Feeds:
Posts
Comments

This content is password-protected. To view it, please enter the password below.

EL SENTIDO DE LA REVOLUCIÓN COPERNICANA

EN LA FILOSOFIA DE KANT 



I. INTRODUCCIÓN

 

Si bien es una verdadera propuesta temeraria la de abordar la complejidad de la filosofía kantiana en un espacio tan breve, intentaré al menos esgrimir a continuación los principales puntos que recogen el sentido de la revolución copernicana en Kant. Para Paul Ricoeur, Copérnico posibilita la primera de tres humillaciones que ha sufrido Occidente al descentrar el universo que rotaba alrededor de nuestro privilegiado planeta. Copérnico, tomado como representante del surgimiento de las ciencias naturales, derrumbó las presuposiciones características tanto de la Antigüedad como del Medioevo. Esto es así ya que el surgimiento del método matemático en busca de las verdaderas leyes físicas de la naturaleza, destruyó los fundamentos tanto de las interacciones hermenéuticas del medioevo ––ejemplificadas de manera hermosa por Foucault en Las Palabras y las Cosas—- como de las teleologías naturales de un orden cosmológico jerarquizado fundando sobre la noción del bien platónico. La importancia de Kant radica en que es él quien logra articular e interrelacionar  en sus tres complejas Críticas, referidas respectivamente a los campos de la epistemología, de la ética y del estética, los elementos fundamentales de lo que consideramos como la modernidad. Para dar mayor claridad a esta afirmación, seguiré el siguiente camino de comprensión. Primero desarrollaré esquemáticamente las ideas presentadas en la Critica de la Razón Pura como texto fundamental para la comprensión del impacto de las ciencias naturales en nuestra comprensión de la naturaleza. Luego de dicha presentación plantearé, muy brevemente, algunas criticas dialógicas a los fundamentos kantianos a partir de las filosofías de Husserl y Heidegger. Las dos preguntas que guían el quehacer de la primera sección son: ¿Cómo fundamenta Kant la objetividad científica en el texto?¿Existen acaso presuposiciones no criticadas dentro de la critica kantiana en el desarrollo de su concepción epistemológica? En segundo lugar retomaré las ideas principales de la Metafísica de las costumbres y de la Critica de la Razón Practica conectando el proyecto de la primera sección con el ámbito ético que ahora hace su aparición. Investigaremos los diversos tipos de imperativos kantianos formulando en su presentación algunas críticas al recuperar la visión ética de Aristóteles. Recuperaremos la fortaleza de la concepción de autonomía para la modernidad y de la dignidad de todo ser humano racional, al retomar la reinterpretación habermasiana de Kant. Las preguntas directrices que guiarán el camino a este nivel serán: ¿Cómo defiende argumentativamente Kant la noción de la dignidad inherente a la autonomía moderna fundada sobre la presencia del imperativo categórico?¿Qué presuposiciones cuestionables encontramos a la raíz de una ética fundamentalmente formal y deductiva?

 

II. LA FUNDAMENTACIÓN DEL CONOCIMIENTO OBJETIVO EN LA CRÍTICA DE LA RAZÓN PURA

 

La modernidad se caracteriza en principio por una actitud filosófica que es esencialmente negativa, es decir, es un proceder fundamentalmente desmitificador que busca cuestionar los principales presupuestos de la Edad Media y de  la Antigüedad  Su espíritu dinámico recibe de la critica a toda heteronomía tradicional la fuente de su actividad. El presente se problematiza como nunca antes. Y aun cuando nuestra autocomprensión no se limita al surgimiento de la tendencia  a la matematización del mundo surgida de la revolución copernicana, esta última la tomamos como elemento diferenciador de nuestro horizonte histórico.

En la Crítica de la Razón Pura, Kant asume consecuentemente este  surgimiento y busca a partir de esta realidad incuestionable llevar a cabo un análisis riguroso y sistemático de las consecuencias que dicho aparecer tiene sobre nuestra autocompresión. Comprensión y critica se vuelven una, se motivan mutuamente al buscar explicitar los límites internos de la razón humana. La crítica moderna ––claramente diferenciada del radical cuestionar socrático—- busca esclarecer lo que racionalmente podemos aseverar:

“nuestra época es de manera especial la de la critica. Todo ha de someterse a ella. Pero la religión y la legislación  pretenden de ordinario escapar a la mismas ….. al hacerlo, despiertan contra si mismas sospechas justificadas y no pueden exigirnos respeto sincero”. (CRP 9 Nota k)

 

En un principio todo esfuerzo se detendrá en un cuestionamiento de la experiencia epistemológica posible, aunque como la anterior cita nos recuerda el camino a recorrer prosigue hacia la ética y la política. Partimos por lo tanto del hecho de que las ciencias modernas están fundadas sobre la experiencia, tal como ya lo reseñaban los empíricos ingleses. Pero intentamos ahora comprender los fundamentos de dicho experienciar característico. Las cuatro causas aristotélicas deben ceder a la preponderancia de la moderna causalidad científica. Para nosotros modernos conocedores ya del método positivo: “no se podría confundir ya la ruta a tomar y el camino que da la ciencia queda iniciado para siempre y con alcance ilimitado (17 CRPu)”. Para Kant, siguiendo a Bacon, incluso la  naturaleza debe ser obligada a responder acerca de sus verdaderas leyes subyacentes.  A su base encontramos en particular la categoría de la causalidad, cuya ejemplificación la encontramos en la ley de la gravedad newtoniana (CRPu 18).  Si la metafísica es todavía posible para nosotros modernos, entonces para Kant debe ella estar fundamentada  en la experiencia posible para nosotros en tanto seres racionales. Error sería caer en las limitaciones de anteriores fundamentaciones que intentaron acceder al ser en cuanto tal olvidándose primero de cuestionar el cómo es posible que se nos de ese ser en la experiencia humana . Para Kant, Platón en particular “no se dio cuenta  de que, con todos sus esfuerzos, no avanzaba nada, ya que no tenía punto de apoyo.” (CRPu 46-47). De un tajo a los diálogos platónicos se les revela, eso cree Kant, su verdadero límite.

¿Qué, más específicamente, nos revela esta crítica revolucionaria? La revolucionaria investigación kantiana  en la primera Crítica revela —–en particular en la Analítica Trascendental complementada posteriormente con la Dialéctica Trascendental—–  que  existen, aparte de nuestra experiencia a través de los sentidos,  formas a priori, como lo es la forma de la ya mencionada causalidad. Éstas formas no se nos dan ellas mismas dentro de la experiencia, pero enigmáticamente también es cierto que es sólo a partir de su presencia que el experienciar es del todo posible.

Estas formas denominadas juicios, están dividas en dos. Por un lado encontramos los juicios analíticos que son universales y necesarios pero que no avanzan en nada nuestro conocimiento. Un ejemplo de estos es el principio de no-contradicción.  Por otro lado hallamos los juicios sintéticos y entre ellos en particular los juicios sintéticos a priori que plantean un verdadero enigma a la razón. Esto se debe a que preceden toda experiencia y sin embargo no son comprensible a partir de la experiencia sensible únicamente. La ciencia moderna se fundamenta en dichos juicios sintéticos a priori. Estos son universales y necesarios, y a diferencia de los analíticos, si avanzan el conocimiento; lo cual es precisamente el objetivo fundamental de la ciencia experimental (CRPu, 44).

La expedición crítica en busca de los fundamentos racionales de dichas categorías, las estructuras universales de la razón que permiten la organización del mundo fenoménico, es la Filosofía Trascendental.  Se aleja ésta tanto del empirismo simplista como del dogmatismo realista al comprenderse como “todo concomimiento que se ocupa no tanto de los objetos, cuanto de nuestro modo de conocerlos” (CRPu, 58; mi énfasis). Las preguntas fundamentales de dicha filosofía trascendental incluyen:¿Cómo es posible la experiencia de objetos reales para nosotros modernos herederos de la ciencia? ¿Con que derecho podemos argumentar racionalmente que nuestro conocimiento realmente hace referencia a objetos “allá afuera”? ¿Cómo puedo constatar racionalmente que mi conocimiento sale de sí y hace posible la objetivación? (CRPu 139).

Brevemente expuesto, para Kant el conocimiento propiamente humano es síntesis de dos troncos: el de la sensibilidad y el del entendimiento (CRPu, 60-61). La integración necesaria entre ambos la articula Kant de manera elocuente: “los pensamientos sin contenidos son vacíos, (y) las intuiciones sin conceptos son ciegas” (CRPu 93). La primera aproximación a la cuestión, realizada en el texto kantiano por la Estética Trascendental nos revela al tiempo y al espacio como las condiciones del intuir en una experiencia posible. En otras palabras son juntas las formas universales a priori de todo experiencia intuitivo.

Del otro tronco, es decir, del entendimiento, se ocupa la Lógica Trascendental. Es allí donde luego de un largo recorrido encontramos las categorías que son definidas como los “conceptos de un objeto general mediante el cual la intuición de éste es considerada como determinada en relación con una de las funciones lógicas del juzgar” (CRPu 128). ¿Cómo aseverar que dichas categorías tienen en realidad validez objetiva, tal y como lo concluye Kant al final de la Deducción Trascendental? (CRPu 139) Sin entrar en los detalles de las síntesis de la aprehensión en la intuición, de la síntesis de la reproducción en la imaginación y de la síntesis del reconocimiento en el concepto,  el fundamental descubrimiento kantiano radica en el descubrimiento subyacente que logra integrar toda síntesis posible.

Al determinar la categoría de la unidad —que la experiencia por si sola no puede garantizar ya que el simple hecho de que la luz solar cambia constantemente cambia por ende la percepción de cualquier objeto real—– reconozco que en ya en mi como ser humano racional hay una unidad que no es propiamente la misma de la categoría en cuestión. Esta unidad original, que logra integrar los troncos de la sensibilidad y del entendimiento, es precisamente aquella que permite la utilización de la categoría particular de la “unidad” (y claro, de toda otra categoría subsiguiente). ¿Qué unidad es ésta tan peculiar? Para Kant esta  unidad es la unidad fundamental de la conciencia pura trascendental, es la unidad de la apercepción,  de la autoconciencia. Aquello que Descartes no pudo explicitar referente al cogito logra en Kant una más profunda demostración. La unidad de la subjetividad trascendental hace posible la experiencia misma: “el entendimiento puro constituye pues, en las categorías, la ley de unidad sintética de TODOS los fenómenos, y es lo que hace así primordialmente posible la experiencia” (CRPu 150). Sin ella seríamos incapaces de organizar el mundo de una manera tal que lo podamos conocer, y sobretodo conocer científicamente. La autoconciencia  para Kant hace posible el mundo  humano y el entendimiento en particular es por lo tanto “él mismo la legislación de la naturaleza ….. sin él no habría naturaleza alguna, esto es, unidad sintética y regulada de lo diverso de los fenómenos” (CRPu 149). 

Kant mismo nos provee con un ejemplo al mencionar la posible unidad de un perro cualesquiera. En la síntesis conceptual que elaboramos en tanto seres lingüísticos  reconocemos ya no un perro contingente derivado de la percepción —- pues, ¿qué características de la percepción determinan lo que ha de contar como perro si los perros entre si son tan diversos, para no mencionar las características diferenciadores con por ejemplo un zorro?—– sino el concepto de perro mismo.  Sin entrar en detalles, las diversas síntesis que culminan en la síntesis conceptual  generan “una regla conforme a la cual mi imaginación es capaz de dibujar la figura de un animal cuadrúpedo en general sin estar limitado a una figura particular que me ofrezca la experiencia, ni a cualquier posible imagen que pueda reproducir en concreto (CRPu 184).”

 

Es gracias al esquematismo trascendental que lo que es fundamentalmente heterogéneo logra su síntesis. Puede haber así una trascendencia de la intuición al concepto y un trascendencia del concepto a la intuición. ¿Y cómo más precisamente surge este esquematismo tan maravilloso? Aquí Kant reconoce lo que el proyecto crítico está llamado a reconocer, sus propios límites:

“el esquematismo del entendimiento constituye un arte oculto en lo profundo del alma humana. El verdadero funcionamiento de este arte, difícilmente dejará la naturaleza que lo conozcamos y difícilmente lo pondremos al descubierto” (CRPu 185) 

 

Si bien el proyecto no ha logrado dilucidar la raíz fundamental de la capacidad para poder argumentar en favor del real acceso a objetos y eventos externos, para Kant se ha logrado sentar las bases para una metafísica posible moderna. El camino arduo de la Analítica Trascendental abre la posibilidad de un viaje aún más intrépido en de la Dialéctica Trascendental; espacio en el que las cuestiones propiamente humanas, las de la ética, la política y la religión han de enfrentarse de manera novedosa. La capacidad poética kantiana surge como un iceberg dentro de su poco poética obra al considerarse el territorio del entendimiento puro como una isla rodeada “por un océano ancho y borrascoso, verdadera patria de la ilusión donde algunas nieblas y algunos hielos que se deshacen prontamente produc(en) la apariencia de nuevas tierras y engañan una y otra vez con vanas esperanzas al navegante ansioso …”. La libre autonomía moderna ––aquel fundamento de la Ilustración en búsqueda de una real mayoría de edad— puede ahora si, según Kant, navegar sobre las bases de un más sólido barco.

 

Pero la crítica por su propia naturaleza no acaba, su proyecto es fundamentalmente un proyecto sin fin. Por ello cabe referirse brevemente a las criticas  presentes en la obras de Husserl y Heidegger. Para Husserl, en particular en algunos apartados de su obra madura Crisis de las Ciencias Europeas y la Fenomenología Trascendental,  encontramos múltiples cuestionamientos acerca de las presuposiciones kantianas. Entre ellos cabe resaltar la incapacidad de Kant para radicalizar su propia perspectiva y así cuestionar los fundamentos de su pensamiento. La fenomenología husserliana —que conoce ya de los descarrilamientos de la tecnología y de la política liberal en el siglo XX— logra comprender que antes que la subjetividad trascendental científica encontramos la subjetividad precientífica cotidiana.  Se revelan así las bases de la razón instrumental y su intento por monopolizar todo el campo de la razón y del ser. Para Husserl “lo realmente primero es la intuición meramente subjetiva-relativa de la vida mundana precientífica.” (128 CCEFT). La aparente universalidad del proyecto kantiano comienza a revelarse como un proyecto culturalmente remitido a la historia de Occidente.

Pero a su vez ésta radicalización de la cuestión trascendental en Kant, encuentra a su vez una revolucionaria crítica en la importante obra de Heidegger. En primer lugar, en su  Kant y el problema de la Metafísica argumenta  él, planteando ideas de Ser y Tiempo, que la CRPu es el primer intento serio sobre la posibilidad interna de la ontología y no simplemente un investigar epistemológico. Pero es en Ser y Tiempo  en donde la cuestión trascendental da paso a la reformulación del ser humano en cuanto Dasein, ser cuya característica ontológica principal es la de ser-en-el-mundo. El proyecto trascendental inmerso dentro de la dicotomía epistemológica sujeto-objeto da paso a una novedosa postura ontológica sobre la pregunta del ser que revela las peligrosas presuposiciones de la matematización de la naturaleza.

 

III. FUNDAMENTACIÓN DE LA METAFÍSICA Y LA CRÍTICA DE LA RAZÓN PRACTICA

La Critica de la Razón Pura  abre para Kant la posibilidad de discutir sobre bases firmes el problema de la libertad humana.  Aquello  que no deja de asombrarnos al considerar la idea de la libertad es que, siendo un idea de la razón, su fortaleza se despliega en nuestro actuar en el mundo practico-cotidiano. La tercera Antinomia de la razón nos revela que sólo en tanto que nos percibimos a nosotros mismos como seres libres, es decir, como seres que originan cadenas causales que en sí mismas no son causadas, entramos de lleno al ámbito moral.

En el segundo capítulo de la Fundamentación de la Metafísica de las Costumbres (FMC), Kant se cuestiona principalmente sobre la posible existencia de diferentes tipos de imperativos que sirvan como fundamento para la comprensión de nuestra acción ética. Le interesa a Kant preguntarse en particular por la posibilidad de que los seres humanos puedan acceder en su práctica a un modo de ser más allá de lo que “es” simplemente, para así afirmar el “deber ser” en cuanto tal. La lectura de Kant nos incita a preguntarnos: ¿No habrá un modo de ser en el que todo ser humano va más allá de lo que es para afirmar el deber ser en cuanto tal? ¿No habrá una instancia en la que como individuos se nos revele un fundamento universalizable que compartimos con todo otro ser racional? ¿Existirá entre los diversos tipos de imperativos alguno  que logre llevarnos más allá de nuestra subjetividad contingente hacia la ley moral universalizable, sin que por eso deje de ser aquello que es universalizado mi propia máxima autónoma? Una respuesta afirmativa a estas preguntas es aquella que para la filosofía práctica kantiana permitiría abrir el espacio moral fundado en un autonomía racional incondicionada. Si esta respuesta es posible hay pues un elemento que entrelaza lo aparentemente inconmensurable; por un lado mi máxima subjetiva contingente, y por otro, la ley moral objetiva válida para todo ser racional.

            Pero además la distinción entre los diferentes imperativos que el segundo capítulo de la Fundamentación propone analizar, tiene como fin primordial la separación clara e indisoluble del ámbito de lo no-moral, y de su contraparte, la esfera propiamente moral. En la filosofía kantiana sólo existe una posible relación entre ambos ámbitos; el de la negatividad. El primer tipo de imperativos, a saber, los  imperativos hipotéticos tienen como esfera de acción la no-moralidad. Su formulación es tan solo posible en términos de medios y fines que nos representamos a nosotros mismos al plantearnos una proposición cuya forma es: si “x”, entonces “y”. Como lo formula Habermas a este nivel “se trata de una elección racional de los medios ante fines dados o de la ponderación racional de los fines ante preferencias existentes” (8).

            En particular los consejos de la sagacidad tienen como fin un objetivo claro, el de la felicidad. Pero debido a que para Kant este concepto surge del juego de la imaginación subjetiva, pertenece por lo tanto al ámbito de lo empírico, de lo sensible y de lo contingente. En consecuencia, tanto los medios que busco para realizar mi felicidad, como la definición misma de lo que yo considero  ha de ser lo característico de un ser humano feliz, no pueden ser ninguno de los dos universalizados. Para Habermas hay aquí un paso fundamental hacia un nuevo uso de la razón, más allá de los imperativos técnicos básicos. Surge un uso ético pues la razón practica “no sólo aspira a lo posible y lo adecuado a fines, sino también a lo bueno, se mueve, si seguimos el uso de lenguaje clásico, en el terreno de la ética (10).” Si bien la propia división kantiana no explicita los consejos de la sagacidad en estos términos, la visión habermasiana puede darnos una ampliación del área de posible aplicación de dichos consejos.

Sin embargo nos preguntamos, ¿por qué detenernos brevemente en dichos imperativos hipotéticos, y no simplemente dejar de mencionarlos para entrar de lleno en los famosos imperativos categóricos kantianos? La pausa surge precisamente porque cabría plantear ciertas implicaciones comparativas si nos remitimos momentáneamente a la ética aristotélica. Al argumentar Habermas que a este nivel no hemos llegado aún al ámbito propiamente moral, ¿no se hace evidente que para él la ética de Aristóteles tan sólo logra llegar al nivel del imperativo hipotético de la sagacidad kantiano, siendo esta limitación afortunadamente subsanada gracias al moderno proyecto moral kantiano?. Si esto fuese así sin duda implicaría forzar la ética aristotélica a un molde que le es altamente desconocido e inconmensurable. Para Aristóteles la felicidad es de hecho el bien supremo, el telos mismo del quehacer ético; pero no por ello bajo su concepción se debe entregar la noción de felicidad a un relativismo subjetivista incuestionado. Y esto se debe precisamente a que los puntos de partida de la investigación ética de Aristóteles y de la investigación moral para Kant son altamente irreconciliables. Para el primero “el punto de partida es el hecho; y si esto es  suficientemente claro, no habrá necesidad de asegurar por qué? (Ética Nicomáquea I *4 1095b13). En contraste, para el filósofo alemán “es muy reprobable el tomar las leyes relativas a lo que se debe hacer de aquello que se hace, o bien limitarlas en virtud de este último” (CRPu 312). Y dicha diferenciación, brevemente anotada, cobra su verdadero valor en el contexto de la filosofía de Charles Taylor quien intenta recuperar una noción del bien como fundamento de la moral en su Sources of the Self y al hacerlo revela el empobrecimiento surgido al reducir el campo moral, como lo hace Habermas, a una realidad procedimental en vez de substantiva. (Taylor, 85) 

Pero dejando de lado este cuestionamiento crucial para comprender el fundamento mismo del proceder kantiano, debemos ahora entrar a considerar  el segundo tipo de imperativo existente. Entramos sólo ahora al ámbito de lo moral al considerar el famoso imperativo categórico. Al abordar dicho ámbito y dicho imperativo no pueden entrar consideraciones que conciernen nuestras inclinaciones naturales, nuestra sensibilidad, o nuestras situaciones personales contingentes. Es así como en un primer momento nos dice Kant que ni podemos ejemplificar dicho imperativo, ni tampoco saber realmente si nuestra acción fue realmente acorde a su formulación. Lo que nos interesa es pues la forma del imperativo. El imperativo categórico está caracterizado como una proposición sintética, practica y a priori. Es a priori en tanto que no buscamos su inducción a partir de experiencias éticas particulares. Es práctica ya que la forma , fundada sobre la idea de la libertad, nos lleva a actuar en la esfera de la vida cotidiana. Finalmente es sintética debido a que  logra ser el puente entre el principio subjetivo del obrar —mi acción particular a partir de mi máxima individual— y el principio objetivo de la acción, a saber, la ley moral. A diferencia de los consejos de la sagacidad, así hayan sido reinterpretados por Habermas como abriendo el campo de la ética,  sólo hasta ahora llegamos propiamente al ámbito universal de la moral.  Dicho imperativo nos permite ir mas allá del relativismo cultural y personal al hacer factible una comunicación intersubjetiva y transcultural pues se pueden garantizar estándares mínimos que han de guiar la discusión misma. Por ello para Habermas en su movimiento reinterpretativo:

“solo en la radical liberación de las historias vitales individuales y de las formas de vida particulares se hace valer el universalismo del respeto equitativo para todos y la solidaridad con todo lo que posee rostro humano (22).

 

Dejamos atrás la limitada perspectiva enfocada en el bien y entramos de lleno en el ámbito de la justicia. No quiere decir esto, claro está, que las dos sean mutuamente excluyentes. Por el contrario mis máximas pueden ser vistas tanto desde el punto de vista ético o del  moral, pero el cambio de perspectiva lleva consigo maneras diferentes de plantearse y de intentar resolver preguntas que se da a si misma la razón práctica. Pero más importante aún, la ganancia propia del proyecto moderno es precisamente la de colocar como fundamento discursivo el ámbito de la justicia universal. (Habermas, 13).

