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Why I Became a Conservative: A British liberal discovers England's greatest philosopher.
FrontPageMagazine.com ^ | Wednesday, February 5, 2003 | By Roger Scruton

Posted on 02/04/2003 10:13:26 PM PST by JohnHuang2

Why I Became a Conservative
By Roger Scruton
The New Criterion | February 5, 2003


I was brought up at a time when half the English people voted Conservative at national elections and almost all English intellectuals regarded the term “conservative” as a term of abuse. To be a conservative, I was told, was to be on the side of age against youth, the past against the future, authority against innovation, the “structures” against spontaneity and life. It was enough to understand this, to recognize that one had no choice, as a free-thinking intellectual, save to reject conservatism. The choice remaining was between reform and revolution. Do we improve society bit by bit, or do we rub it out and start again? On the whole my contemporaries favored the second option, and it was when witnessing what this meant, in May 1968 in Paris, that I discovered my vocation.

In the narrow street below my window the students were shouting and smashing. The plate-glass windows of the shops appeared to step back, shudder for a second, and then give up the ghost, as the reflections suddenly left them and they slid in jagged fragments to the ground. Cars rose into the air and landed on their sides, their juices flowing from unseen wounds. The air was filled with triumphant shouts, as one by one lamp-posts and bollards were uprooted and piled on the tarmac, to form a barricade against the next van-load of policemen.

The van—known then as a panier de salade on account of the wire mesh that covered its windows—came cautiously round the corner from the Rue Descartes, jerked to a halt, and disgorged a score of frightened policemen. They were greeted by flying cobble-stones and several of them fell. One rolled over on the ground clutching his face, from which the blood streamed through tightly clenched fingers. There was an exultant shout, the injured policeman was helped into the van, and the students ran off down a side-street, sneering at the cochons and throwing Parthian cobbles as they went.

That evening a friend came round: she had been all day on the barricades with a troupe of theater people, under the captainship of Armand Gatti. She was very excited by the events, which Gatti, a follower of Antonin Artaud, had taught her to regard as the high point of situationist theater—the artistic transfiguration of an absurdity which is the day-to-day meaning of bourgeois life. Great victories had been scored: policemen injured, cars set alight, slogans chanted, graffiti daubed. The bourgeoisie were on the run and soon the Old Fascist and his régime would be begging for mercy.

The Old Fascist was de Gaulle, whose Mémoires de guerre I had been reading that day. The Mémoires begin with a striking sentence—“Toute ma vie, je me suis fait une certaine idée de la France”—a sentence so alike in its rhythm and so contrary in its direction to that equally striking sentence which begins A la recherche du temps perdu: “Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure.” How amazing it had been, to discover a politician who begins his self-vindication by suggesting something—and something so deeply hidden behind the bold mask of his words! I had been equally struck by the description of the state funeral for Valéry—de Gaulle’s first public gesture on liberating Paris—since it too suggested priorities unimaginable in an English politician. The image of the cortège, as it took its way to the cathedral of Notre Dame, the proud general first among the mourners, and here and there a German sniper still looking down from the rooftops, had made a vivid impression on me. I irresistibly compared the two bird’s-eye views of Paris, that of the sniper, and my own on to the riots in the quartier latin. They were related as yes and no, the affirmation and denial of a national idea. According to the Gaullist vision, a nation is defined not by institutions or borders but by language, religion, and high culture; in times of turmoil and conquest it is those spiritual things that must be protected and reaffirmed. The funeral for Valéry followed naturally from this way of seeing things. And I associated the France of de Gaulle with Valéry’s Cimetière marin—that haunting invocation of the dead which conveyed to me, much more profoundly than any politician’s words or gestures, the true meaning of a national idea.

Of course I was naïve—as naïve as my friend. But the ensuing argument is one to which I have often returned in my thoughts. What, I asked, do you propose to put in the place of this “bourgeoisie” whom you so despise, and to whom you owe the freedom and prosperity that enable you to play on your toy barricades? What vision of France and its culture compels you? And are you prepared to die for your beliefs, or merely to put others at risk in order to display them? I was obnoxiously pompous: but for the first time in my life I had felt a surge of political anger, finding myself on the other side of the barricades from all the people I knew.

She replied with a book: Foucault’s Les mots et les choses, the bible of the soixante-huitards, the text which seemed to justify every form of transgression, by showing that obedience is merely defeat. It is an artful book, composed with a satanic mendacity, selectively appropriating facts in order to show that culture and knowledge are nothing but the “discourses” of power. The book is not a work of philosophy but an exercise in rhetoric. Its goal is subversion, not truth, and it is careful to argue—by the old nominalist sleight of hand that was surely invented by the Father of Lies—that “truth” requires inverted commas, that it changes from epoch to epoch, and is tied to the form of consciousness, the “episteme,” imposed by the class which profits from its propagation. The revolutionary spirit, which searches the world for things to hate, has found in Foucault a new literary formula. Look everywhere for power, he tells his readers, and you will find it. Where there is power there is oppression. And where there is oppression there is the right to destroy. In the street below my window was the translation of that message into deeds.

My friend is now a good bourgeoise like the rest of them. Armand Gatti is forgotten; and the works of Antonin Artaud have a quaint and dépassé air. The French intellectuals have turned their backs on ’68, and the late Louis Pauwels, the greatest of their post-war novelists, has, in Les Orphelins, written the damning obituary of their adolescent rage. And Foucault? He is dead from AIDS, the result of sprees in the bath-houses of San Francisco, visited during well-funded tours as an intellectual celebrity. But his books are on university reading lists all over Europe and America. His vision of European culture as the institutionalized form of oppressive power is taught everywhere as gospel, to students who have neither the culture nor the religion to resist it. Only in France is he widely regarded as a fraud.

By 1971, when I moved from Cambridge to a permanent lectureship at Birkbeck College, London, I had become a conservative. So far as I could discover there was only one other conservative at Birkbeck, and that was Nunzia—Maria Annunziata—the Neapolitan lady who served meals in the Senior Common Room and who cocked a snook at the lecturers by plastering her counter with kitschy photos of the Pope.

One of those lecturers, towards whom Nunzia conceived a particular antipathy, was Eric Hobsbawm, the lionized historian of the Industrial Revolution, whose Marxist vision of our country is now the orthodoxy taught in British schools. Hobsbawm came as a refugee to Britain, bringing with him the Marxist commitment and Communist Party membership that he retained until he could retain it no longer—the Party, to his chagrin, having dissolved itself in embarrassment at the lies that could no longer be repeated. No doubt in recognition of this heroic career, Hobsbawm was rewarded, at Mr. Blair’s behest, with the second highest award that the Queen can bestow—that of “Companion of Honour.” This little story is of enormous significance to a British conservative. For it is a symptom and a symbol of what has happened to our intellectual life since the Sixties. We should ponder the extraordinary fact that Oxford University, which granted an honorary degree to Bill Clinton on the grounds that he had once hung around its precincts, refused the same honor to Margaret Thatcher, its most distinguished post-war graduate and Britain’s first woman Prime Minister. We should ponder some of the other recipients of honorary degrees from British academic institutions—Robert Mugabe, for example, or the late Mrs. Ceausescu—or count (on the fingers of one hand) the number of conservatives who are elected to the British Academy.

Suffice it to say that I found myself, on arrival in Birkbeck College, at the heart of the left establishment which governed British scholarship. Birkbeck College had grown from the Mechanics Institution founded by George Birkbeck in 1823 and was devoted to the education of people in full-time employment. It was connected to the socialist idealists of the Workers’ Education Association, and had links of a tenacious but undiscoverable kind to the Labour Party. My failure to conceal my conservative beliefs was both noticed and disapproved of, and I began to think that I should look for another career.

Because of Birkbeck’s mission as a center of adult education, lectures began at 6 P.M. and the days were nominally free. I used my mornings to study for the Bar: my intention was to embark on a career which gave no advantage to utopians and malcontents. In fact I never practiced at the Bar and received from my studies only an intellectual benefit—though a benefit for which I have always been profoundly grateful. Law is constrained at every point by reality, and utopian visions have no place in it. Moreover the common law of England is proof that there is a real distinction between legitimate and illegitimate power, that power can exist without oppression, and that authority is a living force in human conduct. English law, I discovered, is the answer to Foucault.

