity by the sheer fact that the mode of life it expresses somehow continues to be manifested in time present – there is yet still, in other words, evidence of grandness in the present.
• Such mode of life may be defined as grand for two basic reasons: a) it is characterized by a style that emanates from a grand past; and b) it is brimming with life per se, and which may take the form of idle play.
• Since such mode of life subsumes the historic element within the life of time present, it resurrects the aristocratic ideal by adapting it to the present.
• The resurrection is therefore a continuation of the aristocratic ideal, but without any attempt at imitating the behaviour of those aristocrats that had lived in the past – and it is thus also free of whatever pretentions.
• Given that the resurrection is a continuation free of imitation and pretention, it is an unconscious continuation – and it is this unconsciousness that enables “the perfume of the past” to be transmitted into time present in a manner that is both robust and resilient.
• This type of resurrection of the aristocratic ideal is therefore completely unlike the artificial or superficial “reconstructions” of “old Paris”.

Thiher goes on to argue that “There is a ‘divine’ quality to this life [as described in the Proustian extract] deriving from the way in which the past is resurrected in the present as a utopian idyll”. And so he surmises that “Proust could not resist his urges to resurrect paradise lost”. While there is perhaps much truth in such reckoning, one should also add that Proust’s urges were not simply the pronouncements of an absurd impulse. One of his intentions was to contrast the aristocratic mode of life to the style of life expressive of the elites of his own time present – his presentation of the utopian idyll is therefore meant as a critique of such elites, at least as regards their own aesthetic values. It may therefore be argued that the utopian idyll is meant to redeem aristocracy as a mode of being in a world wherein aesthetic values were being downgraded.

It would be overly simplistic, we are suggesting, to wish to reduce the Proustian project (or aspects of it) to the wishful thinking of naïve impulses – such project, in fact, can point to certain very specific material implications for all of time present in the Western world. Proust wishes to see a resurrection of the aristocratic ideal as embodied in specific dimensions of (modern) Western life in their all too material manifestations – and he wishes to see such resurrection despite the Fall of the human condition in its perennial time present.

Which are those dimensions of Western life wherein the aristocratic ideal and its aesthetic values should be either sustained (when these still survive) or resurrected? The dimensions, all of which can sometimes be interrelated, are the following:

• A resurrection related to our appreciation of particular things in the world.
• A resurrection related to our appreciation of the arts.
• A resurrection related to our appreciation of religious buildings, especially cathedrals.
• A resurrection related to our appreciation of aspects of Western tradition.

For Proust, this would yield a unitary Western civilization, and which would itself need to be continually resurrected. We shall examine each of these dimensions in some detail in what follows – our intention, of course, is to compare the Proustian appreciation of such specific dimensions of Western civilization with that of the Sartrean worldview.

The Proustian versus the Sartrean worldview – some introductory remarks

Comparing the Proustian worldview with that of the Sartrean with respect to the world of objects, or that of the arts, or of church buildings, and so on, is not always a straightforward undertaking. We know that Sartre’s philosophical and political writings usually expressed a relatively cohesive doctrine that could be said to have ultimately culminated into what has often been termed existential Marxism. Despite the complex and even contradictory development of Sartrean thought over time, one may clearly pinpoint Sartre’s position on, say, the world of objects. And one may fairly easily trace such Sartrean position on objects to a more generalized critique of Western capitalist production and consumption of commodities – such critique would come to constitute a prevalent milieu (primarily of radical left origins) within the bourgeois milieu, and which would admittedly define the political and cultural history of the 20th century (and which would even spill over into the 21st century).

The case of Proust is not that straightforward, rendering whatever comparison with Sartre rather tricky. Proust’s journalistic and literary projects were of course not meant to propagate a cohesive political doctrine – his personal (let alone political) evaluations of, say, the world of objects, can at times remain unclear. And this is especially so given the well-known Proustian style of ironic comedy, often employed in dealing with the question of things such as objects d’art. But it is our intention here to find the distinctly aristocratic appreciation of objects, works of art and church buildings as embedded in the writings of Proust – and it would be such appreciation that would characterize an aristocratic sensibility and mode of being constituting a discrete milieu to be contrasted with the Sartrean case. In an attempt to find such data within the Proustian enterprise, one can get lost – but the scraps are there: Adam Gopnik’s brief article already cited above helps one to identify “what we find when we get lost in Proust”. What we do find are essential rudiments of the Western aristocratic milieu, a milieu by now lost to the Western world.

One may state that since both the Proustian and the Sartrean social paradigms are children of the self-questioning West (as opposed to the static East), one may find a certain room for their comparison. Alternatively, one may say that since they are the offspring of a single Western history, their different appreciations of the world of objects, arts and churches are explainable in terms of that history. It would be the West’s continual production of new cultural motifs, new milieus and new ideologies that would explain the differences between the aristocratic and the bourgeois (but also anti-bourgeois) modes of life and thinking, and their respective appreciation or non-appreciation of the things around them.

Before undertaking a fairly detailed comparison of such respective appreciation of things on the part of these two contrasting social paradigms, it would be useful to briefly recapitulate on their basic differences of perspective as embedded in the work of Proust and Sartre. This would enable us to identify the basic ideological core of these two paradigms that may help us explain their radically different appreciations.

• In terms of the Proustian worldview, the aristocratic milieu is a mode of living that recognizes the inherent flaws of the human condition and, in so doing, can accept the vices of its members so long as these are hidden from outsiders. Aristocratic morality is therefore such as to suffuse its subjects with a tranquil conscience – and it is precisely this tranquil conscience that functions as a prism through which the objects of the world, the objects of art and architecture are to be appreciated. Such appreciation is seen as part of an ongoing historical continuity of an aesthetic paradigm that constitutes the best that human society could ever have offered to Western civilization – and the resurrection of such a perspective is the resurrection of a utopian mode of being (but with real conditions of possibility) informed by a particular appreciation of objects, art, and architecture.
• In terms of the Sartrean worldview, the bourgeois milieu is a mode of living (or a mode of production) that is absurd – it is a Western world peopled by indecent and inauthentic bourgeois masses that wish to consider themselves proper citizens. Within such dystopian milieu, whatever authenticity and honesty is to be found only amongst its social outcasts who utterly reject the whole of the bourgeois milieu – and they therefore resent all of its by-products, be these the world of objects, its arts and its architecture. Such resentment, further, would also encompass all of the cultural by-products of Western civilization as a whole (it being a civilization marked by oppressive and exclusivist class hierarchies) – for the outcasts, whatever cultural and aesthetic remnants of the aristocratic milieu deserve to be destroyed as well. It is this nihilistic resentment on the part of the outcasts that constitutes the prism through which objects, art and religious buildings are viewed. They harbour a deep contempt for them as they do for all private property, it being the definition of all “pure privilege”.
• Such an interpretation of the Proustian and Sartrean worldviews, as here presented, allows us to attempt a more or less direct comparison of their explicit or implicit positions on certain specific dimensions of contemporary Western life and of the Western civilization in general. We have seen that the Proustian aristocratic ideal is that of the small, harmonious universe characterized by a tranquil conscience appreciative of certain aesthetic values and cultural practices in a closed society. This would stand in stark contradistinction to the Sartrean ideal regarding all of the oppressed and exploited, and especially all of those that have come to constitute the social outcasts. As victims of bad faith, theirs is a consciousness of “ressentiment” targeting all elites and all that these have been able to establish in the Western world and beyond. The Proustian and Sartrean worldviews therefore stand in stark contradistinction as regards a string of closely interrelated issues – they espouse absolutely incompatible positions with respect to moral values, perceptions of social equality, perceptions of property, perceptions of things per se, and perceptions of aesthetic values. It is our intention to investigate the implications of such incompatibility in what follows – we shall, in fact, be describing two radically incompatible worlds within the very history of the Western world.

The question of time, history, and memory

The manner in which one appreciates particular objects, particular artistic and architectural creations, the various artifacts of tradition, and whatever else is related to all suchlike manifestations, presupposes a certain interpretation of time past, present and future. Concomitantly, it also presupposes a certain perception of history, as also a certain evaluation of the role of memory. There is definitely an unbridgeable chasm between the Sartrean and Proustian worldviews as regards the question of time, history and memory – and it is precisely this chasm that explains their radically different appreciation of objects, artistic creations and buildings. It is therefore necessary to explore this chasm prior to a presentation of their disparate appreciation of things in the Western world.

For Sartre, whatever memory of the past is useless – such a position is crystal clear in his Nausea. In his introduction to this novel, Wood counterposes the position of someone like Robert Brasillach on the question of memory to that of Sartre. Writing in 1931, Brasillach would state the following with respect to the French land and its relation to memory: “the land we are part of is above all this well-worn landscape, these well-seasoned words, the supreme ease we feel in rediscovering a street corner, the corner of a sentence, the corner of a memory” (p. xv). Wood goes on to explain that “These sentences appear in a chapter entitled ‘La Terre et les Morts’ (‘The Soil and the Dead’), taken from Maurice Barrès’s novel of that name” (ibid.). Barrès, as we know, had been president of the League of Patriots following the First World War and was a major French thinker that had articulated a political philosophy centered on a form of ethnic nationalism. Both for Brasillach and Barrès, France would be seen as a land “of ancient custom and inherited principle” (ibid.).

Now, before contrasting this type of position regarding the French past to that of the Sartrean worldview, we need to point out that concepts such as “the corner of a memory”, or even “ancient custom” and “inherited principle” may be said to be deeply embedded in certain dimensions of the Proustian aristocratic ideal as presented above. In fact, there was a certain affinity of thought between Proust and Barrès, who were contemporaries attending the same Parisian salons (although there were also important differences between them, especially regarding Barrès’s understanding of French nationalism). Roughly speaking, both revered the best of France’s time past, both articulated a worldview in remembrance of things past.

In direct contrast to both Proust and especially Barrès, Sartre does not recognize whatever value in historical memory. His Roquentin in Nausea is a historically “unanchored” personality – being so, he sees no value whatsoever in a memory of the past and therefore in all things of both time past and time present. Wood explains this as follows in comparing Roquentin’s worldview with that of the “conservatives” (such as Barrès): “For in Roquentin’s unanchored world, there can be no such thing as ‘well-seasoned words’, or the pleasure of an old street corner. In Roquentin’s world there are only Things without names, and the terrifying, endless rediscovery of the entirely arbitrary. No street corner has any justification over another one. Custom dissolves into nothingness” (ibid.).

For Sartre, the Proustian pleasures of memory – recollecting “well-seasoned” words and places and the best that the past has to offer – are nothing more than symptoms of the bad faith of the bourgeoisie. Memory and custom are utterly negated – as Wood points out, the Sartrean worldview reduces these to a useless nothingness.

This absolute denial of the value of memory in Sartre needs to be explored a bit further, allowing us to ferret out the wider implications of such a perspective. In Nausea, we are informed that “existence” – a term which, as we have already noted above, is also politically charged – “has no memory; it retains nothing of what has disappeared; not even a recollection” (p. 190). Such a radically nihilistic position may be compared to that of Camus, who believed that the present could be informed by a certain residual meaning carried over to us from all time past. Wood puts this as follows: “Life was a religious sentence for Camus; he never quite relinquished the idea that meaning has left a residue of itself in the world” (p. xix). Sartre rejects all residue, and therefore all memory, and hence all of historical memory. His perspective is also at odds with the Nietzschean understanding of the relationship between past, present and future, it being an understanding that would be more or less espoused by the Proustian worldview itself. In his Saint Genet, Sartre writes that Nietzsche views “the present as the infinitesimal instant in which the reminiscence of the past merges with the premonitory message of the future” (p. 347). Considering this to be a notion linked organically to the Nietzschean doctrine of the Eternal Recurrence, Sartre is of the opinion that the implicatory concepts of such doctrine are supported by “puerile and abstract arguments” amounting to what he calls a “ballet of argumentation” bar whatever verification (p. 348). Sartre, of course, may be justified in adopting such a position as regards the idea of Eternal Recurrence as a whole – on the other hand, it is his radical nihilism that would not allow him to accept whatever definition of the present involving a “reminiscence of the past”, and which would have a bearing on the future.

Sartre’s Roquentin does not believe in his own past – and he thus also does not believe in the past of others. He therefore does not wish to salvage whatever time past. “How on earth can I”, he asks, “who haven’t had the strength to retain my own past, hope to save the past of somebody else? (p. 139).

“[M]y past”, Roquentin says elsewhere, “is nothing but a huge hole” (p. 95). And it is so huge a hole that it cannot be “filled up”. Time itself, he explains, “is too large, it refuses to let itself be filled up. Everything you plunge into it goes soft and slack” (p. 36). In direct contrast to such a Sartrean understanding of the past and time per se, the Proustian project would insist on filling up time past with a preservation and nurturing of the best that Western culture has had to offer. The best of that huge hole – the aristocratic ideal as encapsulated in its aesthetic achievements – would need to be continually resurrected. Memory and its recurrent appreciation of things past would do that filling up of time, or of time as lived in the Western world.

For the Proustian worldview, it is both personal and historical memory that can salvage the past, and do so in the interests of both the present (always in its “incurable imperfection”) and of the future – it is memory above all that guarantees the Proustian “ongoing historical continuity”. Sartre’s Roquentin, in contrast, sees history itself as pointless and therefore as absolutely unnecessary. Wood explains that Roquentin would choose not to waste his time writing whatever constitutes history per se: “Not a history book, because that is about what has existed, and existence is pointless, is not necessary” (p. xviii). Towards the end of Nausea, Roquentin considers the idea of writing a book – “But”, he thinks to himself, “not a history book: history talks about what has existed – an existent can never justify the existence of another existent” (p. 252).

“[A]ll the past history of the world”, Roquentin asserts throughout the novel, “is of no use to you” (p. 103). But it is not only that history is useless – even if it were of some use, it would still have to be avoided. Roquentin explains why this is so as follows: “Must not think too much about the value of History. You run the risk of getting disgusted with it” (pp. 104-105).

Sartre rejects the past and the memory of its history as he rejects time present. In so doing, he also rejects the future (as we shall see further below, however, the Sartrean rejection of the future is, in the last instance, a future emanating from the present bourgeois milieu). As Roquentin is disgusted by history, so also is he disgusted by the future – and he feels such disgust since both are naked in their nothingness. He muses: “This is time, naked time, it comes slowly into existence [as the future], it keeps you waiting, and when it comes you are disgusted because you realize that it’s been there already for a long time” (p. 50). Since the future has always been there, in the present, the future is the same as the present – Sartre’s Roquentin is therefore incapable of telling the difference between the two. Both present and future are ultimately pointless. This is how Roquentin expresses such thoughts: “I can see the future. It is there, stationed in the street, hardly any paler than the present. Why does it have to be fulfilled? What advantage will that give it? … I can no longer distinguish the present from the future …” (ibid.).

What is the basic ideological core underlying this Sartrean worldview? From a political perspective at least, it may be argued that that which disgusts Sartre about the future is that it has been hijacked by the past, or has been hijacked by a repetition of such past – this hijacking, of course, is precisely what the Proustian worldview identifies as the need for the recurrent resurrection of the past as expressed in the aristocratic ideal. While the Proustian project wishes to remember certain aspects of custom so as to inform both the present and the future, the Sartrean position wishes to obliterate all memory of custom so as to free the future from its erstwhile hijacker. It is in this sense that Sartre wishes to undertake a radical critique of all forms of conservatism (including that of the Proustian paradigm), and their hearkening back to whatever things past. Alfred Betschart points to this notion of the past hijacking the future in typically Sartrean jargon – he writes as follows: “Because of its inertia – the fact that the practico-inert persists for a long time even when it conflicts with the current situation – the practico-inert tends to alienate. For Sartre, practico-inert morality [viz. that which creates the prevailing norms] stands for the hijacking of the future in favor of the repetition of the past” (cf. “Sartre’s Ethics of the 1960’s”, Jean-Paul Sartre – The Website, 14.09.2022).

In what way may the past not hijack the future (or in what way may both present and future escape the past)? Sartre here posits his own Sartrean ideal – and this ideal is of course the case of Jean Genet, the authentic Saint (or the Saint of all Saints, these being the social outcasts). Genet is free of the past – and in that way is authentic as a person – because he has cancelled all of Western history and all of the history of Western values and traditions. As Sartre writes in his Saint Genet, this man “lives outside history, in parenthesis” (p. 5). While Nausea’s Roquentin pined for a life that would not be hijacked by whatever historical past, Genet had the ability to actually live his life outside all of history – he would be able to place a great parenthesis over all that Western civilization had ever achieved, and he would be able to live that parenthesis as an outsider within his own free moral zone. As the corporeal embodiment of the ahistorical parenthesis, this great outcast would deny all historical memory of the past, and thereby implicitly deny the Proustian ideal for a unified culture of the Western world pivoted on a remembrance of the best that Western civilization has had to offer, it being the aristocratic ideal.

Being an authentic person, Genet had no choice but to live on the basis of such an ahistorical parenthesis – the only possible alternative choice that remained for him would be his physical self-destruction. In a passage very much reminiscent of Nausea in its treatment of the question of time, Sartre writes as follows in Saint Genet: “Indeed, what is the point of living? Time is only a tedious illusion, everything is already there, his [Genet’s] future is only an eternal present and, since his death is at the end of it – his death, his sole release – since he is already dead, … it’s better to get it over with right away” (p. 20). It is the feeling of a crippling shame that pervades all of existence in time present – Sartre continues as follows: “To vanish, to slip between their fingers [viz. those of the adult world], to flow out of the present and down the drain, to be swallowed up by nothingness. Who of us has not, at least once in his life, been struck, seized, crippled with shame and has not wanted to die on the spot?” (ibid.). But Genet, who ultimately does choose to go “down the drain” – in the sense of denying all of the values and customs of time present and time past – survives to live the life of the outcast Saint. Sartre tells us that “Genet remains alive, solid, bulky, scandalous, before the indignant eyes of adults” (ibid.).

Genet is a child of nothingness – of the nothingness of time and history. And, rejecting both time, history and whatever civilizational fruits of such history, he chooses to reemerge as a free and authentic person out of that nothingness, and that only. It is only such nothingness that he wishes to recognize. As Sartre writes in Saint Genet, “Since he [Genet] has been cast into nothingness, it is from nothingness alone that he wishes to derive” (p. 81). By deriving from nothingness, he is willfully outside all of Western conventional history. But by being outside that history, he creates his own history – and this is the history of the outcast. Such history, however, is sacred (and it is for this reason that Genet is a Saint). Sartre tells us that “Genet has no profane history. He has only a sacred history …” (p. 5).

Now, in absolute contrast to someone like Genet – and all of the social outcasts – the proper citizens of any bourgeois town would be proud of certain things in time present precisely because such things come from the past. Speaking of the dwellers of Mudtown in Nausea, Sartre’s Roquentin can see that their feelings about their town are not at all those of his own – he observes as follows: “I have come down into the cour des Hypothèques to smoke a pipe. A square paved with pink bricks. The people of Bouville are proud of it because it dates from the eighteenth century” (p. 45). We have already discussed how Sartre would reject both the town of Bouville and all of its proper citizens as bourgeois “Bastards”. And yet, their pride, which hearkens back to the eighteenth century, suggests a radically different manner as to how they lived time past (and all of history) within their time present. Their manner would be more or less reflective of the Proustian worldview and its own espousal of a certain historicism – and which may be sharply contrasted to the ahistorical parenthesis as expressed in the person of Saint Genet and the world of social outcasts. With respect to Proust’s specific understanding of historicism, Thiher makes the following highly insightful observations: “Proust develops this historicism with his own nuances. He greatly values the fact, for example, that past works of art bring about the resurrection of the past, not only referentially through their themes and situations but also in their very material substance. Time lost is restored, for example, by the historically marked syntax and semantics of the language in a play by Racine or by the aging stones set in two medieval columns on the piazetta next to St. Mark’s Basilica … From Proust’s perspective the Venetian columns intercalate concrete moments of the twelfth century into the present; whereas Racine’s syntax restores the materials of speech existing at the time of Louis XIV”.

Thiher’s observations on what he identifies as a very specific formulation of Proustian historicism are central to our understanding of how Proust would view questions relating to time, history and memory – they also allow us to gauge the deep chasm that divides this perspective from that of the Sartrean need for an ahistorical parenthesis and the overcoming of a past that hijacks the present. We may reiterate the basic Proustian positions as follows:

• The restoration of time lost is vital to the Proustian project – it is, by the way, what we might call the central philosophical concept that permeates all of Proust’s mature work as manifested in his In Search of Lost Time (and as Thiher himself points out).
• The resurrection of things (such as works of art, architecture and suchlike) from time past within time present is not simply an activation of their function as referents – things are not to be understood as dead objects that merely point back to an as dead past.
• Rather, resurrection is said to come about when the material substance of things inserts concrete moments of the past into time present.
• Time is certainly being lost in the process of history, but – for Proust – such time may be restored (alternatively, as in the Sartrean worldview, it may simply be cancelled).

According to Thiher, the Proustian understanding of historicism was based on a deep appreciation of the work of John Ruskin, the English polymath of the Victorian era. Thiher explains this as follows: “… it is accurate to say, as does Bisson and a host of later critics, that Proust’s encounter with Ruskin was fundamental for his development of the concept of memory as embodied in material objects, especially in art and architecture. It could be argued, in fact, that Proust’s sense of history is largely derived from Ruskin’s historical work, seconded by his reading of Émile Mâle’s studies of gothic iconography”. Mâle, as we know, was a major medievalist of French Gothic art and architecture – his studies, which appeared in the late-19th/early-20th centuries, would explore “the Gothic image”, and which would also have a profound influence on Proustian historicism (to be further discussed in some detail below).

Our brief examination of the contrasting positions of the Sartrean and Proustian paradigms on the question of time, history and memory may now allow us to consider how each of these worldviews would approach the world of things, of the arts, of the architecture of churches, and of Western culture and tradition as a whole. Deeply embedded in such contrasting considerations would also be a radically different appreciation of the aristocratic milieu and its aesthetic values.

Of things in the world

In Nausea, Sartre’s Roquentin speaks of the “unsubstantiality of things” (p. 112) – nothing of all that surrounds him looks real. He feels “surrounded by cardboard scenery which could suddenly be removed” (p. 113).

For Sartre, this “unsubstantiality of things” means, inter alia, that words no longer refer to their referents (and cf. Wood’s introduction to Nausea, p. x). Sitting on a seat that is a seat in name only, Roquentin reflects as follows: “Things have broken free from their names. They are there, grotesque, stubborn, gigantic, and it seems ridiculous to call them seats or say anything at all about them: I am in the midst of Things, which cannot be given names. Alone, wordless, defenceless, they surround me, under me, behind me, above me” (p. 180).

Such an interpretation of the world of things may here be compared with that of the Proustian worldview, and may be done so as regards the specific issues of substantiality and referential functionality. As we have seen in our presentation of the Proustian version of historicism, Proust would argue that things are not mere referents, although they are that as well. Further, and again in direct contrast to the Sartrean position, these referents carry material substances, and they cannot therefore be seen as “unsubstantial”. And it is this particular substantiality of things that allows them to insert concrete moments of the past into the present. The possibility of such insertion endows things with a major functionality in the historical process – viz. things operate as the connectors of time, or they connect time past with time present. It is things, therefore, that may resurrect elements of a past milieu within a present milieu.

The Proustian worldview is such as to allow for an affirmative continuity within Western history and civilization – and it is in this sense that it is opposed to all forms of nihilism and decadent pessimism. Within such context of affirmative continuity, the Western individual does not stand alone and defenceless in the face of things (as happens in terms of the Sartrean perspective). Much more importantly for the Proustian approach, it is this affirmative continuity that allows one to pick and choose the best that time past has to offer so as to inform and enrich the present – this means that one does not willfully dwell on the grotesqueness of all things (as does Sartre’s Roquentin), but rather on a selection of those things that are of aesthetic value. While Sartre finds it ridiculous to have to say anything at all about things, Proust wishes to recall and resurrect the cultural aroma of certain things past. And so whereas Proust wishes to salvage those things that reincarnate within their materiality the best of the concrete moments of the past, Sartre would wish to cancel all things by placing an ahistorical parenthesis on all Western milieus that have created the grotesqueness of such things.

Given their grotesque superfluity, Sartre argues, things are merely oppressive. Wood writes as follows: “Things – a pebble, a beer glass, a tree, his own hand – oppress Roquentin with their heavy contingency, and their awful superfluity” (p. x). As in the case of history, and as also in the case of the future, Sartre’s Roquentin is as much disgusted by things themselves – this is what he tells us: “There was something which I saw and which disgusted me, but I no longer know whether I was looking at the sea or at the pebble. It was a flat pebble, completely dry on one side, wet and muddy on the other. I held it by the edges, with my fingers wide apart to avoid getting them dirty” (p. 10). Being oppressive and disgusting, things are simply bad – it is such state of affairs in the world that plunge Sartre’s Roquentin into a state of nausea. “Things are bad!”, he tells us, “Things are very bad: I’ve got it, that filthy thing, the Nausea” (p. 32). It is the sheer contact with things that causes nausea – Roquentin explains: “Now I see; I remember better what I felt the other day on the sea-shore when I was holding that pebble. It was a sort of sweet disgust. How unpleasant it was! And it came from the pebble, I’m sure of that, it passed from the pebble into my hands. Yes, that’s it, that’s exactly it: a sort of nausea in the hands” (p. 22).

While the terms used in Sartre’s Nausea to describe Roquentin’s relationship with things are hardly abstract or not at all subtly complex – words such as grotesque, disgusting, filthy or nauseating are all certainly brutal in their rawness – one cannot deny that they are nonetheless expressive of an intricate philosophical worldview that would mature in his 1943 Being and Nothingness. And one may therefore suppose that the Sartrean worldview on things is meant to explain the superfluity and contingency of all of human existence as such, yielding thereby a purely existentialist project free of whatever political connotations. There is a certain truth in such a reading of the Sartrean project – that, however, is definitely not the whole of the truth. In fact, an overly neutral reading of Sartre would constitute a complete misunderstanding of his intentions, which are openly political. Things disgust Sartre’s Roquentin because they behave like the bourgeoisie. The things that oppress Roquentin are things of a milieu, that being the bourgeois milieu. And much more than that, they are things that belong to all oppressive milieus across historical time – they are, in other words, the oppressive things of Western civilization as a whole.

The fact that Sartre’s Roquentin is disgusted by things because of their bourgeois demeanour is explained by Wood as follows: “He [Roquentin] looks again at the trees, and decides that they did not want to exist but are unable to kill themselves. So they go on, like good little bourgeois, performing ‘all their little functions, quietly, unenthusiastically’ …” (p. xi). The feeling of nausea is induced by the “good little bourgeois” milieu that permeates all that surrounds someone like Roquentin.

But, we are suggesting, it is not only things of the specifically bourgeois milieu that disgust Roquentin – he is disgusted by things relating to all the oppressive milieus in Western history. And he is disgusted by Western history and the things it has produced for a very basic reason: Western civilization has reduced all things to private property. This moral indictment (and which is of course reflective of all Marxian paradigms) pervades the entire Sartrean project – in Nausea, it is expressed in passages such as the following: “A soft glow; people are in their houses, they have probably turned on their lights … They read, they look out of the window at the sky. For them [very much unlike Roquentin], … it’s different. They have grown older in another way. They live in the midst of legacies and presents, and each piece of furniture is a souvenir. Clocks, medallions, portraits, shells, paper-weights, screens, shawls. They have cupboards full of bottles, material, old clothes, newspapers; they have kept everything. The past is a property-owners luxury” (p. 97). The Western masses, in other words, live their lives surrounded by things that point back to the past – that past, however, is composed of a chain of things that are linked to each other as private property. People cling on to such private property, and by so clinging, they are alienated and unfree. With respect to his own relationship with things and the question of freedom, Roquentin muses: “Where should I keep mine? You can’t put your past in your pocket; you have to have a house in which to store it. I possess nothing but my body; a man on his own, with nothing but his body, can’t stop memories; they pass through him. I shouldn’t complain: all I have ever wanted was to be free” (ibid.). Thus, when people do harbour memories of the past, such memories are based exclusively on a private ownership of things, and it is precisely such type of ownership that has always deprived – and still deprives – the Western masses of their authenticity and freedom.

The Sartrean approach to things, and the closely related question of private property, is perhaps most eloquently handled in Saint Genet. Put in a nutshell, this is how Sartre views things vis-à-vis all the outcasts of the Western world – he writes: “Rejected by things, the outcast rejects them in turn …” (p. 258).

By rejecting things, the outcast redefines himself with respect to all other proper bourgeois citizens in the Western world – he redefines himself, in other words, with respect to “the just” of that world and, in so doing, he declares his own free zone of justice. Sartre writes: “Since the others, the just, define themselves by their operation, since they are called masons, carpenters, architects, why should he [Genet as an outcast] not be defined by his? The truth of the constructor is the constructed object: Genet aspires to find his truth in the object he destroys; he thinks he is transformed into a proprietor by the negation of all property … [But] society reorganizes itself elsewhere with its prohibitions and its utensils” (p. 262). It is again crystal clear here that the Sartrean ideal is the negation of all private property – and by negating private property, Sartre rejects the meaningfulness of all objects as these operate in the Western world both past and present.

The rejection of all things as private property yields the revelation that there is nothing behind all things – in Nausea, Roquentin observes: “Things are entirely what they appear to be and behind them … there is nothing” (p. 140). There is therefore no past, no history and no memory in things – the Proustian material substantiality of things carrying moments of time past into the present is thereby entirely lost to the Western individual. All things are simply empty of the past and of their history, and thus empty of all past moral and aesthetic values. It is this revelation that allows Roquentin to free himself of a time present that has been hijacked by the past and the things of the past – the revelation entitles him to see nothing in time present but its own self. Time present and the things that exist therein, therefore, are also placed within an ahistorical parenthesis. Roquentin expresses this self-salvaging ahistorical parenthesis as follows: “I looked anxiously around me: the present, nothing but the present. Light and solid pieces of furniture, encrusted in their present, a table, a bed, a wardrobe with a mirror – and me. The true nature of the present revealed itself: it was that which exists, and all that was not present did not exist. The past did not exist. Not at all. Neither in things nor even in my thoughts. True, I had realized a long time before that my past had escaped me. But until then I had believed that it had simply gone out of my range … Now I knew” (pp. 139-140).

This particular revelation of the true nature of time present and the things that exist therein is a revelation that may be said to announce a major politico-ideological paradigm – by placing the present and its things within an ahistorical parenthesis, it announces the dissolution of all Western custom and/or tradition into nothingness (and as has already been discussed above). Of course, it is only the “unanchored” outcasts – themselves living such ahistorical parenthesis – that can share in such revelation, and can thus be considered the carriers of social salvation (this being a central element of the Sartrean politico-ideological paradigm).

It is quite obvious that such a willfully ahistorical (or even anti-historical) understanding of things stands in stark contradistinction to the Proustian worldview. We may now examine the Proustian approach to the world of things in slightly greater detail. Consider the manner in which both Sartre and Proust see things as encrusted within something – while for the former things are encrusted within a frozen, ahistorical present, for the latter things are encrusted within “the spirit” of a particular historical era that is part and parcel of the history of the Western world (cf. “The Fan”, pp. 51-52). Proust sees particular museum exhibits as objects that continue to carry within their own materiality the aesthetic values of a past milieu, and do so despite the indifference of his own contemporaries. In “Lost Waxes”, a text included in Pleasures and Days, Proust addresses Cydalise – symbolic of a society woman that he admired – as follows: “I would have wanted to see you hold some goblet or rather one of those ewers …, ewers that, empty in our museums today, raise their drained cups with a useless grace” (p. 43). While now deposited in museums and no longer of any use, these objects nonetheless continue to embody the aesthetic pleasures of time past – he continues: “and yet once, like you, they constituted the fresh sensual pleasures of Venetian banquets, whose final violets and final roses seem to be still floating in the limpid current of the foamy and cloudy glass” (ibid.). We need notice that, for Proust, the “fresh sensual pleasures” of time past, as encrusted in certain objects, may be seen to be “still floating” in time present.

Proust would of course be critical of the manner in which his contemporaries would relate to the objects of the past – ewers, he tells us, are “empty in our museums today” and their inherent grace is now “useless”. But he would also be as critical of the manner in which the remnants of the Parisian aristocracy would themselves relate to the objects of the past – their view of things could only but have been expressive of the demise of their milieu. Yet still, his critical observations with respect to objects of time past (we have already noted his ironic comedy and sardonic wit in texts such as those of Pleasures and Days) nonetheless allow us to probe into his own understanding of the meaningfulness of things past. We may here consider the following quotes from a collection of texts entitled “Regrets, Reveries the Color of Time” in Pleasures and Days. Proust presents us with a dialogue between an orderly and his retiree officer – the dialogue goes as follows: “… ‘Captain’, said his orderly several days after the preparation of the cottage, where the retired officer was to live until his death (which his heart condition would not keep waiting for long). ‘Captain, now that you can no longer make love or fight, perhaps some books might distract you a little. What should I buy for you?’ …” The retiree officer responds to his orderly in a manner that is highly revealing of the Proustian understanding of things past and their relationship to the memory of time past – this is what he says: “… Buy me nothing; no books; they can’t tell me anything as interesting as the things I’ve done. And since I don’t have much time left, I don’t want anything to distract me from my memories. Hand me the key to my large chest; its contents are what I’ll be reading every day’ …” (p. 117). The meaningfulness of things past lies in the memories they embody for time present – it is these that should be read.

All of the objects (or relics) stored in the officer’s chest function as referents – they refer to the officer’s past life, and in so doing they actually depict his life as a continuum of time past and time present. These objects are certainly the luxury of a property-owner (as Sartre would point out), but they are a personal luxury in the very specific sense that their material substance salvages the concrete moments of the officer’s life as a whole – and the salvaging of the concreteness of such moments is also a salvaging of the person’s past sentiments and emotions. Proust shall tell us that the relics stored within that chest act as referents to “the least minutiae” of the officer’s life, and thereby compose an “immense fresco” of the life of that person (or that of any individual who appreciates the objects stored within his own private chest). This is how Proust puts it: “Among all those things [in the chest] there were the slight but clear-cut traces of sensuality or affection tied to the least minutiae of the circumstances of his [the officer’s] life, and it was like an immense fresco that, without narrating his life, depicted it, but only in its most passionate hues and in a very hazy and yet very particular manner, with a great and touching power” (ibid.).

The officer’s choice to read the contents of his own chest – and read nothing else but these contents – is a choice based on a will to appreciate things as referents to time past. By making such a choice, the officer places these things within a historical perspective – he is therefore in possession of that “perspective depth” that Proust would find lacking in his contemporary French females (as discussed above in examining the spirit of an era and its ultimate demise). By appreciating things within their historical perspective, the officer wishes to cure the “incurable imperfection” of his own time present (and which for him is anyway very limited in time). The cure is the regaining of past charms through memory – it is the activation of the function of an affirmative memory that is effected as things are disclosed in their deep perspective depths. Proust shall argue that things of time present can reassume their meaningfulness so long as we maintain the “deep perspectives” of our own “soul” – he expresses this in Pleasures and Days as follows: “No sooner does an approaching hour become the present for us than it sheds all its charms, only to regain them, it is true, on the roads of memory, when we have left that hour far behind us, and so long as our soul is vast enough to disclose deep perspectives” (p. 142).

The reacquisition of the meaningfulness of things by disclosing them in their historical perspective could salvage an individual who is retiring from life, as in the case of the retiree officer. Perhaps much more importantly, however, such disclosure of objects in history can salvage a whole civilization. Proust would see Western civilization as a continuum of objects created by the multifarious modes of being that have sprouted within the history of that civilization. We have already referred to Proust’s deep appreciation of the work of John Ruskin, as had been identified by literary scholars such as L.A. Bisson, and especially with respect to the concept of memory as embodied in material objects. In a 1944 essay on Proust’s intellectual development, Bisson would further emphasize both Ruskin’s influence on Proustian thinking, as also the central role of objects in the maturing Proustian worldview. “Where”, asks Bisson, “does Ruskin come into this maturing vision?” His response is as follows: “In Proust’s admiration for Ruskin in general two elements are worth isolating here. The first is the warmth of his response to Ruskin’s theme of the survival of men, unknown or long-forgotten, in the houses or churches they built, in the work of the craftsman’s hand and tools; and blended, often identified with this, in his ardent insistence that Ruskin’s truest memorial is in the objects he loved and praised” (cf. Thiher).

We may now wrap up this presentation of the Sartrean and Proustian positions on the objects of the world by roughly summarizing their respective approaches as follows: Sartre sees the meaningless contingency of things (and therefore of people themselves, bar the outcasts) in all of Western civilization; Proust sees a meaningful array of certain customs and traditions as immersed in objects (and therefore in people) of the whole of Western civilization. This radical divergence in their respective appreciation of things shall also mean as radical a divergence in their appreciation of objects d’art, and therefore in their appreciation of the arts in general. It is to this issue that we shall now turn.

Of the arts

Sartre’s Nausea has much to tell us about Mudtown’s (or Bouville’s) museum and the paintings exhibited therein. Roquentin, who as we know visits the museum, refuses to indulge in any noteworthy or impartial aesthetic appreciation of all that is exhibited – it is not the aesthetic value (or absence of such value) that interests him. What truly concerns him is the social content of the portraits hanging on the walls. As noted in discussing the bourgeois elites above, Roquentin informs us that the Mudtown museum’s portraits – meticulously painted by Renaudas and Bordurin – depicted all who had ever belonged to the Bouville elite since the late-19th century. That had been the singular intention of the two artists, and that was the very purpose of the museum itself – viz. to depict elite power, and nothing more. To the extent that Roquentin does indulge in whatever aesthetic appreciation of these portraits, this appreciation is deeply prejudiced by his sheer revulsion for all the bourgeois elites (which, as noted above, he refers to as “the Bastards”). All of the portraits exhibited are a representation of the supposedly eternal historical attainments of the town’s elite – the paintings are therefore mere carriers of a politico-ideological paradigm legitimating elite power. And all these alleged works of art are a condensation of the “mauvaise foi” or “bad faith” of the bourgeoisie (Wood, xiii).

But Sartre’s Roquentin goes even further: he not only dismisses the need, on his part, for whatever independent aesthetic appreciation of these portraits, he also rejects the ability of all museum visitors to indulge in any such appreciation. Bad faith is not only evident in the paintings themselves – it is also evident in the very eyes of the bourgeois beholder. Wood comments on Sartre’s presentation of the museum and its visitors as follows: “The scene in the gallery is perhaps the only weak one in the book. It is too long, too heavy-handed, and somewhat cruel. Roquentin looks at the portrait of Rémy Parrottin, by Renaudas. And then a bourgeois couple enters the gallery, impressed by precisely what revolts Roquentin. The man exclaims: ‘Parrottin of the Académie des Sciences … by Renaudas of the Institut. That’s History!’ We are supposed to laugh at this man’s mindless veneration, his respect for musty institutions. This man is clearly a walking dictionary of idées reçues. Yet instead, we feel the fat hand of didacticism; we feel Sartre urging us to agree with Sartre. There is something a little propagandistic about the scene (as Sartre’s later novels would become increasingly didactic)” (ibid.).

Wood’s critique of the Sartrean presentation of the museum scene certainly sounds rather harsh. But it is, we believe, quite justified. To further verify this, it would be useful to present here the relevant Nausea passage in full: the Sartrean revulsion of both the paintings and the museum visitors shall become perfectly apparent. The passage reads as follows: “A lady and gentleman had come in. They were dressed in black and were trying to make themselves inconspicuous. They stopped, dumbfounded, on the threshold, and the gentleman automatically took off his hat … ‘Ah! Well I never!’ said the lady, deeply moved … The gentleman regained his composure more quickly. He said in a respectful tone of voice [as he viewed the portraits]: … ‘It’s a whole era!’ … ‘Yes,’ said the lady, ‘it’s my grandmother’s era.’ … They took a few steps and met Jean Parrottin’s gaze. The lady stood there gaping, but the gentleman wasn’t proud: he had a humble appearance, he must have been very familiar with intimidating gazes and brief interviews. He tugged gently at his wife’s arm: … ‘Look at this one,’ he said. … Rémy Parrottin’s smile had always put humble folk at their ease. The woman went forward and painstakingly read out: … ‘Portrait of Rémy Parrottin, born at Bouville in 1849. Professor at the École de Médecine, by Renaudas.’ … ‘Parrottin of the Académie des Sciences,’ said her husband, ‘by Renaudas of the Institut. That’s History!’ … The lady nodded her head, then looked at the Master. … ‘How handsome he is,’ she said, ‘how intelligent he looks!’ … The husband made a sweeping gesture … ‘These are the people who made Bouville what it is,’ he said simply” (p. 132).

It is all too obvious here that the museum’s visitors are by definition bourgeois, and the portraits they behold are bourgeois paintings. These bourgeois visitors can see nothing in these paintings but bourgeois history. And all that they can appreciate in these works of art is their symbolic representation of outdated bourgeois institutions. In this particular case at least, Sartre’s position on Western art is lucid: such art simply reproduces the stereotypical values of the bourgeoisie. Further, Sartre sees a total absence of aesthetic sense in both the creators of such art and in the beholders of it.

Yet still, one may say that Sartre does in fact venture on a certain type of evaluation of these museum paintings. His evaluation focuses on what he calls “the power of art” – art, in other words, has the capacity to distort reality in a manner that enables it to glorify elite power. And it is precisely this that the Mudtown museum portraits attempt to do: they wish to immortalize people who were in fact mere “midgets”. Roquentin comments on the portrait of Olivier Blévigne, the now dead Bouville deputy, as follows: “The power of art is truly admirable. Of this shrill-voiced little man, nothing would go down to posterity except a threatening face, a superb gesture, and the bloodshot eyes of a bull. The student terrorized by the Commune, the bad-tempered midget of a deputy: that was what death had taken. But, thanks to Bordurin, the President of the Club de l’Ordre, the orator of Moral Forces, was immortal” (p. 136).

Having examined the Sartrean evaluation of paintings in Nausea, we may now present Sartre’s – as disdainful – evaluation of Mudtown’s statues. His approach is yet again focused on an ideologically-based rejection of bourgeois art. We may here consider what Roquentin has to say about a bronze statue of Gustave Impétraz, a school inspector and writer, and which is said to be positioned in a square of Mudtown. This is what he says: “I look Impétraz full in the face. He has no eyes, scarcely any nose, a beard eaten away by that strange leprosy which sometimes descends, like an epidemic, on all the statues in a particular district. He bows; his waistcoat has a big bright-green stain over his heart. He looks sickly and evil. He isn’t alive, true, but he isn’t inanimate either. A vague power emanates from him, like a wind pushing me away” (p. 47).

There are some basic points made in this passage that may help us understand the essentials of the Sartrean worldview with regard to the statutes of the Western world – these include the following:

• Here, it is not only the particular statute of Impétraz that Sartre wishes to denounce as typically bourgeois – what Roquentin has to tell us about the statue located in Mudtown can also apply to “all the statues” found in the various districts of France.
• The Mudtown statue depicts a “sickly” man – and he is so because he is an inauthentic person carrying all of the sickness of time past.
• Because he carries such sickness, and because he wishes to hijack the present with his leprosy, he is also an “evil” person.
• Emanating from such sickness and evil is above all an assertive sense of power – it is this power that insists on hijacking the present.
• The sense of power embedded in the statue is deeply alienating (“like a wind pushing me away”), at least for people like Roquentin and all the social outcasts.

These points are confirmed, further explained and expanded on when Roquentin proceeds to talk about the viewers of the Impétraz statue, and the manner in which they react to it. This is what he says: “These ladies in black, taking their dogs for a walk, glide beneath the arcade, hugging the walls. They rarely come right out into the daylight but they cast furtive, satisfied, girlish glances at the statue of Gustave Impétraz. They can’t know the name of that bronze giant, but they can see from his frock coat and top hat that he was somebody in high society. He holds his hat in his left hand and rests his right hand on a pile of folio volumes: it is rather as if their grandfather were there on that pedestal, cast in bronze. They don’t need to look at him for long to understand that he thought as they do, exactly as they do, on all subjects. At the service of their narrow, firm little ideas he has placed his authority and the immense erudition drawn from the folio volumes crushed under his heavy hand. The ladies in black feel relieved, they can attend peacefully to their household tasks, take their dogs out: they no longer have the responsibility of defending the sacred ideas, the worthy concepts which they derive from their fathers; a man of bronze has made himself their guardian” (p. 46).

For Sartre, the function of this statue is to remind the proper citizens of Mudtown of their “guardian” – this is the “guardian” of “their narrow, firm little ideas” and of “the sacred ideas” of the past. The statue represents a “guardian” of past bourgeois values that have hijacked the present, and thereby obstructs any progressive vision of the future.

What is the Sartrean position with respect to classical music? In Nausea at least, Sartre wishes to argue that the art music of the Western world is to be scoffed at – its basic function is to create illusions of self-consolation. Rejecting classical music, Sartre’s Roquentin would rather listen to a popular song sung by a Black woman in a café: it is such type of music that escapes superfluity. As we shall further see below, this is the music of the social outcasts. Wood writes as follows about Roquentin’s musical tastes: “He scoffs, in his bourgeois-bating way, at the idea that music ‘consoles’. Those idiots who go to hear Chopin or Wagner and emerge ‘refreshed’! But he begins to think about this melody sung by a Black woman … The tune is untouchable, in a sense. There is a scratch in the café’s record, but the tune plays on, unaware of the scratch. This is because the melody exists beyond its record player, beyond the instruments that play it. ‘It is beyond, it does not exist, since it has nothing superfluous: it is all the rest which is superfluous in relation to it. It is.’ The melody stays the same” (p. xvii).

Sartre’s Roquentin expresses a total and utter derision for all of the Western fine arts, and for all Western culture as practiced in concert halls. Those who participate in such cultural practices are rejected as “idiots”. Roquentin expresses such sentiments as follows: “To think that there are idiots who derive consolation from the fine arts. Like my Aunt Bigeois: ‘Chopin’s Preludes were such a help to me when your poor uncle died.’ And the concert halls are full to overflowing with humiliated, injured people who close their eyes and try to turn their pale faces into receiving aerials. They imagine that the sounds they receive flow into them, sweet and nourishing, and that their sufferings become music, like those of [Goethe’s] young Werther; they think that beauty is compassionate towards them. The mugs.” (p. 246).

The Sartrean position on the arts of the Western world comes down to a total, ideologically-based rejection of all of its high culture – it is therefore a denouncement of Western high art in its various manifestations. In its place, Sartre would opt for a certain, oppositional popular culture. Thus, as Flynn notes in his philosophical biography, “Sartre has long valued the ‘democratization’ of art” (p. 256). But Sartre’s notion of “democratization” has always had a very specific meaning: of course, it would naturally argue for an art that is anti-elite and anti-bourgeois. It goes much further than that, however: the Sartrean position would also argue for an art that is anti-bourgeois citizen or that stands in opposition to the norms and values of the normal (or proper) bourgeois masses, and it would therefore be an art that would be distinctly hostile towards all Europeans (we shall be investigating such a radical position further below). The Sartrean position would thus be deeply critical, not only of high art itself, but also as much critical of the everyday popular culture of what Marcuse would, by 1964, dub the “one-dimensional [Western] man”. To put it simply, when Sartre values the “democratization” of art, he merely expresses his exclusive support for the popular art of the social outcasts of the Western world, and none other.

The Sartrean position on art may now be juxtaposed to that of the Proustian. The latter is above all based on an exclusively aesthetic appreciation of the world of Western art. It thus expresses a celebration of all of the high art of Western civilization (though Proust does have his own particular aesthetic preferences). More than that, however, the Proustian position can also express a deep respect for Western popular culture itself – and it does so even when the artistic products of such culture are “bad”. This, as we shall see, would be expressive of the “charity of good taste” towards bad taste. The Proustian position, further, would harbour a deep respect for such popular culture given its social functionality – viz. its necessary role in effecting a certain “consolation” for the human condition.

With respect to Proust’s appreciation of Western high culture in particular, we may here simply refer to an extract in Pleasures and Days included in a section entitled “Portraits of Painters and Composers”. Proust pens a special prose poem addressed to the Flemish Baroque artist, Anthony van Dyck. Part of this prose poem reads as follows: “Anthony van Dyck/ Gentle pride of hearts, noble grace of things/ That shine in the eyes, velvets and woods,/ Lovely elevated language of bearing and poses/ (The hereditary pride of women and kings!),/ You triumph, van Dyck, you prince of calm gestures,/ In all the lovely creatures soon to die,/ In every lovely hand that still can open;/ Suspecting nothing (what does it matter?),/ That hand gives you the palm fronds!/ … Royal children, already grave and magnificent,/ Resigned in their garments, brave in their plumed hats,/ … Standing, but relaxed, in this shadowy haven,/ Duke of Richmond, oh, young sage – or charming madman? –/ I keep returning to you; a sapphire at your neck/ Has fires as sweet as your tranquil gaze” (p. 84).

Proust’s appreciation of the work of Western canonical artists such as Anthony van Dyck is based on his concomitant admiration of the values and aesthetics of all things aristocratic. Thus, the recurrent symbolic language of this prose poem includes themes such as the following (and all of which are directly related to the aristocratic worldview):

• The theme of pride (even hereditary pride) and bravery.
• The theme of the noble grace of things.
• The theme of elevated language (and thus that of high art).
• The triumph of calm gestures (and thus of high culture).
• The triumph of all such aesthetic values over both life and death – thereby suggesting that high art functions as a protective illusion in the face of the fallen human condition and the “incurable imperfection” of time present.

What of Proust’s position with respect to Western popular culture and its relatively “bad” products? One should begin by noting that – and in what seems to be highly paradoxical vis-à-vis the Sartrean position – Proust’s espousal of aristocratic aesthetics does not at all hinder him from showing a deep respect for the Western popular masses and their immersion in popular culture. We have already noted how Sartre would despise the Western bourgeois masses and their mode of life – that was the Sartrean political understanding of Marxism. In contrast, the Proustian position would be respectful of the popular masses and their cultural practices – and it would be respectful, not despite its aristocratic worldview but, rather, precisely because of such worldview. The aesthetic supremacy of the aristocratic worldview would mean that it would not feel threatened by whatever popular aesthetic values – its supremacy would give it the moral power to be both understanding of and charitable towards the values of the masses. Pleasures and Days includes a text entitled “In Praise of Bad Music” that certainly reveals a brilliant dimension of Proustian historicism – and the thrust of which may be compared to the later Marxian historicism of thinkers such as Antonio Gramsci, Raymond Williams, Eugene Genovese, E.P. Thompson, Eric Hobsbawm and others, all of whom aimed at researching the everyday cultural practices of the popular masses. While obviously from a completely different ideological standpoint, the young Proust would write as follows: “Detest bad music, but do not make light of it. Since it is played, or rather sung, far more frequently, far more passionately than good music, it has gradually and far more thoroughly absorbed human dreams and tears. That should make it venerable for you. Its place, nonexistent in the history of art, is immense in the history of the emotions of societies. Not only is the respect – I am not saying love – for bad music a form of what might be called the charity of good taste, … it is also the awareness of the important social role played by music …” (p. 126).

This truly incredible thinking on the part of Proust – coming from someone who would almost always live and thrive intellectually within the salons of Parisian high society – manages to articulate a position on the arts (but especially music) that operates on two distinct though interrelated levels:

• On the one hand, Proust presents us with a general methodological plan (as would a philosopher of history or a theoretical historiographer) aimed at dealing with the question of art and its historical development. The plan identifies two different types of history, both of which are relatively autonomous with respect to the other. There is, on the one hand, the history of art. And there is, on the other, the history of social emotions – emotions would here include popular ideology, popular taste and popular cultural practices. These two realities of history are not reducible to each other – both, however, preserve their own exclusive value in the field of historiography.
• On the other hand, Proust presents us with a general prism through which all forms of cultural practices are to be viewed, this being the prism of the aristocratic worldview. It is only this particular worldview that allows one to both value the supremacy of high art and culture for its own aesthetic taste and at the same time maintain an awareness of the reality of popular art and culture as regards their role in social history itself. Thus, the self-sufficient aesthetic supremacy of high art has the luxury to be charitable towards non-high art and culture. And it is the clear and tranquil conscience of a recurrently resurrected aristocratic morality (in the sense discussed above) that allows it to look down on popular culture with a “venerable” eye.

The “social role” of popular culture (and especially that of popular music) is, as Proust tells us, the absorption of “human dreams and tears”. It is this capacity to absorb human passions that allows popular music to fulfill its basic function – viz. that of the emotional consolation of the masses. But given the “incurable imperfection” of all time present, it is not only the masses that may be in need for such consolation – even those who refuse to listen to “bad music” can nonetheless acknowledge that its musical notes secrete the passions (miserable or joyous) of humanity. Thus, while an individual with an aristocratically “well-bred ear” may wish to refuse to listen to bad composers, the tunes of “bad music” can serve as a consolation for him as well – he too (as with the masses) may be exposed to human grief or human joy. Proust expresses this important caveat as follows: “Since the common folk, the middle class, the army, the aristocracy have the same mailmen – bearers of grief that strikes them or happiness that overwhelms – they have the same invisible messengers of love, the same beloved confessors. These are the bad composers. The same annoying jingle, to which every well-born, well-bred ear instantly refuses to listen, has received the treasure of thousands of souls and guards the secret of thousands of lives: it has been their living inspiration, their consolation …” (ibid.).

And thus, while someone with an aristocratically “well-bred ear” possesses the privilege of telling the difference between high art and popular cultural practices, he nonetheless shares the same human condition with all the rest that cannot tell any such difference, and he therefore has no choice but to respect the popular cultural practice of listening to “bad music”. He may even find himself indulging in such “bad music” – he may find himself sharing the same “confessors” with all those that never had a “well-born” ear. Proust here points to an intra-class phenomenon, and which may be contrasted to the stark dividing line drawn by Sartre between the mode of being of the so-called bourgeois masses and that of the social outcasts of bourgeois society (for Sartre, of course, it is precisely this cultural collusion between the upper and lower classes – as implied by the Proustian approach – that leads him to the need to draw his stark diving line between the outcasts and all the rest in society, all of whom happen to be compromised).

Proust’s presentation of this intra-class cultural phenomenon – while obviously maintaining a crystal clear distinction between high culture and low culture – suggests that all social strata wish to intoxicate themselves with the illusion of beauty (we have already discussed the Proustian emphasis on the various needs for mechanisms of illusion above). He tells us that songs expressive of “bad music” – or what he calls “ditties” that are “worthless in an artist’s eyes” – nonetheless do “supply the intoxicating illusion of beauty” (ibid.). And all social strata need just such intoxication because they happen to share in the incurable tragedy of simply being ephemerally alive.

For the Proustian worldview, importantly, that “intoxicating illusion of beauty” constitutes the different levels of cultural practices – from the high levels of art per se to the low levels of popular music – that have come to define the identity of Western civilization (and that, despite its internal ruptures across historical time).

Of churches and church buildings

There is yet another reality of Western civilization about which the Sartrean and Proustian worldviews may be said to hold absolutely irreconcilable positions – this concerns the cultural and aesthetic value of churches and/or cathedrals. Above, we have made mention of how the Proustian worldview would uphold the need for a resurrection of the aristocratic ideal as embodied in specific material dimensions of modern Western life – as noted, one such material dimension would be related to Western man’s aesthetic appreciation of religious buildings and especially of certain categories of cathedrals. We intend to explore this extremely important aspect of Proustian thinking in what follows. Before we do so, however, we shall need to explore Sartre’s own thinking with respect to churches in the Western world.

In his Nausea, Sartre is not much concerned with the religious or aesthetic function of churches in Western society. As would be typical of a rather vulgar Marxist approach to the question of things religious, Sartre quite surprisingly presents us with a flatly economistic understanding of a church’s raison d’être in the Western capitalist world. His Roquentin explains the establishment of a church in Mudtown in terms of just such an economistic paradigm – he tells us the following: “Bouville, thanks to the patronage of Heaven, now had a first-class economic position; wouldn’t it be fitting to build a church in which to give thanks to the Lord?” (p. 65).

This vulgar economistic interpretation as to why the Mudtown church would be built is followed by an as crude an analysis attempting to explain how the church’s particular construction site would come to be chosen. Sartre’s explanation comes down to something approximating a quasi-Marxian class analysis – Roquentin tells us that the place where the church would be constructed would express a compromise between the old and the new bourgeoisie of the town. We read as follows: “… the [Bouville] municipal council held an historic meeting and the Bishop agreed to organize a subscription [towards financing the construction]. All that remained to be done was to choose the site. The old families of business men and ship-owners were of the opinion that the building should be erected on the summit of the Coteau Vert, where they lived, ‘so that St Cécile could watch over Bouville like the Sacré-Coeur de Jésus over Paris’. The new gentlemen of the boulevard Maritime, who were few as yet but extremely rich, objected: they would give what was needed, but the church would have to be built on the place Marignan; if they were going to pay for a church, they intended to be able to use it; they were not reluctant to give a taste of their power to that haughty bourgeoisie which treated them like parvenus. The Bishop hit on a compromise: the church was built half way between the Coteau Vert and the boulevard Maritime, on the place de la Halle-aux-Morues, which was baptized place Sainte-Cécile-de-la-Mer” (pp. 65-66).

Sartre does express a certain aesthetic evaluation of the Mudtown church – the evaluation may be said to be rather curt and ungracious. This is how Roquentin puts it: “This monstrous edifice, which was completed in 1887, cost no less than fourteen million francs” (p. 66). Apart from refusing to recognize whatever aesthetic value in the Mudtown church, Sartre is here yet again primarily concerned with the economic aspect of the church’s establishment.

The Sartrean rejection of church aesthetics is of course not limited to his Nausea – and what he writes in that novel is not simply meant to be an attack on a Christian church in some obscure locality in France. His intention is to cancel the aesthetic value of all Christian churches throughout the history of Western civilization. With reference to the 4th century, Sartre would – like Georges Sorel – describe the aesthetics of Christian churches constructed at the time as mere “stupid luxury”. He quotes Sorel in his Saint Genet as follows: “Authors of works of Christian archeology inform us of the extraordinary luxury displayed in the Christian churches of the fourth century at a time when the Empire was so greatly in need of money. It was the stupid luxury of parvenus. The following are a few examples: in the baptistery of the Lateran, a porphyry piscina, the inside of which was lined with silver; a gold lamb and seven silver stagheads spurting water; two silver statues, five feet high, weighing 190 pounds” (pp. 197-198).

Sartre’s attack on the aesthetics of Christian churches as a “stupid luxury” is at the same time an attack on all the aesthetic values of the European aristocracy in general – he would always see a close historical kinship between the rise of Christian churches and the power of aristocratic establishments in the Western world (a dimension of Sartrean thinking to be further discussed below). Thus, in his Saint Genet, he writes as follows: “Aristocrats have made gold useless by applying it to the walls of churches” (p. 201). Directly relating the aristocratic order with the emergence of Christian saints, he describes their allegedly common milieu in terms of the useless religious edifices that they have created on European soil – he tells us that “the world [of aristocrats and saints], abandoned, empty, rises up like a useless cathedral”. Therein, he continues, “Man [as such] has withdrawn from it [the world] and offered it to God” (ibid.).

How is this Sartrean position on Christian churches (and their supposedly close relationship to the aristocracy in general) to be compared with the Proustian position? To begin with, we may simply note, with Thiher, that the question of religion plays a very important role in Proustian thinking. Thiher reminds us that “Religion is an important theme in Proust”.

Now, in our discussion of the Proustian appreciation of material things, we have already noted that Proust would come to see Christian churches as expressive of the survival of Western civilization – that, at least, would be his “maturing vision” as discovered in the work of Ruskin. We have also noted above that Proust’s focus on the concept of memory as embodied in material objects would yield a sense of Western history the high culture of which would revolve around “the Gothic image” (and which would include both Gothic iconography and Gothic church architecture). Specifically with respect to the significance of the Gothic cathedral in Proustian thinking, Thiher makes the following highly important observations – he writes as follows: “In Pastiches et mélanges, Proust … calls attention to the state of the Gothic cathedrals damaged or destroyed by artillery fire during the world war that has just ended. This somber title [“In Memory of the Assassinated Churches”, a section of his Pastiches et mélanges] … suggests that Proust’s belief in the lasting nature of art had been severely shaken … After the war Proust undoubtedly recognized that his prefatory texts to Ruskin’s works were rooted in a nineteenth-century worldview, by which I mean his concern with art was rooted in an era for which the destruction of cities and churches was not part of its historical experience. Before the war, Proust, with Ruskin, viewed the Gothic cathedrals, whose existence spanned centuries, as nearly everlasting monuments in which the historical past lived into the present. It was with the sense of the sublimation of history into the present that Proust had wanted the tourist to be able to use the essay “Ruskin at Notre-Dame d’Amiens” as a guide to the cathedral”.

Proust’s 1919 Pastiches et mélanges, of course, would not in any way express a diminished faith in the functionality of the Gothic cathedral in Western history – Proust would continue to appreciate “the Gothic image” as a material manifestation of the historical continuum symbolizing the best of Western civilization. It would be the Gothic cathedral, above all, that would constitute the sublimation of the past into the time present of the West. The war, however, would certainly diminish his faith in the capacity of his contemporaries to salvage the past for the present – he would voice his deep concern for a modern Western world that could so easily “assassinate” its own past cultural manifestations. To put it otherwise, post-war Proust would certainly never come to doubt the inherent value of the Gothic cathedral as a continuum of Western civilization – rather, he would see extraneous forces (such as the First World War) attempting to “assassinate” such continuum.