Sin embargo ya retornando a la obra de Kant de repente nos topamos  con los párrafos más paradójicos que hemos de encontrar en ella. Esto se debe a que Kant nos ha dicho incesantemente a lo largo de nuestra lectura que el fundamento del deber ser no es ejemplificable; si algo, es formulable. Pero como si estuviese negando su propio proceder, Kant a continuación nos entrega cuatro ejemplos debidamente clasificados entre deberes perfectos e imperfectos.  Al observar dicho proceder nos llenamos de dudas:  ¿Acaso encuentra aquí el formalismo en tanto método deductivo de la moral su gran límite dado que pareciera haber una tensión irremediable entre la forma del deber y la posibilidad de que éste sea principio de la acción moral en la vida real cotidiana en la cual  me veo enfrentado a complejas situaciones existenciales? ¿Por qué se nos dan estos cuatro ejemplos tan particulares que no puede hacer justicia a la diversidad de  situaciones humanas?

Más precisamente el segundo deber perfecto  habla de mi relación con los demás seres humanos. Es este ejemplo, considerado como un deber perfecto en tanto que yo no podría siquiera pensar el quebrantar el juego lingüístico del prometer (para usar terminología contemporánea) utilizando como pretexto mis circunstancias particulares. Si lo hiciera reinaría entonces, para Kant, el egoísmo universal. Comprendida dicha acción en términos de la tradición política del contrato social, se quebrantaría irremediablemente dicho contrato y caeríamos en un estado de guerra si seguimos a Hobbes, o en un estado natural apolítico si seguimos a Locke. Sin embargo, siguiendo la premisa aristotélica que nos dice, “es propio del hombre instruido buscar la exactitud en cada materia en la medida en que la admite la naturaleza del asunto” (1094b 23-25), es más o menos sencillo encontrar contraejemplos a dicha ejemplificación supuestamente categórica. Un padre  prometería lo que fuese a un instituto de salud, con tal que su hijo sea tratado rápidamente.

Pero igualmente oímos  el reclamo kantiano ante tal ejemplificación; aun cuando hemos de recordar que fue Kant mismo quien problematizó su posición al verse necesitado de ejemplos. Kant nos preguntaría a su vez, ¿cómo fundar  una moral que valga para todo ser humano, proyecto de universabilidad característicamente moderno, si no podemos regular categóricamente nuestra actuar?¿Hemos de simplemente caer en la inconmensurabilidad de culturas y tradiciones sin poder encontrar criterios objetivos para juzgar una respecto de las otras?

Afortunadamente existe otro camino para recuperar la fortaleza del imperativo categórico kantiano. Si la primera formulación del imperativo categórico nos deja con un sentimiento de vacío y lejanía, algo en las palabras de Kant nos motiva a continuar con la lectura de su compleja obra. La razones comienzan a revelarse al comenzar a reconocer que la idea de la libertad es fundamento no de nuestro conocimiento, sino de nuestra práctica diaria; los mandatos categóricos no revelan simplemente un listado a memorizar. Ellos son la posibilidad misma del actuar moral propiamente humano, de un actuar que racionalmente pueda considerarse a si mismo como autónomo y libre. ¿Qué, entonces, dentro del formalismo kantiano nos lleva a actuar bajo preceptos morales universalizables? Para encontrar una respuesta a esta pregunta debemos releer una de las últimas formulaciones del imperativo categórico que nos dice: “obra de tal modo que uses a la humanidad, tanto en tu persona, como en la persona de cualquier otro siempre como un fin al mismo tiempo y nunca como un medio.”

Aquello que  me lleva a actuar  moralmente en tanto ser racional es la idea de la dignidad que me permite ser conciente de mi ser como llamado a configurar una vida que tenga como eje central de realización el proyecto de la autonomía. La voluntad moderna no puede buscar leyes externas como fundamento a su carácter moral.  Es en tanto que ésta busca autolegislarse, que cobra sentido hablar de una actividad realmente libre. Vivir cobijado por la realidad del imperativo categórico revela una actividad autónoma  en la que en la plenitud de mi libertad me doy a mi mismo la ley. Pero esa voluntad,  que puede querer objetivar su máxima subjetiva en ley universal, sabe además que la posibilidad de una real autonomía implica un reconocimiento de los demás seres humanos considerados como focos de expresión racional. Soy movido por el imperativo categórico a darme una ley para todos al entrever aquel asombro que me colma cuando reflexiono sobre la dignidad de lo que esencialmente soy como ser humano. Dicha reflexión me abre al descubrimiento en mi de una facultad, la razón, que me posibilita acceder a esta preciada idea de la libertad. Nos motiva por lo tanto la exigencia de vivir una vida acorde a nuestra  racionalidad como condición necesaria para intentar lograr la “mayoría de edad” ilustrada. En palabras del propio Kant:

“la razón refiere pues, toda máxima de la voluntad como  universalmente legisladora, a cualquier otra voluntad y también a cualquier acción consigo misma, y esto no en virtud de otro motivo práctico, o en vista de algún provecho futuro, sino por la idea de la dignidad de un ser racional que no obedece a ninguna otra ley que aquélla que se da a si mismo.” (FMC).

 

 

En conclusión para Kant — y esto no deja  por un instante de ser problemático – luego de sentar las bases epistemológicas de una metafísica que logre incorporar el sentido de la revolución copernicana, podemos adentrarnos en el ámbito de la fundamentación moral universal. Los seres humanos adquirimos nuestro verdadero valor en tanto que afirmamos incondicionalmente nuestra racionalidad práctica, marca diferenciadora respecto a todo otro ser viviente. Dicha afirmación, más allá del ámbito pragmático-ético para usar los términos de Habermas, hace a todo ser racional digno de participar continuamente en un modo de ser más allá de su ser natural, a saber,  el modo de ser del deber ser cuya manifestación debe darse en mi práctica cotidiana contingente.


V. BIBLIOGRAFÍA

 

I. TEXTOS PRIMARIOS

 

a) Kant, Immanuel. Critica de la Razón Pura. Ediciones Alfaguara 1988. Traducción de Pedro Ribas.

b) Kant, Immanuel. Fundamentación de la Metafísica de las Costumbres. Editorial Porrua. Traducción de Manuel García Morente.

c) Kant, Immanuel. Kant’s Political Writings. Cambridge University Press, 1985. pgs 54-61 “An Answer to the Question: What is Enlightenment?”. Traducido al  inglés por N.H. Nisbet.

d) Kant, Immanuel. Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, Macmillan, 1987. Traducida por Lewis White Beck.

e) Kant, Immanuel. Prolegomena to any Future Metaphysics Bobbs-Merrill,  1985. Traducida por Lewis White Beck.

f) Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Practical Reason, Bobbs-Merrill, 1983. Traducida por Lewis White Beck.

 

II. TEXTOS SECUNDARIOS

 

a) Habermas, Jürgen. “Acerca del Uso Ético, Pragmático y Moral de la Razón Práctica”. En Filosofía (revista de posgrado de la Universidad de Los Andes) , n.1. abril 1990, Mérida, Venezuela pg. 5-24.

b) Taylor, Charles. “Kant’s Theory of Freedom”, en Philosophical Papers 2: Philosophy and the Human Sciences, Cambridge 1988. pgs 318-339.

c) Heidegger, Martin. Kant y el Problema de la Metafísica, Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1986, pgs 1-107. Traducido por Greb Roth.

c) Husserl, Edmund. Crisis de las Ciencias Europeas y la Fenomenología Trascendental, Numerales 25-34, pgs. 96-138. Folios Ediciones, 1984 . Traducido por Hugo Steinberg.

 

LA CONCEPCIÓN DEL SUJETO EN LAS CIENCIAS SOCIALES CONTEMPORÁNEAS

 

INTRODUCCIÓN

La pregunta por el sujeto es central para la comprensión del rol de las ciencias sociales en la modernidad. El siguiente ensayo pretende mostrar de manera resumida algunas de las que considero son las centrales visiones de lo que consideramos como agencia humana en la modernidad. Para llevar a acabo esta investigación dividiré en cuatro secciones el ensayo de la siguiente manera : 1) daré una breve introducción a la concepción que surge del sujeto moderno con la aparición de las ciencias naturales hacia el siglo XVII , 2) a continuación reseñaré la posición crítica de esta primera visión científica tal y como aparece explicitada en la importantísima obra de Charles Taylor, posición fundada sobre la idea del sujeto como ser interpretativo y constituido por lo que han de llamarse “evaluaciones fuertes”, 3) una vez hecha esta reseña proseguiré a criticarla a través de la posición presente en la obra de Michel Foucault retomando sus ideas de poder y tecnologías del yo, y por último 4) muy brevemente proveeré al lector con una ejemplificación clara de la cuestión del sujeto y sus repercusiones prácticas a nivel social al mirar de cerca una de las criticas más importantes de la noción de subjetividad contemporánea, a saber, la crítica llevada a cabo por el feminismo.

I. LA VISIÓN DEL SUJETO EN LAS CIENCIAS NATURALES

Con el advenimiento de la revolución científica en los siglos XVI y XVII, crucial para el posterior desarrollo de la noción de progreso tecnológico indefinido, se transformaron radicalmente los fundamentos para la constitución de la subjetividad. Ya los anteriores órdenes ——-el racional (‘logos’) griego, o el divino católico——fueron desenmascarados, eran simplemente proyecciones subjetivas. Los pensadores de la época, entre ellos Descartes y Hobbes, radicalizaron su perspectiva del universo en términos cuantificables, la geometría era la ciencia a seguir para la construcción de la sociedad, por ejemplo en el Leviatán. Por su parte para Descartes la realidad del mundo era tan solo garantizable a través de una serie de meditaciones que tomaban como punto de partida la duda radical de las cosas existentes logrando tan solo la certeza del sujeto pero entendido como disociado (para Taylor el término es ‘disengaged’) de los objetos externos ; el cogito ergo sum se da en contraposición a la res extensa. Esta transformación, que redirigiría la manera de concebir el rol del las ciencias naturales y sociales, se dio en múltiples campos interrelacionados.

A un nivel epistemológico esta discusión se da, como señala Taylor, en la famosa relación entre propiedades primarias y secundarias; las primarias siendo cuantificables, la res extensa de la famosa vela de Descartes, y las secundarias siendo aquellas propiedades de las cosas que están necesariamente ligadas al sujeto mismo que tiene experiencia de ellas (por ejemplo el color depende de la interacción entre la luz y nuestras capacidades perceptuales, en cambio la extensión permanece incluso si todos los seres humanos hubiesen de morir). Las cualidades secundarias en particular no podían ser integradas a una ciencia de la naturaleza que las pudiese cuantificar independientemente de la relación con el sujeto, ellas no estaban en las cosas mismas: “eran dependientes de nuestra sensibilidad y por lo tanto no podíamos confiar en ellas” (SIA, p. 46)

Es un hecho que esta concepción epistemológica, es decir de la manera en que conocemos el mundo, es radicalmente moderna. Y además lleva consigo importantísimas repercusiones en el tipo de respuesta a la pregunta a cerca de qué hemos de considerar como los centrales aspectos de lo que es la agencia humana. Por ello para Taylor en su ensayo “El concepto de la persona” el objetivo principal del agente es ahora no el de comprender su posición dentro de un orden de correspondencias preestablecidas, como ocurría tanto para los griegos y su visión del cosmos como ordenamiento bello como con los cristianos y las relaciones entre diversos ordenes establecidos y jerarquizados de significación entre este mundo y el del más allá. El sujeto es ahora aquel capaz de tener representaciones adecuadas y claras del mundo que se le presenta como extraño, como puramente externo (p. 98). Precisamente lo central para el agente es esta capacidad de su conciencia pensante. El cogito debe meditar para clarificarse así mismo su relación con el mundo externo.

Sin embargo, esta posición representacional que en el acto de representar deja lo representado totalmente idéntico a como era en un principio, es un modelo que si bien parece cumplir con las condiciones de verificabilidad de las ciencias naturales es realmente errado si se intenta trasponerlo al estudio de la subjetividad que es precisamente el campo de las ciencias sociales. En particular veremos, en la segunda sección, cómo las emociones humanas rompen con este esquema interpretativo de las ciencias llamadas “fuertes”.

Si bien las transformaciones epistemológicas modificaron de manera sustancial la visión del sujeto, igualmente modificaron la manera en que la sociedad política se autocomprendía hasta entonces. Surgen múltiples teorías del contrato social que rompen con la visión aristotélica de la polis como ámbito y campo previo dentro del cual el ser humano podía desarrollarse. En su lugar encontramos una concepción del surgimiento de la sociedad como un conglomerado de individuos que entran en un contrato principalmente para garantizar su seguridad y el fortalecimiento del bienestar común. Los derechos humanos individuales toman la primacía sobre concepciones como la republicana en la que la comunidad, la participación y el amor por las prácticas públicas es lo principal. La transformación de la subjetividad va de la mano de la transformación de las condiciones sociales en las que dicha subjetividad se hace presente.

En términos de la racionalidad es ahora la racionalidad instrumental la que logra monopoliza para sí todo el ámbito de la razón dejando de lado entre otras el valor de la razón practica/ética. Surge no sólo un desligarse del mundo sino además un movimiento hacia su explotación y dominio: “la trinidad de sujeto objeto y concepto, (se ve) como una relación de opresión y sujeción … La represión de la naturaleza interna del hombre con su tendencia anárquica a la felicidad es el precio de la formación de un ‘sí mismo’ unitario, necesario para la autoconservación y para el dominio de la naturaleza externa al sujeto” (Wellmer, p. 119).

En el siglo XIX y XX surgen las más importantes críticas a esta concepción de la subjetividad con personajes tales como Nietzsche, Freud, Husserl, Heidegger y Wittgenstein. El caso de Husserl es particularmente interesante ya que retoma la noción de sujeto trascendental de la filosofía moderna (e.g., Kant) en un intento por llevar a la ciencia a ser lo que el denomina en uno de sus ensayos como una verdadera “ciencia estricta”. La presión que ha ejercido el modelo epistemológico de las ciencias naturales sobre las mal llamadas “débiles” ciencias sociales se hace pues evidente hasta en un filósofo crítico del modelo naturalista. Sin embargo ya Husserl a través de su “epoche” fenomenológica comienza a cerrar la brecha abierta ente sujeto y mundo al recuperar la conciencia y sus vivencias como fundamento del mundo interpretado, y al proveer la primera crítica a la racionalidad monopolizadora e instrumentalizadora de las ciencias.

Y para culminar con esta sección, es Heidegger quien cuestiona esta visión husserliana del sujeto ya que el sujeto trascendental de Husserl sacrifica la temporalidad e historicidad del Dasein heideggeriano. Para Heidegger el ser humano se concibe en su diario acontecer como un ‘ser-ahí’. El ‘ser-ahí’ es en la forma de la apertura volcada siempre hacia afuera en un ámbito de familiaridad en que se habita. Desde esta novedosa perspectiva la subjetividad puntual de un res cogitans que se opone de manera diferenciadora e incluso dominante al conjunto de objetos exteriores, entra en crisis al cuestionarse sus presupuestos fundamentales. Para Heidegger en tanto que el ser humano es ‘ek-istiendo’, es este un andar siempre por un entorno, un estar en un ámbito de comprensión. Con esta nueva visión del mundo necesariamente cambia lo que hemos de considerar como ‘mundo’, es decir, aquello en lo cual el ser humano desarrolla o no sus cualidades y posibilidades.

II. La visión interpretativa de Charles Taylor

Para Taylor en su importante obra Sources of the Self, el sentido de sujeto (‘self’) se da siempre en un marco de preguntas acerca del bien. La subjetividad no se comprende en el sentido de verse en un espejo, ni tampoco como un yo capaz de desarrollar acciones estratégicas, ni tampoco en el sentido del aparecer frente a otros, sino por el contrario, y enfrentado a estas concepciones, está la idea de que la subjetivada siempre se de en un marco articulado de concepciones del bien. Es además característico del estudio del sujeto el hecho de que ha sido estudiado absolutamente, en sí mismo, es decir, independientemente de toda descripción e interpretación de parte de otros sujetos y sin referencia alguna a sus circunstancias de entorno (SotS 31). ¿Cómo presenta Taylor su crítica a esta posición en sus ensayos?

Para Taylor, en primer lugar, existe una diferencia central en la consideración de la subjetividad (human agency) entre lo que se han llamado por un lado deseos de primer orden (“first order desires”), y por otro los deseos de segundo orden (“second order desires”). Nosotros nos diferenciamos de los animales principalmente por ser capaces de el segundo tipo de consideración pues sólo en ella encontramos la posibilidad de una auto-evaluación reflexiva. Sin embargo aunque capaces de este segundo tipo de deseos, que como veremos con su presencia presentan una fuerte crítica al modelo científico y sus pretensiones en la investigación del sujeto, muchas veces permanecemos al nivel de los primeros. El direccionar y orientar nuestra vida enfocado en uno u otro campo desiderativo crea la posibilidad de dos tipos de evaluaciones morales y de manera correspondiente de tipos de agencia humana. Por un lado encontramos las evaluaciones débiles (“weak evaluations”), a partir de las cuales se forja un plan de vida de manera simplemente estratégica, es decir, considerando los medios para ciertos fines preestablecidos. Pero contrapuesto a éste, encontramos las evaluaciones fuertes (“strong evaluations”) que se centran en la calidad de la motivación y de la articulación del conflicto moral que se experimenta. El decidir entre un viaje a la costa o a Leticia es un ejemplo del tipo de consideración bajo el primer tipo de evaluación; en últimas la decisión radica en lo que en un momento dado “siento” como lo mejor. La decisión es contingente y en últimas no requiere de una profunda articulación para comprenderse el haber escogido una en vez de la otra. Sin embargo no sería suficiente diferenciar los dos tipos de evaluaciones simplemente por medio de una consideración diferencial entre lo ‘cuantitativo’ y lo ‘cualitativo’. Esto es así ya que sin duda al decidirme por Leticia no decido simplemente en términos monetarios, o reduciendo las alternativas, como lo desease el utilitarianismo, a una medida cuantificable común. Para Taylor es cierto que el evaluador débil de hecho reflexiona, evalúa y tiene voluntad; pero no tiene lo que Taylor llama “profundidad”. La diferencia entre los tipos de evaluaciones (y evaluadores correspondientes) radica en el “worth” (valor) de la evaluación en cuestión. El evaluador de alternativas que es “fuerte” toma decisiones y escoge no simplemente dada la incompatibilidad o contingencia de las alternativas que se le presentan en un momento dado. El caso de algunas virtudes es ejemplificante.

El no convertirse o ser visto como un ser cobarde, no radica sencillamente dada la presencia de situaciones incompatibles y contingentes. Enfrentando la situación de peligro tengo el deseo de huir, sin embargo es precisamente el no huir aquello que me hace verdaderamente valiente. Y más importante aún (pues yo también podría en efecto dejar de ir a Leticia), puedo presentar a través de un lenguaje articulado, más o menos claro, el porqué el huir sería una acción vergonzosa y humillante independientemente del que sea visto por otro sujeto o no. El caso de situaciones de cobardía y vergüenza se da, para Taylor, dentro de un vocabulario de valoraciones dadas en nuestro lenguaje que se caracteriza por dar evaluaciones de contrastes: cobarde/valiente, vergüenza/orgullo, integración/fragmentación. Como lo pone Taylor “movilizamos (deploy) un lenguaje de distinciones evaluativas, el deseo que es rechazado no es rechazado debido a un conflicto contingente o circunstancial con otro fin” (21, WiHA). El evaluador fuerte tiene un vocabulario moral que lo orienta en sus escogencias, le presenta con un marco de acción y este marco no es simplemente algo que, en tanto sujeto privado, él haya creado de un día para otro. Al comprender y actuar el evaluador fuerte señala la necesidad de jerarquizar cierto tipo de acciones, de diferenciarlas constitutivamente como altas o bajas, vergonzosas o dignas de orgullo, como cobardes o llenas de valor. El puede articular la superioridad de las alternativas. Por lo tanto “el ser un evaluador fuerte es ser capaz de una reflexión que es mucho más articulada. Pero en un sentido es también más profunda” (25)). La escogencia de alternativas no se limita sencillamente a las consecuencias que emergen de ellas (si soy valiente puedo incluso perder mi vida, pero algo más alto me motiva a permanecer en mi lugar (Taylor 25), ni a un cálculo estratégico, sino se da debido a la calidad del tipo de vida que emana de una narrativa forjada a partir de tales decisiones fuertes. Por ejemplo el decidir dedicar mi vida a una carrera dada presenta de hecho una situación en donde aquel que escoge debe poder articular su escogencia como forjando un tipo de vida y no otro. Es el evaluador fuerte quien posee una identidad en constante crecimiento y clarificación que le permite responder por sus escogencias. La identidad representa “el horizonte dentro del cual soy capaz de tomar una posición”( SotS, 27), un horizonte desde el cual soy capaz de responder.

Y claro, en un principio, y tal vez inevitablemente, dichas articulaciones acerca de lo que es de verdadera importancia para nosotros como humanos son poco claras, incluso hasta oscuras. Niegan ellas los principios de un modelo representacional científico que pretende una objetividad y una claridad absolutas. Por el contrario al describir nuestras situaciones humanas, y a nosotros mismos en tanto sujetos, comenzamos con una noción medio confusa, medio inacabada, del fin que perseguimos, y que sólo en el trayecto va desarrollándose y paulatinamente transformando no sólo la pregunta inicial sino a nosotros mismos. No permanecemos idénticos al reconocer, por ejemplo, que la situación que pensábamos era cobarde en realidad no lo era, o que aquella otra situación sí fue de hecho vergonzosa, pero que estamos dispuestos a demostrar que fue un “problema” momentáneo.

El evaluador fuerte es entonces quien se cuestiona radicalmente acerca de la verdad interpretativa de la narrativa que forja poco a poco con sus decisiones guiado por la pregunta central: “¿he determinado realmente lo que considero es el modo de vida más alto?” (“Have I truly determined what I sense to be the highest mode of life?”). Dada la centralidad de la pregunta, entonces podemos entender cómo un cuestionamiento constante se hace necesario, un verdadero cuestionamiento socrático, “Es debido a que todas las formulaciones están potencialmente bajo sospecha, pues puede distorsionar sus objetos, que debemos verlas a todas como revisables” (“It is just because all formulations are potentially under suspicion of distorting their objects that we have to see them all as revisable” (Taylor, WHU 25) , El revisar, completar, modificar, rechazar, negar, afirmar, clarificar, y/o cambiar estas evaluaciones representa un proceso de auto-interpretación. Para Taylor por lo tanto el sujeto es un ser forjado y que vive en la auto interpretación. Además para Taylor el marco de trabajo moral cotidiano nuestro es precisamente un horizonte de evaluaciones fuertes, aunque muchas veces es este marco sólo articulable de manera más plena por las ciencias sociales y las artes. Allí radica precisamente la importancia de estas ciencias. (SotS, 19).