Inspired by my new studies I began to search for a conservative philosophy. In America this search could be conducted in a university. American departments of political science encourage their students to read Montesquieu, Burke, Tocqueville, and the Founding Fathers. Leo Strauss, Eric Voegelin, and others have grafted the metaphysical conservatism of Central Europe on to American roots, forming effective and durable schools of political thought. American intellectual life benefits from American patriotism, which has made it possible to defend American customs and institutions without fear of being laughed to scorn. It has benefited too from the Cold War, which sharpened native wits against the Marxist enemy, in a way that they were never sharpened in Europe: the conversion of important parts of the social democratic Jewish intelligentsia of New York to the cause of neo-conservatism is a case in point. In 1970s Britain, conservative philosophy was the preoccupation of a few half-mad recluses. Searching the library of my college, I found Marx, Lenin, and Mao, but no Strauss, Voegelin, Hayek, or Friedman. I found every variety of socialist monthly, weekly, or quarterly, but not a single journal that confessed to being conservative.

The view has for a long time prevailed in England that conservatism is simply no longer available—even if it ever has been really available to an intelligent person—as a social and political creed. Maybe, if you are an aristocrat or a child of wealthy and settled parents, you might inherit conservative beliefs, in the way that you might inherit a speech impediment or a Habsburg jaw. But you couldn’t possibly acquire them—certainly not by any process of rational enquiry or serious thought. And yet there I was, in the early 1970s, fresh from the shock of 1968, and from the countervailing shock of legal studies, with a fully articulate set of conservative beliefs. Where could I look for the people who shared them, for the thinkers who had spelled them out at proper length, for the social, economic, and political theory that would give them force and authority sufficient to argue them in the forum of academic opinion?

To my rescue came Burke. Although not widely read at the time in our universities, he had not been dismissed as stupid, reactionary, or absurd. He was simply irrelevant, of interest largely because he got everything wrong about the French Revolution and therefore could be studied as illustrating an episode in intellectual pathology. Students were still permitted to read him, usually in conjunction with the immeasurably less interesting Tom Paine, and from time to time you heard tell of a “Burkean” philosophy, which was one strand within nineteenth-century British conservatism.

Burke was of additional interest to me on account of the intellectual path that he had trod. His first work, like mine, was in aesthetics. And although I didn’t find much of philosophical significance in his Essay on the Sublime and the Beautiful, I could see that, in the right cultural climate, it would convey a powerful sense of the meaning of aesthetic judgment and of its indispensable place in our lives. I suppose that, in so far as I had received any intimations of my future career as an intellectual pariah, it was through my early reactions to modern architecture, and to the desecration of my childhood landscape by the faceless boxes of suburbia. I learned as a teenager that aesthetic judgment matters, that it is not merely a subjective opinion, unargued because unarguable, and of no significance to anyone besides oneself. I saw—though I did not have the philosophy to justify this—that aesthetic judgment lays a claim upon the world, that it issues from a deep social imperative, and that it matters to us in just the way that other people matter to us, when we strive to live with them in a community. And, so it seemed to me, the aesthetics of modernism, with its denial of the past, its vandalization of the landscape and townscape, and its attempt to purge the world of history, was also a denial of community, home, and settlement. Modernism in architecture was an attempt to remake the world as though it contained nothing save atomic individuals, disinfected of the past, and living like ants within their metallic and functional shells.

Like Burke, therefore, I made the passage from aesthetics to conservative politics with no sense of intellectual incongruity, believing that, in each case, I was in search of a lost experience of home. And I suppose that, underlying that sense of loss is the permanent belief that what has been lost can also be recaptured—not necessarily as it was when it first slipped from our grasp, but as it will be when consciously regained and remodelled, to reward us for all the toil of separation through which we are condemned by our original transgression. That belief is the romantic core of conservatism, as you find it—very differently expressed—in Burke and Hegel, and also in T. S. Eliot, whose poetry was the greatest influence on me during my teenage years.

When I first read Burke’s account of the French Revolution I was inclined to accept, since I knew no other, the liberal humanist view of the Revolution as a triumph of freedom over oppression, a liberation of a people from the yoke of absolute power. Although there were excesses—and no honest historian had ever denied this—the official humanist view was that they should be seen in retrospect as the birth-pangs of a new order, which would offer a model of popular sovereignty to the world. I therefore assumed that Burke’s early doubts—expressed, remember, when the Revolution was in its very first infancy, and the King had not yet been executed nor the Terror begun—were simply alarmist reactions to an ill-understood event. What interested me in the Reflections was the positive political philosophy, distinguished from all the leftist literature that was currently à la mode, by its absolute concretion, and its close reading of the human psyche in its ordinary and unexalted forms. Burke was not writing about socialism, but about revolution. Nevertheless he persuaded me that the utopian promises of socialism go hand in hand with a wholly abstract vision of the human mind—a geometrical version of our mental processes which has only the vaguest relation to the thoughts and feelings by which real human beings live. He persuaded me that societies are not and cannot be organized according to a plan or a goal, that there is no direction to history, and no such thing as moral or spiritual progress.

Most of all he emphasized that the new forms of politics, which hope to organize society around the rational pursuit of liberty, equality, fraternity, or their modernist equivalents, are actually forms of militant irrationality. There is no way in which people can collectively pursue liberty, equality, and fraternity, not only because those things are lamentably underdescribed and merely abstractly defined, but also because collective reason doesn’t work that way. People reason collectively towards a common goal only in times of emergency—when there is a threat to be vanquished, or a conquest to be achieved. Even then, they need organization, hierarchy, and a structure of command if they are to pursue their goal effectively. Nevertheless, a form of collective rationality does emerge in these cases, and its popular name is war.

Moreover—and here is the corollary that came home to me with a shock of recognition—any attempt to organize society according to this kind of rationality would involve exactly the same conditions: the declaration of war against some real or imagined enemy. Hence the strident and militant language of the socialist literature—the hate-filled, purpose-filled, bourgeois-baiting prose, one example of which had been offered to me in 1968, as the final vindication of the violence beneath my attic window, but other examples of which, starting with the Communist Manifesto, were the basic diet of political studies in my university. The literature of left-wing political science is a literature of conflict, in which the main variables are those identified by Lenin: “Kto? Kogo?”—“Who? Whom?” The opening sentence of de Gaulle’s memoirs is framed in the language of love, about an object of love—and I had spontaneously resonated to this in the years of the student “struggle.” De Gaulle’s allusion to Proust is to a masterly evocation of maternal love, and to a dim premonition of its loss.

Three other arguments of Burke’s made a comparable impression. The first was the defense of authority and obedience. Far from being the evil and obnoxious thing that my contemporaries held it to be, authority was, for Burke, the root of political order. Society, he argued, is not held together by the abstract rights of the citizen, as the French Revolutionaries supposed. It is held together by authority—by which is meant the right to obedience, rather than the mere power to compel it. And obedience, in its turn, is the prime virtue of political beings, the disposition which makes it possible to govern them, and without which societies crumble into “the dust and powder of individuality.” Those thoughts seemed as obvious to me as they were shocking to my contemporaries. In effect Burke was upholding the old view of man in society, as subject of a sovereign, against the new view of him, as citizen of a state. And what struck me vividly was that, in defending this old view, Burke demonstrated that it was a far more effective guarantee of the liberties of the individual than the new idea, which was founded in the promise of those very liberties, only abstractly, universally, and therefore unreally defined. Real freedom, concrete freedom, the freedom that can actually be defined, claimed, and granted, was not the opposite of obedience but its other side. The abstract, unreal freedom of the liberal intellect was really nothing more than childish disobedience, amplified into anarchy. Those ideas exhilarated me, since they made sense of what I had seen in 1968. But when I expressed them, in a book published in 1979 as The Meaning of Conservatism, I blighted what remained of my academic career.

The second argument of Burke’s that impressed me was the subtle defense of tradition, prejudice, and custom, against the enlightened plans of the reformers. This defense engaged, once again, with my study of aesthetics. Already as a schoolboy I had encountered the elaborate defense of artistic and literary tradition given by Eliot and F. R. Leavis. I had been struck by Eliot’s essay entitled “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” in which tradition is represented as a constantly evolving, yet continuous thing, which is remade with every addition to it, and which adapts the past to the present and the present to the past. This conception, which seemed to make sense of Eliot’s kind of modernism (a modernism that is the polar opposite of that which has prevailed in architecture), also rescued the study of the past, and made my own love of the classics in art, literature, and music into a valid part of my psyche as a modern human being.

Burke’s defense of tradition seemed to translate this very concept into the world of politics, and to make respect for custom, establishment, and settled communal ways, into a political virtue, rather than a sign, as my contemporaries mostly believed, of complacency. And Burke’s provocative defense, in this connection, of “prejudice” —by which he meant the set of beliefs and ideas that arise instinctively in social beings, and which reflect the root experiences of social life—was a revelation of something that until then I had entirely overlooked. Burke brought home to me that our most necessary beliefs may be both unjustified and unjustifiable from our own perspective, and that the attempt to justify them will lead merely to their loss. Replacing them with the abstract rational systems of the philosophers, we may think ourselves more rational and better equipped for life in the modern world. But in fact we are less well equipped, and our new beliefs are far less justified, for the very reason that they are justified by ourselves. The real justification for a prejudice is the one which justifies it as a prejudice, rather than as a rational conclusion of an argument. In other words it is a justification that cannot be conducted from our own perspective, but only from outside, as it were, as an anthropologist might justify the customs and rituals of an alien tribe.