Proust, in fact, would insist in his struggles to protect the cathedrals of his country in the aftermath of the First World War. Thiher writes: “And later, though saying goodbye to Ruskin, he drew upon him again, as well as Mâle’s study of Gothic architecture, to make a critique of an anticlerical project to disenfranchise and nationalize the cathedrals”.

What was it in Ruskin especially that would impel Proust to keep returning to the thinking of that Victorian sage? To put it simply, Ruskin’s work would enable Proust to reconceive the relationship between the Bible, the church and church architecture in a completely different light – it would be these three interrelated phenomena that would constitute the narrative of the Judeo-Christian (and therefore Western) civilization. Thiher explains this as follows: “… the Bible is translated into the cathedral’s statues, telling the Judeo-Christian narrative. From this perspective the Bible is not an archaic text but lives in full presence in the stones and statues found in Amiens [viz. the Notre-Dame d’Amiens]. This is what Ruskin taught Proust … at a time when he did not understand that medieval sculpture contains within it the living soul of those artists who believed the Bible’s words”. And thus, through Ruskin, Proust “finds in the church a perpetually resurrected past that is not dead”.

Proust’s consistency as regards his understanding of the relationship between the Bible, the church and church architecture is clearly evident in his In Search of Lost Time. Therein, his quasi-fictional town (or, rather, village) by the name of Combray is dominated by its Gothic cathedral. Proust expresses his admiration and love for the church’s Gothic architecture, and especially so with respect to the church’s steeple, it being the most beautiful aspect of the construction. Such love and admiration shall remain ever-present in his memory – and by so remaining, the Proustian project wishes to continually resurrect the aesthetic value of “the Gothic image”. But it is not merely aesthetic admiration that motivates Proust to focus on Combray’s Gothic church: if, according to Ruskin, the Bible translates into cathedral aesthetics (thereby narrating the Judeo-Christian civilizational paradigm), Proust’s own childhood experiences in Combray are such as to effect a unity between various secular objects and religious practices, all centered around the town’s Gothic church (and it is the memory of these experiences that would constitute the manner in which Proust would live his own sojourn within the history of Western civilization). Thiher presents this unity of objects and religious practices in the Proustian memory as follows: “The description of objects in the boy’s bedroom linked with religious practices complements the image of the ever-present church at the center of the village”.

One may generally go on to draw the important conclusion that, for both Proust and Ruskin, it is the development of the Western, Christian civilization that is mirrored in the aesthetics of Gothic cathedrals in general, and especially so in the case of the cathedral of Amiens. Proust’s 1904 annotated translation of Ruskin’s The Bible of Amiens had just this specific purpose in mind – viz. to bring to light the tight relationship between Western culture and the best of its church architecture. And it may therefore be said that Proust is attracted to the church for two distinct reasons: firstly, and naturally so, given the aesthetics of church buildings; but secondly, given the role of the church as a cultural institution organizing Western civilization.

Thiher makes the following extremely important observations regarding Proust and the question of the Christian church: “In these writings on Ruskin, Proust’s attitude towards Christianity is positive, however much he distrusts what he sees as Ruskin’s brand of aestheticized Protestantism … Proust was drawn to the church not only for its aesthetics but also for its role as a cultural institution. This attraction animates an early essay published under a pseudonym in Le Banquet in 1892. In it he had attacked his era’s ‘materialism’, asserting that France owed to Christianity all that it had accomplished of value, be it in the domain of action or of speculation. His examples of Christian action and speculation were, respectively, France’s exporting Christianity to its colonies and its having given birth to Descartes and Pascal”.

Proust therefore sees Christianity as the major contributor to French (and thus also to Western) civilization, and to all that such civilization had been able to achieve that has been of any truly historical value, including philosophical treasures produced by certain intellectual giants of the West. We should also notice Proust’s position as regards France’s colonies at the time – a position that would obviously be absolutely despicable to the Sartrean moral and political worldview.

The degree to which Proust appreciated the contribution of Christian aesthetics to Western culture in general becomes most apparent when he wishes to compare religious aesthetics to modern-day Western secular culture. Thiher informs us as follows: “In the essay “La mort des cathédrals” (“The Death of the Cathedrals”), he criticized the government in 1904 for failing to understand the symbolic beauty of the Catholic liturgy. Proust went so far as to say that it is a spectacle superior to Parisian theater or Wagnerian opera”. It is, surely, this acknowledgement of the superiority of certain religious cultural practices that marks the Proustian understanding of the Western mode of being, and which is a mode of being based on a continual resurrection of certain cultural values emanating from the West’s time past. The implication here would be that, were such cultural values to be cancelled (as Sartre would have them cancelled), the identity of Western civilization would itself be effaced.

And thus, in terms of the Proustian worldview, the “genius” of France – and similarly of the Western world itself – was above all secreted in the non-secular Gothic cultural paradigm. Thiher continues as follows: “He [Proust] was ironically restrained but obviously disheartened at the prospect that the Gothic cathedrals – considered by him to be the highest and most original expression of France’s genius – might be converted into casinos or lecture halls”.

In discussing the Sartrean position on Christian churches, we have noted how Sartre would combine his attack on the aesthetics of churches as a “stupid luxury” with a concomitant attack on the aesthetic values of the European aristocracy in general. In direct contrast to this Sartrean position, and based on our presentation of Proust’s appreciation of aristocratic aesthetics as discussed above (the best that human history has offered, and so on), we may now conclude that the core Proustian ideal would be consummated through the combined interaction of both aristocratic and Christian church aesthetics. It would be the combined resurrection of the aristocratic ideal together with the resurrection of “the Gothic idea” as evident in cathedrals that would yield the continual resurrection of Western civilization. In Pleasures and Days, at least, it is Proust’s Honoré who perhaps best expresses this combined interaction of the two aesthetic paradigms – Thiher informs us that Honoré is “A nominally religious aristocrat”.

Having identified the Proustian position on Christian church aesthetics and their relationship to the aristocratic ideal, we may now return to Sartre’s own politico-ideological stance with respect to all Christian churches and to all aristocratic orders as manifested in the history of the Western world. We have noted that, in terms of the Sartrean worldview, there is a very specific historical interconnection between the Christian church as a whole and the Western aristocracies in general – it would be useful for our purposes at this point to briefly investigate exactly how Sartre would understand this tight interconnection. In his Saint Genet, he writes as follows: “Christianity – which was born with the first emperors, triumphed over the Lower Empire and reigned over the feudal world – emanated from a society based on agriculture and war. The Church expressed, in its own way, the ideals of the Roman aristocracy and, later, of the feudal aristocracy. It proved its power by wasting human labour” (p. 197). Here, and which is of course typical of a Marxian philosopher (but then also as typical of any Western political economist whatever his political allegiances), it is on the wastage of labour that Sartre chooses to focus on. The question of aesthetic value is of no concern to him at all.

Sartre, further, sees a tight interconnection between the Christian church and the aristocracy in their apparent “generosity” towards the so-called lower classes of Western societies (what Proust would himself identify as the “charitable” stance of the aristocratic milieu – cf. above). This is how Sartre approaches the question of “generosity” in his Saint Genet: “The church has borrowed from the aristocracy its generosity in consumption, and part of the aristocracy starts, in turn, to imitate the Church. Paulinus, son of a former prefect of Gaul, left the world after giving his wealth to the poor; Pammachius, after the death of his second wife, gave up his fortune and became a monk, though not without first inviting all the beggars of Rome to a feast. These ostentatious acts perpetuate the secular traditions of the Roman government. For a long time, the plebs had been the passive object of the emperor’s largesse. The avowed aim of this liberality was not, as can be imagined, to lead this ‘lumpen-proletariat’ to participate in social and political life, but rather to divert it, to maintain it in its abjection. Similarly, individual acts of aristocratic generosity do not eliminate pauperism; they perpetuate it. It is the yawning chasm into which aristocrats throw their wealth, as the King of Thule threw his cup into the sea. The donor is quite aware that he will not enrich anyone; it is for that reason that he gives to beggars. He sells his land in order to ply the poor with drink, but it does not even occur to him to turn the land over to the peasants who farm it. Nor for a moment does he dream of helping small shopkeepers, of creating hospitals and free schools” (p. 198).

The apparent generosity of the aristocratic order, Sartre argues, is not only meant to maintain the ‘lumpen-proletariat’ in a state of abjection – it is thereby also meant to destroy whatever vestiges of civil society as a whole, and do so in a manner that is unproductive for all (and which relates to the wastage of labour as mentioned above). Sartre continues as follows: “The acts of prodigality [viz. the spending of large amounts of money, etc.] must not profit. One goes from the productive to the unproductive … Thus, charity is merely a pretext, and each of these acts of largesse, though it may overstimulate trade and impart to it an ephemeral appearance of health, concurs, by virtue of its consequences, … in destroying civil society” (pp. 198-199).

Summarily, in terms of the Sartrean worldview, the tight historical interconnectedness between the aristocratic order and the Christian church in the Western world would mean a wastage of labour, a wanton generosity intended to maintain domination, a destruction of civil society and of its capacity to produce wealth for itself. The combined forces of Church and aristocracy standing against the potentialities of civil society would mean that these two historical powers shared, in the last instance, a common ethic – this common ethic, Sartre tells us, was an affirmation of “the absolute right of property” (a theme which, as we have seen, is also explored in Nausea). Sartre continues as follows in his Saint Genet: “The aristocratic ethic has taken on a religious aspect; it has been covered over with Christian myths and rites, but it has not changed in substance: the consumer is God the Father; one gives, one destroys, ‘for the love of God’, not for love of the poor; the relinquishment is not to anyone’s real benefit, it is accompanied by the public destruction of abandoned possessions, and as one takes credit for getting rid of them, this merit, which is recognized by everyone, is, as a consequence, the deep and manifest affirmation of the absolute right to property. As eminent owner of the goods which he spoils, the aristocrat raises himself above them as in the past. But the fact is that, from this point of view, the elevation brings him closer to the Eternal Father: his act is confirmed by a heavenly judgment” (p. 199).

However, while this aristocratic ethic affirms the right to property – and does so through the confirmation of the Christian faith – it is nonetheless incapable of using such property in any socially productive manner. This, according to Sartre, would lead to the ultimate ruination of the aristocratic milieu in general. He writes of the ruination of both the milieu and its ethical values as follows: “At most, the merchandise becomes an idol: it is produced by workers from whom it is taken away in order to be destroyed ritually by idlers who do not enjoy it. To take an extreme situation, one can assume a secular society in its death throes: peasants working themselves to death so that aristocrats can die of hunger near burned crops. Of course, matters never reach such a point. Most of the rich will prefer to consume with enjoyment. Foreign wars will give the illusion of a constant renewal of possessions. Social movements, the infiltration of barbarians and then the appearance of a merchant class will modify the structure of the society. Finally, the aristocracy will only ruin itself; the progress of industry will transform consuming societies into producing societies” (pp. 199-200).

We may here make a number of observations with respect to this Sartrean presentation of the ruination of the aristocratic milieu and its ethical paradigm:

• The ruination of the milieu – which we have in any case discussed in some detail above – cannot only be explained in economic terms (viz. its unproductive social order). Cultural and politico-ideological factors would also play a determining role in its demise – and especially as regards the manner in which the West would come to see itself in the course of modern history. While some Western thinkers and social groupings would emphasize the unitary hypostasis of Western civilization, there would also be oppositional groupings that would wish, not only to question such hypostasis, but to actually deny the moral raison d’être of the whole of Western civilization (as would Sartre).
• Perhaps much more importantly, it may be argued that the ruination of a milieu (such as the aristocratic-cum-Christian mode of being) would not necessarily also imply the utter ruination of its aesthetic values. While a particular milieu may disappear, its aesthetic accomplishments could continue to survive within a subsequent milieu (or milieus) in some form or another.
• The aesthetic values of the aristocratic-cum-Christian paradigm would not much survive with the up-and-coming modern world and in what Sartre refers to as “producing societies” – such societies, in fact, would give birth to philosophies and social movements many of which would wish to eradicate all modes of production (and their concomitant cultural paradigms) that had come to characterize the social formations of Western civilization.
• While Proust could only but recognize the rise of the modern world (his own literary project was of course moulded in a form that heralds modernity), he would nonetheless wish to see Western tradition as a unitary continuum that would encompass the best of the aesthetic values of time past (the Church as a cultural institution and the aesthetics of the aristocratic world would be seen as part of the best elements of time past). We shall need to further dwell on this Proustian appreciation of Western cultural tradition, always keeping in mind how such an appreciation would stand in stark contradistinction to the Sartrean position.

For a unitary Western tradition

Proust, it is said, was especially concerned with the historical development of French and European culture – the Proustian worldview wishes to assert that nothing really dies in the history of such development. Thiher informs us as follows: “In the prefatory piece “John Ruskin”, Proust shows that he was drawn to Ruskin’s idea that nothing seemingly dies in history, at least in the Western tradition that concerns him”. It is the permanence of cultural accomplishments that defines a unitary Western tradition. Thiher continues that “This view significantly inflected Proust’s view of Christianity, for it meant that religion was permanently a part of the living past in French culture. He largely accepted Ruskin’s thesis that art makes the past live into the present, in this case the Christian art that encapsulates centuries of European and French cultural development”.

This unitary Western tradition would encompass, not only the aristocratic and Christian aesthetic ideal as embedded in created material objects, but would also include elements of the ancient Greek aesthetic ideal. It is such co-existence of a variety of cultural entities that would continue to define – and thereby resurrect – all of Western culture up to and including time present (or, rather, Proust’s own time present). Discussing the impact of Ruskin’s thinking on that of Proust, Thiher writes as follows: “If Proust could not accept the literal truth of resurrection – though he seems to have been tempted by it – he was apparently willing to endorse Ruskin’s neo-Christian belief that in art nothing dies. In developing these ideas, Ruskin himself sets out the thesis that two great streams of tradition, which he defined as the Greek and Gothic cultures, have constantly entertained fruitful mutual oppositions throughout European history. Ruskin finds the Greek strain running from Homer to St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice and then manifesting itself in Ruskin’s favorite painter, J.M.W. Turner; whereas the Gothic culture, springing from the Frankish tribes, underlies the Gothic cathedrals. Proust may have noticed that rather little in the way of the Gothic seems to be present in most modern painting. In any case he certainly noticed the role played by St. Mark’s in Ruskin’s history of Western culture. The upshot of this opposition Ruskin found perennially at work in Western culture is the affirmation that certain ‘eternal realities’ continue to exist in the present. It is the quest for these realities that Proust finds at the heart of Ruskin’s writings”.

This variety of cultural entities that have been “perennially at work” in time – or in the historical time of Europe – define Western cultural civilization. It is time that has come to forge the particular of modes of being in the West – and, of course, it is the function of time that has organized the Proustian literary quest as a whole. It is also this selfsame function that organizes Proust’s own appreciation of the unitary Western tradition. Thiher notes that “the Judeo-Christian image of the utopian garden is never far from his [Proust’s] mind when he thinks about time”.

While the cultural entities that have come to define Western civilization across time are evident in created material objects, such materiality (the material substance of, say, aging stones set in ancient or medieval columns, etc.) is not at all meant in the strict materialist sense. It goes without saying that Proust’s appreciation of Western culture is certainly not expressive of a materialist worldview. Thiher explains this by referring to the thinking of Ruskin and how that would influence Proust – he writes: “As he [Proust] sees it, Ruskin’s is a quest for a reality that is neither exclusively material nor intellectual. This is because the reality art encompasses involves both, which means that the artistic genius can perceive reality in different material forms. Hence it is a matter of indifference whether the reality is expressed in paintings, music, or poetry”.

What, generally speaking, is the Proustian “commitment” with respect to a unitary Western tradition? Thiher describes this as succinctly as possible – he tells us that Proust was committed to “maintaining a unified cultural tradition, both as a reality and an ideal. This tradition is necessary for the genesis of a living contemporary culture. The descriptive and the prescriptive overlap in his vision of what is the basis for culture: empirically he argues that the canonical tradition is in fact the basis for contemporary artistic creation; and he argues prescriptively that it is imperative that tradition be respected. In this regard he endorses Ruskin’s historicism that makes of the canonical past the source of the present”.

A case of conflicting humanisms

We have thus far attempted to explore the impassable ideological chasm that spans the Sartrean and the Proustian worldviews, and their respective understanding of the Western world. In brief, we have seen that while Proust would argue for a unitary Western culture, Sartre would argue for the negation of such alleged unity, for the negation of the Western bourgeois world, and for the total negation of its dominant culture (past and present). But what is it that underlies such radical divergence? Our purpose here is to show that that divergence is based on a radically different comprehension of the concept (and practice) of humanism – we have already argued in Paper 1 that the history of the Western world has been characterized by what we have called “an orrery of cultural paradigms”, and which has in fact been an orrery of conflictual ideologies of humanism, thereby yielding oppositional humanisms. It is within such historical context that one may interpret the radically divergent manner in which Sartre and Proust would comprehend the Western ideology of humanism. We shall be arguing below that their contrasting humanisms would revolve around different appreciations of life per se – while Proust would dwell primarily on a person’s “inner life” and his memory of time past, Sartre would emphasize a person’s being “in the world”.

Before we undertake an examination of the distinct humanisms as articulated by these two thinkers (and which would be reflective either of one’s “inner life” or of one’s being “in the world”) we shall need to make the following simple clarifications: Firstly, and as is being suggested, both Proust and Sartre would espouse a particular understanding of humanist ideology; secondly, both would be critical of certain particular understandings of humanist ideology; but thirdly, there would be no common ground between them either in their espousal or in their critique of whichever humanist worldviews.

We may commence by firstly considering Sartre’s own critique of humanism. Nausea’s Autodidact, the fictional character who lives in Mudtown and spends his time reading every book in the local library in alphabetical order, is a humanist. But his particular humanism takes the form of an intellectual pursuit. Wood’s introduction to Nausea summarizes for us how Roquentin, who interacts with the Autodidact, views both the person and his humanism – we read that “The Autodidact is ridiculous because he is a soft-hearted humanist, and because he has got all his knowledge from books” (p. ix). Speaking disparagingly of “this tender-hearted fellow”, Roquentin describes the Autodidact’s humanism as follows: “… his love of mankind is naïve and barbaric: he is very much the provincial humanist” (p. 163).

In his interaction with the Autodidact and his naïve humanism, Sartre’s Roquentin goes on to present us with a range of types of humanists that people the Western bourgeois world. This is what he has to say: “What can I do? Is it my fault if, in everything he [the Autodidact] tells me, I recognize borrowings, quotations? Is it my fault if, while he speaks, I see all the humanists I have known reappear? Alas, I’ve known so many of them! The radical humanist is a special friend of civil servants. The so-called ‘Left-wing’ humanist’s chief concern is to preserve human values; he belongs to no party because he doesn’t want to betray humanity as a whole, but his sympathies go towards the humble; it is to the humble that he devotes his fine classical culture. He is generally a widower with beautiful eyes always clouded with tears; he weeps at anniversaries. He also loves cats, dogs, all the higher animals. The Communist writer has been loving men ever since the second Five-Year-Plan; he punishes because he loves. Modest as all strong men are, he knows how to hide his feelings, but he also knows how, with a look or an inflection of his voice, to reveal, behind his stern justicial words, a glimpse of his bitter-sweet passion for his brethren. The Catholic humanist, the late-comer, the Benjamin, speaks of men with a wonder-struck air. What a beautiful fairy tale, he says, is the humblest life, that of a London docker, of a girl in a shoe factory! He has chosen the humanism of the angels; he writes, for the edification of the angels, long, sad, beautiful novels, which frequently win the Prix Femina” (p. 168).

There are two basic observations that need to be made here with respect to this important extract from Nausea:

• By pointing to different types of humanism, this brilliant extract constitutes a confirmation of the notion that the Western world has given birth to an array of different humanisms. It is suggesting that there is no such thing as Humanism per se – if the latter does exist, it is the manufactured product of a certain ideological practice, and not at all expressive of an all-inclusive natural propensity. Such a position, of course, is also a confirmation of our findings as presented in our above-mentioned Paper 1, pointing to the contradictory orrery of humanisms characteristic of the Western world. We may further note at this point that the extract’s acknowledgment of different types of humanism shall allow us to effectively compare Sartre’s own understanding of humanism with that of Proust’s.
• This Nausea extract also wishes to do something else: it is obvious that it wishes to debunk all types of Western humanism – all varieties are merely reflective of bourgeois society and its values. For Sartre, all types of humanists are in the last instance bourgeois humanists, whatever be their ideological pronouncements. Such a position, of course, shall lead Sartre to a variety of radical political positions which, albeit rather inconsistent with respect to one another in the long term, shall nonetheless come to express very specific attitudes as regards the Western world as a whole.

Sartre’s Roquentin continues by arguing that, not only are there different types of Western humanism, but that these types wish to negate one another. Again, this is an important observation with historical implications concerning the modern Western world, pointing as it does to the possible irreconcilability of different sets of humanist ideology (a state of affairs which may be said to have come to a climax in the 21st century, and which we have discussed in some detail in Paper 1). Roquentin observes as follows: “Those are the principal types [of humanism]. But there are others, a swarm of others: the humanist philosopher who bends over his brothers like an elder brother who is conscious of his responsibilities; the humanist who loves men as they are, the one who loves them as they ought to be, the one who wants to save them with their consent, and the one who will save them in spite of themselves, the one who wants to create myths, and the one who is satisfied with the old myths, the one who loves man for his death, the one who loves man for his life, the happy humanist who always knows what to say to make people laugh, the gloomy humanist whom you usually meet at wakes. They all hate one another: as individuals, of course, not as men. But the Autodidact doesn’t know it: he has locked them up inside him like cats in a leather bag and they are tearing one another to pieces without his noticing it” (p. 169).

It may be argued that the irreconcilability of these different types of humanism – their wish to annihilate one another – can only but yield an ideological system that is inherently unstable. Such instability can only be managed – or to a certain extent regulated – by manufacturing an all-encompassing hegemonic ideology of supra-Humanism, attempting to integrate all of the conflictual scraps of Western humanism. It is such integrative fusion of the different types that produces the dominant bourgeois ideology of Humanism. Since Sartre’s Roquentin rejects the bourgeois world as a whole, he also refuses to participate in this integrative fusion. This is what Roquentin has to say regarding the “digestive” capacity of Western humanist ideology: “… humanism takes all human attitudes and fuses them together … it digests all … It has digested anti-intellectualism, manicheism, mysticism, pessimism, anarchy, and egotism: they are nothing more than stages, incomplete thoughts which find their justification only in humanism. Misanthropy also has its place in this concert: it is simply a discord necessary to the harmony of the whole. The misanthrope is a man: it is therefore inevitable that the humanist should be misanthropic to a certain degree. But he is a scientific misanthrope who has succeeded in determining the extent of his hatred, who hates men at first only to love them better later … I don’t want to be integrated, I don’t want my good red blood to go and fatten that lymphatic animal: I am not going to be fool enough to say that I am an ‘anti-humanist’. I am not a humanist, that’s all” (pp. 170-171).

In Nausea, Sartre is merely preparing the theoretical ground for his own special position (or, rather, positions) with respect to humanism – as we shall see further below, he will later come to articulate a more complex appreciation of the humanist ideology, and which will have very specific political implications. We shall see that Sartre’s Saint Genet, for instance, will be espousing a particular form of humanism that would certainly not address itself to all of Western humanity, and it would not wish to support a Catholic-inspired “humanism of the angels” (or in any case a humanism embracing the traditional working class) – rather, the Sartrean political worldview shall opt to articulate a morality of the outcast (and which would therefore be an exclusivist morality and an exclusivist humanism).

We may now turn to Proust’s own critique of humanism. In his presentation of “A Dinner in High Society” (cf. above), Proust tells us that one of the invitees to that dinner is a “humanist”. What is it that Proust has to say about that type of person? We are told that “The humanist … read too much, ate too much. He quoted and burped …” (p. 101). And further: “… the humanist … kept quoting Homer in order to excuse his own bouts of gluttony and drunkenness in other people’s eyes …” (p. 102).

One may make a number of observations based on these brief descriptions of a socialite humanist:

• Proust informs us that the humanist “read too much” – as regards this observation, it may be said that we here have a critique of humanism as an intellectual pursuit, and which is obviously quite reminiscent of Sartre’s Autodidact, who “has got all his knowledge from books”. It seems that this could point to a certain commonality in the reasoning of Sartre and Proust regarding a particular type of humanist – it remains to be seen whether such apparent commonality holds any water.
• Proust tells us that the humanist kept on quoting poets such as Homer. It is again of interest to note that Roquentin is himself irritated by the fact that “in everything he [the Autodidact] tells me, I recognize borrowings, quotations”. But while Sartre intends to lambast the soft-hearted academic type of humanism, Proust’s intention is completely different: he is telling us that the socialite humanist is simply flaunting his supposed erudition so as to make up for his own vices. Proust’s humanist is therefore that type of socialite that represents the decadence of the aristocratic milieu – he belongs, firstly, to those latter-day socialite members that have infiltrated the circles of high society and whose basic characteristic is that of either vanity or snobbery (cf. above, regarding the decline and fall of the aristocratic milieu); and secondly, he belongs to that category of high society circles that is incapable of hiding its vices from the rest of society, very much unlike those who happen to be “superior creatures” possessive of a “great natural distinction”.
• Proust’s critique of the humanist, therefore, is not that he is erudite – or that he reads too much – but rather that such behaviour is used as an inadequate mechanism to hide his vices. What are such vices? Despite his supposed intellectuality, his manners lack cultivation, he is gluttonous and an intemperate drinker. Above all, however, he wishes to excuse himself in the eyes of others – he is therefore a guilt-ridden individual beset with a bad conscience. The implication is that he lacks what we have referred to above as a tranquil conscience, it being the definitive trait of the aristocratic milieu. Herein lies the essential difference between the Sartrean and the Proustian critique of the humanist individual.
• Proust’s humanist is the repulsive type of individual who enters the circles of high society so as to fulfill his personal – and as repulsive – vain desires. On the other hand, and as Thiher informs us, Proust’s satire of the humanist “also has an ironic, self-reflective dimension”. He continues that “In this way Proust satirizes his own socialite desires …” One may therefore conclude that there must have been an internal tension within the Proustian mind that had wished to overcome the decadent trends of the time (as also typified by the socialite humanist, who is satirized) and rather opt for the utopian realm of aristocratic self-realization and its aristocratic ideal. That, however, would yield a radically different understanding of humanism – different with respect to both the socialite humanist of Proust’s time and to the positions of the Sartrean worldview on humanism.

What, then, was Proust’s own understanding of humanism? In “What we find when we get lost in Proust” (op. cit.), Gopnik makes the following observation: “Part of Proust’s humanism lies in his ability to locate the world exclusively between our ears, without supposing that its residence there is necessarily to be regretted”. Proust’s humanism is therefore not a denial of the world – it is its relocation. This relocation constitutes a very particular mode of living. Such mode of living is touched upon in Proust’s “Regrets, Reveries the Color of Time” – we read as follows: “Ambition is more intoxicating than fame; desire makes all things blossom, possession wilts them; it is better to dream your life than to live it, even if living it means dreaming it, though both less mysteriously and less vividly, in a murky and sluggish dream, like the straggling dream in the feeble awareness of ruminant creatures” (pp. 115-116).

Proustian humanism, therefore, is a relocation of the world within one’s inner self – this is the world of one’s “inner life” which endows the individual with the capacity to dream his life and thereby live it through a particular mode of being. This mode of being may be described as the function of the imagination – but it is an imagination with a double function: it is both self-censorial as regards the things of the world that are devoid of aesthetic taste and, at the same time, it is a force that can recreate and resurrect the things of the world that are abundant in aesthetic taste. In discussing the resurrection of the aristocratic ideal, we have already seen how Proust would be arguing for a particular type of imagination that would be “sympathetic and respectful enough to conceal momentarily its aesthetic disdain” for certain things of one’s time present, but which can at the same time resurrect the dream for a cultural rejuvenation.

One may now go on to observe that the Proustian understanding of humanism is based on a willful acknowledgement – but bar whatever regrets – that our relationship to the world is subjective; that the world itself is therefore a subjective phenomenon; and that, further, that subjective phenomenon is subject to delusion. Again, however, this delusion is not something to be at all regretted. And it is not to be regretted because our relationship to the world is not to be primarily determined by intellect (which would be impaired by delusion), but through emotion. Thiher explains this Proustian position as follows – he tells us that, for Proust, “the subjective world is subject to delusion. Subjectivity lends itself all too easily to manipulation by treacherous external circumstances”. And yet, “the intellectual recognition that one is victim of a delusion does little to modify one’s emotional response, for, as Proust often asserts, intellect and emotion operate in different spheres”.

The core idea that is implied here may be explained as follows: emotion is related to desire, and it is through desire that one discovers aesthetic beauty. Identifying this as “a Proustian law of the mind”, Thiher notes: “the subjective world constantly works to change the objective world by reconfiguring it to make it conform to the delusions that the mind entertains, sometimes even when the mind knows it is delusional. Desire wants to construe reality”. And so we see how, in a Pleasures and Days text entitled “Relics”, “delusion is fostered by relics, the holy presences left from time past”. Proust’s conclusion here, as put by Thiher, is that “the beloved’s real beauty is still to be found in his desire”.

We see here that this Proustian “law of the mind” involves four basic conceptual moves: first, the emotions can give birth to a desire; second, that desire can recreate reality; third, it can recreate reality by rediscovering real aesthetic beauty; fourth, such real aesthetic beauty may be found in “the holy presences” of time past. But we need notice here how the initial move from the sphere of subjectivity can ultimately come to yield a rediscovery and resurrection of an aesthetic beauty embedded in the materiality of certain objects d’art, cathedrals and other relics of past time. The Proustian understanding of humanism, therefore, constitutes a subtle movement from the subjective (the “inner life” of emotion and desire) to the reconstruction of an aesthetically endowed objective world with its own “outer life”.

This, however, is not the only dimension of humanism in the overall Proustian worldview. Gopnik, we should remember, has told us that the Proustian relocation of the world between our ears – or within our imagination and the desired memories of such imagination – is only a part of Proust’s humanism. In his “What we find when we get lost in Proust”, he also points to yet another aspect of the Proustian understanding of humanism, and which relates to Proust’s deep interest in religion per se (as has been noted above). Gopnik informs us that this religious dimension of Proustian thinking would have an important influence on writers such as John Updike (whose Due Considerations has been discussed in Paper 1). This is what Gopnik writes: “John Updike, … coming to Proust at a time of his own Christian doubts, found in him the necessary remedy, the only credible modern religious novelist. There is happiness to be found in his fatalism”. How such “happiness” is discovered in Proustian religious fatalism (and which is in any case a fatalism that is not ever nihilistic), and how all this composes yet another dimension of Proust’s understanding of humanism, is an area that remains to be investigated. All one need say here is that while Proust would fully accept the quasi-religious concept of the Fall with respect to the human condition (cf. above), he would at least yearn for the utopian realm of aristocratic self-realization – there seems to be little room for the miserable passions of the tragic life in Proust’s “realistic pessimism”.

We may now consider the manner in which Sartre would respond to what we have presented here as Proust’s humanism, and especially his response to the issue of one’s so-called “inner life”. Based on what we have already said about Sartre’s own position on Western humanism, one may more or less guess such Sartrean critique. Generally speaking, it seems quite obvious that Sartre would utterly reject whatever elements of humanism in the Proustian worldview as just another form of bourgeois humanism. Let us see how that is in fact the case.

Perhaps it is Shawn Gorman, in his 2006 study entitled “Sartre on Proust: Involuntary Memoirs” (op. cit.), that most clearly presents us with how Sartre would view the Proustian emphasis on an individual’s “inner life”, and all that that would imply for the rest of society. He tells us that, for Sartre, “Proust is the representative of self-indulgent bourgeois retreat into the self, while Sartre is the champion of a steely-eyed and self-effacing engagement with the real world …” We may simply note here that, for Sartre, Proust happens to be the representative of such a bourgeois position.

Sartre does not merely intend to articulate an academic critique of the Proustian “inner self” – what the far-left radical Sartrean project ultimately wishes to do is to literally save us from Proust. Flynn writes as follows in discussing Nausea and how this novel deals with the issue of “inner life”: “Because consciousness is entirely ‘in the world’, it has no ‘inner life’. Sartre assures us, we are ‘saved from Proust’. So Roquentin is not in search of ‘lost time’, despite his alleged pursuit of a biography of a prominent figure. Indeed his time is focused decidedly on the present” (p. 146).

Both Gorman and Flynn are crystal clear in their presentation of Sartre’s philosophical and political intentions with respect to the Proustian paradigm as a whole – we here see a direct clash of worldviews, and which would be a conflictual relationship that would mark the whole of modern Western history right through to the 21st century, both at the level of ideas and at the level of politics.

Flynn goes on to explore this direct clash of worldviews – and its political implications – by telling us that, for Sartre, the whole of the Proustian project is symptomatic of an “atomistic” or an “egological” materialism. The “atomistic” or “egological” symptom in Proust means that his thinking is centered around a respect for the individual (and his “inner life”), something which is above all reflective of the bourgeois mind. For Sartre, this inevitably implies a blindness to class identity (p. 233). Especially since 1945 and onwards, Flynn tells us, “Sartre finds these bourgeois qualities incarnate in the work of Flaubert and especially Proust” (ibid.). And it is especially in the case of Proust that the whole of his literary enterprise is guilty of a bourgeois “psychological atomism” (ibid.).

It is therefore self-evident that Sartre not only despised “bourgeois humanism” in toto (as Flynn clearly points out, p. 152), but that he saw the work of Proust as a mode of thinking that was thoroughly representative of such type of Western humanism. But then, is there really any element of humanist thinking in the Sartrean worldview? Perhaps paradoxically after all that has been noted thus far, one should say that there is such element in that far-left worldview – and it is this question that we shall need to explore.

We may begin such an exploration of Sartrean thinking – the development of which was never linear and often apparently contradictory – by noting what Flynn has to say as regards Sartre’s appreciation of the work of someone like William Faulkner. Flynn writes as follows: “In his essay on Faulkner’s Sartoris published … in February of 1938, Sartre had appraised the author’s humanism as ‘doubtless the only acceptable [form of humanism]. It hates our well adjusted consciousness, our engineers’ consciousness’ … it is what Sartre will later denote in Being and Nothingness as ‘the spirit of seriousness’ that repels him with its smug self-satisfaction” (p. 152). We do not intend to investigate Sartre’s appreciation of the type of humanism evident in Sartoris any further – we may merely make two brief observations: firstly, it goes without saying that Sartre’s antipathy towards “the spirit of seriousness” goes hand in hand with his hatred of all things bourgeois; secondly, and by the way, it is of interest to note that Faulkner’s Sartoris would focus on the decay the Mississippi aristocracy – a theme obviously of major interest to Sartrean politics.

Contrary to the “smug self-satisfaction” of bourgeois humanism, Sartre shall ultimately come to articulate a Marxian or quasi-Marxian humanism that would address itself to the outcasts of the Western world and especially to those of its colonial outposts. Although Sartre’s existentialist philosophy has at times been presented as a variation of “radical nihilism” (cf., for instance, the work of Alfred Betschart, op. cit., p. 78), such so-called “radical nihilism” would in any case be solidly informed by a very particular type of humanism – we have already made mention above of Sartre’s 1945 public lecture where he wished to explain the sense in which “Existentialism is a Humanism”. And it is well-known that both his 1957 essay entitled Search for a Method, as also his 1960 Critique of Dialectical Reason, constituted serious attempts at forging a theoretical marriage between existentialism and Marxism. It is also as well known that the type of Marxist Humanism that Sartre was gradually developing would come under attack by an Althusserian theoretical anti-humanism that would emerge in the course of the 1960’s. Generally speaking, then, one may agree with Flynn’s observation that, in subsequent writings – and especially at the midpoint of his career – Sartre will embrace a kind of “socialist humanism” or even a kind of “Maoist humanism” (p. 151).

Now, keeping in mind the manner in which Proust would understand humanism vis-à-vis that of the Sartrean position, one may easily point to a conflict of humanisms that would beset Western culture – such conflict would inevitably translate into a conflict between different ethical systems. The Proustian “egological” ethical system could not possibly co-exist with the Sartrean “non-egological” (or rather “anti-egological”) ethical system. Their respective intentions seem to be absolutely divergent: while Proust wishes to salvage the ego, and especially the aristocratic ego which has a past, Sartre wishes to dissolve the ego in the world, it being a bourgeois-aristocratic world which has a meaningless past at best.

The irreconcilability of these two ethical worldviews is most evident when one comes to realize that one of Sartre’s central ideological intentions had been, as mentioned, to save us from the Proustian understanding of ethicality. This realization is further confirmed when one discovers that Nausea had been written in more or less direct response to the Proustian oeuvre – Flynn makes the following telling observation: “And despite Sartre’s hyperbolic claim that Husserlian intentionality has saved us from Proust, Contat and Rybalka point out that ‘the Proustian oeuvre is probably the most profound influence that one can discern in Nausea’ …” One may draw the conclusion that the Proustian oeuvre constituted the most profound influence in this Sartrean novel precisely because it posed the greatest threat to the Sartrean ethical paradigm.

It would be this real conflict of humanisms and ethical paradigms in the Western world that would be one of the central concerns – if not the sole concern – characterizing the mature Sartrean political project. Having identified the history and nature of such conflict, Sartre would come to devote himself to the enunciation of a new, revolutionary humanism – new, in that it lay absolutely outside the thus far well-defined walls protective of all notions of Western humanism and their concomitant ethical imperatives. Even the whole philosophical system once expressive of Sartrean ontology – as above all articulated in the abstract thinking of Being and Nothingness – would now come to be harnessed to the urgent needs of that new insurrectionary ethics. The suggestion that the abstract ontology of Being and Nothingness would itself come to be applied to the practical needs of an insurrectionary movement against an exploitative and repressive Western society is clearly confirmed by Flynn – he writes as follows: “Bringing the ontology of Being and Nothingness to bear on the demands of an exploitative society, Sartre lays out the plan for his future social theory: ‘It is the elucidation of the new ideas of ‘situation’ and of ‘being-in-the-world’ that revolutionary behaviour specifically calls for’ …” (p. 252). This redirection of Being and Nothingness towards openly political intentions would be announced – in the 1946 seminal essay, “Materialism and Revolution” – only three years after Sartre’s philosophical magnum opus had been published.

We know that largish or even large chunks of the history of the Western world have been dominated by a variety of aristocracies and their ideological and/or moral paradigms. It may now be argued that the Sartrean type of new insurrectionary ethics – a generic type in itself – has come to more or less prevail ideologically in the modern and post-modern Western world. We need to examine in some greater detail the content of such Sartrean ethics vis-à-vis that of aristocratic moral systems.

Sartrean ethics

To understand the content of Sartrean ethics, one needs to isolate the essential existential differences between that mode of thinking and that of the Proustian position. Based on what has been argued above, Proust would pivot his thinking around the supreme right of the individual to indulge in a utopian selectivity of the inner world that he chooses to imagine for himself – and which he thereby creates and recreates in accordance with his personal aesthetic and moral needs. Sartrean ethics leaves no room for such utopian, individualistic whims – it recognizes the historical need for a radical reevaluation of all bourgeois values, of which individualism (an “atomistic” or “egological” materialism) is an expression.

The Proustian process of creation and recreation – that utopian selectivity of the individual bent on an aristocratic mode of being – has no choice but to acknowledge the reality of self-deception: it views it as a necessary law of all time present. The young Proust can often be critical of various forms of self-deception – but he needs to necessarily resort to these if he is to salvage that utopian realm of aristocratic self-realization. In contrast, Sartre rejects all forms of self-deception as part of bourgeois inauthentic behaviour – and thus he calls for a radical reevaluation of all thus far existing values. It should be noted, however, that the Sartrean position is itself utopian – Sartre’s Marxian existentialism seems to bypass what may be seen as a universal law of humanity, it being the all too human “flaws” besetting all of human history.

The acceptance or rejection of the reality of self-deception is a deeply ethical question, and it is an ethical question since it determines the content of conscience that accrues – or should accrue – from one’s stance towards such deception. We have seen how, for the aristocratic milieu, the functionality and necessity of a cleverly hidden vice – which constitutes a basic form of self-deception – would in fact merely yield the establishment of a tranquil conscience on the surface of human relations within aristocratic circles. For Sartre, such types of human relations are defined by “bad faith” (or “mauvaise foi”). We know that in terms of the Sartrean worldview, “bad faith” is precisely the psychological phenomenon whereby individuals act and interact inauthentically, and which they do by yielding to the external pressures of Western society in the adoption of false values – thereby living a life of self-deception. “To the right-thinking man [or proper citizen]”, writes Sartre in Saint Genet, “it [the mirror] reveals only the appearance he offers to others. Sure of possessing the truth, concerned only with being reflected in his undertaking, he gives the mirror only this carcass to gnaw at” (p. 73). It is the deception of “appearances” that rules within proper society – and there is thus no way out for the Western world but to utterly destroy what is a bourgeois inauthentic morality of “appearances”. Sartre shall henceforth seek to identify the new subjects of such a destructively revolutionary process, and which would also be the carriers of a new emancipatory ethics.

Sartrean ethics is not of course limited to the question of authenticity and inauthenticity – what is as much of central concern to Sartre is the question of social justice. Flynn’s philosophical biography informs us that Sartre’s work had always been “guided by a sense of justice that defines itself against the values and habits of his own bourgeois class” (p. 19). And it would be this sense of justice that would entitle many Frenchmen of the left to declare that, following Sartre’s death, France had lost its conscience.

This conscientious sense of social justice pitted against an exploitative and repressive bourgeois milieu would mean that Sartre would be against whatever forms of conservative morality, and wherever such type of morality was to be found in French society. Sartre would identify elements of this morality even within the mores and practices of the French communists of his time. In his “Sartre was not a Marxist” text, Alfred Betschart informs us that Sartre had “accused the Communists of following the conservative morality of Vichy France as defined by the anti-republican travail-famille-patrie (labor-family-fatherland)” (p. 83). It would of course be precisely this triplet of values (with religion somewhere included therein) that would continue to constitute the basic critique of the left or liberal-left against conservatism and its norms throughout the 20th century and right up to the 21st century.

For Sartre, all norms of Western bourgeois society express particular social interests – and these are not merely the interests of the bourgeois elites. Western social norms express the interests of white, heterosexual men in general. The Sartrean ethical system is thus pitted against norms expressive of a particular race, a particular sex and a particular sexual preference within Western society. In his discussion of Sartrean ethics as articulated in the period of the 1960’s, Betschart notes that, for Sartre, “Norms are not given, they are created. Since praxis is always social action – and usually by acting in groups – norms always express the interests of the groups that set the norms. In a patriarchal, white heteronormative society, the prevailing norms express primarily the interests of white, heterosexual men” (cf. “Sartre’s Ethics of the 1960’s”, Jean-Paul Sartre – The Website, op. cit).

And, for Sartre, it is precisely these prevailing norms protective of a particular race, sex and sexual preference – and the bourgeois morality that these express – which hijack the future in favour of the repetition of an inauthentic and unjust past. They can hijack the future as conservative forces because they are all-powerful. Even human speech within the bourgeois milieu is expressive of such prevailing norms. In his Saint Genet, Sartre tells us that words and utterances between people – even their exchanges “in broken sentences” – activate a predetermined behaviour “in accordance with the social norms of your age and milieu” (p. 43). There is thus a deep understanding between those who are in communication, and that understanding presupposes the operation of the all-powerful norms of their milieu in which they are all plunged. But the point here is that Sartre’s outcasts do not partake of this communication – they stand outside of it since they have no milieu. With respect to his great outcast – Jean Genet – Sartre observes as follows: “Now, the fact is that Genet has no milieu; he is alone. The norms set by society do not concern him. No more is needed for him to be astounded by the strangeness of human speech” (ibid.).

Standing well outside the bourgeois milieu and well outside its norms, Genet – as an outcast type – expresses the Sartrean new ethics. Being outside the norms of the bourgeois milieu, Genet is outside all of bourgeois ethics (or of what Sartre has also called “deontological ethics”). As such, he stands for a value-free moral behaviour within the context of the milieu that tries to besiege him. The new ethics can thus espouse deviancy as such – and it is a deviancy that can assume a wide variety of forms. With respect to the ethicality of deviancy in Sartrean thinking, Betschart writes as follows: “Much of Sartre’s literary work, from La nausea (1938) to various short stories … bears witness to the pluralistic understanding of morality associated with it, in which Sartre repeatedly describes moral behavior in a value-free manner – particularly sexual behavior – that was considered deviant in his time” (op. cit.). And so, while the Proustian worldview and the aristocratic milieu would wish to hide various forms of deviancy from the eyes of outsiders, Sartrean ethics would argue that deviancy may be flaunted before bourgeois society as a form of rebellion. With respect to the question of homosexuality in particular, Proust would view it as a private inclination within the private mores of the aristocracy – it would be the personal privacy of the matter that would affirm the moral system of the aristocratic milieu. For Sartre, in contrast, Genet’s rampant homosexuality – philosophically analyzed in the greatest of detail in Saint Genet – would be an act of rebellion negating the moral trivialities of a bourgeois trivial moral system.

Sartre describes Genet’s life as follows: “He is a man of repetition: the drab, slack time of his daily life – a profane life in which everything is permissible – is shot through with blazing hierophanies which restore to him his original passion, as Holy Week restores to us that of Christ. Just as Jesus does not cease to die, so Genet does not cease to be metamorphosed into a foul insect …” (Saint Genet, p. 5). And it is in that sense, and as has already been noted above, that “Genet has no profane history. He has only a sacred history” (ibid.).

The profane life of an outcast without a profane history that sanctifies all that he does – and where all is thereby permissible – allows Genet to escape the trivial world of morality. Genet, writes Sartre, “plunges with all his weight and force into the evil of which the others accuse him” (p. 60). Escaping the trivialities of morality, plunging into what others deem to be evil, Genet shall experience both a certain religiosity and the utter contempt of the proper, bourgeois citizens. Sartre’s Saint Genet puts this as follows: “Genet will escape from the trivial world of morality and reach the world of religion … he does not wish to discover himself as a simple thinking substance but as a sacred, demonical reality … It will be his being by virtue of a mystic marriage. The contempt and hatred of the Just [the proper bourgeois citizens] will serve to cement the union” (p. 63).

And it is thus that outside the trivial world of bourgeois morality, and within that “mystic marriage”, Genet will come to express an altogether new morality and new emancipatory values. It seems that the mode of being that Genet has come to adopt – or that particular circumstances have forced him to adopt – is such as to leave him without any choice as regards the question of morality. Being an authentic character, he realizes the impossibility of being a proper moral person in an inauthentic, immoral and unjust world. Flynn notes as follows: “What Saint Genet taught us was a lesson at least as old as Aristotle: the difficulty (if not impossibility) of being a moral person in an immoral society” (p. 402). It is this difficulty – or even impossibility – of being moral that allows someone like Genet to turn into a particular type of secular saint expressing his own anti-social or anti-bourgeois morality. Thereby, however, he announces a table of new ethics for a coming, altogether new society. At least in his Saint Genet, Sartre describes the need for such a socio-revolutionary change as clearly as possible – sociologizing rather coarsely albeit significantly, he writes the following: “Our society is ambiguous. Industrial development and the demands of an organized proletariat are transforming it, with horrible shocks, into a producing society. But the metamorphosis is far from complete. An oppressive class that is on the way out is mingling the old myths with the new. At times, it justifies its privileges by the excellence of its culture and taste, that is, by its aptitude for conserving. It claims to be the guardian of western values … Meanwhile, the [Christian] religion subsists, with its aging rites that it adapts to the new state of things as best it can. Everything is confused; the Church still canonizes, but listlessly; the faithful themselves have the vague feeling that the Saints belong to the past … I think, along with many others, that it is necessary to shorten the convulsions of a dying world, to help in the birth of a producing community and try to draw up, with the workers and militants, the table of new values. That is why [Christian] Saintliness, with its sophisms, rhetoric, and morose delectation repels me. It has only one use at the present time: to enable dishonest men to reason unsoundly” (pp. 202-203).

Strictly speaking, the above quote may at times not be fully consistent with the overall or ultimate Sartrean political philosophy – Sartrean thinking is in any case notorious for its self-contradictory positions across time – for instance, and as we have seen above, his reference to “the excellence” of the oppressive class’s culture and taste does not at all match with his position regarding the bourgeois arts or the architecture of Christian churches; and he shall soon lose much faith in the proper working people and their espousal of the values of travail-famille-patrie. But the quote nonetheless clearly expresses a revolutionary anti-bourgeois ethics. Flynn explains that even Being and Nothingness was all about “an ethics of deliverance and salvation” from alienation (p. 214). Such deliverance and salvation, however, “can be achieved only after a radical conversion” (ibid.). In the final instance, it would not be the proper proletariat that could undergo whatever “radical conversion” – Sartre would come to see the outcasts of society (the likes of Genet) as the historical carriers of salvation. We shall now need to examine in some greater detail what Sartre has to say with respect to these carriers.

The carriers of salvation (as opposed to an aristocratic resurrection)

The Sartrean ethical system and the need for a “radical conversion” of society shall be accompanied by an attempt to identify the key historical subject that can act as the carrier of salvation. This veritable theory of revolution shall come to focus on the emancipatory rights of groups, and thus also on the historical role of such groups to effect a deliverance from bourgeois alienation. Of course, the emphasis on particular social groupings as social agents shall constitute a theoretical move away from classical Marxism with its emphasis on the role of the proletariat in history. It is of absolute importance to note here that this Sartrean emphasis on groups as opposed to classes would be the forerunner to 21st century left politics, with its own emphasis on particular social groupings as the agents of social change. As we shall see, Sartre’s choice of particular social groups as historical agents shall be the exact same as those selected by the 21st century left (and even the liberal-left). The Sartrean heritage therefore remains alive and well and ought not to be either forgotten or underestimated by present-day analysts, and which should be directly counterposed to the Proustian quasi-conservative or aristocratic heritage as presented above.

The Sartrean emphasis on groups as opposed to classes needs to be briefly explained if we are to fully grasp the general notion of outcasts in the Sartrean political paradigm – Betschart’s “Sartre was not a Marxist”, despite its various weaknesses, does a fairly good job at summarizing Sartre’s theory. We may consider a sample of Betschart’s exposition of the Sartrean position – he writes: “Whereas in Marxist theory, classes are the prime agents of history, they are reduced to what Sartre calls ‘series’ in the [1960] Critique [of Dialectical Reason]. Classes do not act in Sartre’s eyes; at best they form milieus. In this way, Sartre implicitly contests the Marxist idea of a revolution by the proletariat. It is Sartre’s term of the ‘group-in-fusion’ that comes closest to the Marxist understanding of a class-driven revolution … [Groups] are the real actors in history. Groups first start with voluntary congregations of people, like those playing soccer in a park on a Sunday afternoon. At the next stage of its evolution, the pledged group appears. This group is not yet well organized, but power and authority are already discernable attributes in the pledged group … For Sartre, the prerequisite of a successful revolution is the existence of a pledged or organized group … it is never the proletariat class that creates a revolution, but always a group” (p. 79).

Sartre would naturally feel disenchanted by the idea that a “pledged group” could morph into an institutionalized structure, as had occurred with the Soviet Communist Party. He would nonetheless insist on placing his hopes on autonomous and authentic social actors opposed to bourgeois oppression – these would be France’s various minority groups that necessarily carried the new ethics for a “radical conversion”. It would be these – in their capacity as groups – that would assert their Absolute No to a generalized bourgeois oppression (as opposed to economic exploitation, which concerned the narrow interests of the class of the proletariat). And thus, the Sartrean political project would fully anticipate the political struggles of the left or liberal-left in the 21st century – in his “Sartre’s Ethics of the 1960’s”, Betschart makes the following important observation: “Sartre is interested not only in ideal ethics and real ethics in the form of ethos, but generally in the role of ethics in society. Unlike the Marxists, positivists, and structuralists, Sartre asserts the independent importance of ethics in political discussion … With this view of the importance of ethics, Sartre thus anticipated an important element of progressive politics in the 21st century, as he did with his advocacy of the rights of Jews, people of color, women, and queer people”.

This is the theoretical context, a context so absolutely foreign to all variations of aristocratic morality, that shall allow Sartre to articulate the historical status of the Stateless outcasts, castoffs or untouchables – viz. his Genet-like saints of an anti-bourgeois and anti-Western oppositional denial.

Since Genet is Sartre’s primordial or generic “castoff” of Western society, we need to further dwell on the manner in which Sartre analyzes his case. In Saint Genet, Sartre writes: “A lady once said to him, ‘My maid must be pleased. I give her my dresses’. ‘That’s nice,’ he replied, ‘does she give you hers?’ … Castoff of a society that defines being by having, the child Genet wants to have in order to be. However, the normal modes of appropriation are denied to him. He will obtain nothing by purchase, nothing by heritage” (p. 10). Genet is thereby forced to deny both the idea of private property and the property relations (as also the concomitant mores) of all time past, and which would include those of the aristocratic milieu and its hereditary principles.

Genet is thus pitted against all of the proper citizens of Western society – Sartre contrasts the Genet type “To those who have a sense of belonging, to the just, to the honourable” (p. 83).

Very much like an ancient Egyptian, Sartre tells us, Genet would not at all care about his national identity. Like all untouchables, outlaws, homosexuals and the like, Genet is Stateless. Sartre observes that “The names that apply to the State, to national sovereignty, to the rights and duties of the citizens, concern realities that are thoroughly foreign to him”. They are foreign to him and, Sartre adds, to “his kind” (p. 278; and cf. p. 5).

Being outside both national identity and the State, Genet and his kind shall belong to a community – or social group – that shall establish a language all of its own and which will be a language against the bourgeois mode of communication (cf. our discussion of language norms above). “It may … be pointed out”, Sartre notes, “that there exists a community which has forged a language of its own against the bourgeois tongue, to wit, the community of tramps and gangsters to which Genet belongs. With them, … communication is possible” (p. 285).

Stateless and without any national identity, standing in opposition to the honourable and just, and speaking a language alien to all of them, Genet shall come to see society as a “legitimate hell” – he himself is consciously illegitimate. Fully identifying with Genet and his type, Sartre reflects on those other proper citizens of this “legitimate hell” as follows: “But I would like to ask them whether they are quite sure of being themselves. How do I know that they have not obtained that inner peace of theirs by surrendering to a foreign protector who reigns in their stead? I know that the man whom I hear utter the words ‘We doctors …’ is in bondage. This we doctors is his ego, a parasitical creature that sucks his blood … If they do not aim at changing their skin, it is because the force that governs them does not allow them the leisure to do so; above all, it is because society has long since recognized and consecrated this symbiosis by according glory or simply honorability to the couple formed by the sick man and his parasite: it is a legitimate hell. As for me, I keep away from them if I can: I don’t like inhabited souls” (p. 83). For Sartre, it is only “the children of Cain” that are not and simply cannot be such “inhabited souls” (ibid.).

It is the citizens of this “legitimate hell”, those that are in bondage, that are the real manufacturers of all evil – and they manufacture that evil so as to be able to throw it onto the children of Cain themselves. Sartre writes: “We have, in fact, seen that the society of decent folk has manufactured this shaky concept [of Evil] for the express purpose of projecting it on others. Evil is what my enemy does; it is never what I do myself. We have recognized in it the negative part of our freedom which we pluck from ourselves in order to throw it … on an ethnic or religious minority” (p. 151).

With respect to all “decent folk” and their relationship to evil, Sartre confirms and expands on his position by writing elsewhere in Saint Genet as follows: “… Genet addresses not the criminologist or sociologist but the ‘average Frenchman’ who adorns himself with the name of good citizen; for it is he who preserves the idea of Evil, while science and law are tending to break from it; it is he who, burning with desires that his morality condemns, has delivered himself from his negative freedom by throwing it like a flaming cloak on the members of a minority group whose acts he interprets on the basis of his own temptations. What a prey! The Just man is so good at playing innocent that he gets caught up in his own game: evil thoughts remain foreign to him since, by definition, they are the other’s thoughts; he encounters them with sad astonishment in the course of his experience and recognizes them precisely by the fact that they are Other; by the fact that he would not have had the indecency to conceive them” (pp. 494-495).

Generally speaking, one may summarize the Sartrean position by asserting, as does Sartre himself, that “All societies castrate the maladjusted” (p. 82). Of course, one could respond here by pointing out that the Sartrean project is itself aimed at castrating, not only the aristocratic or bourgeois elites, but all of “decent folk” as such. For Sartre, nonetheless, such castration is both inevitable and necessary – “decent folk” need to be castrated so as to prepare the ground for the “maladjusted”, for these are the natural carriers of a new ethics. That ground cannot be prepared unless the castrated castrate those that have wished to castrate them.

The castration or attempted castration of the “maladjusted” leads them to a variety of forms of resistance – Sartre points to some of those social groups that may be included within the ambit of the “maladjusted” and describes how they express such resistance. Interestingly, the resistance can range from a “subtle” denial of society to (even) a wish for its total and utter annihilation. He writes: “Those whom Society has placed in the background, the adolescent, the woman, the homosexual, subtly attempt to reject a world which rejects them and to perpetrate symbolically the murder of mankind” (p. 372).

The term “mankind” here points to all that Western civilization has thus far given birth to – it points both to time past (the aristocratic milieu) and to time present (the bourgeois milieu). And the rejection of and resistance to such “mankind” comes from an anti-aristocracy and an anti-bourgeoisie – it comes from Genet the homosexual thief, it comes from a motley of untouchables, and it comes from a racial group such as the blacks (which Sartre, writing in the 1930’s and through to the 1950’s, also refers to as the “Negro”). There is an important sense in which, for Sartre at least, all these types of outcasts constitute an aristocracy in their own right – it is they who are called upon to create that “table of new ethics”.

We may at this point examine what Sartre has to say specifically as regards blacks and/or racial minorities and their role as outcasts in the Western world. Before we focus on what he writes on this matter in his Saint Genet, we need to say a few words about the manner in which he presents his “Negress” in Nausea. Therein, it is certainly no mere accident that it is specifically a “Negress” singer and her song that enable Sartre’s Roquentin to almost fully (or, momentarily, even fully) overcome his feeling of existential nausea. Colin Wilson writes as follows: “Is there, then, nothing positive about human existence? Is it all conflict and frustration and self-deception? … [O]ddly enough, not according to La Nausée. Roquentin’s experiences of ‘nausea’ are counter-balanced with something altogether different … Roquentin asks the waitress to put on one of his favourite records, a negress singing ‘Some of These Days’ … : ‘I grow warm [Roquentin tells us], I begin to feel happy … the Nausea has disappeared. When the voice was heard in silence, I felt my body harden and the Nausea vanish. Suddenly: it was almost unbearable to become so hard, so brilliant …’ And as he reaches out for his beer: ‘this movement of my arm has developed like a majestic theme, it has glided along the song of the Negress; I seemed to be dancing’ …” (Colin Wilson: Collected Essays on Philosophers, edited by Colin Stanley, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2016, p. 157).

Roquentin’s feeling of nausea is overcome by music – that in itself is of significance. But we need notice that this is a particular type of music – it is a song emanating from the voice of a woman that belongs to a particular racial minority, and which is a social group that has traditionally been oppressed in and by the Western world. It is above all this type of person – who happens to be a woman and who is also a “Negress”, and which “Society has placed in the background” – that can create such melodious beauty. In direct contrast to the aristocratic milieu and its own aesthetic values, it is now this type of outcast that is the supreme creator of aesthetic beauty, and which is a beauty that can overcome nausea itself.

Our interpretation of the manner in which Sartre treats the “Negress” in Nausea is no exaggeration. Sartre’s relationship to the “negritude movement” in Paris between the 1940’s and the 1960’s is well known and much discussed, as is his 1948 Black Orpheus. For Sartre, “negritude” was primarily a source of artistic creation, including poetry and music (especially jazz). It may be argued that he projects the cultural and political values of “negritude” onto his “Negress” in Nausea – he writes therein as follows: “She sings. That makes two people who are saved: the Jew and the Negress. Saved. Perhaps they thought they were lost right until the very end, drowned in existence. Yet nobody could think about me as I think about them, with this gentle feeling … they have cleansed themselves of the sin of existing. Not completely, of course – but as much as any man can” (p. 251). And so, in accordance with the Sartrean worldview and its position regarding outcasts such as racial minorities, his “Negress” and her life is “something precious and almost legendary” (p. 252).

Such a position may now be compared to what Sartre has to say about the status of black people in his Saint Genet. In fact, he chooses to identify the plight of Genet with that of blacks. He writes: “In the case of Genet as in that of untouchables, for example the Negroes of Virginia, we find the same injustice (the latter are grandsons of slaves, the former is an abandoned child), reinforced by the same magical concepts (the ‘inferior race’, the ‘evil nature’ of the Negro, of the thief), and the same angry powerlessness that obliges them to adopt these concepts and turn them against their oppressors, in short the same passive revolt, the same realism masking the same idealism. Genet’s dignity is the demand for evil” (p. 55).