Ahora bien, ¿qué concepto de persona/sujeto se desprende de las anteriores consideraciones? Una persona es un ser con cierto estatus moral, con cierto sentido de yoidad, con nociones de futuro y pasado, con escalas de valoración, con capacidad de escogencia, y con habilidad para elaborar planes vitales por los cuales puede, además, responder (be a respondent). El mundo no se le presenta simplemente como un conglomerado de cosas externas que le son indiferentes, sino por el contrario como aquello por medio de lo cual logra dar sentido a su propia posición y a las circunstancias en que se desenvuelve. La persona no se diferencia de lo animal simplemente por ser conciencia pensante, sino primariamente por ser, lo que Taylor llama, un sujeto de propósitos originales. La conciencia, bajo esta perspectiva, no es un dado previo sino un trabajo por construir; “es lo que se logra cuando llegamos a formular el significado de las cosas para nosotros. Es entonces cuando tenemos una visión articulada del yo y del mundo” (“when we come to formulate the significance of things for us. We then have an articulate view of our self and the world” (TCP, 99)

Esta concepción se distancia radicalmente de la que fundamenta el estudio científico del sujeto (el que se da en la sociobiología, la neurología y los modelos computacionales entre otros). La crítica que Taylor propone al modelo representacional es la de que, para éste, las representaciones son principalmente de objetos exteriores independientes de nosotros. Sin embargo al considerar la complejidad de la agencia humana nos encontramos con que esto no es verdad para ciertos aspectos centrales de la subjetividad.. Uno de estos, que ha tomada una fuerza sin precedentes en la modernidad, es el del ámbito de la vida sentimental. Al formular y articular lo que sentimos a través de nuestras emociones, en un principio de manera muy vaga, podemos llegar a adoptar una nueva formulación que a su vez transforma nuestra relación con nosotros mismos y con aquello a quien dirigíamos dicho interés sentimental. Por ejemplo, creía realmente amarla, pero era en realidad una pasión momentánea; lo odiaba con toda mi alma pero en realidad sentía odio hacia mí mismo.

Es al lograr describir con un lenguaje más rico la situación, que en un momento dado nos pareció absolutamente confusa e incomprensible, que podemos entonces cambiar la calidad misma de la emoción que antes sentíamos. El comprender la emoción la transforma de una manera que la representación de objetos independientes no puede. Y tal vez pueda estar equivocado, tal vez realmente sí la amaba, tal vez me estaba sencillamente defendiendo del comprometerme. Es por ello que, como señalamos anteriormente, éste es un continuo proceso en donde puede haber autoengaños y racionalizaciones simplistas (no, ella no me entiende, ella sin duda no es mi media naranja). Implica dicho proceso por lo tanto ganar claridad personal a través de un tipo de apertura previa a toda situación, una apertura que requiere de un arduo trabajo, y que está constantemente en riesgo pues requiere de la constante reevaluación de propósitos, emociones y proyectos fundamentales (TCP, 105).

Dadas estas presuposiciones, existen para Taylor dos opciones fundamentales para la comprensión de la agencia humana. Por un lado hayamos al agente calculador, un verdadero estratega instrumentalizador que busca absoluta claridad en sus planes, y por otro, la posición que Taylor defiende, aquella en la que el sujeto se fundamenta primordialmente en la significación que tienen las cosas para él, en particular la importancia de ciertos bienes que nos llaman a un tipo de vida más alto que otros. Llegar a mejor articular estos bienes que guían nuestro quehacer cotidiano, en contraposición a otros bienes, es el valor de las ciencias sociales. Articular permite recuperar ciertos bienes como fuentes morales, y al hacerlos permite llenar de poder transformativo (empower) a dichas fuentes, y finalmente se genera un mayor amor hacia la fuente moral pues se le concibe como más cercana y clara. Para Taylor “una formulación tiene poder cuando trae a casa la fuente, cuando la hace sencilla y evidente en toda su fuerza inherente en su capacidad para inspirar amor, respeto o alianza” (“A formulation has power when it brings the source close, when it makes it plain and evident, in all its inherent force, in its capacity to inspire love, respect or allegiance” (SotS, 96)) Bajo esta segunda manera de comprender la agencia humana la subjetividad se problematiza porque el sentido de las cosas es algo que debe ser cuestionado no sólo personalmente sino además entre las diferentes tradiciones que conciben la subjetividad de manera diferente. Es así como al comprender el valor de la vergüenza y la cobardía para diferentes tradiciones (la homérica, la platónica. la cristiana, la nietzscheana entre otras), enriquecemos esa posición de apertura de la que hemos hablado; de hecho la alimentamos.

En conclusión, en términos morales existe una diferencia abismal entre la primera tradición, que ve al agente como un deliberador estratégico con capacidad de evaluaciones instrumentales y que entiende de entrada claramente los fines que busca a través de medios controlables, que autodetermina sus propósitos independientemente de su tradición (libre del azar de las emociones), y la segunda visión, la del significado que presenta un modelo diferente de deliberación del agente fundada sobre el trabajo interpretativo del re-conocerse a sí mismo una y otra vez. Para Taylor “no es una cuestión de la eficacia relativa de diferentes metodologías, sino más bien una faceta de la pugna entre visiones morales y espirituales” (“it is no more a question of the relative efficacy of different methodologies, but it is rather a facet of a clash of moral and spiritual outlooks” (114)).

III Foucault la subjetividad y el poder

En su obra Michel Foucalt desarrolla la noción de una crítica local a partir de la cual recuperamos saberes subyugados ya sea, o bien porque han sido cubiertos o enmascarados bajo grandes sistemas de comprensión, o porque han sido descalificados por no tener, supuestamente, el suficiente peso epistemológico dentro de las establecidas jerarquías de saberes. En contraposición, y en cierta medida siguiendo a Nietzsche, Foucault plantea la necesidad de llevar a cabo una investigación genealógica del saber en general, y en particular del surgimiento de las ciencias sociales y de la concepción del sujeto correspondiente. La genealogía se enfrenta entonces a las interpretaciones holísticas y unitarias que pretenden subsumir todo saber a un marco teórico absolutizante.

Para comprender la interrelación entre los saberes olvidados, o dejados de lado por no cumplir con los requisitos del saber dominante, es necesario entrar a considerar las relaciones de poder que se dan tanto al nivel práctico como el teórico. Criticando mordazmente al marxismo, Foucault señala cómo a la concepción del poder que ve a éste principalmente surgiendo de desiguales relaciones económicas, o de la distinción entre clases, se contrapone otra que enfatiza el hecho de que “el poder no se da o intercambia sino que se ejerce, no mantiene una relación económica dada sino que implica una relación de poder.”

Igualmente, la concepción de poder foucaultiana se distancia de la visión históricamente surgida de la idea de soberanía en el siglo XVIII. Bajo esta perspectiva se consideraba al poder como el derecho fundamental que se delegaba en la constitución de la comunidad política. En al ápice de la estructura de poder se encontraba el rey, el personaje central en el edificio legal de Occidente. La pregunta por el poder era la misma pregunta por la legitimidad de los representantes políticos públicos (además, el poder debía verse), y también por las obligaciones de los sujetos en la construcción de monarquías administrativas de gran escala.

Sin embargo para Foucault las presuposiciones del poder en nuestra época han sido transformadas sustancialmente. Y en tanto que el poder es ejercido por medio de los diferentes sujetos y a través de los diferentes discursos, éste no es esencialmente un poder represivo, sino por el contrario un poder productivo que cuenta con estrategias para su propagación. Entre ellas, como veremos, se encuentra la perpetuación de ciertas visiones de lo que hemos de considerar como sujeto.

Foucault invierte la máxima de Clausewitz, para él el poder es la guerra continuada por otros medios. Esto implica que las relaciones de poder en una sociedad dada “descansan esencialmente en una relación definida de fuerzas que esta establecida en un momento histórico especificable, en la guerra y a través de la guerra” (p. 91, Lecture 1). Por lo tanto no existen para Foucault las condiciones para que el poder llegue a un punto en que cese de ser, es decir un punto en que reine la paz del sin-poder. Por el contrario el poder quiere la guerra, necesita de estrategias para superar otros poderes. Y lo hace, pero a diferencia del poder público del soberano, lo logra de manera privada, en los micropuntos de nuestra condición: en nuestra corporeidad en tanto que nos indica que tipo de sujeto sexual debemos ser, en nuestras instituciones sociales de exclusión y vigilancia como lo son la cárcel, la clínica y el manicomio.

Pero no sólo encontramos una lucha de poderes, sino que lo más impactante aún, es que esta lucha se da en nombre de la verdad misma. Para Foucault el poder está ligado de una manera compleja a la discursividad de la verdad: “estamos subyugados a la producción de la verdad a través del poder y no podemos ejercer el poder sino a través de la producción de la verdad”. (93, Lecture 2). Lo verdadero delimita nuestro campo de acción y de comprensión. En tanto que somos poder, en nuestro quehacer producimos, y somos llamados a producir, discursos que al aparecer niegan irremediablemente otros discursos, y otras maneras de ser.

Si bien el énfasis al estudiar el poder se ha colocado, como vimos, en el problema de la legitimidad de los poderes establecidos, para Foucault el análisis debe recurrir a la noción de dominio de algunas redes de poderes sobre otros dentro de la sociedad. No se debe enfocar la investigación del poder en términos de la pareja soberanía/obediencia, sino en términos de la pareja dominación/subyugación: “el derecho debería ser visto, creo yo, no en términos de la legitimidad a establecer, sino en términos de los métodos de la subyugación que ella pone de manifiesto (instantiates)” (95, Lec 1). El nuevo poder es un poder disciplinante que nos vigila constantemente. Pero sin duda este poder cosubsiste paralelamente con el poder del soberano de manera que para Foucault “nos encontramos en un callejón sin salida; no es a través del recurso de la soberanía contra la disciplina que los efectos del poder disciplinario son limitados porque la soberanía y la disciplina son dos constituyentes absolutos del mecanismo general del poder en nuestra sociedad” (108 Lec 2). Las disciplinas, entre ellas Foucault traza la historia del surgimiento de las ciencias sociales, constan de tres aspectos centrales: unas relaciones de poder dadas, una relaciones de lenguaje y de comunicación específicas y ciertas capacidades objetivas, es decir, capacidades para transformar, o mejor dicho moldear de cierta manera, el mundo y/o los sujetos.

La investigación genealógica de dichas disciplinas revela que, metodológicamente hablando, debemos partir en el análisis del poder de cinco puntos fundamentales:1) se da un interés por el poder en sus extremidades y en sus formas locales, no generales y globales, 2) no se pregunta por el “quién” del poder, sino que se investiga su campo de aplicación: “en vez de preguntarnos nosotros cómo aparece el soberano, deberíamos tratar de descubrir cómo es que los sujetos son gradualmente, progresivamente, realmente y materialmente, constituidos por medio de una multiplicidad de organismos, fuerzas, energías, materiales, deseos” (96), 3) se concibe al poder no como una relación entre clases a la Marx, sino que se construye el mapa de su circulación por entre redes organizadas de diversas maneras (redes que incluso actúan independientemente de que los actores de las redes sean conscientes de su acción); así es como incluso el sujeto es un vehículo más de poder, no un simple punto de aplicación de éste “el individuo que el poder ha constituido es al mismo tiempo su vehículo” (98); y además, en tanto que el sujeto es un ser social entonces su actuar se da en la acción con los demás, el poder “siempre es una manera de actuar sobre el sujeto actuante o sujetos actuantes en virtud de su actuar o ser capaces de actuar” (220), 4) se ha investigar cómo el poder establece redes de poder no desde un punto superior, de manera deductiva, sino desde abajo e inductivamente, es decir, a través de mecanismos infinitesimales, desde los bloques más básicos de la sociedad, la familia, la cárcel, la clínica, el cuerpo y la sexualidad, y finalmente 5) se descubre la relación que se da entre el poder y la voluntad del saber; la producción y acumulación de saber es inevitablemente para Foucault un proceso de exclusión a través de diferentes mecanismos para el control de los discursos. No solo lo prohibido, ni lo separado (e.g., la locura), sino que principalmente la oposición entre lo verdadero y lo falso, creada por la voluntad de verdad, crea relaciones de poder y concepciones de la subjetividad dadas: “pero si uno se sitúa en otra escala, si se plantea la cuestión del saber cual ha sido y cual es constantemente a través de nuestros discursos, esa voluntad de verdad que ha atravesado tantos siglos de nuestra historia, o cuál es la forma general del tipo de separación que rige nuestra voluntad de saber, es entonces cuando se ve dibujarse algo así como un sistema de exclusión” (EOD, )

Siguiendo estas consideraciones metodológicas Foucault lleva a cabo investigaciones genealógicas en diferentes momentos puntuales de la historia del pensamiento de Occidente. En particular surgen visiones históricamente determinadas de la subjetividad que Foucault analiza en, por ejemplo, su ensayo “Technologies of the Self”. Allí revela él como en el momento histórico específico de la transición entre el estoicismo y el cristianismo primitivo se dan a conocer numerosas y diferentes prácticas de revelación del sujeto en una transformación valorativa en la que la práctica del “conocerse a sí mismo” subyuga el anterior énfasis colocado en la práctica del “cuidarse a sí mismo”. Algunas de estas prácticas al nivel del cristianismo ——como la exomologesis, es decir, el reconocimiento público y dramático (no verbal) del pecador revelándose ante todos como tal, y la exagouresis, en donde se confiesa constantemente ante un superior espiritual para poder obtener claridad y verdad acerca de nuestra confusa interioridad, es decir, una verbalización continua que requiere de obediencia incondicional dentro de un proyecto contemplativo fundamental——– permanecen hoy día como prácticas, sobretodo en el campo de la sexualidad, que determinan nuestra subjetividad occidental como una subjetividad confesional. Para Foucault el sujeto psicoanalítico comparte algunas de estas tendencias discursivas de continua interpretación interior en búsqueda de la verdad acerca de nosotros mismos.

Es por esto que para Foucault la pregunta acerca del poder está íntimamente ligada a la pregunta por el sujeto, no se estudia tanto el poder en sí, sino “los diferentes modos por medio de los cuales en nuestra cultura los seres humanos son hechos sujetos” (208, SP). Al nivel del sujeto diferentes técnicas de poder que se aplican en la vida cotidiana hacen de los individuos sujetos con una concepción de lo que la identidad debe ser; el sujeto es determinado externamente, y sobretodo internamente al tener que buscar un cierto tipo de identidad de conciencia y método de auto-conocimiento. Si bien han habido históricamente estrategias de lucha enfocadas en la dominación étnica, social y religiosa (período feudal), otras enfocadas en la explotación económica (Siglo 19), ahora la lucha para Foucault es contra aquello que ata al individuo a sí mismo, contra la sumisión de la subjetividad misma.

Es este un proceso histórico que señala Foucault se da gracias a la secularización del poder pastoral de la edad Media, instaurado previamente por el cristianismo y que esta ligado a la producción de la verdad de sí mismo. Para Foucault y, y a diferencia de Taylor: “De pronto la tangente hoy día no es descubrir lo que somos, sino negar lo que somos. Debemos imaginar lo que podríamos ser para poder deshacernos de este doble encadenamiento (“doble bind”) político que es a la vez la simultánea individualización y totalización de la moderna estructura de poder”( SP, 216).

Para Foucault existe entonces una lucha de estrategias que tienen ciertos fines y medios para conseguirlos. El fin primordial es superar al otro, obtener la victoria es depravar al otro de los medios de combatir en donde. Cada estrategia sueña con ganar la constante dominación de las demás. Sin embargo esta visión trágica es momentáneamente moderada por Foucault cuando señala que “es verdad que en el corazón de la realización del poder y como condición permanente de su existencia hay una insubordinación y una cierta terquedad de parte de los principios de la libertad. Entonces no hay ninguna relación de poder sin los medios de escape o de vuelo posible” (SP, 225).

IV Feminismo poder y reinterpretación de la “subjetividad”

Virginia Woolf explicita de manera clara cómo el discurso del hombre ha hecho que no pueda surgir el discurso propiamente femenino. Por eso escribe ella que habitamos, tanto mujeres como hombres, un mundo de espejos falsos en los que la mujer es obligada a mirarse empequeñecida. Para ella “hace siglos que la mujer desempeña las veces de un espejo que tiene el poder mágico de reflejar la imagen del hombre al doble de su tamaño …… La imagen del espejo es de importancia suprema, porque la vitalidad estimula el sistema nervioso. Si se le priva de ella, el hombre puede morir”. También, y de manera impactante, Simone de Beavuoir señala cómo existe en la relación intersubjetiva entre hombre y mujer una binareidad en donde ambos puntos están comprometidos en relaciones de poder desiguales que surgen, en parte, de relaciones sociales preestablecidas “no es el Otro quien definiéndose como Otro establece el Uno. El Otro es puesto como tal por el Uno al definirse como Uno. Pero si el Otro no ha de recobrar el status de Ser Uno, debe ser lo suficientemente sumiso para aceptar este ajeno punto de vista”. El Uno, con su subjetividad particular, ha logrado imponer su visión de lo que la identidad ha de ser para el Otro, a saber, a la mujer. En términos muy generales el Uno se concibe fundado sobre la autosuficiencia racional de un ser dual que se separa radicalmente de su corporeidad, que busca el control del lenguaje en todos los ámbitos y prácticas humanas, y que aparece de manera diferenciadora y dominante respecto a los demás seres del universo vistos como objetos cuantificables. Este, a grandes rasgos y dejando de lado muchos detalles, es el modelo de identidad a seguir que el Uno favorece.

En su ensayo “A Different Reality: Feminist Ontology”, Caroline Whitbeck desarrolla una crítica incisiva de la noción de yoidad característica de Occidente y de la relación de dicho yo con los demás seres del mundo bajo el modelo patriarcal. Opone ella a éste la posibilidad de una voz femenina que deje de lado la dualidad presente tanto en las esferas del actuar y del pensar. Presenta la subjetividad patriarcal, según ella, la aparición de lenguajes binarios que no solo imposibilitan la forjación de canales de intercomunicación entre diferentes áreas, sino que de entrada ven el polo femenino como inferior. Tales dualidades son, entre otras y de manera generalizada, las de: cultura/naturaleza, amante/amado, activo/pasivo, mente/cuerpo y razón/apetito.

Un ejemplo de la lógica de estas oposiciones es la de la asociación del hombre con la cultura, como aquellos miembros de la especie que sí han logrado trascender su esencia hacia la racionalidad, y del de la mujer con la naturaleza, aquella parte de la especie que es definida negativamente a partir del primero, es decir, como lo que no ha logrado trascender al ámbito limitado de los procesos de la razón liberada de las emociones. Igualmente en su artículo “Is Female to Male as Nature to Culture?” Sherry Ortner nos revela algunas de las bases y presupuestos culturales que han llevado hacia la concepción —que posteriormente se concibe como biológicamente determinada—- de la mujer como más atada a la naturaleza que al hombre. Este proceso se da a tres niveles interdependientes pero analizables independientemente. En primer lugar, la misma fisiología de la mujer se ve arraigada en lo natural en tanto que la mujer es quien está físicamente capacitada para la procreación de la especie al tener la estructura física para concebir y alimentar a los futuros miembros de ésta. Fisiología que está ligada a un segundo plano en el que los roles sociales de la mujer se ven ligados directamente a la naturaleza; primero, por su limitación al espacio doméstico que no alcanza el nivel del razonamiento universal requerido para sostener el orden político (la mujer es excluida de la esfera pública), y segundo, debido a su relación íntima y directa con los niños y niñas que son vistos, desde la perspectiva de la razón, como seres irracionales y naturales que en su contacto con los hombres acceden al ámbito de la cultura. Y finalmente, los dos primeros llevando a considerar la propia ‘psyche’ femenina como más ligada a lo natural en tanto que su pensar es un pensar de lo concreto y subjetivo incapaz de llegar a los niveles de abstracción y universalidad de los hombres. Es la existencia entremezclada de estos tres niveles, el fisiológico, el social y el psíquico la que resulta en un círculo vicioso cuyo:

“resultado es un (lastimosamente) eficiente sistema de retroalimentación; varios aspectos de la mujer (físicos, sociales, psicológicos) contribuyen a que ella sea vista como cercana a la naturaleza, mientras la visión de que ella es más cercana la naturaleza es a la vez encarnada en instituciones que reproducen su situación” (IFMNC?, 87)

Sin duda la hermenéutica habla del círculo inevitable de la interpretación, pero existen también, como lo reveló Foucault, círculos viciosos que debemos romper a través de una desilucidación aclaratoria del lenguaje y las prácticas que las fundamentan y conforman subjetividades prisioneras de sí mismas. Ni hombres, ni mujeres, pueden ser felices en dichos círculos viciosos.

La visión del yo que Caroline Whitbeck propone en su proyecto para una ontología femenina es una en la que las dicotomías se disuelven bajo una novedosa concepción de lo que la persona ha de ser. Para ella el punto de partida de la ética por ejemplo, no ha de ser el de la noción de derechos atribuidos a individuos, visión de la ética fundada bajo el principio de la libertad negativa y de la no-interferencia. Por ejemplo, bajo esta perspectiva que es la que funda el concepto de justicia de Kohlberg, se plantea la especificación de las conductas y situaciones morales en términos de universalización. Ante esta visión, y retomando los estudios psicológicos de Carol Gilligan y su búsqueda de una voz femenina propia que reconozca que los estadios morales de Kohlberg no hacen justicia al desarrollo propio de la ética en las mujeres. Whitbeck propone la idea de una subjetividad relacional que guía su actividad bajo una ética, no fundamentalmente del derecho, sino de la responsabilidad, como Taylor lo hace. En esta, antes que darse prescripciones universales aplicables a toda circunstancia independientemente de su especificidad, se busca más bien especificar de manera aristotélica los fines de la acción misma basados en un concepción diferente de lo que es una persona:

“Bajo esta visión la persona es comprendida como un ser histórico y relacional. Uno deviene una persona en y a través de relaciones con otras personas: ser un apersona requiere del tener una historia de relaciones con otras personas, y la realización del yo sólo puede ser lograda a través del relaciones y prácticas. La noción moral fundamental es la de la responsabilidad para (algunos aspectos) del bienestar del otro surgiendo de nuestra interrelación con ella o él” (DRFO, 82)

Sin duda son estas las ciencias sociales, en particular las que tienen como objetivo primordial el llevar a cabo una exploración de las condiciones para la aparición, comprensión y transformación histórica de las múltiples visiones de la subjetividad, a las que hemos aludido en este ensayo.


V. Bibliografía

1) Beauvoir, Simone de, The Second Sex, Introducción y Conclusión, fotocopias del seminario sobre feminismo, Montreal 1990.

2) Durkheim, Emile, Selected Writings, “The field of sociology” pp. 51-69

3) Foucault, Michel, Power and Knowledge, ed. Colin Gordon, “Two Lectures” y “Truth and Power”, pgs., 78-134, New York, Pantheon Books, 1980

——–Technologies of the Self, “Truth, Power, Self: An interview with Michel Foucault”, pgs., 9-16 y “Technologies of the Self”, pp. 16-49.

———The Subject and Power, n.d.

———El orden del discurso, Cuadernos Marginales, Barcelona Tusquets Editores, 1973 (1987). Traducción de Alberto González Troyano.

4) Ortner, Sherry, “Is Female to Male as Nature is to Culture?”, Montreal, 1990

5) Perkins Charlottte, “The yellow paper”, Montreal, 1990

6) Taylor, Charles, Sources of the Self, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1989

——–Philosophical Papers (PP) I; Human Agency and Language, Cambridge, Cambridge Universty Press, 1985 (1988) “What is human agency?”, “Self-interpreting animals”, pgs, 13-76, “The concept of a person” pgs, 97-114.

——-PP II, “Interpretation and the human sciences”, pgs, 15-59, and “Foucault on Freedom and Truth”, pgs., 152-183.