An example will illustrate the point: the prejudices surrounding sexual relations. These vary from society to society; but until recently they have had a common feature, which is that people distinguish seemly from unseemly conduct, abhor explicit sexual display, and require modesty in women and chivalry in men in the negotiations that precede sexual union. There are very good anthropological reasons for this, in terms of the long-term stability of sexual relations, and the commitment that is necessary if children are to be inducted into society. But these are not the reasons that motivate the traditional conduct of men and women. This conduct is guided by deep and immovable prejudice, in which outrage, shame, and honor are the ultimate grounds. The sexual liberator has no difficulty in showing that those motives are irrational, in the sense of being founded on no reasoned justification available to the person whose motives they are. And he may propose sexual liberation as a rational alternative, a code of conduct that is rational from the first-person viewpoint, since it derives a complete code of practice from a transparently reasonable aim, which is sexual pleasure.

This substitution of reason for prejudice has indeed occurred. And the result is exactly as Burke would have anticipated. Not merely a breakdown in trust between the sexes, but a faltering in the reproductive process—a failing and enfeebled commitment of parents, not merely to each other, but also to their offspring. At the same time, individual feelings, which were shored up and fulfilled by the traditional prejudices, are left exposed and unprotected by the skeletal structures of rationality. Hence the extraordinary situation in America, where lawsuits have replaced common courtesy, where post-coital accusations of “date-rape” take the place of pre-coital modesty, and where advances made by the unattractive are routinely penalized as “sexual harrassment.” This is an example of what happens, when prejudice is wiped away in the name of reason, without regard for the real social function that prejudice alone can fulfill. And indeed, it was partly by reflecting on the disaster of sexual liberation, and the joyless world that it has produced around us, that I came to see the truth of Burke’s otherwise somewhat paradoxical defense of prejudice.

The final argument that impressed me was Burke’s response to the theory of the social contract. Although society can be seen as a contract, he argued, we must recognize that most parties to the contract are either dead or not yet born. The effect of the contemporary Rousseauist ideas of social contract was to place the present members of society in a position of dictatorial dominance over those who went before and those who came after them. Hence these ideas led directly to the massive squandering of inherited resources at the Revolution, and to the cultural and ecological vandalism that Burke was perhaps the first to recognize as the principal danger of modern politics. In Burke’s eyes the self-righteous contempt for ancestors which characterized the Revolutionaries was also a disinheriting of the unborn. Rightly understood, he argued, society is a partnership among the dead, the living, and the unborn, and without what he called the “hereditary principle,” according to which rights could be inherited as well as acquired, both the dead and the unborn would be disenfranchized. Indeed, respect for the dead was, in Burke’s view, the only real safeguard that the unborn could obtain, in a world that gave all its privileges to the living. His preferred vision of society was not as a contract, in fact, but as a trust, with the living members as trustees of an inheritance that they must strive to enhance and pass on.

I was more exhilarated by those ideas than by anything else in Burke, since they seemed to explain with the utmost clarity the dim intuitions that I had had in 1968, as I watched the riots from my window and thought of Valéry’s Cimetière marin. In those deft, cool thoughts, Burke summarized all my instinctive doubts about the cry for liberation, all my hesitations about progress and about the unscrupulous belief in the future that has dominated and perverted modern politics. In effect, Burke was joining in the old Platonic cry, for a form of politics that would also be a form of care—“care of the soul,” as Plato put it, which would also be a care for absent generations. The graffiti paradoxes of the soixante-huitards were the very opposite of this: a kind of adolescent insouciance, a throwing away of all customs, institutions, and achievements, for the sake of a momentary exultation which could have no lasting sense save anarchy.

It was not until much later, after my first visit to communist Europe, that I came to understand and sympathize with the negative energy in Burke. I had grasped the positive thesis—the defense of prejudice, tradition, and heredity, and of a politics of trusteeship in which the past and the future had equal weight to the present—but I had not grasped the deep negative thesis, the glimpse into Hell, contained in his vision of the Revolution. As I said, I shared the liberal humanist view of the French Revolution, and knew nothing of the facts that decisively refuted that view and which vindicated the argument of Burke’s astonishingly prescient essay. My encounter with Communism entirely rectified this.

Perhaps the most fascinating and terrifying aspect of Communism was its ability to banish truth from human affairs, and to force whole populations to “live within the lie,” as President Havel put it. George Orwell wrote a prophetic and penetrating novel about this; but few Western readers of that novel knew the extent to which its prophecies had come true in Central Europe. To me it was the greatest revelation, when first I travelled to Czechoslovakia in 1979, to come face to face with a situation in which people could, at any moment, be removed from the book of history, in which truth could not be uttered, and in which the Party could decide from day to day not only what would happen tomorrow, but also what had happened today, what had happened yesterday, and what had happened before its leaders had been born. This, I realized, was the situation that Burke was describing, to a largely incredulous readership, in 1790. And two hundred years later the situation still existed, and the incredulity along with it.

Until 1979 my knowledge of Communism had been entirely theoretical. I did not like what I had read, of course, and was hostile in any case to the socialist ideas of equality and state control, of which I had already seen enough in France and Britain. But I knew nothing of what it is like to live under Communism—nothing of the day-to-day humiliation of being a non-person, to whom all avenues of self-expression are closed. As for Czechoslovakia, as it then was, I knew only what I had gleaned from its music—the music of Smetana, ~DVORAK, and ~jan in particular, to all three of whom I owe the greatest of debts for the happiness they have brought me. Of course, I had read Kafka and Ha~s\ek—but they belonged to another world, the world of a dying empire, and it was only subsequently that I was able to see that they too were prophets, and that they were describing not the present but the future of their city.

I had been asked to give a talk to a private seminar in Prague. This seminar was organized by Julius Tomin, a Prague philosopher, who had taken advantage of the Helsinki Accords of 1975, which supposedly obliged the Czechoslovak government to uphold freedom of information and the basic rights defined by the U.N. Charter. The Helsinki Accords were a farce, used by the Communists to identify potential trouble-makers, while presenting a face of civilized government to gullible intellectuals in the West. Nevertheless, I was told that Dr. Tomin’s seminar met on a regular basis, that I would be welcome to attend it, and that they were indeed expecting me.

I arrived at the house, after walking through those silent and deserted streets, in which the few who stood seemed occupied by some dark official business, and in which Party slogans and symbols disfigured every building. The staircase of the apartment building was also deserted. Everywhere the same expectant silence hung in the air, as when an air-raid has been announced, and the town hides from its imminent destruction. Outside the apartment, however, I encountered two policemen, who seized me as I rang the bell and demanded my papers. Dr. Tomin came out, and an altercation ensued, during which I was thrown down the stairs. But the argument continued and I was able to push my way past the guard and enter the apartment. I found a room full of people, and the same expectant silence. I realized that there really was going to be an air-raid, and that the air-raid was me.

In that room was a battered remnant of Prague’s intelligentsia—old professors in their shabby waistcoats; long-haired poets; fresh-faced students who had been denied admission to university for their parents’ political “crimes”; priests and religious in plain clothes; novelists and theologians; a would-be rabbi; and even a psychoanalyst. And in all of them I saw the same marks of suffering, tempered by hope; and the same eager desire for the sign that someone cared enough to help them. They all belonged, I discovered, to the same profession: that of the stoker. Some stoked boilers in hospitals; others in apartment blocks; one stoked at a railway station, another in a school. Some stoked where there were no boilers to stoke, and these imaginary boilers came to be, for me, a fitting symbol of the communist economy.

This was my first encounter with “dissidents”: the people who, to my astonishment, would be the first democratically elected leaders of post-war Czechoslovakia. And I felt towards these people an immediate affinity. Nothing was of such importance for them as the survival of their national culture. Deprived of material and professional advancement, their days were filled with a forced meditation on their country and its past, and on the great Question of Czech History which has preoccupied the Czechs since Palack~y\’s day. They were forbidden to publish; the authorities had concealed their existence from the world and had resolved to remove their traces from the book of history. Hence the dissidents were acutely conscious of the value of memory. Their lives were an exercise in what Plato calls anamnesis: the bringing to consciousness of forgotten things. Something in me responded to this poignant ambition, and I was at once eager to join with them and make their situation known to the world.