Both Genet and the Negroes living in the Western world (and its colonies) share a common hatred for that world. This hatred, however, heralds new values (as also, inevitably, new cultural practices) – these new values are described by Sartre as a will to evil (this will, by the way, is not as yet a will to power as such, since the latter presupposes a move from the “voluntary congregations” of outcasts to the formation of “pledged groups” – cf. above). With reference to both American Negroes and especially Genet himself, Sartre describes the psychological complexity of such hatred and its will to evil as follows: “As a realist, he [Genet] wants to win or lose in this world. Rimbaud wanted to change life, and Marx to change society. Genet does not want to change anything at all. Do not count on him to criticize institutions. He needs them, as Prometheus needs his vulture. At most, he regrets that there is no longer an aristocracy in France and that class justice is not more ruthless. If, thinking to please him, one transported him into some future society that gave him a place of honor, he would feel frustrated. His business is here; it is here that he is despised and vilified; it is here that he must carry out his undertaking. He loves French society as the Negroes love America, with a love that is full of hatred and, at the same time, desperate. As for the social order which excludes him, he will do everything to perpetuate it. Its rigor must be perfect so that Genet can attain perfection in Evil … Duality is the permanent structure of his consciousness. He seeks himself and wills himself. His spontaneity dwindles. To feel and to watch himself feel are to him one and the same. He inspects his feelings and his behavior in order to discover in them that dark vein, the will to evil” (pp. 55-56).

The proud and dignified “idealism” of both the “Negroes” and Genet can backfire, as it does. In the case of the “Negro”, one sees that he adopts the “magical concepts” of his oppressor (his racial “inferiority” and “evil” nature) against his oppressor. This gives birth to a new set of values and a new ideology, that of “negritude”. Such affirmation of “negritude”, however, merely establishes further racial segregation within Western society. Similarly, one sees that Genet wishes to perpetuate the social order, thereby himself adopting it against its proper citizens. This gives birth to a new set of values and a new ideology, that of the will to evil. Such affirmation of evil, however, merely confirms the views of the proper citizens as regards Genet, and so they will vilify him even further. And yet, Sartre shall argue, both the segregation of the “Negroes” and the vilification of Genet come to empower their respective self-sufficiency, it being a self-sufficiency against Western society. Very succinctly, Sartre puts this as follows: “Idealism: all this leads only to verifying the grownups’ judgment [of the young Genet], just as the proud demand for ‘negritude’ merely confirms segregation” (p. 57). And yet, Sartre continues, “Pride is the reaction of a mind which has been beleaguered by others and which transforms its absolute dependency into absolute self-sufficiency” (ibid.).

It is this angry and oppositional self-sufficiency wedged within the Western world that points to a conflict between different understandings of the ideology of humanism – there can be no compromise whatsoever across this rupture of values. Both the “Negro” and Genet will proudly reject whatever compromises with the world they hate – be it the liberalism of whites (with respect to the plight of “Negroes”) or bourgeois liberals in general (with respect to the case of Genet). Sartre writes: “We know that it is dignity. To the ‘generous’ whites who do not draw the color line the Negro says: ‘Come, come, you see very well that I’m a Negro. Remain in your place as I remain in mine.’ And Genet, in like manner, says to the bourgeois liberal who wants to help him, perhaps to ‘re-educate’ him: ‘You see for yourself that I’m bad. The proof is that I’ve taken your watch’ …” (p. 58).

Blacks constitute one of the most important components of the Sartrean array of outcasts in the Western world – but there are other as important groups belonging to the oppressed social strata: as alluded to, these include women, gays, and other criminal groupings. In his “Sartre was not a Marxist”, Betschart wishes to inform us that, for Sartre, “the question of women and gays could not be subsumed under the question of proletariat vs. capitalists as postulated by Marxist theory” (p. 82). There is both a truth and an inaccuracy in such an observation – while, as we have seen, Sartre had at some stage lost much hope in the capacity of the proper working citizens of France to effect an anti-bourgeois revolution, he could nonetheless see the objective interests of at least certain exploited working people intersecting with those of oppressed blacks, oppressed women and repressed gays (of course, such overlapping of exploitation, oppression, and so forth, would historically go on to yield the post-modern ideology of quasi-Marxian “intersectionality”).

That Sartre would espouse a certain “intersectionality” in his political thinking is fairly obvious in the manner in which he presents Genet’s attitudes towards maids (these, presumably, being proper working people). We have already quoted Genet’s reaction to a lady that gives her dresses to her maid (cf. above). And we may further consider what he has to say about maids vis-à-vis the rich – Sartre quotes Genet as saying the following: “It’s easy to be kind, and smiling, and sweet … when you’re beautiful and rich … But what if you’re only a maid?” (p. 9). A maid, by the way, would belong to both an oppressed group (as a woman) and to an exploited group (as a worker).

But it is beyond doubt – as his Saint Genet testifies – that the Sartrean political position would underline the authentically subversive role of the outcast (reminiscent of Fanon’s “wretched of the earth”) in a modern Western world wherein the industrial proletariat had been either politically compromised, co-opted as a class, or simply marginalized in terms of strategic position. And thus Sartre would focus on the plight of women as much as he would on racial minorities. Somewhat dimly reminiscent of – or, more accurately, foreshadowing – the post-modern ideological paradigm of “femicide”, Sartre describes the man versus woman interface as follows in his Saint Genet: “… the male swoops down on the female, carries her off, subjects her and feeds her. The very way in which he makes love reflects his economic situation and his pride in earning his living”. Unlike Genet the outcast, who does not work, the typical male exercises his toxic male sexuality on women as an oppressive imperialist – Sartre continues: “Where do you expect Genet to get his pride? He does not earn his living, he loses it. Parasite of a society that denies him salvation through action, excluded from all undertakings, where would he find that mixture of oppressive imperialism and generosity which at present characterizes manly sexuality?” (p. 80).

It is as a generous imperialist that man subjugates woman (imperialism in general secures its power through the distribution of a certain “generosity” towards its subjects) – being at the same time an oppressive subjugator, man turns woman into a victim of the male-female interface. He affirms his freedom as a male through the submission of woman – Sartre continues as follows: “The male rarely wishes to seduce by his physical qualities. He has received them, not made them. He makes his woman love him for his power, his courage, his pride, his aggressiveness, in short he makes her desire him as a faceless force, a pure power to do and take, not as an object agreeable to touch. He seeks in submissive eyes the reflection of his infinite freedom” (pp. 80-81).

The women of the Western world are victims of social circumstances – and they share this victimhood with a gay like Genet. But the latter’s victimhood takes on a very particular form and has its own special consequences. Since, as Sartre writes, “Women … do not have enough prestige to symbolize for him [viz. for Genet; or for a drag queen by the name of Divine, a Genet literary character] the society that has excluded him”, and “Since it is men who make the law and who arrogate to themselves the right to judge him, only the submission of a male can redeem him, by humiliating in his presence his entire sex” (p. 75). Sartre is telling us that Genet cannot look to women for his salvation, for they too are victims (and in any case he happens to be a homosexual). So it must be to men – those lawmakers and judges – that he need turn, but shall turn to them so that he subvert them, and in that way transcend the situation of his victimized being.

Genet’s homosexuality – and especially the particular manner in which he chooses to express his sexual desires – is hence an act of social defiance. Sartre writes: “Desire of nothingness, nothingness of desire, … rootless and aimless, Genet’s sexual desire contains within itself a fierce demand for its autonomy and singularity, in defiance of the rules … in defiance of the species and in defiance of society” (p. 82).

But it was not merely Genet’s defiant homosexuality that made of him a carrier of salvation. We know that he was a thief as well, and which added to his value as an outcast (by the way, it should be mentioned here that Sartre has not been the only left-wing writer to have presented criminality in a positive light – consider, for instance, Eric Hobsbawm’s brilliant 1969 study entitled Bandits).

In his Saint Genet, Sartre informs us about Genet’s criminality as follows: “Around 1936, when he was twenty-six years old, Genet returned to France after a long period of wandering, met a professional burglar and accompanied him on his expeditions. ‘I had the revelation of theft’. According to him, this revelation was decisive: ‘I went to theft as to a liberation’ …” (p. 402).

Sartre’s description of Genet as a burglar confirms our general assertion that, in terms of the Sartrean political worldview, outcasts constitute an aristocracy in their own right – burglars, we are told, constitute a “scornful aristocracy”. Unlike the unskilled workers, furthermore, they are a “technical elite”. This is how Sartre presents burglary and the case of Genet as a burglar: “… burglary is an outlaw profession, but it is a profession. Genet’s social status changes: he was a faggot, a fake sharp, a beggar, a slave; in the underworld he belonged to the ‘unskilled’ proletariat; as a housebreaker, he becomes a specialist, he enters a corporation which has its rules and its professional honor; for the first time, he is entitled to say we. Actually, he does not have the experience of professional solidarity: burglars are solitaries. But they are united by the same pride and the same privileges. ‘A burglar,’ he says proudly, ‘cannot have base sentiments, for he lives a physically dangerous life … Burglars are a scornful aristocracy.’ This aristocracy has nothing in common with the romantic chivalry of the great criminals and the glamorous Pimps: it is rather a technical elite; one is not a member of it by birth. For that very reason, Genet who is a commoner of Evil, feels at ease in it. He does not have birth, but he will be able to shine by his talent” (p. 403).

In what precise sense does Genet go to theft “as to a liberation” (or, as is also asserted, “as to the light”)? Sartre wishes to compare Genet’s achievements as a burglar to those of the revolution of 1789 – he explains as follows: “Thanks to burglary, Genet’s passive obedience is replaced by the spirit of initiative, mystical thinking by rationalism, the romantic and anachronistic taste for feudal relationships and military hierarchies by the more modern consciousness of professional worth: he carries out by and for himself the Revolution of 1789” (pp. 403-404).

And thus a new secular sanctity – and a new political sensibility – is born. The Genet-type sanctity is summarized by Sartre as follows: “But the striking thing is that the erotic humiliations of a homosexual and the occupational risks of a thief are tinged with an aura of the sacred … He abandons himself to the instant, to the cathartic crises that reproduce the first enchantment [of his childhood] and carry it to the sublime: crime, capital punishment, poetry, orgasm, homosexuality” (p. 4). We have noted above, and based on Flynn, that the Genet-type outcast constituted as authentic a model of a person as Sartre ever depicted in his writings – and which should be directly contrasted to the Proustian type of personality endowed with a “great natural distinction” (cf. above).

Sartre remains indifferent or even hostile towards Proust’s emphasis on a person’s superior natural qualities and/or his natural abilities in the field of aesthetics (and Sartre would naturally resent those of superior qualities/abilities belonging to the salons of whichever high society). Individuals who find themselves thrown within the Western bourgeois world cannot in whatever sense be considered “superior”, unless they are of the Genet-type. Generally speaking, but also with reference to the likes of the Genet-type outcast, Flynn summarizes Sartre’s position as follows: “It comes down to the claim that a fully human ‘man’ is impossible in our present socioeconomic condition. The best the ‘system’ can produce is a class of ‘submen’ who are structurally exploited and personally oppressed” (p. 392). And it is this class of “submen” who are the carriers of a new ethics and a new political sensibility, it being an anti-Western sensibility.

Flynn presents us with the core of Sartrean politics as follows (and which brings us back to the important political question of conflicting humanisms): “Revolutionary thinking expresses a new humanism. The shout that ‘we too are men’, which echoes among the revolutionaries, Sartre will hear voiced on several occasions, not only by the economically exploited but by the colonized and the racially oppressed. What is now at issue [for Sartre] and will continue to be is a conflict of ‘humanisms’. All these forms of injustice exhibit a kind of racist bias, as that plaintive cry attests” (p. 252). What, then, is to be done? We shall end this paper by examining the political implications of the Sartrean worldview – his wish is to explode the prison, not resurrect whatever element of aristocratic aesthetics.

Sartrean politics: exploding the system

Sartrean politics had always been at war with the Western world, in both its aristocratic and its bourgeois manifestations. The Sartrean political worldview – much of which is still ideologically present in the 21st century in a variety of forms – is at war with the whole of Western civilization, and the values that that civilization has come to embody (from slavery to serfdom and so-called wage slavery, and the wars and colonial conquests that would come to define that civilization).

In discussing Nausea, we had noted that the apparent “randomness” of life was a reality that was in fact politically loaded – Wood tells us that “Roquentin’s apprehension of life’s randomness has a specific political charge” (p. xv). And Roquentin “sees the terrible unfreedom of most people’s lives” (p. xvi). Throughout the novel, Sartre’s Roquentin is at war with everything and everyone that surrounds him – Wood writes: “He is at war with the town in which he lives, at war with the regulars at his café, at war with Anny and the Autodidact, and at war with himself, or with pieces of himself” (p. ix).

In terms of the Sartrean political worldview, everything in life is political (a slogan that would resound in May 1968). The Sartrean position that everything is political would subsume within its discourse very specific political values. In his “Sartre was not a Marxist”, Betschart notes: “Sartre’s political core values can be defined by four primary refusals: no to militarism, no to colonialism, no to discrimination (against women, Jews, blacks, gays), and no to bourgeois morality with its values regarding authority and honor, family and money” (p. 82). “Most of these values”, Betschart continues, “date back to his time at the ENS [the École Normale Supérieure, where Sartre studied between 1924 and 1929] … His anti-colonialism dates even further back to 1924 when the Rif war in Northern Morocco politicized the young Sartre. At the ENS, Sartre opposed bourgeois decency whenever he could. Only his opposition to discrimination cannot be clearly located on the timeline. His relationship with Beauvoir indicates that he already regarded women as equal when he studied at the ENS. At this time, he also had a gay friend, Marc Zuorro. On the other hand, his stance against racism may date only from the thirties …” (ibid.).

Flynn also informs us about Sartre’s espousal of a certain understanding of the socialist ideal – he writes that Sartre “from now on [1945] … will champion a ‘concrete’ or what is more commonly called ‘positive’ freedom that, he argues, demands a kind of socialism” (p. 233). In fact, and according to Flynn’s philosophical biography, Sartre’s overall theoretical project may be seen as work “in the service of an egalitarian ideal”, or what Sartre himself called “socialism and freedom” or the “city of ends” (p. x), where the freedoms of individuals are respected as ends in themselves (cf. also Thomas C. Anderson, Sartre’s Two Ethics – From Authenticity to Integral Humanity, Open Court, 1993, p. 77).

That which is to be done cannot be based on the assumptions of whatever type of deterministic theory, as in the case of much of orthodox Marxist – and especially vulgar Marxist – thinking. Flynn explains Sartre’s position as follows: “And because this new humanism is grounded on freedom and not the recognition of historical necessity … its future is possible but not guaranteed. ‘Precisely because man is free [to act or not to do so], the triumph of socialism is not at all certain’ …” (p. 252).

While not deterministic, but given that everything is political, it is the responsibility of the individual to question the whole of Western society – and to do so as an expression of deep moral indignation. With reference to May 1968 and its political implications, Flynn observes the following: “The ‘events of May 1968’ marked a turning point in French politics and culture, the effects of which continue to this day. If it would be excessive to label it the ‘Sartrean’ revolution, as some have done, there is little doubt that these events resonated with Sartre’s model of ‘political existentialism’ … [and] its moral indignation … But as he insisted to his Maoist friends, in words worthy of Michel Foucault: ‘Everything is political; that is, everything questions society as a whole and ends up disputing it’ …” (p. 307).

Of course, one may critically observe here that the Sartrean reduction of everything to politics suggests that the possible autonomy of a field such as aesthetics – or of the Proustian understanding of aesthetics (as exhibited, for instance, in church architecture) – would be utterly annihilated. One may also further note that this Sartrean reductionism constitutes an absolute concept – or even potentially absolute practice – that could have totalitarian-type consequences in the real world (and as that did happen with the Chinese Cultural Revolution of the 1960’s and 1970’s). One could further respond to the Sartrean idea that everything is political by merely citing Camus – who writes as follows: “There does exist … a way of acting and of thinking, for man, which are possible on the level of moderation to which he belongs. Every undertaking which is more ambitious than this proves to be contradictory. The absolute is not attained, nor above all, created, through history. Politics is not religion, or, if it is, then it is nothing but the Inquisition. How would society define an absolute? Perhaps everyone is looking for this absolute on behalf of all. But society and politics only have the responsibility of arranging everyone’s affairs so that each will have the leisure and freedom to pursue this common search. History [and thus also politics] can then no longer be presented as an object of worship” (The Rebel, p. 269).

It is well-known that Sartre – but then also elements of the radical left of the 21st century – would think otherwise. In his “Sartre was not a Marxist”, Betschart gives us some idea of Sartre’s various ideological alliances from the 1940’s through to the 1970’s, all of which confirm both his consistently radical political commitment as also his wish to maintain a certain political independence as an intellectual – we read as follows: “Politically, Sartre frequently entered into short-term alliances with Communists and other left-wing movements: the French Rassemblement Démocratique Révolutionnaire (RDR) (1948-1949), the French Communists (1952-1956), the Soviet Communists (1954-1956, 1962-1968), the Algerian Liberation Front (1955-1962), Castro’s Cuba (1960-1971), and the ‘Maoist’ movements in France such as the Gauche Prolétarienne (1970-1973) and Vive la Révolution (1970-1971)” (p. 80). With respect to Sartre’s pro-Castro and pro-Maoist sympathies, as also his all too naïve belief in “direct democracy” and workers’ councils, Flynn notes the following: “Sartre and Beauvoir accepted the invitation of the Cuban journal, Revolución, to visit the island from February 22 to March 21, 1960, a year after Castro had become premier. They were effusive in their praise of the Cuban revolution and its charismatic leader. What seemed to impress Sartre particularly was the evidence for ‘direct democracy’ that he thought he observed during the visit. We shall see that preference for workers’ councils resonates with Sartre’s congenitally anarchistic leanings when his sympathies turn towards the ‘Maoists’ later in the decade” (p. 305).

The Sartrean political project would be, literally speaking, to help explode the prison – the prison of course being the Western bourgeois world. In his Saint Genet, Sartre expresses his intentions as bluntly as possible – he writes as follows: “Since it [action] cannot be carried out without breaking up the old order, it is a permanent revolution. It demolishes in order to build and disassembles in order to reassemble” (p. 24). And Sartre proceeds to argue in a manner which may be directly contrasted to the Proustian project of cultural resurrection as presented above – he continues: “We reduce the new to the old. Upkeep, maintenance, preservation, restoration, renewal – these are the actions that are permitted. They fall under the heading of repetition. Everything is full, everything hangs together, everything is in order, everything has always existed, the world is a museum of which we are the curators … As Being is the measure of perfection, an existing regime is always more perfect than one which does not exist. It is said to have demonstrated its worth. Anyone wishing to introduce the slightest improvement (and it is quite assumed that improvement is a pious notion which implies no destruction; it is a transition to a higher perfection which envelops and includes the prior perfection) is likewise required to demonstrate its worth and to give evidence, in all other respects, of an all the more profound attachment to Being, that is, to customs and traditions” (ibid.).

Sartre asserts the need for a permanent revolution which disassembles the social order because that social order permits only the maintenance and the preservation of the past (or its past) – it only permits, in other words, its own repetition, something which in itself could be taken (or mistaken) to be more or less reminiscent of the Proustian call for a certain resurrection of time past (albeit only the best of such time past). While the social order can allow for a certain improvement of itself, this improvement ought to necessarily adhere to that order’s customs and traditions. This, Sartre is arguing, reduces the world to a museum, it being a museum that hijacks the future – and thus the new and the future can only be salvaged via a ruptural revolution (the revolution could be violent, and it could take a variety of forms, both political and criminal).

The apparent “generosity” of the elites, as also the slavish “gratitude” of the masses in response to such “generosity”, leaves no room for whatever compromises with the social order. With respect to the aristocracy and its own “generosity” towards the masses (a theme also dealt with by Proust in his own way – cf. above), Sartre writes as follows in his Saint Genet: “The aristocrat consumes for the entire society. The mob is allowed to watch the king eat; the king eats with tireless generosity; the common people proclaim their gratitude through the gates, a Mass is being performed” (p. 196). The function of this “generosity” – which is also evident within the bourgeois social order, and which goes hand in hand with “conspicuous consumption” (ibid.) in the Western world – is to preserve the order. Sartre wishes to break such functionality, and do so bar whatever compromises.

Sartre’s violent anti-Western position is most lucidly presented by Wood in his introduction to Nausea. He writes as follows: “… his own brand of Marxist existentialism had oddly uncomplicated relations with Western capitalism: he simply believed that violent revolution should sweep capitalism away. He denounced the Russian invasion of Hungary in 1956, but argued that only socialism, not the bourgeois notions of justice and human rights, could condemn it. In 1961, in his introduction to Franz Fanon’s Les Damnés de la Terre, he wrote: ‘… It is necessary to kill. To shoot down a European is to kill two birds with one stone, to eliminate at the same time an oppressor and an oppressed.’ One cannot help reflecting on the irony that the celebrated philosopher of freedom, the great atheist, maintained an almost religious faith in an ideology that vandalized the very face of freedom” (p. xiv). We should of course note here that there is in fact little irony in the Sartrean position: Marxist ideology – whatever its variations and orthodoxies – had always been “an object of worship” (as Camus would put it) in the 20th century, and at least thus far continues to be so in the 21st century. And Camus knew exactly what he was saying when he would warn the world that as soon as any politics mutates into a religion, it becomes an Inquisition (cf. above). It may be argued that the Sartrean worldview would be such as to establish an Inquisition for the whole of the Western world. Of course, it may be counter argued that Sartre was morally justified in doing so – that, however, is well beyond our means to pass whatever judgment (it being usually history, and the manner of its writing, that passes such judgments).

Yet still, this brings us back to the critique of the Sartrean worldview as articulated by Frederic Jameson, who would point to Sartre’s “fallacy of an ‘expressive’ totality”, or his “monadic tendency” (cf. above). This fallacious tendency, we have briefly noted, is to think of each particular individual as a total reflection of the milieu to which he belongs, and who is therefore as guilty as is his milieu. It may be argued that the practical implications of such thinking could be horrendous (as Wood himself feels, describing Sartrean politics as something akin to a “religious faith” and which can result in an “unworldly monstrousness” – p. xx). Based on the assumption that each and every European is a reflection of his own milieu (and which is said to be an oppressive milieu), Sartre’s suggestion that any European ought to be killed is logically accurate. As a reflection of his own social order, in other words, each and every European is both oppressor and oppressed (and he even accepts the latter role with “gratitude”) – he therefore should be eliminated, and it should be done so on both rational and moral grounds. In his capacity as a rather more orthodox Marxist, Jameson has no choice but to object to the thinking of such a methodology – for him it is social classes that reflect a milieu, and can even reflect it as conscious oppositional forces (the milieu itself being riddled with self-contradictions). We do not intend to delve into the Jameson critique in any detail – we shall merely present a sample of his 2014 New Left Review text referred to above. Consider the following: “… the fundamental weakness of this moment of Sartre’s thought … [is] what I venture to call its ‘monadic’ tendency … as the fallacy of an ‘expressive’ totality, the notion that within a given particular the whole of a social or historical moment is somehow included, and might be available to hermeneutic exploration and display, as Sartre tried to do in his biographical works, or ‘existential psychoanalyses’. This view presupposes what he calls incarnation: ‘which means that each individual is, in a certain fashion, the total representation of his/her epoch’ … it is true that he adds the words ‘an individual, whoever it is, or a group, or some sort of assembly, is an incarnation of the total society’, which might lead us on to those discussions of class and class consciousness …”

Sartre’s persistent “monadic tendency” would mean that each and every Western individual is responsible for being just that – a Westerner. And thus, Western intellectuals who shirk the implications of such a responsibility are mere “collaborators”. Flynn notes as follows: “The situated writer who does not speak up for the economically exploited and the socially oppressed of ‘our time’, Sartre warns, is a collaborator in such oppression and exploitation” (p. 296). As regards Western colonialism and the concomitant Western racist attitudes, Sartre asserts that “We are all guilty” (Flynn, p. 304). And with respect to the Algerian question, Sartre would publish an essay in a 1958 issue of Les Temps Modernes entitled “We are all Assassins” (Flynn, p. 305). Since the whole of Western society was guilty, Sartre’s hope for a more authentic world would be based on the Genet-type outcasts, and on those select few that had come to espouse the new revolutionary ethics. Flynn writes that, for Sartre, “the entire society was bankrupt. As we see from … his ‘Maoist’ discussions, it is with those presumably few individuals who retained an ethical core that hope lies – on the condition that they commit themselves to effecting fundamental socioeconomic change” (p. 407). In his Saint Genet, Sartre declares that “The bourgeoisie … is only one drawing room. Genet will be the gravedigger of the European bourgeoisie” (p. 262).

Wood concludes his introduction to Nausea by summarizing the essence of Sartrean politics as follows: “Sartre hoped that we could simply explode the prison” (p. xx). The left-wing political discourse of the 21st century would of course speak of the need for a “cancellation” of that prison. In direct contrast, the Proustian worldview would wish us to celebrate the best that Western civilization once had to offer – we may reiterate here that Proust would see Christianity (as also elements of the aristocratic milieu) as a major aesthetic force enabling a nation such as France to accomplish whatever was of any lasting value. And it would be Christianity that would give birth to minds such as Descartes and Pascal. We have seen that Proust would even go so far as to suggest that it would be precisely that type of Christianity – with its aesthetically civilizational values – that France would export to its colonies.

The chasm between the Proustian and Sartrean worldviews remains, it seems, unbridgeable – and that, despite whatever overlaps may be identified in the life and work of these two great thinkers (we know that Sartre would be a defender of Jews; we know that Proust had endeavoured to secure the support of Anatole France for the Dreyfus case).

Nikos Vlachos (né Paul N. Tourikis)

October, 2023.

The post From Proust’s Aristocracy to Sartre’s Outcasts appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Upon deeper reflection, of course, one could excuse him, it was something I had provoked all on my own, I was born with that hideous condition, even though I always tried to hide it. But people are not so easily deceived, they observe you with a thousand eyes, from a thousand angles, until they have discovered your secret. And then you’re finished. Believe me, not even I understood how it happened, it all came about unexpectedly. The tortoise was so big, gentlemen of the jury, that it could not but kill him.

But it’s best I tell it from the beginning. Every peson, gentlemen of the jury, has a flaw which they carry with them from the day they are born, without being aware of it. Afterwards, someday, in their adolescence or later on, in adulthood, the time comes when they find out about it. My apologies, I like to philosophise, one manages in this way to live more calmly. As for my flaw, I wasn’t even aware of it in childhood, things were lovely back then, in the countryside in the summer father would whistle from afar every evening, and we, my sister and I, would come running to help him with the grocery shopping.Mother would set the table under the apricot trees and her white robe would leave behind a scented trail, in the distance dogs would be barking, and when we finished the meal I would lose myself in the large garden, lying down for hours amongst the damp cress. Later, all of a sudden, everything changed, my God! how did everything change? No one knows what’s going to happen the very next minute. Father went bankrupt, mother rapidly grew old, my eldest brother married our maid who had some savings, and I stopped my violin lessons.

That’s how life flowed by. Father would now obtain some fabrics from various merchants, old friends of his, and would sell them in remote neighbourhoods. And so one afternoon I went along with him to the drapery shop, so as to help carry half of the fabrics home. As far as I remember my father was always serious, with an imposing presence, a true gentleman,everyone on the street would tip their hat, removing it all the way down, even when he had fallen into poverty and had become slightly hunched. And suddenly I saw another man inside that shop, no, that man wasn’t my father. He was meekly requesting an increase to his commission, and even at one point when the other man went away, forgetting his cigarette in the ashtray, father grabbed the cigarette, took two puffs and quickly put it back. The shopkeeper, a plump man, with breasts like a woman’s, turned around and caught sight of me.

“Come here, I’ve got something for you,” he said to me with a cunning smile.

I approached unsuspectingly. The shopkeeper opened a drawer, took something out and right away shoved it in my mouth. I began to choke, and then I understood: it was a tortoise. The repulsive animal had tumbled down and lodged itself inside me. Father, apparently unaware of what actually happened, laughed at the prank.

At home in the evening I couldn’t eat a thing.

“Are you sick?” mother worriedly asked, and took my pulse.

How could I explain to her what had happened? I went to bed early, pulled the blanket over my head, and silently wept. I now knew what awaited me.

Ever since that day I’ve been distrustful and kept away from people – horrified, I could see in their eyes that they instantly knew my secret. Naturally I had to work in order to get by, and so I found a job as a clerk in a hotel close to the railway station, nightshift work, so that it wouldn’t be very busy. “From here on it’s best to live in the dark, to go unnoticed,” I thought. And indeed, whenever I wasn’t needed somewhere, I made haste to disappear, I was mindful in particular of speaking, always keeping my mouth shut. One night, past midnight, a couple arrived from the provinces, the man no more than forty years of age, tall and in good shape, the woman much younger and beautiful. I gave them the key to their room and they asked me to bring up their suitcases.I followed them from behind, my eyes ranging upon the woman’s back, her hips swaying, and on each step of the stairs her long shiny hair gently fluttering. We entered the room and I put the suitcases in place. The woman was standing before the mirror, gazing at herself. I tried to resist but in the end I gave in and threw two or three glances in her direction. The man, it seems, must’ve seen me, for his eyes glistened nastily.

“Here, take your tip and go, we don’t need you anymore,” he gestured abruptly.

I bowed, holding the coin tightly in my hand, and left the room, while the man continued: “What a disgusting face he has!”

Indifferent, the woman replied: “I didn’t even notice.”

I clearly overheard the exchange, as did the man in the adjacent room, standing by the open door. He had been at the hotel for ten nights, a short, bald man, gleaming always with revolting sweat.

“Did you hear them?”

As was my habit, I didn’t say a word.

“Take my shoes, I need them polished by the morning.”

And he added, pointing to the couple’s door:

“They’ll have a good time tonight, unlike you!”

“Unlike me?” I wondered, unable to understand.

That revolting character, it seems, had been waiting for me to say something, and with the swiftness of a magician he shoved a tortoise in my mouth.

I mustered all my strength to swallow it as quickly as possible so that I could breathe. The door opposite was now closed, the room’s guest nowhere to be seen. I rushed down the stairs and went out into the empty street, leaving behind my work as well as the fortnight’s pay I was owed. “So that’s why he had stayed ten whole nights, he noticed something strange about me and wanted to verify it. And so he succeeded,” I thought. “But where, after all, do they find these tortoises? If this happens again, I’ll report it to the police, the laws must protect me.” But what would I tell them? Who would believe me? I could, of course, show them my eyes. “Do you know why my eyes bulge like this?At that moment, Officer, you feel like you’re choking on the tortoise.” I was then astonished to recall that that guest had checked out the previous night, I myself  having waved down the taxi for him.I was about to go back to confirm this when I was reassured by a thought: “He left last night, but it’s not out of the question that he returned this morning, when the dayshift clerk was on duty. And what about the shoes he gave me to polish? I probably dropped them when I was rushing down the stairs.” Once I had put the events in order, I calmed down somewhat.

From that day, of course, I would even avoid working. Work, gentlemen of the jury, is the best, and the most lawful, way for others to do with you what they will. My family used to call me a slacker, they couldn’t understand, but of course neither could I offer them any explanation. What had befallen me wasn’t only horrible but also unbelievable. And so I would live in my parents’ house, in the basement, and often my sister or eldest brother would come down to give me advice, that naturally was their intention, even if they would end up telling me off. But I can’t deny that my brother, as soon as his clothes began to look tattered, would send me to a tailor he knew to have them resized for me. As for my sister, she came down at noon that day looking sulky, she had just returned from the shops and was carrying a parcel wrapped in white paper.

“Still in bed? You’ve got it made!”

You could say I was in ‘bed’, but the archaic couch I was sleeping on was hard, its springs protruding into my sides, and as for covers, under my ragged coat I only had an army blanket, that’s all.

“You’ve got to get a job and leave, I want to rent out the basement. You can’t sponge off us all your life.”

I remembered when we were children and slept in the same bed. When it rained and thundered at night, she’d get scared and burrow in my arms. And one night, soon after I had finished telling her a great fairy tale, she bent over and whispered in my ear, with a vague feeling of guilt: “When we grow up we’ll marry one another. I don’t want us to part.” I then took a closer look at the parcel she was holding. Something was stirring inside.“My God, even my sister!” I thought. I seized the parcel, ripped the wrapping, took out the tortoise and shoved it in my mouth with my own hands.“There! So that you may witness your brother’s torment!” She started to scream, she was embarrassed, it seems, and claimed that the parcel contained a toy she had bought for her son.

The next day I moved out of my parents’ house. I rented a room in an outlying neighbourhood. It was then that I began to philosophise, as I mentioned to you. “Every person has their own unhappiness,” I reflected. “You too have yours. Does anyone choose their own self? You are born without anyone asking you, you die without ever wanting to – that’s life. All that’s left you is to live it.” You know, if you work out what you want, everything becomes simple, even your unhappiness. All else is egoism. And egoism, gentlemen of the jury, is our most hidden and monstrous servitude to others. Naturally, given the little money I had, I would eat only once a day, at noon. The evenings I’d pass with wine alone. That’s how things were when one rainy morning I took the bus, for no reason other than I enjoyed travelling by bus and looking at the city, that was my sole superfluous expense, but always sitting in the back seat, in the corner, so no one would notice me. I was waiting at the stop, with two others, when I heard a strange, rasping sound. I pricked up my ears and soon I was seized with terror as I realised that the sound was coming from inside me – it was not so much a sound as a dry, dull clatter… I anxiously glanced at the person next to me, who continued reading his newspaper undisturbed.

Yet that noise was coming from inside me. For on the approach of evening, I was going into my room and heard it again. I immediately understood, there was no doubt: it was those accursed animals, which had multiplied in the meantime, and as they stirred and crashed into each other, they made that rasping, blood curdling sound. As long as I was by myself I didn’t care very much, but when the landlady came in to hand me a subpoena from the police, I began speaking loudly so that the abominable sounds couldn’t be heard, but the sounds intensified so much that, in order to mask them, I had to start screaming. The woman took fright and left. As soon as the noises ceased, I ran out and caught up to her. I apologised, and I was obliged to tell her that I was undergoing a crisis: “my nerves are a bit frayed, but please, for God’s sake, don’t tell the neighbours.” She was a good woman, she was, you see, over sixty years of age and actually forgot all about it. And so, after this incident, whenever I heard any suspicious sounds, I’d make myself scarce. At night, the noises initially drove me to despair, but over time you can get used to anything, and there’d be moments when I was overcome with boundless compassion. “The poor creatures,” I’d think to myself, “they’re not to blame, confined as they are in such a cramped space.”

As for the subpoena from the police, I was returning home late one night, I was fed up with being on my own, I too wanted to have someone to speak with, I wanted to embrace a woman, even if I were to die, and there close by on the same street lived one of those women, you know who I’m talking about, and so I went in, she showed me to the couch and sat opposite me, in such a position as if the other person were blind. I didn’t know how to begin, I always have difficulty talking, especially in such circumstances. In any case I felt good, the scent from the cheap perfume was making me feel faint, and then a thought suddenly occurred to me: “without a doubt she’s hidden the tortoise somewhere.” I looked around, I didn’t at all like the bed pillow, it seemed to bulge at the edge. I approached and pulled it away with force. “She’s hidden it somewhere else,” I thought and began searching everywhere. I opened her drawers and wardrobe, I turned her lingerie inside out, I even looked under the couch. The woman was screaming, and after I tore her robe in case she was hiding the tortoise in her breasts, I set off, almost at a run.

At that time I came to know the victim. My money had run out and I had to do something. He was a smart man, vigorous, handsome and wealthy, a noteworthy individual, in other words, who was in charge of a large group of offices under the name ‘General Enterprises’. I can tell you that it was the happiest time of my life, even if the witnesses say that I hated him because, allegedly, he would force me to dust off his clothes, or to clean the toilets at night, that was my job, that’s why I was hired. Besides, do you think that you would kill someone simply and solely because they had given you degrading tasks to do? We would then have all manner of crimes every day of the year, gentlemen of the jury, and it would be the end of the world. And so one evening, a month later, the director called me to his office. I entered with a premonition that something bad will happen, a feeling I always had when I approached another person.

“You know,” he said, grinning,“as soon as I saw you, I had you figured out…”

He was indeed so smart and self-confident that I would have been baffled if he hadn’t figured me out. I bowed meekly.

“Each of us lives the best way they can in this world,” I said plainly, as though I were telling the story of my entire life.

“I’ll give you an opportunity today, which will be your greatest achievement,” he said with satisfaction. He had been standing, and now walked off and opened the door to the toilet. I heard a lacklustre sliding noise,and there slowly emerged from the open door such a large tortoise that I drew back. It was tall and wide, like those huge heaters you see in expensive country houses –the kind of heater the director also had in his office.

“But it’s impossible,” I stammered, “how can I?”

He told a vulgar joke, which in fact upset me, but after my initial shock I came around. “It really would be a great achievement.” I got so carried away that I even silently said a small prayer: “my God,” I said, “since I was born with such a horrible flaw, ensure at least that I make it to the end.”

I opened my mouth and he began pushing it in, it was painful, but I took courage in the thought that I too will have accomplished something beyond my strength. Suddenly a mirror appeared on the wall. It was a loathsome sight, my eyes popping out, my neck swollen, and turning dark blue all over from asphyxiation, with the tortoise shoved halfway into my mouth, an enormous creature – like two animals tearing each other to shreds.Weirdly and unexpectedly, I was bathed in boundless exultation. “Thank you, my Lord, for showing me my true face,” I whispered. Exactly that moment the accident occurred. He stumbled and fell, just as the tortoise escaped from my mouth and forcefully crashed onto his head. And let the investigator claim that it was I who hit him, allegedly with the lid of the heater – lies! The deceased lay stretched on the carpet, no longer posing a threat,while the creature crawled towards the door and then vanished into the basement of the building.

That’s all I have to say, gentlemen of the jury. I have nothing further to add. I wish only to make a request. Since this dreadful condition of mine might be some unknown illness, I’d like to donate my body to a scientific institute. Perhaps tomorrow’s scientists will understand. And if it will be for the benefit sometime of humankind, then all this horror that I experienced in my life will have been worth it.

(Translator's note: I am grateful to Dr Konstantina Georganta for her feedback on my translation.)

Tasos Leivaditis (1922–1988) was a Greek poet, short story writer and literary critic. The "Tortoises" is taken from his 1966 collection of short stories The Pendulum.

N. N. Trakakis teaches philosophy at the Australian Catholic University, and also writes and translates poetry. He has translated several of Tasos Leivaditis’ works, including The Blind Man with the Lamp (Denise Harvey Publications, 2014), Violets for a Season (Red Dragonfly Press, 2017), Autumn Manuscripts (Smokestack Books, 2020), and most recently Night Visitor (Human Side Press, 2023).

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Μετάφραση: Νικόλαος Τρακάκης

Αγοράζει ένα μουσικό κουτί από το παιχνιδάδικο του κυρίου Τέμπλετον. Είναι από σκαλιστό ξύλο σκούρας βελανιδιάς και έχει μπρούτζινους μεντεσέδες. «Παίζει το βαλς του Σάλτσμπαχ», λέει ο κύριος Τέμπλετον, «όταν ρυθμίζω τον μηχανισμό». Είναι σίγουρος ότι θα της αρέσει. «Παρακαλώ παραδώστε το σήμερα», λέει, και ο κύριος Τέμπλετον γνέφει με σοφία. Αργότερα, εκείνη ανοίγει το δέμα που έφερε ο διανομέας. «Μουσικό κουτί!» φωνάζει. Είναι τόσο όμορφο. Διαβάζει την κάρτα που της έχει εσωκλείσει και χαμογελάει. Τι γλυκό. Θέλοντας να ακούσει το τραγούδι που παίζει το κουτί, σηκώνει το καπάκι. Αρχίζει μια μελωδία. Μια απαλή και χαρούμενη μελωδία. Πιάνει τον εαυτό της να χορεύει. Είναι ένας πολύ συναρπαστικός σκοπός. Εκείνο το βράδυ περνάει για να δει αν της άρεσε το δώρο του. Χτυπάει την πόρτα. Χτυπάει ξανά. Ανοίγει την πόρτα και μπαίνει στο δωμάτιό της. Είναι σωριασμένη στο πάτωμα, βαριανασαίνει και κρατά την καρδιά της. Τα πόδια της χτυπιούνται πέρα δώθε, χαράσσοντας το ξύλινο πάτωμα, στο ρυθμό της μεταλλικής μελωδίας. «Αγαπητή μου!» φωνάζει και ορμάει μπροστά. Αλλά δεν μπορεί να τη φτάσει. Δεν μπορεί να σκύψει να τη βοηθήσει. Αντίθετα, πιάνει τον εαυτό του να χορεύει…

[Σημείωμα του μεταφραστή: Οφείλω ευχαριστίες στην Dr Konstantina Georganta για την πολύτιμη βοήθειά της.]

Thomas Wiloch, The Music Box

He buys a music box at Mr. Templeton’s toyshop. It is carved of dark oak and has hinges of brass. “It will play the Salzbach waltz,” says Mr. Templeton, “when I set the mechanism”. He is sure she will like it. “Please deliver it today,” he says, and Mr. Templeton nods sagely. Later, she opens the package the deliveryman has brought. “A music box,” she cries. It is so very beautiful. She reads the card he has enclosed and she smiles. How sweet. Wanting to hear the song the box plays, she lifts the lid. A melody begins. A soft and lilting melody. She finds herself dancing. It is a most compelling tune. That night he stops by to see how she likes his gift. He knocks on the door. He knocks again. He opens the door and enters her room. She is crumpled on the floor, gasping and holding her heart. Her feet kick back and forth, scraping the wooden floor in time with the tinkling melody. “My dear!” he cries, rushing forward. But he cannot reach her. He cannot bend down to help her. Instead, he finds himself dancing...

Ο Thomas Wiloch (1953–2008), με έδρα του το Ντιτρόιτ, ήταν ποιητής, κριτικός, πεζογράφος και εικονογράφος. Εργάστηκε για πολλά χρόνια στο εκδοτικό τμήμα των εκδόσεων Gale. Ο συνάδελφός του Thomas Ligotti, αναγνωρισμένος συγγραφέας τρόμου, έχει περιγράψει τον Wiloch ως «σπουδαίο τεχνίτη του πεζοποιήματος. Στην πραγματικότητα ήταν από τους σημαντικότερους που έχει γνωρίσει ο λογοτεχνικός κόσμος, ακόμα και αν αυτός ο κόσμος δεν το ήξερε. Ίσως κάποια μέρα να το μάθει».  Το πεζοποίημα που μεταφράζεται εδώ είναι από τη συλλογή του Wiloch Mr. Templeton’s Toyshop (Wordcraft of Oregon, 1995).

O N. N. Trakakis διδάσκει φιλοσοφία στο Αυστραλιανό Καθολικό Πανεπιστήμιο στη Μελβούρνη, και γράφει και μεταφράζει ποίηση. Έχει μεταφράσει στα αγγλικά έργα του Λειβαδίτη, μεταξύ αυτών τα Ο τυφλός με τον λύχνο (The Blind Man with the Lamp, Denise Harvey Publications, 2014),  Βιολέτες για μια εποχή (Violets for a Season, Red Dragonfly Press, 2017), Τα χειρόγραφα του φθινοπώρου (Autumn Manuscripts, Smokestack Books, 2020), Εγχειρίδιο ευθανασίας (Enchiridion Euthanasiæ, Human Side Press, 2021), και το Τρίπτυχο (που περιλαμβάνει τα ποιήματα Μάχη στην άκρη της νύχτας, Αυτό το αστέρι είναι για όλους μας και Φυσάει στα σταυροδρόμια του κόσμου, Anthem Press, 2022).

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“Who’ll get there first!”

They’d find themselves low at Makedonomahon Street, at the height of Gioura’s place, and her cousin had lagged behind, stooping at the edge of the dirt road and gathering cyclamens that sprout among pine needles beneath the trees. It was then that she decided to shout:

“Who’ll get there first! Come on, who’ll get there first!” And she started racing towards the house before little Panos could catch on to what she meant.

“Hold it, that won’t do!” shouted the kid all taken aback, and he sprung up clutching a bunch of cyclamens in his left hand. “That won’t do!”

The girl, however, kept running as she teased him:

“Whoever gets there last is a dummy, a dummy, a dummy!”

And suddenly, just as she’d pass by the sand pile in front of the headmaster’s place, a very loud boohoo burst out behind her, a howling not of the sort kids use to communicate between them, but meant to urgently call on the adults. She froze. Panting, flushed, she turned round and saw her cousin having fallen – yet again! – with his face on the ground, palms stretched out by his head, the cyclamens scattered aside, crying, spitting out and eating the dirt. She gasped. With guilt dripping all over her, she sought to run by his side, but before she’d get to him, all the adults had surged out in the street and little Panos’s dad was already bearing him back home. Her mom dashed out as well, and seeing at a glance that her girl was okay, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her inside, foaming at the mouth.

“Haven’t I said we don’t run in the dirt roads? Well? Haven’t I? What’s happened to him? Did you push him?”

“No! We were playing!”

Her cousin’s face covered in blood, her own gone crimson for she knew she’d acted wrongly. And upstairs in the house, little Panos on his dad’s arms crying his heart out, stretching his dirty, sodden and bloodied face backwards, backwards, backwards, as if wishing to escape, to tumble over and yet again fall on his face, this time on the concrete floor.

You dummy! the girl says to herself with resolute anger. She can never forgive him for the blood on his face and the fever she feels on hers. She now believes that little Panos is deliberately crying at the top of his voice, so that he avenge her for having been duped and win his own way – since surely he’d be the last to make it home. And anyhow, the girl almost always beats him, in all their games.

She feels she alone realizes the deceit, but also feels her mom’s rebuke with that look in her eyes and the pursed lips as she eyes her daughter – and she keeps on eyeing her with mounting suspicion, probably because mothers have their way of scenting certain vexing truths. The girl feels a mess until her auntie shouts over all the others so that she be heard:

“Come on, come on, alright, no big deal, they’re just kids, they’re bound to fall and get hurt. Stop it now – you’re frightening Sia as well!”

And for the umpteenth time she bends over little Panos, who’s started to calm down, and with a piece of cotton wool she applies mercurochrome to the scratches. Which, truth be told, are not that many.

Sia takes on as terrified a facial expression as possible, as if about to cry, and looks at her cousin pretending to be deeply engrossed. Whatever, as long as she doesn’t have to look at her mommy again. A minute goes by and while the adults continue busying themselves with cotton wools, mercurochromes, hansaplast and the like, Sia slips away, goes down the stairs and comes out the upper pilotis. Once again, she makes her way up to Makedonomahon Street and then goes walking rather slowly – she doesn’t run in the dirt roads! – a bit further down, to the spot where her cousin had fallen. Little Panos’s cut, dusty cyclamens look woeful. If only he hadn’t cut them at all, now lying all wasted. She recalls his devotion in selecting them, as she turned and called on him to race. Her lower lip pouts out in sadness, trembling. She bends over the flowers and she as well picks out two that haven’t been crushed, haven’t been ruffled, not covered in dust. And right that moment, the headmaster and his eldest son Vassilis, together with mister Babis, appear on the road.

They’re all in work clothes. Mister Antonis is also sporting a trilby hat. He’s saying something to the other two, pointing to the piles of sand and cement. The girl drops her head and hastily goes up the road in the direction of her house. On reaching them, mister Babis, the construction worker, starts the concrete mixer and the drum begins turning.

“Hello, little mermaid”, mister Antonis greets her – he’d always call her that – and the “mermaid” blushes again, mumbles a hoarse “Hello sir”, and starts running, tightly clutching the cyclamen stems. When she reenters the house the crying has died out. She’d better go to her cousin and tell him she’s saved two of his cyclamens. And tell him not to squeal on her. If he doesn’t, they’ll play whatever story he likes in their next playmobil game.

From the collection of short stories, Makedonomahon Street (Odos Makedonomahon), Thessaloniki: Petites-Maisons 2022
Diakopto, Achaea, Winter 2022

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Part 1: An attempt at tracing the historical roots of the postmodern humanists

In his very last interview to a reporter, Robert Frost would make the following statement: “I don’t take life very seriously. It’s hard to get into this world and hard to get out of it. And what’s in between doesn’t make much sense. If that sounds pessimistic, let it stand”. It is precisely such “in between” phase which may be said to constitute what André Malraux had referred to as the “human condition”. To understand the “West” – and to attempt to define it through the orrery of cultural paradigms that have come to delineate its history and identity – one would need to commence with that which apparently “doesn’t make much sense”, it being the “human condition”, and as that has been experienced by the so-called “Western” individual.

We know that the human predicament has revolved around what has sometimes been referred to as “nature’s point of view” and its apparently “senseless” forces that often seem all too pitted against the human species. As in the case of other peoples, we know that “Western” man has attempted to “control” such forces of nature. And we further know that he has attempted to do so through a particular form of “civilization” and its various social practices [at least as interpreted by Freud in the late 1920’s].

In this first of a series of papers, we shall attempt to examine certain general dimensions of “Western civilization” and its social practices and how these have yielded essentially conflictual cultural/ideological paradigms within the ambit of the “Western world”. Here, our major [though not only] source of investigation shall be based on the thinking of John Updike, and especially with reference to his Due Considerations: Essays and Criticism, Hamish Hamilton, 2007. There shall also be references, inter alia, to the thinking of Alfred Lord Tennyson, retrieved from The Collected Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson, Wordsworth Poetry Library series, 1994.

The issues we shall attempt to explore are complex, and they are so given the interplay of a diverse array of factors that have operated in the history of the “Western world” – and yet, the questions to be discussed are not necessarily in themselves “profound” [whatever be the exact meaning of such word]. This has to be pointed out for at least one rather important reason: analysts that have been inclined to assume a certain “profundity” regarding the “human condition” and its “progress” have produced texts burdened by an often impenetrable obscurantist jargon, and that at the expense of linguistic transparency [let us remember here the case of someone like Louis Althusser, and how he had earned the wholesale rejection of more down-to-earth Marxist intellectuals across the Channel].

There is a sense in which the “human condition” – at least as regards that of the “Western world” – both escapes all sense of “profundity” and, precisely in so doing, attains a rather enigmatic nature [and which is a peculiarity, as we shall see, not completely unrelated to the ultimately conflictual cultural/ideological paradigms that seem to be tearing the “West” apart in the 21st century]. In discussing the work of Sinclair Lewis, Updike himself raises the issue of “profundity”, and he does this by stating the following: “It is the conflicting fate of an American artist to long for profundity while suspecting that, most profoundly, none exists; all is surface, and rather flimsy surface at that” [p. 546].

Our attempt to explore the orrery of cultural paradigms that have come to compose [and perhaps ultimately decompose] the “West” shall have to dwell on just that “rather flimsy surface”. For it is on just such “surface” that “Western” man would struggle to “control” the “senseless” forces of nature besieging his condition.

We well know that, confronted by such “senseless” forces within which he would find himself “thrown”, the “Western” individual had to gradually establish certain mechanisms for his own self-protection. One such self-protective mechanism was the establishment of what may be described as manufactured illusions. Freud’s landmark work, The Future of an Illusion, written in 1927, deals with precisely such self-protective mechanism. One need not at all agree with Freud’s psychoanalytic approach [and the emphasis he places on the question of primitive impulses] as adopted in this study – his observations did nonetheless mark a turning point in our understanding of human behaviour. By 1930, in his work entitled Civilization and its Discontents, Freud would complement his observations on this self-protecting mechanism of illusions by this time relating it directly to “Western civilization”.

A second, and as important, self-protective mechanism would be that of “Western”-type habituation, a fairly well-defined form of behaviour that should be seen as directly related to the establishment of manufactured illusions. The relationship is clear: much of habitual behaviour would be informed, across history, by the mechanism of manufactured illusions. We know that, above all, it has been Max Weber’s presentation of mass habits as a form of “life conduct” that has most lucidly dealt with the phenomenon. It may be said that the specifically “Western” habituation to a distinct regularity of life has imprinted itself as a “custom” in accordance with the dictates of the mechanism of manufactured illusions, and as such illusions have morphed across the history of “Western civilization”. By becoming “accustomed” to both his condition and his self-protective mechanisms, the “Western” individual has protected himself from the exigencies of being alive.

Now, Updike would himself acknowledge such almost self-evident little truths of the “human condition” – in 1998, he would write of “All the habits and illusions that protect me” [p. 23]. He was, of course, speaking in his capacity as the par excellence “Western Man”.

Before we proceed any further, we may at this point draw a general, albeit rather tentative, conclusion regarding the role of illusions and habits in the history of all peoples, and which would include that of the “West”. In the last instance, it has not been the so-called “mode of production” of whichever social formation that has ultimately “determined” the movement of human history. And further, it has not been the form of State – and/or its ideological “moments” – of whichever society that has played such “determining” role [although these have certainly contributed their part to such “determination”]. Rather, it is the illusions and habits that are embedded in all of these social structures and practices that have played the “overdetermining” function in the final instance. That type of “determination”, however, escapes the observer – it eludes him because he is part and parcel of both the illusions and the habits. And to the extent that we – as observers – can only but fail to comprehend such form of “determination”, the very concept of “determinism” simply falls apart [as it does for a variety of other reasons which shall not concern us here].

Of course, the sheer force and determination of habituation in the “Western world” has deeply concerned much of “Western” intellectual discussion. We may here simply refer to Louis Malle’s 1981 brilliant motion picture, My Dinner with Andre, which focuses precisely on the problem of habituation as experienced in a developed capitalist country such as the USA. Parenthetically, a number of pertinent observations may here be recorded with respect to the discourse of this important picture: [i] “Western” habituation to regularity is starkly contrasted to the realities of “the rest” of the world; [ii] habituation is presented as the mother of illusion and not vice versa; [iii] whatever attempt be made – on the part of the “Western” individual – to “break” with the illusions and habits of “Western” life can lead to tragic consequences [and especially in cases where the “break” is taken to its extremes].

The third observation is of special importance for our purposes: it points to the sheer continuity of the role of illusion and habituation in the formation [or even deformation] of the “Western world” throughout its history – breaking with such particular continuity could open the way to [what dominant cultural paradigms within the “Western milieu” would deem as] anti-social and/or pathological behaviour. We intend to explore this train of thought further below but with special reference to the identifiable continuity of certain cultural/ideological paradigms that have threaded their way across the different phases or conjunctures of “Western” history. As we shall also try to show, the continuities of “Western” illusion and habituation have at the same time been marked by internal ruptures and splinters yielding precisely what we have referred to above as a conflictual orrery of cultural paradigms.

We know that, from a generally historical perspective, the human need for self-protective mechanisms of manufactured illusions – and the habits and customs that accompany such mechanisms – has yielded what has often been called “the religious instinct”. The latter has been described – by Freud amongst so many others – as a historically [not to say psychologically] necessary human need or desire. This instinctual tendency may be said to have survived right across human history, and we intend to explore the manner in which this has occurred in the “West” itself. Writing in 1999, Updike informs us as follows: “As William James asserted …, the human creature’s religious instinct is as obdurate and resourceful as its sexual instinct, and as impervious to reason” [p. 30]. What is of special interest to us is that incredible resourcefulness of the religious instinct, and how this would enable it to morph into different forms in the course of “Western civilization” – and do so in its own particular manner right up to modern and even postmodern times [of course, the fact that it is also “impervious to reason” raises a variety of highly telling questions related to the “rationality” or “irrationality” of human behaviour, dimensions of which have of course been rigorously explored by Vilfredo Pareto]. Wishing to verify the obduracy and resourcefulness of “the religious instinct”, Updike goes on to present us with a couple of examples so characteristic of “Western” history – he writes: “One thinks of the Irish and the Polish rallying around their Roman Catholicism to spite their larger, colonizing neighbors” [ibid.]. Updike is of course referring to very “modern” events that may nonetheless be traced back to the depths of the Roman Empire: it is beyond doubt that the whole history of “Western civilization” – and its mechanisms of manufactured illusions and concomitant habits – cannot easily be disentangled or abstracted from the apparently all-mighty Judeo-Christian cultural/ideological paradigm.

Having said this, it may be argued that we are now faced with an apparently major paradox. For, how be it possible that, while the cultural/ideological paradigm of Christianity cannot possibly be disentangled or abstracted from “Western civilization”, this very same paradigm would, from a particular point onwards, ultimately undergo a decisive self-cancellation? And how, if that be the case, can one possibly speak of whatever continuity within “Western civilization”? To the extent that such self-cancellation has actually occurred – and we know that that is the historical case – how can one possibly speak of some type of identifiable continuity with respect to the role of the Christian paradigm as a self-protective mechanism of “Western”-type manufactured illusions? What has happened to Updike’s obduracy and resourcefulness of that “religious instinct” in the “West”?

But, then, is it not possible that that very Christian “religious instinct” has actually morphed – and given its obduracy and especially its resourcefulness – in a manner that has preserved the essentials of its moral system? And is it not possible that even the ruptures and splinters within the “Western” illusion do in fact belong to that same family of morals? And further, may it not be possible that even the supposedly anti-moral or amoral tendencies bred within the “Western” illusion are simply reducible to fratricidal impulses bred of the selfsame “Western” abiding habituation?

To help us understand the question of continuity within “Western civilization”, we shall have to make a distinction – but which clearly presupposes a commonality – between religious religiosity [Christianity proper] and secular religiosity. The latter shall need to be defined and shown to have gradually morphed from the former. Before we examine the discrete moment of such secular religiosity, we need to briefly consider the sense in which religious religiosity would undergo its self-cancellation within the “Western milieu” [we need not concern ourselves here with the degree or depth of such cancellation – empirically speaking, the phenomenon has occurred all too unevenly across the “Western world”: let us not forget that Mount Athos monasticism is still thriving in northeastern Greece; there is yet still the monastic brotherhood of Saint John the Baptist in UK’s Essex; religious values are said to prevail amongst certain segments of the USA’s MAGA movement].

It goes without saying that the relative marginalization of Christianity would come about following a series of technological revolutions that would unfold in certain areas of the “Western world”, and which would be accompanied by the emergence of what has often been referred to as “the scientific spirit”. Obviously, and taken by itself, this would not necessarily suggest a self-cancellation of the Christian paradigm [and we here need to keep Max Weber’s “Protestant work ethic” in mind, suggesting a certain “cooperation” between the spirit of capitalism and that of Protestantism]. On the other hand, the rise of “the scientific spirit” – as a force external to whatever religiosity – would come to induce a certain enfeeblement of the Christian paradigm, ultimately prompting it towards self-cancellation in the long run. Even prior to whichever technological revolution, Continental rationalists such as Descartes and Leibniz would attempt to reformulate the existence of God in a mode of thinking that would ultimately pave the way for such self-cancellation. The point here is that the Judeo-Christian paradigm – and the discourse of Christianity per se – contained within itself the seeds of its very own destruction.

It may be argued that the theological discourse of Christianity was such as to set the standards of certain supposedly universal values which included “equality”, “justice” and “freedom” – these were of course all subsumed, inter alia, within Saint Matthew’s “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself”. But, then, having set such standards, Christianity would finally come to be criticized in terms of these very standards. The point here is that the Christian discourse was such as to engender its own critique, and – especially with the advent of modernity – a questioning of what has been called its “patriarchal history”. It would thereby ultimately engender its own cancellation. At some point along the line, this could possibly have meant a relative destabilization of “Western civilization” itself – we shall be arguing that there would be a restabilization of the civilizational status quo with the emergence of what we have already referred to as a form of secular religiosity.

With respect to the self-engendered critique of Christian discourse, Updike – whose thinking was apparently sympathetic towards a certain antinomian Christianity – would put the matter as follows: “How apologetic should Judaeo-Christianity be about its patriarchal history? The standards by which it is criticized – the ideas of equality, fairness, and freedom – are by and large of its own engendering” [p. 455].

It would be in the context of the modern and postmodern periods of “Western civilization” that Christianity’s moral standard of “equality” would come to attain a special significance: the Christian discourse offered women spiritual equality – and women would naturally accept it. In terms of the standing hierarchical/patriarchal system blessed by Christianity, this could at the same time be said to constitute a “revolt” of “slave morality” cancelling both Christianity and its “patriarchal history” and thus also the social foundations of that particular “religious instinct” as enshrined in the Bible. In discussing Cullen Murphy’s The Word According to Eve: Women and the Bible in Ancient Times and Our Own, 1998, Updike comments: “Christianity, though not exempt from sexism, offered women spiritual equality and importance, and women, accepting that offer, played a major role in what Nietzsche scornfully called ‘the slave revolt of morality’” [ibid.].