7) Welmer, Albrecht, “La dialéctica de modernidad y postmodernidad” pp. 103 a 139 en Modernidad y Postmodernidad, Compilación de Pico, Josep, Alianza editorial, n.d.

8) Whitbeck, Caroline, “A Different Reality; Feminist Ontology”, Montreal, 1990.

 

LENGUAJE(S), IDENTIDAD Y DIFERENCIA EN LA

TEORÍA POLÍTICA DE JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

 

I. INTRODUCCIÓN

La visión del lenguaje en la teoría política de Jean-Jacques Rousseau no sólo es rica en contenido, sino además central para la comprensión de nuestra presente crisis de legitimidad. Para Rousseau el lenguaje es parte constitutiva de lo que hemos, históricamente, llegado a ser. Es a través del lenguaje que clarificamos y articulamos críticamente nuestra relación de autenticidad personal, la relación de solidaridad con los demás en el ámbito político, y por último, la relación con la naturaleza como fuente de expresión moderna. Al entrever tales relaciones podemos llegar a comprender, así sea parcialmente, lo que hemos sido, somos, y podemos llegar a ser.

Charles Taylor ha argumentado que Rousseau es uno de los principales inauguradores de una tradición política característicamente moderna, a saber, aquella fundada sobre la dignidad egalitaria basada a su vez en la idea de que todos los humanos somos dignos de respeto. Esto se ejemplifica en la noción de que “la clave para Rousseau de una república libre parece ser una exclusión de cualquier diferencia de roles” (*1). Dicha perspectiva se encuentra en tensión con la tradición contemporánea de una política de la diferencia, tradición crítica del proyecto de homogeneización y pretendida neutralidad del liberalismo en una de sus variantes. Sin embargo, como veremos, la posición de Rousseau es significativamente mucho más compleja. Contiene ella múltiples elementos que sin duda pertenecen al ámbito de lo que se ha llamado una política de la diferencia. Pero ella no deja de estar en tensión con la corriente que Taylor resalta, la de la universalidad egalitaria fundada sobre proyectos comunes de una voluntad general altamente indiferenciada.

Esta dialéctica se da primeramente ya que para Rousseau “las lenguas se forman naturalmente sobre las necesidades de los hombres; cambian y se alteran según los cambios de esas mismas necesidades” (EOL, XX). Estas necesidades, y las pasiones humanas más complejas, no sólo se transforman históricamente sino igualmente en relación con condiciones espaciales específicas. Por ello los lenguajes mismos están colocados dentro de diferentes dimensiones espacio-temporales (EOL VIII). Es así como el lenguaje que compartimos no sólo es constitutivo de que lo hemos llegado a ser dentro de múltiples sistemas políticos, sino que además la presencia de dicho lenguaje nuestro, y no de otro, afecta radicalmente la manera en que percibimos tanto comunidades lingüísticas existentes diferentes a la nuestra, como comunidades ya extintas. Además, dicha pluralidad es igualmente clave, no sólo para la comprensión de la fortaleza de la música en la visión rousseauiana y su relación con la política del lenguaje, sino también, como veremos, para la clarificación y redefinición de las múltiples familias de lenguaje que conforman nuestro lenguaje político moderno tal y como aparecen entrelazados en el Contrato Social (CS). Por ello el mundo de Rousseau, para bien, o muy probablemente para mal, está constituido por una multiplicidad de modos de experienciar; en germen presenta una política de la diferencia. Rousseau “ha absorbido los lenguajes del pasado …… para dar voz a un nuevo lenguaje” (Starob, 323).

Sin embargo esta multiplicidad no ha de llevarnos necesariamente a una concepción radicalmente relativista de la realidad política. Esto es así ya que subyacendo a la diversidad de formaciones lingüísticas (y la paralela diferenciación de formaciones socio-políticas y de modos de producción (EOL IX)) yace la universalidad, a la que todos podemos acceder, de la voz de la naturaleza. La pluralidad es en parte el resultado de una serie de eventos catastróficos en la naturaleza que hicieron posible el desarrollo de la potencialidad inherente hacia el perfección que es característica de los seres humanos desde su origen. No cabe duda alguna que aquella condición primigenia la hemos perdido para siempre (si es que en verdad existió alguna vez), pero independientemente de lo des-naturalizados e inauténticos que hayamos llegado a ser, la voz de la naturaleza todavía habla, a través de, y para todos. Igualmente participamos de ella universalmente. Rousseau se jacta de ser precisamente él quien en particular profundiza en escuchar dicha voz; es ella su única recompensa (DCA, 2). También el Contrato Social va más allá de la simple relatividad facilista pues nos abre a un ideal política por medio del cual se pueden juzgar formaciones y organizaciones sociales existentes (Starob, 301). Y aparte de la existencia de este ideal, la misma pluralidad de lenguajes que encontramos analizados allí está claramente jerarquizada; hecho que nos permite hablar de un respeto por la diferencia, más no de una tolerancia del perspectivismo simplista.

Para llevar a cabo esta investigación, que para Rousseau involucra un recuperar y un re-escuchar la historia de nuestra caída, propongo dividir este ensayo en cinco secciones que, aunque separadas, permanecen íntimamente interrelacionadas. Para dilucidar las primeras cuatro retomaré algunos de los puntos centrales que se hayan tanto en el Discurso sobre el origen y los fundamentos de la desigualdad entre los hombres (DOD), como en el Ensayo sobre el origen de las lenguas (EOL). Acerca de pocos otros textos podría uno decir que la comprensión del uno requiere de una cuidadosa lectura del otro. La mayor diferencia entre ellos radica en su énfasis. Mientras que el DOD coloca la problemática del lenguaje dentro del más amplio tópico del desarrollo histórico de la desigualdad politico-económica, el EOL por su parte invierte los papeles colocando al lenguaje, y su relación con la expresividad musical, al frente.

La afinidad entre ambas obras es impresionante. En primer lugar, y éste es el primer punto a tratar en este ensayo, ambos hablan directamente de la problemática de los orígenes. Al hacerlo nos presentan estos textos con un “método” para la comprensión del fenómeno de la génesis. En segundo lugar, y este será el tema de las tres siguientes secciones, ambos colocan al lenguaje, y la paralela formación de estructuras socio-políticas correspondientes, dentro de un marco histórico que en su movimiento trágico es representable de mejor manera, no como el espiral hegeliano ascendente, sino como una espiral en caída (*2). Como humanos habitábamos en silencio en la prehistoria escuchando la voz de la naturaleza; nuestra historia termina en un nuevo silencio, pero irónicamente en medio de la existencia de una pluralidad de lenguajes convencionales radicalmente empobrecidos (EOL XX) (*3). Además, si el estado natural era uno de igualdad en términos de libertad natural y capacidad de perfeccionamiento, nuestro estado actual civilizado lleva a una igualdad, pero en cadenas: “el hombre ha nacido libre pero por todas partes está encadenado” (CS, I *1).

Este pesimismo radical no escapa tampoco al Contrato Social, pero como señalaré en la quinta sección, Rousseau retoma los plurales lenguajes políticos de la modernidad ——-el republicano, el del contrato social y el del interés—— para comprender nuestra compleja situación. De nuevo la pluralidad será desligada del relativismo gracias a la primacía de uno de estos lenguajes, el republicano. Para Rousseau la salud del cuerpo político, que de todas maneras esta destinado a fallecer, se haya sólo en proyectos comunes dirigidos por una voluntad general que supere facciones conflictivas. En caso contrario, es decir, “cuando la relación social está rota en todos los corazones, cuando el más vil interés se adorna descaradamente con el nombre del bien público, entonces la voluntad general se vuelve muda” (CS, IV *1). La pluralidad lingüística puede entonces terminar simplemente enmudeciendo y ensordeciendo.

II. EL LENGUAJE DE LOS ORÍGENES

La búsqueda de orígenes es un tema central que encontramos en particular en el DOD y el EOL. Una primera reacción a dicho proyecto podría bien ser de sospecha. Esto es así ya que podría ser un proyecto confundido que simplemente busca escapar de las exigencias de la presente realidad, conformándose con la tranquilidad de una inalcanzable “época dorada”; una época de ensueños en el pasado que añoramos incesantemente.

Pero Rousseau está muy lejos de tal proyecto ‘romántico’. Para él, muy como en Nietzsche, volcamos la mirada al origen no con el propósito de permanecer en perpetua desesperanza de nuestra presente situación. Por el contrario, es de hecho mirando hacia estos puntos genéticos que podemos llegar a comprender nuestra constitución actual. El presente es problematizado (*1). Por su parte el pasado permanece muerto, pero sus interpretaciones pueden decirnos algo acerca de cómo es que hemos devenido lo que somos.

El que Rousseau está, en primer lugar, no tanto interesado en la veracidad y verificabilidad de su marco metodológico, sino más bien en presentar un diagnóstico crítico de la modernidad, y en segundo lugar, muy interesado en reconocer las dificultades inherentes a dicho proyecto, son dos puntos que están claramente presentadas en el prefacio al DOD:

“pues no es empresa ligera la de separar lo que hay de original y de artificial en la actual naturaleza del hombre y conocer bien un estado que ya no existe, que quizá no ha existido, que probablemente no existirá jamás y del cual, sin embargo, es necesario tener nociones ajustadas a fin de juzgar con exactitud nuestro estado presente” (DOD, 111, mi énfasis) (*2)

Aquí yace la base para una posible interpretación de la intención que Rousseau tiene. Como él nos lo dice, aún cuando el punto original “nunca haya existido”, es sin embargo todavía “necesario” tener claridad, por lo menos, acerca de su posibilidad hipotético-imaginativa. La historia del desarrollo del lenguaje y de las formaciones sociales tiene como fin investigativo el desenmascaramiento de unas acciones encubridoras que han llegado a gobernar la realidad de las modernos estados comerciales. Estos últimos, en comparación a la salud primitiva, han degenerado hasta tal punto que se puede afirmar que “la mayoría de nuestros males son obra nuestra, y los habríamos evitado casi todos si hubiéramos conservado el modo de vida simple, uniforme y solitario que nos prescribió la naturaleza” (DOD, 127). Incluso el método conjetural lleva en sí una carga normativa; la de restituir la virtud en los que para Rousseau son Estados ‘afeminados’ que, a diferencia de los ideales de Esparta y Roma, no conocen las palabras magnanimidad, equidad, templanza, humanidad, y coraje (DCA, 29).

Se podría pensar que hay aquí una contradicción entre la dicotomía, por un lado del “nunca ha existido” tal estado, y por otro su “necesidad” de comprensión. Pero no es así. Lo que Rousseau pretende en su investigación de orígenes no es una verdad objetiva a la medida de la ciencia mecanicista, sino una verdad narrativo-interpretativa. El mismo es el primero en reconocer que está inevitablemente constituido por las relaciones históricas que son características de la modernidad ilustrada. Su visión del pasado por lo tanto necesariamente involucra una especie de proceso selectivo que no puede ser evitado. (*3). Por ello Rousseau nos dice que en referencia al origen del lenguaje “el gran defecto de los europeos es filosofar siempre sobre los orígenes de las cosas según lo que sucede a su alrededor” (EOL, VIII) (*4). Este “problema” está claramente ejemplificado, entre otras, en las diferentes concepciones del estado de naturaleza que otros teóricos políticos han postulado; en particular el de Hobbes en el cual el hombre es un lobo para el hombre. Estos escritores, para Rousseau, simplemente han transferido concepciones modernas como las del orgullo, la avaricia, la arrogancia y la opresión a un estado en donde no existían inicialmente. (DOD, 124 y 147)

Que tanto nuestra perspectiva teórica, como nuestra realidad histórica, son elementos esenciales al determinar qué veremos, y qué es aquello que consideraremos de valor en el mundo y la historia, es claramente explicitado por Rousseau en el EOL donde señala que “para apreciar bien las acciones de los hombres, es necesario tomarlas en todas sus relaciones, y es esto lo que no se nos enseña a hacer. Cuando nos ponemos en el lugar de los demás, no nos volvemos lo que ellos deben ser, sino permanecemos nosotros mismos modificados” (EOL, XI). Apropiadamente nos da entonces un ejemplo de aquello a lo que se refiere. El fanatismo islámico “nos parece siempre risible, porque entre nosotros no tiene voz para hacerse oír” (ibid.). Por lo anterior es claro que existe en Rousseau, metodológicamente hablando, una multiplicidad de modos de experienciar que rompen con una postura homogeneizante y etnocentrista.

Pero lo que es sin duda lo más excitante, o tal vez el error más grande de la concepción rousseauiana de las cosas, es que, aun cuando reconociendo la existencia de una multiplicidad de formas de vida, él todavía es capaz de reunir en sí —–en su originalidad—– el suficiente poder y la suficiente fortaleza para argumentar que su obra transciende la pluralidad en virtud de que está dirigida a la totalidad de seres humanos, todos los cuales estamos constituidos por la voz natural primigenia. Claro, todos la podemos y de hecho la escuchamos de maneras diferentes, allí radica precisamente nuestra autenticidad personal (*5), pero la voz de la naturaleza no distingue entre lenguajes o posiciones teóricas. Uno podría llegar incluso a decir que por su naturaleza rechaza la diferenciación de lenguas. Por ello para Rousseau, aun cuando existe una relatividad de formaciones socio-linguísticas, todavía existe un criterio universal que subyace el poder ser considerado como ser humano bueno. Los humanos son en este sentido iguales irrespectivamente del sitio de origen y de sus conocimientos. Tal vez no entienda tus palabras, pero en tanto agente perfeccionable y sensible que soy, yo puedo dejar de lado las palabras para darme cuenta que comparto en lo que tu eres también. Antes que filósofos somos seres humanos. (DOD, 115). Es sin duda que por ello Rousseau nos dice a todos:

“Oh hombre, de cualquier comarca que seas, cualquiera que sean tus opiniones; he aquí tu historia como yo he creído leerla , no en los libros de tus semejantes —que mienten— sino en la naturaleza, que no miente nunca. Todo lo que proviene de ella será verdadero; no habrá más falsedad que en lo que yo haya podido mezclar de mis cosecha sin quererlo” (DOD, 120-1).

Rousseau no tiene solamente una pseudo-base empírica para su proyecto en la vida de los Amerindios (que sin embargo tampoco son exactamente habitantes del estado de naturaleza pura), sino mucho más importante, él, y cada uno de nosotros si prestamos oído, tenemos la real y tangible inmediatez de nuestro propio y único ser interior (*6). La voz de la naturaleza ha buscado expresarse a través de Rousseau. Pero sin duda tal recuperación, en parte poético-imaginativa, es necesariamente un recuperar adulterado: “Rousseau no puede estar inconsciente de que diciendo que la vida natural es la buena vida (nota; si es que eso es lo que está diciendo), está destruyendo el silencio de la naturaleza, alienándonos de la naturaleza con palabras” (Starob, 303). Recuperamos no la inmediatez de la naturaleza; es más bien la recuperación de la naturaleza a través del estado presente para que, a través de una crítica de este mismo presente, podamos socráticamente conocernos mejor a nosotros mismos, y así no sólo aceptar nuestra encrucijada sino emprender la búsqueda de puentes futuros más allá de todo origen legendario. (DOD 109)

III. ASPECTOS CENTRALES DEL LENGUAJE

Habiendo reseñado algunos de los aspectos centrales de la “metodología” de Rousseau, quisiera ahora examinar brevemente en esta sección, la importancia de considerar al lenguaje como objeto de estudio.

El párrafo que abre el EOL nos da en su brevedad asombrosa cuatro e interrelacionadas razones acerca del por qué debemos estar interesados en el tema del lenguaje. En primer lugar, el habla es la característica que distingue a los seres humanos de todas las demás seres naturales. (*1). Además, cada ser humano particular nace ‘accidentalmente’ dentro de una comunidad lingüística particular; los lenguajes distinguen a los pueblos. En tercer lugar, Rousseau señala que el lenguaje es la primera institución social. Es gracias a la existencia de otros que tiene sentido el lograr el habla; sin la presencia de seres prestos a oírme la posibilidad del lenguaje se hace inconcebible. Finalmente, este párrafo señala que el habla debe su origen tan sólo a causas naturales.

Una relación cuádruple se despliega. Nuestro interés por el lenguaje está motivado por la universalidad del compartir de todos en el lenguaje; incluso en los casos de los gestos, el ser seres lingüísticos nos lleva ya más allá de lo animal. (*2) El toque físico y los gestos yacen, sin duda, a la base de las relaciones interpersonales. Pero si bien el origen de los gestos se funda en las necesidades básicas, a la base del habla encontramos las pasiones morales humanas. El surgimiento del habla, y luego de la escritura, requiere que vayamos más allá de la satisfacción inmediata de las simples necesidades físicas (*3). El habla tiene un poder moral, el de movernos y persuadirnos: “supongamos una situación de dolor perfectamente conocida; al ver a la persona afligida difícilmente nos conmoveremos hasta llorar, pero démosle el tiempo de decir todo lo que siente y pronto estaremos anegados en lágrimas” (EOL, I) (*4). Pero además, este interés por el lenguaje es también particular. Esto es así ya que un grupo de seres históricos dado comparte un lenguaje histórico específico que, comprendido en su contexto, les provee en un sentido amplio con un noción de identidad (*5). El lenguaje también es el medio a través del cual nos hacemos re-conocer por los demás. Para Rousseau, “tan pronto como un hombre fue reconocido por otro como ser que siente, piensa y semejante a él, el deseo o la necesidad de comunicarle su sentimientos y sus pensamientos, le hizo buscar los medios para lograr tal comunicación” (EOL, I). Tal reconocimiento se hace central en el espacio público político. El lenguaje es precisamente el medio de consentimiento contractual; sólo a través de su riqueza, legitimidad y autenticidad se hace posible una verdadera vida política. Igualmente el lenguaje de la elocuencia es central para la vida del ethos republicano; en particular, el legislador debe conocer las pasiones humanas para convencer y persuadir al ciudadano hacia el bien común (CS II, *7). Finalmente el cuarto ángulo que se despliega de este breve párrafo señala el hecho de que la modernidad no puede tomar como dado la perspectiva divina del nacimiento del lenguaje. El lenguaje tiene su origen en eventos naturales, de hecho es en el punto de origen en el que la naturaleza nos hablaba directamente, en nuestra interioridad. Debemos prepararnos no tanto para hablar, como para saber escuchar. Precisamente es esa incapacidad para escuchar la enfermedad terminal de los modernos: “vuestras lenguas débiles no pueden hacerse oír al aire libre, pensáis más en vuestras ganancias que en vuestra libertad, y teméis mucho menos a la esclavitud que a la miseria” (CS, III, *15).

IV. ESTADOS DE NATURALEZA Y PASTORAL Y SUS LENGUAJES

Por estas razones es imperativo mirar el desarrollo histórico del lenguaje y sus correspondientes formaciones sociales. En el origen encontramos a los seres humanos primitivos regidos por la inmediatez (EOL II; DOD 162). Estos humanos originales son completamente autosuficientes, verdaderos solitarios nómadas. Pero no por autónomos en su primitivismo, dejaron de tener ya una tendencia hacia la sociabilidad: “y aun cuando sus semejantes no fuesen para él lo que son para nosotros …… no fueron olvidados en sus observaciones” (DOD, 164). Dado que sus necesidades físicas básicas eran fácilmente saciadas, entonces si algún tipo de comunicación hubiese sido posible en aquella distante época, lo hubiese sido de carácter gesticular. Tanto las pasiones complejas, como el habla son inexistentes pues ni siquiera las uniones familiares han surgido. Somos apasionados por y gracias a otros. Por lo tanto para Rousseau esta realidad de necesidades mínimas lleva a la separación: “Se pretende que los hombres inventaron la palabra para expresar sus necesidades, opinión que me parece insostenible. El efecto natural de las primeras necesidades fue el de separar a los hombres y no el de aproximarlos (EOL, II) (*1). Sin embargo, aunque separados, incluso a este nivel podemos hablar ya de un lenguaje en virtud a la clase de seres que somos. La voz de la naturaleza es un lenguaje universal caracterizado por tres elementos: a) su persuasión que nos conmueve (EOL, IV), b) su fortaleza que logra captar nuestro interés (EOL, I ), y por último, c) su uso intermitente, surge en ocasiones especiales (EOL, II). En este momento de nuestra historia el lenguaje y la naturaleza permanecen indiferenciables pues se hayan ambos entremezclados en nosotros. Y tal armonía se da además porque este periodo está marcado por la ausencia absoluta de la escasez territorial o alimenticia. La concordia reina ya que, aunque para cada individuo es cierto que la naturaleza “ejercita el cuerpo para la fortaleza, la agilidad y la carrera; el alma a la valentía y la astucia; endurece al hombre y lo hace feroz” (EOL, IX, 50), dicha ferocidad surge sólo en casos de autodefensa. Dada la existencia de un extenso bosque primigenio (EOL, IX 38-39 y DOD, 162), entonces la ferocidad era puesta en jaque por las posibilidades del movimiento nómada. Si soy atacado puedo ir a otra lugar y continuar allí mi simple vida de autosuficiencia.

Los humanos primitivos son por ello mismo seres altamente sanos, no comparten lo que para Rousseau es nuestra enfermiza reflexividad (DOD, 129). Su bienestar nace del hecho de que no existe ninguna discrepancia entre la necesidad y el deseo: “el deseo circunscrito por el momento presente nunca excede la necesidad; la necesidad, inspirada por nada más que la naturaleza es satisfecha tan rápidamente que el sentimiento de deseo nunca surge” (Starob, 293; DOD 55). No existe noción alguna de temporalidad, y por ello la totalidad de la historia individual yace en el instante. Consecuentemente no hay previsión, ni mucho menos pensamientos de la propia mortalidad.

Además, el ser primitivo es característicamente a-moral. Los dictados morales requieren de un consenso y del la comprensión de conceptos abstractos tales como los de justicia y responsabilidad. Y dado que dicho acto y dicho lenguaje no es necesario a este nivel, la moralidad no es articulada en su complejidad. Pero sin embargo permanecemos incluso a este nivel, como claramente diferenciables de los animales. A diferencia de los últimos somos seres libres, somos morales en potencia. Los animales aceptan o no por instinto, los humanos, en cambio, lo hacemos únicamente por un acto de libertad. Hasta nuestro más lejano pariente primitivo “se reconoce libre para asentir o resistir; y es en esta conciencia de esta libertad donde se muestra la espiritualidad de su alma” (DOD, 132). Esta libertad no es nada diferente a la expresión de la naturaleza particular de este ser único capaz de escuchar la voz de la naturaleza que no es nada diferente a su voz interior: “ya incluso antes de que el hombre primitivo comience a reflexionar, la naturaleza deja de ser simplemente un problema de condicionamiento físico. No siendo más un irresistible impulso, deviene un lenguaje interno, un lenguaje al que el hombre presta atención porque se habla dentro de él” (Starob, 306). El mayor acto de libertad es pues el de la perfección potencial que escogemos.