Briefly, I spent the next ten years in daily meditation on Communism, on the myths of equality and fraternity that underlay its oppressive routines, just as they had underlain the routines of the French Revolution. And I came to see that Burke’s account of the Revolution was not merely a piece of contemporary history. It was like Milton’s account of Paradise Lost—an exploration of a region of the human psyche: a region that lies always ready to be visited, but from which return is by way of a miracle, to a world whose beauty is thereafter tainted by the memories of Hell. To put it very simply, I had been granted a vision of Satan and his work—the very same vision that had shaken Burke to the depths of his being. And I at last recognized the positive aspect of Burke’s philosophy as a response to that vision, as a description of the best that human beings can hope for, and as the sole and sufficient vindication of our life on earth.

Henceforth I understood conservatism not as a political credo only, but as a lasting vision of human society, one whose truth would always be hard to perceive, harder still to communicate, and hardest of all to act upon. And especially hard is it now, when religious sentiments follow the whims of fashion, when the global economy throws our local loyalties into disarray, and when materialism and luxury deflect the spirit from the proper business of living. But I do not despair, since experience has taught me that men and women can flee from the truth only for so long, that they will always, in the end, be reminded of the permanent values, and that the dreams of liberty, equality, and fraternity will excite them only in the short-term.

As to the task of transcribing, into the practice and process of modern politics, the philosophy that Burke made plain to the world, this is perhaps the greatest task that we now confront. I do not despair of it; but the task cannot be described or embraced by a slogan. It requires not a collective change of mind but a collective change of heart.



TOPICS: Editorial; News/Current Events; Philosophy
KEYWORDS: copernicus5; faithandphilosophy
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To: Askel5
(Just out of curiosity ... what else in on the shelf?)

I should have said "primo" bookcase, which sits in my living room. (The major part of my library is located in another part of the house.) It's the one that I use for my most cherished books. It's a sort of "grab bag," the sort of thing you'd expect of a generalist of conservative tendencies. Your asking me what's on it gives me a welcome chance to "flog" my favorite books! :^)

There's lots of Eric Voegelin (I'm collecting all his titles over time) and Plato. There's a rather large "Americana" section: works of the Framers (e.g., collected letters of T. Jefferson, Federalist); plus the new John Adams biography; a few years back I was collecting sources of the Framers' thought (e.g., Locke, Hume, Burke, Milton's Areopagitica, Trenchard and Gordon's Cato's Letters). They're all there still. Also critical studies of the founding period by Bernard Baylin (e.g., The Ideological Origins of the American Revolution and The Ideological Origins of American Politics). I have the Autobiography of U.S. Grant (a first edition!), the collected writings of John Calhoun, including his masterful Disquisition on Government.

Then there are writers on American and Western culture, such as Russell Kirk (The Roots of American Order), Richard Weaver (The Southern Tradition at Bay), the Vanderbilt Agrarians (I'll Take My Stand), A. J. Nock (Our Enemy, the State), Frank Chodorov (Fugitive Essays) Jacques Barzun, James Burnham (esp. Suicide of the West); lots of Thomas Sowell and Walter Williams. I only have two works on economics on these shelves: Ludwig von Mises (Human Action) and Joseph Schumpeter (Capitalism, Socialism, and Democracy).

Other than Voegelin, Plato, Aristotle, and the Framers' sources, the only other philosophers there: Alasdair McIntyre's After Virtue. Theology: St. Thomas Aquinas, St. John of the Cross, Francis Schaffer (Trilogy), Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, and books by or about Pope John Paul II (including the fine Carl Bernstein biography). Of course, the King James Bible is there.

My science section is a-building: Wolfram, Gleick, Heisenberg, Sir James Jeans, Einstein, and (new accessions!!!) Roger Penrose, Evan Harris Walker, Christopher Wills....

I have Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Also Vilfredo Pareto's Mind and Society.

This bookshelf is relatively poetry and plays "lite": But T.S. Eliot and John Donne are there; also a collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Also Dante's Divine Comedy and Milton's Paradise Lost. The plays: T.S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, Aeschylus' Orestiea, and a collection of Moliere (he just cracks me up!).

I have most of the C.S. Lewis (my favorites: The Screwtape Letters and The Great Divorce) and G. E. K. Chesterton titles (I love his biographies of Saint Thomas Aquinas and Saint Francis of Assisi).

It's "fiction-lite", too. Only truly beloved titles are there, including Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov, The Possessed, The Idiot); the collected works of Jane Austin; Boccaccio's Decameron; Sir Thomas Mallory's Le Morte d'Arthur; also Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Also one of the greatest autobiographies ever written (IMHO) is there: Whittaker Chambers' Witness, as well as Sam Tannenbaum's excellent critical biography of Chambers.

I think that's about it. Pretty eclectic, no?!

Thanks for asking, A-G. Hugs!

101 posted on 02/10/2003 12:42:10 PM PST by betty boop
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To: Alamo-Girl; beckett; cornelis; Phaedrus; Dataman
IMHO, the best hope lies in speaking to the neshamah. And that is very difficult in these times, as much of mankind – particularly many of the intellectual elite - are delusional. They have silenced their neshamah by declaring that the physical realm is all that there is; that the conscious is but an impertinent physical phenomenon; and therefore, the end (or objective) always justifies the means.

Excellent analysis, Alamo-Girl. But how does one communicate, however, with the neshamah -- in sound bites? I just don't know how it is to be done!

102 posted on 02/10/2003 12:46:07 PM PST by betty boop
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To: All
Oooooppsss! So sorry for the double post....
103 posted on 02/10/2003 12:47:29 PM PST by betty boop
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To: betty boop
Thank you so much for the kudos and encouragements!

But how does one communicate, however, with the neshamah -- in sound bites?

Actually it is being done, but it requires funding and needs to be directed to non-believers also. An example is the white letter on black billboards you see now and again in Texas. One of them said: "Don't make me come down there!" - God.

Metaphysical naturalists could be targeted with a billboard showing a child helping an elderly person: "Mercy is not an accident of genes."

I'm not creative - but that's the general idea. Tug at the neshama.

104 posted on 02/10/2003 1:07:16 PM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: betty boop
Very nice bookcase, dear BB.

On a huge hill, Cragged and steep,
Truth stands,
And hee that will reach her,
About must, and about must goe,
And what th'hills suddenes resists, winne so,
Yet strive so, that before age, death's twilight,
Thy soule reste, for none can worke in that night.

John Donne, 1620

105 posted on 02/10/2003 7:19:12 PM PST by beckett
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To: betty boop
However, it seems to me that to "feel" truth in this sense requires the death of the passions -- in the Socratic sense that cornelis was speaking of earlier. For passion misleads; it disorders; it does not permit us to see clearly. Unruly, disordered, power-mad men generally will not be terribly interested in truth. They're just interested in "results."

I am in at least some meaningful sense reluctant to agree. This love of truth is a very deep, passionate, moving thing, it is not cold and austere. An example. PBS did a segment on a British mathematician (wish I could remember his name) who struggled for years in search of a mathematical proof that had eluded all to that time. Incredible effort, countless hours, were spent over months and years in passionate, passionate, pursuit of that elusive proof. He succeeded. And he had to hold back tears when recalling the moment of truimph for the camera. Does passion always disorder?

106 posted on 02/10/2003 8:48:09 PM PST by Phaedrus
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To: betty boop
The really scary thing is the increasing legitimacy being given to public opinion polls as guides to public policy. That is a prescription for disaster. Rhetoric increasingly becomes a substitute for reality.

Yes.

107 posted on 02/10/2003 8:55:43 PM PST by Phaedrus
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To: betty boop
After perusing your library and interests at post #100, "Redneck Intellectual" seems an even more apt and comfortable self-description. I do know when I'm in the company of my betters ... ;-} Live long, bb.
108 posted on 02/10/2003 9:16:42 PM PST by Phaedrus
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To: Phaedrus; Alamo-Girl; beckett; cornelis; KC Burke; Dataman
Does passion always disorder?

Good point, Phaedrus! Perhaps we could bring Alamo-Girl's distinction between nephesh and neshama into play here, so to try an answer to this question. I'd say the passion of nephesh -- that of the lower "animal" nature -- certainly does disorder. But this British mathematician you were speaking of, my guess is that his passion was of the neshama type -- expressing a passion for beauty and truth, and the delight of achieving something lovely, something sublime, that had long been elusive.

What do you think, my friend?

109 posted on 02/11/2003 7:13:07 AM PST by betty boop
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To: betty boop
Thank you so much for the heads up to your important analysis! I absolutely agree with you!