The “slave revolt” on the part of the “Western” female would herald a new ideological trend signifying an apparently new morality – it would thereby upset the “patriarchal history” of a self-cancelling Christian discourse and, at least potentially, establish a relatively new hierarchy within the “Western” family unit. The term often used to describe the new male-female relationship has been that of “women’s empowerment” – naturally, this would also manifest itself in terms of a certain changing material power on the part of “Western” females. Updike’s “Rabbit series” seems to capture such developments over a thirty-year period of “Western” social [or familial] history: each of his four books had been written at the end of a decade, between 1960 and 1990, and thus each seems to consummate the progress of events on a stage-by-stage basis. In his Due Considerations, Updike comments as follows about Janice, Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom’s spouse: “Janice, whom we first meet as the woefully insignificant spouse of a Harry still trailing clouds of athletic glory, gains strength and assets in the course of the saga; it takes her most of her lifetime, but she comes into her own, as Harry, despite an occasional surge of energy, slowly sinks. The ideological trend of the decades acts to strengthen her …” [p. 647].

One consequence of such developments in the moral and ideological field of the “Western world” would, as we know, yield a major crisis within the “Western” family unit – Updike would himself describe Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom’s family as a “dysfunctional kinship set” [ibid.]. Of course, the point here is that such foundational dysfunctionality would be one basic manifestation of the self-cancellation of the original Christian discourse.

We may go one step further and argue that this foundational dysfunctionality may be traced back to that “moment” in the history of “Western civilization” when its own belief in the Christian God would be veritably annulled – and we know that it would be Nietzsche who would first declare to the “Western world” that its own “God is dead”. It seems as if, at the time of the declaration, the “Western” individual was already somewhat aware or half-aware of such death [the French Revolution had already initiated a dechristianization of France]. On this point, Updike notes: “A generation before Nietzsche, God was pronounced dead as a practical matter; theism so severely preached was hard to distinguish from atheism” [p. 522].

Generally speaking therefore, one may say that, even prior to Nietzsche’s time, and right through to the modern and postmodern era, Christianity would be undergoing a process of self-cancellation. Also generally speaking, one may add that the self-cancellation would become most evident in the fuzziness that ultimately characterized whatever dividing lines between theism and atheism.

The self-cancellation of the Judeo-Christian paradigm would have major repercussions on the “Western” social order and on the manner in which the “Western world” would come to organize its new self-protective mechanisms of manufactured illusions and the concomitant modes of habituation. The newness of such mechanisms would be that crossing over from religious religiosity [theism] to secular religiosity [atheism] – importantly, both placed the value of “equality” as the central organizing principle of their ideological discourse [and which would go some way in explaining the fuzziness defining the lines of division between theism and atheism].

The placing of “equality” as the central organizing principle of ideological discourse – and which would necessarily permeate the mode of operation of “Western” society’s self-protective mechanisms of manufactured illusions and habituation – would signify the birth of what would come to be recognized as an egalitarian and/or democratic social order. Purely theoretically speaking, one may say that, at some point in time, “Western civilization” would go through a juncture whereby it would have to make a choice between two radically different types of moral systems. The one – and as an antidote to the self-cancellation of the originally patriarchal Judeo-Christian paradigm – would be the Nietzschean vision of “morality”, going well beyond all prevailing sense of “good” and “evil”. Updike describes this, with some oversimplification, as follows: “Nietzsche’s alternative morality, that of the autocratic ‘Übermensch’, [which] holds out no mercy to women and the weak” [p. 455].

The other moral system, which we refer to as secular religiosity – and which would be a secularly egalitarian religiosity – would prevail in the “Western world” and thereby herald the birth of the so-called “social sciences”. All too tellingly, the latter would be centered on the “humanities” and which would investigate, defend and wish to verify – in different and often conflictual modes of thinking – the values of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom”. All such values, of course, had already been subsumed within the teachings of Saint Matthew. We shall need to further dwell on this movement from religious to secular religiosity and especially on the dawn of the “social sciences”, and the historical implications of this.

It may sound offhand or maybe even quite provocative to suggest that the “social sciences” are in some way related to whatever “religiosity” [and given the latter’s imperviousness to reason, as noted by Updike]. And yet, the historically tight relationship between theism [Christianity proper] and what would gradually morph into a fully fledged atheism [“God is dead” for all intents and purposes in the modern and postmodern “Western world”] is clearly evident in the very birth of the “social sciences”. The history of the matter is clear: one may cite, for instance, the case of Henri de Saint-Simon, considered one of the founding fathers of sociology. While his thinking brought sociological issues to the forefront – and especially the concept of society and social change – he would at the same time wish to establish a new religion or a “new Christianity”. The case of Auguste Comte is even more telling: while considered to be the founder of sociology per se, he was nonetheless bent on establishing a “secular religion”, his “Religion of Humanity”. We well know how adherents of this religion had built “chapels of Humanity” in countries such as France and Brazil. And we further know that Comte’s ideas had contributed to the establishment of “ethical churches” in the USA itself. Finally, one may here mention that most influential of sociological trends throughout the “Western world” – atheistic Marxism – and note how its grand founder had been deeply influenced by the messianic eschatology of Judeo-Christian theology.

Nietzsche’s erstwhile declaration that “God is dead”, therefore, may be said to have described a “Western” movement from theism to atheism – and yet, the former was already deeply embedded in the latter, yielding a religiosity within the new secularism. The theism within the new atheism would announce a search for yet another “theo” – that, of course, could only but be social “theo”-ry itself. Its purpose was to critically investigate the “human condition” in terms of age-old, familiar values – those of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom”. Each of these three nouns would be accompanied by one central adjective – “social”, thereby heralding, as already noted, the birth of the “social sciences” as we have come to recognize them today.

Both “the religious instinct” [in the form of Christianity] and the new “social sciences” [in the form of the “Humanities”] constituted self-protective mechanisms of manufactured illusions and modes of habituation – both were meant to deal with the Malrauxian “human condition”, and as that “condition” would cumulatively attain its own complexity in the course of human history. Importantly, the “social sciences” would gradually give birth to altogether new modes of manufactured illusions – these new modes may be subsumed under one general classification which came to be known as “social structure”, and which would prevail throughout the “Western” universities at least by the 1960’s [be it via the important work of Talcott Parsons or the highly influential Marxist structuralists].

Before we proceed any further, however, we need to clarify that our reference to the concept of “social structure” as a mechanism manufacturing illusions is in no way meant to degrade whichever “Western” social theory or to reduce “Western” social research to the production of a necessarily false representation of reality. Above all, the manufactured illusions [the “social structures”] of the “social sciences” are rarely comparable to the metaphysical – or “other-worldly” – illusions of theological discourse. They should rather be seen as selective abstractions of reality maintaining their own internal logical cohesion – of course, being “selective” and “abstract”, they can only but remain manufactured illusions. Further, they may be empirically verifiable or falsifiable [as in the case of Marx’s “falling rate of profit”] or not at all verifiable [as in, again, Marx’s “labour theory of value”]. On the other hand, and to the extent that a social theory may be impregnated with some degree of eschatological teleology, then one may say that such social theory is certainly as illusional as is theological discourse itself [a perfect example here would be the thinking of Ernst Bloch].

The birth of the “social sciences” in the “West”, marked by the central concept of “social structure”, would yield a chain of interrelated concepts that would, in the last instance, reinforce the selectivity and abstraction of theoretical and/or field research methodology. The end-product would be such as to bolster the manufacturing of illusions. This chain of interrelated concepts has its own history, spanning both Marxian, quasi-Marxian and non-Marxian attempts at trying to comprehend and deal with the “human condition”. While we shall not endeavour to narrate such a complex history of ideas, we may here simply mention the basic concepts and/or sub-concepts that were to be generated in the course of time.

One may begin by observing that the concept of “structures” would willy-nilly call for an analysis of the “functions” of these “structures”. This would call, inter alia, for the identification and analysis of the role of “functionaries” [operating within the functional or dysfunctional “structures”]. The role of “functionaries” would, through an entangled process of induction, yield the concept of practices [or social practices], usually enacted in opposition – or as an alternative – to “structures” and their “functionaries”. The concept of practices would further yield the concept of subjects [or social subjects]. This would naturally lead to an identification of different categories of subjects, taking the form of social classes or sub-classes and/or social strata and other social groupings. Finally, we would see the birth of the concept of “types”, or “social types” – and one may argue that this particular concept of “social types” would come to be enthroned as the central most important organizing idea within the realm of the “social sciences”. One may further argue that such an enthronement would even be to the detriment of the concept of “structure” itself – the latter had to be shown to undergo continual adjustment or “radical change” under the impact of actions undertaken by a certain “social type” [or an alliance of “types”] that would be ordained as “the motor of history” itself.

The birth of the concept of “social type” in “Western” social theory would enable theorists to identify categories of people belonging to an array of what has often been referred to as “social position”. We know that the list of “types” would come to include the “proletariat”, the “petty bourgeoisie”, the “middle class”, the different internal strata of the “middle classes” [lower/middle/upper], the “capitalist” generally, the “local capitalist” [or “national capital”], and of course the “international” or “transnational capitalist” [similar to “multinational” or “global capital”]. Very importantly, the list of “types” would later be enriched by categories such as “ethnic group”, “racial group”, “gender group” or groups of various “sexual orientations”, and so on.

Now, to the extent that separate individuals can be “placed” within such “social positions” [something which is in itself controversial], all such categories of “types” may be said to be real, although they nonetheless constitute selective abstractions of reality. On the other hand, such selective abstraction of reality can amount to an illusory conceptual/ideological mechanism in cases where a particular “type” is endowed with a specifically ordained historical “mission” [as in the classical case of the “proletariat”], or when some other “type” is explained in terms of a specific role, behaviour or intentionality in human history. In fact, the “social sciences” may be said to function as a mechanism of manufacturing illusions whenever they attempt to evaluate each of these “social types” according to the primordial values of “good” and “evil” – viz. in terms of those very values of Christian morality centered around “equality”, “justice” and “freedom”, and as originally expounded by Saint Matthew.

Historically speaking, of course, the concept of the “social type” has not been a matter limited to the academic concerns of intellectuals – the “Western world” has, at least since the 19th century and right through to the postmodern era, witnessed the popularization of such concept in the form of popular ideology, and which has amounted to a widespread secular religiosity amongst the masses of the “Western world”. The popularization of the concept, especially through the various forms of the mass media, has assumed a very specific form: it has consistently differentiated between the so-called “reactionary social type” and the “progressive social type”. We know that it has always been the latter who has promoted the universal virtues of “social equality”, “social justice” and “freedom” generally. One may here observe that, like the physical sciences, the “social sciences” have gradually moved from a speculative to a conjectural enterprise and have ultimately ended up operating as a “tool” of investigation based on the a priori assumptions of such conjectural enterprise – especially for the mass media, such “tool” has taken on the added function of a “political” or “moral” instrument. Often enough, academics have themselves actively participated in the creation of “tools” of thought with a distinctly “political” or “moral” functionality within “Western” society, thereby further reinforcing the mass-based secular religiosity.

Now, the emergence of the concept of “social types” in the “social sciences” raises yet further questions. It is not merely that such “typology” is a system of selective abstractions informed by supposedly universal “moral” values – what is of interest is that such “typology” may be considered to be inherently problematic in that it can begin with abstract “types” and then proceed to include concrete individuals within the manufactured category. By so doing, the identity and/or life experience of the concrete individual may thus be distorted so that he may fit the “type”. In such case, the end product would be the theoretical construction of “social types” that point to nothing at all. This may sound like an unfairly trenchant – and all too sweeping – critique of the “social sciences”. While the observation is not necessarily meant as a critique of the manner in which the “social sciences” have come to emerge in the “Western world” [our intention is meant to merely describe such manner and draw certain implications thereof], it should nonetheless be noted that only an outsider to the “social sciences” can possibly observe whatever resultant “nothingness”. Such an outsider is F. Scott Fitzgerald – and it is Updike who quotes the writer’s aphorism on “types” appearing on the first page of his The Rich Boy. The aphorism reads as follows: “Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have created – nothing” [p. 156]. Such “nothingness”, of course, would not necessarily shake the foundations of the social theory that has manufactured the “social type”. The theoretician would verify his construction through some form of circular reasoning – a “type” would be said to exist in the real world precisely because it has been manufactured to so exist. Much more interestingly, groupings of individuals that have been named as a certain “type” by a social theory may choose to behave in terms of criteria determined by that theory [and would do so in cases where the politics or moral virtues of such theory have been propagated by the mass media and/or political parties]. This form of socio-theoretical experimentation, approximating cases of a “social laboratory”, may be said to be rather similar to the “observer effect” in physics.

On the other hand, we have also witnessed the emergence of oral history workshops in “Western” social research – and which emerged precisely in response to the types of problems we have enumerated above. This approach – and quite in keeping with the F. Scott Fitzgerald aphorism – would begin with a concrete individual [usually investigating his or her case mainly through interviews] and then draw more general conclusions. The conclusions drawn may be either implicit or explicit and would – yet once more – point to the social attributes of more general, abstract “social types” [need one say that unless such more general conclusions be successfully drawn, the research undertaking would remain indifferent or irrelevant to the field of the “social sciences”]. Here again, however, one suspects that a particular individual would be selected as the object of investigation so that the researcher be able to manufacture – or attempt to verify – a distinct abstract “social type” that fits the overall ideological paradigm to which that researcher subscribes. Generally speaking, and in keeping with the values of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom” as discussed above, the social researcher would select individuals as objects of research that are deemed to constitute “victims” of the so-called “system” [and where both the term “victim” and “system” are heavily value-laden]. An excellent – not to say brilliant – example of such oral history is that of Charles van Onselen’s The Seed is Mine: The Life of Kas Maine, a South African Sharecropper, 1894-1985, Hill and Wang, 1996. Typically, the book records the life and struggles of a “victim” of Apartheid South Africa – the individual is presented, not merely as a “victim” of the “system”, but also as a “hero” resisting it. Kas Maine is a veritable “Black Odysseus”.

Generally speaking, therefore, one may say that whether the “social sciences” in the “Western world” have moved from the abstract “type” to the supposedly concrete individual [or to a mere “nothingness”] or the other way round, they have nonetheless come to function as value-laden mechanisms of manufactured illusive/ideological paradigms. This is not meant at all as a critique of the “social sciences”, let alone as a call for whatever self-correction – not at all: without wishing to sound too deterministic, one may argue that the evolution of the “Western social sciences” could not have happened otherwise, and they could not have developed otherwise given their essentially Manichaean religiously-rooted origins. For historical reasons, they could only but have evolved into mechanisms of manufactured illusions protective of what Nietzsche would refer to as “the slave revolt of morality” [as quoted by Updike].

The inherent “morality” [or even the so-called “slave morality” in the Nietzschean sense] historically embedded in the mechanisms of the “social sciences” established a series of “types” that have come to compose ideological dimensions of the “Western milieu”, and which would ultimately yield different cultural paradigms within the real world of that milieu. While the “types” were theoretically and/or ideologically manufactured, sizeable segments of the “Western” masses would respond to such ideological paradigms in their capacity as supposed “historical subjects” – or as the more or less self-conscious “motor of history” with a well-defined “mission”. It would of course be absolutely wrong to see such historical response as the mere product of ideological “manipulation” emanating from so-called “above” – rather, one would observe real “victims” of the “human condition” operating as agents in their own interest. It would be “slaves” revolting for “equality”, “justice” and “freedom”. A secular religiosity would be born, and it would be centered around a key ideological article of faith – that of humanism. Of course, in cases where the “victim-agents” had been richly endowed with an eschatological “mission” in history by the theoreticians of the “social sciences”, the masses would come to discover their own limitations – they would be confronted with, and have to square up to, the manifest “nothingness” of abstract “types” as pinpointed by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Their faith in humanism, however, would remain intact – and it would do so because it would confirm a faith in themselves as surviving subjects. On the other hand, and following a series of what may be called “historical defeats” on the part of organized masses of people, the ideological content of such humanism would gradually diversify into a number of self-contradictory directions which we intend to explore below.

The manufactured illusions protective of “slave morality”, we are arguing, would give birth to a secular religiosity of humanism that would be adopted by a series of “social types” that have more or less prevailed in the “Western milieu” – this would itself yield a sequence of conjunctural circumstances that would be stamped by an ultimately conflictual orrery of cultural paradigms. Below, we intend to examine the extent to which secular religiosity would yield – as in the case of religious religiosity – its own self-cancelling contradictions within the “Western world”. To put it otherwise, we shall examine the extent to which the ideological concept of “social structure” would move, from the establishment of a “pluralist” society [the functionality of structures], to one in which different socio-cultural groupings would come to engage in a war of mutual cancellation [the dysfunctionality of structures]. Our analysis shall attempt to answer one key question, and which may be put as follows: would it be accurate to assert that, while the “Western world” of the 20th century would be marked by a functional pluralism [and despite the major social upheavals of the period], that of the 21st century would be characterized by a dysfunctional pluralism heralding a relative decomposition?

Before we attempt to examine the specifically postmodern implications of the ideology of humanism as a form of secular religiosity, we shall need to very briefly dwell on the term “secular religiosity” itself. It seems unduly paradoxical that such a type of ideological paradigm could have possibly survived its own internal contradictions right through to the present. On the one hand, the discourse of humanism clearly entails elements of a religion, with its own irrationalities [or that imperviousness to reason mentioned above]. On the other hand, and despite whatever has been noted above regarding the “social sciences”, the latter have upheld a certain element of rationality on the basis of their emphasis on empirical research. How be it possible that both such elements have successfully coexisted within the selfsame hub of human intellect? We shall at this point merely cite Alfred Lord Tennyson, whose style of thinking typically lurked on the boundary between the pre-modern and the modern eras [and whom we intend to further refer to below] – sensing the continuity of the irrational within the rational, he would rather perceptively write in one of his pieces in The Collected Poems about “The knots that tangle human creeds” [p. 8]. It is obvious that words such as “knots”, “tangle” and “creed” may go a long way in explaining the mode of human thought spanning different eras of the “Western world”: it is precisely such “knots” of human discourse, their “entanglement”, and the perseverance of quasi-religious “creeds” in the modern and postmodern “Western world” that shall be explored in what follows.

We may now proceed to explore the secular religiosity of humanism as it would manifest itself first in the modern and then in the postmodern world. For reasons that can only be explained in terms of particular historical conjunctures, humanism would assume very specific [albeit entangled] historical forms in the course of these two eras. Whatever the particular form, however, the discourse of humanism would nonetheless either be a sublimation of “the religious instinct” or a mere continuation of such “instinct”, though this time with a deeper “social” or even “socio-political” content.

The sublimation of “the religious instinct” as a pre-postmodern secular religiosity of the 20th century would be dominated by a Leftwing mass political movement [with its various strands of the socialist and/or communist movement stretching from countries such as Italy and France and through to the State socialism of the then USSR]. On the other hand, the continuation of “the religious instinct” with a “social” or “socio-political” content would be most interestingly manifested in the various strands of Radical Christianity that would emerge in places such as Latin America [often referred to as “liberation theology”, and which was deeply impregnated with Marxist or quasi-Marxian ideological tendencies]. Further, even formal denominations such as Catholicism or Anglicanism would – especially after the Second World War – readjust their theological discourse and practice in a manner that would focus on “social” or even overly “political” issues [one may here refer to internationally acknowledged social activists such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Desmond Tutu, or to the lesser known but perhaps as telling case of that of the Anglican Dean of Johannesburg, the Very Reverend Gonville Aubie ffrench-Beytach, who would allegedly be involved in underground, so-called “terrorist” activities against the Apartheid regime].

In discussing the belief-system of a writer such as Thornton Wilder – whose writings are often said to express some form of “Christian Humanism” – Updike goes on to describe the 20th century in a manner that seems to accurately encapsulate that era. He informs us that the whole of that period may be depicted as “a desperate game of twentieth-century commitment” [p. 159]. Such “game of commitment”, we are saying, had been most obvious in the ideological wave of Leftwing mass politics that would sweep right across the era – mass newspapers such as L’Humanité, which was then the organ of the powerful French Communist Party, would dominate in the “Western” ideological terrain.

The clearly secular religiosity of the communist movement – and the “commitment” which it inspired in vast masses of people – is by now almost a truism. Updike himself would note as follows by 1999: “Communism was no doubt a religion, with martyrs and a static future paradise, until its preachments were put into practice” [p. 37]. The “preachments” were of course “put into practice” in the East – the most avid believers in such “preachments” were, however, to be located in the “Western world”, although we know that many “Western” intellectuals would gradually come to espouse various “New Left” currents.

Specifically with respect to the “Western world”, one may say that both the traditional Left and the “New Left” would constitute a sublimation of “the religious instinct” espousing some form of “future paradise” and which would be the outcome of a “ruptural fusion” vis-à-vis the capitalist world effected by a historical agent [or agents]. The de facto religious “commitment” was obvious: Karl Marx’s Das Capital would be treated as a near-sacred text, and a variety of schools of Marxian thought would emerge based exclusively on a particular interpretation of that long three-volume text [one may here simply refer to just one obvious example, that of Louis Althusser’s then-popular Reading Capital, published in 1968]. Naturally, the Leftwing movement would also worship what Updike calls its “martyrs” – and the worshippers would be both university students and the wider segment of the popular masses that believed in the dictates of communism [or even socialism, for that matter]. We well know that longish list of “lay saints” that would be revered both intellectually and emotionally: for the students in particular, such “lay saints” would include Rosa Luxemburg, Antonio Gramsci, Mao Tse-tung, Che Guevara, and quite a number of others. For the older generations – and especially those who subscribed to the teaching of the traditional Communist Parties – there would even be a reverence for Stalin himself. Most seemed to have a deep respect for the life and thought of Lenin – surely one of the most obvious verifications of a sublimatory “religious instinct” in 20th century communism was the embalming of Lenin’s body and the establishment of his tomb in the Red Square. It goes without saying that, for the vast majority of Leftwingers in the 20th century – and which would of course include those of the “West” – Moscow would come to constitute their veritable “Red Mecca”, something also noted by Eric Hobsbawm himself.

This 20th century religious commitment to the ideology of communism with its apparently secular martyrs and erudite “priests” would present itself with a dogmatic certainty that stood in stark contradistinction to a string of persisting uncertainties that would haunt other academic disciplines and which would point to the puzzlement elicited by the “human condition” itself. Questions relating to at least three central issues – those of “consciousness”, “free will” and the “self” – were much debated and remained completely unresolved, as they do so to this day [consider, for instance, Roger Penrose’s The Emperor’s New Mind, 1989, or the volume edited by Fabio Scardigli, Artificial Intelligence Versus Natural Intelligence, 2022]. All three issues at times appeared real and graspable and yet reappeared as illusory and intractable. Within such a context of rampant puzzlement, the dogmatic certainties of the Left could only but have functioned as mechanisms of manufactured illusions – retrospectively speaking, such illusions now seem all too naïve: history had supposedly endowed a specific social agent with the “free will” and the appropriate “consciousness” to lead humanity to a particular “future paradise” that would finally come to be classless and would thereby free the “self” from the burdens of capitalist “alienation”.

We know of course that Marxian academic discourse was usually couched in language highly reminiscent of the “rationalist” tradition [let us remember the case of Georg Lukács] – much more than that, academic Marxism would produce a vast array of empirical studies in fields such as sociology, anthropology and history. And yet, its findings would be informed by dogmatic certainties rather akin to a metaphysical system of discrete moral values pertaining to a credo of class-based “social justice”: as such, Marxian academic output would carry within itself the “irrationalism” of religiosity. It would thus be symptomatic of those “knots that tangle human creeds”, as Tennyson had put it. And further, it would – like all forms of religiosity – remain impervious to all types of “reason” that came from outside of it, almost always reducing these to “bourgeois” apologetics. Engaging in polemics as would any religious creed, it would continually reproduce its own illusions. The movement’s political representatives would at times attempt to adjust such illusions to the socio-economic realities of the “West”, and they would do so as they sensed the Left’s ultimate ideological defeat in the face of such realities. And yet, the movement would generally prove incapable of expunging its central ideological [or quasi-religious] creeds, and when it did so it would simply collapse.

Although what Updike calls the “preachments” of the Left would fail when put into practice in the 20th century, “scraps” [at least in the sense used by Walter Benjamin] of its secular religious ideology would survive and spill over into the 21st century – such scraps would yield a new form of postmodern humanism, the specific ideological contents [and contradictions] of which shall be investigated below. It has been argued that such new form of humanism would base its central ideological tenets on scraps retrieved from the 20th century’s “New Left” currents, and especially on political thinkers such as Michel Foucault and others. We do not intend to examine the precise manner in which this evolution of creeds – from pre-postmodern secular religiosity to postmodern secular religiosity – would occur. Much has been written concerning such history of ideas within the “Western milieu” – one may here simply refer to Helen Pluckrose’s Cynical Theories, 2020, although the manner of presentation is in this case rather biased.

What is of greater interest to us is how Updike’s 20th century of “commitment” would morph into a 21st century of even greater “commitment” to a new, supposedly universal “faith” exclusively expressive of the “Western world”. Being essentially religious in nature, the new humanism would – as is the case with all religiosity – carry ideological artifacts that are “more of the same” [Updike, p. 36] with respect to the past secular religiosity. That sameness would naturally revolve around a similar moral system delineating the meaning of “good” as “equality” and that of “evil” as “inequality”. Such sameness would therefore further imply that the tenets of “justice” of the new humanism would be – and again as in all forms of religiosity – essentially “conservative artifacts” [Updike, ibid.]. And they would be “conservative” since the new “faith” would be “made from the scraps of others” dating back to the pre-postmodern era [Updike, ibid.].

In all, one may therefore speak of the sublimation of “the religious instinct” in the 21st century – and this would apply to both the “social sciences” as practiced in the universities and to the dissemination of the concomitant mass ideology at large. In an important sense, Roger Penrose’s specific critique of the “New Physics” would all the more so apply to the field of social theory and ideology: the discourse of 21st century “Humanities” studies may be said to be determined by “fashion”, “faith” and “fantasy” [cf. Roger Penrose, Fashion, Faith, and Fantasy in the New Physics of the Universe, Princeton University Press, 2016]. All three of these symptoms may be said to directly apply to the “social sciences” as practiced in the present century and specifically as regards the “West”. Firstly, the symptom of “fashion” is evident in the particular “group-think” amongst social theoreticians – their mode of thinking is subject to the “habituation” of academic fashion-trends. This is meant to “protect” social researchers from the pressures and fatal risks of academic peer review. Secondly, the symptom of “faith” – which constitutes what we have referred to as the sublimation of “the religious instinct” in the “social sciences” – ensures a religious adherence to the primordially dominant moral values of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom” dating back to the Christian view of morality [and which Nietzsche, as already noted, had once presented as a “slave morality”]. Finally, the symptom of “fantasy” is precisely that mechanism of manufactured illusions as discussed above, and which would in the 21st century come to yield very specific and highly selective abstractions of “social structure” and corresponding “social types” supposedly expressive of the postmodern “Western world”.

What, then, is the ideological content of the dominant form of postmodern humanism in the 21st century? We shall begin our presentation of such content with a number of preliminary observations. It has been noted above that – and according to Updike at least – the “human condition” may be said to escape so-called “profundity” as “all is surface” and “rather flimsy surface at that”. It escapes whatever “profundity” since, in the very last instance, all civilizational practices are meant to merely control and fastidiously “clothe” the naked [or raw] human instincts in a variety of sublimatory forms. In direct contrast, postmodern humanist ideology finds this absolutely insufferable – whichever discourse is devoid of human “profundity” cannot possibly hold a candle to the life of a human being. Updike himself writes of that “uninhibited thrust and concern with profound humanistic issues” [p. 614]. Naturally, Updike is not – and cannot be – at all critical of such “thrust” and “concern”. He cannot be since the ideology of postmodern humanism takes the “profundity” of all “humanistic issues” as an “obvious” given, and we know that it is the very function of all ideological systems to convert that which may be “nonobvious” into an “obvious”. But much more than that, the idea that the value of human life is profoundly “obvious” is so universally accepted – and so ubiquitously propagated by the mass media – that it would be a form of anti-social madness to assert the opposite. The pervasiveness of such obviousness across the “Western world” is beyond doubt – fringe ideological groupings that may remain outside such value-judgment are either incomprehensible or in any case not worthy of mention. However, and as we shall see below, the “obvious” in any ideology – while it could perhaps be “true” in itself – may at the same time secrete particular ideological implications that may themselves not be at all “obvious”. To the extent that that happens, the particular ideological paradigm would begin to show signs of intra-conflictual tendencies. While the generic “obvious” could be upheld by all within the “Western milieu”, offspring ideological accretions may not.

We are arguing that the dominant form of postmodern humanism has come to function as a mass-based ideology; that it is based on and expressive of habits and illusions; and that it has been manufactured from “scraps” of past religiosity – such “scraps”, we are suggesting, have been retrieved primarily from Christian Humanism and Marxist Humanism. We have also suggested that the dominant form of postmodern humanism may be said to be a “conservative” ideological artifact – on the other hand, and since it is a child of “the religious instinct”, it is also highly resourceful. Its resourcefulness lies in the fact that, as postmodern humanism retrieved its ideological “scraps” from Christianity and Marxism, it would use these “scraps” in its own special way: it would be highly adjustive and selective in the manner in which it would present all “profound humanistic issues”.

It would nonetheless be altogether inaccurate to suppose that such adjustiveness and selectivity are symptoms of some deliberate “political” bias, at least as regards the intellectual work of academia. Rather, one would argue that postmodern humanism adjusts and selects in a manner that allows it to articulate its own “grand theory” of the world – and it needs to articulate such “grand theory” very much in keeping with its own historical predecessors, Christianity and Marxism. Both of these, need we say, were ipso facto “grand” in their perspectives. And both, we should further add, had to be selective of their subjects in articulating such “grandness”: it would be the repentant sinners that would enter the Gates of Heaven; it would be the awakened workers who would create what Updike refers to as a “static future paradise”.

In the 1950’s, C. Wright Mills had been able to observe such attempt at “grandness” in the “social sciences”, and so he had appropriately [albeit perhaps naively] warned sociologists of the dangers of “grand theorizing”. While primarily targeting sociologists such as Talcott Parsons, his critique would have certainly also applied to 20th century Marxism. Likewise, it may be said to apply to the postmodern “Humanities”, and especially with respect to their view of an “ideal world”. Now, the “grand” worldviews of Christianity and Marxism, as also the “grand” vision of postmodern humanism – and given such “grandness” – are prone to “intoxication” [a term used by C. Wright Mills himself]. Such “intoxication” goes hand-in-hand with “the religious instinct” in its various levels of sublimation. In the case of postmodern humanism, this “intoxication” would yield a very specific type of eschatological humanism – being eschatological, it would be a utopian humanism.

The specificity of postmodern eschatological/utopian humanism may be compared in a variety of ways to that of the eschatological humanism of 20th century Marxism. At this point, we may compare the two types of humanism as follows: while in the case of Marxism it would be a worker’s paradise that would lead to a classless society and thus to the end of conflictual human history, in the case of postmodern humanism it would be the inclusion of all heretofore oppressed minorities [and their cultures] within social norms and structures that would lead to a “global village” of equals, and which would put an end to socio-cultural wars and thus allow for the end of all conflictual human history. The postmodern eschatological/utopian humanism of the 21st century would therefore articulate an adjustive and highly selective discourse that would be fiercely protective of the rights of a variety of clusters of minority groups.

Above all, therefore, postmodern humanism would be an ideology focused on inclusivism. The concept of inclusivism would virtually monopolize academic papers in the course of the late 20th century and by the first quarter of the 21st century – social researchers would either explore its various theoretical extrapolations or apply it in their empirical studies of a variety of social phenomena. We may here present just two random samples to help illustrate the prevalence of the concept. First, consider the following introduction to an article written by N.Z. Gazizovich and N.R. Hamzievna, entitled “Humanistic Foundations of Inclusive Pedagogy” [and which is of course typical of the eschatological/utopian humanism we have spoken of above] – we read: “The humanistic idea of inclusive education at all levels, the inclusion of all children in this system, regardless of differences in abilities and opportunities of their cultural and social status is gaining popularity. The eternal humanistic dream of mankind about a just world where no group of people is isolated from the rest and the interests of any people are not oppressed by the interests and needs of others became possible due to the inclusive model of education” [The Social Sciences, Vol. 10, Issue 4, 2015, pp. 426-431]. The second random sample is from an article written by N.I. Anstead, entitled “Hooking Kids with Humanities” [and which is itself typical of the eschatological/utopian humanism encapsulated in the idea of a “global village”] – it reads as follows: “We live in a multicultural world that calls for knowledge of diverse peoples. The Humanities offer windows into these cultures … they help us appreciate the societies they reflect and promote tolerance for cultural differences” [Educational Leadership, Vol. 51, No. 1, Sept. 1993, p. 85].

It is of great interest to note that Updike has himself identified and duly noted this major ideological trend – he has presented it as “today’s strident climate of defensive diversity” [p. 651]. There are two observations one need make here: Firstly, Updike’s use of the term “defensive” is naturally another way of saying “protective” – and the implication is that the ideological climate is therefore “protective” of [or “defensive” of] the sub-cultures and sub-groupings that constitute the variety of clusters of minority groups [be these ethnic, racial or of a certain sexual orientation, etc.]. These need to be “protected” or “defended” because they have been the historical victims of oppression, exploitation or suppression – they have been, in other words, thus far excluded from the norms and structures of civil society [it goes without saying that, for the likes of a thinker such as Nietzsche, what is here being “protected” or “defended” is none other than the originally Christian milieu of “Western” so-called “slave morality”].

The second observation is even more important: while both the concepts of inclusivism and that of Updike’s “defensive diversity” may point to a defense or protection of social heterogeneity – as they certainly do – both nonetheless point elsewhere in terms of the long-term “grand” vision of the “ideal world” of eschatological/utopian humanism. We shall be arguing below that the postmodern – and specifically “Western” – ideology of utopian humanism envisages a progressive movement from “diversity” to the all-inclusivist globalist assimilation of cultures in an ideal “global village” that would be free of culture-inspired wars [nationalism] and fully cognizant of the ecological destruction that such wars can cause. Thereby, both humanity and its planet shall be saved. Now, such sense of all-inclusiveness brings us to the central concept of “monoculture”.

By 2000, Updike would somewhat curtly express the following sentiment: “Monoculture of any sort is frightening” [p. 75]. We do not mean to present Updike’s “fright” as a critique of the idea of “monoculture” – his was a subjective response to a looming world that was alien to his own experience of what was primarily the 20th century. For the postmodern utopian humanists of the “Western world”, in any case, that 20th century was an essentially failed century, and especially given its two horrific world wars and the almost irreversible destruction of the natural environment.

We are here arguing that the dominant ideology of a specifically “Western” humanism may now be described as a tendency towards “monoculture” stretching across the globe [or in any case stretching to wherever “Western” hegemony has been able to assert itself] and thereby universally upholding the values of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom” for all the “citizens of the world”.

We do not intend to explore the complex meanderings of post-Marxian thought and the manner in which the present-day ideology of inclusivism would ultimately come to establish both its “humanistic foundations” and its “monoculturalist” tendencies. We have of course already made mention of thinkers such as Michel Foucault, but one would also have to refer to writers such as Jacques Lacan [especially his concept of the “Other”], Jacques Derrida [especially his so-called “profound humanism”] and a whole host of other 20th century post-Marxian thinkers, and how their mode of thinking would ultimately yield present-day theories of “otherness” and “othering”. While the latter terms have played an important role in inclusivist thinking, we shall nonetheless choose to dwell on the manner in which Updike has himself dealt with the rather contradictory and at times all too obscurantist work of postmodernist thinking, and which would allow us to draw more specific conclusions regarding the idea of “monoculture”.

Firstly, Updike points to what he calls “postmodernism’s rampant eclecticism” [p. 375]. This may at first sight suggest that postmodern utopian humanism is based on a certain morally relativistic understanding of the world. While the work of thinkers such as Derrida may have been understood – or had perhaps been mistaken for – some form of moral relativism, this is not at all the manner in which the “social sciences” have come to operate in the 21st century [or it is not the way in which they have come to make use of thinkers such as him]. The element of “eclecticism” in present-day utopian humanism is such as to combine ideas from a variety of other [or past] systems of thought – we have already referred to the notion of “scraps” above. But the crucial point here is that this combination of ideas [or combination of “scraps” for that matter] is based on a selection which seems most useful for the intentions of postmodern humanist research. Being essentially “defensive” – as Updike has suggested – postmodern humanism chooses ideas that are useful for whatever it wishes to “defend”. The choices of the discipline, therefore, are both adjustive and highly selective as regards the new, postmodern conjuncture [the need for inclusion]. We may say that, in the last instance, the “eclectic” is such as to select and control the apparently “rampant”.

Secondly, and further expanding on the idea that postmodernism is “eclectic”, Updike writes that “truth became thoroughly relative” [ibid.] within the postmodernist mode of discourse. At least as regards the postmodern humanists, however, such apparent relativism would never question a certain underlying system of morality [and especially the primordial value of “equality”] – it would in fact bolster it, and we need to explain how that would be effected. The relativism of postmodern humanism would be a deeply value-laden methodological relativism meant to accomplish a very specific purpose: all research undertakings would wish to demonstrate the “equality” of all sub-cultures and sub-groupings that are ostensibly included [or should be included] either within a particular country or within the “global village” as a whole. Research projects would need to be undertaken so as to stress the absolutely sacrosanct need to “promote tolerance for different cultures” [as N.I. Anstead, amongst so many others, has written] as also to “promote tolerance” for the “other” [the practice of “othering” being a moral anathema]. In fact, and in direct contrast to the type of research work undertaken in the 20th century [and especially in contrast to the 1960’s-1980’s period, and which would also include Marxist-oriented research], present-day university research in the field of the “Humanities” is prone to making morally principled recommendations to entities such as government bodies, the business community and others – such is the absolute adherence to a particularly selected moral system that all research findings are meant to “engage” with “Western” civil society with a view to implementing that set of moral values specific to the moral system.

Such methodological relativism with a distinctly moral mission [and which, as we are suggesting, is tantamount to a secular religiosity], may be presented slightly otherwise. It may be argued that the methodological relativism of postmodern humanism is a mode of research work that constitutes a moral acknowledgement of “historical and cultural variations” and that “there is more than one way of human flourishing”, as Richard Lea had written in The Guardian [18.11.2004] following Derrida’s death. The apparent relativism is meant to absolutely “value” and “affirm” that which is “different”. One may thus conclude that the ideology of postmodern humanism – and the endless number of academic papers that are being produced without much hiding such ideological principles – is such as to affirm the absolute value or truth of “diversity”. Were such truth to be in any way doubted by an academic research paper, the dominant peer review mechanism would almost automatically be activated and the paper would risk rejection.

The absolute truth of “diversity”, being an affirmation of that which is “different” within a society [or “global village”], necessarily translates into a “protection” [or “defense”, as Updike would put it] of specific social identities [and which would necessarily bring us back to our discussion of the birth of the concept of “social types” in “Western” social research]. We know that in the case of “gender studies”, the key “social type” that is to be affirmed, defended or protected is the “oppressed woman”; in “queer studies” it is the person with a particular sexual orientation; in Critical Race Theory it is the “oppressed Black” or the “oppressed Muslim”, and so on. Our purpose here is not at all meant to dismiss any of these academic disciplines as mere “ideological” exercises – rather, we simply which to assert our central proposition that postmodern humanism expresses an absolute affirmation of certain specific “social types”, and is not therefore in any sense relativistic. As such, one may safely say that postmodern humanism constitutes a continuity of secular religiosity in “Western” thought.

In response to Updike’s suggestion that “truth” has “become thoroughly relative” we may thereby state that whatever “relative” in postmodern theory has ultimately gestated into a new absolute truth. Before we go on to consider Updike’s next reflection on what he sees as postmodern thought, we may here make a brief observation with respect to this “relative” versus “absolute” element in the postmodern mode of thinking. One may say that that rather early element of relativistic thinking in postmodernist writers would constitute a wish – on their part at least – to escape from the “absolutes” of both Christianity and especially Marxism, and they would wish such urgent escape given the latter-day disasters of all quasi-Marxist social experimentation. And yet, the needs and realities of the postmodern world [such as migration] would be such as to push the postmodern mode of thinking back into a form of secular religiosity – in fact, it would slip back into its own [often subterranean] “absolutes” with an even greater force and sternness than in the past [and especially, as we shall see, given the intra-conflictual tendencies that would emerge within the “Western milieu” as a whole].

Now, Updike’s third reflection on postmodernism suggests that, in its mode of thinking, “image seized priority over fact” [ibid.]. Of course, such a statement would obviously not apply to the work of academia itself. On the other hand – and to the extent that it constitutes a factual accuracy – it would tell us much as to the manner in which the research findings and “truths” of academia are conveyed as popular ideology to the “Western” masses. We know that “images” had always played a vital role in cementing the religious practices of the Christian masses [the use of icons, for instance] or in cementing the beliefs of the Leftwing masses [the use of symbols such as the hammer and sickle, statues, statuettes, and so on]. In some sense, therefore, one could say that the “image” has always been around in the history of the “Western world” [both ancient and modern]. But could one say that, either in Christianity or in the case of the Marxist movement, “image [had] seized priority over fact”, at least as regards the popular masses? We shall have to leave that an open question. But Updike, it seems, is pointing to the very specific role of the Internet in the 21 century. We intend to dwell on the question of the Internet further below – all we may say here is that this network of mass communication has become the grand site wherein “images” are floated so as to promote the values of postmodern humanism. Since, however, this happens in the context of openly mutual interaction, users of the digital communication landscape have discovered the as yet unheard of “democratic” capacity to oppose or debunk such dominant “images”, depending on their sentiments. This has taken the form of endless “meme wars”, usually suggesting a deep political cleavage amongst “Western” users of the Internet – and which would again point to the intra-conflictual tendencies we have been alluding to above [we shall of course come back to this major present-day reality of the “Western milieu”]. In any case, Updike’s observation regarding the role of “image” vis-à-vis “fact” is of some special interest because it may be said that he is here casting a certain doubt on his own emphasis regarding postmodernism’s “eclectic” or relativistic nature – if it is true that “image seized priority over fact”, then it may also be as true that the postmodernist humanist presents his own choice of image as the absolute fact.

Updike’s fourth reflection on postmodernism concerns the important question of history and, by implication, that of historiography. He tells us that, in postmodernist thinking, “the historical past became an attic full of potentially entertaining trinkets” [ibid.]. For us, it has proven rather difficult to accurately decode what Updike wishes to say with this fairly hazy statement – on the other hand, he does seem to be quite unambiguously critical of what has “become” of “the historical past” in the hands of the postmodernists. One may suppose that his use of the expression “potentially entertaining” may suggest a degrading of “the historical past” – Updike may wish to suggest that postmodern historiography has flippantly reduced the past to a series of trifles. If that be so, “the historical past” has been reduced to a nothingness of trivialities, something which could point to a cancellation of what the “Western world” has thus far understood of history and historical fact. This seems to be further confirmed by his choice of the word “trinkets”, again suggesting that history – for the postmodernists – is a toy or plaything utterly pliable in their hands. Since the writing of history is pliable, it is also highly subjective – by implication, therefore, it is selective in what it wishes to focus on. The “attic”, finally, is that space wherein all those selected “trinkets” are stored.

This rough interpretation of Updike’s presentation of postmodernist historiography would more or less confirm our observation that postmodern humanism has been highly adjustive and as highly selective in its wish to defend certain “social types” in the present-day world. It would be all too natural [and as absolutely necessary] for the postmodern humanist to wish to defend the history of these particular “social types”. To the extent that postmodern humanism wishes to abide by a particular moral system – and thereby wishes to deconstruct and expose all “social structures” that are said to be characteristic of an immoral “oppression” of certain “social types” – it can only but wish to rewrite all of “Western” history [and the related impact of the “West” on the rest of the world] in terms of such deconstruction. It would have to be an altogether new history “defensive” of all the “oppressed social types” and defensive of the phenomenon of “diversity”. And thus it would certainly wish to cancel whatever history had thus far been written by professional historians who had either suppressed the facts of “oppression” or had simply accepted them as a natural given.

It may be argued that this highly selective presentation of historical events – for Nietzsche, certainly, this would amount to a narrative of “slave morality” and its “revolt” – would have the effect of denuding historiography of its intention to record both the might of the conqueror [or “master”] and the subjugation of the conquered [or “slave”] in neutral terms. On the other hand, of course, it would be as easy to argue that no such “neutral” historiography truly exists, and that all of history is written in terms of the “climate” of the age. Insofar as that is the case, it may be said that there has always been a process of cancellation in the construction of “Western” historical narratives. We may here remind ourselves of how the writer Hilaire Belloc would evaluate Edward Gibbon’s history of the Roman Empire – he would famously say that that historian “so hated the Christian religion that he did, not once, but a hundred times, suppress essential facts, willfully distorting and willfully overemphasizing” [cf. Imlac’s Journal, 24.06.2017]. We should not forget, however, that the historical narrative produced by someone like Gibbon is characterized by what has been called a “brilliant bias” [ibid.]. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire presents us with such a vast array of facts, often further verified or ultimately qualified by a superposition of other interconnected facts, that the reader has the capacity to pick and choose the facts that he wishes and thereby form his own interpretation of what happened in the past – even Gibbon’s “hatred” of the organized Christian religion does not prevent him from acknowledging its various historical “merits” [ibid.] in various parts of the text. The immediate question that arises here is whether we can speak in similar terms as regards the quality of present-day postmodernist historiography. It is not for us to say whether or not it is mediocrity that has come to dominate the historical studies of the postmodern humanist. One has seen, however, that even serious and highly experienced professional historians seem to have given up the writing of history per se. A case in point here is that of the much celebrated professional historian, Charles van Onselen [who would commence his career in the 1970’s and be recognized for his contributions to South African historiography by the great Eric Hobsbawm]. Van Onselen’s writing seems to have finally fizzled out into a presentation of what Updike calls “potentially entertaining trinkets”. Quite remarkably, the respected historian would devote much effort in his 672-page book, The Fox and the Flies, 2007, to try and convince the world that he had finally discovered who Jack the Ripper really was [that surely being a thoroughly “entertaining trinket”]. This may or may not be taken as symptomatic of the paradoxes of postmodern research work – but Updike would probably see here a confirmation of the new, impoverished “attic” of historiography.

In any case, we may simply observe that the present-day “strident climate of defensive diversity” – as Updike has put it – is such as to manufacture its own absolute moral truths and thus the absolute truth of its own historiography. For the postmodern historian, that “attic” full of “trinkets” is in fact an interpretation of the past through the prism of an eclectic accretion of truths pertaining to “oppressed” sub-cultures and sub-groupings of people who, while having being “excluded” from the world of their “masters”, had nonetheless often “resisted” their circumstances of “social injustice” and had thereby even “made their own world” [to remember Eugene Genovese]. We shall have to come back to this emergence of a “new history” in the postmodern “Western world”.

Now, our consideration of all of Updike’s central observations on postmodernist thinking and postmodernist humanism allows us to draw the general conclusion that there is nothing truly relativistic in the inner ideological workings of the postmodernist paradigm. And further, and to the extent that a certain philosophical relativism does seem to persist in the more abstract theoretical writings of certain present-day postmodern thinkers, such relativism is only an apparent or an illusional relativism. Being illusional, it serves to legitimize the new absolutes as the core of a new type of moral system [and which is itself reflective of a new religiosity]. Put otherwise, one may say that an apparently secular relativism – which may exist in certain academic texts of high theory though very rarely at the level of popularized discourse – has come to operate as an ideological covering of a quasi-religious absolutism delivering daily judgment on the morality or immorality of a variety of human actions and attitudes. That, however, amounts to a solid secular religiosity.

Any action, attitude or discourse that finds itself outside the system of this secular religiosity is disparaged or ostracized. As we well know, the practice of such blacklisting has come to be labeled “political correctness”, though it can be and is activated as an ideological/legal mechanism of disapproval on issues that may not at first sight appear to be clearly “political” – as such, it should perhaps be rebaptized as “socio-cultural correctness”. Again, while this may sound as a critique of the practice, this is not our intention at all: both Christianity and Marxism had clearly demarcated their spaces of “correctness” and “incorrectness” – as a continuity of both these paradigms, postmodern humanism has had no choice but to engage in a similar morally-instigated demarcation of its own space. And it further had to do so given the needs of the specific socio-cultural conjuncture of the “Western world” in the postmodern so-called “multicultural” era. Somewhat paradoxically, even Karl Popper’s “Open Society” could be mobilized in such manner as to defend the uprightness of “political correctness” – for the postmodern humanists, it would all come down to a matter of “protecting” the “liberal value system” from “illiberal truth-claims”, something with which Popper would agree [cf., for instance, S. Dzenis and F. Nobre Faria, “Political Correctness: The Twofold Protection of Liberalism”, Philosophia, 48, 2020, pp. 95-114]. One should nonetheless add here that this hypothetical convergence between classical Liberalism and the postmodern humanists would probably be vehemently rejected by many thinkers originating from the former school of thought [one example here being the likes of a Helen Pluckrose].

Now, and as we have already pointed out, while “political correctness” is meant to be protective of multicultural “diversity”, the purpose of such mechanism – and which has by now become the dominant and definitely official ideology of the “West” – is to ultimately effect an assimilation of all diverse identities into a single, coherent cultural totality more or less across the “Western world” [if not potentially across the globe]. Such assimilation would gradually lead to the emergence of a relatively “peaceful” or “sustainable” world that would make effective and “clever” usage of all shared technology and which would get rid of all bigotry and “hate speech” [terms such as “sustainable”, “clever” and “hate speech” have by now become household words on a near-global level]. Both academic papers and the mass media testify to this in an almost endless number of ways. The standard thinking, albeit at times seemingly chaotic, can take the following form: [i] Diverse human identities shall [or should] undergo a certain degree of socio-economic assimilation within a particular country of the “advanced Western world”; [ii] the socio-economic assimilation would function as a base leading to a certain degree of cultural integration; [iii] the process would be consummated in a state of near-total “structural assimilation”, this time encompassing an assimilation in all the social, economic and cultural [and therefore also ethical] structures of the country, and which would imply an inclusive participation in such structures and practices; [iv] there would therefore be an all-encompassing identification with the cultural and ethical “universals” of the particular country; [v] to the extent that that country is not a “pariah state” [or “global pariah”], and to the extent that that country complies with the ethical “universals” of the “global community”, then the assimilated citizen of that country would automatically become a natural member of that “global community”; and, very importantly, [vi] he or she would thereby meet the standards of a fully-fledged “global citizen”. [It is of the utmost importance to simply note here that such type of “global citizen” – albeit within specific social strata and concomitant professions – already exists within the “Western world”, as also within the rest of the countries it has in some form penetrated].

It may therefore be argued that one would see a movement from Updike’s “defensive diversity” to an all-encompassing “monoculturalist group-think”, and which would be based on an all-encompassing secular religiosity of “universal” humanism. The present-day ideology of multiculturalist “diversity” may therefore be seen as the vehicle leading to what we may call the “New Postmodernist Type” of human being, and whose “ecosystem” would more or less be of an essentially “monocultural” nature. The almost linear movement from multiculturalism, to assimilation, and then on to “monoculture” would at the same time imply a change of strategy in the “protective” philosophy of postmodern humanism – now, it would no longer only be a matter of defending or fighting for the “equality”, “justice” and “freedom” of various “oppressed social types”: to the extent that such “types” continue to exist [as they would in “pariah states”], such fight for “social justice” would of course continue unabated. Above all, however, the postmodern humanist operating in an ideal “global community” would wish to defend and help multiply an altogether new “ideal type” embodying a new Enlightenment – the “global citizen”. One ought not be at all surprised if all such thinking yields exactly what Updike had to say with respect to the Communist worldview itself – viz. the vision of a “static future paradise” [but which surely must not be taken to imply that the world of the postmodern “global citizen” would in any way approximate Marx’s abstract understanding of what he took to be the future]. Likewise, one ought not be surprised if all such thinking is somewhat reminiscent of Christianity’s Second Coming [again, this would obviously not imply that the thinking of the postmodern humanists is in any way “metaphysical”].

It may further be argued that Christianity, Communism and the postmodernist ideal all share a common thread of thinking, and which should be seen as primarily expressive of the needs and inexorable problems of “the human condition”: they all seem to dream of some “total system” spread across the globe. In the case of the postmodern humanists, their own ideal of a “total system” cannot be reduced – as is often done – to some sinister “plan” or “plot” on the part of the so-called “elites” [the latter term, in any case, has always remained crude and simplistic unless rigorously defined]. It may tentatively be argued that, in the common interest of peace, security and “sustainability”, the “monoculture” of the “global community” would be somewhat reflective of some form of an Enlightened type of world governance. Of course, some writers have adopted a rather critical stance regarding such postmodernist ideal – they choose to see a certain form of lurking “totalitarianism” in such morally-instigated “total system” [consider here, for instance, the insinuations of someone like Douglas Murray, in his The Madness of Crowds, 2019]. On the other hand, Updike is himself fairly certain that “Westerners” [including presumably a majority of “non-Westerners”] have acquired sufficient historical knowledge of what it means to live in “totalitarian” regimes to be able to reject such mode of life both now and in the future. In his discussion of Giovanni Piranesi’s etchings of Roman monuments, Updike writes as follows: “It is easy for the modern mind, accustomed to the totalitarian atrocities and Orwellian dystopias of the twentieth century, to read political protest into these images of dungeons” [p. 603]. Yet still, it remains an open question as to whether or not the ultimate establishment of some form of world governance would lead to what Gibbon has described as “the most absolute power” [p. 339] of Roman emperors in the Pax Romana.

Part 2: The emergence of a socio-cultural “ressentiment” within the “Western world”

Having made an attempt at tracing the historical roots of what we have presented as the postmodern humanists, we shall now focus on the gradual but concomitant emergence of a socio-cultural “ressentiment” within the very core of the present-day “Western milieu”. We have already made a number of references to this reality by pointing to signs of what we have called intra-conflictual tendencies and/or deep political cleavages or even self-cancelling contradictions within many countries of the “advanced Western world”. It is of importance to note at the outset that we shall attempt to argue that all or most such conflictual cleavages [at least those worth taking at all seriously] are to be located within the ideological parameters of the general ideology of “Western” humanism itself.

Many writers and commentators who have come to more or less express certain popular sentiments of “ressentiment” vis-à-vis the dominant discourse of postmodern humanism have often argued that it is the role of the “Humanities” in the typical 21st century “Western” university that has caused the socio-cultural cleavage. We believe that such argumentation is helplessly oversimplistic: at best, the discourse of academia should rather be viewed as one symptom of the generalized ideological prevalence of the dominant form of humanist discourse. In the first part of this paper, in attempting to understand the emergence of postmodern humanism, we traced its deep historical roots in “Western” civilization – and it is in terms of such roots that we need to also understand the type of discourse produced by the 21st century “Humanities” disciplines. On the other hand, the identification of the historical roots of whatever discourse cannot in itself constitute the “cause” of the persistence of such discourse. The persistence of the dominant ideology of humanism within “Western” society as a whole needs to be understood in terms of a multiplicity of so-called “causes” – and thus the proliferation of such ideology within “Western” universities should also be understood in terms of such multiple forces. [The identification of such multiplicity of forces operating in the current “Western” conjuncture lies well beyond our objectives in this paper].

To put it simply, one cannot put the blame on the “Western” university for whatever intra-conflictual tendencies that have arisen within the “Western world”. And yet, and simply because much has been written about the manner in which ideological paradigms are produced within such institutions, we shall commence our investigations by focusing on these bodies [20th century Marxists, as we well know, would have the audacity to call such institutions “Ideological State Apparatuses”].

In discussing Peter J. Conradi’s 2001 literary biography, Iris Murdoch: A Life, Updike writes as follows with respect to both Murdoch herself and the style of life within Oxford University generally: “… Oxford became her professional and imaginative base of operations – a sheltered theatre of philosophical and erotic venturing, an island of dreaming towers wherein men and women flitted and form-shifted with the freedom of bodiless spirits, in an ether of intelligent self-regard and benign androgyny” [p. 561]. In his own way, Updike is telling us that Oxford – an institution that is typical of the best of “Western” universities and which constitutes the “base of operations” for the “Western” intellectual – is in fact cut off from the realities of everyday life. The language he uses certainly testifies to that – consider phrases such as “sheltered theatre”, “island of dreaming towers” or even “the freedom of bodiless spirits”. To the extent that “Western” academia is cut off from the realities of the “Western world”, one may draw a number of conclusions as to its mode of production of “knowledge” within the division of the “Humanities”. We may here discover a domain of self-serving academic functionaries deliberately operating within a vicious circle of self-confirmation. Interestingly, one may say that this is rather reminiscent of the well-known positions articulated by Roger Scruton on the autonomous world of postmodern academia. Very briefly, Scruton has generally argued that the postmodern “Humanities” have come to concentrate on objects of research that are constructed around a specific ideology. Thus, it is not the pursuit of “truth” that interests present-day “social scientists” but mere “political conformity”. And so a long list of “subjects” has emerged where a particular “orthodoxy” takes precedence. Ultimately, for Scruton, we have seen the growth and “invasion” of what he had often called a “fake scholarly industry”, and which would include fields of research such as gender studies, queer studies, Critical Race Theory and the various forms of Social Justice studies. In other words, Scruton dismisses whatever “subjects” focus on what the postmodern humanist considers to be historically “oppressed social types”. As we shall further see below, Updike is himself highly critical of what he calls “the absurd curricula that politically hip faculties offer the student body” [p. 656].

One can already observe here an emergent contrarianism even within the walls of that “sheltered theatre” or “island of dreaming towers” – of course, and as we shall be further investigating below, such contrarianism could only but be replicated in a variety of different forms within segments of civil society at large. Scruton’s understanding of “truth” seems to be completely unlike that of the dominant ideology of academia – the point here is not that Scruton’s “truth” is now up for grabs: it is the absolutely conflictual understanding of reality [or of “truth” itself] within the “Western milieu” that is of major historical significance. It is of importance to note in this context that such emergent contrarianism within academia has even permeated the field of the natural sciences – we may simply refer here to the well-known case of the Princeton theoretical physicist Freeman Dyson, and how he would articulate his serious scientific objections to the so-called “Climate Establishment”. And it should be underlined that this particular “scientific cleavage” would be located right within the ideological parameters of the general ideology of “Western” humanism: Dyson’s deeply “iconoclastic” intervention would be articulated within the framework of his own “humanist ethics”. Of course, such contrarianism within the scientific community would also go on to be reflected amongst segments of civil society, and which would lead to a certain degree of mass-based skepticism on a number of scientific “truths” – yet again, therefore, the general question of “objective truth” would recur in a conflictual context within the “Western world”.

It would certainly be absurd to assert that the contrarian thinking of either Scruton or Dyson [or of whichever so-called “iconoclastic” academic] can be reduced to whatever sense of “ressentiment” on their part. It would be as absurd to suggest that the likes of Scruton or Dyson actually provoked or even inflamed the socio-cultural “ressentiment” amongst large segments of “Western” civil society. It would be the specific research undertakings of the academic postmodern humanists in the “Humanities” in particular – and especially how their findings would be presented in the mass media – that would be symptomatic of the socio-cultural cleavages besetting the “Western milieu”, and which would thereby create a series of ideological crises within the parameters of the general ideology of “Western” humanism as understood by the masses of civil society. It would be specifically within the ranks of the latter that one would locate the symptoms of “ressentiment”.

We have already made a number of observations regarding the “Western” university. Before we proceed any further, we shall need to reiterate some of these observations, though this time with one objective in mind: how would the research work of academia be such as to indirectly [via the mass media] compound the problem of social “ressentiment”?

One may argue that the realities of “the human condition” [as manifested in the “Western world”] stand in a certain contradistinction to the abstract reality of “social structures” as articulated or “manufactured” by the postmodern humanists prevailing in the universities. The latter, of course, cannot fully ignore the nitty-gritty materiality of “the human condition” and all of its irreconcilable contradictions, and this is evident in their endless empirical studies. And yet, all empirical findings have to be necessarily mobilized so as to conform to and confirm an abstract sociological and value-laden framework founded on often well-defined concepts of “social structure”. This imbalanced amalgamation of hard fact and theoretical fancy [we may here reiterate Penrose’s “fashion”, “faith” and “fantasy”] would yield, and as already argued in the first part of this paper, a so-called theoretical bias tending to “protect” specific “social types”.

Such “social types”, and in their capacity as “manufactured” ideological entities within the “sheltered theatre” of academia, would necessarily be accompanied by an ideologically-based “group-think” with a clear-cut bias “protective” of groups that need to assert their “equality” in an “unjust” social system [for such social groupings, the “bias” would be an altogether “fair” correction]. On the other hand, and from the perspective of those segments of civil society considered relatively “privileged” or “powerful” within the network of “Western” social structures, the alleged “bias” would be nothing more than an ideologically “protective” mechanism of illusions meant to solidify the discourse of particular “social types” within a tightly closed and cohesive “group-think”. For those outside such “group-think”, therefore, one would see the potentiality of an emergent “ressentiment” at grassroots level – as we shall see, one important manifestation of such “ressentiment” would be a rejection of all “group-think”. This “ressentiment”, further, would be targeting the new secular religiosity on the basis of its own particular understanding of “humanist ethics” [but which would of course be rejected as overly “biased” by those defensive of the “oppressed” groupings]. The intra-conflictual relationship within the “Western milieu” would be such as to raise questions of a possibly mutual self-cancellation within that milieu. To put it otherwise, one could say that, as the Christian Church had once selected its own “chosen people” with its accompanying “group-think”, so would academia – and the mass media in general – select its own “social types” with its own accompanying “group-think”. Both Christianity and the postmodern humanist would be defensive of “slaves” [at least metaphorically speaking] wishing to assert their “equality”, “justice” and “freedom”.