El sentimiento de preservación personal está aquí moderado, a diferencia de la concepción hobbesiana, por el sentimiento de la piedad. Es éste un sentimiento que es parte de nuestro corazón y que surge al activarse la imaginación pudiendo por ello colocarnos comparativamente en la posición del otro (EOL IX). Los seres humanos primitivos son seres piadosos; la inmediatez de la voz de la naturaleza es lo que hace que no se lleven a la destrucción mutua: “parece que si estoy obligado a no hacer daño a mi semejante, no es tanto porque sea un ser racional sino porque es un ser sensible” (DOD 115). Y dado que la piedad precede a la reflexión, entonces su universalidad nos lleva más allá de la multiplicidad de lenguajes convencionales; la benevolencia habla en Esperanto. La solidaridad, central para la república, es posible ya que la piedad es una “virtud tanto más universal y tanto más útil al hombre cuanto que ella antecede al uso de toda reflexión” (DOD, 149). Finalmente, los humanos a este nivel están caracterizados por su ocio. Su máxima principal radica, a diferencia de la de las sociedades comerciales, en “no hacer nada (que) es la más fuerte pasión del hombre, después de la de conservarse” (EOL, IX, 52). Rousseau resume de manera hermosa las principales características del hombre primitivo en un pasaje del DOD:

“el arte perecía con el inventor. No había ni educación ni progreso, las generaciones se multiplicaban inútilmente y, partiendo cada uno del mismo punto, los siglos pasaban en toda la rudeza de las primeras edades; la especie era ya vieja y el hombre permanecía siempre niño.” (DOD, 157) (*2)

Dejando un poco de lado la pregunta acerca de cómo pudimos salir de este estado paradisiaco, podemos mirar ahora la segunda etapa de nuestra larga historia; la de la transición hacia la verdadera época del equilibrio, la de las sociedades pastorales-patriarcales (EOL, IX). (*3) A este nivel al lenguaje doméstico han sido incorporados tanto el lenguaje natural interior como el gesticular. Hemos sido des-naturalizados, pero no completamente civilizados. El DOD nos ofrece una descripción narrativa: “fue ésta la época de la primera revolución que conformó el establecimiento y la distinción de las familias y que introdujo un tipo de propiedad, de las que probablemente nacieron gran número de querellas (166). (*4). Aunque existía un cierto tipo de propiedad ——no la misma propiedad privada que Rousseau analizará posteriormente siguiendo a Locke—— todavía seguía existiendo suficiente tierra para desplazarse fácilmente en caso de necesidad. Es gracias a esto que se puede decir que en este momento “por todas partes reinaba un estado de guerra, y toda la tierra estaba en paz” (EOL, XI, 46). Rousseau mismo se cuestiona acerca de cómo pudimos emerger de tal condición feliz:

“Supongamos una perpetua primavera sobre la tierra; supongamos por todas partes agua, ganado, pastizales; supongamos a los hombres que salen de manos de la naturaleza … no imagino cómo habrían renunciado jamás a su vida aislada y pastoral tan conveniente a su indolencia natural, para imponerse sin necesidad la esclavitud, los trabajos y las miserias inseparables del estado social” (EOL, IX, 52)

¿Cómo se rompe tal equilibrio, tal paz universal?

Para Rousseau, aparte de múltiples catástrofes naturales, surge lo que es una verdadera catástrofe humana. Con el paso de los siglos nos hicimos, poco a poco, más y más dependientes de los demás. Ya incluso en la etapa patriarcal, con el surgimiento de un mayor ocio, tuvimos nuevas comodidades desconocidas; fueron ellas “el primer yugo que se impusieron sin pensar en ello y la primera fuente de males” (DOD, 167). Una de las principales necesidades novedosas surgió de nuestra naturaleza pasional. Si antes “l’amour de soi meme” era natural y nos daba independencia, ahora “l’amour propre” convencional nos hace compararnos constantemente con los demás. Nuestro orgullo está fuera de nosotros. Pero acerca del valor esta nueva estima a partir del otro, Rousseau continuamente es ambivalente: “es a este interés en hacer hablar de sí mismo, a este furor por distinguirse, (lo) que nos tiene casi continuamente fuera de nosotros, a quien debemos lo que hay de mejor y peor entre los hombres” (DOD 197). Como señala Taylor, Rousseau no simplemente denuncia el valor de la estimación pública, como si lo hacen tanto el cristianismo y estoicismo, como la ética aristocrática que ve en el orgullo la fuente de desigualdades. Para Rousseau el ethos republicano requiere de una suprema actividad de la aparición pública de los virtuosos (Taylor, 49).

Es al investigar el surgimiento de los lenguajes meridionales que se nos revela esta ambivalencia que permea la obra de Rousseau. Señala él cómo en aquellos lugares en donde la escasez de agua era una condición natural “era preciso reuinirse para cavarlos o al menos para ponerse de acuerdo para su uso. Tal debió ser el origen de las sociedades y de las lenguas en los países cálidos” (EOL, IX, 60). Y en aquellos lugares donde abundaba el agua, en hogares rústicos “brilla(ba) el fuego sagrado que lleva al fondo de los corazones el primer sentimiento de la humanidad” (ibid., 56). Nuestras necesidades devienen pues cada vez más complejas, el constante ver al otro hace inevitable el surgimiento del deseo del otro. Lentamente salimos inevitablemente del paraíso del ideal primitivo solitario en donde los encuentros sexuales eran ocasionales. Paulatinamente dejamos para siempre nuestra vida solitaria en que la voz de la naturaleza nos hablaba directamente. Ahora deseamos hablar a y escuchar otro tipo de voz, una voz humana; y mejor aún si ésta es capaz además de dar expresión a la voz de la naturaleza misma, aunque modificada. En un pasaje hermoso Rousseau señala este proceso de interacción:

“el agua se hace imperceptiblemente más necesaria, el ganado tuvo sed más a menudo; se llegaba a prisa y se partía a disgusto … allí se hicieron las primeras fiestas, los pies saltaban de alegría, el gesto diligente ya no bastaba, la voz lo acompañaba con acentos apasionados, el placer y el deseo se hacían sentir simultáneamente. Allí estuvo en fin la verdadera cuna de los pueblos, y del cristal puro de las fuentes surgieron los primeros fuegos de amor” (EOL IX, 61)

La existencia de un nivel pasional bajo, y la presencia de necesidades sencillas, mantenían el equilibrio pseudo-humano de la etapa anterior. Ahora sin duda hemos ido mucho más allá al comenzar el ambiguo proceso de perfeccionamiento de la especie. Pero para Rousseau desafortunadamente nuestro movimiento es en su mayoría descendente. Esta época lleva en su nacimiento los elementos de su disolución. Comenzamos a mirar hacia afuera para ver que se exige de nosotros mismos en vez de mirar a nuestra interioridad deviniendo lo que la voz de la naturaleza deseaba que fuésemos:

“se acostumbra uno a considerar objetos diferentes y a hacer comparaciones; se adquieren insensiblemente las ideas de mérito y belleza que producen los sentimientos de preferencia ….. cada cual comienza a contemplar los otros y a querer ser contemplado el mismo, con lo que la estima pública tiene un precio. Aquel que canta o danza mejor, el más bello, el más fuerte, el más diestro o el más elocuente se convierte en el más considerado. Este fue el primer paso hacia la desigualdad y , al mismo tiempo, hacia el vicio (DOD 168-9).

El resultado final es la instauración de un estado hobbesiano en que el hombre es un lobo para el hombre: “castigando cada uno el desprecio que se le había hecho …….. las venganzas se tornaron terribles y los hombres más sanguinarios y crueles” (DOD. 169-70). Pero gracias, como dijimos a la facilidad de movilidad, durante esta época todavía reinaba la paz.

El que ésta sea una época dorada es claramente visto si consideramos la visión del lenguaje que le corresponde. Como vimos, el primer lenguaje fue el de la voz de la naturaleza. En este momento casi que ahistórico, mundo y yo era uno y lo mismo. No se tenía la capacidad de designar cosas fuera de sí, ni siquiera a sí mismo con pronombres como ‘yo’. A lo sumo se producían gritos animales. Pero con el desarrollo del lenguaje ya surgieron palabras y articulaciones cada vez más complejas. Y lo que es más importante, estas palabras en un principio no designaban un objeto real existente ya que el primer lenguaje fue figurativo. Las expresiones fueron primero metafóricas y sólo después llegaron a tener una significación literal. El ser primitivo ya más desarrollado, no veía en sus caminatas otros iguales a si, sino ‘gigantes’ que le amenazaban. Sólo posteriormente reconoció su error, un error que Rousseau atribuye a las pasiones: “he aquí como nace la palabra figurada antes que la palabra propia: cuando la pasión hechiza nuestros ojos y la primera idea que nos ofrece no es la verdad” (EOL, III). Queda clara la supremacía del poder expresivo del lenguaje sobre su poder designativo (*5). Y no sólo ésto, las primeras palabras fueron cantadas, no recitadas, y escritas en verso, no en prosa. La fuerza de Homero radica en pertenecer a una cultura oral (EOL, VI) (*6).

El lenguaje de las sociedades patriarcales es uno de equilibrio jerarquizado; por una parte ha sido desnaturalizado y por ende es más que un simple grito animal, pero a la vez no ha devenido totalmente civilizado, por ello no ha perdido aún la riqueza de su sonido y acento. En este momento histórico las funciones referenciales del lenguaje, es decir, su capacidad para designar el mundo fuera de nosotros, y además el elemento expresivo de éste, es decir, su capacidad para articular nuestras más interiores necesidades, pasiones y proyectos, están “fusionados” juntos en un poderoso y trastocador lenguaje melódico rico en su poder persuasivo. El poder persuasivo inmediato de la voz de la naturaleza impregna las palabras cantadas, pero éstas también logran cumplir su rol designativo que posibilita la diferenciación entre el mundo, el yo y los otros. Es un equilibrio ya que el yo se expresa a través de este lenguaje que es a su vez el medio para la designación del mundo que compartimos con los demás. Y dado que la designación es de hecho melódica, entonces el yo puede transformar su posibilidades de auto-expresión. Para Starobinsky:

“Las funciones expresivas y referenciales no están todavía separadas. Aunque sacado de el ámbito de la inmediatez, el hombre todavía forja un instrumento capaz de restaurar la inmediatez …. Se aventura más allá de las fronteras del yo, sólo para ofrecerse a los demás a través del lenguaje. Y se hace consciente de su propia existencia por medio de la constante presencia emocional que anima su discurso” (Starob, 318)

Las familias patriarcales lograron, según Rousseau, incorporar los breves gritos y gestos de los cazadores a un complejo lenguaje acentuado, fluido, melodioso y pasional. Permanece éste como ideal y tarea, incluso para la sociedad civil actual. ¿Cuál tarea? La de juntar la riqueza expresiva y designativa del discurso melódico dentro del ámbito político desarrollado. Tal lenguaje podría forjar, educar y mover a los ciudadanos necesarios para cimentar el ethos participativo de una verdadera república. Tal lenguaje sería en verdad un lenguaje elocuente. Pero el “progreso” del lenguaje conlleva, para Rousseau, a una caída estructural y una diferenciación histórica que hace cada vez más difícil darse cuenta que debajo de la pluralidad permanece la universal y ahora casi imperceptible voz de la naturaleza.

Para esclarecer el problema de la diferenciación lingüística es necesario recuperar ideas presente en el EOL. Allí Rousseau nos da un muy interesante relato acerca de la diversificación de discursos al hacer referencia a las diferencias entre los lenguajes meridionales y los del norte. Primero que todo, a la base del desarrollo lingüístico es claro que encontramos condiciones naturales materiales, no hay para el lenguaje ningún ‘deux ex machina’: “sea entonces que se busque el origen de las artes o que se observen las primeras costumbres, se pone de manifiesto siempre que todo se relaciona en sus principios con los medios de atender a la subsistencia” (EOL, IX, 59). En consecuencia, dado que los factores climáticos son más nobles con los sureños, uno puede casi concluir que las necesidades dieron pie al surgimiento de las pasiones. Por ello los lenguajes meridionales son acentuados, melodiosos y ricos; y precisamente por ello hasta oscuros (*7). Por el contrario en el norte las condiciones naturales eran tales que la inmediata gratificación de las necesidades primarias no es algo que ha de esperarse; las pasiones limitadas. Por ende los lenguajes norteños son aburridos, duros, monótonos y secos; y por ello claros en su articulación. En el norte, nos cuenta Rousseau, “antes de pensar en ser feliz, era preciso pensar en vivir …… y la primera palabra entre ellos no fue ámame sino ayúdame” (EOL, X, 64) Lo necesario prima en ellos sobre lo apasionado.

Pero lo que es absolutamente crucial en este relato es que el hecho de que uno llegue a hablar un lenguaje particular realmente afecta el modo en que uno percibe el mundo, los otros, y consecuentemente lo que uno mismo es. Rousseau va tan lejos que exclama que “en efecto los hombres septentrionales no carecen de pasiones, pero las tienen de otra especie” (ibid, 65). (*8). Y esta multiplicidad es igualmente característica de la música sin la cual comprender la evolución del lenguaje se hace imposible (*9). No podemos recapturar la degeneración del lenguaje sin a la vez retomar la visión rousseauiana de la música. Para ganar claridad respecto a la degeneración del lenguaje debemos mirar la caída de la música. A través del lenguaje melódico poético podíamos articular nuestra interioridad y a la vez proteger nuestra autenticidad de una fusión directa —–romántica—– con la naturaleza; nos daba un identidad personal y comunal. Es por esto que es de este estado del que realmente podemos decir que:

“Los sonidos en la melodía no obran solamente sobre nosotros como sonidos, sino como signos de nuestras afecciones, de nuestros sentimientos. Es así como excitan en nosotros los movimientos que expresan y cuya imagen reconocemos (EOL80 )……. “pues no es tanto el oído el que lleva el placer al corazón como el corazón el que lo lleva al oído” (ibid., 82).

En verdad nos identificábamos en aquellos tiempos con nuestros productos simbólicos. La música en particular tenía una función moral pues nos movía en conformidad con la naturaleza, nos conmovía. Lo que escuchábamos al hablar no era vibraciones externas sino melodiosos sonidos internos de autenticidad. Pero la narración rousseauiana no termina ahí.

V. MODERNIDAD Y DECADENCIA LINGÜÍSTICA

Para Rousseau la modernidad está caracterizada por la creciente separación entre el lenguaje y la música; esta última se vuelve políticamente sospechosa (*1). La degeneración musical sigue en proporción directa a la evolución de los modernos lenguajes convencionales no-melódicos: “a medida que se perfeccionaba la lengua, al imponerse nuevas reglas, la melodía perdió insensiblemente su antigua fuerza” (EOL, XIX, 93). El lenguaje históricamente se hace cada vez más racional, es primordialmente concebido como instrumento de dominio y cálculo; se refiere a las cosas, pero sin expresarnos. En la música los elementos de la armonía subyugan a los de la expresión melódica: “no es de extrañarse que el acento oral se haya afectado por ello, y que la música haya perdido para nosotros casi toda su fuerza” (ibid.). Así como ocurrió en el lenguaje, en la música la universalidad de la voz de la naturaleza se ha ramificado en una pluralidad empobrecida. Como en la diversificación lingüística, la una vez conocida voz de la naturaleza se ha ocultado en múltiples voces y cantos desconocidos.

Ahora pareciera que tuviésemos tan diferentes tipos de nervios (XV, 81) que resulta cierto que “cada uno es afectado sólo por los acentos que le son familiares; sus nervios no se prestan sino en tanto que su espíritu los disponga a ello”. Incluso hasta el punto de que la música, cura de unos es la enfermedad de otros (Ibid, 81). Y a diferencia de la posibilidad de una compleja fusión de horizontes a través del diálogo, el pesimismo rousseauiano emerge ahora con toda su fortaleza. Para él las sociedades comerciales modernas, sociedades de sermones incomprensibles, “han alcanzado su última forma; ya nada cambia en ellas como no sea con el cañón y la moneda (*2)….. lo necesario es mantener dispersa a la gente: tal es la primera máxima de la política moderna” (EOL, XX, 100) Nuestra libertad la hallamos tan sólo en el silencio de la ley; se rompe el nudo social y se deja de lado bien común en pro de discursos faccionales (CS, IV *1). Valoro la libertad en términos de no interferencia; soy libre en sentido negativo (*3) si es que somos libres del todo pues como Rousseau afirma “toda lengua con la cual no puede hacerse oír del pueblo reunido, es una lengua servil: es imposible que un pueblo permanezca libre y que hable esta lengua” (EOL , XX, 101).

El lenguaje musical, que adecuadamente expresaba nuestra naturaleza pasional en el espacio compartido de las sociedades patriarcales, termina siendo valioso sólo en la esfera privada; sirve sencillamente para murmurar en los divanes (EOL, XX, 100). Las palabras cesan de revelarnos, y devienen ahora el instrumento fundamental del encubrimiento y la hipocresía. Su presencia destructiva posterga una ausencia, la de la apariencia que nunca es. En el espacio público se encuentran cara a cara estos lenguajes, sin comprenderse ——-sin querer comprenderse. Los discursos se hacen ajenos a la tolerancia dialógica.

A donde sea que miramos hay plurales lenguajes, pero permanecemos tan perplejos como los desilusionados constructores de la Torre de Babel (*4). Al final de la historia yace un silencio, pero a diferencia del silencio primitivo, el nuestro es realmente trágico ya que surge en medio de la multiplicidad de lenguajes desarrollados. El mundo, para Rousseau, está poblado por una serie de Chaplins, pero lo que es preocupante es que ni siquiera son chistosos ——han olvidado hasta cómo gesticular, cómo gritar.

Políticamente el lenguaje es precisamente el medio a través del cual se instaura la desigualdad entre los seres humanos. De la violencia abierta del final de las sociedades patriarcales, llegamos ahora a la violencia escondida de las palabras. Los ricos, para el Rousseau del DOD, han logrado persuadir a los pobres por medio de un discurso para entrar a hacer parte de un contrato desigual: “para el provecho de algunos ambiciosos, sometieron entonces a todo el género humano al trabajo, a la servidumbre y a la miseria” (DOD. 181)(*5). La propiedad ya desarrollado de las sociedades comerciales presupone un lenguaje, su existencia requiere de quienes tienen la capacidad para decir “Esto es mío”; y claro, de otros capaces de creerlo. El lenguaje sirve ahora la causa de la ausencia; la apariencia obstruye la presencia de la autenticidad. Nos escondemos en las palabras y en el silencio. Lo que era cierto para seres de una época anterior, permanece todavía, a saber, el hecho de que era “preciso para su ventaja mostrarse distinto a como se es efectivamente. Ser y parecer llegaron a ser dos cosas desde todo punto diferentes” (DOD, 176) El lenguaje perpetua nuestra dependencia en la apariencia, nos gobierna desde fuera; nos hace heterónomos. Sólo vivimos de la exterioridad, de lo que los demás pretenden que seamos: “con lo que la dominación se torna más querida que la independencia, estando dispuestos a llevar cadenas para poder imponerlas a los demás” (DOD, 195)(*6). Somos esclavos con cadenas hasta internas.

La ironía de la historia se expresa no sólo en nuestro nuevo silencio. También la pluralidad de la diferencia, que pareció ser una posibilidad de recuperar novedosamente la voz de la naturaleza en su complejidad variable, llega simplemente a un fin trágicamente egalitario. Somos de nuevo absolutamente iguales. La universalidad sí es recuperada pero es una que comparte en la nada. Somos dueños pero del silencio. “Apres moi, le silence”, diría Rousseau. (Starob, 378); se lo diría a sí mismo en sus paseos solitarios (Starob, 327). (*7)

VI. LOS PLURALES LENGUAJES POLÍTICOS DEL “CONTRATO SOCIAL”

Si bien este pesimismo pseudo-augustiniano no escapa al Contrato Social ya que la República, y todo orden político, es siempre un verdadero cuerpo político. Y éste, como “el cuerpo humano, empieza a morir desde su nacimiento y lleva en sí mismo las causas de su destrucción” (III. *11, 113). Hasta los mejores sistemas de gobierno “se acabaran”; “el hombre ha nacido libre, pero por todas partes esta encadenado” (I *1). Pero si bien esto es cierto, la virtud del CS radica precisamente en su lucha contra tales presuposiciones. No sólo señala Rousseau diversos mecanismos para la preservación y el fortalecimiento de una buena comunidad política ——-limitaciones territoriales (II *9), balance poblacional (II *10), eliminación de excesivas diferencias económicas (II *11), prioridad de que los cargos públicos sean otorgados a partir de méritos y virtudes (III *6), elección popular de buenos magistrados y demás cargos públicos, la censura (IV *7), y la religión cívica (IV *8)——— sino que además nos presenta con un agudísimo análisis de los plurales lenguajes políticos que conforman nuestra identidad moderna. Se nos revela el complejo entrelazado de tradiciones centrales para la comprensión de la fundamental pregunta directriz acerca de la legitimidad de nuestras sociedades comerciales (I *1). Encontramos, en primer lugar, el lenguaje de la tradición del republicanismo o humanismo cívico, tanto clásico (Aristóteles, Cícero) como renacentista (Maquiavelo; hoy en día Arendt). Bajo este discurso el agente es visto como un yo caracterizado esencialmente por su búsqueda apasionada e incesante de la ‘virtud’ (*1). La demanda principal sobre las instituciones estatales es la de servir como foro en la que cada ciudadano puede llegar a articular su concepción del bien público. Ser libre radica en participar activamente en el manejo de un estado en donde la ley es soberana, es decir, es expresión tanto de la voluntad general como de mi manera de pensar propia (*2). El segundo lenguaje hace referencia a la tradición fundada sobre el concepto de la ley natural (Aristóteles, Aquino, Grotius), concepción que se ve ampliada por las ideas del ‘estado natural’ y del ‘contrato social’ (Hobbes, Locke; hoy día Rawls). La noción misma de justicia y realidad política surge sólo a partir de la forjación consensual del contrato social a partir de, por un lado una comprensión racional de las capacidades humanas y por otro, unos principios universalizables fundamentales. Ahora el agente es visto primordialmente como un individuo con ciertos derechos naturales universales; por ejemplo el de la autopreservación. La sociedad política, que es un ente artificial, busca como mínimo la protección de dichos derechos egalitarios. El contrato “sustituye una igualdad moral y legítima por la desigualdad física que la naturaleza puso entre los hombres, los cuales, si bien pueden ser desiguales en fuerza o en talento, son todos iguales por convención y derecho” (I *9). Soy, por ejemplo en la visión hobbesiana, libre negativamente, es decir primordialmente en el silencio de la ley y la inexistencia de obstáculos físicos. Finalmente encontramos un tercer lenguaje que es radicalmente moderno, característico de nuestras sociedades comerciales. Es éste el lenguaje del interés y de la utilidad que surge con el desarrollo de la economía política (Smith, Mandeville, Helvetius). El yo se considera bajo esta perspectiva como un ser interesado que busca, primordialmente, su propio bienestar en el espacio privado; es incluso su deber. La estructura estatal debe proveerlo con los mecanismos necesarios para poder lograr el máximo grado de utilidad. Por otra parte la premisa de la no intervención, del ‘laissez-faire’, se acrecienta ya que el mercado tiene sus propias reglas que no podemos controlar.

El primer párrafo del CS revela cómo estos lenguajes se integran en el texto de tal manera que la presencia de uno redefine al otro para intentar ir más allá de sus presuposiciones conflictivas. Rousseau nos dice, primero, que: “en esta investigación intentar(á) siempre relacionar lo que el derecho permite con lo que el interés prescribe, a fin de que la justicia y la utilidad nunca sean divididos”. Y seguidamente procede a enmarcar tal proyecto dentro del discurso republicano al indicar, entre otras, que tal investigación le da “nueva razones para amar el gobierno de (su) país” (ibid.) (*3).