Passion of the nephesh demands gratification. Rape, theft, murder, intoxication, gluttony fall into this category. It is self serving, the politics are Marxist, the worldview is materialistic, the end justifies the means:

"For dialectical philosophy nothing is final, absolute, sacred. It reveals the transitory character of everything and in everything; nothing can endure before it except the uninterrupted process of becoming and of passing away, of endless ascendancy from the lower to the higher." - Fredrick Engels The End of Classical German Philosophy

Passion of the neshama longs for completeness. Love, faith, philosophy, benevolence falls into this category. It is humble, the politics are conservative, the worldview is teleological, we are but a part of a greater construct:

"The most beautiful and deepest experience a man can have is the sense of the mysterious. It is the underlying principle of religion as well as all serious endeavour in art and science. He who never had this experience seems to me, if not dead, then at least blind. To sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is a something that our mind cannot grasp and whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly and as a feeble reflection, this is religiousness. In this sense I am religious. To me it suffices to wonder at these secrets and to attempt humbly to grasp with my mind a mere image of the lofty structure of all that there is." - Einstein's speech 'My Credo' to the German League of Human Rights, Berlin, autumn 1932, Einstein: A Life in Science, Michael White and John Gribbin, page 262


110 posted on 02/11/2003 7:31:44 AM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: betty boop
Perhaps we could bring Alamo-Girl's distinction between nephesh and neshama into play here ... What do you think, my friend?

Yes, I agree. The longer I live and the more I think about these "things", the more I come to believe that life itself and the manner in which we exercise our Free Will is the lesson, and the first step, if you will, seems to me to be "overcoming the fear" and that requires understanding. A mouthful but FWIW, bb, as always.

111 posted on 02/11/2003 7:33:17 AM PST by Phaedrus
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To: betty boop; Alamo-Girl
The fancy Hebrew notwithstanding, I think it will be misleading to order the intellect (which I presume must be distinguished from consciousness) as a receptivity between two of sources of fundamentally different things--at least not without some major redrafting. The first step toward a revision is to abandon the notion that these two actions are in some way a polar opposites. Otherwise we will land ourselves in a horrible dualism--something already intimated in suspicion of passion. Next thing you know we'll be doing the pendulum swing, hating the all renaissance and digging ourselves under for a disembodied utopia, sine resurrectione

A body-soul dichotomy, as with any dualism, is a setup for the tyranny of one over the other. And a prior synthesis or a fundamental arche to the body-soul or form-matter antithesis (I use Kant's word on purpose) is not to be found in Greek or Enlightenment thought (and the Hebrews weren't even Greek!)

112 posted on 02/11/2003 7:36:45 AM PST by cornelis
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To: cornelis; Alamo-Girl; beckett; Phaedrus
A body-soul dichotomy, as with any dualism, is a setup for the tyranny of one over the other. And a prior synthesis or a fundamental arche to the body-soul or form-matter antithesis (I use Kant's word on purpose) is not to be found in Greek or Enlightenment thought....

cornelis, thank you for your cautionary statements with respect to dualism. Yet I don't see how the body-soul distinction necessarily must be thought of as constituting polar opposites. I imagine there must be a fundamental arche that unites the two at some level, for these two "aspects" need each other to express a human life; i.e., they constitute a unity. Yet given the limitations of language, to speak of either of the aspects requires us to "intend" one or the other; and intentionality implies a kind of artificial uprooting out of the fuller context in which each of the aspects appears and mutually participates in the other. In this sense, it distorts to some degree the thing we're thinking and speaking about. In this sense, "we murder to dissect." So we have to remember that the separation was an artificial one all along.

Does this make any sense?

113 posted on 02/11/2003 8:21:53 AM PST by betty boop
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To: cornelis; betty boop
Thank y'all for your posts!

cornelis: The first step toward a revision is to abandon the notion that these two actions are in some way a polar opposites. Otherwise we will land ourselves in a horrible dualism--something already intimated in suspicion of passion.

The dualism already exists, the conflict has always been there. It was recognized thousands of years ago by the Hebrew word usage in the Bible. It is at the root of Theology - from Judeo/Christian to Eastern Religions. Freud confirmed at least in part – the Id and Superego. Both sides practice tyranny within us as we exercise our free will – do I watch the soap opera or play with the kid?

IMHO, if we truly wish to communicate - we must tailor the message to the recipient. If it’s an English audience, we don’t speak Spanish. We don’t sell ice to Eskimos. And if the audience is particularly sensitive to an issue, that’s the one you raise - play the race card to win an acquittal for O.J.

Likewise here – conservatism doesn’t appeal to the carnal man, the nephesh - so I suggest we speak to the neshama. In other words, why not exploit the difference which already exists to further conservatism?

I do not, and cannot, address the philosophical issues you raise. I only speak to the practical ones – how to get the conservative message a fair hearing.

114 posted on 02/11/2003 8:37:10 AM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: betty boop
I don't see how the body-soul distinction necessarily must be thought of as constituting polar opposites.

Neither do I, but that is only because of others have made the mistakes before me. The body-soul distinction was just an example. But with respect to the Hebrew, I am afraid we run the risk of building our edifice on the analysis, rather than on what the analysis is contingent on.

I don't blame Alamo-Girl for sticking to her guns here, but as I understand it, we need to make doubly sure whether this dualism which has always been there is fundamental. If you build your epistemology on it, you'll be more Greek than Hebrew.

115 posted on 02/11/2003 8:42:05 AM PST by cornelis
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To: betty boop; Askel5
I missed the library log when you posted it. I see R. Weaver, but what about Ideas Have Consequences, especially the introduction....is that "in the house"? If not, you must proceed to get it, betty...its a "don't miss".
116 posted on 02/11/2003 10:00:31 AM PST by KC Burke
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To: cornelis; Alamo-Girl; Phaedrus
...we run the risk of building our edifice on the analysis, rather than on what the analysis is contingent on...we need to make doubly sure whether this dualism which has always been there is fundamental.

I acknowledge the danger, cornelis. On the other hand, I don't think that Alamo-Girl means to construct a system, to "build an edifice" here. Personally, I doubt the dualism is fundamental. Yet to speak the language of nephesh and neshama really is to speak the language, not of ontology or epistemology, but rather of metaphor (perhaps even myth). It does allow us a way to account for observable differences between the behavior of the Parisian mob, and what Phaedrus' British mathematician was doing. To that extent, I think it has real value. Plus Alamo-Girl has developed this metaphoric language to account for specific, observable differences between socialist totalitarianism and the conservative position. This seems useful -- just so long as we remember we're dealing with metaphors.

117 posted on 02/11/2003 10:12:06 AM PST by betty boop
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To: KC Burke
I've missed that one, KC Burke! It's simply amazing how many books I haven't read! :^) Thank you for the recommendation -- I'll take you up on it, and get a hold of Weaver's Ideas Have Consequences.

Thanks again!

118 posted on 02/11/2003 10:16:59 AM PST by betty boop
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To: betty boop
Thank you so much for your post and for the clarification of the issue!

Treating it as a metaphor is fine with me. My concern (and the reason I dared to contribute) is to suggest a way to "get through" to this spectator society (LOL!)

119 posted on 02/11/2003 10:25:53 AM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: betty boop
When I was first reading Ideas.., I read the introductory portions about his views on nominalism and modernity late at night. I got so upset that someone had written such a concise summary almost 50 years ago and I was just then reading it in 2001 that I couldn't stand it. I had to stop, get up and re-read it aloud.

It is a tour de force.

120 posted on 02/11/2003 10:32:37 AM PST by KC Burke
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To: Alamo-Girl; cornelis; Phaedrus
My concern (and the reason I dared to contribute) is to suggest a way to "get through" to this spectator society (LOL!)

I think it could work just that way, Alamo-Girl. Most of those spectators wouldn't understand cornelis' (valid!) objection anyway. They just want somebody to "paint them a picture."

121 posted on 02/11/2003 10:45:52 AM PST by betty boop
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To: KC Burke
I got so upset that someone had written such a concise summary almost 50 years ago and I was just then reading it in 2001 that I couldn't stand it. I had to stop, get up and re-read it aloud.

Funny, I had the same reaction to Burke's Reflections, which anticipates the methods of our modern totalitarians in great detail -- from 1790!!!

Weaver's Ideas Have Consequences sounds like a great book, KC! I'll get me a copy.

122 posted on 02/11/2003 10:51:10 AM PST by betty boop
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To: betty boop
Thank you for your post! Strangely, a Freeper (The Great Satan) just posted this jewel on another thread:

But, like the man said, nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people.

Talk about timing ... LOL! Anyway, you have my caution about spectators and my suggestion of targeted sound bites. I leave the intellectual heavy lifting to you.