We shall need to further dwell on this conflictual relationship between the dominant form of postmodern humanism as articulated within the “Western” university and the often anti-academic “ressentiment” as expressed by segments of “Western” civil society – here, we shall focus on how these two social forces have come to regard the question of their own historical past.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, who would live and write in a period of time constituting a threshold between the pre-modern and the modern, would soon become aware that the historical past was something that could be reinterpreted [or rewritten] so as to express the needs of that threshold period. A historical past that had heretofore seemed to be a fixed and solid universal constant now seemed to him to be a series of “stories” that could be used at will to suit the needs of changing times. And thus he writes of “the storied Past … used within the Present” [cf. The Collected Poems, p. 106]. We know that all or most of “Western” historiography has never really escaped such “usage”, depending on the particular conjuncture. There has always been a set of elementary questions that has deeply disturbed the production of that “storied Past”. Such questions would include the following: [i] how is that past used in the present?; [ii] why is it so used?; [iii] who is it who uses the past in the way that he does? Such basic questions, aware to all and sundry, question the “objectivity” and/or “scientificity” of the field of historiography.

For our narrower purposes at this point, such types of questions shall have to be considered in the context of postmodern historiography, and thus of the historical research of the present-day “Western” university and how this has come to be related to the phenomenon of “ressentiment”. The reality of such public phenomenon would not mean, however, that this particular historiography is in any way more “guilty” of “subjectivity” or “bias” than the historiography of earlier times. And yet, and as we have seen in discussing Updike’s observations on postmodernism’s “potentially entertaining trinkets”, the relative quality of postmodern historiography may remain questionable. One may here consider the “how” question: while Tennyson would fully accept that “the storied Past … [is] used within the Present”, he may nonetheless object to a particular manner of such usage. And thus he at the same time warns his own contemporaries: “Nor feed [the Past] with crude imaginings” [ibid.]. The question of “crudity” certainly relates to the important matter of quality or rigour in historical research – as regards postmodern historiography, such criteria are definitely not always met – consider, for instance, some of the unforgivably puerile papers published in W.Z. Goldman & J.W. Trotter [eds.], The Ghetto in Global History: 1500 to the Present, Routledge, 2017.

But Tennyson’s “crude imaginings” can go much further – the question we need to pose is, firstly, the extent to which postmodern historiography is “crude” in its selectivity of historical facts. And secondly, we shall need to consider the extent to which such selectivity is such as to wish to “poison” – in some particularly “crude” manner – what Tennyson refers to as “the storied Past” of “Western civilization”. Obviously, when historical research chooses to be “crudely” selective and/or “crudely” poisonous with respect to the historical past of at least certain segments of “Western” society – and especially when such historical “findings” are popularized via the mass media – it could only but generate a certain “ressentiment” within those segments of civil society.

Let us fist deal with the question of “selectivity”. One may generally consider “selectivity” as the inventory of eclectic memory of one’s past events. In the case of “selectivity” pertaining to individual memory, one may argue that it involves the blotting out of certain traumatic events [or perhaps the persisting remembrance of such events, but from a different perspective]. Alternatively, “selectivity” in the case of individual memory may simply mean the forgetting of trivial events [or perhaps of events that are no longer of any use to the person].

Such an understanding of individual memory is most probably an oversimplistic layman’s presentation of the matter – and yet, it helps us contrast such presentation to the issue of “selectivity” in collective memory. The latter may be said to take at least two basic forms – that of grassroots popular memory [informal] and that of the memory of historiography or of historical memory [formal]. Popular memory may be spontaneously conscious, semiconscious, subconscious or even unconscious in its particular “selectivity” [one may tentatively refer here to Carl Jung’s “collective unconscious” and/or “collective archetypes”]. As is obvious, formal historical memory is the product of an altogether different human practice: the professional historian considers his primary data, historical records and the finished products of past historiography and deliberately selects what he finds useful to his project – the question of usefulness cannot much be disentangled here from the historian’s personal adherence to the ideological framework of a certain academic “group-think”.

Now, there is an important sense in which individual memory, informal grassroots popular memory and formal historical memory all share a common attribute: their perspective of the past – or their “selectivity” pertaining to it – can only but undergo radical changes in the course of time. The force of time in itself – and the fruits that it brings along with it for a particular “present” – is such so as to effect a significant alteration of perspectives. With respect to this phenomenon of changing perspectives in time, Updike chooses to present us with his own interpretation of the work of none other than Marcel Proust, who of course has so much to tell us on the “remembrance of things past”. Proust, according to Updike, “speaks of changing perspectives, as time’s railroad journey rounds a curve” [p. 645]. And he continues that one “cannot but notice how the events [one] keeps remembering change over time, generating new stories …” [ibid.].

What should be underlined here is Updike’s note regarding the generation of what he calls “new stories”: one may argue that whether or not the memory of events is spontaneously or deliberately “selective” [and whoever it is that does the selecting], such memory will change significantly in terms of current events, and in so changing it shall generate something new. Updike writes of “new stories” – we may speak of “new narratives” and may go even further and speak of “new ideologies”.

The postmodernist historian’s memory of events – and the new ideological narratives that such memory produces – may or may not coincide with the changing perspectives of society as a whole [in any case, societal perspectives of both the past and the present can never be homogeneous in themselves, quite the opposite] To the extent that the postmodernist historian is deliberately “selective” in his work, his memory of past events – and the ideology that informs such memory – can only be primarily or even exclusively “representative” of those segments of society that he chooses to “defend” in terms of the moral dictates of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom”. The content of his ideological narrative can only but revolve around a series of struggles between the “oppressor” and the “oppressed”, or between the “powerful” and the “underdog”.

The deliberate “selectivity” and new ideological narrative of the postmodernist humanist historian must therefore be said to be based on solid moral grounds [and which date back to Christian-like morality]. His historical discourse cannot possibly be representative of all the segments of what is said to be a hierarchically structured “Western” society. And, in any case, it goes without saying that the academic historian is not in any way morally obliged to be representative of society as a whole – academics, of course, are not elected by society [we need remember Updike’s reference to “sheltered theatre” or “island of dreaming towers”]. The postmodern historian’s ideological “selectivity” is therefore, by definition, “undemocratic” [but that could surely not possibly be otherwise, as it simply secures the “independence” of the academic mind].

Now, theoretically speaking, this would suggest a head-on clash between the perspectives of the postmodern historian and the spontaneous ideological perspectives of particular segments of people within the “Western world” who would be “stigmatized” as historically “privileged”. But the theoretical clash can ultimately become a real one – and it can assume political dimensions – to the extent that the perspectives of the postmodern historian are systematically popularized, propagated and validated by the dominant mass media.

The question of historical “selectivity” may now be summarized as follows. Firstly, the altogether changed or changing perspectives of the past [and therefore of the present] in the postmodern “Western world” have had an impact on the worldviews of most of civil society – and yet, all such new perspectives insist on preserving certain primary residual moral values. The postmodern historian abides by the primordial values of “equality”, “justice” and “freedom” – the newness in his ideological narrative lies in the new choice of the various “social types” that are the quintessential “carriers” of these old values. Those social segments of the “Western world” that have been deliberately excluded by the postmodern historian as “carriers” of such values have themselves come to uphold certain primordial values of the past that are posited as an alternative to – or even in direct opposition to – the dominant discourse of the postmodernist humanist [the newness of this perspective, to be further discussed below, is usually presented as a form of “conservative populism” pitted against both the State and the so-called “elites”, and may therefore be said to be “revolutionary” in some sense].

Secondly, one may observe that the new ideological narratives that have emerged in the postmodern “Western world” are perspectives that have come to constitute an at least tripartite fragmentation of the ideological landscape of the “Western milieu” in toto. As noted, one may observe the grassroots popular memories of the past expressive of certain segments of “Western” civil society; and one may further observe the postmodernist “group-think” expressive of the “Humanities”; but one may also observe the typically “Western” individual [or individualistic] eclectic memories of the past [these may ally themselves with one or the other of the two major blocs of ideological perspectives, or may identify with none at all]. We have here a conflicting orrery of ideological and cultural milieus suggesting a significant degree of fragmentation – the important implication here is that the ideology of humanism per se has become deeply fragmented. It is within such context that one should therefore attempt to grasp the phenomenon of “ressentiment” within, and almost throughout, the “Western world”. For those segments of “Western” society that feel such “ressentiment”, the new narratives produced by the postmodern historian and promulgated by the mass media are reducible to “crude imaginings” in their “selectivity” of historical facts – and herein lie the present-day intra-conflictual tendencies and self-cancelling contradictions within the “Western” ideology of humanism in general.

The popular or populist “ressentiment” may further be explained in terms of yet another, though clearly very closely interrelated, set of “crude imaginings” – these are the so-called “imaginings” of the postmodern historian that are said to have one central intention in mind, that of “poisoning” people’s memory of “the storied Past” and thereby “poisoning” much of “Western civilization”.

Now, this question of purportedly wishing to “poison” the past remains a highly complex issue, and cannot simply be reduced to the “biased” intentions of whatever historiography. The “poisoning” may in fact occur almost automatically following a series of current events that tend to prejudice the past in some way or another. To understand this process, we may here briefly consider the case of Alfred Lord Tennyson himself, and especially what had [or thus far has] happened to the appreciation of his own massive production of poetry and the reasons behind his present-day degraded status as a poet. Dr. Helen Heineman, President Emerita of Framingham State University and whose work has focused on Victorian literature, has tried to identify the specific reasons why Tennyson’s work is no longer much readable. It was above all the occurrence of the Great War that would “poison” people’s appreciation of, and taste for, Tennyson’s poetry. The “poison” would be inevitably injected in the minds of intellectuals [and others] following the traumatic experiences of war across much of Europe – Tennyson’s Victorian aestheticism, moralism and themes of repentance would be rendered completely out of place. We thereby had a total displacement of what may be called Tennyson’s Romantic Idealism. While such an explanation of the poet’s veritable cancellation cannot only be put down to the events of the war, these events would certainly be such as to overdetermine the cancellation of someone who had only recently been the Poet Laureate during much of the reign of Queen Victoria.

Tennyson’s displacement was almost automatic – the particular past that he had presented in his poetry had been “poisoned” once and for all in the “Western” mind. In fact, what really had been “poisoned” was, not only the type of lifestyle that Tennyson had been presenting in his work, but rather people’s memory of the European past as a whole. Now, it is precisely that type of generalized “poisoning” that may be said to have occurred in the mindset of the postmodern humanist and in the historiography that he has been producing. It is not our intention here to examine the various types of events in the postmodern “Western world” that may have yielded such “poisoning” – all we need point to is, yet again, the fact of the emergence of different perspectives of the past [and therefore also of the present] that would conflict with one another. The obvious implication is that the “poisoning” would only concern or express specific segments of “Western” society – not all of its so-called “social strata” would yield to such deliberate “poisoning” and certainly not so in the case of society as a whole [and which is a reality that has already been discussed above in considering historical “selectivity”].

The point here is that different and conflictual perspectives of “the storied Past” of the “Western world” would be underpinned by altogether different interpretations of the ideology of humanism in the postmodern era – the conflicting humanisms would be expressive of different memories of the past, be it the distant or recent one [as for the latter, one may refer to especially conflictual evaluations of the “Golden Years” of the 1960’s in the “Western world”]. In the last instance, one may say that the different memories of the past would come to be translated into a conflict between those who upheld the “canonical” and/or “classical Western culture” and those who wished to cancel all or most of that culture. It is not for nothing that the postmodern world has been said to be characterized by “culture wars”. Such “wars”, however, are not only [or at least not primarily] between racial or ethnic groupings residing in the “West” – they are above all what we have referred to as “intra-conflictual” clashes within the very kernel of “Western” society.

For those who are intent on cancelling all or most of the “canonical” culture of the “Western world”, the project has been one of deconstruction – in fact, one may argue that the history of ideas amongst “Western” intellectuals has been marked by alternating waves of construction and deconstruction. This movement has never been linear; and further, the positive affirmations of the former and the negative nihilisms of the latter have almost never been absolute in terms of practical political implications [while it is true that nihilists such as Nechayev or anarchists such as Bakunin would have wished the total destruction of the State, a statesman such as Lenin would come to fully espouse the tenets of Scientific Management and/or Taylorism]. And yet, the compromises of the past – such as the Italian “Historic Compromise” of the 1970’s – do not seem to apply much to the present postmodern era. According to Updike, “The will to construct pushes deeper and deeper into formlessness” [p. 604], suggesting that the constructive “will” soon yields its direct opposite in the “Western world”, that of the “formlessness” of deconstruction. For those who happen to be opposed to the “global citizen” as discussed above, “the will to construct” is seen as something being negated by those who are deliberately pushing deeper into the formlessness of “monoculture”. They would see such “monocultural” formlessness in the almost nihilistic deconstruction of some of the primordial foundations that have come to constitute their “Western world” – viz. a deconstruction of the meaning of “nature”, of “culture” and “art”, and thus of the whole of “Western” history and identity.

The postmodern humanist who undertakes the deconstruction of “Western” history and identity does not, however, view himself as a nihilist. He wishes to deconstruct people’s memory of the “Western” past so as to serve the ideological and even practical needs of the community [or of what he decides to define as “community”]. It may even be suggested that, precisely because such a historian wishes to serve the community, he operates as an academic wishing to escape Updike’s “sheltered theatre” or “island of dreaming towers”. And he thereby writes a history [or rewrites history] in ways that respond to the needs of the “real” world as he understands it.

Thus, and in conscious opposition to all of official/conventional “Western” historiography as it has been produced thus far, the postmodern humanist traces a memory of the past as determined by what has often been called a “public-facing” historiography. We may here consider, by way of an example, what Jacqueline Jones of the University of Texas, Austin, had to say in her address to the American Historical Association. Her address, very tellingly entitled “Historians and Their Publics, Then and Now”, was summarized as follows by Perspectives on History [March 2022], the newspaper of the AHA: “she captures silences around questions of gender, ethnicity, and race and the ways in which they have distorted our understanding of the past. Jones concludes with a discussion of the public-facing turn in history practice today and the role of historians’ advocacy in it”.

One can see from what Jones is saying – and which is something that is fully endorsed by the oldest professional association of historians in the United States and the largest of its kind in the world – that the purpose of postmodern historiography is to cancel the “distortions” of the past. Such “distortions”, further, have to be cancelled so as to serve the needs of the “public” that the historian “faces”. Thus, while historians are not – as we have noted above – elected by society as a whole, they nonetheless do feel a strong moral accountability to “their public” [and thus we have seen the emergence of historians-cum-community activists or of historians-cum-“digital humanists”]. Jones is absolutely lucid in delimiting what constitutes “the public” in the eyes of the historian, and such delimitation is as absolutely selective. The favoured “social types” are well-known to all of us – they are of course related to “gender, ethnicity, and race”. The very title of Jones’s address, “Historians and Their Publics, Then and Now” clearly suggests that the postmodern historian has chosen to fully abandon the type of “public” that had once served as the “subject” or “agent” of “Western” historiography – to the extent that such abandoned “public” is dealt with at all, its status would henceforth be that of the “oppressor”.

The general conclusion that one may draw here is rather obvious: the criterion of postmodern historiography is decidedly moral and humanistic, though in a highly selective manner as to the particular “public” it chooses to “face” and write for. This, however, would spell the dawn of a selective humanism – and this would be so at least in the eyes of that other particular “public” that would not belong to any of the special “social types” as enumerated by postmodern historiography.

The ideological clash between those who espouse such historiography and those who have come to “resent” it [or, rather, “resent” it as they have got to know it in its more popularized form] may be put otherwise: while the former wish to cancel present-day Rome [so to speak], the latter would wish to celebrate it, or at least celebrate some of its grander historical achievements in the fields of culture, architecture, technology and the like. Those who feel a deep “ressentiment” for the new perspectives expressed by postmodern historiography often point to the loss of what we may call [and which Updike himself calls] the “celebrant” [p. 599] tradition in such historiography. They allegedly detect a stubbornly nihilistic cancellation of a “Western” culture that they see as their own creation. While the postmodern humanist demands of them to feel “guilty” for such creation, they insist on celebrating the fruits of its civilization. And since the contrarians would wish to further the construction of such civilization, the postmodern humanist is, in their eyes, a political activist bent on deconstructing it to the point of a formless “monoculture”. The intra-conflictual “ressentiment” becomes routine when such alleged loss of the “celebrant” tradition is promoted, not only by the mass media, but even more systematically by – what the Marxists of the 1960’s would call – a country’s local and central “Ideological State Apparatuses”. Of course, and again making use of the Marxian terminology of the 1960’s, one may say that even a country’s “Repressive State Apparatuses” – such as the FBI – could be allegedly activated to impose the will of the postmodern humanist [as in the case of “hate speech” or “hate crime”].

The sentiment of grassroots “ressentiment” targeting the postmodern humanist ideology has taken a variety of forms across the “Western world”. Such “ressentiment” has not always constituted a merely negative reaction to the dominant ideology – and it could not have been mere denial, keeping in mind that many of those who “resent” such ideology do so out of a wish to consistently and all too positively affirm [or celebrate] the “Western” so-called “tradition”. The “ressentiment”, therefore can have a certain positive content [though, of course, this has not always been the case for all oppositional groupings]. We shall at this point turn to an examination of a particular case of ideological and cultural opposition to postmodern humanism. As we shall see, the starting point of such oppositional thinking is itself of the humanist variety – its own humanism, however, is based on a radically different worldview [or, perhaps more accurately, it is based on a radically different “self-view”].

In discussing the question of the “selectivity” of memory, we had noted that one can observe a strain of informal “Western” grassroots – or popular – memory of the past which is spontaneously conscious or unconscious or somewhere in-between [and we had made reference to Carl Jung’s concept of the “collective unconscious” in such context]. We had also noted a more or less closely related strain of memory, that of the specifically “Western” individualistic eclectic memory of the past. It may be argued that, at least for certain segments of “Western” society – and, in this case, with perhaps exclusive reference to American society – one may locate within such popular memory a particular worldview [or “self-view”] that stands in stark contradistinction to the “group-think” of the postmodern humanist. For want of a better term – and despite the unintended metaphysical connotations – one may tentatively describe such popular memory as “the historical American soul”. While it is absolutely possible that such very particular memory [or particular existential identity] may have been shared – or is still shared – by Americans across racial, ethnic and gender groupings, it is nonetheless precisely that particular identity of the “historical American soul” that the postmodern historian would reject outright as a misrepresentation of the histories of his own chosen “social types” [in fact, these “types” would be presented as the direct “victims” of that type of existential identity].

In his discussion of Ralph Waldo Emerson and what he calls “the hard-pressed American soul”, Updike makes an important observation – he writes as follows: “This [viz. Emerson’s understanding of the “American soul”] very well suits our native bent. In this country, the self is not dissolved in Oriental group-think, or subordinated within medieval hierarchy. Our spiritual essence, it may be, is selfishness; certainly our art, from Whitman to the Abstract Expressionists, flaunts the naked self with a boldness rarely seen in other national cultures” [pp. 204-205]. One may interestingly add here that this particular “native bent” had been most aptly celebrated in the 20th century by the Frank Sinatra 1969 song, “My Way” [or “I did it my way”].

It is of absolute importance to stress here that the particular humanism of such worldview lies in “the naked self” and in its proud unwillingness to “dissolve” into whatever “group-think” or hierarchical structure. Updike goes even further: the “American soul”, he suggests, is most probably composed of a “spiritual essence” that may be called “selfishness”. Naturally, this type of moral system – and which is deeply embedded in the historical memory of segments of the American psyche – cannot possibly be reconciled with the moral values [classically quasi-Christian and/or quasi-Marxian] that invariably inform the “group-think” of postmodern humanist ideology. The humanism of “selfishness” is a declaration of independence emanating from – or that should emanate from – each and every separate individual [an individual perhaps mildly reminiscent of the Nietzschean “Übermensch”]. That, of course, is a love for one’s self that would probably stand in opposition to Saint Matthew’s “love thy neighbor as thyself” or to the postmodern humanist’s concern for the “equality” of others. The content of the ideology of “selfishness” is complex, multifarious and – as with all ideological worldviews – often ambiguous. It is well beyond both our purpose and competence to thrash out the inner workings of such worldview, and which of course amounts to some form of “individualistic anarchism” – here, we intend to merely point to a couple of important elements constituting the ethos it has expressed or still expresses within the United States [and some rudiments of which may also have percolated across the “Western world” through, say, the mass medium of the silver screen – one may here refer to Eric Hobsbawm’s presentation of “cowboy culture” in his Fractured Times, 2013].

Updike wishes to present the “selfishness” of the all-American “naked self” as a virtue “rarely seen in other national cultures”, and he sees such virtue as an element that had also defined Emerson’s own understanding of the “American soul”. Despite such all-American exclusivity, Updike nonetheless goes on to compare the thinking of Emerson to that of Europe’s Montaigne – he writes as follows: “On this score Emerson is matched only by his hero Montaigne, who confessed, ‘The world always looks outward, I turn my gaze inward; there I fix it, and there I keep it busy. Everyone looks before him; I look within. I have no business but with myself’…” [p. 205].

Updike’s Due Considerations provides us with a variety of samples testifying to Emerson’s faith in that very particular “American soul” – we are told that Emerson has been credited as at least one of the fathers of the “philosophy of American individualism”, or of “American self-absorption”, or of the “gospel of self-reliance” [p. 197]. Further, and which again confirms that attribute of “selfishness”, Updike informs us that Emerson “expresses a brusque impatience with charity and the clamor of worthy causes” [p. 204].

Of course, this ethos of what may be called a form of “individualistic anarchism” is not only evident in the thinking of someone like Emerson. There is an almost inexhaustible list of American thinkers whose work is expressive of the “American soul” as rooted [consciously or otherwise] in the historical memory of segments of civil society in the United States. Henry Thoreau is yet another such thinker – Updike informs us that this legendary “hermit saint” [p. 131] would insist on valuing one’s private world above all other public worlds. Thoreau would thereby reject “the media’s substitution of ‘the news’ for private reality” – since the former constitute mere “shams and delusions”, we should only “crave” the latter [p. 141].

The “individualistic anarchism” is of course as much evident in Walt Whitman, who has been rightly regarded as the par excellence poet of the American “common man”, and whose thinking is thus said to be expressive of the “American soul” as rooted in popular memory. The individualistic and thoroughly libertarian philosophy that dominates the thinking of Whitman certainly verifies what Updike has to say about the morality of a “selfishness” that refuses to “dissolve” itself in whatever “group-think” or in whatever State-imposed hierarchy. In his “A Backward Glance”, Whitman explains his work as follows: “I have allowed the stress of my poems from beginning to end to bear upon American individuality and assist it”. And further, in his 1842 Aurora editorials, he would assert the perennial beliefs of an American individualism that had always wished to restrict – and restrict as much as practically possible – whatever forms of State interventionism in societal affairs [and which was often meant to be a State interventionism specifically aimed at “protecting” the weak, at least ideologically; the latter practice becoming near-dominant in the postmodern era]. Whitman writes: “The best government is that which governs least”. Governance, for Whitman, is essentially or even literally a practice of self-governance – again in the Aurora editorials, he notes: “[We] desire our experiment of man’s capacity for self-government carried to its extreme verge”.

Whitman’s understanding of the “American soul” is of a type that places the individual right at the centre of all of existence. In his tellingly entitled “Song of Myself”, it is the individual that constitutes the central agent of life. And yet, he celebrates his own self in relation to all that surrounds him, which he goes on to celebrate as well. That seems to be Whitman’s “surface” humanism [here, the term “surface” is used in the precise sense as discussed by Updike, p. 546, op. cit.]. While his humanism is all-inclusive, it does not wish to reduce [or “dissolve”] the individual agent to a “type” – a “social” or “collective type” – determined by the “social structures” of its surroundings [and which is obviously something that stands in stark contradistinction to the “group-think” of the postmodern humanist].

As regards Whitman’s individualism – and which is definitely an ideological individualism very much expressive of the present-day contrarians pitting themselves against postmodern humanist ideology – one may draw one or two basic conclusions, and which could also more or less apply to postmodern contrarian ideological tendencies themselves [bar the fringe groupings attached to these]. One may say that, while the Whitman-type thinking would not espouse the classical Christian and/or Marxian humanism of a “love” that “dissolves” itself into either the Christian community or the community of the proletarian class [or that of certain “oppressed” social groupings], it nonetheless does not “hate” the world. On the contrary, it actually celebrates it – for the present-day contrarian individualist, of course, that which he celebrates is what he perceives to be the “Western world”. If there be any room for “hatred” – as there is – it is a “hatred” for those that refuse to celebrate the fruits of that “Western world” in the manner of a Whitman [these being the postmodern humanists, who aim at cancellation]. This, of course, brings us back to our discussion of the loss of what Updike has referred to as the “celebrant” tradition in postmodern historiography.

Finally, and again based on our brief presentation of the Whitman-like worldview, one may say that neither Whitman nor the present-day contrarians are necessarily or one-sidedly solipsistic in their understanding of life. While they would not wish to see their self “dissolve” within whatever external “collective” entity, they would not in any case be anti-social. Their purpose would be to above all assert their individual freedom through their self-willed “republicanism”, it being seen as a political practice that recognizes the supremacy of the individual vis-à-vis the “tyranny of the majority”. It should be noted here, by the way, that Walt Whitman’s thinking has often been defended as that of a “democratic solipsist” – it would perhaps be more accurate to speak of both him and of the present-day contrarians as “republican solipsists” [the use of the terms “republican” or “democratic” is in this case meant in a strictly philosophical sense – it should not at all be related to the present-day party politics of the United States].

We have thus far suggested that the “republican solipsists” of both the past and the present would not wish to espouse the “collectivist” understanding of “love” as expressed by either classical Christian or Marxian humanism, and their respective dissipative effects on individual liberty [and which in any case would turn out to be a highly “selective” type of humanism in the postmodern “Western world”, as has been discussed above]. Of course, the individualistic rejection of such particular type of humanism would not necessarily mean that the upholders of the “American soul” would themselves all be irreligious or anti-Christian – we would in fact see the emergence of an all-American Christianity based on radically different lines vis-à-vis the values of the “collectivist” humanists, and which would be a religiosity practiced amongst important segments of those espousing what we have called “individualistic anarchism”. As for the present-day “republican solipsists”, one may add that, precisely because they would wish to celebrate the fruits of the “Western tradition”, they would maintain a deep sense of religiosity that would be practiced on the basis of a residual culture traced back to the old “American soul”, and that would often pit itself against the secular religiosity of the “collectivist” [and at the same time socially “selective”] postmodern humanists.

Any attempt at describing the type of Christianity [or, perhaps more accurately, Christianities or Christian denominations and sects] espoused by American “individualistic anarchism” or by past and present “republican solipsists” remains a highly complex exercise. Here, we merely intend to point to certain root elements of such types of belief-systems by referring to the thinking of someone like William James and the manner in which he understood religious practice. By the way, the case of William James is of special interest here as it allows us to trace some type of connection between American and European philosophical-cum-theological thought – we know that James would come to share certain important aspects of the thought of Søren Kierkegaard.

In his discussion of Joakim Garff’s Søren Kierkegaard: A Biography, transl. 2005, Updike summarizes Kierkegaard’s contribution to the “West” as follows: “Kierkegaard’s great contribution to Western philosophy was to assert, or to reassert with Romantic urgency, that, subjectively speaking, each existence is the center of the universe” [p. 512]. It seems that the type of individualistic thinking that would attract Emerson to Montaigne would likewise attract James to Kierkegaard. The latter’s philosophical-cum-theological assertion that each individual existence constituted “the center of the universe” would suggest – at least for an American thinker such as James – that the dissolution of whatever individual existence into a “collectivity” should be unconditionally rejected as deterministic, and that there should rather be a positive affirmation of each individual as “the center” of all that there is in the world. There is evidence that James would thereby espouse Kierkegaard’s “individualism” and/or “subjectivism”, at least with respect to the matter of religious faith and practice. Jonathan Chipp, in his study entitled “A critical comparison of William James and Søren Kierkegaard on religious belief”, University of Southampton, School of Humanities, Doctoral Thesis, 2009, would argue that “Both James and Kierkegaard greatly emphasize the subjective aspects of religious belief”. While, as Chipp points out, this may not necessarily suggest that James’s account of faith – as set out in his The Will To Believe – is a reproduction of Kierkegaardian theology, both thinkers are nonetheless essentially “pragmatists” and “individualists” in their mode of thinking [as regards Kierkegaard’s own “pragmatism”, cf. Steven M. Emmanuel, “Kierkegaard’s Pragmatist Faith”, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, Vol. 51, No. 2, June 1991].

One may in any case suggest that both Kierkegaard and James would introduce the “Western world” to a form of Christian faith that, standing outside the phenomenon of Christendom as a social [or “collective”] entity, focused on the existence of the individual as the epicenter of life. Specifically as regards James, his own thinking would equate individualism with, inter alia, the subjective experience of individualistic religious faith – of course, such a particular understanding of “the will to believe” would consolidate [at the level of ideas] the individualistic thinking of what we have referred to as the “American soul”. To give us some rough idea of the importance of the “individualistic element” in James’s thought and the implications of this with respect to individualistic religiosity, we may here briefly quote David Rondel’s paper, “William James and the Metaphilosophy of Individualism” – he writes as follows: “This paper argues that an individualist perspective is a crucial element of William James’s metaphilosophical outlook … William James once described himself as a ‘rabid individualist’, and it is admittedly difficult to disagree … A strong ‘individualist’ current runs through virtually every aspect of James’s thought. From his ‘introspective’ psychology to his sense of what makes a human life significant, from his ruminations on the freedom of the will to his opposition of U.S. imperial meddling in the Philippines, the emphasis on the fundamental importance of the individual – ‘the person in the singular number’ as he put it … – is always clearly in view [and which inevitably leads to] the individualistic elements in James’s … religious thinking” [cf. “William James and the Metaphilosophy of Individualism”, Metaphilosophy, Vol. 52, No. 2, April 2021, pp. 1-2, as uploaded on Academia.edu].

Perhaps the single most important commonality between William James and Søren Kierkegaard – and which would certainly endear them to the present-day more or less “individualistic anarchists” standing firmly against the “group-think” of the postmodern humanists – may be put as follows: both James and Kierkegaard stood contra to and outside “the crowd”. We need to remind ourselves here that, for the latter at least, “the crowd is untruth”, and it is only the individual who is not lost in such crowd – and in fact stands at odds with it – that is capable of arriving at free and authentic decisions about both religion and life itself. It is of some interest to further note here that, yet another American writer-philosopher who would also be influenced by Kierkegaard and who would himself concentrate on “the individual man”, would be Walker Percy [of the “Southern imagination” tradition].

Such mode of thinking – both at the level of ideas and in the manner in which they would be propagated – would yield a wide variety of religious “sects” in the United States that would come to defy, in their own way, both State organs and the formal institutions of religion [we should remind ourselves here, as already noted, that Updike would himself be sympathetic towards a certain antinomian Christianity]. This particularly all-American contrarian tradition in the field of religion has a long and winding history and would assume a variety of forms expressive of the particular socio-cultural conjuncture within which it would sprout. We shall here merely refer to just one case which is of some historical interest, not only because it is representative of the highly individualistic contrarian tradition in American quasi-religious practices, but also because of its almost bizarre teachings befitting the “counterculture” atmosphere of the 1960’s. The case is that of the League for Spiritual Discovery, inspired by Timothy Leary in the course of that decade. On the one hand, Leary and his followers would organize their all too extreme “religious” practices around the consumption of LSD – this substance would be seen as something akin to a holy sacrament. On the other hand, this quasi-religious grouping would at the same time and above all be a movement in defense of the individual – it would express a philosophy of conservative libertarian individualism. It is of interest to note that someone like Leary would, by the 1980’s, appear to be a natural supporter of Ron Paul and his libertarian-conservative ideological discourse.

The libertarian conservatism of the likes of a Leary and his movement would defend the sanctity of the individual by relating it directly to the inviolable sanctity of the family unit that surrounds it – such unit would be seen as the individual’s “shelter” from the “social structures” and State organs that besiege it. It was in keeping with such philosophy of life that the communities of the League for Spiritual Discovery would renounce State-controlled schooling and opt for homeschooling instead. We know, of course, that even present-day “republican solipsists” and other contrarians standing against the postmodern humanist ideology would themselves place much emphasis on the family as “shelter” and would likewise encourage homeschooling for their offspring. It would be of some interest to note here how Updike himself views the question of an individual’s family – he writes of “the magic … secrecy of family life, as we each revolve with our separate needs in the transient, loving shelter of the house we all share” [p. 646].

One may argue that it is precisely such “secrecy” that protects the individual [and his sense of independent individualism] from the intrusions of “collectivist” interventionism, whether this stems from the practices and policies of State institutions or from the so-called “virtue signaling” or the “political correctness” of public discourse.

We shall end this rather sketchy presentation of what Updike calls the essential “selfishness” of the historical, “hard-pressed American soul” by – as sketchily – presenting a number of more or less representative samples of present-day individualistic contrarianism as retrieved from the social media. Most such samples seem to be “carriers” of a conscious or semi-conscious memory of a particular understanding of American history [and which is a history that – as we have noted – urgently needs to be rewritten from the point of view of the postmodern humanist historian]. The type of historical memory embedded in all such contrarian samples is perhaps best encapsulated in the words of Updike himself – he simply tells us that “A country imposed on a wilderness needs strong selves” [p. 205].

The samples to be listed here are, as indicated, more or less expressive of populist contrarian thinking in the first quarter of the 21st century. Before we consider them – which shall be done in the absence of whatever discussion regarding the ideas expressed therein, and that given the complexity of such an undertaking – we shall need to make some preliminary remarks. First, some of the samples have not been posted by people residing in the United States – yet still, samples originating from the UK or the European continent or from elsewhere in the “West” do share much of the sentiments and thoughts of their American counterparts [and which is founded on a more or less common historical memory of the “Western world”, its mores and its “traditions”]. We in any case know that populist contrarianism has morphed into a global phenomenon. Second, we should say that some of the issues raised in such samples do not directly address the particular themes that we have dealt with above – and yet, each of these issues constitutes part of a mosaic of the general populist contrarian discourse both in the United States and in the rest of the “Western world”. All the issues raised thus compose a network of undercurrent ideological artifacts that are consciously or unconsciously related to one another, and are thereby also directly related to our own presentation of present-day contrarian thinking. Third, it shall become obvious that much of what is stated is often rather “extreme” in its content, implications and tone [and therefore necessarily crude in its oversimplification of reality]. Nonetheless, it so happens that it is the “extremists” of all particular currents that are ever so often the most vocal, at least in the terrain of the social media. The content and tone of the samples presented may yet still be said to be somewhat representative of the general contrarian discourse, though only if watered down in a manner that is somewhat less so-called “toxic” [and yet, there are intellectuals of the contrarian current – such as the controversial Jordan Peterson – who would go so far as to speak of a “civil war” in the “West”, it being an alleged state of affairs that could explain some of the rampant “toxicity”]. Finally, it should also be noted that some of the samples are based on [or are mere replicas of] quotes borrowed from various public personalities – this type of duplication remains of interest as it reveals the ideological alignments of the social media users.

The first sample may be said to be de facto “anti-state” in its ideological intentions – we read as follows: “When government suggests it uses your tax money more efficiently than you would: [it is] not just a thief, but a liar as well”.

The second set of samples expresses a deep skepticism about the “Western” masses, though all such samples at the same time imply – or openly assert – the need for “disobedience” [or even for “revolution”, whatever that may mean]. Consider the following six cases:

• “We’re surrounded by cowards, which is why we’re ruled by criminals”.
• “Give them bread and circuses and they will never revolt”. [The term “circuses” refers to football or other athletic stadiums].
• “Slaves vs. Slaves … coming to your street soon”.
• “Because nobody should have to squeal like a pig. Scream from the mountain tops”.
• “According to my watch, it’s about time for a little civil disobedience”.
• “… stay pureblooded and ungovernable!”

The third set of samples places a great emphasis on the free, bold individual [and the question of how to handle mass media so-called “manipulation”] – consider the following three cases:

• “Small minds can’t comprehend critical thinkers – to be great you have to be willing to be mocked, hated and misunderstood. Stay strong free thinkers!”
• “I choose … to live by choice, not chance; to be motivated, not manipulated; to be useful, not used; to make changes, not excuses; to excel, not compete. I choose self-esteem, not self-pity. I choose to listen to my inner voice, not to the random opinions of others”. [Quoting Miranda Marrot].
• “Never argue with someone whose TV is bigger than their bookshelf”. [Quoting Emilia Clarke].

The fourth set of samples addresses the issue of censorship and/or the related issue of “political correctness” – consider the following two cases:

• “Banned words just morph into new words. Any social media app that blanket bans words is dumping fuel on the fire of global dialogue. They aren’t creating safe spaces, they are creating fake spaces devoid of context and social commentary. That is more dangerous than bad words”.
• “The world needs more internet freedom, not less. The call for censorship is based on flawed analysis and ideology. It is a fact that an open, encrypted and decentralized internet liberates humanity from authoritarianism and enables mass education and literacy”.

The fifth set of samples expresses a serious skepticism regarding the academic/scientific community and the university students – consider the following two cases:

• “Of course ‘all scientists agree’ when you censor the ones who don’t”. [The “agreement” referred to here is that of the alleged unanimity of the scientific community on the phenomenon of “climate change” and on the COVID-19 epidemic].
• “People cry ‘My body my choice’ – well I say ‘Your student loan, your payments’. Remember, it’s your choice, not mine”.

The sixth set of samples is characteristic of the “celebrant” sentiments regarding the “Western” past – consider the following two cases:

• “The only way forward is the way back”.
• “Modernity: the end of architecture?”

The seventh and final set of samples concerns the related questions of “patriotism”, “racism” and “diversity” – consider the following four cases:

• “Patriotism is not racism”.
• “I’m not British. I’m English. There’s a difference”.
• “Diversity isn’t your strength. It lowers your wages, marginalizes your culture, increases your crime, fills your hospitals, occupies your housing, ruins your schools, consumes your taxes, tightens your laws, restricts your freedoms, endangers your children, and calls you racist”.
• “Race is a business – don’t you ever forget that. People like Al Sharpton, Maxine Waters, and Jesse Jackson are the top execs. They live in million dollar mansions to ensure that the rest of black America never gets the chance to”. [Quoting Candace Owens].

Such types of quotes, more or less expressive of the populist contrarian current [or currents] in the “Western world”, constitute an object of sociological research that awaits its serious and – as much as that be possible – objective analysis. All samples as presented above need to be seen as specimens to be carefully examined as would a medical doctor examine his patient [this would not, however, exempt the opposing side from undergoing a similar examination]. But the truly pertinent question that is raised here is apparently quite simple: do such sentiments and thoughts amount to a “civil war” within the “West”, as the likes of a Peterson would wish to assert?

Henceforth, we shall attempt to deal with just such question, but without providing any final answers. The apparent clash of ideologies and cultures within the “Western world” – this split between what we have identified as the “historical American soul” and the dominant ideology of postmodern humanism – may be approached from a wide variety of directions. We simply intend to entertain some of these.

In his discussion of the “American soul”, Updike makes what we believe to be a highly acute observation, the implications of which may be foreboding. This is what he states: “Whether American self-assertiveness fits into today’s crammed and touchy world can be doubted” [p. 205]. We need to carefully dwell on the key words “crammed” and “touchy”, and, having reflected on what they could imply about “today’s” world, contrast these two characteristics with the “self-assertiveness” [or, even, “selfishness”] of the primordial and/or historical American “native bent”.

Our interpretation of the words “crammed” and “touchy” shall have to be somewhat subjective. Updike’s metaphorical usage of these words can only be given a palpable appraisal of what they were meant to imply if transposed directly to the present. Such transposition, we believe, is justifiable given Updike’s mode of “political” thinking, which has been said to be “prophetic” or “predictive” – in fact, Updike is often considered as one of America’s “great prescient writers” [cf. Yoav Fromer, The Moderate Imagination: The Political Thought of John Updike and the Decline of New Deal Liberalism, University Press of Kansas, 2020]. One may say that, writing in the early-2000’s, Updike could instinctually foresee the issues that would come to haunt the postmodern “Western world”, and it is thus in the context of such postmodern reality that terms such as “crammed” and “touchy” may be understood, and understood as descriptive terms of this present-day “Western world”.

Having said that, we may now begin by reflecting on Updike’s word, “crammed”. As a first impression, one could say that the word suggests a certain physical density, perhaps pointing to the overpopulation of urban areas. How such density would bear on a person’s “self-assertiveness” is difficult but not impossible to imagine – one could somehow argue that an individual would be “lost” in the crowd and thereby have difficulty in asserting his existential uniqueness. It seems most probable that the word “crammed” is primarily used in a psychological sense [as is the word “touchy”] – Updike seems to be concerned with the impact of a “crammed” world on a person’s mental state. Living in a “crammed” world would suggest that a person’s psyche is somewhat compressed or squashed – and one might therefore go so far as to say that a person’s psyche is crushed within the compression.

The state of being crushed within the compression of a “crammed” world would point to a constriction and thereby a restriction of a person’s psyche. This would mean that a person’s mental state would be circumscribed and delimited by external socio-political forces. Such circumscription and delimitation would need to be evaluated in terms of one’s mode of living, and hence in terms of one’s immersion within a certain cultural regime [or within a structurally imposed network of cultural ideologies and practices]. To the extent that such cultural milieu crushes the psyche of people into a pulp of global uniformity [and thereby gradually swallows up all remnants of so-called “diversity”], it would ultimately yield what we have described above as some form of “monoculture”, something which – as noted above – “frightened” Updike himself. The general implication here is obvious: the “self-assertive” or “selfishly” independent individual would simply not “fit in” within such set of circumstances, which is precisely what Updike is telling us with respect to the “historical American soul”. To the extent, further, that such contrarian non-conformity is inescapable, it can only but lead to a clash of cultures within the “Western world”. This would not, however, necessarily lead to what the likes of a Peterson persistently wish to describe as a “civil war” [the term itself is vague and can be interpreted in a near-endless number of ways].

We may now reflect on Updike’s second word, that of “touchy”. To begin with, one may assume that a world that is “crammed” in the sense of tensing towards a certain cultural uniformity can only but be a “touchy” world with respect to its own moral values and the need to protect such values from the infringements or disobedience of contrarians. By describing the world as “touchy”, one is suggesting that the present-day cultural milieu of the “Western world” is such as to be oversensitive and thin-skinned – above all, it may be said to be easily offended whenever confronted by cultural adversaries.

In describing the world as being “touchy”, Updike was being especially prescient insofar as he would be able to predict the manner in which present-day contrarians would choose to label the postmodern humanists [whether fairly or not is not our present concern]. We are all very much aware of the popularity of the present-day derogatory slang term “snowflake”, and how such term is used as a political insult against the upholders of so-called “political correctness”. The latter are said to take offense at whatever forms of language or ideas are perceived to exclude, marginalize or in some way insult certain selected “social groupings” or “social types” deemed to be “oppressed” or “discriminated” against – as we also well know, populist contrarians have come to use the word “triggered” in describing the “touchy” reactions of their adversaries.

The point here is that the “touchy” world of “political correctness” is a world that views itself as morally righteous, and is thus expressive of a group-moralism that wishes to pursue the group values of social justice and “equality”. On the other hand, the contrarians perceive such group-moralism as a postmodern humanist “group-think” that is anathema to their own “self-assertive” or even “selfish” individualism. They would further object to whatever moral delimitation is placed on the usage of language and ideas – and thus they can be fierce upholders of all forms of free speech, itself seen as the right of the free and independent individual. And thus, yet again, those who may be said to be “carriers” of the “historical American soul” – and who remain suspicious of all “Oriental group-think”, as Updike has put it – find themselves incapable of “fitting into” today’s “touchy world”. The postmodern humanist persistence on so-called “virtue-signaling” leaves little room for any empathy on the part of the populist contrarians, who tend to see such persistence as symptomatic of a new secular religiosity blinded by its own ideological fanaticism. Given that it is the ideology of the postmodern humanists that remains socially and intellectually dominant, the “self-assertive” individualist finds it increasingly difficult to comply with the discourse of a string of semi-private, public and/or State institutions.

It is of some interest to note here that, in his own troubled times, Tennyson had himself identified this momentous clash between “group-think” and individual freedom within the “Western world”, and which seems to be symptomatic of the contradictory orrery of cultural paradigms composing all of “Western civilization”. Tennyson would express this as follows: “Should banded unions persecute … Opinion, and induce a time … When single thought is civil crime … And individual freedom mute … [?]” One can obviously perceive here a somewhat uncanny parallel with events in the present-day postmodern world.

We may in any case draw the general conclusion that “today’s crammed and touchy world” – and the “banded unions” that prevail upon this “Western world” – is such as to give rise to different degrees of “ressentiment” amongst certain segments of “Western” society. The “ressentiment” can become especially acute when the so-called “banded unions” possess the power to define what constitutes a “civil crime” in the form of “political incorrectness” and/or “hate speech”. By the way, we choose to deliberately speak of degrees of social “ressentiment” so that we may not fall into the oversimplistic suggestion that the “Western world” is now necessarily beset with a “civil war” of sorts.

The “ressentiment”, however, is certainly not limited to the so-called popular masses that may be said to have espoused an anti-establishment, contrarian position. The general degree of “ressentiment” may somehow be further measured by the extent to which even certain important “Western intellectuals” would come to articulate their own critique of the dominant ideology of postmodern humanism, or at least as regards very specific dimensions of that ideology in its various stages of development. But their own thinking cannot obviously be reduced to an emotion-based “ressentiment”; and they have not in any way been willing to surrender their own [more traditional] notion of “humanism” to that of the postmodern humanists. Further, many such intellectuals may be said to be of the politically “moderate” type, but who have come to experience what Yoav Fromer has described as “the decline of New Deal Liberalism” – one such intellectual is of course Updike himself, a native of the rust-belt state of Pennsylvania who would sense what Fromer describes as “the disappointments and alienation of rural white working- and middle-class Americans”.

Apart from American intellectuals such as Updike, others would emerge in the UK and the European continent that would sense – at least what they took to be – the nihilistic “devaluations” and “absurdities” of the early deconstruction theorists and the probable future consequences of their theoretical understanding of the “Western world” as a whole. In his Due Considerations, Updike refers to one of the earliest and most significant critics of such deconstruction thinking, this being the well-known and much respected British literary critic, Frank Kermode. Capturing the acute crisis in “Western” academic discussion, Updike presents the work of Kermode as follows: “One of the first critics in the English-speaking world to grasp the import and worth of structuralism and its successor French modes of thought [such as the work of Saussure], he found himself compelled, in his long prologue to An Appetite for Poetry [1989], to defend the continuing humanistic value of the canonical classics and literary studies against deconstruction’s radical devaluations and the absurd curricula that politically hip faculties offer the student body instead. Even in defense of what is most precious to him, however, so surprisingly and drastically undermined in recent decades by those ostensibly enlisted to preserve and expound it, Kermode’s tone is level, respectful of the need for theory and renovation, and only incidentally wry” [p. 656].

By the late-1980’s, then, an intellectual such as Kermode would feel “compelled” to “defend” a “Western” mode of thought and “canonical” tradition that was being threatened via a series of “devaluations” systematically pursued by academics initially assigned to preserve and expand on such “Western” intellectual values. Kermode was most probably able to discern the early signs of a looming culture war that would ultimately come to spread from the lecture theatres to the streets [so to speak] of “Western” cities. What was looming was the intra-conflictual reality of the postmodern world. We may here briefly refer to what Kermode had to say regarding the theoreticians of deconstruction in an article he wrote for the London Review of Books [Vol. 11, No. 20] in 1989.

To begin with, and as implied, Kermode would be able to see that “Western” universities would soon become veritable ideological battlefields between deconstructionists and those wishing to salvage the “canonical” thought of the “West”. The question that had yet to be answered at the time would be which of the two adversaries would ultimately come to “take over” the academic institutions. Kermode writes as follows: “Opinions differ as to whether Deconstruction will take over the academy, or be ‘co-opted’ by it, so dwindling into a slicker version of the old New Criticism”.

The conflict would not at all be over some marginal side issue – what was at stake would be the very nature of a basic “Western” institution as was the university: the deconstructionists were bent on its radical ideological “catharsis”. Kermode expresses such urgency as follows: “The intemperateness of its propagandists [viz. those of deconstruction] seems to be increasing; large claims are made for its beneficially cathartic effect on the institutions which house it, and this could be construed as a sign of desperation”. Here, Kermode’s tone is such as to suggest the nascent signs of an intellectual war over “Western” values [and which could, presumably, spill over to other institutions and social practices – which, as we by now know, actually did so].

The spilling over to other dimensions of life in the “Western world” [as in the case of the mass media] would be manifested in a number of important ways – the literary style of the deconstructionists would have a major impact on the use of language, and especially so as regards the English language itself [this would also be evident in the language used in many academic dissertations]. While Kermode’s critical review of deconstruction literature would usually be “level” and “respectful” [as Updike informs us], he could nonetheless be especially resentful – as in this London Review of Books article – about the way in which deconstructionist “propagandists” would come to abuse the very norms of the English language, itself surely a bastion of the “canonical” tradition of the “Western world”. In fact, very many theorists of the ideology of deconstruction [though certainly not all] would almost deliberately debase the very quality of that language, causing one to suspect that that was their apparent manner of attempting to deconstruct the dominant medium of “Western” communication [English here seen as some form of “linguistic imperialism” undermining the rights of minority groups]. Kermode is in any case rather harsh in his evaluation of deconstruction prose – he warns us that if we are to undertake a study of such work, we “must expect to be depressed by an encounter with large quantities of deformed prose … What begins as servile mimicry [in emulating various “models” of writing] soon becomes a pathological condition”. Elsewhere in the article, Kermode notes that most deconstruction academics theorize “often in prose that has taken on that self-important semi-illiteracy of which I have already complained”.

Their style of theorizing in the 1980’s, however, would have even further implications, some symptoms of which Kermode was capable of identifying at the time. Deconstruction would operate as a closed-in theoretical/ideological system that would simply not allow itself to engage with its adversaries; and it would likewise “ban” whatever attempts on the part of its adversaries to criticize it. In his London Review of Books article, Kermode considers the work of John Ellis [Against Deconstruction, Princeton, 1989] and his attempt to grapple with the thinking of the deconstructionists. It seems that Ellis was above all struck by what we may call the censorial righteousness of the deconstructionists. Kermode presents Ellis’s impressions as follows: “Ellis thinks there is something very odd about accompanying announcements of a major intellectual development [viz. that of deconstruction] with a ban on attempts to state what it is, or to evaluate it”. It would perhaps be an unwarranted intellectual leap forward to wish to link such censorial mindset of the 1980’s with present-day censorship practices around matters of “political correctness” both in academia and in the media. And yet, it must remain an open field of empirical research to test the premise that the censorial style of the deconstructionists in the 20th century has operated as a progenitor of 21st century “regulatory” practices around issues of “hate speech”. The matter remains an open and highly controversial question – but that type of premise needs to be either validated or falsified through academic work that itself takes no cognizance of whatever so-called censorial righteousness. What would further need to be researched is the extent to which the apparently closed-in narcissism of deconstruction theory in the 1980’s – what Kermode would call “the new self-admiring rhetoric” – would rub off onto later generations of academics, and which would again reinforce a certain censorial righteousness impervious to [or even cancelling] external criticism.

The 1980’s academic conflict between the deconstructionists and the upholders of a certain academic tradition would not be – as we have noted – an ephemeral clash over marginal side issues. We have briefly examined the deconstruction call for institutional “catharsis”, its essentially deconstructionist usage of the English language, and its closed-in censorial mode of thinking – these would all be underpinned by a deeper theoretical rupture vis-à-vis the mode of thinking of their adversaries, and which would be a rupture that seemed quite unbridgeable. Kermode describes this split simply as follows: “Deconstruction is not a theory but a ‘project’, and has a different ‘logic’ [to that of all the pre-deconstructionists]”. Its radically different “logic” would be manifested in a variety of ways – perhaps above all one could perceive an altogether new and radically different understanding of history as such. Kermode introduces us to what would come to be known as the “presentist” mode of historical writing, and which is of course very much reminiscent of the “public-facing” historiography of the postmodern humanists as we have discussed above [and which thereby clearly links the 1980’s deconstructionist-historicist thinking to the present-day postmodern humanist historiography]. “Presentist” history would be concerned with the needs of its “public” in the present conjuncture and would need to rewrite the past in terms of such present needs – Kermode informs us that the deconstructionists “do to the past what it could not do for itself”. Naturally, such “presentist” type of historiography would stand in opposition to – as Kermode puts it – “an unhappily pastist bias” in history. We should add that at this point Kermode expresses his rare wryness towards such type of deconstructionist dichotomy – he simply notes that this supposed “presentist” versus “pastist” contradiction in historiography constitutes a “deeply abstract point”.

And yet, one may by now argue – in hindsight – that the long-term “project” of deconstruction was not at all an “abstract” game of intellectuality. By wishing to “do to the past what it could not do for itself”, the deconstructionists – and especially their intellectual successors in the postmodern world – intended to rewrite that past so as to serve the historical interests of a particular “public” that had been “wronged” in the course of “Western civilization” and which was in fact still being “wronged”. If it is strictly true – as Kermode wishes us to believe – that deconstruction was not a theory as such but a new “logic”, that “logic” was of a deeply moral nature. And the morally-informed “logic” of the deconstructionists was to deconstruct a system of so-called “civilization” that was ipso facto “unjust”, “oppressive”, and “inhuman” towards significant segments of “Western” society [and towards the peoples of all “Western”-controlled colonies] that had always been marginalized by power-centers organized around what Michel Foucault had already identified as “regimes of truth”.

Simply put, and which is a basic premise of this paper, the intra-conflictual symptoms of “Western” academia would be evident amongst intellectuals that stood either for or against “Western” moral values, and especially in accordance with the manner in which such values would be interpreted. It goes without saying that the discourse of deconstruction in the 1980’s intended to cancel much of “Western civilization”, and such intention would be carried over to the 21st century. This intellectual linkage between the two centuries may be said to be evident in the thinking of an endless list of “Western” academics – Kermode himself presents us with the case of Jerome J. McGann, who is of course a major American intellectual and whose theoretical work commenced in the 1960’s and continues through to the present. Kermode’s London Review of Books article discusses McGann’s contribution to a collection of essays entitled Rethinking Historicism, Blackwell, 1989 – he notes the following: “[he] starts from Franz Fanon and argues that the works of the past must be freed from the ‘imperial imagination’ or, if you prefer, ‘the burden of the past’; a re-imagining of the past, illustrated here by re-imaginings of Aeschylus and Blake, Byron and Pound, gives us poems containing more history than they themselves were aware of, and affords us a chance … to see poetry as concerned with knowledge and with present and also future history, and to call into question ‘all that is privileged, understood and given’ …”

Kermode sums up the basic “logic” of intellectuals such as McGann by telling us how the latter evaluates the Cantos written by Ezra Pound – we read that, in terms of his particular mode of thinking, “The Cantos … illustrate [Walter] Benjamin’s dictum, that the documents of [“Western”] civilization are also documents of barbarism”.

A school of thought that wishes to free the “Western world” from “the burden of [its] past” or that wishes to view the fruits of “Western civilization” as the fruits of “barbarism”, and so on, cannot possibly be said to be relativistic, at least from a moral point of view. We have already spoken above of a merely illusional relativism with specific reference to present-day postmodern thinking. And yet, one may go further and argue that even the earlier versions of deconstruction hid an essentially moralistic – and therefore even “absolutist” – understanding of the world [and which is something that a public intellectual such as Jordan Peterson has failed to understand]. Despite the accusations of its critics as to its alleged nihilistic relativism, the deconstructionist “logic” would certainly be concerned with the question of justice as a central issue in its discourse and therefore also with the so-called political “problematic” that would arise from such concern. Before we briefly consider what Kermode has to say on this matter, it would be useful to present the thoughts of a present-day deconstructionist regarding the issue of justice and the “ethical” – as also “political” – implications of the deconstruction “logic”. In a text entitled “Deconstruction and re-thinking education” [cf. South African Journal of Education, Vol. 22 (3), 2002], Philip Higgs informs us that the “logic” of deconstruction as articulated by Derrida himself sees “justice as a concern for the otherness of the other” [p. 172]. In fact, we are told, deconstruction per se is justice itself [ibid.]. And so Higgs goes on to correct the wrong impression that people have of the deconstructionists and their project – he writes: “This ethical emphasis in deconstruction has been ignored or overlooked by Derrida’s critics …” And further: “… Derrida’s critics seriously miss the point of deconstruction when they accuse it of adopting an extremely relativistic position. Deconstruction is not a sceptical or relativistic position, but rather, it has a distinct ethico-political motivation …” [ibid].

Kermode’s critique of deconstruction, of course, neither ignores nor overlooks the specific ethics of the deconstructionists and the as specific political implications of their “project”. Citing John Ellis, Kermode suggests that the work of Derrida is characterized by “a kind of gratuitously revolutionary fervor – a ‘rhetorical absolutism’ …” One may observe that the so-called gratuity of the deconstructionist “project” cannot be said to at all apply to the present-day postmodern conjuncture – as shall be further noted, the deconstructionist “project” would ultimately yield a series of social movements in the streets of United States cities or in the streets of London and elsewhere. On the other hand, one may argue that the “rhetorical absolutism” would ultimately come to be exacerbated, if only given the corresponding populist contrarian “absolutism” standing passionately against the postmodern offspring of the deconstructionists [be these students or members of the wider public]. With respect to both ideological camps, we need say, one could observe – as one may still observe – the emergence of near-absolutist secular religiosities steeped in their own “rhetorical absolutism”. The camps would come to be locked in a moral, cultural and ultimately political struggle.

It goes without saying that the deconstructionist “project” would play a major – albeit perhaps not exclusive – intellectual role in its contribution to both academic and social practices [or movements] that would characterize much of postmodern “Western” society. We may here cite the important case of present-day Critical Race Theory, a mode of thinking steeped – in its very own postmodernist way – in the old deconstruction “logic”. This has also taken the form of a popular ideology amongst various segments of “Western” society and is thereby linked to various “activist” social movements across the “Western world”.

We do not intend to analyze either the premises of Critical Race Theory or its ideological manifestations at a wider social level. We shall here simply refer to parts of a text by Rachel Alicia Griffin, who in 2010 was an Assistant Professor at the Southern Illinois University. She seems to be a fairly well-known scholar-activist. The text is very tellingly entitled as follows: “Critical Race Theory as a Means to Deconstruct, Recover and Evolve in Communication Studies” [cf. Communication Law Review, Vol. 10, Issue 1, 2010]. She explains to us that “… CRT [Critical Race Theory] scholarship deconstructs race and racism by positioning the interests of people of color at the center of inquiry to advance racial equality in general and equal treatment under the law in particular” [p. 2]. Quite in keeping with the title of her paper, she adds that “CRT can be implemented in communication research to deconstruct ideologies of whiteness, recover marginalized perspectives and fuel progressive research” [p. 5]. Griffin summarizes the basic “logic” of Critical Race Theory as follows: “Two overarching premises unite CRT scholarship: (1) to reveal the roots and perpetuation of white supremacy and (2) to engage in social justice” [p.2].

There are a number of important observations that one can make with respect to these short but highly representative quotes: [i] One can obviously observe the direct influence that the “logic” of deconstruction has had on Critical Race Theory – we read that the purpose of this crystal-clear political “project” is to deconstruct what is seen as a hostile ideology, that of “whiteness” and its concomitant ideology of racism; [ii] There is here no sign whatsoever of any relativistic thought – in fact, one can clearly detect both Higgs’s “ethico-political motivation” as also Ellis’s or Kermode’s reference to “rhetorical absolutism” [we do not mean to be critical of either, both being symptoms of a pervasive secular religiosity that has come to define most ideological camps of the “Western world”]; [iii] It is all too obvious that this deconstructionist discourse is openly targeting very specific segments of “Western” society – it may therefore be said to be a symptom of the intra-conflictual tendencies that we have been describing all along, and can be seen as a major ideological force against many populist contrarian sentiments expressive of the “historical American soul” [in the case of the United States at least – although we know that very similar conflictual tendencies have spread throughout most of the “Western world”].

It may be held that the average “Western” university would by and large come to espouse the deconstruction “logic” [implying that Kermode’s hopes for “co-optation” were not ever to be fulfilled], as it may also be held that the concomitant ideology of Critical Race Theory would ultimately come to prevail as relatively dominant in many “Western” liberal institutions – such relative prevalence would naturally further exacerbate the “ressentiment” of the populist contrarians, many of whom would come to embrace a generally anti-academic stance [some academic contrarians would even entertain the utopian idea of establishing their own, “independent” universities].