La interrelación entre los dos primeros lenguajes, el de la tradición republicana y el del contrato social, se ve con claridad en el apartado titulado “Del Pacto Social” (I *6). Allí, retomando ideas del DOD pero con un optimismo radicalmente inesperado respecto a la salida del estado de naturaleza, Rousseau señala cómo con el surgimiento de diversos obstáculos al bienestar individual en el estado primitivo (que aparece ya sin etapas aquí), se hace necesaria la constitución conjunta de un pacto en el cual se hacen partícipes todos aquellos que entran a la sociedad civil. Este acto da la solución al problema de “encontrar una forma de asociación que con la fuerza común defienda y proteja a la persona y los bienes de cada asociado, y por la cual cada uno, uniéndose a todos, no obedece sino a sí mismo y permanezca tan libre como antes”. Un pacto que nos entrega la libertad civil y moral gracias a, a diferencia de la noción de delegación lockeana, “la enajenación total de cada asociado con todos sus derechos a la comunidad” (ibid.). Pero para Rousseau lo que surge, constituido artificialmente, no es un simple agregado de átomos débilmente interrelacionados, sino por el contrario un verdadero cuerpo político (ciudad o república) que va más allá de las presuposiciones de la tradición contractual. Nace “un cuerpo moral y colectivo compuesto de tantos miembros como votos tiene la asamblea, el cual recibe, por este mismo acto, su unidad, su yo común, su vida y su voluntad” (ibid., mi énfasis) El lenguaje del pacto de entrada está ligado al republicano como eje central. Y Rousseau es consciente de su intento de redefinición sintética. Por ello señala cómo, dependiendo del lenguaje político utilizado ——así como ocurrió con los lenguajes meridionales y del norte——- veremos algunas cosas en la realidad y no otras. Aquí en particular consideramos las ópticas diferentes del ciudadano y del súbdito. En cuanto ciudadanos somos agentes activos en la conformación de la legislatura, somos miembros egalitarios del soberano, y participes de la voluntad general que involucra, más allá de la simple unanimidad de votos, un proyecto común que nos une e identifica. En cambio, en tanto súbditos, somos seres pasivos miembros del estado, agentes obedientes de la ley que nos señala nuestros derechos, entre ellos el de la propiedad privada.

Incluso ya en el apartado analizado el tercer lenguaje, el del interés, es señalado como un lenguaje propio; hay una clara diferencia para Rousseau entre el ciudadano y el burgués. Pero la relación del lenguaje republicano con éste último se puede esclarecer de mejor manera al analizar la sección titulada “De lo límites del poder soberano” (II *4). Allí Rousseau, quien de entrada es radicalmente sospechoso de intereses faccionales que olvidan el bien común general (“cuando una voluntad particular es impuesto sobre la general, tanto la comunidad como el individuo son esclavizados” (Viroli 169), intenta señalar cómo incluso en la persecución de intereses privados es de utilidad tanto privada, como común, el no perder de vista los proyectos de la sociedad en su conjunto. Es así como argumenta Rousseau que al moldear nuestra actividad privada con miras a fines más globales, garantizamos como mínimo la supervivencia de la seguridad cívica que permite el comercio mismo. Para él “los compromisos que nos atan al cuerpo social no son obligatorios sino en cuanto son mutuos, y su naturaleza es tal que cumpliéndolos no se puede trabajar para otro sin trabajar para sí mismo”. La relación entre estos dos lenguajes es de nuevo retomada en la sección que lleva por título, ‘Del soberano’ (CS I *7). Es ésta aquella en que argumenta Rousseau de manera famosa que se le obligará a ser libre a quien no obedezca la voluntad general (*4). Pero antes que caer en un totalitarianismo absoluto en donde lo público ocupa todo espacio —como en 1984 de Orwell—- Rousseau señala que:

“en el momento en que esta multitud está así unida en un cuerpo no se puede ofender a uno de los miembros sin atacar el cuerpo ….el deber y el interés obligan por igual a las dos partes contratantes a ayudarse mutuamente y los mismos hombres deben buscar reunir bajo esta doble relación todas las ventajas que derivan de ella” (26)

En tanto modernos inevitablemente somos seres con intereses económicos particulares. Por ende el interés y el fomento de lo privado sigue siendo crucial (*5). Pero para Rousseau, sólo si logramos ir más allá, y así percibir la necesidad de proyectos mutuos, podemos entonces no sólo preservar la libertad negativa de la simple preservación, sino además tanto la “libertad civil” como base para la consecución de proyectos comunitarios, como la “libertad moral” “que por sí sola hace al hombre verdaderamente dueño de sí mismo, puesto que el impulso del simple apetito es la esclavitud.” (I *8, 30). Obligados podemos ser a la libertad civil, pero a la libertad moral sólo nosotros en nuestra interioridad podemos acceder (*6). Ahora bien, si es cierto que la voluntad general jamás puede errar (II *3), aunque no signifique esto que requiera ser unánime pues siempre está dirigida al bien público (II *2),¿cómo precisamente al ser obligados por lo público a moldear lo privado, permanece este último como independiente?

Al mirar, brevemente, el propósito de la ley dentro de la tradición republicana vemos que ésta es precisamente aquello que nos hace libres. Son leyes las que surgen de “una autoridad legítima y soberana y respeta los dos principios de la universalidad y la reciprocidad” (Viroli, 163). La ley dentro de una república garantiza el ordenamiento político que tiene, según Viroli, tres aspectos interrelacionados: i) el concepto de armonía y concordia, es decir la cooperación entre las partes, ii) la noción de justa y apropiada disposición, a saber, la correcta colocación de las partes en una escala de valores de mérito, y iii) la virtud de la moderación personal caracterizada por el control de las pasiones. Es claro que allí radica el orden, pero y de nuevo, ¿cómo garantizar que el orden no será totalizante? ¿Cómo puede Viroli afirmar que “el objetivo del verdadero político no se es el de imponer la utilitas publica sobre la utilitas singolorum; es hacer que los intereses privados y públicos concuerden?” (Viroli, 170). ¿Si hay realmente cabida para el lenguaje del interés en el CS?

En primer lugar, lejos de un totalitarianismo, para Rousseau el gobierno debe estar preparado para sacrificarse por el pueblo y no al contrario (III *1, 98). En segundo lugar el acceso a la libertad moral es nuestro únicamente; se es libre de esta manera hasta en una tiranía. Además, el ordenamiento a partir de la ley que emana de nosotros mismos, no sólo cumple el rol de garantizar la paz, sino que también tiene la función de moldear a los ciudadanos. El legislador que es humano, y por ende no puede darnos leyes perfectas, debe tener esto en mente: “quien pretende emprender la formación de un pueblo debe sentirse … en capacidad de cambiar la naturaleza humana, de transformar a cada individuo, que es en sí mismo un todo perfecto, y convertirlo en parte de un todo más grande, del cual este individuo recibe, de alguna forma, su vida y su ser” (II *7, 64). Para Rousseau es el legislativo, siguiendo la tradición republicana, el verdadero corazón del estado; el ejecutivo es simplemente el cerebro (III *7). Y este corazón involucra mucho más que leyes políticas, civiles o criminales. Su sistema circulatorio está compuesto por otro tipo de leyes, aquellas “que no se graban sobre el mármol ni sobre el bronce sino dentro del corazón de los ciudadanos que conforman la verdadera constitución del estado”(II *12) (*7). Ley, libertad y buenas costumbres conforman un triángulo equilátero que el legislador debe comprender para moldear los necesarios impulsos privados hacia el bienestar público.

Pero un legislador prudente (en el sentido de Aristóteles) no se limita simplemente a imponer un formato de leyes universales preestablecidas. Por el contrario debe éste “examinar primero si el pueblo al cual están destinados puede realmente soportarlas” (II *8). Resurge entonces aquí la sensibilidad rousseauiana a la diferencia. Responder a la pregunta ¿cuál es el mejor sistema político?, es imposible pues “cada uno de ellos en algunos casos es el mejor y en otros el peor” (III *3). Incluso la libertad no está al alcance de todos los pueblos (III *8). Pero como dijimos anteriormente, no por la presencia de la diferencia caemos en un relativismo total. El lenguaje del republicanismo permanece ocupando el ápice de la estructura política ideal. Esto es así, entre otras, ya que en él, a diferencia de por ejemplo la monarquía, los cargos públicos van de acuerdo al mérito (III *6). Estos tampoco son entregados simplemente por dinero:

“dad dinero y pronto tendréis cadenas. La palabra finanzas es una palabra de esclavo; es desconocida en la ciudad. En un estado realmente libre, los ciudadanos hacen todo con sus brazos y nada con dinero; lejos de pagar por eximirse de sus deberes, pagarán por cumplirlos ellos mismos” (III *15), 152-3).

Evidentemente el lenguaje de intereses comerciales es radicalmente limitado, a diferencia de Constant, por la austeridad de Rousseau. Pero limitar la incidencia de un lenguaje es bien diferente a rechazarlo de entrada.

Sin embargo, aunque Rousseau intenta recuperar esta pluralidad política en su obra, no es para nada optimista acerca de las posibilidades de la realidad política humana. Entre la naturaleza humana como ha llegado a ser, y la ley como debe ser, prima la primera ya escindida de su origen. Es así como señala que lo ocurre en el corazón del legislador es representativo de lo que ocurre en los nuestros. Los magistrados tienen tres voluntades (que más o menos corresponden a los lenguajes analizados): i) la voluntad individual que busca la ventaja particular, ii) la común de los magistrados o de cuerpo, y por último, iii) la voz de pueblo o soberano. El ordenamiento político que pospone la crisis se da por la jerarquización adecuada. Pero para Rousseau:

“por el contrario, según el orden natural estas diferentes voluntades se vuelven más activas a medida que se concentran. Así la voluntad general siempre es la más débil, la voluntad de cuerpo ocupa el segundo lugar, y la voluntad particular la primera de todas; en el gobierno cada miembro primero es él mismo, luego magistrado y por último ciudadano, gradación directamente opuesta a la que exige el orden social” (III *2, 101).

Rousseau por ende no es nada optimista acerca de su propia empresa clarificadora de la relación entre una política de la diferencia, y una de la igualdad en la modernidad. Sin embargo investigar su investigación nos permite un lenguaje más para la comprensión de nuestra compleja identidad moderna.


VII. NOTAS

*I)1. Taylor trata esta interpretación de Rousseau en la tercera sección de “The politics of recognition” (TPoR), especialmente pg. 50.

2. La visión rousseauiana de la historia no es sencillamente una secularización de la tradición crsitiana (Edén, Caída y Redención) como señala Arrocha en una cita; según mi análisis no existe realmente tal redención.

3. Ver en particular el ensayo de Starobinsky acerca del EOL, 322.

*II) 1. Ver también (DOD, 121), y el ensayo de Foucault, “What is Enlightenment”

2. Igualmente para Rousseau no existe, ni existirá, una democracia perfecta.(III *4)

3. Taylor trata el tema del reconocimiento, respeto y valor de otras culturas en “The politics of recogition”

4. Un paralelo se encuentra en La genealogía de la moral de Nietzsche, I *1.

5. Para Taylor la temática de la autenticidad es central par la comprensión de nuestra identidad moderna, en particular ver Sources of the Self, (SotS); capítulos IV y V.

6. La historia de nuestra interiorización está trazada igualmente en SotS, capítulo II, y en el artículo sobre Foucault titulado,“Foucault on freedom and truth” PP II.

*III) 1. Para un análisis de las diferentes tradiciones linguísticas de la modernidad ver Taylor, “Language and Human Nature”

2. Un ejemplo del valor del lenguaje gesticular en la educación cívica son evidentemente los mimos de Mockus.

3. Rousseau recupera, siguiendo la tradición agustiniana, el concepto de la calidad de la voluntad; ver Taylor, SotS, 357.

4. Visión ligada al sentientalismo del siglo XVIII, y central en la tradición romántica como por ejemplo en el Werther (Blum, 48).

5. Taylor trata este tema en SotS, capítulo 1; y analizando las leyes del lenguaje de Quebec en “TPoR”.

*IV) 1. El rol de los sentimientos en una crítica de la libertad negativa se da en Taylor, “What’s wrong with negative liberty”.

2. No tocaré en el análisis tres paradojas que se encunttran en Rousseau: i) la de la relación entre el pensamiento y el lenguaje (es necesario para pensar tener un lenguaje y un lenguaje para pensar), ii) la relación entre la sociedad y el lenguaje, y finalmente, iii) el hecho de que dadas las presuposiciones rousseauianas en el CS si uno nace en un estado corrupto, con malas costumbres, es difícil ver como arrancaría siquiera la posición de Rousseau.

3. Es importante considerar si esta segunda etapa es realmente la segunda etapa de la naturaleza o la primera de la civilización pues de ello depende nuestra valoración, positiva o negativa, de nuestro carácter civilizado.

4. Starobinsky señala las cuatro etapas completas en su ensayo sobre el DOD.

5. Ver Taylor “Language and Human Nature” para la relación entre expresión y designación, y la pugna entre diferentes tradiciones (Rousseau/Herder contra Hobbes/Locke/Condillac)

6. Esta idea bellamente analizada en Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet, en donde se ve la relación enter una cultura oral y escrita y las correspondientes concepciones del yo y la identidad..

7. Camus también ve en los algerianos algo similar, ver su “Summer in Algiers”.

8. Los norteños tienen un ejemplo en el personaje Hans de la obra de Julio Verne, Viaje al centro de la tierra.

9. La importancia de la música retomada claro por Schopenhauer, Nietzsche y Mann.

*V)1. Ver la visión de Herr Settembrini acerca de la música en La Montaña Mágica de Thomas Mann; contrapuesta al amor de la música de Hans Castorp.

2. Sería importante comparar aquí la crítica de Constant sobre el rol de lo comercial en la modernidad.

3. Ver artículo de Taylor, “What’s Wrong with Negative Liberty”

4.Tal vez Rousseau esté creando una Torre de Babel hacia el interior, forjando un tipo de subjetividad moderna que retoma el proceso de interiorización de San Agustín; proceso del que Foucault es altamente sospechoso. Central para una mejor comprensión de esta temática es la de incorporar Las Confesiones a este estudio preliminar.

5. No tocaré aquí el problema de la tensión que existe ente el DOD y el CS; por ejemplo, ¿es, finalmente, el contrato originalmente desigual o no?

6. La idea del reconocimento claro retomada por Hegel en, La Fenomenología del Espíritu, “Señor y Siervo”.

7. La relación entre la biografía de Roussseau y su obra es compleja y no la trataré aquí, pero claro es menester tratarla en el doctorado.

*VI) 1. Virtud claro comprendida no en el sentido cristiano pues este es un lenguaje apolítico según Rousseau (CS IV *8) que aquí sigue a Maquiavelo.

2. Idea que retomará Kant en su importantísima concepción del imperativo categórico como universal y a la vez emanando de mi propia autonomía racional.

3. El hecho de que Rousseau no era ya ciudadano de Ginebra no lo trataré aquí. (Satrob, 322) (Blum, 54).

4. Ejemplos nuestros de ser forzados a ser libres son: posibilidad de voto obligatorio y ley zanahoria.

5. La legitimidad de lo privado en la modernidad es tratada por Taylor en “Legitimation Crisis?”.

7. Ejemplos del valor de la ley en Rousseau se dan en Consideraciones sobre el gobierno de Polonia, II; “El espíritu de las instituciones antiguas”; Taylor lo cita en “TPoR”. pg. 46-7.

 

VIII. BIBLIOGRAFíA


A) LECTURAS PRIMARIAS

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, Discurso sobre el origen y los fundamentos de la desigualdad entre los hombres y otros escritos de Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Estudio preliminar, traducción y notas de Antonio Pintor Ramos, REI Andes Ltda., Santafé de Bogotá, 1995

—–El contrato social, Traducción de Andebeng-Abeu Alingue, Prólogo y notas de

VíctorFlorián, Panamerican Editorial, Santafé de Bogotá, 1996

—–Ensayo sobre el origen de las lenguas, Traducción de Rubén Sierra Mejía,

Editorial Norma, Santafé de Bogotá, 1993.

—–The Basic Political Writings, Tranducción de Donald Cress, Hackett Publishing

Company, Indianapolis, 1987.

—–Two Essays on the Origin of Language, Translated by Moran, John and Gode

Alexander, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1966 (1986)

—–Discours sur les sciences et les arts, Preface de Jean Varloot, Editions Gallimard, Paris,

1987.

—–Du contract social, Union generale d’editions, Paris, 1973 (1982)

—–Essai sur l’origine des langues, Bibliotheque du Graphe, Ligugé, 1976.

 

B) LECTURAS SECUNDARIAS

 

Arrocha Ruperto, “La actualidad del pensamiento de J.J. Rousseau en nuestra época”,

Memorias del XIII Congreso de Filosofía, Los Andes Santafé de Bogotá, 1994, pgs.

813-819

 

Blum, Carol, Rousseau and the Republic of Virtue, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1986,

(1989), pgs 13-57

Constant, Benjamin, “The Liberty of the Ancients compared with that of the

Moderns” in Political Writings, Translated by Biancamaria Fontrana, Cambridge

University Press, Cambridge, 1988 (1989).

 

Herder, Johann, Essay on the Origin of Language, (ver arriba; Moran y Gode).

Kant, Immanuel, Kant’s Political Writings, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge

1970 (1985).

Pagden, Anthony, “Introduction” en The Languages of Political Theory in Early-Modern

Europe, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1987 (1990), pgs. 1-17.

 

Starobinsky, Jean, J.J. Rousseau: La transparence et l’obstacle, Editions Gallimard, Paris,

1971(1976). Versión inglesa Jean-Jacques Rousseau:Transparency and Obstruction, s.d.

Taylor, Charles, “The Politics of Recognition” en Multiculturalism, Princeton

University Press, Princeton, 1994. pgs. 25-74.

——-”Language and Human Nature, Philosophical Papers I, pgs. 215-248

——-”Theories of Meaning”, PP I, pgs 248-292

——-”Kant’s Theory of Freedom”, en Philosophical Papers II, pgs. 318-337

——-”Legitimation Crisis?” en PP II, pgs. 248-288

——-”What’s Wrong with Negative Liberty”, PP II, 211-229.

——-”Nature as Source” Capítulo 20 de Sources of the Self, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1989.

Viroli, Maurizio, “The concept of ordre and the language of classical republicanism in Jean-Jacques Rousseau”, en Pagden, Anthony, (ver arriba), pgs159-178.

IMPORTANT: All posts, pages, art and written work found in this blog are licensed through Creative Commons:

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

 

 

PLATO AND FREUD:

EROTIC SUBLIMATION, TRUTH AND NARRATION

 

INTRODUCTION

Drawing up a comparison between Freud and Plato on the nature of our erotic life is a project that would require a long and attentive dedication to each thinker’s over-all perspective on human nature. Not being capable of undertaking such a massive enterprise, I propose instead to focus this comparative essay on the relationship between sexuality, sublimation and the human search for truth through narrative.

The comparison between both thinkers is primarily made possible because of the fact that Freud, in different parts of his work, alludes to Plato’s views on the nature of ‘Eros’. For instance, in his Group Psychology the German thinker writes concerning the centrality of sexuality in the overall picture of psychoanalysis:

“By coming to this decision, Psychoanalysis has let loose a storm of indignation, as though it had been guilty of an act of outrageous innovation. Yet it has done nothing original in taking love in this ‘wider’ sense. In its origin, function and relation to sexual love, the ‘Eros’ of the philosopher Plato coincides exactly with the love force, the libido of psychoanalysis” (GP, 119) (See also, 3ES, Preface 4, 43)

 

According to Freud the libido, that is to say, the “energy regarded as quantitative magnitude …… of those instincts which have to do with all that may be comprised under the word ‘love’” (GP, 116), is merely a reformulation of the Platonic understanding of erotic longing. However, this claim is so strong that it cannot but puzzle us. This is so primarily because it is not at all clear that Plato has anything like ‘THE’ theory of sexuality within his dialogues. Instead it is of the nature of the dialogues to provide avenues for reflection, but no absolutely clear end roads where human reflection would become an impossibility. Besides, the interaction between the different Platonic dialogues may actually provide varying, perhaps mutually conflicting views, on the nature of human eroticity. Given this multiplicity which Freud seems to overlook, one is lead to ask: when Freud talks of the Platonic ‘theory of love’, does he have in mind the Symposium, the Phaedrus¸ or perhaps the Republic? Or does he mean the three, somehow made commensurable? And even if he does indeed have in mind particularly the Symposium, does he take it for granted that Plato’s views are identical to those of Socrates’ speech founded upon the remembrance of Diotima’s words? If this is so, then what ought we to do with all the other speeches? Why did Plato take the trouble of writing them in that order, with speakers the character of which clarify the nature of their speeches, and moreover, in such dramatic, and lively, fashion?

Having this questions in mind, in order to get clearer on how precisely Plato and Freud stand as regards the transformability of sexuality into ever widening activities, relations and aims, I propose to look at the question of sublimation in general, but particularly as it rotates around the crucially important notion of truth as it appears in each thinker’s view. I will carry this out by dividing this essay into two sections which perhaps can stand as mirror images to each other. In the first I will try to shed some light on the dialogical nature of the Symposium. This involves, among other things, bringing to the fore what I take to be the central confrontation of the dialogue, that is to say, the always indirect battle of positions held between Aristophanes (and to a minor extent Alcibiades) and Socrates. In their confrontation, I take it, lies the most important Platonic contribution to the understanding of the complexities and difficulties one runs into in seeking to comprehend the nature of our erotic longing as human beings, and perhaps even as potential Socrateses. The difficult issue of truth comes to light not in the personal, steadfast, and perhaps even stubborn adherence to one of the speeches, but rather in the critical acceptance of the dialogical interaction between the participants who together let us know that Eros, and the narration of Eros, are two sides of the same coin.

In the second section I will proceed to consider, briefly, some of the issues in Freud’s treatment of the ever elusive concept of sublimation within his work, and its relation to the pessimistic claims which mark the latter writings centering on the status of civilization and its relation to our unhappiness. Having done this, I will proceed to look at how precisely sublimation can, in the specific case of the analytic situation, brings out the ‘truthfulness’ of psychoanalysis as the working through of perplexities and unconscious barriers in order to get clearer, through the dialogical articulation of the participants involved, about the history and meaningfulness of one’s own past. I will claim that by centering on the issue of the narrative character of psychoanalytic truth, i.e., the textuality inherent in case histories, one finds the closest possible linking bridge between the complex and quite different views held by both Plato and Freud.

 

SECTION I: ARISTOPHANES AND/OR SOCRATES? DIALOGICAL TRUTHS IN THE SYMPOSIUM

The Symposium is a Platonic dialogue. Now, this may seem like an obvious claim, one which truly reveals nothing that is not self-evident. However, this very narrative character of the Platonic writings, a character which varies within the different Platonic periods, is the one which makes of Plato’s work a truly living breathing work. In the case of the Symposium in particular it is this dialogical characteristic which makes it evident that the Platonic understanding of the role of Eros in our lives is not simply identical to that of Socrates. Perhaps we can even find in this dialogue a questioning of the Socratic adventure towards philosophical truth. This is nowhere clearer than in the silent confrontation found between the speeches of Aristophanes and that of Socrates. In order to see exactly what is at stake in their agonistic encounter I will center the discussion upon the words of the Greek comedian. In situating the comedian’s speech within the dialogue, I will try to situate myself within, what I take to be, Plato’s overall intentions.