123 posted on 02/11/2003 10:52:52 AM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: JohnHuang2
muy excellento! great post...
124 posted on 02/11/2003 11:00:52 AM PST by chilepepper
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To: betty boop; Alamo-Girl
Most of those spectators wouldn't understand cornelis' (valid!) objection anyway.

You are exercising your cordial virtues in more ways than one and so I should naturally hesitate to defend anything such as myself to note that the failure of discourse cuts right through "us" and "them."

125 posted on 02/11/2003 12:11:34 PM PST by cornelis
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To: cornelis
You are exercising your cordial virtues in more ways than one and so I should naturally hesitate to defend anything such as myself to note that the failure of discourse cuts right through "us" and "them."

Yes, that was pretty arrogant of me, wasn't it? Normally I try to be inclusive. In my own defense, I've been seeing quite a few "mobs" lately. It's got me a little unhinged....

126 posted on 02/11/2003 12:26:50 PM PST by betty boop
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To: Carry_Okie
I enjoyed your comment on his comments. The One who Loves us and Pursues us so diligently, inevitably makes Himself known to those who hunger for Truth...like Whitaker Chambers and M. Scott Peck.

People who would run run from a "Savior" cling to Truth.

127 posted on 02/11/2003 12:31:54 PM PST by Dutchgirl
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To: Dutchgirl
I'll quote something from a draft of a book I wrote:
When one conducts any inquiry into the motives, beliefs, and aspirations of people, especially the habitually rich and powerful, one is inescapably led to the grand sweep of history stretching back 6-10,000 years. It really isn’t such a terribly long time. It is a history of the propagation of ideas, far more efficient and with a great deal more continuity than is commonly understood. It is a humbling thing that forces one to confront some undeniable choices.

I would be thus remiss not to say that this process of inquiry led me to the importance of a renewed relationship with God Jesus Christ. It’s that thing about morality. It is a logical consequence to the study of such a history. It may not be a logical requirement for ecosystem management, but it is seems to be so when considering the transaction overhead among humans, so capable of untrustworthy and self-destructive behavior. It was certainly a requirement for the faith and stamina that it took me to crank out such a beast of a book, particularly in the all too frequent moments of despair at my own inadequacies as a writer. If you got this far, thank you for your forbearance. There was a cause.

I had been self-abused for over ten years of intensive and expensive humanist training that had rendered many pleasurable gestalts invited through deep regression. They were an opening for interests outside that which I was given. I was being taught to think I had all the answers while simultaneously opening myself to those suggested. I thought I knew everything, just as I had been told to think. Unfortunately for the humanists, the integrity in conduct and the search for truth they emphasized led me to seek essential Truth.

Truth was the undoing of their philosophy.

The sensual enlightenment that came with such realizations of suggested abstraction became a crowd of competing perspectives that were destructive to clarity. Unfortunately, they weren’t my realizations and they weren’t my thoughts. I have since bid them back to their own lives and, subsequent to having begged for His forgiveness, I have thanked God for the rediscovery of my own. Life is simpler, now.


128 posted on 02/11/2003 1:29:34 PM PST by Carry_Okie (Because there are people in power who are truly evil.)
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To: betty boop; cornelis; Alamo-Girl
[Dualism] seems useful -- just so long as we remember we're dealing with metaphors.

Conceptual dualism is the beginning of differentiation and analysis and so, I would suggest, it is essential, though we would (all?) agree, I presume, that overconcentration on these mental constructs can, and has in the past, obscured an (the?) underlying unity. This reflects only our limitations and weaknesses, I would suggest.

But I am an optimist. Each human being is unique and that is amazing considering our numbers. Yet we are all human. Physics explored the nature of materiality and found first energy, then immateriality, to be at its core. Physics is pressing ever closer toward the unification of all (Walker comes clearly to mind here, bb).

129 posted on 02/12/2003 6:41:30 AM PST by Phaedrus
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To: KC Burke; betty boop
I got so upset that someone had written such a concise summary almost 50 years ago and I was just then reading it in 2001 that I couldn't stand it.

This has also happened to me a great deal in recent years. I found my college education to be highly deficient and it was upsetting. The "good news", I suppose, is that the internet has allowed the interchange of ideas without mediation by the academic (or any other) "elite". Very valuable. And Thank You -- I will be joining bb in buying Weaver's Ideas Have Consequences.

130 posted on 02/12/2003 6:48:55 AM PST by Phaedrus
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To: Phaedrus; Alamo-Girl; cornelis
Conceptual dualism is the beginning of differentiation and analysis and so, I would suggest, it is essential, though we would (all?) agree, I presume, that overconcentration on these mental constructs can, and has in the past, obscured an (the?) underlying unity. This reflects only our limitations and weaknesses, I would suggest.

Well said, Phaedrus!

131 posted on 02/12/2003 7:27:44 AM PST by betty boop
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To: Cicero
Perhaps the most fascinating and terrifying aspect of Communism was its ability to banish truth from human affairs, and to force whole populations to “live within the lie,” as President Havel put it. George Orwell wrote a prophetic and penetrating novel about this; but few Western readers of that novel knew the extent to which its prophecies had come true in Central Europe. To me it was the greatest revelation, when first I travelled to Czechoslovakia in 1979, to come face to face with a situation in which people could, at any moment, be removed from the book of history, in which truth could not be uttered, and in which the Party could decide from day to day not only what would happen tomorrow, but also what had happened today, what had happened yesterday, and what had happened before its leaders had been born. This, I realized, was the situation that Burke was describing, to a largely incredulous readership, in 1790. And two hundred years later the situation still existed, and the incredulity along with it.

Having lived in Poland (1981-3) during Martial Law and the crackdown on Solidarnosc, I can identify with the author's perceptions on "real-life" Communism, especially the observation that Communist governments "banish truth from human affairs" and force people to "live within a lie." Revisionist history is a tool of oppression. It relegates the individual to a meaningless speck of matter whose very proof of existence can be removed by the State.

As a free people, it is our obligation to attack the untruths, past and present, that come not only from government, but also, from our educational institutions and societal leaders. The history of the United States is being bombarded by revisionists in the name of political correctness ignoring the context of the times. I find the ignorance of young Americans about our history the stuff that will rend the fabric of our culture and leave us without a national character and identity.

132 posted on 02/12/2003 7:29:20 AM PST by kabar
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To: kabar
ignorance of ... our history You hit the nail on the head. Often a willful ignorance. borne from simplification: the past is too difficult for proof, and proof is safe. Think of the simplicity of common reason: everybody agrees on that! Of course, all such simplified proof is exclusive. It rejects evidence that doesn't fit it. And as Aristotle reminds us (who is also part of our history) first principles are without demonstration. Which is just another way of saying, I think, first principles are religious. It is interesting to note that the antagonism to history walks hand in hand with the antagonism to religion.
133 posted on 02/12/2003 7:59:04 AM PST by cornelis
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To: Phaedrus; betty boop
Thanks for the heads ups! Hugs!
134 posted on 02/12/2003 3:05:34 PM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: betty boop
The search for a common language seems to be the main challenge these days. And the search is made more difficult, given the increasingly polyglot and "multicultural" character of our native nation, not to mention the sheer impermeability of the reigning political orthodoxies with respect to the reception of new insights, experiences, or information....

Was there another thread where this point was raised. I recall this was discussed somewhere else--the Hayek thread? Do you know? Where else does Scruton raise the problem of communication? Does he get it from Voegelin?

All I could find on that was: Henceforth I understood conservatism not as a political credo only, but as a lasting vision of human society, one whose truth would always be hard to perceive, harder still to communicate, and hardest of all to act upon. And especially hard is it now, when religious sentiments follow the whims of fashion, when the global economy throws our local loyalties into disarray, and when materialism and luxury deflect the spirit from the proper business of living.

135 posted on 02/13/2003 2:53:04 PM PST by cornelis
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To: Phaedrus; betty boop; Alamo-Girl
On the point of communication, which interested all of us, I really think that confusion about the orders of monism, dualism, as well as kinds and genus is the one of the greatest cause for disrupted dialogue (the other is egoism, willfulness, or other such hubris--an ordering all the same).

Our discussion about passion was hurled onto the metaphors of nephesh and neshamah. Nephesh, according to A-G, is the thought-mechanism of the animal soul and the source for Marxist thought, and neshamah, the as the source from which conservatism derives power from Truth revealed to the spirit. The one source leads to relativity, the other submits to higher purposes and yielding moral absolutes.

This last metaphor, I suppose, could be in some way analogous to Scruton's tradition.

I cautioned against the usefulness of this ordering and I will tell you why. The placement of these two sources, in a sort of opposition between an "us" and "them", does not answer whether these two sources belong to the same orders, as if they belong to the same genus. Sure, they are here conveniently found together, even beginning with the letter n.