The matter of such relative dominance or prevalence of either the deconstruction “logic” or of Critical Race Theory still remains to be verified and/or measured empirically. And yet, it seems that McGann’s need to call into question “all that is privileged, understood and given” is being more or less satisfied in the lecture theatres of most “Western” universities. By now, in fact, that which is much “understood and given” is the plight and history of the “underprivileged”. So much so, that even when an academic wishes to undertake a critical analysis of “identity politics”, he or she nonetheless feels ethically obliged to show a certain solidarity towards movements such as Black Lives Matter, [which can be taken to be one important social manifestation of the premises of Critical Race Theory]. To illustrate such feelings of ethical obligation, we may here consider a text written by an academic historian, Penelope J. Corfield, of Royal Holloway, University of London. It should be emphasized that this text, entitled “Being Assessed as a Whole Person: A Critique of Identity Politics” [cf. Academia Letters, 2021], articulates a clear position against what the writer calls “separatist identity politics”. And yet, right at the beginning of the paper, Corfield writes – or feels sincerely obliged to write – as follows: “Social groups who have been marginalized – victims of an oppressive history – obviously gain a great deal by asserting their claims to general appreciation. Black Lives Matter. Of course they do: unequivocally and absolutely. It’s a proposition that draws strength from its utter truth”.

Such a sincere ethical obligation, however, is worded in a manner that both reveals and fully upholds the implicit truths of the movement that has come to be known as Black Lives Matter [and that, as mentioned, from a critic of “Identity Politics”]. One need focus on the choice of the writer’s three key words: “unequivocally”, “absolutely” and “utter truth”. All three are clearly expressive of what Ellis or Kermode refer to as “rhetorical absolutism”, and which we would categorize as the rhetoric of a secular religiosity. Corfield simply feels the need to respect the root values of such secular religiosity – and she feels this need because she has to acknowledge the end-results of a deconstructionist “public-facing” or “presentist” historiography: it is that academic discipline that has brought to light what she herself can only but describe as an “oppressive history” of “victims”.

Now, strictly speaking, the assertion that it is black lives that matter may be said to be socially or politically problematic in that it expresses a “selective” or narrow understanding of the general ideology of humanism – it can be taken to imply that it is only a particular type of life that truly matters [viz. the “victims” belonging to a particular skin pigmentation]. On the other hand, and despite its obvious “selectivity”, it may be argued that it remains a legitimate assertion as it has prevailed throughout the “Western world”, having been embraced by both State and semi-State institutions as also, importantly, by large sections of “Western” populations.

It is a verifiable fact that not all sections of the “Western” populace have come to embrace that particular humanism underpinning the ideology of Black Lives Matter. For some segments of “Western” society, the “unequivocal”, “absolute” and “utter truth” that it is Black lives that matter would need to be countered by its directly opposite assertion that White Lives Matter, itself seen as an “unequivocal”, “absolute” and “utter truth”. Those asserting that it is White lives that matter could be said to be espousing a specifically “pastist” understanding of their history and identity.

The stage would thereby be set for two diametrically opposite “absolute truths” to clash with one other, at least at the level of ideology. From a political perspective, it would seem that the ideology of Black Lives Matter and that of White Lives Matter would constitute two absolutely irreconcilable rivals. It may nonetheless be argued that both rival ideologies are expressive – in their own peculiar way – of the general ideology of humanism: for both, it is lives that matter. To the extent that both would be rooted in a certain understanding of humanism, and to the extent that the contention would be over which lives matter, the clash would point to a crisis of the ideology of humanism as a whole.

Of course, the particular form that this clash would take could in no way compromise the prevailing legitimacy of either Critical Race Theory or of a movement such as Black Lives Matter. Since the ideological stance of White Lives Matter may be taken to imply definite elements of “White Supremacy”, it would find itself in a strictly minority position within “Western” societies. We know that it would only be fringe groupings amongst the populist contrarians that would openly profess the “supremacy” of the “White race” – their position would therefore in no way jeopardize the moral superiority of Black Lives Matter. The very notion of whatever “supremacy”, in any case, would be generally equated to “power”, “authoritarianism”, “inequality”, “oppression”, and so on, all of which would be anathema to the majority of “Western” populations and their historically acquired understanding of humanism per se [starting from the moral teachings of Saint Matthew].

Distancing themselves from the ideological assertions of minority or fringe groupings, the vast majority of populist contrarians would often respond to the Black Lives Matter ideology by simply asserting that All Lives Matter. From a purely ideological point of view, such sloganistic discourse could be said to constitute a “smart” ideological manoeuvre suggesting that the position of the populist contrarians was more inclusivist and therefore much more humanistic than that of the Black Lives Matter camp [the sloganistic discourse would also be accompanied by more articulate analyses of the conjuncture reflective of such position, thereby attempting to go beyond mere sloganeering – it may be said that that type of political analysis would be undertaken by writers associated with platforms such as the Breitbart News Network, though the precise ideological orientation of such platform still remains highly controversial].

Now, densely concentrated within the populist contrarian ideology of the All Lives Matter camp, one would clearly identify virile grassroots elements espousing Updike’s “selfishness” as manifested in the “historical American soul”. Being fierce individualists opposed to all form of “group-think”, they would further assert that My Life Matters. Here too, however – and as already discussed above – such a position would be a particular form of humanism wishing to protect the independent individuality of the single person [remember James’s “person in the singular number”].

The basic point here is, not simply that the ideological camp centered around Black Lives Matter would come to be locked in a conflictual relationship with the ideological camp centered around All Lives Matter [that much is surely obvious to all], but that both camps would be locked in a clash of absolutist secular religiosities. Using their own peculiar discourse of “rhetorical absolutism”, both camps would wish to assert the hegemony of their own and discrete understanding of humanism.

Both camps, we have been arguing, would take the question of “life” as a matter of primary importance. We have further been suggesting that, precisely in so doing, both camps would be articulating nothing other than what must be seen as an ideological discourse [and which would be emanating from a variety of disparate but at the same time essentially “Western” ideological traditions].

Now, the suggestion that a concern for “life” is part and parcel of some ideology must sound quite absurd – surely all living human beings would ipso facto be concerned with “life” and how the “lives” of people “mattered”? Such concern, to put it otherwise, seems to be simply obvious. And yet, even an intellectual such as Louis Althusser – who has by now perhaps understandably fallen by the wayside – had consistently “lampooned the ‘obviousness’ of common sense”, the latter being a definition of the popular ideological nous [cf. Joel Reed, “Althusser and Hume: A Materialist Encounter”, in Stephen Daniel, Current Continental Theory and Modern Philosophy, Northwestern University Press, 2005, p. 210]. It may be argued that the so-called “obviousness” of a popular worldview that sees the question of “life” as a matter of primary importance belongs to that generic type of “obviousness” that functions as an organizer of all ideologies, whatever their specific tenets. In the absence – or eventual loss – of a certain mechanism of “obviousness”, the discourse of any ideology would ultimately collapse.

The possible loss of the “obviousness” regarding the value of “human life” in a milieu’s ideological configuration is not, for us, merely a matter of theoretical interest. It may be argued that the clash between the humanist ideology of Black Lives Matter and that of the populist contrarians has been compounded by yet still another adversarial ideological tendency that could be pointing to such relative loss. We are here referring to “Westerners” voicing the assertion that No Lives Matter [an assertion that in itself nullifies the “obviousness”]. Of course, one would immediately point out that such a category of people [which we may tentatively call “anti-humanists”] is absolutely miniscule in both numbers and influence. It cannot be overemphasized that those asserting that No Lives Matter are either being irreverently flippant [but which is itself symptomatic of an anti-social nihilism] or belong to smallish clusters espousing rabidly ultra-Right and/or Nazi positions. Alternatively, they could be said to belong to as smallish clusters of the ultra-Left that insist on maintaining violently anti-“Western” values [the Red Army Faction being one of their forefathers].

The numerical insignificance of such category of “anti-humanist” nihilists would not allow us to argue that the general ideology of “Western” humanism is in any way thrown off balance by their presence – and yet, their assertion that No Lives Matter has often been reproduced by the discourse and practices of “Western” State apparatuses themselves [in fact, by those selfsame institutions of governance that have come to espouse the humanism of a movement such as Black Lives Matter]. We are here referring to recurring initiatives on the part of certain “Western” States to engage in war – in such cases, the question of the value of “human life” definitely loses its primary importance. While State functionaries have often attempted to salvage the ideology of “Western” humanism by couching their various war policies in religious terms [“God told me to end the tyranny in Iraq”], that fact remains that – in the minds of the “Western” populace at least – the “obviousness” of the primacy of “life” tends to be seriously corrupted, at least circumstantially. The postmodern “Western” citizen has therefore had a full exposure to the assertion that No Lives Matter, and as that has been perpetrated by the State – it is precisely at this point that the conflictual state of affairs of the “Western” postmodern world is compounded by a certain sense of nihilism.

Both the ephemeral circumstantiality of this sense of nihilism, as also the checked influence of extremists avowing that No Lives Matter, has meant that the ideology of “Western” humanism has remained dominant. And yet, and as we have tried to show, such “Western” humanism has come to be beset by an almost irremediable conflict between two mutually incompatible approaches regarding the moral values that are supposed to define so-called “Western civilization”. We have tried to argue that both camps are immersed in the rhetoric of their own absolutist secular religiosity – in some sense, the “Western world” has found itself trapped in an ideological war over conflictual moral systems, and all that in the absence of a Christian God [given that “God is Dead”].

The general picture that may be said to be descriptive of the “Western world” may therefore be put as follows: its postmodern milieu is characterized by a deeply splintered humanism, and which has yielded splinters of different and often incompatible humanisms. The crisis of the “West” may thus be equated to the crisis of its humanist ideology, an ideology which has been cumulatively deconstructing its very own self over a lengthy period of time, starting from the previous century.

It remains extremely difficult to assess whether or not such a process of self-deconstruction has thrown – or could at some time throw – the “Western world” into some type of civil war, whatever that term might mean. In the third and final section of this paper, and without having at all resolved the degree of intensity of the intra-conflictual symptoms that we have been discussing, we shall nonetheless attempt to examine the extent to which the splintering of the “Western” humanist ideology [and therefore the emergence of some level of ideological anarchy] points to a decline of the “Western milieu” as a whole. That type of question is itself highly complex as it cannot really be entertained with some degree of seriousness without also considering the sphere of international relations, which is of course a discipline in itself [and which we do not intend to touch on]. But further, when one speaks of a possible decline, one would also need to clarify whether such decline is a gradual or a precipitous one. Either way, one would also need to reflect on whether a supposed decline would ultimately lead to the fall of “Western civilization” or, alternatively, whether it would simply mean that such milieu could gradually morph into a new type of civilization [the question of a possibly “monocultural” milieu yet again raises its head]. Such types of questions can only be considered in a highly abstract manner, rather indirectly and obviously bar whatever “predictive” claims [the “predictive” capacity of all social theorizing has proven quite notorious, and which is a matter we shall return to by considering Updike’s own thinking of it].

Part 3: The social and/or material consequences of the intra-conflictual symptoms in the “Western world”

One possible measure of a civilization’s decline would be the degree of cultural and/or ideological anarchy that besets that civilization. “The most absolute power”, Gibbon has observed, “is a weak defence against the effects of despair” [p. 339]. The implication is that however powerful the apparatuses of State might be, these would not be able to withstand the effects of a cultural and moral disunity engulfing society. The State could discover that its exercise of power is ineffective when its own citizens are in “despair”, suggesting a social demoralization reflective of that cultural and moral disunity.

Further, in his discussion of the Roman Empire’s third century crisis, Gibbon informs us that Emperor Aurelian would attempt to overcome the social turmoil and chaos by introducing a series of reforms – and yet, the period would continue to be characterized by what Gibbon describes as a “tranquil anarchy” [p. 342].

Now, Gibbon’s history and observations should definitely not be taken as holy writ. It is also important to note that we need to reject the infantile cliché that history repeats itself – it could perhaps do so if it operated as a closed system [statistical mechanics has shown us that much], but it is not and cannot at all be such a type of system given the numerous volitional factors at play. We need to make such observations at this point because we do not intend to identify whatever parallels between the decline [and fall] of the Roman Empire and the possible decline [and fall] of the postmodern “Western empire” [so to speak].

Having said this, we can nonetheless add that both civilizations may be said to share certain common features [for one, the major phenomenon of migration] – but such commonalities cannot be presented as arguments in support of the idea that history will somehow repeat itself, and that the present-day “Western world” shall suffer the same fate as did the Roman Empire. We may, however, use Gibbon to raise a number of key questions pertinent to the plight of the “Western world”.

To begin with, and as we have seen, Gibbon has spoken of “absolute power” – we need to ask ourselves whether or not the postmodern “Western” State apparatuses are capable of exercising a certain degree of power so as to be able to absorb the intra-conflictual symptoms that we have been exploring above. Secondly, Gibbon has also pointed to the social phenomenon of “despair” – with respect to the present conjuncture, we need to consider the extent to which the phenomenon of social demoralization in the “Western world” is such as to also infect those that man the various State apparatuses, amongst other positions of power [the infectiousness of social demoralization may here be related to Anthony Klotz’s “Great Resignation” or “Big Quit” syndrome]. Thirdly, Gibbons had chosen to use the term “tranquil anarchy” in describing the Roman Empire’s third century – we need to understand exactly how “tranquil” [if at all] such anarchy is in the postmodern “Western world”, and what could a possibly “simmering” anarchy mean for the stability and sustainability of “Western” institutions. We shall argue that such types of questions are closely entangled with the degree of trust [or lack of trust] that describes the relations between “Western” civil society [itself divided and mutually distrustful] and its State apparatuses. Further entangled with such types of questions is of course the role of the social media.

We do not intend to deal with such questions in any systematic manner – our purpose is to merely engage in some brainstorming of ideas. On the vital question of trust, Updike would write the following in 2005: “I also believe, instinctively if not very cogently, in the American political experiment, which I take to be at bottom a matter of trusting the citizens to know their own minds and vote their own interests” [p. 670]. It may be argued that, at least as regards the present state of affairs, the so-called “elites” are inclined to mistrust citizens [or, at least, segments of these]. It may further be argued that citizens [again, segments of these] mistrust the so-called “elites”. Perhaps much more importantly, it may be said that citizens mistrust citizens [both in a general sense but also with respect to concrete individuals such as colleagues, neighbours or even partners]. Now, these types of observations could be simply waved aside or rejected as sweeping statements originating from the camp of the populist contrarians. And yet, much has been written on the question of present-day mistrust by social researchers who cannot be said to belong to whatever contrarian thinking. Regarding European citizens in particular, and their sentiments of mistrust towards institutions, we may simply refer to the following three sample sources:

• The European Foundation [Eurofound] has written as follows: “In the European context, the erosion of trust in institutions has given rise to questions about the potential impact on political and social stability” [04.02.2019].
• The Washington Post has itself reported that “Europeans have lost faith in their governments and institutions” [22.09.2017].
• According to The Conversation, “Distrust of the political system, not the far right, is the real threat to our European future” [14.05.2014].

As regards the case of American citizens, and their sentiments towards institutions, we may present the following three sample sources:

• The Pew Research Center would introduce its recent findings on the issue of trust in the United States as follows: “Americans remain deeply distrustful of and dissatisfied with their government. Just 20% say they trust the government in Washington …” [06.06.2022].
• Part of a USA Today article reads as follows: “Why Americans’ growing distrust in civic institutions is a warning … All the while, trust in government and media has eroded – fewer than 1 in 3 Americans … express any real trust in these entities …” [15.05.2021].
• The American news website Axios has noted that “… Most Americans don’t trust the government … Distrust in institutions is widespread, but there are also stark partisan differences. Three out of five Democrats say they trust the government to do the right thing, compared to fewer than three in 10 Republicans” [23.05.2022].

With respect to different dimensions of intra-social mistrust in “Western” countries, we may consider the following three samples:

• Maureen Guirdman and Oliver Guirdman, in a well-known book entitled Communicating Across Cultures at Work, Bloomsbury Publishing, May 2017, 4th edition, describe the “stressful internal conflict” within the British workplace and especially amongst employees themselves [p. 175].
• George Gao, writing for the Pew Research Center, informs us that “Americans [are] divided on how much they trust their neighbors” [13.04.2016].
• Writing for HuffPost, Damon Young tells us that “Men just don’t trust women – and it’s a huge problem” [16.03.2015].

Of course, the issue of trust is far too complex a matter to be appreciated by simply relying on the headlines and articles of mainstream media platforms. These can, however, point to a definite tendency in society as their information is usually based on more in-depth research projects undertaken by various fact tanks. On the other hand, one has to admit that mistrust is a sentiment that can be extremely difficult to measure accurately – it can mean rather different states of mind. For instance, it can be a solid mistrust of institutions and authorities based on what one perceives to be authentic rational grounds – and which could come down to a certain form of dogmatic thinking [often politically motivated, as the Axios article points out]. Alternatively, it can be expressive of a fluid state of mind, rendering that type of mistrust a circumstantial phenomenon and therefore almost always in flux. Further, mistrust can be of the holistic type, expressing a lack of confidence towards what is sometimes referred to as “the system” – such a type of mistrust can come from elements of both the Left and the Right, and could therefore emanate from the dogmatic form of thinking already mentioned. In contrast, a citizen’s mistrust can be targeting particular institutions [such as the Department of Taxation or that of Public Works], and can be based on very specific and personal complaints. One may go even further and suggest that mistrust can be fully conscious, semi-conscious or even unconscious [and can be the outcome of various methods of gaslighting on the part of the media].

It is precisely such complexities that can make the public sentiment of mistrust a factor that is difficult to measure. That does not mean, however, that we ought to shy away from a possible reality of mistrust in “Western” societies – unless we somehow approximated such a reality, we would be incapable of identifying levels of demoralization and/or levels of ideological anarchy within such societies. This is not meant to imply that social researchers do shy away from the issue of mistrust – and yet they can handle it in a manner that serves to obfuscate the issue to the point of rendering it quite meaningless. Alternatively, they can approach the issue by focusing on ways that those charged with governance can somehow deal with the problem.

One may here refer to a research project on mistrust undertaken under the auspices of the European Commission, and which seems to both obfuscate the issue while at the same time wishing to table various recommendations on how to handle the matter [offering “foresight” to the Commission on what needs to be done]. Entitled “Trust at Risk: Implications for EU Policies and Institutions” [European Commission, Horizon 2020 Policy], it obscures the issue of mistrust by introducing us to apparently more fine-grained concepts such as “strong thick trust” versus “strong thin trust”, or “weak thick trust” versus “weak thin trust”. While such forms of trust may be somewhat definable and even identifiable, one wonders how these are to be measured with at least some degree of accuracy [we should remember that, in the case of statistical mechanics, experts use “coarse graining” to simplify a complex system so that its behaviour be better understood – they do not proceed to make an already complex system even more complex, which is what the European Commission researchers seem to be doing].

One may of course suspect that the theoretical obfuscation may here be intended to serve an ideological function: by adding further confusion to an already complex matter – as is that of public mistrust – one may wish to undervalue the phenomenon of possibly contrarian currents in “Western” society. Ideological intentions aside [and these remain to be verified], the European Commission’s “Expert Group” seems to have one practical objective in mind – viz. “The aim of re-gaining citizens’ trust in the European project”.

One could make a number of further comments both with respect to the tendency for academic overcomplication as also regarding the present-day academic practice of tabling recommendations to governing authorities. We can really see no valid reason in deliberately overburdening an investigation on the matter of trust by defining and redefining the term to the point where all meaning and measure is lost – it can both discourage further research and can even be self-defeating when it comes to making recommendations.

But the practice of making recommendations to those charged with governance can itself be highly problematic. Firstly, one would have thought that the very raison d’être of academic research is, not to directly recommend whatever to whoever, but to try to understand the world and the social phenomena – such as public mistrust – that typify it. Secondly, and which is a highly controversial issue closely related to the first point, one would have thought that the most reliable type of academic research is that undertaken independently of the State and its various organs. It is absolutely clear to anyone who merely peruses through the “Trust at Risk” document that the work does not constitute an independent project – it is a report to the Directorate-General for Research and Innovation of the European Commission, and – presumably – it is beholden to its grants. It would be quite paradoxical for us to state – in terms of what has been argued in other parts of this paper – that one would prefer a university akin to Updike’s “sheltered theatre” or “island of dreamy towers” rather than a body functioning as an instrument of politicians. Nonetheless, given the sheer complexity of this issue – there are those who would wish to see academia not only as “public facing” but as willful enhancers of good governance – we would say that the issue of academia independence must remain an open question.

The “Trust at Risk” project does, in any case, speak of a “collapsing trust” regarding a whole range of issues of concern to the European public [and does especially so in the first chapter of the document]. Perhaps it all comes down to whether or not the sentiment of trust is functional or dysfunctional to the structural stability of a society. We have long been witnesses to signs of functional mistrust in the “Western world”: this has taken the healthy form of “checks” imposed on possibly malign political activity through a whole range of democratic procedures, and which can serve to stabilize such procedures. In direct contrast, dysfunctional mistrust on the part of segments of society is the type that refuses to see whatever legitimacy in the political activity of the so-called “elites”, or refuses to see whatever legitimacy in the structures within which such activity takes place.

It is of course the latter type of mistrust that is of interest to us – areas that call for further research, and as has already been implied above, would therefore include the following: [i] The extent to which a widespread lack of trust hinders attempts on the part of State organs to absorb the intra-conflictual symptoms of “Western” society; [ii] The extent to which the sentiment of mistrust is infectious and for that reason can even demoralize the various functionaries of State apparatuses, perhaps leading – as mentioned – to a cumulative “Great Resignation” within power structures [the resignation may also, and more ominously, take the form of feelings of administrative resignation on the part of such State functionaries]; [iii] The extent to which that lack of public trust is itself the principal manifestation of a “simmering” anarchy.

Such issues almost automatically raise the question of the role of the social media and their possibly dissipative function in society. In fact, if one wishes to investigate the matter of mistrust and of public “ressentiment”, one would have to above all focus on the social media and their anarchic discourse in the “Western world”. In his discussion of Günter Grass’s book entitled Crabwalk [2003, English translation] – and which deals, inter alia, with the surfing of the Internet in its so-called “darker”, far-Right corners – Updike describes the world of the Internet in a highly perspicacious manner. He writes of “the contemporary Babel of the Internet, which seethes like a global subconscious, spreading information and misinformation, and what Nietzsche called ressentiment” [p. 415]. Encapsulated within – what we consider to be – this jewel of a sentence are most of the vital truths describing this global network and its profound impact on masses of people [for our purposes, of course, it is the “Western” masses that concern us]. What is Updike telling us with respect to the Internet and its function [or dysfunction] within the postmodern “Western milieu”?

Our first observation concerns Updike’s choice of word in describing the Internet – he refers to it as a veritable “Babel”, obviously suggesting that it is characterized by a confusion of voices. We may go a little bit further and, using Freeman Dyson’s famous description of the computer age, we may say that the Internet has created “islands of meaning in the sea of information”. But given the Babel-like confusion of voices, each island stands in a conflictual relationship vis-à-vis other islands. Each island resents and mistrusts all or most other islands.

Secondly, in describing the atmosphere [or “temper”] of this Babel, Updike tells us that it is “seething” – in other words, it is being suggested that each island-voice expresses its rage and repulsion towards all other island-voices that it cannot understand and does not wish to do so.

But thirdly, that which “seethes” is akin to “subconscious” impulses – the voice of an island does not necessarily emanate from a well-formed and well-informed rational system of thinking. Alternatively, whatever trace of rational meaning in the voice of the Internet user may itself be buried in layers of subconscious impulses that have come to constitute that user’s profile. It can be very personal whims, prejudices and especially the vindictive element that could help inform – or, more accurately, deform – whatever apparent rational meaning.

Of course, this preponderance of the subconscious impulses may not necessarily apply to all users of the Internet’s social media – one may argue that it does not usually apply to either the more circumspect supporters of the postmodern humanists or to those whom we have described as contrarians. Here again, however, one could point to the “gluttonous” nature of all worldviews and especially of all ideologies expressive of a secular religiosity – these naturally seek to “feed” themselves with whatever suits their ideological “digestive system” and they thereby opt to reject whatever is ideologically “indigestible”. Thus, one may observe a consciously partisan user of the social media deliberately surfing the Internet so as to identify and isolate all facts/ideas verifying or boosting his pre-given mode of thinking, while rejecting all others [that act of deliberation, however, may itself be generated by “absent” or subconscious forces, despite protestations to the contrary].

Fourthly, Updike tells us that the Internet is “spreading information and misinformation”. An inevitable conflict usually arises over what is real “information” and what is mere fabrication – again, the Babel-like confusion of voices yields a “seething” of mistrust, rage and repulsion. Alternatively, there can be a dissemination of verifiably real “information” that ever so often happens to “expose” the so-called malign activities of the so-called “elites” – there again, the Internet shall “seethe” with an exacerbated tone of mistrust, rage and repulsion. The dissemination of “misinformation”, of course, can itself function as agitprop further fanning the impulses of the enraged from whichever camp.

Finally, and surely most significantly, Updike wishes to relate such sentiments of mistrust, rage and repulsion to Nietzsche’s understanding of “ressentiment” – it is via the Internet, Updike suggests, that such type of “ressentiment” is subconsciously spread across the “Western world”. And it is not merely a “ressentiment” between the masses of the governed and those who are in governance – it is also [and perhaps above all] a “ressentiment” within grassroots society itself, it being a sentiment of profound distrust amongst conflictual islands of meaning or amongst sub-cultural segments of “Western” society. We of course well know the specific type of “ressentiment” that Nietzsche had in mind – he would describe it as a symptom of the “slave morality”. To the extent that there is “ressentiment” between and within segments of civil society itself, one may therefore speak of a clash of “seething” and diverging “slave moralities”.

Updike has chosen the key word “Babel” to describe the state of the Internet – based on his further suggestion that this “Babel” is “seething”, we have also used the term “repulsion” to describe the mood of that state as manifested in the “Western world”. The atmosphere of rampant repulsion is the sentiment of unrestrained “ressentiment” per se – but, we have supported, this is above all an intra-social “ressentiment”. It is an internal “ressentiment” between different segments of the “Western” popular masses carrying different understandings of the ideology of humanism – it is therefore a clash between diverging humanisms.

The intensity of this clash is such as to yield a potential collective psychosis or collective hysteria amongst those groupings of the “Western world” directly involved in the clash [we observe it as that recurrent state of being “offended”]. There are of course millions of “Westerners” that remain indifferent to whatever clash – although many of these can also be “infected” from a distance, and be so affected in a subconscious manner.

The general impression, therefore, is that the syndrome of public or collective repulsion prevails within the postmodern “Western milieu”, and which is a state of mind that to a large extent has come to characterize that milieu. This syndrome may be contrasted to the type of repulsion explored in Roman Polanski’s 1965 motion picture, Repulsion. There, the syndrome is only symptomatic of isolated cases of psychosis – in the present-day context, it is a collective syndrome affecting largish segments of society [and which are the most vocal in terms of public discourse].

The collective repulsion reveals a failed compromise between two central antagonistic cultural and ideological paradigms, each of which espouses a secular religiosity of its own and which is expressive of a specific understanding of humanism – we have therefore spoken of at least two deeply antagonistic understandings of “Western” humanism. The failed compromise amounts to an unwillingness on both sides to in any way adjust their positions in a manner that would somehow accommodate the sentiments of their opponents. A populist contrarian, for instance, might wish to adjust to at least certain dimensions of “Western” postmodernity and its surge towards “globalization” – but he would certainly refuse to bend to the “political correctness” dictated by his rivals. There is a sense in which the latter might be obstructing adjustment by wishing to impose their own “group-think” on members of society that do not abide by whatever “group-think”. On the other hand, the fierce individualism of many populist contrarians does not allow much space for whatever tolerance of rival worldviews.

The lack of such tolerance on the part of contrarians – and their repulsion for the so-called “progressive” postmodern humanists – seems to rest on a certain outrage pertaining to the plight of what they see as “Western civilization”. Many American and European populist contrarians usually focus on the immediate post-War years – they celebrate this period as a time when there had been a consolidation of “Western” consumer society within the protective ambit of the “nation-state” [in the experience of Europeans, the immediate post-War years had been a period of reconstruction based on the Marshall Plan and the European Recovery Program]. And they usually go on to juxtapose such “Golden Years” against what they see as a cancellation of the cultural values and moral systems of the “nation-state” within the unprotective ambit of a globalized economy. For many populist contrarians, therefore, the tendency towards cancellation – either as discourse or as practice – amounts to a fragmentation and eventual destruction of the ideological concept of the “West”, and its traditional understandings of humanism [which had once focused on the rights of the White working class through its old New Deal Liberalism in the United States or through the support of the White working class on the part of Britain’s old Labour Party]. Contrarians, finally, often view the present-day “Western” State and its various institutions as weak entities [this would apply to both “coercive” organs such as the Police Force, as also to various cultural/ideological organizations]. Like Tennyson, they would warn those in governance to “Deliver not the tasks of might … to weakness” [p. 106].

The intra-conflictual state of affairs within the “Western milieu” have certainly left traces of a certain decadence and relative decline – there are essays in Updike’s Due Considerations that explore various aspects of life in the “West” and which compare periods such as the immediate post-War years with the realities of the present-day world. Based on what he observes, one could say that there is some truth in the contrarian position that the “Western milieu” has gradually moved from a period of self-consolidation [the 1940’s and through to the 1960’s] to a period of intense self-doubt [on the other hand, this has been accompanied by the phenomenon of the “global citizen” and the concomitant traces of a global “monoculture”, and which is of course an irreversible reality in itself with its own pros and cons].

For Updike, the America of the 1940’s had been able to create a “machine” that could successfully generate a mood of merriment or of high spirits across social strata and which would also have a major impact on the rest of the “Western world”. This “machine” was of course an ideological and/or cultural mechanism – it was precisely what we have described in the first part of this paper as a mechanism of manufactured illusions. Such mechanism need be seen, inter alia, as a necessary and self-protective tool meant to deal with the inevitable exigencies of the “human condition”. While such ideological tool could also be said to be informed by a certain “political” or “class” content, its functionality can only be judged in terms of the degree of the effectiveness of the illusion it creates, or of the degree to which it engages [or captures] the popular masses. Updike celebrates the illusion that had been produced by such “machine” in the 1940’s, and which is none other than the “golden age” of Disney animations.

This is what he tells us in his Personal Considerations [constituting the final section of his Due Considerations], most probably written in 2006: “I wanted to be an animator – to live in Hollywood and make imaginary mice and crickets and crows and dwarfs and big-eared elephants come to life. Had I been informed that the Disney studio was a sweatshop, and the products of its golden age – Snow White, Pinocchio, Fantasia, Bambi, and Dumbo – were made possible in all their splendidly worked-out detail by masses on low Depression wages, I still would have been pleased to be part of a machine that generated such spectacular and mirth-giving illusions. ‘Life’s really worth living’, a contemporary song asserted, ‘when you are mirth-giving’ …” [p. 618].

The “mirth-giving” illusions of the 1940’s Disney studio were at the same time a process of “making” mirth-illusions – by manufacturing such illusions, the “machine” was a force for positive creativity, and which made life “really worth living”. The positive creativity enabled the popular masses to engage, not only in a pervading positive disposition [and that, despite whatever material hardships], but also in a process of reimagining and remaking their own world. With respect to the creativity of the Disney “machine” as such, Updike writes as follows: “Those early animators had the opportunity to remake the world from scratch, along lines of surreal lightness and polymorphus animism” [ibid.]. It was this world that was being remade “from scratch” that would immerse the popular masses “in the Disney experience, including its very real and often valuable pleasures” [cf. a study edited by Jennifer A. Sandlin and Julie C. Garlen, Disney, Culture, and Curriculum, Routledge, 2019, p. 17]. By being immersed in such experience, the popular masses would themselves remake their own world “from scratch” [in their capacity as “agents”, as Marxist academics would prefer to put it].

When Updike has to select his “favorite year of the disappearing [20th] century” [p. 661], he chooses the year 1946, and does so for a good number of reasons. He informs us, inter alia, that the year would be marked by an important motion picture directed by William Wyler, The Best Years of Our Lives, and which would dominate the Academy Awards. Apart from the fact that this epic drama is an indisputable masterpiece, Updike has to refer to this particular movie because it very accurately depicts the social atmosphere of the period [and how returning World War II veterans would have to adjust to the changing times]. The motion picture clearly portrays an American society that is experiencing a post-war boom. One of the main characters is Al Stephenson – he is one of the returning veterans and, quite designative of the period, himself a banker. Al tells his wife that “Last year it was kill Japs and this year it’s make money”. We see the operation of various glamorous chain stores, these being indicative of the rise of the mass market merchandisers in the post World War II period. It was then that mass consumption amongst various social strata would be firmly established as an everyday ritual – the motion picture depicts a department store selling, for instance, perfume for ladies [at 29 cents]; toothpaste [at 19 cents]; face powder [at 29 cents]; baby oil and powder [at 79 cents]; and cream [at 69 cents]. Lady customers – especially – are shown to merrily indulge in a rampant consumption of luxury goods [and which were being manufactured for the sole purpose of beautifying their feminine image].

The motion picture also tells us about the small loans that were being offered to ex-servicemen at the time [with or perhaps without the necessary collateral] – the movie is referring of course to the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944, also known as the G.I. Bill, created specifically so as to help those that had fought in the war. Low-interest mortgages were being made available to them. The same G.I. Bill would also provide for an unemployment compensation program – the movie appropriately depicts ex-servicemen standing in line for their unemployment compensation. We know that between 1944 and 1949 almost 9 million veterans would receive close to $4 billion from the Bill’s program.

The United States was gearing up and consolidating itself as the bastion of free enterprise offering all its citizens the opportunity to “make money”. The movie shows us the President of Cornbelt Trust & Loan Company saying words that certainly do epitomize the “American Dream” of the period – he speaks of America as “the citadel of individual initiative” and as “the land of unlimited opportunity for all” [all the main characters in the movie storyline end up as “winners” and with an optimistic disposition]. Of course, the United States would also be consolidating itself as the global hegemon – mention is made in the motion picture of the 1944 Bretton Woods Agreement which would, as we know, entail the establishment of the dollar standard, the IMF and the World Bank Group. American hegemony would also mean a more generalized “Western” hegemony right across the globe, at least in a cultural and/or ideological sense [and bar, of course, the so-called “communist” world at the time].

This is precisely one of the periods of American history that present-day populist contrarians hearken back to – and it is the selfsame era that Updike himself focuses on with a deep sense of nostalgia as also with an as deep sense of pride. In his presentation of the year 1946, he writes of “the euphoria of the first full postwar year”, when the birth rate would jump twenty percent [ibid.]. His general description of that year – and with implications as to what would follow thereafter – goes as follows: “But postwar would not be pre-war. In 1946, RCA began to sell television sets, with ten-inch screens. United Airlines announced the purchase of jets for commercial use. At Harvard, a giant electronic computer, ENIAC, computed a thousand times faster than humans could. In Paris, a bathing suit called the bikini debuted. In Las Vegas, Bugsy Siegel opened the Flamingo. Big bands broke up. Skirts went down. The Outlaw, starring Jane Russell in a Howard Hughes-designed uplift bra, was released in defiance of the production code. In Mississippi, blacks for the first time voted in the Democratic primary” [p. 662].

Updike continues on a more personal note, though again points to the grand period that would shape his youth – he writes: “As for me, I was all of fourteen, and my family for the first time since my early childhood owned an automobile. There were brand-new cars on the road, with wooden sides and Jeeplike frames. Butter and sugar were back on the shelves; ration tokens and coupons were gone. Nineteen forty-six was a year after everything had happened, and also the year before everything that would follow. It felt triumphant, to be an American” [ibid.].

The key word here is of course that of “triumphant” – Updike simply celebrates the reality and the ideological concept of being a citizen of America. By implication, this would also mean that one could celebrate the idea of being a “Westerner”. We know that present-day populist contrarian tendencies have tended to dwell on this pride of belonging to the “Western civilization” – they would therefore come to resent whatever ideological tendencies wished, not only to cancel such pride, but to speak of the moral obligation of feeling “guilty” with respect to that civilization. The contrarians would in the last instance resent the “guilt” that, it was said, one ought to feel as a specifically White American – they would feel that White Americans had played an important [if not major] role in making the “best years” of America, and as is evident in the William Wyler motion picture.

Without at all wishing to reduce the thinking of Updike to that of the present-day populist contrarians [that would be quite laughable], we may nonetheless say that both the writer and those now opposed to “cancel culture” would feel that what was to follow the year 1946 should also be celebrated – and it should be celebrated at least from the vantage point of the present postmodern world. We are here referring to the 1950’s and 1960’s period, and as that would unfold both in the United States and in the rest of the “West”. Updike writes as follows: “The decade of 1955-64 did not think of itself as a halcyon time, but in retrospect it seems so” [p. 615]. It should not surprise us that those who had lived in that decade would not always fully recognize that theirs was a “halcyon time”: many historians – from Edward Gibbon to Jules Michelet, and from Eric Hobsbawm to Paul Freedman – would acknowledge that the people who live in a particular historical period are not fully aware of the implications of that period. On the other hand, an expression such as the “swinging sixties” – and which was used at the time – does suggest a certain degree of such self-awareness. But what Updike wishes to emphasize is that the 1950’s and 1960’s constitutes an idyllic period of the past that is clearly remembered as much better than the life one lives in the postmodern world of today.

What was it that made it better and which deserves to be celebrated? Updike paints a rather complex picture of the period spanning the 1950’s and 1960’s – this is what he writes: “… at home in America consumerism and industrial production struck a balance which produced, for masses, a greater ease of living. As one of these captions [with reference to certain The New Yorker cartoons] has it: ‘You know how it is. You have a little more, you live a little better’ … The suburbs were the arena of the new plenty, at the expense of cities and farms. Not that the men in gray flannel suits were altogether happy with their split-level lives. One child says to another [in some other cartoon caption], ‘I don’t know what my father does all day. All I know is it makes him sick at his stomach’. There were rebellious stirrings, even under the anodyne Eisenhower. In popular culture, early rock drowned out the mellow remnants of the big bands; in painting, the stern and heroic canvases of Abstract Expressionism morphed into the cheerful junk art of Pop and the deadpan quiddity of Minimalism; in writing, baroque mandarins such as Bellow and Nabokov added new, lighter notes to the sonorities of our native naturalism. A certain lightness and gaiety, indeed, permeated the décor and mind-set of a hard-working land” [p. 616].

Updike’s picture of the period is certainly complex – and yet a number of features do stand out, and from which one may draw certain significant conclusions. Firstly, one would see the continuous spread and further consolidation of “the arena of the new plenty”, improving the quality of life for great masses of American citizens – and which would thereby effect a more or less general consensus amongst the different social strata and groupings of civil society [and which would also come to incorporate Black Americans with the Civil Rights Act of 1964]. Secondly, and as importantly, one may say that although those “men in gray flannel suits” were not always “happy”, they nonetheless expressed a homogeneity in middle class American culture. This homogeneity would constitute a vital link in the backbone of an all-American cultural paradigm to which most would, in the last instance, aspire – and which would be a state of affairs that must be directly contrasted to the deep cultural fragmentation of the present-day postmodern American era. Thirdly, the combination of these three salient factors – viz. “the arena of the new plenty”, the new social consensus, and the cultural homogeneity – would yield what Updike describes as “a certain lightness and gaiety” permeating the psyche of “a hard-working land”. This, apparently, would be a cause for celebration.

Updike was neither a historian nor a Marxist – and yet, his understanding of the 1950’s and 1960’s period as a “halcyon time” in the “Western world” would be fully corroborated by someone who was both a historian and a Marxist: we refer of course to none other than that great “Western” intellectual, Eric Hobsbawm. We know that, in his The Age of Extremes, 1994, Hobsbawm would describe the 1945-1973 period in the “Western” capitalist world as the “Golden Age”. It was a time when the “Western” mode of life would show an unprecedented expansion, and it would be an expansion based on a material well-being and on a cultural virility encompassing [or, as we would nowadays put it, “including”] vast masses of people. There is an important sense in which both a non-Marxist such as Updike and a Marxist such as Hobsbawm would wish to celebrate such “halcyon time” or such “Golden Age” [as would also the present-day populist contrarians; but which the present-day postmodern humanists would certainly not]. In fact, this period in the “West” could be said to have been more or less subconsciously celebrated even by those who were not fully aware of the implications of the conjuncture they were traversing. Such celebration at a grassroots level would take a variety of forms – one basic form would be that “simple belief” in “Western” culture per se. Paradoxically, the material fruits of such “Western” culture would also be fully appreciated by the vast majority of “Western” communists – they too would inevitably be indulging in “the arena of the new plenty” and in the consumerist culture engulfing the whole of the “Western world”, and which would naturally lead to the demise of all “Western” Communist Parties [a historical reality recorded in some detail by Hobsbawm in his The Age of Extremes].

This “simple belief” in one’s “Western” culture would therefore be an all-pervasive ideological infrastructure cementing the essential consensus that was being reproduced at grassroots level – the consensus would be such as to fully allow for whatever alternative and/or oppositional ideology, and it would be such extreme toleration that would define the very sustainability and virility of the “Western world” at the time. The reproduction of the ideological infrastructure of “Western” capitalism [or “Western” welfare capitalism], and its numerous cultural manifestations, would therefore be almost automatic – and it would be in such context that the children of the “West” would be groomed to live such “Western” culture by both the schooling environment and by the parents themselves. They would be groomed in a “simple belief” in such cultural paradigm [but which was itself a complex paradigm in terms of its multifarious socio-economic manifestations]. Updike dwells briefly on this question of “simple belief” and how it was instilled in the children of the period by discussing the work of William Steig, an American cartoonist and writer of children’s books who made his debut in the 1930’s and continued his work through to the 1950’s, the 1960’s, and on. Updike writes as follows with respect to Steig’s cartoons: “There is no overt satire in these depictions, but, rather, a bliss of simple belief, a seeing as if for the first time the narrative images with which children, at least in Steig’s childhood, were primed for existence in Western culture” [p. 613]. As we know, a key grievance on the part of the present-day populist contrarians is that their children are not at all “primed for existence in Western culture” – for them, the “narrative images” with which their children are allegedly fed [by both public schooling and the mass media] are such as to project an anti-Western paradigm. The present-day humanists would of course fully espouse such anti-Western paradigm – it would be expressive of their deconstructionist “project” and their morally-based wish to free the “Western world” from the “imperial imagination” and “the burden of the past” [as discussed above]. For them, it would be an absolutely moral stance to “prime” the children of the “West” in a manner that would avoid a repetition of such “burden of the past”. The basic implication here is self-evident: while intellectuals such as Updike and Hobsbawm would wish to celebrate and reproduce the values of the post-War “Western world”, the postmodern humanists would wish to deconstruct most such values – and such deconstruction could not be implemented unless the children of the “West” underwent a certain reeducation as to what it really means – or has meant – to belong to the “Western” capitalist [and/or imperialist] world.

The collective repulsion or “ressentiment” – or the failed compromise that would come to characterize the present-day postmodern world – would therefore revolve around conflictual assessments regarding the historical past of the “West”, and would revolve around similarly conflictual understandings regarding the overall plight of such “Western civilization”. The period of the post-War years, however, would also be contrasted to the postmodern world in a number of other – albeit related – ways. We may here consider the matter of art.

In his Personal Considerations, Updike briefly introduces us to the art of the German-born American painter, Wolf Kahn [1927-2020]. What he writes tells us much both about the painting of Kahn as also about the practice of art per se – in some sense, Updike presents us with his own “definition” of what it means to create a work of authentic artistic value. As we shall see further below, it would be precisely such understanding of the Updikeian artistic “standard” that would come to be lost to the postmodern world, and which would point to the cultural degeneration of that world, at least in the “West”. There is some truth in saying that it would not only be the populist contrarians that would scoff at the artistic products of 21st century postmodernism – both the educated public and the not so well educated citizens of the “West” would be bewildered [or even at times thoroughly embarrassed] by many artistic artifacts exhibited in prestigious art galleries.

How does Updike himself understand the practice of artistic creativity? This is what he writes: “I was here: the impulse to send postcards is widespread [as it of course was prior to the Internet], as is the desire to make a record of one’s transient life. Art builds upon such common impulses a structure of exceptional skill and, we might say, informed wonder – the celebrative instinct informed by tradition and the innovations that bestow continuing vitality on an art form” [p. 629].

Based on such Updikeian “standards”, one may argue that the 21st century postmodern artist [albeit with some important exceptions] has deliberately forgotten certain essential ingredients that are required to compose any work of art – and he has systematically omitted such ingredients to the point of bringing the practice of artistic creativity to a dead-end, thus killing the field of art per se – and which amounts to yet another form of deconstruction vis-à-vis the traditional concept of “Western” art. To verify [or falsify] this process of a certain destructive deconstruction in the field of art, one perhaps needs to reiterate the Updikeian “standards” recorded above, this time in the form of open-ended questions pertaining to the present-day practice of artistic creativity. Depending on how one answers such questions, one would be able to draw a number of conclusions regarding the state of present-day “Western” art [and therefore regarding the state of present-day “Western” culture as a whole]. The questions may be put as follows:

• To what extent – if at all – does the present-day postmodern painter “build upon” the “common impulses” of the “Western” citizen? Is it not true to say that his artistic creations have been reduced to mere financial assets circulating within an internal art market that remains absolutely indifferent either to the content or to the artistic quality of such assets? [consider, for instance, the manner in which the products of “Fine Art” are dealt with in a paper by Burak Dagkus, “Art as a Financial Asset: Fine Art Market, Risk and Insurance”, Academia.edu]. If there is such indifference to both content and quality, how may a work of art “build upon” whatever “common impulse”?
• To what extent does the present-day postmodern painter exhibit a certain “exceptional skill” in his work? Given the state of affairs of the internal art market, does the painter even need to make use of whatever skills at all? How often do members of the public, on viewing a present-day painting, tell themselves that they would be able to do so much better in improving on the blank canvas? Is it true to say that postmodern art is a field that has become absolutely “de-skilled” [and as art historian Benjamin Buchloh has himself argued]?
• To what extent does a present-day postmodern painting “build upon” and artistically sublimate the “common impulses” of the “Western world” through a “celebrative instinct” pertaining to such “impulses”?
• Perhaps more concretely, to what extent does a present-day postmodern artist make use of a “celebrative instinct” that is “informed by tradition”?
• Further, to what extent does a present-day postmodern artist make use of a “celebrative instinct” that is informed by genuine innovation?
• And thus, one may ask the following fundamental question: to what extent is a present-day postmodern artist informed by a combination of both traditionality and newness that would enable his work to be part of a continuum in the history of “Western” artistic creativity? To what extent, in other words, does his particular work “bestow continuing vitality on an art form” [as Updike puts it]?
• By extension, one could further ask the following: to what extent is the present-day postmodern artist prone to promoting, not the vitality of the artistic continuum, but rather a lethargy and inertia – a creative “laziness”, so to speak – with respect to the elements of both traditionality and newness? Could it be said that his work is somehow prone to a lifelessness reminiscent of nihilistic ennui?

Updike’s “standards” are especially strict – he expects of an artist, not only to “build upon” what he senses around him in the world, but to do that with a skill that is “exceptional” and at the same time “informed”. Now, it is quite obvious that such exacting Updikeian “standards” are hardly ever met by the average postmodern painter or sculptor – and they would certainly be vehemently rejected by the present-day dominant practitioners in the field. This, apparently, would point to that possible cultural degeneration of the “Western world” that we have been discussing above. And yet, we all know that the Updikeian “standards” pertaining to art have been rejected for a very long time in the “West” – one may simply refer here to early-20th century artistic movements such as Dadaism, Futurism, Fauvism, or to Pollock’s “drip technique”, and so on and so forth. Such “Western” reality in the field of art could suggest that the seeds of cultural degeneration had already been sown way back then, and given the destructive realities of the First and Second World Wars [both of which had, by the way, been the products of “Western civilization”].

While there is a certain truth in the latter statement, one should also say that it remains extremely oversimplistic – while such types of seeds had certainly been sown, they were not all of the seeds that would come to consolidate the “Western world”, whether at the social, economic or cultural level [we may here remind ourselves of either Updike’s “halcyon time” or of Hobsbawm’s “Golden Age” following the Second World War]. The fact is that the art of a psychologically traumatized Europe, following the long periods of war, could be said to be understandably nihilistic – and yet that particular form of nihilism would come to autonomize itself with respect to the immediate implications of the two World Wars, and would reproduce itself ad infinitum through the years. It would do so for reasons that are beyond the scope of this discussion [Hobsbawm, for instance, has related this phenomenon to the rise of new technologies and the concomitant peripheralization of the artist]. Now, it would be that particular vein of autonomized artistic expression that would be adopted and reproduced by the 21st century postmodern artist, this time usually protesting the “injustices” and “alienation” of “Western” late capitalism – it may be argued that it would be such strand of autonomized nihilism that would come to dominate in the course of the early-21st century. In the meantime, other artistic genres would themselves become marginalized [major artists such as Lucien Freud and Francis Bacon would try to save the day during the 20th century].

The manner in which we have posed and commented on the Updikeian-type questions above could be said to insinuate that the postmodern artist is guilty of destroying the field of art in the “Western world”. This would not be much of an accurate reading – we would rather have such questions remain open, and they would have to remain so for two basic reasons: [i] The Updikeian “standards” may be said to be antiquated, and there is no reason why one should insist on all – or even some – of these rigid principles; [ii] We well know that, throughout the history of art in the “Western world”, it has been “contemporary art” that has always been the most critiqued and the most misunderstood.

Keeping these two points in mind, we may now counterpose the Updikeian “standards” to those of a typical postmodern artist – we may here very briefly consider the work of someone like Professor Callum Morton, who is said to create “installations” and/or sculptural constructions. Living and working in Melbourne, Victoria, Morton is said to have exhibited his work nationally and internationally since 1990.

In a March 2011 GoMA [Gallery of Modern Art] panel discussion on the issue of 21st century art, Morton would explain that the “grand narrative” of postmodern art is centered around “the language of inclusion” and is directly related to “the rise of cultural studies” in the academies. Another participant in the discussion was Juliana Engberg, Programme Director of Aarhus 2017 – she would attempt to define “the postmodern sublime” in terms of what she called “the wow-factor” [it being the desired response on the part of people viewing a work of art].

It is in the context of such an intellectual environment that one would need to assess one of Morton’s most interesting works of art [or “installations”] – viz. his Monument #32: Helter Shelter, 2018. The work depicts Donald Trump’s head – or half of it – as it protrudes from the ground.

Before we attempt to tentatively assess this work of postmodern art in terms of the Updikeian “standards”, it would be useful to present a few observations that have been made in response to Morton’s 2018 work – such observations, albeit highly subjective, nonetheless give us some idea of what that construction is all about. Rex Butler, writing in MeMo [memoreview.net, 28.03.2020], has this to say: “There it sits in Alfred Deakin Place off the main street of Ballarat [Victoria’s important “cultural site” for protests and rallies], just as confronting, divisive and aesthetically repugnant as the original on which it’s based. It’s Callum Morton’s Monument #32: Helter Shelter (2018), a huge papier mâché reproduction of the top half of American President Donald Trump’s head. It’s all there as we so unwillingly remember: the fake yellow suntan, the thinning white teased pompadour, the narcissistically slitted eyes … It’s enormous … And you’re meant to sit in it because behind the façade on the other side is a hidden bench in an alcove with room for several people … The idea? To put yourself in Trump’s head for a while, whatever that would mean … Of course, in an obvious sense, it’s an astonishingly provocative gesture to stick this sexist, racist, anti-immigrant American triumphalist in a humble country square”.

Such data may now allow us to apply the “Updikeian” criteria to Morton’s artistic creation – very roughly one may make the following comments:

• Morton’s “installation” cannot be seen as merely a potential financial asset – it is a work of art informed by a content that wishes to bypass the usual indifference of the internal art market to whatever content. Its content is of course clearly political in nature. Being political, it certainly intends to express the “common impulses” of the “Western” citizen. On the other hand, it wishes to express the “impulses” of a very particular political camp, and do so in a manner that is extremely hostile to the opposing political camp – we therefore have here a work of art that is symptomatic of a certain “ressentiment”. Morton’s “installation” may therefore be said to “build upon” the intra-conflictual tendencies which, as we have argued, have come to characterize the “Western world”. It also remains an open question as to whether Morton’s work “builds upon” whatever “common impulses” through an artistic sublimation of such “impulses” – a simple caricature-like “reproduction” of the top half of anyone’s head would not necessarily exemplify artistic creativity. Or would it? One would here have to consider the implications of, say, Andy Warhol’s cartoon art, and what this has meant for the historical development of “Western” art. Such types of questions must remain open to further investigation on the part of future historians [or, better, of art historians living in a very distant future].
• In terms of the Updikeian criteria, a work of art has to be the product, not only of skill, but of “exceptional skill” – could one possibly say that Morton’s “installation” required any “exceptional skill” for its creation? It is quite obvious that no such skill was required – in fact, one could say that almost anyone could have produced such “installation”, given a certain technical infrastructure for its construction [there is more technical skill in the work than there is any artistic skill, let alone of the “exceptional” type].
• Is there any “celebrative instinct” in Morton’s “installation”? One may say that there certainly is such “instinct” – but what is it that is being celebrated? It goes without saying that Morton wishes to celebrate the “impulse” of “ressentiment” directed against the populist contrarians. And it is, for him, an absolutely justifiable “ressentiment” targeting a political leader that is deemed to be a “sexist, racist, anti-immigrant American triumphalist”. The “ressentiment” is further justifiable given that that type of American leader is said to be a “divisive” force within “Western” society. According to Rex Butler, the “installation” is “an astonishingly provocative gesture” – the provocation is itself an instance of a show of “ressentiment”, and which constitutes “the wow-factor” [or the desired viewer response] in terms of the postmodernist art paradigm of the “sublime”.
• Morton’s work may be said to be “informed by tradition” in that it is roughly related to styles of art that are rooted in the history of “Western” art. For one thing, his “monuments” [as in the case of Monument #32] are themselves a clear manifestation of the long history of “Western” sculpture, and how that has developed from “object” to “installation”. Further, it may be said that at least one of the “traditional” genres that inform his work is that of pop art.
• There is a sense in which Morton’s Monument #32 is informed by a certain innovation. Apart from the combination of materials that he uses to construct Trump’s head [we are told that these include polyurethane, fast coat, timber and acrylic lacquer], Morton’s work is a construction that combines art with architecture.
• The fact that Morton’s Monument #32 is informed by both a certain artistic tradition and a certain innovation would mean that his work is in some way an expression of a particular continuum in the history of “Western” art.
• Finally, could one say that Monument #32 is symptomatic of what we have described above as the paradox of creative “laziness” [or perhaps lifelessness]? This is of course a highly subjective issue, and it is also a matter best left to serious art critics. Our humble impression is that the rendering of Trump’s head is just a bit too crude and unrefined – this does seem to suggest a certain “laziness” on the part of its creator. One may of course counter such an observation by asserting that such crudeness is deliberate – but this again raises the more general question regarding the present-day state of postmodern art. To the extent that a piece of art is crude in its craftsmanship, it may also be transient – could then one say that all or most of present-day postmodern art is historically ephemeral? And if that be so, can one not also go on to support that the postmodern artist is prone to killing the field of art per se?

The point is that our rough attempt at applying the Updikeian “standards” to Morton’s work yielded rather contradictory results – while it is true that Morton’s Monument #32 did not meet certain of these rather rigid “standards”, it is as true that it did so in the case of other such “standards”, and did so in its own special postmodern way. Morton’s work is certainly representative of postmodern art and thus one could perhaps draw some general conclusions as to the state of present-day art based on an assessment of his work [which – as already noted above – dates back to the 1990’s]. Our admittedly rough appraisal of his Monument #32 “installation” in terms of Updike’s criteria allows us to suggest that any declarations mourning the present-day “decadence” or “nihilism” of art must be taken with a pinch of salt. The matter has to remain an open question.

And yet, there is another extremely important [and as importantly defining] dimension in the representative work of someone like Morton that could raise further serious questions pertaining to the quality of present-day art and thus also touch on the question of the possible demise of the field of art itself. What is this defining and representative dimension? Morton’s work is highly representative of the postmodern artist in that it is a work of art informed by political activism – as we have seen, his Monument #32 is a direct political act.

We know that “activism” in the era of the postmodern humanists is ubiquitous, and which is a phenomenon already much alluded to elsewhere in this paper. One finds it proliferating in the fields of history, sociology, anthropology, and so on – and, naturally so, one sees “activist art” dominating in the field of all artistic practices. We use the term “dominating” in a very literal sense – “activism” in art is a theme for university dissertations and a topic for an endless stream of academic lectures in the best institutions that the “Western world” can offer. We may here refer to a very typical lecture on art that took place recently – viz. the 2022 Arnheim Public Lecture at the Stiftung Brandenburger Tor, in Berlin. The speaker was Professor Dr. Marina Vishmidt, a Faculty Member at Goldsmiths, University of London. All too tellingly, the title of this lecture went as follows: “Speculation to Infrastructure: Material and Method in the Politics of Contemporary Art” [cf. Academia.edu].

One may make a number of observations with respect to this lecture:

• The professor showed no interest whatsoever as to the quality of present-day art. Criteria on the basis of which a work of art may be assessed – accepted or rejected in terms of sheer artistic value – were simply not discussed at all.
• The entire lecture evinced an absolute and exclusive interest in political activism and how that may be promoted through art.
• The professor lectured on very down to earth strategies and tactics as to how art galleries, museums and various other institutions – viz. the “infrastructure” established by State and Capital – may be taken over so that their resources be used in furthering the struggles of both the “labour movement” as a whole and of the various intersecting oppositional movements in “Western” capitalist society [there was much reference to the work of Karl Marx].
• The entire content of the lecture [as also the discussions with the audience that followed later] was very much reminiscent of far-Left revolutionary activism. It was said that there had to be an “occupation”, “sabotage”, “hijacking”, “blockage” and “dismantling” of the existing “infrastructure” – such type of activity would constitute an “infrastructural critique” on the part of artists. Given the nature of such type of activity, artists would thereby be engaging in what was termed “practical critiques”. The purpose of artists would be to establish “counter-infrastructures in the process of resistance” and/or to engage in “developing undergrounds of various kinds”.
• The general implication of such type of thinking was obvious throughout the lecture: art must necessarily be seen as part and parcel of the social struggles and social movements of the present-day “Western world”. The practice of art would be of little – if any – value were it to be posited outside the context of such struggles and movements. Throughout the lecture, one had to keep reminding oneself that this was a talk on the matter art – and yet, it was Lenin’s What Is To Be Done that kept springing to mind.

Now, in a short 2005 “Statement” regarding the question of ethics vis-à-vis literature and theory [and which is included in his Personal Considerations], Updike would examine the practice of what he called “preachment” in the art of writing fiction [and which, of course, is a statement that could also be said to apply to the field of art in general]. To the extent that “preachment” is a central dimension of “activism” [in fact, the one can be comfortably reduced to the other], it would be interesting to consider Updike’s thinking on the matter, and especially the manner in which the “preachment” of an engaged “activism” can affect the quality of any artistic practice. This is what he has to say: “His [viz. the creator’s] ‘responsibilities to the work of art’ are those of any craftsman to his product, polishing and shaping it to the point where it gives aesthetic delight. Such an endeavor is, to me, so self-evidently moral that posing the author as a preacher or his work as preachment fatally sullies something intrinsically pure. The author is a citizen and a social creature, and undoubtedly social impulses will figure in his fiction or poetry; the very act of self-expression indicates a wish to communicate, to share, to please, to influence. But his raison d’être is religious – homage to what is and gratitude for being alive, offered up with the directness and innocence of a child’s crayon drawing” [p. 670].

Updike’s approach to the issue of engaged “preachment” in artistic endeavour may summarily be put as follows:

• The artist’s sole responsibility is to his artistic creation – he is above all a craftsman who must see to it that what he produces has been “polished” and “shaped” in such manner that it offers us a definite “aesthetic delight” [it is this that constitutes the artist’s own “morality”]. In the absence of such evoked “delight”, the artist-craftsman has failed, and he has failed whatever the message he wishes to convey. It is his wish to “communicate” that has fallen flat.
• But Updike is not simply telling us that an artist’s responsibility should not be “preachment” – he is also telling us that whenever “preachment” does take place in a work of art, it has the effect of ruining or besmirching that artistic creation [the ruin, he suggests, would be “fatal” to a work’s “intrinsic purity”].
• Updike then goes one step further – it is not only a matter of to whom or to what an artist is responsible; much more than that, it is above all a matter of identifying and realizing the artist’s very raison d’être. And his reason for operating as an artist is to pay “homage to what is” and not to what should be. For Updike, it is the “preacher” who is obsessed with the latter – as are all self-proclaimed “activists” like Marina Vishmidt [her almost existential obsession with “what should be” is expressed by her own interpretation of the term “speculation”, which is seen as the artist’s “vector of change” in society – the artist, that is, need “speculate” on what society should be].

Were one to accept Updike’s understanding of an artist’s responsibility and raison d’être in the field of art, then one is forced to raise the following vital question: what is it that happens – or could happen – to the field of “Western” art when such field comes to be dominated by the “preachment” of “activist”-academicians like Callum Morton or Marina Vishmidt? Could the general field of the arts be – as Updike has warned – “fatally sullied” in the “Western world”? Again, this has to remain an open question. And it must remain an open question given that the dominance of the “activist” artist has not been such as to fully marginalize other artists that would – yet still – insist on honouring the type of artistic criteria articulated by Updike. Just one example of such type of painter would be – for Updike at least – Wolf Kahn, whose work is said to have been [he died in 2020] a blending of, inter alia, realism, modern abstract painting and American impressionism.