But before doing so, one ought to keep in mind a parallel that constantly reappears between Aristophanes and Freud. Aristophanes covers up the tragic nature of his brief speech on the nature of human erotic longing with the temporary soothing elements of comic myth. In this sense Aristophanes shares, as we shall see, Freud’s own pessimism regarding the search for human happiness through a life centered fundamentally on the erotic intermingling between lovers. For Freud, “the weak side of this technique of living is easy to see … it is that we are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love” (CiD, 270). But before looking more closely at the way this pessimism finds expression in Aristophanes’ speech, we must seek to briefly situate the comedian’s words within the whole of the Platonic dialogue.

That this concern is central in trying to understand the comic’s speech can be clearly seen in that Aristophanes is mysteriously silenced by Plato at different crucially climatic points of the dialogue. The first of these occurs just after Socrates has finished recollecting Diotima’s complex words concerning the possibility of an ascent to “the beautiful in itself”. Diotima’s speech on the nature of the philosophical life not only explicitly mentions and rejects Aristophanes’ myth ———due to its distancing itself, allegedly, from the goodness of the lovers involved (206d-e)——– but also involves a starting point in the ascent that stands in outright conflict with the comedian’s understanding of what is involved in the “ordinary” erotic interrelation between lovers. For Diotima the initiate in erotic understanding:

“first of all … must love one body and there generate beautiful speeches. Then he must realize that the beauty that is in any body whatsoever is related to that in another body; and if he must pursue the beauty of looks, it is great folly not to believe that the beauty of all bodies is one and the same. And with this realization he must be the lover of all beautiful bodies and in contempt slacken this erotic intensity for only one body, in the belief that it is petty” (210a).

For the Diotimian lover, the uniquely beautiful body of the loved one is not only interchangeable with others, but is linked to a kind of brutishness unworthy of those engaged in ascending towards “higher ground” (and those who believe this bodily interchangeability is not so problematic, must grapple with the fact that it also holds for the individual soul of that human being which we love as no other (210d)). Now, what is extremely suspicious from the stance of the defender of Aristophanes’s speech, lies in that, once Socrates has finished speaking, we learn that the comedian does not only NOT praise it, but moreover is just about to speak when Plato silences his reservations via the entrance of the bodily beautiful and drunken Alcibiades (212c). Perhaps Alcibiades’ speech will retake elements of Aristophanes’s myth, but perhaps too Alcibiades will not fully express the comedian’s deepest reservations. Now, however that may turn out to be, it is likewise suspicious that towards the end of the dialogue Plato once again is quick to silence Aristophanes. In the culminating conversation between Aristophanes, Agathon and Socrates, conversation in which the latter is trying to “compel” (223d) the other two to admit that the tragic poet is also a comic poet, Aristophanes , by the magical hand of the author, is the first to be “put to sleep”. Socrates, in contrast, goes on sleepless to continue his contemplative activity at the Lyceum. How to understand this? Is there a hierarchy between the different speeches, Socrates’ being the culminating one? Does Socrates speech take up and complete Aristophanes’, just as Pausanias claimed to complete Phaedrus’? Does Aristophanes’ speech present itself not as a dialectical “stepping stone” for what is to follow, but rather as a sort of broken bridge which divides two different ways of living one’s erotic life? If this is so, then clearly Plato’s views on what sublimation and truth might be taken to be, are not so easily identifiable with Socrates’ own words.

The competition between Socrates, who is characterized by his ‘strangeness’ (215a), ‘outrageousness’ (175c) and ‘oddness’ (175a), and Aristophanes, is further made clear by the starting point each takes up in order to the clarify our erotic involvements. While Socrates, unlike in the Apology, claims to have “perfect knowledge of erotics” —— a knowledge expressed, in his youth, not by him but by Diotima (177d) ——– Aristophanes speaks from his own personal, perhaps lived-through, opinion (‘doxa’) (189c) (although it is also important to remember that Aristophanes, of all the speakers, is the only not paired with any other as lover to beloved). Moreover, both speakers seems to hold allegiance to very different gods. Socrates lets us know that Aristophanes’s “whole activity is devoted to Dionysius and Aphrodite” (177d). Aristophanes is concerned with two very particular Olympians: on the one hand Dionysius, the only god who knows of death and a subsequent rebirth, the god of wine and music (music being “exiled” from the dialogue, while wine is “moderated”; until the final entrance of Alcibiades), the god of excess which Agathon calls upon to judge the rivalry between him and Socrates (175e); and on the other hand, Aphrodite, the beautiful goddess of delicate feet born asexually from the genitals of Uranus after having been conquered by Cronos, the goddess who commits adultery with Ares and is made to pay for it by Hephaestus, to whom we shall return. These two gods, which are mysteriously absent from Aristophanes’s speech itself, stand in outright contrast to the Apollinian values of self-knowledge and moderation, values which partly characterize the behavior of Socrates.

Aristophanes’ linkage to the love of wine, and thus to Dionysius, is made clear from the very line which marks his entrance. Celebrating Agathon’s victory he drank not moderately, but rather like a human sponge, taking in so much that he has become completely soaked. (176b). Aristophanes is not by any means a measured Athenian gentleman. His disordering presence becomes even more evident precisely when his turn to speak arrives. If Socrates rudely interrupts by his bodily inactivity the dinner to which he is invited (174d), Aristophanes rudely interrupts (or perhaps is overtaken) by his bodily activity, thus changing the original order of the speeches. Just when Pausanias has finished his sophisticated speech on pederasty, Aristophanes reveals that hiccups have gotten the best of him. Hiccups, we are mysteriously told, due to “satiety or something else” (perhaps wine?) (185d). Eryximachus, the physician who had played a key role both in ordering the whole banquet (177d), and in moderating the dangerous effects of wine (176d), sets out to cure the poor comedian’s sudden illness. Medicine rescues the comedian by putting forward the strongest of cures known to hiccuping, the soaking outbursts of sneezing. Once Eryximachus’ “doctoral” speech come to an end (presumably with Aristophanes hiccuping and sneezing throughout), the comedian ironically challenges the doctor’s claims to understanding the nature and erotics of the body. He says: “so I wonder at the orderly decency of the body, desiring such noises and garglings as a sneeze is; for my hiccuping stopped right away as I applied the sneeze to it” (189c). That Aristophanes is not by any means thanking his doctor, is made evident by the laughter of all those present; a laughter which comes into conflict with the seriousness of the doctor who fights back by way of an aggressive challenge. Eryximachus will become the guardian of comedy; “you did have the chance to speak in peace”, he tells Aristophanes (189b). The comic poet becomes now the doctor who must cure the excessive anger which bursts easily from the moderate physician. Aristophanes seeks a truce claiming to want to start from the beginning: “let what has been said be as if it were never spoken” (189b). (An apology which seems to imply that the previous speeches have somehow gone wrong.) Eryximachus, in turn, demands that the poet give a rational account (‘logos’) of Eros; a demand which, if fulfilled, would reduce the speech of the comic to pure silence. Aristophanes will speak in another vein, it is one which involves story-telling, imaginative interaction and poetic creativity; much the same things we feel are necessary in speaking about one’s love for that other who makes us feel “head over heels”. Finally, the comedian shares with us his one big fear; Aristophanes is not afraid of saying laughable things, that is to say, things which can be shared by all of us who somehow feel ourselves identified with what is said —–things which, besides, represent a gain for the poetic Muse (189c)—— but he is afraid of saying things that are “laughed at”, that is to say, things from which we think we can distance ourselves and judge from a higher plane than that of our vulnerable and tragic condition (189b).

In trying to situate Aristophanes’ speech within the whole of the Platonic dialogue, I argued that he and Freud investigate the viability and shortcomings of the highly risky human possibility which centers the attainment of happiness on a radical emphasis in the life of erotic sharing between two individuals. But besides this similarity, what is more amazing still, is that we find in Freud a passage in which he makes us recollect Aristophanes’s own mythological comprehension of the power of Eros in our lives. For Freud:

“ a pair of lovers are sufficient to themselves, …… in no other case does Eros so clearly betray the core of his being, his purpose of making one out of more than one … (thus) we can imagine quite well a cultural community consisting of double individuals like this, who libidinally satisfied in themselves, are connected with one another through the bonds of common work and common interests …. but this desirable state of things does not, and never did, exist” (CiD, 298).

 

For Aristophanes, once upon a time, such state did “exist”, and his story stands as imaginative “proof”. It is a story which allows us to re-’collect’ the genesis of human erotic longing. Only through its understanding can we come closer to comprehending that force in us which strives to reach out for another’s physical and psychical partnership.

The brevity of the speech stands in stark contrast with its complexity. Too many issues are brought together and unfortunately, I cannot, nor know how to, deal with many of them. I propose therefore to zero-in more closely on one of these aspects, namely, the central issue which links Aristophanes to Freud’s ‘community of double individuals’, the issue of human ‘happiness’ and the nature of erotic desire.

Aristophanes claims that the power of Eros lies in its providing us with the greatest possible happiness any human being could ever expect to achieve in this world. As he puts it: “Eros is the most philanthropic of gods, the helper of human beings as well as a physician dealing with an illness the healing of which would result in the greatest happiness for the human race” (189c-d)”. According to Aristophanes we humans can allegedly reach happiness via erotic involvement, but it seems, not just with anybody. Eros represents this regressive possibility by allowing us to catch a glimpse of our ancient nature. Unlike the tragic results of the first operation by Zeus, operation which culminated in the painful death of the two newly severed parts which were left to cling unto each other, dying “due to hunger and the rest of their inactivity, because they were unwilling to do anything apart from one another” (191b), for us who are the “beneficiaries” of the second more complex Apollinian operation, sexuality has been brought to the fore. Having placed the genitals, the “shameful things” in Greek, in the front (191b), we can move beyond clinging by now engaging in sexual activity. Through the latter the previous oneness can be, only temporarily for sure, remembered once again. Eros’ power allows this, and it is because of it that we must thank, praise and sacrifice to this god’s, usually taken for granted, divine presence (189c). But sexual interaction with just anyone will not lead to the happiness which reminds us of our past protohuman “fulfillment”. We must permanently search for that other who matches the jagged features of our patched up bodies (191a). Eros is then “the bringer-together of their (that is to say, ‘our’) ancient nature, who tries to make one of two and to heal their (that is to say, ‘our’) human nature. Each of us is a token (‘symbolon’) of a human being ….. and so each is always in search of his own token” (191d). Ever since we become old enough to feel the erotic longing for another’s patches, we turn into permanent seekers of what in Spanish we call “mi otra media naranja”, that is to say, that “my other half-orange” who will complete our fruit like original nature in which we resembled the natural gods. The Greeks here preferred to speak of apples (190e).

And if ever we are so lucky as to be allowed by Eros to find that other who strikes us wondrously with friendship and erotic love to the point that, now, we “are unwilling to be apart from one another even for a short time” (192c), then human bliss seems to reach its highest possible peak. The other’s presence modifies one’s own self-perception and that of the world in a way in which both are mutually enriched; we feel ourselves enhanced in a world which suddenly opens itself to new, previously unseen, possibilities.

But Aristophanes and Freud seem to have reservations. Freud, we saw, centers his critique on the loss of the beloved. Aristophanes, though aware of this danger, provides a more devastating critique by looking at the problematic functioning of erotic desire itself. The lucky lovers who are finally able to reach each other, presumably following several painful misses and rather uncomfortable fits ——— for Aristophanes makes it clear that this reunion is not what normally happens at present (193b) ———- these lucky lovers nevertheless seem to desire something more. This something, Aristophanes jokingly says, one could not conceivably take it simply to be the delight of sexual intercourse with that other half which seems to fit, ‘just right’, in yourself: “as though it were for this reason —-of all things—– that each so enjoys being with the other… but the soul of each wants something else” (192c). But that elusive ‘something else’ which the soul of each wants for him/herself, that cannot be easily put into words. Just as it so happens when one is asked why one loves his/her, hopefully, ‘real’ other half, there comes a point where you cannot quite “explain”, and instead just feel like saying, “Can’t you see why?, well that is really odd”.

Nevertheless Aristophanes challenges this silence, the same silence which Plato forces on him, by providing us with a riddle to be solved. The riddle, like Oedipus’, concerns humans, but unlike the King’s, Aristophanes’s concerns a dilemma which is brought to light by looking at our desiring nature. The riddle is spoken by yet another Olympian god, Hephaestus, the weak god of fire and crafts/arts (techne). It is he who chained Aphrodite and Ares for having committed adultery; chaining them, not to bring them eternal bliss, but rather eternal boredom. Hephaestus seems, tragically, to seek welding as punishment (Od. 315). This god is made to ask us humans what we really want out of love, and, just as Zeus was perplexed with the attitude of the circular beings, so we humans stand perplexed by Hephaestus’ question (192d). He must therefore not only rephrase the question, but very directly answer it in doing so. Would we not really desire just to become one once again, our belly wrinkles giving way to a stronger sphericity? What more lovely than reaching this “golden state” capable even of denying the individual death of its members, so that even “in Hades you (that is to say, we) would be together one instead of two?” (192e). Would this not be the ultimate happiness, that which involved a shared immortality?

The riddle, and riddles one would think are so because they are, presumably, very difficult to answer, is to our perplexity immediately answered in the affirmative. It seems as though nothing would be more desirable for us, ill halves, than to permanently rejoin that other whom Eros has granted us, finally, to reach. However, we should remember that even the protohumans though fused to their extremities, nonetheless did not seem to have seen themselves as part of a Paradise in which nothing was lacking. Even asexual human sphericity finds itself lacking, striving to move beyond its original condition. Oneness reaches beyond itself, although of course it reaches out more powerfully with four arms, four legs, not just two of each. And moreover, what distinguishes our humanity lies precisely in that, like it or not, we will forever remain as halves in constant search for that which we lack. Desire flourishes precisely due to this incompleteness which moves us beyond ourselves. The feverish conditions which evolve out of the absence of the loved one seem to move in the same direction. If Hephaestus’ riddle were not only answered in the affirmative, but actually set in place, our human condition as we know it, fragile and ill as it may be, would come to a permanent end. Letting Hephaestus do his work would turn out to be a punishment much severer than that of Zeus who intended to break us down once more, leaving us “hopping on one leg” (190d). Seeking to become spherical again requires the death of Eros’ presence in our lives. And Aristophanes hints to this towards the end of his speech in a paragraph which links past, present and future possibilities: “our race would be happy if we were to bring our love to a consummate end, and each of us were to get his own favorite on his return to his ancient nature. And if this is the best, it must necessarily be the case that, IN PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES, that which is closest to it is the best; and that is to get a favorite whose nature is to one’s tastes” (193c) (here a specific reference to the pederasts, but shedding light, I believe, into all the different kinds of relationships). Aristophanes qualifies his appeal to a return to oneness by continually using the hypothetical ‘if’, as in ‘if this is the best’. But as I have argued this undoubtedly is not the best desirable course for us humans to take. Our present circumstances cannot be done away with, no matter how hard we imagine ourselves to have been otherwise. At best we should seek out to reach the sweetness of that other who allows the growth of those beautiful wings characteristic of the highest kind of lovers in the Phaedrus (251e); but, at the same time knowing, or perhaps feeling, full well that Eros’ presence immediately sets us humans in the web of a dilemma which seems to promise much more that it can offer. Aristophanes laughs, and allows us to laugh at this all-too-human endevour.

Perhaps it is because of this dilemma, characteristic, of our ‘ordinary’ erotic life that Socrates takes a radically different starting point in his search for the desiring value of the beautiful in our lives. Attempting to analyze that speech in full would require taking up too many difficult issues, many of which I am uncertain. Instead, I would just like to, in order to complete this section, show how it is precisely Socrates who stands, in his daily living and acting, as the greatest challenge to the Aristophanean conception of lovers comically seeking to erase their split nature. It is by looking at Socrates’ way of life, a philosophical way of life which questions all others, that another perspective on erotic desire and its role in the achievement of truth becomes possible.

That Socrates is brought to court in this dialogue, though clearly in a different setting than that of the Apology, can be seen from the very start. As we pointed out above, Agathon has promised to take him to court about their wisdom with Dionysus as judge (176a). But clearly Agathon’s challenge seems to have been more forcibly made by he who has Dionysius as his God. It is Aristophanes, silenced throughout by Plato, who carries the greatest challenge to the Socratic philosopher and his demeening view of the body.

This ridiculing of any bodily knowledge is clearly exemplified, for instance, in Socrates ironic treatment of Agathon’s view of the corporeal transference of wisdom (175e). Furthermore the belief that in bodily contact there lies some kind of understanding, as Aristophanes seems to believe, is precisely what Socrates finds troubling in Alcibiades’ love:

“So if, in observing my beauty, you are trying to get a share in it and to exchange beauty for beauty, you are intending to get far the better deal. For you are trying to acquire truth of beautiful thing in exchange for the seeming and opinion of beautiful things; and you really have in mind to exchange ‘gold for bronze’” (218e)

 

The importance of bringing this to light, is that it is particularly in the confrontation between Socrates and Alcibiades where the conflict between perspectives achieves its highest point. Drunk Alcibiades, who acknowledges his love of fame derived from the dedication to the city and consequent self-neglect, (216a) tells Socrates: “I shall tell the truth. See if you allow it.” (215e). Philosophy, understood as the love of the truth, finds its Socratic response not only in an acceptance of the challenge, but in a demand to do so.

Leaving aside the claims of the beautiful Alcibiades, it is quite obvious that Socrates’ ascent takes place under very different conditions. Socrates, who as a young man was led by Diotima to the most perfect revelations (210a), understands this ascent as one linked directly to the search of a very different kind of truth. It is a truth of unquestionable nature, for as he tells Agathon, “It is rather that you are unable to contradict the truth … since it is not at all hard to contradict Socrates” (201c). Although Diotima doubted whether young Socrates could follow in her lead, it is clear that now Socrates is convinced of the path he was taught by her (212b). What the highest step in the ladder reveals is a contemplative reality which has moved radically beyond the eroticity of Aristophanes’ everyday lovers, and their particular sort of truth. Although it is defined negatively for the most part (211a), and only given to us in a glimpse (210e), it becomes clear that according to Socrates only herein lies full human flourishing and happiness through the exploration of the divine in us:

“only here, in seeing in the way the beautiful is seeable, will he get to engender not phantom images of virtue … but true, because he lays hold of the true; and that once he has given birth to and cherished true virtue it lies within him to become dear to god, and if it is possible for any human being, to become immortal as well” (212a)

 

In ascending, what was perceived as supremely important in the ascent, is relegated to lower levels of comprehension incapable of grasping the beauty of the whole. And Socrates, the embodied human being in love with philosophy, stands as palpable truth of this transformation both in word and action. He is a human being like no other either present or past (221c-d). Socrates is truly a weird character. Although utterly ugly in bodily terms ——so much so that he is likened to Silenus and Marsyas—— his ‘internal’ beauty (217a), and the speeches that flow from it (215d) are of incomparable beauty and eroticity. This human being ——— with unheard of courage in retreat (220eff), with unheard of capacity for sustained thought (220c), with unheard of lack of bodily necessities, not only in the most sensual of situations (219d), but also in the crudest of winters (220b)——– this human being dedicates his whole life to the undertaking of a way of life which severs ties with the richness and honors sought by the majority (216e).

But puzzled by the presenc of such disparate speeches we are led to ask, if Aristophanes and Socrates present such conflicting perspectives of the role of sexuality in the conformation of our life plans, then who does Plato take to be the ‘true’ path we as humans ought to follow? An easy way out, it seems to me, is to claim that Plato’s love of Socrates obviously leads to the primacy of the speech of his beloved teacher. However, what I have tried to argue is instead that Plato uses the narrative character of his dialogue precisely to allow us to develop the philosophical capacity of reflexive self-awareness. In engaging ourselves in the reading of the work as a whole, what are revealed are not straight unquestionable answers to our dilemmas and perplexities, but rather a presentation of the complexities involved in thinking about the nature of our erotic life. Plato, like Socrates and Aristophanes, loves the agon of words, over and beyond any tranquil acceptance of clear-cut positions.

 

SECTION II: REPRESSION, SUBLIMATION, AND DIALOGICAL NARRATIVITY

The Platonic and Freudian perspectives on erotic desire touch and differ in multiple places and aspects. On the one hand, one finds that the striking parallels between Freud and Aristophanes can be more fully appreciated if one looks more closely at the pessimism which permeates the former’s writings on the processes and mechanisms underlying civilized institutions and behavior. On the other hand, the parallel with the Platonic dialogue as a way to self-understanding is more closely bound, if one moves beyond the previous tragic perspective, to the liberating therapeutic value of the analytic situation.

As I argued above, the Aristophenean position represented a simultaneous comic and tragic perspective onthe nature of our everyday love affairs. For Freud, it seems at times, the comic aspect is completely overrun by the tragedy of our human condition. An example of this is the troublingly entitled work Civilized Sexual Morality and Modern Nervous Illness. Providing us with a diagnosis of the modern condition, and not intended as a text for a particular kind of reformation (CSM, 55), it focuses rather on the characteristic repression of sexuality on which modern civilization, and for that matter any other civilization, is built. According to Freud: “we must view … all factors which impair sexual life, suppress its activity or distort its aims as being pathogenic factor in the psychoneurosis” (CSM, 38). What occurs at the level of the individual, namely, the supression of her instictual drives, is likewise the distinguishing mark of society as a whole which can survive only through an active taming of sexual and aggressive instincts. This suppression, which reminds one of Zeus’ operation in Aristophanes’ speech, involves for Freud, not the possibility of new paths, but instead primarily an impossibility of reaching human fulfillment. For him: “when society pays for obedience to its far-reaching regulations by an increase in nervous illness, it cannot claim to have purchased a gain at the price of sacrifices; it cannot claim a gain at all” (CSM, 54). This pessimistic trend, which hampers directly the human possibilities of achieving a full-fledged happiness, permeates as well Freud’s discussion of religion as it appears in his Future of an Illusion. There he once again reminds us that “the decisive question is whether and to what extent it is possible to lessen the burden of the instinctual sacrifices imposed on men, to reconcile men to those which must necessarily remain and to provide compensation for them (TFI, 186). Civilization imposes sacrifices, and according to Freud, we turn to religion as an illusory compensation for our incompleteness. However, the connection of this burden to the claims to happiness is more clearly explicited in Civilization and its Discontents. There Freud points out the different factors, both external and internal, which make it for us humans easier to realize that “unhappiness (for us) is much less difficult to experience” (CiD, 264). The eventual decay of our body and our death, the indifference and aggressiveness of nature towards us, and the unsatisfactory character of our relations with others, are for Freud the central conditions leading to our modern malaise (CiD, 329). This malaise, built on the repression of our instinctual nature, is made possible because of our experience of guilt. Freud intention, following Nietzsche’s analysis of the rise of consciousness in the Genealogy of Morals, is “to represent the sense of guilt as the most important problem in the development of civilization and to show that the price we pay for our advance in civilization is a loss of happiness through a heightening of the sense of guilt” (CiD, 327). Freudian pessimism reaches its greatest height in the perception of the development of the super-ego which sets itself against the very being which gave rise to it. Its ruthless governing reveals that: “a threatened external unhappiness—-loss of love and punishment on the part of the external authority—has been exchanged for a permanent internal unhappiness, for the tension of the sense of guilt” (320).