The metaphor of these two sources was furthermore complicated with the body soul dichotomy, the supremacy of common (or public) reason, as distinct from the private I presume. All of this then is found to come together in a master receptacle called the consciousness, some central nexus that lies passive to a monolithic and ubiquitous nature, or reality, which is something I don't believe.

I do believe right understanding here makes all the difference in our attempts to communicate. The unique understanding of Plato led him to record the Gorgias and suggest ways of realizing dialogue after failure. It provides a unique answer that has not yet been discussed.

Of course this is only FR, but I suspect all of you consider yourselves as a cadre of significant members, always devoted to aletheia with every sincere motive.

Through all this confusion, I extent my mortal hope that the best and brightest could slug it out and leave "them" alone to their happily chosen perdition. : )

136 posted on 02/13/2003 3:39:05 PM PST by cornelis
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To: JohnHuang2
An interesting account of one man's personal odyssey to escape the fantasy world, that the Left has created for Western man over the past century. But what a dismal picture he paints of the British "intellectual" community today. No wonder they like Clinton. He reflects the fantasy perfectly.

The Chapter in my Conservative Debate Handbook, just published two days ago, The Persuasive Use Of Images, illustrates the method by which the Left has been undermining American values--and promoting racial antagonism, at the same time--by substituting fantasy images for the actual historic experiences of the American people. It is more and more obvious, that the way to counter the left, is to return to an understanding of the actual dynamics of genuine positive human progress--as opposed to change and destruction in pursuit of fantasy.

The writer in the essay, you have posted, found in Burke an understanding of the rational and actual continuum which is a healthy society. We need to apply the lesson of his lifetime to our approach to the youth. We need to cut to the chase, and demonstrate the obvious. There is too much wasted effort, trying to argue with the Left in terms of their own fantasies. That accomplishes nothing. The obvious reality is that people progress via a many generational quest; that developing a clear perception of the building process that one's ancestors embarked on, and why, is the foundation for anything worthwhile to follow.

William Flax Return Of The Gods Web Site

137 posted on 02/13/2003 4:08:26 PM PST by Ohioan
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To: cornelis; betty boop; Phaedrus
Thank you for your post and the explanation!

The placement of these two sources, in a sort of opposition between an "us" and "them", does not answer whether these two sources belong to the same orders, as if they belong to the same genus.

I really did not mean to cause such a ruckus, I was just offering a suggestion on how to communicate or promote conservatism to the general public.

Every human has his own nephesh and neshamah tugging at him in opposite directions. His free will determines which way he will turn - one moment he can be liberal, the next conservative. But, IMHO, he will trend in one direction or the other depending on whether he seeks gratification or completeness. In other words, it's not "us" and "them." The battle is within each of us.

This is moot to the debate of political philosophy. But perhaps you will find the distinction useful when attempting to promote conservatism to the inattentive and disinterested public.

138 posted on 02/13/2003 7:45:19 PM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: kabar
Your 2 paragraphs at #132 were eloquent, forceful, moving. How do we communicate these truths to our children within the context of a culture in decline? This is not intended as a rhetorical question. Can we make them understand?
139 posted on 02/13/2003 8:22:57 PM PST by Phaedrus
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To: cornelis; betty boop; Alamo-Girl
When I was much younger, the "with it" popular culture instructed "Don't trust anyone over 30". Now that I'm much older, I find that dictum exactly and precisely wrong. Until one has lived long enough to begin to question those "truths" we all absorb by osmosis from society and discovered how bankrupt they actually are, only then can one begin to learn. The point I suppose is that the biases I have accumulated are based upon experience, upon living, which I trust. Nonetheless I remain open-minded, far more open minded, probably, than many Christians might find comfortable. The point of this short statement is context. Because it is written or studied or revered or promoted by society does not make it so.

On the point of communication, which interested all of us, I really think that confusion about the orders of monism, dualism, as well as kinds and genus is the one of the greatest cause for disrupted dialogue (the other is egoism, willfulness, or other such hubris--an ordering all the same).

Yes, confusion reigns but as noted earlier, most are not interested and so we must "count them out". To characterize this (and find an excuse for borrowing from one of my all-time favorite movies, Bull Durham), it's like a Martian talking to a Fungo.

Our discussion about passion was hurled onto the metaphors of nephesh and neshamah. Nephesh, according to A-G, is the thought-mechanism of the animal soul and the source for Marxist thought, and neshamah, the as the source from which conservatism derives power from Truth revealed to the spirit. The one source leads to relativity, the other submits to higher purposes and yielding moral absolutes.

This last metaphor, I suppose, could be in some way analogous to Scruton's tradition.

I cautioned against the usefulness of this ordering and I will tell you why. The placement of these two sources, in a sort of opposition between an "us" and "them", does not answer whether these two sources belong to the same orders, as if they belong to the same genus. Sure, they are here conveniently found together, even beginning with the letter n.

Here I would agree and disagree. I find the contrast useful and meaningful beyond the surface level in terms of its correspondence to reality because Man does have an animal, material aspect (which to me is not a negative, but more on this at some other time, perhaps) and a spiritual one (not obvious only because of pervasive popular cultural propaganda). My criticism would be that the characterization of Man cannot and should not be forced into such small and limited and thus inappropriate boxes. What we are is much more, qualitatively. The dichotomy is too pat and the words are woefully insufficient. But then, any either/or set of alternatives is too pat.

The metaphor of these two sources was furthermore complicated with the body soul dichotomy, the supremacy of common (or public) reason, as distinct from the private I presume. All of this then is found to come together in a master receptacle called the consciousness, some central nexus that lies passive to a monolithic and ubiquitous nature, or reality, which is something I don't believe.

I don't understand the underlined portion. What is it you don't believe? That consciousness is real? Or that it is central? Or what? And why?

I do believe right understanding here makes all the difference in our attempts to communicate. The unique understanding of Plato led him to record the Gorgias and suggest ways of realizing dialogue after failure. It provides a unique answer that has not yet been discussed.

I would like to hear it discussed. The implications of this statement, though (and I do not intend to put words in your mouth), seem to be that it is possible to communicate in all instances with all people and that perfect communication would lead to right action. I believe that both assumptions, if they are being made, are absolutely and demonstrably false.

Of course this is only FR, but I suspect all of you consider yourselves as a cadre of significant members, always devoted to aletheia with every sincere motive.

This raises my hackles. Should it? You are here, voluntarily, discoursing. And presumably learning. I sincerely doubt you will learn more or better in "the university". You find yourself here among some exceedingly sensitive, deep, accomplished and open-minded thinkers (betty boop comes readily to mind). In the university you will find the first 3 but not often the 4th, and that is a critical difference.

Through all this confusion, I exten[d] my mortal hope that the best and brightest could slug it out and leave "them" alone to their happily chosen perdition. : )

I suppose I would say that the brightest is not necessarily or always the best (by any stretch) and that I, for one, would not admit to much, if any, confusion.

140 posted on 02/14/2003 9:42:07 AM PST by Phaedrus
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To: cornelis; Alamo-Girl; beckett; Phaedrus
Dear cornelis, you appear to be in high dudgeon about something lately; but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what. So until such time as I might be better informed as to the particulars, I’ll just assume that your interest may be in a reconsideration of Plato’s Gorgias (380 BC) in terms of its meaning and relevance to our own time.

You wrote, “confusion about the orders of monism, dualism, as well as kinds and genus is the one of the greatest cause for disrupted dialogue (the other is egoism, willfulness, or other such hubris--an ordering all the same).” You worried that use of the Kabbalist (sp?) “metaphors” of nephesh and neshamah might muddy up the waters of discourse: “The placement of these two sources, in a sort of opposition between an ‘us’ and ‘them,’ does not answer whether these two sources belong to the same orders, as if they belong to the same genus.”

Plato draws dualistic distinctions; he speaks of body and soul. But he also had a myth that accommodates the view of one common humanity, a vision of unity. That was the myth of the divine puppeteer, and the “golden” and “base” cords that animated the actions of the human “puppets” – where the golden cords could draw the individual human soul into a divine life “in the fullest measure that human nature can admit.” The way I look at it, the terms nephesh and neshamah refer to propensities in an individual human soul to respond to either the pull of the “golden,” or the pull of the “base.” And I think this is within Alamo-Girl’s description of those terms. (I hope she will let me know if that’s not the case.)

You later wrote: The metaphor of these two sources was furthermore complicated with the body soul dichotomy, the supremacy of common (or public) reason, as distinct from the private I presume.

I don’t presume that. I’ll take the body-soul duality the way Plato saw it. More on that in a minute.

All of this then is found to come together in a master receptacle called the consciousness, some central nexus that lies passive to a monolithic and ubiquitous nature, or reality, which is something I don’t believe.