The question of present-day “Western” art is closely related to the postmodern world’s general – or, rather, dominant – sense of what is appreciated as that which is “beautiful” and what is deprecated as that which is considered “ugly”. In what way, in other words, does the present-day “Western” literati class understand “beauty” and “ugliness” both in arts and letters as also in everyday practices [and which is an understanding that often percolates into various segments of the popular masses]? For Updike, “our sense of the beautiful” is that which “becomes a kind of awed applause” [p. 664]. To grasp the sense of both “beauty” and “awe”, one need simply watch David Lean’s 1955 motion picture, Summertime, which is an excellent visual portrayal and aesthetic celebration of the sheer beauty of Venetian Gothic-cum-Renaissance architecture.

Can it be said that the literati class of the “Western” postmodern world has simply lost its sense of “beauty” and “ugliness”, at least in the sense that Updike means it? And, if so, what would the implications of this be as regards the health and vitality of “Western civilization”? By 2005, Updike would be making an observation on the question of aesthetic “beauty” which could be said to be pointing to a cultural [or aesthetic] rupture that had taken place within the “West”, and especially in the United States. He simply tells us that issues of “beauty” and “ugliness” would henceforth be “a matter of fashion” [p. 580]. Much more crucially, he goes on to add the following momentous statement: “the ugly becomes beautiful if it attracts attention” [ibid.].

We may here present just one simple example of how the “ugly” would automatically become “beautiful” as well – it would in fact be presented as a “creative treasure” – simply because of the attention it had attracted [or simply because of the manner in which the mass media and/or the literati had presented it so as to attract attention]. We may all agree that there is an intrinsic “ugliness” in trash – and yet this 1998 instance of a “creative treasure” was a collection of just such trash. The reference here is to Tim Nobel’s and Sue Webster’s work entitled Dirty White Trash. Collecting trash from the streets of London, they would position the garbage in such manner that a particular image would appear on a screen as light was projected in front of this “sculptural installation”. Whatever the message this assemblage of garbage was meant to convey – presumably related to the “toxicity” of “consumer society” – it is nonetheless simply ugly, and yet it was automatically accepted as a piece of contemporary art. The matter of “ugliness” is further evident in another piece created by Nobel and Webster – this work is entitled Real Life is Rubbish [2002].

Of course, to create a piece of contemporary art asserting that life is rubbish is a clear-cut expression of extreme nihilism. Even more importantly, when the “Western” literati would choose to accept that type of assemblage as “art”, they would at the same time be blurring the margins between what is “beautiful” and what is “ugly” – and they would thereby ultimately come to lose Updike’s sense of “awed applause”. Such blurring of the margins is clearly evident in what Jeffrey Deitch – who was director of the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art from 2010 to 2013 – had to say in assessing the Nobel and Webster garbage shadow sculptures. He would see these as “a confluence of beauty and filth” [cf. “Black Magic”, in Wasted Youth, Rizzoli International Publications, New York, 2009]. The key word here is that of “confluence” – it suggests that “beauty” and “filth” have come to converge. May one therefore not draw the general conclusion that the dominant milieu of the postmodern “Western world” is defined by a cultural moment wherein “beauty” and “ugliness” have come to meet? And what would be the implications of such meeting as regards the cultural sustainability of the “Western world”?

Updike presents us with yet another case in present-day “Western” society where “the ugly becomes beautiful if it attracts attention” – the reference here is specifically to the field of music, and especially as regards the quality of rap songs. This genre of popular music that has spread right across the “Western world” is critically assessed by referring to the thinking of Stanley Crouch, an influential Afro-American poet, music and cultural critic, and who was also a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences [he died in 2020]. This is what Updike writes: “He [Crouch] … expresses distaste for today’s popular black music – ‘gangster rappers’, purveying ‘anger and disruption … not to mention the exceedingly low level of the musicianship’ …” [p. 256]. One may say that it is precisely this “exceedingly low level” of knowledge, skill and artistic sensitivity in the performance of songs that renders such music especially “ugly”.

It would be useful at this point to briefly dwell on the thinking of an important critic such as Stanley Crouch. This may allow us to raise a number of questions on the extent to which rap music [or hip hop] constitutes yet another symptom of decadence in “Western” culture. To what extent, in other words, is this type of popular music – often entangled with a form of vulgar and/or nihilistic “activism” – indicative, not only of a loss of [aesthetic] “beauty”, but also of meaning itself? Our purpose here is to merely raise critical questions on the phenomenon of this type of music – more in-depth research would definitely be required to come up with any definitive answers.

The Wikipedia entry on Crouch informs us that he had been a “fierce critic” of “gangsta rap” in particular, asserting that this was a type of music that promoted violence, a criminal lifestyle, and a degrading attitude towards women. We know of course that, while Crouch would be fiercely critical of this particular genre of rap music, he would also be – as shall be further indicated below – generally dismissive of all forms of rap. He would simply refuse to see whatever musicianship in the genre as a whole.

Crouch, we are told, was also scathing towards American rapper Tupac Shakur, who would sell more than 75 million records worldwide – the young man, killed in 1996 at the age of 25, is said to have been one of the most influential rappers of all time and is “considered a symbol of activism against inequality”. With regard to Shakur, however, Crouch has written as follows: “what dredged-up scum you are willing to pay for is what scum you get, on or off stage” [cf. Wikipedia; also, inter alia, Stanley Crouch, “Fatal Attraction: Rappers & Violence”, New York Daily News, 12.03.1997].

In an article entitled “Four-Letter Words: Rap & Fusion” and published in Jazz Times [01.03. 2002], Crouch argues that the genre of rap music generally does not constitute a form of art. It is also related to a decadent sub-culture. We may present the following quotes from his text:

• As regards whatever artistic claims made by rappers: “We should not care if some rapper claims to be influenced by jazz. We should laugh at those who make artistic claims for fusion”.
• Rappers are said to be “Whorish tramps”.
• Rappers are described as “those jungle bunnies hip-hopping along”.
• On the question of cultural decadence: “What rap most importantly proves is that Negro American youth culture … is as vulnerable to decadence and hollow materialism as anything else”.

In a panel discussion on hip hop hosted by Charlie Rose [08.04.1997], Crouch would yet again wish to emphasize that this type of music has nothing at all to do with art – rappers, he would assert, know nothing about music per se. They all have no idea as to “what makes a chord a major chord or a minor chord”, and so what they produce is “vulgar”. He would also argue that hip hop is “nihilistic” in content and, even worse, it is expressive of a “commercialized nihilism” [whereby nihilism itself is being commoditized]. Interestingly, but also rather controversially, Crouch would suggest that the nihilistic side of hip hop music “comes from European decadence” itself. He would support this latter point by referring to Martha Bayles’s book, Hole in Our Soul: The Loss of Beauty and Meaning in American Popular Music, The University of Chicago Press, 1996.

In fact, both Crouch and Bayles would support that rap music is symptomatic of a “Western” decadence precisely because it is indicative of both a loss of “beauty” [suggesting an anti-aestheticism or some sort of “ugliness”] as also a loss of meaning. Bayles’s study on postmodern popular music – of which hip hop has turned out to be a major genre – finds that “something has gone seriously wrong, both with the sound of popular music and the sensibility it expresses” [cf. the Goodreads presentation of the book].

To say that hip hop has emerged as a major genre in the field of postmodern music is most probably an understatement. One should rather state that hip hop is a ubiquitous phenomenon that has spread right across the “Western world”, and even beyond it – one may even encounter it in the cultural peripheries of countries such as China or Russia. The degree of its global diffusion is such that one might even say that the genre is a symptom of a looming globalized “monoculture” [cf. our discussion of this Updikeian term above], and especially so amongst the younger generations.

Explaining this phenomenon is no easy task. One could argue that its diffusion may be put down to its incessant and deliberate propagation by the globalized mass media. This of course raises the perennial paradox with respect to any issue of propagation: is the genre so popular amongst youngsters due to its deliberate promotion by an external agent, or is it promoted incessantly by such agent given its popularity amongst that age group? And how is one to then explain the particular taste for hip hop amongst the younger generations? We may in any case simply observe here that MTV – or, more specifically, Yo! MTV Raps – would certainly play a major role in bringing hip hop to the masses around the world. Now, were one to agree with the stance taken by writers such as Crouch and Bayles, one would be obliged to argue that channels such as MTV have been promoting a decadent form of music culture that is both aesthetically “ugly” and “meaningless”. We shall have to yet again allow this to remain an open question. Updike, nonetheless, has himself written that “MTV’s don’t need to make sense, any more than dreams do” [p. 620].

Very generally speaking – and now well beyond the narrow issue of rap music itself – one could postulate that the “Western world” has come to be characterized by a dominant ideology of postmodern humanism that is dismissive of both the aesthetics and the logic [or meaningfulness] of a historical conjuncture that had once been described as either “halcyon” [by Updike] or “golden” [by Hobsbawm]. This deconstructionist rejection, one may also postulate, would be based on the needs of a secular religiosity fighting for a new understanding of social justice. And thus one could speak of a certain type of rejuvenation of the deliberate anti-aestheticism and irrationality of the Dadaist mentality, itself a movement against unjust “bourgeois” society – this time, however, revitalized in its new, postmodernist variety. In his “Tribute to Saul Steinberg”, written in 1999, Updike tells us the following about this Romanian-born artist: “He made little of his Romanian origins; ‘pure Dada’, he called his native land” [p. 607]. One simply wonders whether one could not state something similar with respect to the present-day “Western world” as a whole.

Apart from the question of present-day aesthetics, specific socio-political developments in the postmodern “Western world” may also be said to have had a series of material repercussions – and it is the term “ruination” that seems to most accurately describe such latter-day nadir. Updike here makes use of Salman Rushdie’s 2005 novel, Shalimar the Clown, to consider what has happened to a natural “paradise” like California. Quoting Rushdie, Updike tells us that this state has been “ruined by ‘human bloat’ in the shape of trailer parks and ‘the new pleasantvilles being built in the firetrap canyons to house the middle-class arrivistes’, as well as ‘the less-pleasantvilles in the thick of the urban sprawl … the dirty underbelly of paradise’ …” [p. 382].

In his discussion of the work of Giovanni Battista Piranesi – the frustrated architect who nonetheless celebrated the monuments of Imperial Rome – Updike focuses on the ruins that had been left behind by that great Empire. And he ruminates on these as follows: “Europe’s ruins posed in the midst of its population the problem of time, the shudder of the grave” [p. 603]. One may say that a similar “problem of time” and “the shudder of the grave” is posed by the obvious symptoms of ruination manifested in very many parts of the present-day “Western world”. This raises the question of the “West’s” possible decline – but yet again we would have to say that such a type of question has to remain open to discussion.

In closing this paper, we wish to suggest that whatever discussion regarding the fate of the “Western world” would have to consider at least two critical issues, both of which have been briefly addressed by Updike in his Due Considerations. These two issues may be set forth as follows:

• Throughout our study, we have been referring to the gradual ideological domination of various secular religiosities within the “Western world” – these have attempted to both explain and change that world in some form or other [and which have, at least as of late, led to a near-endless series of intra-conflictual circumstances short-circuiting many “Western” societies]. One issue that needs to be considered is whether or not the “West” can continue sustaining itself merely on the basis of unequivocal secular ideologies – or, in other words, on the basis of secular worldviews that wish to explain the “human condition” across the board. While “God is dead” [but which would certainly not apply to all of the populations composing the “Western world”], there nonetheless remain grave existential issues pertaining to the “human condition” that yet still raise non-secular types of questions. The matter is of course highly controversial – all we can do here is merely entertain the thinking of Updike himself. He would write as follows in 2005: “Cosmically, I seem to be of two minds. The power of materialist science to explain everything, from the behavior of the galaxies to that of molecules, atoms, and their submicroscopic components, can scarcely be doubted. Such science forms the principal achievement of the modern mind; its manifold technical and medical benefits are ours to enjoy. On the other hand, subjective sensations, desires, and, may we even say, illusions compose the substance of our daily existence, and religion alone, in its many forms, attempts to address and placate these. We are part of nature, and natural necessity compels and in the end dissolves us; yet to renounce all and any supernature, any appeal or judgment beyond the claims of matter and private appetite, leaves in the dust too much of our humanity, as through the millennia it has manifested itself in art and altruism, idealism, and the joie de vivre” [p. 671].
• Any discussion regarding the fate of the “West” is – by its very nature – bound to be highly problematic, and this is the case because the very act of predicting has itself always been notoriously problematic. That which shall ensue – the “new” – is simply too difficult to “locate” at this stage. In the year 2000, Updike wrote of this difficulty as follows: “Untrue often means outmoded – the pieties of your fathers, foremost. These pieties may be a Presbyterian faith, or a socialist atheism, or a loyalty to this or the other established political party, or to labor unions or to laissez-faire economics or to the American flag or the planet Earth: to the bearer of the new truth the old issues are not even worth debating, they are beside the point. The new point is not easy to locate” [p. 73]. We may here add that while the “pieties” of the present-day postmodern world have yielded a new dominant type of humanism as also a series of alternative/oppositional versions, all these are bound to become “outmoded” in the future – and therefore ultimately “untrue”. The new truth [or, rather, truths] is almost impossible to “locate” because it is difficult to determine what “scraps” of ideology shall be selected or rejected in the formation of the new ideological paradigms. And it is as difficult to determine how the selected “scraps” shall be combined in the forging of these new worldviews.

Nikos Vlachos [né Paul N. Tourikis]

October, 2022.

The post Defining the “West”: An orrery of cultural paradigms appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Στήν ἑλληνική πεζογραφία, ὅπως καί στήν παγκόσμια, ἔχουμε ἔργα πού γράφονται γιά νά διαβαστοῦν ἀπό παιδιά καί ἔργα μέ πρωταγωνιστές παιδιά, πού γράφονται γιά νά διαβαστοῦν ἀπό μεγάλους. Ποῦ βρίσκεται ἡ διαφορά;  Ἡ διαφορά βρίσκεται στήν ὀπτική τῶν πεζογράφων. Στό γεγονός ὅτι τά πρῶτα γράφονται μέ γνώμονα τήν παιδική ἀντίληψη, ἐνῶ τά δεύτερα γράφονται μέ γνώμονα τήν ἐνήλικη ἀντίληψη. Φυσικά δέν ἀποκλείεται νά διαβάζονται ἀπό παιδιά τῆς προσχολικῆς καί σχολικῆς ἡλικίας, πεζά γιά μεγάλους, ὅμως ἡ ἀναγνωστική ἀφομοίωση διαφέρει ἀνάμεσα στίς μικρές καί στίς μεγάλες ἡλικίες. Ὁ Λεωνής τοῦ Γ. Θεοτοκᾶ δέν γράφτηκε γιά νά ἀνταποκρίνεται στήν παιδική δεκτικότητα. Τό ἴδιο ἡ Ἐρόικα καί Στοῦ Xατζηφράγκου τοῦ Κ. Πολίτη. Ἐνῶ το Τόν καιρό τοῦ Βουλγαροκτόνου τῆς Π. Δέλτα γράφτηκε γιά νά διαβαστεῖ ἀπό παιδιά. Ἔχουμε συνεπῶς ἐδῶ ἕνα ζήτημα διάκρισης πού, ὅσο ξέρω, δέν ἔχει ἀσχοληθεῖ κανείς μαζί του. Ὅμως εἶναι ἀπαραίτητο νά ξεχωρίζουμε τήν παιδική λογοτεχνία ἀπό τή λογοτεχνία γιά μεγάλους, ἀδιάφορο ἄν ἡ λογοτεχνία γιά μεγάλους χρησιμοποιεῖ κάποτε ὡς ἀφηγηματικούς ἥρωες παιδιά. Κι αὐτό ἀκριβῶς συμβαίνει στήν Ὁδό Μακεδονομάχων. Ὅπου ἔχουμε ἀφηγηματικούς ἥρωες παιδιά, χωρίς νά προϋποθέτει ἡ συγγραφή του παιδικό ἀναγνωστικό κοινό. Πρόκειται, συγκεκριμένα, γιά ἕνα βιβλιαράκι μέ δέκα μικρές ἱστορίες ἤ διηγήματα, πού, σύμφωνα μέ τή σειρά τους στό βιβλίο, ἔχουν τούς ἀκόλουθους τίτλους: «Βουτιά στό χῶμα», «Ἡ “Ταβέρνα τοῦ Τάκη”», «Οἱ χῆνες», «Ἡ ἀλεποῦ», «Ὁ κυρ Σπύρος», «Ἀπό θλίψη», «“Ζα-βο-λιά-ρα!”», «Ἡ σωλήνα τοῦ Θανάτου», «Λασποκεφτέδες», «“Ἀμήν”». Ἕνα ἀπό αὐτά, «Ὁ κυρ Σπύρος», ἀφορᾶ ἕναν γερασμένο ἀνθρωπο, πού ζεῖ μόνος του. Ἐξαιρετέο καί ἀσχολίαστο σέ ὅσα ἀκολουθοῦν, καθώς δέν εἶναι τῆς ἴδιας τάξης μέ τά ὑπόλοιπα. Τ᾿ ἄλλα ἐννιά ἀναφέρονται  σέ μιά κοπελίτσα, πού λέγεται Σία ἤ ἁπλά κορίτσι καί εἶναι 4-5 χρονῶν, ἀλλά μία φορά, στό διήγημα «“Ἀμήν”»,  εἶναι 11 χρονῶν καί πηγαίνει στήν πέμπτη δημοτικοῦ. Ἡ συγγραφέας παρακολουθεῖ τή Σία, ὅπως θυμᾶται τόν ἑαυτό της σ᾿ αὐτή τήν ἡλικία. Ἄρα δέν ἀποκλείεται νά ὑπάρχει αὐτοβιογραφική βάση. Ἡ Σία, τώρα, δέν ἐνδιαφέρεται γιά τήν πολιτική, οὔτε γιά τή θρησκεία, οὔτε γιά τίς σπουδές, οὔτε γιά τόν κόσμο γενικότερα, οὔτε καί πολύ γιά τούς μεγάλους. Ὁ δικός της κύκλος εἶναι ἡ γειτονιά της, ὅπου προέχει ἡ Ὁδός Μακεδονομάχων, μέ τά συνομήλικα, τά λίγο μεγαλύτερα καί λίγο μικρότερα κορίτσια καί ἀγόρια της. Σ᾿ αὐτή τή γειτονιά, πού ἔχει ἀκόμα ἕνα δασάκι κι ἕνα ρέμα, δοκιμάζονται οἱ δυνατότητες καί οἱ δεξιότητες τῶν μικρῶν παιδιῶν, μέσα ἀπό τά παιχνίδια τους. Τά κείμενα γράφονται σέ τρίτο πρόσωπο, ἀλλά πάντα ἀπό τή μεριά τῆς μικρῆς πρωταγωνίστριας. Μάλιστα, γιά περισσότερη σαφήνεια ἡ ἀφηγηματική ἑστίαση τοποθετεῖται στήν ἴδια τή Σία. Μέ ποιόν τρόπο; Μέ τό νά δίνει τά «πράγματα»,[1] κάτι πού συνιστᾶ ἀφηγηματική ἀρετή, μέσα ἀπό τίς αἰσθήσεις καί τά αἰσθήματα τῆς κοπελίτσας.

Αἰσθήσεις καί αἰσθήματα. Θά χρειαστεῖ νά τά δοῦμε κάπως διεξοδικά.     Αἰσθήσεις. Τί εἶναι αὐτό πού τραβάει τά μάτια τῆς Σίας; Πρῶτα πρῶτα εἶναι ὁ στίβος τῶν παιχνιδιῶν, ἡ Ὁδός Μακεδονομάχων ἀπό τή μιά ἄκρη ὥς τήν ἄλλη, ἀνηφόρα-κατηφόρα. Χωματόδρομος καί τελευταῖα μέ πίσσα. Ὅπου ἡ ταβέρνα τοῦ Τάκη, τῆς Κικῆς καί τοῦ γιοῦ τους Κωστή, τό σπιτάκι τοῦ Γιοῦρα, τό σπίτι τῆς κυρα-Ντόλης, τό σπίτι τῆς Σπυριδούλας, τῆς Γωγώς, τοῦ κυρ Σπύρου, τῆς δασκάλας καί τοῦ Γυμνασιάρχη μέ τά οἰκοδομικά «χώματα» μπροστά του, τό ἐγκαταλειμμένο σπίτι πού ἀποφεύγανε τά παιδιά. Ἀπέναντι εἶναι τό δασάκι μέ τά πεῦκα, ἐνῶ πίσω μεριά εἶναι τό ρέμα μέ τίς καρπερές συκιές. Ἐκτός ἀπό αὐτά δέν λείπουν καί τά ἀπρόοπτα. Τό κορίτσι παρακολουθεῖ μιά μέρα δυό ἄλογα νά καλπάζουν:

«Τά παιδιά πέταξαν τά ποδήλατα, τίς πέτρες, τίς μπίλιες, τίς κιμωλίες, βιάστηκαν ποιό θ᾿ ἀνέβει πρῶτο τή σκάλα κι ἔφτασαν πάνω στό δρόμο, ἐκεῖ πού σέ λίγο θά ᾿μπαινε ἡ φαρδιά σιδερένια ἐξώπορτα κι εἶχαν μαζευτεῖ γονεῖς καί θεῖοι. Δυό ἄλογα, ἕνα ἄσπρο κι ἕνα καφετί, κατέβαιναν μ᾿ ἐλαφρύ καλπασμό τήν κατηφόρα ἀκριβῶς μπροστά τους, κι ἕνα ἄσχημο ἀδύνατο ἀγόρι ἔτρεχε ἱδρωμένο πίσω τους βρίζοντας μέ λέξεις πού τά παιδιά δέν ἔπρεπε ν᾿ ἀκούσουν – ἀλλά εἶχαν ἤδη ἀκούσει. [...] Οἱ μεγάλοι γελοῦσαν. Τό κορίτσι ἔβλεπε μπροστά της τό ἀγόρι, ἀκόμα κι ὅταν ἐκεῖνο εἶχε χαθεῖ.»

Ἔπειτα ἀπό τά ἄλογα τό κορίτσι συναντάει στό ρέμα ἕνα κοπαδάκι ἀπό χῆνες καί τό ἄσχημο ἀγόρι. Στό μεταξύ, στήν ταβέρνα τοῦ Τάκη τραβάει τήν προσοχή της μιά ζυγαριά πού ὁ μηχανισμός της τῆς φαίνεται ἀκατανόητος. Τίς προάλλες ὁ Κωστής ἔφερε κρυφά τό αὐτοκίνητο τοῦ πατέρα του, τό πορτοκαλί μέ τή μία ρόδα μπροστά, ὥς τό σπίτι τους. Τό ὁδήγησε μέ τήν ὄπισθεν στήν πιλοτή κι ἔγινε «ξεφάντωμα» ἀπό τά παιδιά.  Ἄλλοτε, ἕνα βραδάκι πού ἦταν στό μπαλκόνι μέ τή μάνα της καί τόν μεγαλύτερο ἀδερφό της, εἶδαν τήν ἀλεπού, μέ τή μεγάλη φουντωτή οὐρά, νά βγαίνει στόν δρόμο ἀπό τό δασάκι. Ὅμως περισσότερο ἀπ᾿ ὅλα τό κορίτσι προσέχει τίς γραμμές ἀπό τά τετράγωνα στό παιγνίδι μέ τό κουτσό, πού τίς πατάει ἡ φίλη της Θεώνη καί καταφέρνει νά κρύβει ὅτι τίς πατάει: «Ὄχι, ποῦ; νά, δέν πατάω!» Γεγονός πού κάνει τό κορίτσι νά θυμώνει καί νά φωνάζει στή Θεώνη: «Ζα-βο-λιά-ρα! Ζα-βο-λιά-ρα!...».

Αὐτός εἶναι περίπου ὁ ὁρατός κόσμος τῆς μικρούλας πρωταγωνίστριας. Ἀλλά οἱ αἰσθήσεις εἶναι πέντε. Ἔτσι, δέν λείπει κι ὁ ἀκουστικός κόσμος. Ἡ γειτονιά ἔχει τίς ὧρες της, ἄλλοτε ἡσυχία, ἄλλοτε φασαρία.  Φασαρία εἶναι τά ξεφωνητά τῶν παιδιῶν στά παιχνίδια τους, τά πρωινά αὐτοκίνητα πού μεταφέρουν τά παιδιά στά σχολεῖα τους, τά κακαρίσματα ἀπό τό κοτέτσι τῆς κυρα-Ντόλης, ὁ βήχας τοῦ κυρ Σπύρου ἀπό τό διπλανό σπίτι του, τό φοβεριστικό σφύριγμα τοῦ πατέρα γιά νά ἐπιστρέψει ἕνα βράδι, μέ τόν ἀδερφό της, στό σπίτι. Ἔπειτα εἶναι τά μυριστικά, τά ἁπτικά καί τά γευστικά δεδομένα. Σημειώνω ἕναν συνδυασμό μυρωδιᾶς καί γεύσης. Τό κορίτσι εἶναι 11 χρονῶν  καί πηγαίνει πιά μέ τά πόδια στό σκολεῖο, πιασμένη χέρι χέρι μέ τόν φίλο της Χάρη:

«Φτάνουν στόν παλιό της παιδικό σταθμό στήν κορυφή τῆς Μακεδονομάχων, τό κορίτσι κάνει τό κόλπο μέ τή βαθιά εἰσπνοή, ρουφάει ἀέρα μ᾿ ὅλη τήν ψυχή της καί, νά, ἡ πρωινή μυρωδιά τοῦ σταθμοῦ γεννᾶ στό στόμα της τήν παλιά γεύση ἀπό τό γάλα κακάο.»

Αἰσθήματα. Τό κορίτσι ζεῖ τά αἰσθήματά του καί ταυτόχρονα τά μαθαίνει, εἴτε ξέρει τά ὀνόματά τους εἴτε ὄχι. Στό πρῶτο διήγημα, «Βουτιά στό χῶμα», ξέρει πώς ἔκανε ζαβολιά στόν ξαδερφό της Πανούλη, πού κλαίει ἀπαρηγόρητος. Δέν τό ὁμολογεῖ στή μάνα της, ἀλλά ἐκείνη κάτι μαντεύει. Ἡ ἴδια σκέφτεται «νά τοῦ πεῖ (του Πανούλη) νά μήν τή μαρτυρήσει. Ἄν δέν τή μαρτυρήσει, στό ἑπόμενο παιχνίδι πλεϊμομπίλ θά παίξουν ὅ,τι ἱστορία θέλει αὐτός». Ἕνα καταμεσήμερο, πού ἡ γειτονιά ἡσύχαζε, κατέβηκε στό ρέμα μέ τίς συκιές, ὅπου, χωρίς νά τό περιμένει, συνάντησε τίς χῆνες μέ τό «ἄσχημο ἀδύνατο ἀγόρι»:

«Καθόταν ἀνακούρκουδα στά κίτρινα ξερόχορτα καί τήν κοιτοῦσε κοροϊδευτικά. Δέν εἶχε πρόβλημα τό κορίτσι μ᾿ αὐτό. Ἤξερε τί σημαίνει “κοροϊδευτικά”. Τήν εἶχε κοιτάξει πολλές φορές “κοροϊδευτικά” ὁ ἀδερφός καί ἡ μάνα της, κι αὐτή εἶχε κοιτάξει πολλές φορές “κοροϊδευτικά” τά ξαδέρφια της. Ἀλλά αὐτό δέν ἦταν ἁπλῶς “κοροϊδευτικά”. Ἦταν καί κάτι ἄλλο, πού τό κορίτσι δέν ἤξερε πῶς τό λένε ἀλλά τό ἀναγνώρισε. Ἦταν κάτι πού τήν ἔκανε νά νιώσει ντροπή καί ἀπειλή, ἀπίστευτη ἀπειλή, καί δέν εἶχε ὄνομα νά τοῦ δώσει. Ἀσυναίσθητα κοίταξε πίσω της. Καταμεσήμερο, ὁ ἀδερφός καί τά ξαδέρφια της κοιμόντουσαν καί οἱ γονεῖς τους ἦταν στό σπίτι. Μόνη της. Ἔνιωσε πώς τουλάχιστον θά ἤθελε νά μήν εἶναι καλοκαίρι καί νά φοράει τά χειμωνιάτικα ροῦχα της.»

Στό διήγημα «Ἀπό θλίψη» τό κορίτσι ταράζεται ἀπό τή σκηνή πού βλέπει:

«...στέκεται τρομαγμένο στό ἄνοιγμα τῆς πόρτας πού χωρίζει τόν μικρό διάδρομο ἀπ᾿ τό σαλόνι. Γιατί ὁ ἀδερφός της δέν κλαίει ἀπό τά νεῦρα του, δέν εἶναι θυμωμένος – κλαίει ἀπό θλίψη, κι ἡ θλίψη εἶναι τόσο μεγάλη, πού δακρυσμένη εἶναι ἀκόμα καί ἡ μαμά.»

Ὁ ἀδερφός της κλαίει γιατί πέθανε ὁ Τάκης, ὁ πατέρας τοῦ Κωστή. Τοῦ Κωστή πού εἶναι στενός φίλος τοῦ ἀδερφοῦ της. Τό κορίτσι συμπονάει τόν ἀδερφό της, ἄν καί δέν τῆς φέρνεται πολύ καλά, καί βρίσκει τήν καλύτερη μπίλια της γιά νά τοῦ τή δώσει. Στήν ἱστορία πού ἐπιγράφεται «Ζα-βο-λιά-ρα» τό κορίτσι βράζει ἀπό αἴσθημα ἀδικίας καί φτάνει ὥς τήν ἀθέμιτη ἐκδίκηση τῆς φίλης της. Στήν ἱστορία «Ἡ Σωλήνα τοῦ Θανάτου» ζεῖ τήν ἀγωνιώδη προσπάθεια μιᾶς δύσκολης ἀναρρίχησης, καθώς ἀρχίζει καί νυχτώνει, στό ρέμα. Ἐκείνη βρίσκεται στή μέση τῆς ἀπότομης ἀνηφόρας καί δέν μπορεῖ νά πάει οὔτε μπροστά οὔτε πίσω, ἐνῶ ὁ ἀδερφός της κι ὁ Κωστής ἔχουν ἤδη ἀνέβει. Τότε ἀκούγεται τό σφυριχτικό σῆμα τοῦ πατέρα της νά γυρίσουν ἀμέσως στό σπίτι. Ὁ Κωστής προσπαθεῖ νά τη βοηθήσει καί μέ τή βοήθειά του τό κορίτσι σώζεται τήν τελευταῖα στιγμή, ἀλλιῶς θά κατρακυλοῦσε στόν πάτο. Στό κείμενο «“Ἀμήν”», ἡ Σία εἶναι ἕντεκα χρονῶν καί πηγαίνει παρέα μέ τόν Χάρη στό σχολεῖο:

«...ξέρει ὅτι εἶναι ὁ καλύτερός της φίλος στή γειτονιά ὄχι γιατί τό ἀποφάσισε ποτέ, ἀλλά γιατί ἁπλῶς συμβαίνει: ἄν τά παιδιά δέν παίζουν στόν δρόμο ὅλα μαζί, μόνη της μόνο μέ τόν Χάρη τῆς ἀρέσει νά παίζει. Ξέρει ἀπ᾿ ἔξω τήν κουζίνα τοῦ σπιτιοῦ του καί τή μυρωδιά, [...] καμιά φορά, συνήθως σέ γιορτές, ὅταν τύχει νά μπεῖ στό σπίτι τοῦ Χάρη μαζί μέ τούς γονεῖς της ἀπό τήν κεντρική εἴσοδο κι ὄχι ἀπ᾿  τήν κουζίνα, ὁλόκληρο τό σπίτι μοιάζει  ν᾿ ἀλλάζει καί γίνεται ἐπίσημο καί ξένο.»

Τήν περίοδο αὐτή τό κορίτσι αἰσθάνεται τό πρῶτο ἐρωτικό σκίρτημα.

Καθώς εἶναι φανερό, οἱ αἰσθήσεις καί τά αἰσθήματα τοῦ κοριτσιοῦ αὐτοῦ ἀντιπροσωπεύουν τόν ἐξωτερικό καί τόν ἐσωτερικό της κόσμο. Τήν περιπέτεια τῆς ἀνήλικης ζωῆς της: πῶς ἀσκεῖται, πῶς ἀναπτύσσεται, πῶς διαμορφώνει τόν χαρακτήρα της. Αὐτά συμβαίνουν χωρίς ἄλλες πληροφορίες, χωρίς ἐξηγήσεις, χωρίς σχόλια. Ἡ συγγραφέας, δίνοντας ἀπευθείας τά «πράγματα», δέν αίσθάνεται τήν ἀνάγκη νά πεῖ τίποτε περισσότερο. Ἀπό τήν ἀρχή φάνηκε πώς σκοπός της δέν ἦταν νά φανερώσει ἰδέες, σκέψεις, σχέδια καί προθέσεις, ἀλλά νά παρουσιάσει τίς αἰσθήσεις καί τά αἰσθήματα ἑνός συγκεκριμένου κοριτσιοῦ. Τά ἴδια δηλαδή τά στοιχεῖα πού κάνουν ἀμέσως πειστικά τά γραφόμενά της.

Ὅλες οἱ παραστατικές στιγμές ἔχουν τήν ἐκφραστική σημασία τους, τέσσερεις ὅμως ἐντυπωσιάζουν ἰδιαίτερα. Ἐννοῶ τίς ἀκόλουθες: «Τό κορίτσι ἔβλεπε μπροστά της τό ἀγόρι, ἀκόμα κι ὅταν ἐκεῖνο εἶχε χαθεῖ.»,  «... ἡ πρωινή μυρωδιά τοῦ σταθμοῦ γεννᾶ στό στόμα της τήν παλιά γεύση ἀπό το γάλα κακάο». Στό ρέμα μέ τίς χῆνες καί τό ἄσχημο παιδί, πού τό κορίτσι  «Ἔνιωσε πώς τουλάχιστον θά ἤθελε νά μήν εἶναι καλοκαίρι καί νά φοράει τά χειμωνιάτικα ροῦχα της.» Κι ὅταν πήγαινε μέ τούς γονεῖς της στό σπίτι τοῦ Χάρη «ἀπό τήν κεντρική εἴσοδο κι ὄχι ἀπ᾿ τήν κουζίνα» καί τό σπίτι ἔμοιαζε νά «γίνεται ἐπίσημο καί ξένο».

Νά σημειωθεῖ ὅτι σ᾿ ὅλα τά κείμενα τοῦ βιβλίου δέν συναντοῦμε ἀφηγηματικά μπάζα. Ἀφηγηματικά παραγεμίσματα ἤ λοξοδρομήματα ἐκτός τῆς ἀφηγηματικῆς δράσης. Τό κάθε διήγημα ἀποτελεῖται ἀπό μία δραστική ἑνότητα. Τόσο πού θά ᾿λεγε κανείς πώς βρισκόμαστε μπροστά σέ πεζογραφικά στιγμιότυπα. Ὅμως ὄχι, δέν εἶναι στιγμιότυπα, γιατί ὐπάρχει ἐξέλιξη καί ὄχι στατικές περιγραφές.

Νά σημειωθεῖ ἐπίσης πώς ἡ γραφή τῆς συγγραφέα εἶναι μετρημένα κουκιά. Θέλω νά πῶ ὅτι εἶναι λιτή σέ ἀσυνήθιστο βαθμό. Τόσο πού νά πλησιάζει πρός τόν ποιητικό λόγο. Μποροῦμε νά ἀφαιρέσουμε ἀπό τά διηγήματα αὐτά φράσεις ἤ λέξεις, χωρίς οὐσιαστικές ἀβαρίες στή σύνθεσή τους; Γιά νά μήν τό πῶ ἐγώ, ἄς τό δοκιμάσει ὁ κάθε ἀναγνώστης.

Τελικά τά κείμενα στά ὁποῖα ἀναφέρομαι εἶναι ἀλάνθαστα, ἄψογα καί τέλεια; Ἐγώ μέχρι σήμερα τέτοια κείμενα δέν συνάντησα καί δέν πιστεύω ὅτι γράφτηκαν ποτέ. Καί τά πιό ἄψογα ἔχουν κάποια σημεῖα ἐλεγχόμενα. Στή συγκεκριμένη περίπτωση, ἐξαίρεσα ἕνα κείμενο πού μοιάζει σχετικά ἀταίριαστο. Ἔπειτα, ὅταν διαβάζω στό πρῶτο διήγημα πώς τό κορίτσι «Νιώθει ὅτι εἶναι ἡ μόνη πού συνειδητοποιεῖ τήν ἀπάτη». Τό ρῆμα «συνειδητοποιεῖ», μέ τό γνωστικό φορτίο πού ἔχει, μοῦ φαίνεται βαρύ γιά τήν ἡλικία τοῦ κοριτσιοῦ. Παρωνυχίδα θά πεῖς. Βέβαια παρωνυχίδα. Στό διήγημα «Ἡ Σωλήνα τοῦ Θανάτου» αἰσθάνομαι πώς μοῦ λείπουν στοιχεῖα ἀπό τήν τοπιογραφία τοῦ μέρους. Πῶς προχώρησαν τά παιδιά στό ρέμα, πῶς ξεκίνησαν, πῶς  ἦταν ἀκριβῶς ὁ τόπος. Εἶμαι σίγουρος πώς ἡ συγγραφέας ἔχει σαφή εἰκόνα, τήν ὁποία ὅμως ὁ ἀναγνώστης δέν τήν ἔχει. Ἐνῶ σκιαγραφήθηκε ἄρτια ἡ ἀγωνία τοῦ κοριτσιοῦ στήν ἀναρρίχηση, δέν σκιαγραφήθηκε μέ τήν ἴδια ἀρτιότητα ἡ μορφολογία τοῦ τοπίου. Μ᾿ αὐτές τίς ἐπιμέρους παρατηρήσεις ἔφτασα στό τέλος καί θέλω νά σᾶς εὐχαριστήσω πού μ᾿ ἀκούσατε.

Γιῶργος Ἀράγης
Πεδινή 12/5/2022

[1] Μέ τή σημασία πού δίνει στή λέξη ὁ Τέλλος Ἄγρας γράφοντας γιά τήν ποίηση τοῦ Καρυωτάκη. (Τέλλος Ἄγρας, «Ὁ Καρυωτάκης καί οἱ ‘Σάτιρες’», Ἅπαντα, δεύτερος τόμος, φιλολογική ἐπιμέλεια Κώστας Στεργιόπουλος, Ἕρμής, Ἀθήνα 1981, σσ. 200-221).

Οδός Μακεδονομάχων
Αντωνία Γουναροπούλου
Θεσσαλονίκη: Petites - Maisons, 2022

The post Ἀντωνία Γουναροπούλου, Ὁδός Μακεδονομάχων appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

«Και τότε γίνουνταν το ανάστα ο Θεός. Έτρεχαν, πηδούσαν, κατέβαιναν στο δρόμο, σκαρφάλωναν στους βράχους, έπεφταν, σηκώνουνταν, φώναζαν, δέρνουνταν, καβγάδιζαν ή γελούσαν, βουτούσαν στις σκόνες, έπιαναν ακρίδες, μάζευαν βότσαλα, πετούσαν πέτρες, τίποτε πια δεν έβλεπε ούτε άκουε η δασκάλα. Χωμένη στο βιβλίο της, ρουφώντας τη μποτίλια της, άφηνε τ' αδέρφια ελεύθερα.

Και τι ωραία που ήταν η ελευθερία στον βράχο της Καστέλας! Πουθενά δεν ήταν τόσο ψιλή η σκόνη, τα χαμόκλαδα πιο ξερά, πιο εύκολα να τσακίσουν, οι πέτρες πιο πολλές, το χώμα πιο πλούσιο από θησαυρούς».

Τα παιδιά αυτά δεν είναι τα παιδιά της οδού Μακεδονομάχων της δεκαετίας 1980-1990, είναι παιδιά που απολαμβάνουν τα παιδικάτα τους το καλοκαίρι του 1879, όπως μας τα περιγράφει γλαφυρότατα η Πηνελόπη Δέλτα στον Τρελαντώνη.

Πώς τον θυμήθηκα τον Τρελαντώνη; Διαβάζοντας την Οδό Μακεδονομάχων, την πρόσφατη δουλειά της Αντωνίας Γουναροπούλου, ήρθαν στο νου μου σκόρπιες φράσεις και στιγμιότυπα από το αγαπημένο βιβλίο της Πηνελόπης Δέλτα. Όλο αυτό το ξεσάλωμα όταν η παρέα έμενε μόνη της, μακριά από τα μάτια των μεγάλων. Το ασταμάτητο παιχνίδι, τα καβγαδάκια, το μόνιασμα, οι στραβοτιμονιές, η μοναρχία του μεγάλου αδελφού. Ανέσυρα όμως από τη μνήμη μου και κάτι ακόμη, εξίσου, ίσως και πιο ενδιαφέρον: Το πόσο ισχυρή είναι η παρουσία του τόπου, συγκεκριμένα της Καστέλας, πόσο επηρεάζει τη συμπεριφορά και τις επιλογές των μικρών ηρώων. Σαν ένα ακόμη πρόσωπο. Κάθε άλλο από δευτερεύον. Κεντρικό με όλη τη σημασία της λέξης.

Κυρίαρχο ρόλο έχει και η Οδός Μακεδονομάχων στα δέκα διηγήματα του βιβλίου. Είναι ο συνεκτικός κρίκος αφενός ανάμεσα στα δρώμενα των ιστοριών αφετέρου στη συναρμογή τους με το πού εκτυλίσσονται τα μικρά ή μεγαλύτερα συμβάντα της καθημερινότητας και πόσο την επηρεάζουν. Αυτό το πού στη λογοτεχνία δεν είναι σχεδόν ποτέ ανεξάρτητο από το πώς. Στην προκειμένη περίπτωση, τόπος είναι ένας κεντρικός δρόμος με τα πέριξ του σε μια γειτονιά στα βόρεια προάστια, πριν από καμιά σαρανταριά χρόνια, δεκαετία 1980-90, τότε που ο κόσμος αρχίζει να χτίζει εκεί όπου ακόμη θα μπορεί ν’ ανασαίνει καθαρό αέρα.

Η οδός Μακεδονομάχων, που είναι παράλληλη με την οδό Μαραθωνομάχων και με την οδό Σαλαμινομάχων –σύμπτωση τυχαία που οπωσδήποτε ενισχύει την τάση της συγγραφέως να αξιοποιεί με κάθε ευκαιρία το υπόγειο χιούμορ της– πλαισιώνεται από ανηφοριές και κατηφοριές, έχει ένα δασάκι με πεύκα απέναντι από το σπίτι της αφηγήτριας, που άλλα χρησιμεύουν για σκαρφάλωμα και άλλα όχι, περνάει μπροστά από το σπίτι της εκπαιδευτικής εξουσίας, του γυμνασιάρχη και της δασκάλας, έχει ακόμη πολλά άχτιστα οικόπεδα γεμάτα ξερές πευκοβελόνες, πέφτει κοντά στο ρέμα, και κάποια βράδια τη διαβαίνει η αλεπού, «μικρή μαύρη σκιά που ψαλιδίζει τη ροή μιας ρηχής γαλακτερής κατεβασιάς», όπως ευφάνταστα αποδίδει την εικόνα η συγγραφέας.

Στο σύνολο των δέκα μικρών διηγημάτων, τα εννέα έχουν να κάνουν με τα παιδιά και τον μικρόκοσμό τους. Με τα παιχνίδια τους, παιχνίδια ομαδικά, κουτσό, μήλα, λαστιχάκι, κρυφτό, τους καβγάδες τους, με τις βαριές, για τα χρόνια εκείνα, κουβέντες που ανταλλάσσουν, απ’ το «ζαβολιάρα» μέχρι το «βλαμμένο», τις άπειρες αθώες πονηριές τους, τους φόβους τους και τα πρώτα ερωτικά σκιρτήματα. Το πέμπτο στη σειρά είναι το μόνο διήγημα που ασχολείται αποκλειστικά με έναν ενήλικα, με τον υπερήλικο γείτονα, τον συνταξιούχο, και με το μαρτύριο της απραξίας και της μοναξιάς. Τα παιδιά δεν ασχολούνταν πολύ πολύ με τους μεγάλους εκείνα τα χρόνια, δεν εμπλέκονταν στη ζωή τους, είχαν τον δικό τους, αυστηρά προσδιορισμένο χώρο. Καθημερινά, αλλά κυρίως στις διακοπές, ξεπόρτιζαν το πρωί, μαζεύονταν το βραδάκι και στο μεσοδιάστημα απολάμβαναν την αποκλειστικά δική τους ζωή στον δικό τους τον δρόμο.

Χέρι χέρι με την αφηγήτρια, που πίσω της μετά βίας κρύβεται η συγγραφέας, ο αναγνώστης βλέπει, ακούει, μυρίζει, παρατηρεί, χαίρεται, λυπάται, φοβάται, λαχταράει, ελπίζει. Γιατί η συγγραφέας σχολιάζει ακατάπαυστα, διόλου επιθετικά, με την περιέργεια, θα έλεγα, που σχολιάζει μέσα του το κάθε παιδί τοποθετώντας σιγά σιγά τις παρατηρήσεις του στις δύο μεγάλες στήλες που χτίζει μέσα του και που λίγο πολύ θα τις επαυξάνει σ’ όλη του τη ζωή: στα υπέρ και στα κατά της δικής του ματιάς. «Κάθε παιδί και ο δρόμος του».

Έτσι λοιπόν, στο διήγημα με τον ιδιότυπο τίτλο «Αμήν», το ακροτελεύτιο της συλλογής, διαβάζουμε:

«Στο σχολείο καθένας έχει τους φίλους του, στη γειτονιά όμως ο καλύτερος φίλος του κοριτσιού είναι ο Χάρης, από πάντα, δηλαδή πριν ακόμη κι απ' τον παιδικό σταθμό. Ο Χάρης είναι αγόρι, σαν τον αδερφό της, αλλά έχει τις εξής σημαντικές διαφορές: πρώτον, την αφήνει να κάνει ό,τι θέλει, ακόμα και αδικίες, ακόμα και εις βάρος του, σπάνια θυμώνει μαζί της και, δεύτερον και κυριότερο, θέλει –θέλει, όχι καταδέχεται– να παίζουν μαζί».

Όλα τα διηγήματα έχουν μια υποδόρια απλότητα και μια λεπτομέρεια που ώρες ώρες σε αιφνιδιάζει, και σε κάνει να απορείς, να συγκινείσαι, μια που όλο και κάτι δικό σου σου θυμίζει – γιατί όχι και να νοσταλγείς. Τούτη η λεπτομέρεια είναι κάτι σαν το ένα ακόμη χαλίκι, αμελητέο εκείνη τη στιγμή, που όμως θα το βρεις μπροστά σου στην επόμενη παράγραφο ή στην επόμενη σελίδα, ενδεχομένως και στο επόμενο διήγημα.  Σ’ αυτή την αφήγηση με το κουβεντιαστό ύφος παρεισδύουν συνεχώς λέξεις κοινές, απλές –κάποιες χαμένες πια, γιατί χάθηκαν μαζί με τις δραστηριότητες που έντυναν– με τέτοιο τρόπο που αυτομάτως ο αναγνώστης όχι μόνον κάνει εικόνα αυτού που διαβάζει αλλά ανασύρει και τη δική του αντίστοιχη από τις δικές του αναμνήσεις. Χαρακτηριστική περίπτωση το μόλις 3,5 σελίδων διήγημα «Η “Ταβέρνα του Τάκη”»:

«Περίεργη ταβέρνα. Έχει λίγα τραπέζια, μάλλον αραιά, και στον έναν άσπρο τοίχο κρέμεται ένα μπουζούκι. Λίγα βήματα δεξιά είναι η κουζίνα. Από κει βγαίνει η κυρία Κική, πάντα φορώντας ποδιά, κοντούλα, παχουλή, μελαχρινή, μ' ένα μεγάλο γελαστό πρόσωπο. Και η ίδια και η ταβέρνα έχουν μια μυρωδιά που στο κορίτσι περισσότερο θυμίζει σπίτι παρά ταβέρνα. Μόλις βγει η κυρία Κική, το κορίτσι λέει γρήγορα: “Γεια σας, κυρία Κική, τι κάνετε; Θέλω ένα ξυλάκι σοκολάτα”. Και η κυρία Κική σκουπίζει τα χέρια της στην ποδιά, πάει στο ψυγείο της ΕΒΓΑ κι ανοίγει το ένα μαύρο καπάκι. Το κορίτσι δίπλα της τεντώνεται στις μύτες των ποδιών να δει μέσα, αλλά δεν φτάνει καλά καλά. Ξεχύνεται ένα κύμα δροσιάς πάνω του κι ακούει το χρατς χρατς που κάνουν οι συσκευασίες των παγωτών καθώς η κυρία Κική ψάχνει το ξυλάκι».

Μόλις δεκαπέντε αράδες, όπου με εξονυχιστική λεπτομέρεια απεικονίζεται μια ολόκληρη εποχή. Στο συγκεκριμένο διήγημα υπάρχει τρεις φορές αναφορά στο τσιμέντο. Τη μια φορά είναι τα έξι εφτά τσιμεντένια σκαλιά που ανεβαίνει κανείς για να μπει στην ταβέρνα, μετά είναι οι σωροί της άμμου και του τσιμέντου μπροστά στο σπίτι της δασκάλας και του γυμνασιάρχη και τελευταίο το δροσερό τσιμεντένιο δάπεδο στο σπίτι της αφηγήτριας. Προβληματίστηκα: Οικονομική δυσπραγία και αξιοποίηση του πιο φτηνού υλικού; Μήπως με τη σκέψη «άσ’ το γι’ αργότερα»; Ή επείγουσα οικοδόμηση της περιοχής, εξ ου και οι σωροί, προκειμένου να επωφεληθούν οι κάτοικοι από τον πνεύμονα του πρασίνου; Και τα δύο; Δεν κατέληξα.

Και μια που το κεντρικό πρόσωπο απαιτεί και επιτάσσει την αμέριστη προσοχή μας, όχι απλώς στην επιμέρους αλλά στην καθαυτό παρουσία του, επισημαίνω ένα ακόμη πολύ ενδιαφέρον στοιχείο για την οδό Μακεδονομάχων: Κάθε δρόμος που έχει τη δική του ιστορία διαθέτει απαραιτήτως και τις κρυφές, τις μυστικές γωνιές του που προκαλούν τον φόβο και το δέος των παιδιών και παίρνουν διαστάσεις ανεξέλεγκτες στη φαντασία τους. Συχνά μ’ αυτούς τους μυστικούς τόπους εμπλέκονται και τα πρώτα ερωτικά σκιρτήματα, οπότε η ανάμνηση γίνεται ακόμη πιο έντονη, είναι ανεξάλειπτη.

Η εισαγωγή στο θέμα γίνεται δήθεν τυχαία, με μια αναφορά στο σπιτάκι του Γιούρα που είναι χτισμένο πολύ κάτω απ’ το επίπεδο του δρόμου και με το κορίτσι να περνάει τελείως απέναντι στο δρόμο για να μην περάσει ακριβώς μπροστά από «το εγκαταλειμμένο σπιτάκι που τα παιδιά αποφεύγουν να εξερευνήσουν». Εκεί τελειώνει και το διήγημα «Η Ταβέρνα του Τάκη». Ακολουθεί το διήγημα «Οι χήνες», όπου τα παιδιά έχουν κατέβει και παίζουν κάτω από το επίπεδο του δρόμου και ανεβαίνουν για να δουν τα άλογα. Το θάμβος και το δέος αρχίζουν απ' αυτό το σημείο: «Το κορίτσι πιάστηκε από κάποιο παντελόνι και κοίταξε ανάμεσα από πόδια μεγάλων. Τ’ άλογα ήταν πανέμορφα, τεράστια, τρομακτικά». Πίσω τους πιλαλάει ένα αγόρι αδύνατο, άσχημο, που μέσα απ' τα παχιά του χείλη ξεφεύγουν λέξεις άγνωστες, ανήκουστες, καθώς πασχίζει να κουμαντάρει τα άλογα στη Μακεδονομάχων. Μορφή παράταιρη στη φιλήσυχη, καθωσπρέπει οδό Μακεδονομάχων. Θα τον ξαναδεί, πολύ κάτω απ' το επίπεδο του δρόμου, στο ρέμα, να βόσκει χήνες και να την κοιτάζει κοροϊδευτικά. Το κορίτσι θα πιάσει στον αέρα την απειλή αναγνωρίζοντας πως το βλέμμα του αγοριού δεν είναι απλώς κοροϊδευτικό, είναι και κάτι άλλο που το αναγνωρίζει, αλλά δεν ξέρει πώς το λένε. Ο χρόνος που διαρκεί ό,τι το παιδί βιώνει σαν εφιάλτη είναι σύντομος, το συμβάν εκ των υστέρων αμελητέο, η ανάμνηση όμως εγγράφεται ανεξίτηλη και αναπόφευκτα συνδέεται με τον τόπο.

Ανάμεσα στις «Χήνες» και στη «Σωλήνα του Θανάτου» μεσολαβούν τέσσερα διηγήματα: Το κορίτσι έχει μεγαλώσει. Εδώ μπαίνει για τα καλά στο κάδρο ο Κωστής, ο κολλητός του αδερφού της – τον έχουμε γνωρίσει πρωτύτερα, με τον θάνατο του πατέρα του. Όμως τώρα ο Κωστής περιγράφεται λεπτομερώς από την πρώτη παράγραφο, χείλη, αγκώνες, γόνατα και πληροφορούμαστε νωρίς νωρίς πόσο περήφανο είναι το κορίτσι που είναι επιτέλους φίλη του Κωστή.

Για να μη μακρυγορώ, μια επικίνδυνη επιχείρηση –όλη η αγορίστικη αποκοτιά στο μεγαλείο της– σε λασπερό έδαφος, ανάμεσα σε αγκαθερούς θάμνους, με έκβαση την πολύ επικίνδυνη ανάβαση από μια σωλήνα που αιωρείται στο κενό, δίνει την πρώτη ευκαιρία για ένα σεμνό οπτικό και απτικό φλερτ και την αίσθηση του απόλυτου θριάμβου, όταν τα δύο αρσενικά δέχονται στην παρέα τους ως ισότιμο το θηλυκό και συμβουλεύουν: «Μην πεις τίποτα στους γονείς. Θα πεις ότι παίζαμε». Κι οι τρεις τους ροβολάνε κατόπιν σιωπηλοί στη Μακεδονομάχων. Στη Μακεδονομάχων όπου πρωτοπερπάτησαν, έτρεξαν, έπεσαν, χώθηκαν στο δασάκι της, κατέβηκαν στο ρέμα της, λασπώθηκαν, τσακώθηκαν, μόνιασαν, την είδαν ν’ ασφαλτοστρώνεται κι έδεσαν άθελά τους τις πρώτες αναμνήσεις τους με την ύπαρξή της.

Η χαλαρή αλλά οπωσδήποτε υπαρκτή και αναγνωρίσιμη σύνδεση μεταξύ των διηγημάτων, η τόσο σοφά μελετημένη αφέλεια στην αφήγηση, ο χαμηλός τόνος ακόμη κι όταν τα συμβάντα παρωθούν σε ξεσπάσματα, τα ξεσπάσματα που αντηχούν μετριασμένα κάπου από τα βάθη του χρόνου, η στοργική, νοσταλγική, επιεικής ματιά της αφηγήτριας, της οποίας η σκευή από τον κινηματογράφο είναι παραπάνω από πλούσια, παραδίδουν στον αναγνώστη ένα ανάγνωσμα που θα του θυμίσει, θα τον ευθυμήσει, θα τον συγκινήσει, θα τον γαληνέψει.

Οδός Μακεδονομάχων
Αντωνία Γουναροπούλου
Θεσσαλονίκη: Petites - Maisons, 2022

The post «Οδός Μακεδονομάχων»: Μια περιδιάβαση σε μια παιδική ηλικία αμιγώς παιδική appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Βροχή. Άδειες καρέκλες στην πλατεία.
Το τρόλεϊ την προσπερνά
Κατά κει που το σέρνουν τα φώτα του.
Στην κάμαρά του ο φοιτητής
Αφήνει στο κομό τον Ντοστογιέφσκι.
Κολλά τη μύτη του στο τζάμι.
Ποτάμια το νερό, δεν θα βρουν εύκολα
Το σώμα του κοριτσιού μες στο πάρκο.
Στο έρημο μπαρ, οι τελευταίοι θαμώνες
Ρίχνουνε το βαρύ κεφάλι τους στην μπάρα.
Στη λάμπα η νυχτοπεταλούδα τσουρουφλίζεται
Με τον κρότο που γεννιέται ένα σύμπαν.

Δήμητρα Χριστοδούλου| από την ποιητική συλλογή Παράκτιος οικισμός, εκδόσεις Μελάνι 2017

The post Δήμητρα Χριστοδούλου: «Συμβαίνουν αυτά» appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Bollywood, Hollywood, and the attitudes of diasporic Muslim “cultural clusters”

Introduction

As has been observed throughout this project on East Ham [and especially in Paper 3 and Paper 4a], the area has also been settled by various Muslim-based “cultural clusters”. An examination of generally ethnic-based cinemagoing practices pertaining to this area and its environs must therefore also consider the case of Muslims and the precise manner in which such particular religious-cultural groupings relate to the world of cinemagoing, be it the projection of Bollywood movies, British movies and/or the Hollywoodian genre. Of course, in our discussion of the operation of East Ham’s Boleyn and Ilford’s Cineworld cinemas, as also in examining the reception of the Bollywoodian genre in the UK, there have been a variety of references to the area’s Muslim settlers and how these have been responding to movies screened in their vicinity.

The obvious question that here arises, however, is the extent to which the relationship between Muslim “cultural clusters” and their cinemagoing practices is in some sense unique or at least clearly distinguishable from other ethnic-based “clusters” in the area under discussion or around the UK as a whole. It is apparently impossible to gauge the uniqueness or discreteness of Muslim cinemagoing practices in an area such as East Ham unless one has a more general understanding of the Islamic worldview and how it sees the cinema as a whole. While such a general consideration of the Islamic attitude towards the cinema would not necessarily allow us to penetrate the concrete and variegated cinemagoing practices of specific Muslim “cultural clusters” in East Ham, it would nonetheless provide us with a working framework within which the problem may be approximated. It should also be clarified here that when we speak of the general Islamic attitude towards the cinema, we would not merely be referring to present-day Islamic teachings pertaining to practices such as cinemagoing – in fact, we intend to examine the specific manner in which a genre such as that of Bollywood has portrayed or portrays Muslims, as also the recorded reactions of UK Muslims to such portrayals.

The continuation of this Paper 4e shall therefore be examining the following themes:

• The extent to which the Bollywood genre has been characterized by a certain nationalistic ideology which has indulged in the so-called “othering” of Muslims as a people and the so-called “othering” of Islam as an ethnic, religious or cultural practice;
• More specifically, the manner in which Bollywood movies [though also UK and other Western movies] have been “othering” Muslim men and women as a whole;
• Even more specifically, the manner in which the Bollywood genre in particular [but without excluding Western movie genres] has been “othering” Muslim women in particular;
• The Islamic worldview generally and the implications of this regarding cinemagoing, and especially with respect to Western and Bollywood movies;
• How Muslim cinemagoers themselves feel about Western and/or Bollywood movies; and their reactions to the so-called “othering” of Muslim men and women, with specific reference to the case of the UK;
• The extent to which cinemagoing – or more specifically Bollywood viewing – is [or is not] accepted amongst ethnic-based communities in areas such as East Ham, but especially regarding Muslims generally and Muslim women in particular.

The nationalistic ideology of the Bollywood genre, and the so-called “othering” of Muslims and their Islamic worldview

We need to further chart the general ideological framework that has come to characterize the Bollywoodian genre, this time with specific reference to Islam and Muslims. Such ideological discourse has played a significant role in determining the cinemagoing reactions of Muslims to this genre in both India and amongst the diasporic Muslims that have settled in the UK. While such determining role has never been mechanical, automatic or uniform, it has nonetheless delineated certain limits of cinemagoing behaviour amongst great numbers of Muslims: many would avoid watching Bollywood movies altogether; as many would choose to watch such movies but would do so either with a critical eye regarding elements of the adopted diegetic approach or with a certain sense of alienation with respect to such approach.

We know that very many [not to say most] films are carriers of a specific politico-ideological paradigm – the Hollywoodian genre and especially the type of movies presented on Netflix certainly verify what has proved to be an indubitable fact. The Bollywood genre has itself tended to carry an ideological paradigm aimed at specific audiences, whether within the Indian subcontinent or amongst diasporic Asians settled in countries such as the UK. In this Paper 4e we have already discussed the specific sense in which Bollywood movies have functioned primarily as cultural products targeting Asian “cultural clusters” in localities such as East Ham; we have also discussed the ideology of “Indianness” that has been promoted by the Bollywoodian genre, especially since the 1990’s. A study of the Bollywood genre undertaken at the University of Warwick in 2015 certainly confirms both such observations. Focusing on the manner in which Bollywood movies represent Muslim women in particular [though without excluding the representation of Muslim men], Nazia Hussein and Saba Hussain introduce their paper as follows: “In this article, we use the example of Bollywood’s representation of Muslim women given its global recognition and its position as an influential cultural product which both constructs and disseminates the important paradigm of ‘Indian-ness’ and ‘collective identity’…” [cf. Nazia Hussein and Saba Hussain, “Interrogating Practices of Gender, Religion and Nationalism in the Representation of Muslim Women in Bollywood: Contexts of Change, Sites of Continuity”, Exchanges: the Warwick Research Journal, 2 (2), p. 285, my emph., https://www.wrap.warwick.ac.uk].

Although this 2015 Warwick paper does have its problems – it is infused with the jargon and global ideological dogmas currently in fashion amongst academics – it nonetheless gives us a fairly clear idea of the contents of the Bollywoodian ideological paradigm pertaining to Islam and the Muslim populations. It is therefore worthwhile considering what it is that Hussein and Hussain expound in their paper.

While we know that Bollywood movies have constructed and disseminated a “collective identity” of “Indianness” [we have ourselves explored this theme throughout Paper 4e], we also need to identify the manner in which such nationalistic ideology of “Indianness” relates to Islam and Muslims in particular. To clarify this specific relationship, Hussein and Hussain point to a central contradistinction embedded in the ideology of Bollywoodian “Indianness” – viz. that of “Quam” [or “community”] versus “Mulk” [or “nation”]. In this contradictory dichotomy, it is “Mulk” that constitutes “home” [or “Ghar”]. This conflictual relationship between these two entities bears major ideological implications regarding the status of Islam and Muslims – put simply, Islam and Muslims belong to a “community” that can be [or is] alien to the “nation” and to the “home” that such “nation” represents. The “nation” or “home”, of course, is none other than that of Hindus and Hinduism.

This is what Hussein and Hussain write with respect to the “Quam”–“Mulk” contradictory dichotomy: “The nationalist ideology of Bollywood positions ‘Quam’ (community) against ‘Mulk’ (nation), which is declared as a synonym to ‘Ghar’ (home)” [p. 290]. And they go on to explain what each of these two antithetical entities entail. As regards the “Mulk”, they note the following: “… the ‘Mulk’ is the Hindu, middle-class, territorially distinct, efficient, benevolent, reasonable, forward-looking and militarily-vigilant modern nation-state that India aspires to be” [ibid.]. Generally speaking, therefore, in this Bollywoodian ideological paradigm, “Hinduism comes to be presented as the philosophy that embraces modernity, plurality and secularism” [ibid.]. It should be noted here that such an understanding of Hinduism does not necessarily exclude elements related to Hindu traditionality or what Krämer has referred to as “the negotiation of tradition and modernity” [cf. above] – the supposedly superior status of the Hindu traditional worldview lies precisely in its capacity to “embrace” modernity and/or secularism within itself.

‘Quam’ is presented as the exact opposite to Indian modernity. Hussein and Hussain write as follows: “On the other hand, ‘Quam’ is constructed as the antithesis of this Indian modernity. It is constructed as feudal and decadent, unable to keep the sufferings of the past in the past, unable to move forward, calcified, irrational, sentimental, somewhat deranged, criminal and ultimately dangerous” [pp. 290-291].

It is quite obvious, therefore, that the Muslim ‘Quam’ is presented as a threat to the Indian nation-state, Indian modernity and the identity of “Indianness” as such. Hussein and Hussain go on to provide us with an example of the manner in which such Muslim ‘Quam’ is a threatening element of all that present-day “Indianness” entails – they write: “… the Muslim ‘Quam’ is viewed as threatening towards the Indian modernity because of its association with the partition and setting up a Muslim ‘Mulk’-Pakistan as opposed to the imagined secular Indian ‘Mulk’…” [p. 291]. Of course, the particular threat posed by the Muslim ‘Mulk’ is here presented in the context of what Hussein and Hussain view as an “imagined” Indian nationhood – there are two points that should be noted regarding the use of the term “imagined”: [i] The term has been used haphazardly or indiscriminately in almost all academic papers afflicted with what we have referred to as the prevailing global ideological dogma, and should therefore be treated with the greatest of caution; [ii] We know that all ideological discourses ultimately refer to tangible material realities, or scraps of such realities – although they may [or do] distort, overemphasize or reinterpret such realities. On the other hand, ideological discourses cannot be reduced to a mere “imagination” of material conditions: thus, it may very well be true that the Muslim ‘Quam’ is in fact “feudal” or “partitionist” or whatever. Such matters can only be investigated and decided on by “interrogating” [a term as highly fashionable nowadays] reality per se.

Bollywood’s ideological discourse, pivoted around the “Quam”–“Mulk” contradiction, has yielded a chain of binaries attached to an internal typology of the Muslim character itself. Hussein and Hussain write as follows: “In the patriot–terrorist binary, as in the Good Muslim–Bad Muslim binary, it appears that only trustworthy Muslims are those who place India first… The good vs. bad dichotomy also encompasses the tradition vs. modern and religious vs. secular dichotomies wherein Muslims embodied by the terrorists, the mafia dons, lecherous Nawab [referring historically to the title once bestowed by the reigning Mughal emperor to semi-autonomous Muslim rulers of princely states], and so on get presented as inherently incompatible with values of modernity, democracy and secularism that the post-colonial Indian state espouses for” [p. 290].

The chain of binaries produced [and, it is of importance to note, not necessarily merely “manufactured”, unless otherwise empirically evinced] by the Bollywoodian ideological discourse may therefore schematically be presented as follows:

• A “Good Muslim” is he/she who chooses to place “India first” and is thereby a “patriot”; that type is a trustworthy Muslim; he/she espouses modernity and democracy as articulated by “Indianness”; he/she belongs to the “secular” type.
• In direct contrast, a “Bad Muslim” is he/she who does not choose to place “India first” and is thereby [potentially] a “terrorist”; that type is untrustworthy; he/she sticks to a Muslim traditionalism that is hostile or alien to modernity and democracy as articulated by “Indianness”; he/she belongs to the “religious” type.

It is this chain of binaries that has come to characterize the Bollywoodian genre as regards Islam and Muslims [as we shall further see, certain elements of this ideological chain are also evident in at least some Western movies depicting Muslims – in such cases, of course, the chain of binaries is unrelated to “Indianness”].

The Bollywoodian genre, the UK movie industry, and the forms of so-called “othering” of Muslim men and women

Hussein and Hussain are of course not alone in drawing such conclusions as regards the nationalistic ideology of the Bollywoodian genre and its implications for Islam and Muslims. In fact, the vast majority of commentators, analysts and researchers would confirm that the Bollywoodian genre – though also various films of the UK movie industry – has promoted different forms of the so-called “othering” of Muslim people. Before focusing on the specific type of “othering” related to Muslim women in particular [on which Hussein and Hussain focus], we shall have to survey some of the relevant literature investigating the so-called “othering” of both male and female Muslims.

We may commence such survey by considering the work of Maidul Islam, Assistant Professor of Political Science at the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences, Calcutta. In 2019, he would publish a book entitled Indian Muslim(s) after Liberalisation [Oxford University Press], and which would deal with the relationship between Bollywoodian “image construction” and the presentation of Muslim people in the period of the 1990’s [marking the initiation of India’s so-called “liberalization” policies] and thereafter. We believe that his work is best summarized by Pranav Kohli and Prannv Dhawan in an article entitled “Bollywood: ‘Othering’ the Muslim on screen” and published in Frontline [cf. https://www.frontline.thehindu.com, 27.03.2020]. They write: “In his book Indian Muslim(s) After Liberalisation, Prof. Maidul Islam argues that the forms and narratives of image construction of Indian Muslims in Bollywood cinema deserve widespread critique. His book enunciates the constant process of vilification of Muslims in Hindi cinema and how it has produced the image of a ‘Muslim Other’…” [my emph.]. Such vilification has meant that “Muslims are demonized and brutalized” in Bollywood movie narratives. Thus, Kohli and Dhawan observe that “In recent times, Bollywood has played an immensely influential role in producing myths, prejudices and stereotypes about Indian Muslims”.

According to the Kohli and Dhawan presentation of Maidul Islam’s work, the Bollywoodian genre would come to be characterized by four central themes pertaining to Muslims in the period of the 1990’s, and which would continue along a similar ideological trend right up to the present. In their presentation of these central Bollywoodian themes, they write: “Prof. Islam’s book posits that the dominant trend in representing Muslims in Bollywood cinema has changed significantly following liberalisation. Four key themes dominate the representational scheme of Muslims in Hindi films released in the 1990s and after: (a) the ‘Muslim Other’ as an enemy of the nation; (b) an imaginary notion of a ‘Hindu-ised nation’ where Muslims are relegated to a lower citizenship status; (c) Muslims as a source of terror within the nation state; and (d) a conflation of Muslim, terrorist and Pakistani” [my emph.].

We note that these four ideological themes characterizing the Bollywood cinema are said to be a pervasive phenomenon – as Kohli and Dhawan write: “Bollywood’s otherisation of Indian Muslims is a well-entrenched practice”.

Maidul Islam’s 2019 work focuses on the so-called “otherization” of Muslims by the Bollywoodian ideological discourse in general. Such “otherization”, however, is not only limited to Bollywood movies. An earlier University of Sunderland study undertaken by Amir Saeed in 2007 would examine a similar process of Muslim “otherization” within the UK media as a whole, and which would of course include the case of the British movie industry. The study, entitled “Media, Racism and Islamophobia: The Representation of Islam and Muslims in the Media”, is introduced by Saeed as follows: “This article… suggests that British Muslims are portrayed as an ‘alien other’ within the media. It suggests that this misrepresentation can be linked to the development of a ‘racism’, namely, Islamophobia that has its roots in cultural representations of the ‘other’. In order to develop this arguement [sic], the article provides a summary/overview of how ethnic minorities have been represented in the British… [mass media] and argues that the treatment of British Muslims and Islam follows these themes of ‘deviance’ and ‘un-Britishness’…” [cf. Sociology Compass 1/2 (2007), pp. 443-462; my emph.; https://www.eclass.upatras.gr/modules].

Saeed’s work, of course, raises more questions than it attempts to answer. One may accept that the British mass media – or, rather, particular segments of the media and/or certain movies produced in Britain – do in fact present UK Muslim settlers in terms of a certain “deviance” and a certain form of “un-Britishness”. Yet still, the obvious question that has to be investigated [and this is what constitutes the real work of any sociologist] is the extent to which such “themes” constitute a representation or a misrepresentation of the real behaviour of Muslims residing in the UK. And further, and to the extent that such “themes” are in fact a mere misrepresentation of reality, one would need to investigate why such misrepresentation actually occurs. Saeed may wish to put it all down to “racism” – yet again, however, he would be obliged to offer a strictly sociological explanation of such “racist” sentiments amongst UK’s non-Muslim “cultural clusters”. The fact in any case remains that sentiments concerning Muslim “deviance” and “un-Britishness” must constitute a certain social reality within UK society, thus pointing to real divisions within UK’s “cultural clusters” – it is such divisions that are willy-nilly reproduced within the ideological discourses of UK movies dealing with Islam and Muslims, and which in some manner can reflexively determine the cinemagoing practices and/or attitudinal behaviour of UK’s Muslim “cultural clusters”.

The UK’s Islamic Human Rights Commission [IHRC] would confirm both Maidul Islam’s and Amir Saeed’s findings regarding the element of “Islamophobia” in the British mass media, and would further argue that all film genres are guilty of presenting “negative stereotypes” of Muslims that are expressive of such “Islamophobia”. In 2007, the IHRC would publish an important report entitled “The British Media and Muslim Representation: The Ideology of Demonisation” [cf. Saied R. Ameli et al, https://www.ihrc.uk/publications, 16.02.2007]. One should note the key word encapsulating its own assessments regarding the British mass media – viz. that of the “demonisation” of Muslims.

Examining the various types of movies screened in UK cinemas, the report would draw the following conclusion: “It was evident from all [film] genres that they contained negative stereotypes about Islam and Muslims/Arabs. The thrust of these differed as did the actual manifestation, nevertheless, they all exhibited examples of Islamophobic discourses, including dual discourses of racism and Islamophobia, where the ethnicity of the character was understood to be irreducibly Muslim” [my emph.].

While the Warwick research paper by Hussein and Hussain [cf. above] focuses exclusively on the ideological discourse of the Bollywoodian genre, and while – as mentioned – it concentrates almost as exclusively on the representation of Muslim women within that particular genre, its general observations regarding both male and female Muslims fully corroborate the findings of Maidul Islam, Amir Saeed and the IHRC. It would therefore be useful at this point to also consider relevant observations made by Hussein and Hussain. For them, the Bollywoodian type of movie creates “hierarchical identities” whereby all Muslims – be they male or female – are “othered” as “inferior” vis-à-vis Hindus. They write as follows: “Through a discourse analysis of four commercially successful Bollywood films between 2012-2013, this paper investigates Bollywood’s role in creation of hierarchical identities… wherein Muslims occupy the position of the inferior ‘other’ to the superior Hindu ‘self’…” [p. 284].

The hierarchical presentation of “identity” whereby Muslims are relegated to an “inferior” status necessarily relates to the above-mentioned chain of conflicting binaries said to emanate from the nationalistic discourse of the Bollywoodian genre. Thus, the Muslim community as a whole – bar perhaps the “good” or “patriotic” Muslim – is, not merely “inferior” to that of Hindu communities, but should also be mistrusted as a social entity. Hussein and Hussain put this as follows: “Bollywood, as a popular cultural medium, can be seen to disseminate and reinforce this popular ideology of mistrust and suspicion towards the Muslim community… Bollywood movies have in essence created stereotypical images of Muslim characters with clichéd forms of cultural and religious symbols like ‘beard’ and ‘caps’ for men and conservative Islamic headscarf or ‘burqa’ for women creating a monolithic portrayal of the community…” [p. 289, my emph.].

Although the “mistrust” and “suspicion” is meant for the whole of the Muslim community, it seems to be especially directed at males – these are often presented as “terrorists” or as socially “dangerous”. And while such type of discourse had become popular by the 1990’s, it would gradually become more intricate as it adjusted to the socio-historical events of the day. Hussein and Hussain note: “The portrayal of Muslim men as terrorists, villains and gangsters has also been a recurrent theme in Bollywood movies… The Muslim as terrorist genre of movies became popular in the 1990s and themes has [sic] been elaborated and diversified in recent times with specific references to the trans-national nature of terror since the events of 9/11 in the USA” [ibid.].

The Bollywoodian elaboration of the theme of Muslim terrorism – based on the apparently “inferior”, “untrustworthy” and therefore “dangerous” nature of Muslims – has been such as to redefine and broaden the application of such ideological concept. According to Hussein and Hussain: “By assigning an intense image of the ‘dangerous other’ or the ‘inferior other’… the image of a Muslim in Indian films have [sic] sociologically broadened the definition of Islamic terrorism” [p. 292].

We may end this brief review of literature on the Bollywoodian “othering” of both Muslim men and women by considering an article written by Amaal Akhtar, a PhD research scholar in Modern Indian History at the Jawaharlal Nehru University. While Akhtar – like Hussein and Hussain – focuses her work on the case of Muslim women, she nonetheless makes a number of observations of relevance to both sexes. Published in The Indian Express, her article is entitled “The unseen Muslim women of Hindi cinema” [cf. https://www.indianexpress.com, 18.07.2020]. With respect to the period of the 1990’s, Akhtar notes the following: “In the 1990s, amidst a surge of communalism, Hindi films explored a criminal underworld disproportionally populated by Muslim men and where Muslim women were either absent, inconsequential, or disposable”. Akhtar’s reference to the “surge of communalism” most probably relates to what Hussein and Hussain have identified as the ‘Quam’ versus ‘Mulk’ conflictual dichotomy as discussed above.

Akhtar’s article confirms the essential continuity of such Bollywoodian ideology regarding Muslim men and women by referring to the Bollywoodian state of affairs in the course of the last twenty years – she writes: “In the last two decades… both Muslim men and women… are required to constantly prove their loyalty, patriotism and ‘not-terrorist’-ness”.

The Bollywoodian genre, with specific reference to the so-called “othering” of Muslim women

One would have to focus on the specific case of the treatment of Muslim women in Indian cinema discourse for two basic reasons: [i] much or even most of the published literature on the Bollywoodian ideological discourse does exactly that [and which must of course relate to the current academic fashion embracing so-called “gender studies”; [ii] the specific case of Muslim women is in itself such as to highlight the core ideological paradigms of the Bollywoodian genre [and which would also be of relevance to the ideological discourse of the Hollywoodian and/or British movie industry].

One obvious source of information regarding the so-called “othering” of Muslim women in the Bollywoodian genre would be the scholarly findings of feminist-oriented research [and which may take the form of present-day “gender studies”]. We shall here consider certain samples of such research work, although we need keep one basic reservation in mind: unlike any surgeon’s scalpel, the “tools” used by feminist scholars are inevitable carriers of an ideological [and therefore subjective] bias informed by a dogmatic “ism” which can only but distort reality.

We may commence our presentation by considering a 2017 article written by Aqsa Khan and published in FII [Feminism In India], which is said to be the organ of a “digital intersectional feminist media organization” based in India. Khan’s text is entitled “Muslim Women in Popular Cinema: A Series of Flat Characters” [cf. https://www.feminisminindia.com, 07.07.2017].

The first observation made in this text is that there has always been a quantitatively insubstantial representation of Muslim women in Indian movies and/or the Bollywoodian genre – Khan writes: “The representation of Muslim women in Indian cinema has been meager. There are hardly any films solely dedicated to them”.

The basic thrust of Khan’s paper may be summarized as follows: [i] Indian cinema has been representing Muslim women in terms of certain specific “stereotypical norms”; [ii] such “norms” date as far back as the 1970’s and continue to apply even to the present; [iii] this continuity in cinematic discourse has persisted despite the fact that there has been a gradual mutation of “norms” applying to Muslim women at the level of real society [or real socio-cultural practices]. Khan puts this as follows: “In films where they [Muslim women] can be found, their roles are often diminished or stereotypical. Starting from the 1970s to the contemporary state of Bollywood, their representation has conformed to norms, even when those norms have gradually changed”.

Obviously, what is expected of Khan is to verify empirically at least two of her basic assertions: Firstly, that the “stereotypical norms” of the Bollywoodian genre are by now anachronistic; secondly, that there is such ideological anachronism given that there has in fact been a mutation of “norms” applying to Muslim women. One could say that Khan does attempt to illustrate the presumably anachronistic discourse of Bollywoodian movies by pointing to certain all-time “stereotypes” with respect to Muslim women – there is, however, no rigorous attempt at comparing the “norms” of the 1970’s period to those of the present. Since the question of “rigour” is rather subjective, one may give her the benefit of doubt and accept that a certain comparison of “norms” across time is somehow implied in her presentation. What Khan certainly fails to do is to verify that there has in fact been a certain radical change in the “norms” applying to Muslim women as-a-whole in everyday socio-cultural practices [be it in India or in Muslim settlements in the Western world]. Changes in societal “norms” may definitely apply to certain very specific social categories of Muslim women [as in the case, say, of Muslim middle class university students, and especially those “nurtured” in the new “norms” of “gender studies”] – that, however, would tell us very little as regards the “norms” of female popular masses belonging to Muslim communities either in India or in a locality such as East Ham.

We may in any case present here Khan’s enumeration of what she sees to be essentially static “stereotypical norms” that have applied to Muslim women from the 1970’s and through to present-day Bollywood. There have been at least three such “norms”:

• The first static “norm”: Khan observes that Muslim women have been represented “in the form of a ‘tawaif’ (courtesan or dancing girl)… Dressed in glorious dresses, shimmering in gold and silver, the characters… were overtly sexualized despite being covered from head to toe. They would entertain guests and ‘nawabs’ [cf. above] by singing and dancing but would remain pure and chaste, thereby desirous of marriage”.
• The second static “norm”: Khan argues that “The second most common type of representation is that of the silent Muslim woman, subservient and easily oppressed”. To illustrate this particular “norm”, she examines a sample Bollywood movie released in 2004 by the name of “Veer Zara”, which is an Indian Hindu-language period romantic drama. Khan writes as follows: “The character of Zara in ‘Veer Zara’ is an ideal example. While at the beginning of the movie she is shown as the vocal young woman who has the courage to be herself despite others wanting her to change, as the movie progresses she falls into the trap of being a lonely woman pining for her hero. She is shown as the passive woman who her lover must fight for. A slight twist in the storyline and she is easily put into a position where she lacks agency and must rely on someone to carry her message to her lover, who can ultimately rescue her”.
• The third static “norm”: As regards the third representation of Muslim women, Khan writes that “The women are almost shown as symbolizing the feminine national force… epitomizing sacrifice and balance”. Often enough, the context of such representation is accompanied by a “stereotypical representation of the religion [of Islam]” – viz. “the apparent inextricable association shown between Islam and terrorism”. This third “norm” is also corroborated by the observations of Amaal Akhtar [op. cit.], who tells us that “the unseen” or “disposable” Muslim women may attain a presence in Bollywoodian movies, but only do so within the context of India’s national or patriotic struggle against the Islamic Pakistani separatists – as Akhtar writes: “When they [Muslim women] did appear in focus,… cross-border tensions became a precondition for their mere presence”. Alternatively, in cases where Muslim women are not shown “as symbolizing the feminine national force”, they would assume the role of Pakistanis – Akhtar continues: “If Muslim, they would also usually be Pakistani, in a neat overlapping of religion with nationality, with Kashmir as a third recurring axis”.

It is all too obvious that, for Aqsa Khan, these three “norms” [and especially the first and second] clash with the present-day standards of the “feminist” ideal, and as that is supposed to be embodied in the “modern” Muslim woman whose own socio-cultural “norms” are said to “have gradually changed” [cf. above] in the course of the postmodern period. It follows that Khan’s understanding of the “modern” Muslim woman – who is by now informed by so-called “feminist” [or “feminist”-prone] standards – would be inevitably alienated by the apparent anachronisms of the Bollywood genre. As already alluded to, this may only apply to very special categories of “educated” middle class Muslim women – such alienation may not necessarily apply to cases beyond such specific social categories, such as the vast popular masses residing in India or composing the diasporic settlers of localities such as East Ham. On the other hand, scholars such as Hussein and Hussain [op. cit.] – themselves students of the “gender studies” and/or “feminist” trend – consider the ideological discourse of Bollywood regarding Muslim women from a much broader perspective, and one may say that quite a number of their observations would most probably apply to the average Muslim woman residing either in India or in a locality such as East Ham. As already mentioned above, Hussein and Hussain attempt to examine the representation of Muslim women in Bollywoodian movies through that genre’s perspective of nationalist ideology and the conflictual dichotomies implied therein [some of their own findings, of course, would definitely overlap with those identified by Khan herself].

Hussein and Hussain would more or less agree with Aqsa Khan that one can detect an ideological continuity in the representation of Muslim women in Bollywood films. For them, that which above all continues to determine the representation of Muslim women in Bollywood movies has been the genre’s religious-nationalistic ideological discourse of “Indianness”. This dominant perspective, however, would only emerge in the period of the 1990’s [not, that is, in the 1970’s]. And they argue that this continuity would persist despite certain “signs of change” within the diegetic content of present-day Bollywood movies. Hussein and Hussain wish to argue that “in comparison to signs of change [in Bollywood cinema as such] the sites of continuity are strongly embedded in the religious-nationalistic meta-narrative that drives the paradigms of Indian femininity/womanhood” [p. 284].

Bollywood’s religious-nationalistic so-called “meta-narrative” has meant that, whenever Muslim women are brought into play in present-day films [as they more often are], their “inferior” position in society is simply being reinforced, and it is so reinforced given the Bollywoodian ideology’s hierarchical presentation of “identity” referred to above. Hussein and Hussain note as follows: “… the nature of the recent deployment of Muslim heroines in Bollywood reinforce [sic] the hierarchy between the genders (male-female), between the communities (Hindu-Muslim) and between nations (India-Pakistan)” [ibid.].

Hussein and Hussain go on to investigate the particular “signs of change” that are said to be evident in more recent Bollywood movies. They do identify a somewhat “new” re-casting of female Muslims, though such re-casting fails to challenge the stereotypes emanating from the original ideology of religious-nationalistic values. This is what they write: “Our research findings suggest that, in recent times, there have been several cinematic attempts to somewhat re-cast female Muslim characters as the ‘new age girl who does not desist from bending the conservative (Muslim) societal norms’ (Daily Mail, 15 Feb 2013). However, these ‘new’ representations of Muslim women in Bollywood neither challenge stereotypes about Muslims [sic] subordinate position through their portrayals as anti-nation or as the ‘other’… nor do they offer a nuanced picture of the association of Muslim religious practices with women’s experiences of gender injustice…” [pp. 285-286]. As regards the latter point, of course, we need only observe that the manner in which Muslim women “experience” the so-called “gender injustice” of Muslim practices would depend, not only on their specific socio-economic position, but also on their own highly subjective interpretation of what is or is not “injustice”. An illiterate or semi-literate Muslim woman residing somewhere in the state of Tamil Nadu or in London’s East Ham region would hardly bother to identify the “nuanced” forms of “gender injustice” while watching, say, a Kollywood romantic movie. On the other hand, a woman such as Mrs. Damini – the owner of the Daminis London clothes shop along Green Street [cf. Paper 4c] – may possibly feel somewhat “alienated” by “gender injustices” emanating from Muslim religious practices as depicted in a Bollywood movie.

In contrast, one may say that the former point made by Hussein and Hussain in the above quote – viz. that pertaining to the subordinate position of Muslim women within the Indian nation or in relation to whichever diasporic Indian [or perhaps other ethnic] community – could have a certain impact on the average Muslim female cinemagoer, whatever be the social status or educational background of such female. Hussein and Hussain write of such “inferiority” as follows: “Much like the demonized Muslim man, the Muslim woman has often been incorporated into the imagination of Bollywood as the inferior ‘other’ to the ‘ideal’ upper caste Hindu woman” [p. 291].

Hussein and Hussain further explore this Bollywoodian theme of Muslim female inferiority vis-à-vis Hindu females. It seems that one major way in which Bollywood movies portray such “inferiority” is through the medium of attire [by the way, it would be interesting to compare their observations regarding Muslim attire as depicted in the Bollywoodian genre with our notes on ethnic-based attire as discussed in Paper 4c and wherein we discussed the functionality of ethnic attire as a “signifier of difference”: both movie representations of Muslim attire as discussed by Hussein and Hussain as also real life practices regarding manner of ethnic dress seem to confirm the relevance of this concept].

Bollywoodian movies, according to Hussein and Hussain, portray the “inferiority” of Muslim women through their wearing of the “veil” – this headdress is presented as a signifier of “barbarism”, and thus runs counter to the “civilized” Hindu. They write as follows: “The [Bollywoodian] image of the veiled Muslim woman has gained iconic status, both in India and globally [and therefore in countries such as the UK]. It has become a trope in support of clash of civilizations argument [sic] between the civilized Hindus and the barbaric Muslims…” [ibid.].

Further, the Muslim “veil” is counterposed to the Indian “sari”, and again in a manner suggesting different signifiers of national and/or anti-national values. Hussein and Hussain continue as follows: “Women’s dress in India is produced, performed and read through an opposition of putatively ‘Hindu’, thus Indian sari, and Muslim thus un-Indian ‘veil’…” [ibid.].

In a sub-section of their 2015 Warwick paper tellingly entitled “Narratives of sartorial display: Nationalist vs. Anti-Nationalist Clothing”, Hussein and Hussain make the following concluding observations regarding Bollywoodian representations of attire: “The Hindu Indian women in the selected films [examined by the two researchers] always wear a sari, while none of the Muslim characters are ever represented in a sari. Muslim characters only wear salwar kameez, headscarf or western attires… Absence of representation of Muslim women in a sari marks them as the inferior ‘other’, and the headscarf, often generalized as the Muslim women’s ‘veil’, is the emblem of those who are ‘totally’ the other to the nationalist Hindu women in a sari…” [pp. 296-297].

The Muslim worldview generally: a case of “self-othering”

We have thus far examined the various ways in which Bollywoodian [though also Western] movies are said to have been “othering” Muslim communities. However, what also needs to be considered is the manner in which Muslims themselves – or at least various segments of that broad category of people – are as much prone to “other” themselves vis-à-vis the movie industry as a whole [as they would be prone to self-segregate vis-à-vis other “cultural clusters”]. To the extent that this is a reality, we may tentatively speak of Muslim “self-othering” with respect to cinemagoing as a cultural practice [as also with respect to various other forms of Western and/or Bollywoodian-related cultural practices]. For purely practical purposes at this point, we shall have to adopt the term “self-othering” despite our reservations concerning that type of postmodern sociological terminology [which we do find rather flippant, to say the least].

Before we examine the Muslim worldview generally and the extent of its “self-othering” vis-à-vis the world of cinema, we need to pose a simple question: would such “self-othering” have occurred at all had the Bollywoodian [or Hollywoodian] ideological discourse not indulged in the “othering” of Islam and Muslims? To put it slightly otherwise: would Muslims have been more avid cinemagoers had Bollywood [or British movies, for that matter] not been so [so-called] “Islamophobic”? This section of Paper 4e shall briefly attempt to explore this question. It should also be noted here, in passing, that that type of question may be approached from a completely different perspective – viz. does one see a more positive Muslim worldview with respect to the world of film-watching given that the current global ideological conjuncture [inaugurated by streaming services such as Netflix] is gradually shifting towards a more pro-Muslim diegetic discourse? Such an approach, of course, is well beyond the scope of this paper.

To understand the Muslim worldview with respect to cinemagoing as a cultural practice, one would have to begin by first considering the Muslim worldview in general vis-à-vis the Western world and its own mores and habits. Perhaps one of the more interesting – and presumably more reliable – sources of information regarding this type of issue is a book written by Omar Saif Ghobash. Wikipedia informs us as follows about the writer of this book, which is entitled Letters to a Young Muslim, Picador, N.Y., 2017 – we read that Ghobash, born in 1971, “is an Emirati diplomat and author. He was appointed Ambassador of the United Arab Emirates to France on November 24, 2017, having previously served as UAE Ambassador to Russia from 2009-2017. Ghobash authored the book, Letters to a Young Muslim… which was written as a series of letters to his eldest son about what it means to be a Muslim in the 21st century”. It is absolutely important to keep in mind that, on quoting Ghobash regarding the Muslim worldview, “He is considered by many to be a thought leader on moderate Islam” [Wikipedia, ibid., my emph.].

In his Letters, Ghobash draws an absolutely stark dividing line between, on the one hand, what he calls “a Muslim life” and, on the other, “a polluted world” that surrounds such life. This is how he puts this, addressing his son: “… you live a Muslim life of such high and demanding moral standards that everything around you seems ritualistically and morally incorrect. You find that you are living in a polluted world that needs radical cleansing” [p. 15, my emph.].

The Western style of life, of course, is precisely that mode of living that is devoid of “high and demanding moral standards”, its everyday “rituals” and/or cultural practices being irredeemably secular and “materialistic” – it is exactly this that renders it “a polluted world”. Ghobash’s son, being a Muslim, therefore needs to find a secure refuge from such Western world – his refuge is in the mandatory “communal prayer” taking place in the mosque. Ghobash writes: “There is a sense of peace and balance you feel as you join the communal prayer at dawn, or after work, and mostly on Fridays, when you pray our obligatory communal prayer of the week” [ibid.]. His son’s “peace and balance” can only be achieved in such prayer, operating well outside the social parameters of Western society [operating, that is, as in a veritable “free zone” within that society].

Ghobash explains to his son that, since he happens not to live in a “traditional Islamic” society, he has no choice but to seek the refuge of the mosque – only therein shall he find “warmth”, “community”, “brotherhood” and “recognition”. He puts this as follows: “We all know the mosque to be a place of warmth and community. When we are far away from traditional Islamic societies, we feel a brotherhood and a sense of recognition when we gather in a mosque. The mosque in faraway places is a gathering place, a refuge, a place to sit with your community and Allah” [ibid., my emph.]. The implications here are obvious, and may be enumerated as follows: [i] outside the realm of the “traditional Islamic” world, his son cannot expect to find any real “warmth” – suggesting thereby that all non-“traditional Islamic” environments are ipso facto hostile to Muslims; [ii] his son does not belong to the “community” of people wherein he has settled – when he finds himself “in faraway places”, his only real sense of “community” is salvaged within the mosque; [iii] his son’s sense of “brotherhood” is “exclusivist” – it can only be shared amongst his own kind, and that can only be fulfilled within the confines of a mosque; [iv] his son’s value as a person and/or his real identity cannot be “recognized” by those amongst whom he has settled in some “faraway place” – such “recognition” can only come from his own kind, and again within mosques.

If it is true that for a young Muslim it is exclusively the mosque that must constitute his refuge when residing in [or is a settler of] a non-“traditional Islamic” country, then how is he expected to view that country and its social norms before entering and after departing from such refuge? Since the Muslim youngster can only relate to an “exclusivist community” that is found within a mosque [and relate to it tightly qua “brotherhood”], how is he to view life when outside the limits of such existential “zone”? Ghobash describes such before/after sentiments as follows: “You feel the dread as the sermon is over and the short prayer approaches its end” [ibid., my emph.].

There is that sense of “dread” in a Muslim because the world that he is forced to face before entering and after departing from the mosque is characterized by a sheer “emptiness” – Ghobash writes: “The best moments are the Friday sermon and communal prayer. This is the time when the mosque is most full, and most welcoming. As soon as these moments pass, you know that you will be out in the cold or in dark streets, feeling a little lost and a little lonely. There is the emptiness as a new week builds up to the next Friday prayer” [pp. 15-16, my emph.].

While the norms and values of the non-“traditional Islamic” world are characterized by an “emptiness” that causes “dread”, it is only the Holy Quran that can offer “consolation” when a young Muslim has to face such world before/after communal prayer in a mosque. Ghobash continues: “You are able to console yourself with listening to the captivating recitations of the Holy Quran that are freely available online…” [ibid.].

The recitations of the Holy Quran are the antidote to living in a non-“traditional Islamic” society – they constitute the “consolation” in a world that is “ugly”. Ghobash explains: “The recitations charge you up,… the intensity is too much. It jars with the outside world. Often I cannot manage the balance. The move from the beauty of the spiritual world to the ugliness of the outer world depresses me” [p. 17].

The Holy Quran is a “consolation”, not only because it expresses “beauty” vis-à-vis the “ugliness” of the world, it also “consoles” because it is the one and only stable reference point – and it is so given that its present-day recitation follows the exact same rules as those established fourteen hundred years back in time. Ghobash explains further: “What is special about the recitation of the Quran?... Though you know the Quran as the beautiful leather-bound book with the wonderful calligraphy, the Quran is actually meant to be recited or read out loud. There are rules on how to read it out loud. The way it is recited today is the same way in which the Prophet recited it more than fourteen hundred years ago…” [p. 16].

For a young Muslim, the word of Allah is his singular reference point of moral certitude because it has remained absolutely “unchanged” and “uncorrupted” since its inception – and is has been so in direct contrast to the realities of non-“traditional Islamic” values. Ghobash presents his son with an image of incompatibility between the world of Islam and the rest of the world – he writes as follows: “You become acutely aware of the dissonance between what you have just experienced [in a mosque] – the word of Allah, unchanged and uncorrupted for over fourteen hundred years – and what surrounds you – rubbish in the streets, sullen looks of strangers, late-night rowdiness, meaningless conversations about sports, the housing market, and corrupt politicians” [p. 18, my emph.].

The incompatibility or “dissonance” between Muslim values and non-Muslim values is thus founded on this major chasm between a paradigm based on perennial “stability” and one based on perpetual flux – we read: “The Quran provides a stable reference point in a world of change, of turmoil, and of turbulence” [ibid.].

Ghobash explains to his son that this existential division between the Muslim and the non-Muslim world has been reproduced from one generation to the next – and it is by sharing such a paradigm of other-worldly “stability” that Muslims across generations have come to acquire both a sense of “certainty” and a sense of internal, cohesive “solidarity” – we read: “We know how vigilantly generation after generation of Muslims has made sure that not one word or vowel has been changed in the text [of the Quran]. The text has remained unchanged and perfectly preserved for hundreds of years. It is a stable point in the universe that we as Muslims can hold on to. This gives us Muslims a sense of solidarity and of certainty” [ibid., my emph.].

It is this Muslim “sense of solidarity and of certainty” – based on “laws” and “action” as dictated by Allah – that yields the fundamental “unity” of the Muslim community in itself. Ghobash writes: “In all, between the [Quranic] verses of philosophical and spiritual contemplation and the verses of laws and action, we come away with a sense of the power and wisdom of Allah, and a renewed sense of the unity of the Muslim community” [ibid., my emph.].

We may at this point draw the following necessary conclusions:

• First, it is such “sense of the unity of the Muslim community” in itself that enables it to stand out vis-à-vis the rest of the world, and especially with respect to the Western world and its worldview as a whole [but which would also apply to, say, the Hindu worldview] – it is this that constitutes the special sense of “exceptionality” of the Muslim community in toto as a religious and cultural entity.
• Secondly, it is precisely such unity and “exceptionality” of the Muslim community in toto that has yielded particular types of “cultural clusters” within regions such as East Ham – such Muslim-based “cultural clusters” have come to constitute some of the most cohesive and well-defined “clusters” in the region vis-à-vis other ethnic-based “clusters” [and cf. also the paper entitled “A tentative sociological examination of the ‘political economy’ of the Muslim ghetto in the Western world of the 21st century”, https://www.gslreview, 15.02.2018].
• Thirdly, it may be argued that such unity, “exceptionality” and well-defined “cultural clustering” amongst Muslim communities have all played a certain role in determining the manner in which at least certain segments of Muslims relate to the cinema generally, and especially as regards the Bollywoodian and Hollywoodian cinematic genres.
• It is, lastly, a combination of such factors that is conducive to what may be described as Muslim-“self-othering” – by seeing themselves as a cohesively defined “exceptionality”, Muslims place themselves in the position of the “other” with respect to the rest of the world. And it is within the context of such “self-othering” that one must seek to understand their self-defined relationship to genres such as Bollywood or Hollywood; it may further explain why cinematic genres such as these tend to “other” Muslims in their own ideological discourse. Put otherwise, if it is true to say that a Muslim life is “of such high and demanding moral standards” [as Ghobash himself puts it], then such “self-othering” can only but be a natural [not to say self-inflicted] outcome. The deeply “self-othered” is as deeply “othered” by others – we here need to examine the content of Muslim “self-othering”, especially as regards movies.

The Muslim worldview, and implications as regards Bollywood, Hollywood and UK movies

We have noted above the “high and demanding moral standards” of the Muslim worldview, as also the “exceptionality” and internal “unity” of the Muslim community [we may here ignore the various religious conflicts within Islam itself]. Such a self-conception and self-organization of Muslim society can only but have a bearing on the manner in which the world of cinema is seen by Muslims generally. The Pew Research Center has undertaken various studies related to this issue – one such is entitled “The World’s Muslims: Religion, Politics and Society” [cf. Pew Research Center/Religion & Public Life, https://www.pewforum.org, 30.04.2013]. Specifically with respect to Western movies, this study has found, inter alia, that “most Muslims think Western… movies… pose a threat to morality… – even though, on a personal level, substantial percentages say they enjoy Western entertainment” [my emph.]. As regards the latter statement, we may simply reiterate what we have already observed above – viz. that the ideological discourse of a movie does not necessarily determine cinemagoing behaviour in a mechanically automatic or uniform manner. This, however, would not annul the fact that most Muslims do perceive a moral threat in what they view while in a cinema theatre – reactions to a Western movie can be both physical [ultimate avoidance] or psychological [alienation] or various degrees of both, and/or can be characterized by an internally contradictory combination of sentiments. We should further note here that the findings of this Pew Research Paper – specifically regarding the “enjoyment” of Western entertainment on the part of Muslims – are based on data that cover a vast range of geographical regions across the world [from Sub-Saharan Africa to South Asia; and from Central Asia to Southern-Eastern Europe]: notwithstanding the interest of such data, their sheer range can render them more or less irrelevant to our own focus on specific “cultural clusters” located in the UK.

In any case, that selfsame Pew Research Paper goes on to repeat its findings on the views of Muslims regarding the issue of Western movies and morality – it reiterates: “… a clear majority of Muslims in most countries surveyed think that Western entertainment harms morality in their country”. Importantly, however, it here clearly emphasizes that Muslims “personally dislike Western music, movies and television” [my emph.].

Such “personal dislike” can take an endless variety of forms, and which in some cases can often prove self-contradictory [as already alluded to]. Of course, such self-contradictory behaviour towards movie-watching may also be evident in the case of many Westerners themselves: for instance, while they may have a certain innate distaste for pornographic films, they may in any case go ahead and watch them. But the point here is that in the case of the Muslim worldview, all or most Western movies [but which may also include genres such as that of Bollywood] are plagued with what amounts to pornographic scenes, something which directly clashes with what Ghobash has described as the “high and demanding moral standards” of an “exclusivist” or “exceptionalist” Muslim community. In this case, whatever self-contradictory behaviour on the part of Muslims with regard to Western movies may take on the form of an existential crisis impinging on his/her very identity – the viewer would become part of that “dissonance” that “surrounds” him/her, as Ghobash has described it above.

What is it exactly that constitutes the content of the Muslim worldview with respect to Western movies? To be able to answer such question, one is obliged to investigate what such worldview understands by the term “pornography” in movies. We have been able to retrieve some basic data regarding this issue from Sound Vision, which happens to be the platform of a major Islamic organization based in the West [Chicago, Illinois] and which concerns itself, inter alia, with the relationship between Muslims and the mass media. This is how this platform introduces itself: “Sound Vision Foundation Inc. is a pioneering Muslim media and communication organization, with a three-decade legacy of flagship programs”. Its stated mission is “to cultivate harmony among Muslims and their neighbors through art, media, strategic communication, and education” [cf. https://www.soundvision.com].

It goes without saying that this important platform is “moderate” in its approach – very much reminiscent, that is, of the Ghobash stance in his Letters to a Young Muslim. How, then, does Sound Vision define “pornographic” scenes in motion pictures? We shall present this organization’s views as published in an article entitled “Islam on Pornography: A Definite No No”, 18.11.2020. The key Islamic concept in this context is that of “Fuhsha” – The Sound Vision text tells us the following regarding this concept: “… Fuhsha is obscenity, vulgarity, indecency, shamelessness and something that is dirty, filthy and foul”. And further: “Fuhsha, translated as anything shameful, is a Quranic term which in the Quran and Hadith has been used widely for unIslamic sexual behavior… It is a set of vices that embraces the whole range of evil and shameful deeds. Scholars of the Quran have included every vice which is intrinsically of a highly reprehensible character into this category whether it be fornication, nudity, public foreplay as depicted in films and photos, pornography, hurling abuses and curse words, promiscuous mixing, or dresses designed to expose the body” [my emph.].

We know, of course, that most or all of these “vices” [bar raw pornography] have been depicted in both Western and Bollywood movies: fornication, for instance, is a routine theme in the Hollywoodian genre, as it is in that of Bollywood [remember, for instance, the movie “Bajirao Mastani”, as discussed above]. From the perspective of the Muslim worldview, it is absolutely forbidden in terms of Islamic law [“Haram”, meaning sin] for someone to allow himself to observe the enactment of such moral crime [referred to as “Zina”]. In a sub-section of the Sound Vision text entitled “Other Scholarly Perspectives”, we read: “If someone is looking at someone committing Zina (sex outside marriage) whether it is in movies or pictures or the actual thing, it’s all Haram” [my emph.].

We note that yet another “vice” is that of nudity. Again, we know that nude scenes are regularly depicted in Hollywoodian and/or Western movies generally. In comparison, of course, the typical Bollywoodian approach on this matter is slightly more puritanical – on the other hand, a film such as “Sarileru Neekevvaru” [which we have also discussed above] does not shy away from depicting the sensuality of the feminine shape or flesh [it clearly shows, in other words, “dresses designed to expose the body”, op. cit.]. This may be directly contrasted to the Muslim perspective – in yet another sub-section of the Sound Vision text entitled “Sayings Of The Prophet: Hadith”, we note that the mere depiction of “the thigh” constitutes a case of “Haram”. We read as follows: “Don’t expose your thigh to anyone and don’t look at the thigh of any person even if s/he is dead. Narrated Ali ibn abi Talib. Ibn e Maja, Abi Dawud, Darqutani. Tafseer Kabeer” [my emph.].

One may therefore draw the very general conclusion that Bollywood, Hollywood and UK movies are viewed as a “moral threat” to the values of the Muslim worldview. Essentially, this has also meant that Muslims have adopted a generally negative stance with respect to the very idea of movie production as such. More specifically, such stance has further meant that there has been no [or little?] production of Islamic language films in the diaspora.

At least as regards the latter observation, one may say that it nonetheless constitutes a rather sweeping statement on the question of Islamic film production amongst diasporic Muslim communities that have settled in the Western world. Our knowledge around this matter is admittedly very limited, and we do not intend to explore it in any detail. In fact, our single source of information here is a publication edited by Daniela Berghahn and Claudia Steinberg, entitled European Cinema in Motion: Migrant and Diasporic Film in Contemporary Europe, Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. This study, of direct relevance to the question at hand, makes a number of extremely interesting observations which seem to corroborate what we have said above regarding the Islamic worldview vis-à-vis movies in general.

Berghahn and Steinberg wish to explain why it is that Muslim communities settled in Europe [including the UK] have failed to produce any Islamic language films worth mentioning – this is what they write: “While an Islamic language of film has emerged in, say, the cultures of the Maghreb, the same cannot be said of the Muslim diasporas of Western Europe, and the reason must be found in part within the hedonistic, materialistic assumptions of an industry that consciously Muslim film-makers… find antithetical to their way of life and their authorial aspirations. It is arguable that Muslim film cannot be produced by a postmodern, post-Christian industry…” [p. 285, my emph.]. While this quote certainly does help us understand why Muslim-oriented films cannot possibly be produced within a Western industry that promotes “hedonistic” and “materialistic” values [and which may be said to express Western postmodernity], we cannot at the same time see why Muslim film-making is further obstructed by the fact that Western society is by now “post-Christian”. Perhaps Berghahn and Steinberg here wish to assume that a presumed “Christian Europe” could have provided more favourable conditions for the production of films expressing more “spiritual” [as opposed to “materialistic”] values, such as those found in Islam – such an assumption, however, seems to forget the history of conflict [or at least cultural friction] between Christianity and Islam. In any case, since this remains counterfactual thinking, it simply raises a moot issue.

As regards the specific case of the UK Muslim diasporic communities – and why these too have not engaged in any noteworthy Islamic film production – Berghahn and Steinberg make the following extremely interesting [albeit somewhat tendentious] observations: “In the culturally myopic UK entertainment industry, Muslim characters are regularly played by Hindu actors and Muslims generally feel uneasy in the drinking, socializing, promiscuous film world with its downward pressure on family life” [ibid., my emph.].

It is all too obvious that the Berghahn and Steinberg findings on the absence of Islamic language film-production in Western Europe tally well with the Muslim general worldview as described by a “thought leader” such as Ghobash or by an Islamic organization such as the Sound Vision Foundation. The Berghahn and Steinberg findings also fully confirm the idea we have presented above regarding the “self-othering” of Muslims in the Western world.

From the Muslim worldview in general to particular UK Muslim sentiments regarding the cinema – manifestations of Muslim “self-othering”

Above, we had briefly presented the research finds of the Islamic Human Rights Commission [IHRC] regarding the manner in which all genres of cinema are said to portray Muslim communities – it had come up with the general observation that Muslims have been portrayed in terms of “negative stereotypes” amounting to a so-called “Islamophobia” [cf. above]. Importantly, the Commission would base its findings on the recorded sentiments of Muslims residing in the UK. Here, we shall consider such sentiments themselves and the implications of these as regards, not only the “othering” of Muslims on the part of movie diegetic discourse as a whole, but also as regards the “self-othering” of Muslims themselves vis-à-vis the movie industry in particular, though also vis-à-vis the rest of the UK cultural social formation.

The 2007 report of the IHRC wishes to evaluate “British Muslims’ understanding of Muslim representation in the media” [my emph]. The term “media”, of course, includes the cinema itself. We should also note that what the IHRC is here attempting to measure is, not the “actual” representation of Muslims in the media, but the perceived representation of them – viz. the representation of Muslims as subjectively understood by Muslims themselves. Such perceived representation – although necessarily subjective – must nonetheless be taken to be an objective reality in itself [thoughts are a reality, though not the only dimension of it]. What, then, is the Muslims’ own “understanding” of the media? This is what the IHRC report found: “Significantly [a] high percentage of respondents felt media to be Islamophobic in city areas: Manchester (73.0%), Petersborough (70.4%), London (65.5%) and Bradford (62.1%)”.

These selfsame respondents – presumably in their capacity as UK cinemagoers – would perceive heavy elements of “Islamophobia in Hollywood and British movies”. The report notes: “The accounts of the [UK] respondents indicates [sic] that the negative portrayal of Muslims is heavily presented in the films that are produced in both the UK and the US”.

The respondents’ perceived “Islamophobia” in UK and American movies contains portrayals of Muslim “stereotypes” of the sort presented to us by scholarly papers as discussed above [cf. Hussein and Hussain et al]. According to the IHRC, UK respondents have given the following accounts of what they have viewed in movies: “Films portray Muslims mostly as terrorists who randomly kill people (usually innocents) or blow things up (including themselves), hijackers, misogynistic or stupid”.

It is of extreme importance to consider how the UK Muslim respondents – or at least a more vocal segment of these – attempt to explain such “negative portrayals” of themselves in the media generally. It may be argued that the recorded explanations are such as to point to a Muslim proclivity for “self-othering”: Islam is seen as a religious and cultural force that is superior to Western culture and is thus a threat to the Western world. Muslims feel that that is the reason why the Muslim community is portrayed in terms of an “Islamophobic” diegetic discourse in media such as the movies. Feeling “victimized” by a Western culture that is in decline, Muslims defend themselves through a conscious self-segregation, which itself yields the cohesive and tightly regulated “local” socio-cultural system of Muslim settlers vis-à-vis the rest of the UK’s socio-cultural formation [cf. “A tentative sociological examination of the ‘political economy’ of the Muslim ghetto…”, https://www.gslreview, op. cit.]. Of course, such a reading of the Muslims’ own explanation for “Islamophobia” in the media seems to fully corroborate the manner in which Ghobash has himself presented the “exceptionality” of Muslim communities within the Western world [op. cit.].

The issues pertaining to Muslim “victimization”, Muslim superiority, and Muslim self-segregation – all of which seem to point to a Muslim “self-othering” – are evident in what the IHRC respondents had to say in explaining what they deemed to constitute “Islamophobia” in the media. This is how the IHRC presents the views of respondents:

• As regards the “victimization” of Muslims: “Some respondents believe that the film industry is used as a tool in the foreign policy by the Western countries in terms of demonizing and gaining public support against a fashioned enemy [this being Islam in the present conjuncture]. An illustration of this: the USSR was at the brunt of demonization during the Cold War era” [my emph.].
• As regards Muslim superiority: “According to respondents, Islam is the fastest growing religion in the world and this fact is worrying the capitalist West since this would diminish Western hegemony” [my emph.].
• As regards Muslim self-segregation: “Respondents believe anti-Islamic sentiments flourish as a result of negative representation in the media and causes profound polarization and conflict in British society” [my emph.].

Generally speaking, therefore, one may say that Muslim settlers within the UK [or segments of these] feel that their up-and-coming religious and cultural superiority within the Western world is the basic cause of “Islamophobia” [and as that is also portrayed in movies]. That type of sentiment against Muslims “polarizes” British society – it is in the context of such “polarization” [and which may even take violently conflictual forms – cf. Paper 2a] that one has seen the rise of self-segregated Muslim “cultural clusters” [as also evident in regions such as East Ham]. It is precisely such type of “clusters” that express a certain Muslim-instigated [or self-determined] “self-othering” vis-à-vis the rest of society. It is this same “self-othering” that is reflected either in the Muslim practices of cinemagoing [but which can vary in form across the internal social strata of Muslim settlers] or in the diegetic discourses of Western [and/or Bollywoodian] movies.

The findings of the IHRC cannot be wished away as merely fortuitous. The importance of such data is evident in the fact that an international news organization such as Reuters has focused on their implications. Although the Reuters article basically reiterates what has been said above regarding UK Muslim sentiments on the cinema, we shall quote parts of it out of mere interest for the specific manner of its presentation [cf. Paul Majendie, “Muslims complain of Hollywood ‘bad guy’ image”, https://www.reuters.com/article, 25.01.2007]. Such presentation is meant to accomplish very specific ideological intentions.

Focusing on the IHRC findings, Majendie makes three basic points:

• Muslims settled in the UK believe that Western films are “Islamophobic” and/or “racist”: “Western movies… promote negative stereotypes of Muslims by casting them all too often as villains, a British Muslim pressure group said… The commission’s study, based on soundings taken from almost 1,250 British Muslims, also found that 62 percent felt the media was ‘Islamophobic’ and 14 percent called it racist”.
• The “demonization” of Muslims fosters social prejudices [by implication, we may say that such conflictual sentiments within UK society have further contributed to the recognizable phenomena of “cultural clustering”, self-segregation, and therefore “self-othering” on the part of the “demonized” group]: “Cinema, both in Hollywood and Britain, has helped demonize Muslims. They are portrayed as violent and backward. That reinforces prejudices”.
• Being “demonized” in British films, Muslims call for the intervention of State censorship: “The report called for British film censors to be given greater power to cut out ‘objectionable material’ and said media watchdogs in Britain should be more effective in ensuring ‘responsible coverage’ of Muslims”.

There are a number of points that need to be made concerning this Reuters presentation, it being a perfect example of the manner in which the Western media – albeit apparently “Islamophobic” in the variety of its discourses [and as so dubbed by Muslims themselves] – is at the same time attempting to “organize” [in an ideological sense] a certain consensus or “harmony” between the Muslim settlers in the West and the rest of the cultural milieus that prevail in Western societies. These points – necessarily tentative given the sheer complexity of the matter – are the following:

• According to the Reuters article, Muslims in the UK are calling for the direct intervention of the State so as to protect themselves from “objectionable material” shown in films – censorship is seen as a means of “protection” for a highly “victimized” [and therefore presumably “disadvantaged”] group of people.
• The Reuters text, however, has nothing to say about the assumed “Muslim superiority” [IHRC] and/or the assumed Muslim “exceptionalism” [Ghobash], as asserted by Muslims themselves residing in Western societies.
• It is such dimensions of Islam which may be said to have provoked conflictual sentiments within the UK cultural social formation [“profound polarization and conflict”, as the IHRC report puts it].
• It may further be argued that it is precisely such sense of “Muslim superiority” that calls for the actuation of State intervention so that the “high and demanding moral standards” of Islam are upheld [or at least respected] within the Western world itself. In that sense, it may be said that a consciously “self-othered” Muslim community wishes to impose its own relative hegemony upon UK society by attempting to determine – via the State mechanisms of censorship and the redefinition of “free speech” – the overall and free-flowing ideological discourse of that society.
• One may argue, in other words, that the Muslim call for censorship is itself a symptom of “self-othering” – and it is precisely such “self-othering” on the part of Muslim communities in the Western world that the Reuters article fails to address.

From “othering” and “self-othering”, to the complexities of individual behaviour as regards the practice of cinemagoing

There is, it seems, much truth in the general analyses that we have presented above: all our attempts at trying to understand Muslim behaviour as regards the practice of cinemagoing point to what we have dubbed as Muslim “self-othering” – viz. a deliberate choice, taken by Muslim communities in the West, to constitute a discreet cultural and religious entity within the societies where they have found themselves settled. That sort of conscious, collective decision is certainly of the type that can determine the behaviour of Muslim individuals qua cinemagoers. And yet we know that the concept of “determination” is quite problematic when it comes to human beings. More specifically, we know that – and despite the accuracy of the analyses we have presented above – it remains as valid to say that there are segments of Muslim settlers within the UK which do frequent movie theatres in the West. It is difficult to gauge what it is that goes on in their minds when they are busy watching a Hollywoodian or Bollywoodian movie – but the fact remains that they can choose to entertain themselves by watching just such movies. We shall end this paper by briefly considering this particular reality.

Above, in our discussion of the issue of Asian women and their role in local cultural affiliation through the practice of cinemagoing, we had observed that a genre such as Bollywood is not universally accepted amongst the UK’s Asian ethnic communities. In the specific case of Muslim communities residing in the UK [at least], one may describe attitudes towards cinemagoing as follows: there is no real and absolute universal rejection of both Western and Bollywood movies amongst Muslim individuals. This is so for a variety of reasons not all of which are easily explainable – here, one would have to enter the realities of individual psychology so as to understand attitudinal behaviour. Of course, the easy way out would be to point to the internal cultural contradictions within Muslim “cultural clusters”, and as these may be manifested in different class positions, educational levels, and so on.

The paradox remains: we may here consider, for instance, how Lucia Krämer [op. cit.] deals with the issue of attitudinal behaviour – on the part of some of UK’s Muslims – with respect to Bollywood movies in particular. She writes: “The Bollywood Batein report indicated in 2004, for example, that especially older Muslim viewers worried about inappropriate sexual content in Bollywood films and that some Muslim men considered the viewing of Bollywood films a frivolous activity and restricted their consumption in their homes…” [my emph.]. The paradoxical state of affairs is here all too obvious: while Muslim viewers are said to “worry” about the content of Bollywood movies, they are nonetheless presented as “viewers”; while Bollywood-watching was rejected as a “frivolous activity”, Muslims nonetheless “consumed” Bollywood at home albeit in a manner suggesting “restriction”. We also need to note that Krämer’s observations speak of “older Muslim viewers” and “some Muslim men”, implying that the attitudinal behaviour of other groupings of Muslims may not necessarily match such stances. These are open questions that await serious empirical [and ideologically unbiased] research work.

We shall end this paper by simply presenting two pieces of data that are of relevance to cinemagoing amongst Muslims in the UK – they raise further questions and may be said to complement the paradoxical state of affairs that we speak of here:

• Four years ago, a resident of East Ham – by the name of Mihai Lamban – had visited the Boleyn Cinema along East Ham’s Barking Road and had probably watched a movie which he then decided to briefly comment on in the popular Goggle Reviews [op. cit.]. Unfortunately, this cinemagoer fails to mention the name of the particular movie – his comment, however, is of special interest. Very simply, this is what he notes about it: “Only for Muslims”. It is possible that what Lamban had watched belonged to a generic strand of Bollywood movies known as “Muslim Social Films” [cf. our discussion of the different sub-genres of the Bollywoodian genre in Paper 4d]. What makes this comment interesting is the use of the word “only” – it seems to confirm the “exceptionality” and/or “exclusivist” nature of Muslim-related cultural practices. Be that as it may, the quote also seems to suggest that the Boleyn theatre halls could at times have been monopolized by Muslim audiences.
• Despite Islam’s “exceptionality” and/or its “exclusivist” proclivities, and despite the fact that it sets “high and demanding moral standards”, Muslim women in areas such as East Ham are said to “openly participate” in the public life of their own “Little India” [and which would include the practice of cinemagoing]. Such “participation” has been emphasized by a number of analysts who may be considered apologists of the Muslim way of life in countries such as the UK. Their own “interested” approach does not necessarily render their findings inadmissible – it would nonetheless have made such findings much more useful had such writers specified the particular social categories of the Muslim settlers they are focusing on. In any case, even if their work wishes to imply that such “open participation” is a generalized phenomenon amongst Muslim females, this would not in itself invalidate the self-segregationist and/or “self-othering” of Muslim “cultural clusters” in regions such as East Ham – the “open participation” of Muslim women can be [or is] a “participation” within a relatively segregated “cluster” of UK society. One writer who chooses to emphasize the “open participation” of Muslim women in the public life of their own “cultural cluster” [in East Ham in particular] is Mohan Ambikaipaker in a book entitled Political Blackness in Multiracial Britain, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018. This is a sample of what he writes: “Shopping for daily household necessities, clothes, and wedding supplies and enjoying the pleasures of ethnic restaurants or Bollywood films at the Boleyn cinema represent some of the many activities in which Muslim women openly participate in London’s inner-city urbanism. Their public presence challenges the orientalist stereotype [viz. a European intellectual bias dating back to the 19th century] of the sequestered Muslim women, kept hidden from social view” [p. 106, my emph.].

Muslim women residing in East Ham may not be “sequestered” from the so-called “social view”, and many of them may have been patrons of a cinema such as the local Boleyn – the question that remains to be even further explored, however, is this: to what extent are both male and female Muslims residing in a region such as East Ham “sequestered” from the rest of the UK’s “materialistic” or predominantly secular socio-cultural milieu, and especially in their capacity as cinemagoers. And further: to what extent does it all amount to a cultural self-isolation?

28.01.2022

The post 4e/cont. – LONDON: SETTLERS, COCKNEYS, AND THE “CITY TYPE”: THE CASE OF “LITTLE INDIA” – EAST HAM appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.