Well, I don’t believe it either, cornelis. Consciousness is not some kind of passive nexus mediating “a monolithic and ubiquitous nature.” That was Callicles’ entire argument, in a nutshell – wouldn’t you agree?

The unique understanding of Plato led him to record the Gorgias and suggest ways of realizing dialogue after failure. It provides a unique answer that has not yet been discussed.

Let’s take a look at this “gorgeous” work. The mise en scene: Callicles invites Socrates to his house, where the eminent guest of his hospitality, the great “rhetorician” Gorgias, has been holding forth all afternoon to a very large company of other invited guests. Socrates particularly wants to meet Gorgias, because he has a few questions he wants to ask of this famous and highly esteemed figure. We soon learn that what Socrates had in mind is the test of the statement or postulate: It is better to suffer evil than to perpetrate it.

Fast forward. (Lurkers, please go read the dialog. I promise to put up the link presently.) Socrates is able to maneuver Gorgias into total silence, on the basis of the logical inconsistencies of Gorgias’ argument. The only way that Gorgias had left to him to assert his position would have required him to say out loud the most despicable and “base” things about human nature and the general constitution of reality. So he presently clammed up.

Then stepped into the breach one Polus, a disciple, I gather, of Gorgias. In due course, Socrates made short order of him, on identical grounds. Polus presently clammed up as well, and for identical reasons.

Which left the field to Callicles. One gathers he was also a pupil of Gorgias. But he was not as scrupulous in his discernment of moral truth as either of his predecessors in the dispute with Socrates had been.

Of Callicles, what can one say? To my mind, a description of his character is best summed up in these lines from Heraclitus (Plato’s “long shadow,” on Voegelin’s view):

Eyes and ears are bad witnesses/For men whose souls are barbarous.

In Callicles we have a human creature of the 4th century B.C. maintaining with perfect equanimity that all human laws are but conventions, in effect fabricated out of the perceived need by whatever ruling class might hold the reins of power at any given point in time, to support whatever happens to pass for the cultural, political, and economic status quo. To this concept he opposes the idea of “natural law” – which is decidedly not the idea of “natural law” that Christian theology has advanced. The “natural law” of which Callicles spoke was, in fact, the law of the jungle. The law of brute power: the law of “human advancement” at the expense of one’s fellow human creatures. Arguably, it is a kind of “law” of which both Thomas Hobbes and Charles Darwin would have approved. [And then would presumably have had to devise ways -- instantly -- to constrain precisely this behavior, so deleterious in practice to the welfare of human societies down the ages.]

Throughout this dialog, Callicles sneers at, and makes veiled threats against Socrates. And Socrates recognizes the bad faith, the animus towards himself; yet he bears it all in good grace and good humor – despite being well aware of the personal danger he faces in confronting this character. In particular, Callicles was quite prescient in this regard, for he informed Socrates that Socrates might himself be brought up on public charges sooner or later, and have to answer for his “crimes” in due course.

But Socrates is not to be daunted by these veiled threats. Well he understands that, in the end, the final judgment is not man’s to make. And it’s here we have to remember the “dualism” of Socrates/Plato which prefaces, IMHO, the idea of a Unity that can contain the two:

“Death, if I am right, is in the first place the separation from one another of two things, soul and body; nothing else.”...

Socrates further maintains in what follows that, in an improvement by Zeus over the former order of Chronos, human souls are judged “naked,” by “naked” judges.

Which is the very approach or posture taken by Socrates toward Callicles all along. For all of Callistes’ barely contained spite, Socrates was generous towards him in all respects. The suggestion is that Callistes, when he must confront the final judgment, “naked spirit to (fearsome!) naked Spirit” – as inevitably he must, on Plato’s view -- would probably not fare so well, or be so generously treated….

And from the merely human point of view, why should he be, since Callicles thought fit to espouse the following:

“…how can a man be happy who is the servant of anything? On the contrary, I plainly assert, that he who would truly live ought to allow his desires to wax to the uttermost, and not to chastise them; but when they have grown to their greatest he should have courage and intelligence to minister to them and to satisfy all his longings. And this I affirm to be natural justice and nobility. To this however the many cannot attain; and they blame the stong man because they are ashamed of their own weakness, which they desire to conceal, and hence they say that intemperance is base….they enslave the nobler natures, and being unable to satisfy their pleasures, they praise temperance and justice out of their own cowardice.”

Unfortunately, this voice seems to sound a great resonating chord in our own time -- echoing down the course of a couple millennia by now, and yet so timely to the modern ear.

In the discourse of Callicles, you are hearing a case mounted in favor of unaccountable power, of the invasion and usurpation of the sphere of the individual human being, of totalitarian thought and behavior.

Of contempt for all life, human or otherwise. And a rebuke to God Himself into the bargain.

Who needs this sh*t??? What kind of civilized polity can be constructed on Callicles’ stated grounds?

FWIW.

141 posted on 02/14/2003 7:11:55 PM PST by betty boop
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To: All
Here's the link to Plato's "Gorgias":

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Academy/3963/books/gorgias.htm

142 posted on 02/14/2003 7:44:20 PM PST by betty boop
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To: All
p.s.: It's 78 pages of typescript. Motivated readers could "do it" in an afternoon. But then one might want additional time for reflection...about what is really a most ancient problem in human affairs that has not, til this day, been "conclusively answered."

Of course, the folks who give you this (i.e, Callicles') explanation tend to hold human history in contempt as a source of knowledge or wisdom....

143 posted on 02/14/2003 7:51:07 PM PST by betty boop
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To: betty boop; Phaedrus
Thank y'all so much for the heads ups on your excellent analysis and background! I just scanned the link. It looks fascinating. I'll be reading it tomorrow. Hugs!
144 posted on 02/14/2003 8:41:38 PM PST by Alamo-Girl
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To: betty boop
Unfortunately, this voice [of Callicles] seems to sound a great resonating chord in our own time -- echoing down the course of a couple millennia by now, and yet so timely to the modern ear.

Chilling. Callicles, thy name is Clinton.

145 posted on 02/15/2003 5:20:06 AM PST by Phaedrus
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To: Phaedrus
Chilling. Callicles, thy name is Clinton.

Yes, Callicles is the very model for a Bill and Hill....

146 posted on 02/15/2003 7:41:14 AM PST by betty boop
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To: betty boop

BTT


147 posted on 02/15/2007 4:50:25 PM PST by supremedoctrine ("Talent hits a target no one else can hit, genius hits a target no one else can see"--Schopenhauer)
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To: Billthedrill; Little Bill

Ping for more thought.


148 posted on 02/15/2007 6:02:07 PM PST by Little Bill (Welcome to the Newly Socialist State of New Hampshire)
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To: betty boop
My Grandfather, a simple Mormon Mechanic, disliked Burke, and disliked the French Revolution mainly for its rejection of the past in law and heritage.

He felt that the Founders took the idea of continence to its logical end, we were from England and those laws and customs that we inherited and were compatible with a Republic should hold force.

149 posted on 02/15/2007 6:19:20 PM PST by Little Bill (Welcome to the Newly Socialist State of New Hampshire)
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To: Little Bill; supremedoctrine; Alamo-Girl; metmom; hosepipe
My Grandfather, a simple Mormon Mechanic, disliked Burke, and disliked the French Revolution mainly for its rejection of the past in law and heritage.

Hey there Little Bill! Long time no see!

How can one dislike a book that dislikes what one dislikes?

By all means, Little Bill, do read Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France yourself. As Scruton points out, the book is about conservatism vs. progressivism (revolution):

To be a conservative, I was told, was to be on the side of age against youth, the past against the future, authority against innovation, the “structures” against spontaneity and life. It was enough to understand this, to recognize that one had no choice, as a free-thinking intellectual, save to reject conservatism. The choice remaining was between reform and revolution. Do we improve society bit by bit, or do we rub it out and start again?

The French revolution was about "rubbing society out" and starting over, from scratch. In the process, human beings devolved into animals: There was nothing left after France was laid waste that could serve as a support to human beings. Everybody was free to "do his own thing" (even quite monstrous things); but then it turned out that only "bestial things" could then be done. (Which is an insult to animals really -- I'm sorry for that; but these humans were "worse" than animals. Animals are incapable of bad will or evil motives....)

The horrors that Burke depicts are monstrous, chilling. Plus Reflections is one of the most eloquent defenses ever written about the millennia-old conservative political (and social) philosophy.

I couldn't recommend the book more highly. And Roger Scruton is a wonderful read in his own right!

150 posted on 02/16/2007 1:45:33 PM PST by betty boop (Beautiful are the things we see...Much the most beautiful those we do not comprehend. -- N. Steensen)
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