However, this pessimism is balanced in psychoanalysis by its claims not only to provide a regressive diagnosis of our condition, but also to provide us with the necessary tools for therapeutic counteraction. This is why Freud writes that “an analytic of such neuroses might lead to therapeutic recommendations which could lay claim to great practical interest” (CiD, 338). Psychoanalysis, which seeks an education to reality (TFI, 233), aims at bringing forth the truth of our condition. Take for instance the reality of death and our unconscious denial of its presence. Towards the end of his short essay on our attitude towards death, Freud tells us that from his investigation, though undoubtedly regressive in some respects, nevertheless comes forth a realization of our human limitations. His analysis thus has the minimum advantage“of taking the truth more into account and of manking life more tolerable for us” (OAD, 89).

The tolerability of this condition can be further enhanced by the possibility of of sublimation. According to Freud through the redirection of instinctual energies, repression is avoided, or at least, somehow rechanneled. Sublimation:

“places extraordinary large amounts of force at the disposal of civilized activity and it does it in virtue of its especially worked characteristic of being able to displace its aim without materially diminishing its intensity. This (is a) capacity to exchange its originally sexual aim for another one, which is no longer sexual but which is psychologically related to the first aim…” (CSM 39).

 

By allowing us to reshape the drives towards sexual interaction and aggressive behavior, it becomes possible to move into the realm of ‘higher and finer’ cultural achievements. However, according to Freud this capacity can be actually developed by a few, and even in those intermittently (CSM, 45). And not only this, the transformation of the sexual instinct into these higher activities, such as those of artistic activity, intellectual inquiry, ethical comprehension and religious dedication, is constantly set within the above mentioned condition of inherent supression in the coming about of any civilization. But if this is so, how then can there truly be redirection which is not itself built upon renunciation?

One way of dealing with this problematic question, thus moving beyond its pessimistic overtones, is to retake one of Abramson’s central points, namely the idea that repression “is centrally the repression of ideas; it must be understood as the corruption of meaning as well as damning of energy” (86). Psychoanalysis re-comprehends our condition by bringing to light new ways of comprehending the way we see ourselves. Psychoanalysis leads us beyond repression by paving the way into consciousness and its hidden meanings. It is primarily in the analytic situation where analyst and analysand come to enact psychoanalysis’ truth. It is this truth, which involves the painful search and articulation of a liberating narrative, the one which can also bring us closer not only to comprehending the phenomena of sublimation, but likewise to understanding the most important and immediate bonding element between both the Platonic and Freudian discourses.

Freud claimed that psychoanalysis gave us truth. Getting clearer on what he could have meant by claiming this involves looking at psychoanalytic practice itself. According to Ricoeur, on whom I base the following remarks, psychoanalytic theory “is (should be) the codification of what takes place in the analytic situation and more precisely in the analytic relationship” (Ricoeur, TQoPiFW, 248). One is therefore concerned with specifying what will ultimately count as knowledge for this distinct situation. Analytic ‘facts’, for instance, differ fundamentally from the ‘facts’ of the natural sciences. Ricoeur provides us with four distinguishing criteria.

First, that which can be treated in the analytic situation are those experiences of the analysand which are capable of being said. The object of psychoanalysis is not instinct simply as a physiological phenomena. Desire is accessible to us only in its coming to language. It is in virtue of this that Freud can speak of translating or deciphering the content of instinctual drives. The facts in psychoanalysis are inherently language related; instincts remain unknown in themselves. Freud makes this explicit in his paper on The Unconscious:

“I am in fact of the opinion that the antithesis of conscious and unconscious is not applicable to instincts. An instinct can never become an object of consciousness —–only the idea that represents the instinct can. Even in the Ucs. an instinct cannot be represented otherwise than by an idea. If the instinct did not attach itself or manifest itself as an affective state, we could know nothing about it” (F, TU, Vol 11, 179)

 

Only what is sayable can become factual in psychoanalysis; by the same token only what the interlocutors in the Platonic dialogue say, can guide us towards a better comprehension of the text as a whole.

The second criteria for facts emphasizes the fact that in the analytic situation two subjectivities encounter each other. Desire comes to language not only for the sake of being said, but more importantly, because it is a saying directed to another. Intersubjectivity is built into analytic facts because desire itself is structured intersubjectively; desire is the desire of or for another. Without the existence of the other, desire would not be spoken. Consequently, the attempt to do away with speech by aiming at pure objectivity:

“misunderstands the essential point, namely, that the analytic experience unfolds in the field of speech and that within that field, what comes to light is another language disassociated from common language which presents itself to be deciphered” (FaP, III, 367)

 

The importance of intersubjectivity finds its highest expression in the phenomena of transference. The former, coupled with the peculiar character of the analytic situation as one in which the overpowering exigencies of the reality principle are temporarily set aside, allows a repressed desire to be heard. The recovery of this language involves a remembering which in turn is made possible by the curbing of the resistances in the analysand through new energies. It is the liberation of the latter which allow a re-interpretation of past events. (Remembering is not only a crucial factor in Aristophanes myth, but likewise marks the whole of the Symposium).

Here the central feature of transference comes to light. This is so for if desire is addressed to another as a demand, the other can deny this satisfaction. This inherent quality of desire allows the analyst, through he denial of satisfaction, to aid in he reconstituiton of the analyzand herself. Hence Ricoeur tells us: “the constitution of the subject in speech and the constitution of desire in intersubjectivity are one and the same phenomenon” (FaP, 387). This intersubjective reconstitution is clearly portrayed in the agonistic interaction between, but not only, Socrates, Aristophanes and Alcibiades.

A third crucial element in defining the criteria appropriate to psychoanalytic facts lies in the necessary differentiation between psychical and material reality. What the analyst “observes” is not an act, but instead an interpretation of an act which need not necessarily have occurred. The analyst’s inquiry is ultimately based on the interpretative value placed by the analysand on a given experience: “what is important to the analyst are the dimensions of the environment as ‘believed’ by the subject, what is pertinent to him is not the fact, but the meaning the fact has assumed in the subject’s history” (FaP, 364). The meaningfulness of psychical reality reminds us that the analytic space is one in which fantasy is played out. Likewise in the Platonic dialogue it is clear that the discussion of Eros involves many reinterpretations or events which conflict with historical reality. It is astonishing to find that the Symposium tells us erotic readers how Apollodorus conversed with a friend, “which reports a previous conversation of his own, in which he recalls a speech by Aristodemus, who reports (among others) a speech of Socrates, who reports a speech of Diotima, who reports the secrets of the mysteries. (Nussbaum, 167-8).

The final factual criteria in psychoanalysis according to Ricouer, concerns the aim which both the analysand and the analyst strive for, namely, the developing of what is capable of a narrative in the analysand’s experience. This is to say that the primary texts are individual case histories. In this fourth criteria one can clearly see the interdependence of the previous three. Narration is not a given but instead involves a creative process which could not even begin if desire were not accessible to us in speech. Likewise this work towards narrativity is the product of an intersubjective relation. Both analysand and the analyst are active participants in this reconstruction which requires the building up for forces to overcome resistances. The former are made possible by engaging in a process of remembrance through which a re-interpretation of one’s past is made possible. In narration lies self-understanding. I dwell in fantasy to find myself in reality. The Platonic dialogue, as act of the letrary and philosophical imagination, represents one of the most sublime of this recreations, one in which through words the world, and we ourselves, come to life once again.

Having looked at what it is that Ricoeur argues counts as a fact in psychoanalysis, and having briefly compared it to some elemental aspects of the Symposium, we can turn finally to a characterization of the psychoanalytic framework as a whole. Here we touch upon Freud’s tripartite definition of psychoanalysis. He writes in the first of two encyclopedia articles:

“Psychoanalysis is the name 1) of a procedure for the investigation of mental processes which are always inaccessible in any other way, 2) of a method (based on that investigation) for the treatment of neurotic disorders and 3) of a collection of psychological information obtained along these lines which is gradually being accumulated into a new scientific discipline” (Freud, TEA, 131, Vol. 15)

 

Psychoanalysis as a procedure for the investigation of mental processes which are always inaccessible in any other way deals particularly with the translation and deciphering of hidden and distorted meanings. This procedure is one which claims to give us a kind of truth of therapeutic value. In order to specify these truth claims, and the criteria of verifiability appropriate to psychoanalysis, Ricoeur returns to the four criteria for facts stated above.

First, analytic experience shows us desire coming to discourse. What is true or false consequently is what is said. Therefore, the truth aimed at is one which involves a saying-true rather than a being-true. Truth is not one that is observe, but one that is heard, In saying-truly the analysand guarantees self-reflection, she moves from misunderstanding to self-recognition. In this, Freudian discourse comes much closer to Platonic dialogue than to Socratic contemplation which, as we saw in the peak of its contemplative fulfillment seems to move even beyond language, the words of which seem inadequate in portraying the presence of a ‘being-true’ which is revealed by philosophical praxis.

Second, desire exists as desire for another. Truth claims are thus necessarily placed within the field of intersubjective communication. Pure objectivity becomes not only unthinkable, its imposition would imply the loss of speech. Both subjectivities which encounter themselves in analysis are engaged in a work which aims at the saying of truth. The joint effort of analysand and analyst aims at giving back a fantastical yet alienated realm to the analysand. The task of the latter is to incorporate this alienation through understanding. And as we saw in our first section, it is precisely this interaction which guarantees that one does not fall into a simplistic understanding of the Symposium, one in which Plato and the Socratic speech are unproblematically identified.

Here we already move beyond the second criteria for truth, namely the recognition of intersubjectivity, to the third criteria for facts of which we spoke before, that is, that what is psychoanalitically relevant is what the analysand makes of his fantasies. The aim of analysis is not the undermining of fantasy, but rather its recovery through self-understanding. The possibility of truth herein lies in something like this. In analytic experience I come to recognize my condition as human being. That is to say, I come to realize that I may not possibly realize the whole of my fantastical life. But at the very least I come to understand the reasons for this denial. By making myself responsible for my fantasy, I acknowledge the force of necessity. In the case of the Platonic dialogue, by realizing the tension between the Socratic and Aristophenean positions (to siganl out only two) I am borught to a realization of the impossibility of holding onto both simultaneously. It seems as though the Symposium is marked by an either/or dichotomy.

This last claim can perhaps be illuminated by looking at Ricoeur’s fourth criteria for facts, and the consequent truth claim appropriate to it. What is developed in analysis is a case history, a history of fantasy. A misunderstood past is made truly historical in virtue not only of my playing out my fantasy, but more importantly, by being appropriated as distinct from the real. Narrativity is critical and thus aims at this specific truth, the reconstitution of a subject through self-understanding. The analysand:

“is both the actor and the critiquer of a history which he is at first unable to recount. The problem of recognizing oneself is the problem of recovering the ability of reconstructing one’s own history, to continue endlessly to give the form of a story to reflections of oneself” (Ricoeur, TQoPiFW, 268)

 

Ultimately, the truth brought to light in analysis lies in the development of this unique case history. This is so for the fundamental precondition for the former’s existence is that the potential for self-reflection has been actualized. It is this very potential which Plato once actualized in his self-clarifying dialogues, an activity and a task which allows us to see in his dialogues a vivid reflection of his ‘sublimated’ love of words and truth. A passionate love to which the writings of Freud lead as well.

 

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

1) PRIMARY SOURCES

 

Freud, Sigmund, On Metapsychology: The Theory of Psychoanalysis, Volume 11 of the Penguin Freud Library, “The Unconscious” 159-210. (Edition 1984)

 

———–Civilization Society and Religion, Volume 12 of Penguin Freud Library, “‘Civilized’ Sexual Morality and Modern Nervous Illness” pgs 33-55. (edition 1985), “Thoughts for the Times on War and Death”, “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego”, “The Future of an Illusion”, “Civilization and its Discontents” .

 

———–Historical and Expository Works on Psychoanalysis, “An Outline of Psychoanalysis, pgs 371-444.

 

 

Plato, Symposium, Photocopies given out in class.

 

——– Phaedrus, Penguin Books, Translated by Walter Hamilton.

 

 

2) SECONDARY SOURCES

 

Abramson, Jeffrey, Liberation and Its Limits, The Free Press, New York, 1984, Chapter 6, “Sublimation: A way Out?”

 

Carson, Anne, Eros the Bittersweet¸ Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1988.

 

Nussbaum, Martha, The Fragility of Goodness, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1989, (1986). Chapter 6 “The Speech of Alcibiades” pgs., 165-195.

 

Ricoeur, P., Freud and Philosophy, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 1970. Translated by Denis Savage.

 

———- Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,

“The question of proof in Freud’s Psychoanalytic writings” pgs 247-273.

 

Rosen, Stanley, Plato’s Symposium, Yale University Press, New Haven, (1968), 1987.

THE DEBATE OVER BILINGUAL EDUCATION AND THE SPANISH LANGUAGE DEBATE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

 

 

A) INTRODUCTION

Taking up the issue of bilingual education in the United States in general, and in particular with reference to the increasingly large and highly differentiated Spanish-speaking community, is a project that one can liken to Don Quijote’s attack on those imaginary giants who were full of creative possibilites, but to his dismay and Sancho Panza’s, really turned out to be just some very entrenched and unmovable old mills from which the Spanish knight repeatedly bounced. The complexity of the issue lies not only in the vast quantity of material one finds dealing with all the multiple aspects of bilingual education, which has been studied from sociological, pedagogical, political, psychological and economic perspectives, but also in the very diversity which one finds among the Spanish-speaking population itself. The Hispanics or Latinos, as they are collectively known, are constituted by a plurality of groups which currently stand in different types of relation to the liberal democratic government of the US. Although undoubtedly unified by the common bondage of the Spanish language, nonetheless subgroups emerge with their own peculiar characteristics, “reflecting the very different histories these groups have faced in the United States (Kymlicka, 12). Among these one finds: Puerto Ricans who are citizens by birth and therefore not obliged to learn English, and who represent the most impoverished Latino group; Cuban exiles who have become economically and educationally strong, residing for the most part in Miami; Mexican Americans who are citizens by birth concentrated primarily in the Southwest and sharing a history of violent discrimination (particularly as concerns their use of the Spanish language); more or less dispersed groups of second, and even third generation immigrants from Latin America who, having spent a considerable number of years in the US, have undergone a considerable degree of assimilation into mainstream society; in contrast to the former, a new generation of immigrants seeking to learn the language ansd share in the values and economic benefits of belonging to the ‘American Dream’; and finally, illegal Mexican migrant workers, who even after the 1986 amnesty continue to arrive, primarily to California, in search of a better quality of life for themselves, and their families.

It is keeping in mind these complexities that one can begin to try to tackle some of the problems to which they lead. One of these concerns the possible relationship between the normative claims held, or possibly held, by the Spanish-speaking community at large as regards their language, and the corresponding and often conflicting claims to what justice requires according to the United States’ model of a liberal democracy. The latter centering, as much as possible, on the ideal of a neutral state the aim of which is the defense and fostering of the conditions for individual autonomy and equality under the law, and not the signaling out of whole linguistically distinct groups which because of this ought to be given preferential treatment over others. The crucial importance of this debate is well put by Kymlicka: “it will be interesting to see whether Hispanics develop a common identity and political agenda that transcends these differences. If they do …. then the issue of national minorities will move from the margins to the centre of American political debate” (12). As we shall see, the Hispanic situation places a challenge to the traditional view of what a liberal democracy ought to stand for in the USA..

Such a challenge demands looking at multiple questions. Some of the ones I would like to consider, however imperfectly and incompletely, are: how precisely does the increasing number and linguistic distinctness of the Spanish speaking population stand as a challenge to the historically developed perspective of what a liberal democracy stands for in the USA? Is there a tension between state neutrality and benign neglect policies, and the possibility of reaching “higher” levels of equality and freedom for minority groups which are increasingly faced with vicious circles of poverty and disempowerment? Can language, in the case of the Spanish speaking population, be seen as a fundamental unifying element which can bind the Latino population together under a common goal, while fully acknowledging the necessity and desire to willingly take part in the challenge which is the learning of the English language and the corresponding values of the society at large? In the very specific case bilingual education, should Latinos push towards a defence of the already weak programs which seek additive or enrichment bilingualism, rather than passively follow the history of old immigrant populations who have, for the most part, assimilated linguistically? Is a strong version of bilingual education morally required of the federal government, or is it simply a matter that belongs to the realm of the morally permissible, that is, as an available option but one which stems from no normative obligation? Should public schools then move towards the implementation of stronger transitional programs aimed at the forging of a monolingual community in the public sphere, while respecting the use of language in all private domains? Are Latinos not unjustly demanding something which priviledges their status, particularly in the case of newly arrived immigrants, over other immigrant groups, for instance the Chinese, who make no such demands? Are Latinos not ultimately confused as to the internal differences which mark their multifaceted presence in the US; differences which do allow some groups to receive special de facto attention —- ‘national minorities’ such as Puerto Ricans and Mexican Americans—- but which make special treatment unavailable to any other Spanish-speaking subgroups, in particular immigrants who have, according to some theorists, voluntarily uprooted themselves and therefore have waived, to a great extent, the rights to preserve and foster their cultural and linguistic background at the public level? Is the liberal option that the USA has defended, a view linked directly to the ideal of a unifying melting pot, simply a form of liberalism equally valid to other stances, however imperfect themselves, which aim at a view of society as a cultural mosaic? Are these two strands equally valid at the normative level in a world in which nations have come to see themselves as highly differentiated internally, so that they have become rather ‘multination’ or ‘polyethnic’ in character?

Of course all of these are extremely complicated questions, and therefore I do not pretend to address them in full here. But they do signal to the most important avenues one can pursue if one desires to get clearer on the past, present and future situation of the Latino population within the US. In order to aid in the process of such clarification, I propose to divide this essay into five interdependent sections. In the first of these I will briefly try to situate the Latino population in terms of their demographic, economic and political presence within the US. Having done this, I will provide the reader with a skeletal history of the bilingual education initiatives during this century. The third section centers upon two heuristic models of interpretation of what is to be understood by bilingual education; the assimilationist and pluralist alternatives. The fourth section, the true heart of the paper, tries to imaginatively situate the opposing camps in a dialogical interplay in which both perspectives present their strongest defense of what I have called the historical, normative, bilingual education, democratic-majority and economic arguments. Finally, in the fifth section, I will try to briefly situate myself within the debate by tentatively pointing out what I take to be morally required at the normative level, in order to proceed to indicate some guidelines for policy making, however incomplete these may be.

 

B) SITUATING THE LATINO POPULATION

 

It sounds really impressive to say that the USA is the fourth largest Spanish-speaking country in the world. As of 1990, and one must remember that the census undercounted minority groups such as blacks and Hispanics, the Spanish-speaking population had reached an impressive 23 354 059. Of these 34% were foreign born, that is to say about 8 million (Pachon, NAC, Intro). While in 1980 Latinos only made up 6.4% of the whole population, due both to heavy immigration (more then 1/3 of all immigrants in the last decade were latinos (Stewart, 8)), and high birth rates (50% higher than other US citizens), Latinos will make up, by the year 2050, 22.5% of the US population. Latinos will become the largest minority in the country, surpassing both blacks, who by that year will make up 14.4%, and Asians who will make up 9.7%. (Pachon, Intro)

Hispanics are likewise younger than the average population. In average they are 25.8 years old, significantly under the 32.2 found at the national level. But besides this, they make up a higher percentage of those under 24. This is one of the main reasons why by the year 2000, while Latinos will make up 10% of the general population, they will at the same time make up a much higher 16% of the population aged below 24.

Territorially speaking, Latinos are quite concentrated in a few states: 89% of them live in 1 of 9 states. Mexican Americans and Mexicans, which make 62% of the whole, live primarily in Calfornia and New Mexico; Puerto Ricans 13% of the whole and primarily living in New York; and the majority of the 5% of Cubans living in South Dade county, a strong Hispanic enclave with more than 1 million. Moreover, most newly arrived Latino immigrants choose to go to states where a large Hispanic population already exists: to California 38%, to New York 14.4 percent, and finally to Texas and Florida an identical 8% (Stewart, 21).

Their educational levels are overall quite low, with a low 62% finishing high school. However this dismaying level finds incredible internal differences. For instance, while 83% of Cubans do complete their elementary and secondary studies, only 54% of Mexicans do so. Likewise at the level of college completion Latinos stand halfway below the national average, a situation which is once again marked by great intergroup differences; 24% of Cubans finishing 4 or more years of college —-only 1 percentage point below the national level—— while Mexicans trail with a troubling 8%.

And linked to these educational disadvantages, one finds that Latinos are currently either involved in lower paying jobs or suffering from high rates of unemployment. The median Hispanic annual income as of 1988 was $20 300, compared to the national average of $31 600. Once again internal differences are striking; while Cubans stand at the top of the Latino groups, gaining $27, 300 per year, Puerto Ricans remain at the bottom with only $15 200. Of Puerto Ricans, who ironically are citizens from birth, 38% live below the poverty line. It is likewise painfully revealing that 66% of the many Puerto Rican female-headed families do so too.

As regards language issues one finds that 81% of immigrants believe it ‘very important’ to speak English and 17% consider it ‘important’. Sixty percent of those between 14-17 sedom use Spanish, and after 15 years 75% of Spanish speakers are almost completely assimilated so that by the third generation most have lost their mother tongue (De la Garza, LOL, 215). However, the private use of the Spanish language among newly arrived immigrants is quite high: 70% only speak Spanish at home, while only 20% interact privately in both languages. As usual internal differences are quite disconcerting; for instance, while 81.1% of Dominicans speak Spanish at home, only 64.1% of Central Americans do so (Pachon, Table 3.39 pg 52). Of the immigrant population, 66% consider it important to learn and be enganged in English classes. (Table 3.46). Furthermore, their linguistic influence in the public media has increased rapidly: from 1970 to 1980 radio stations grew from 60 to 200, newspapers from 40 to 65, and TV stations from 12 to 167, including now two Spanish networks, Telemundo and Univision.

Finally, politically speaking, as of 1988 only 36% of those Latinos eligible to vote registered. In contrast 65% of whites and blacks did so (Pachon, intro). Moreover 33% of the whole Hispanic population are not citizens but live in the US as resident aliens, that is to say, they cannot vote or seek any kind of public office appointment. Even when programs for a bilingual electoral process are installed, take for instance the bilingual ballots required for Puerto Ricans and Mexican Americans, only 6% of those eligible to use them actually do so (De la Graza, LOL, 218). This lack of participation has a clear effect on the actual degree of public representation at both the federal and state levels. Although the number of elected officials moved from 1500 in 1974, to 3300 in 1988, still, of the 535 voting members of Congress in 1989, only 10 were Hispanics; a number far short of the 37 which would be representative of the whole population. (All data from (Valdivieso, 1988), unless otherwise specified)

 

C) SOME ASPECTS OF THE BILINGUAL EDUCATION (BE) HISTORY

 

Among the multiple gains that the ethnic revival of the 1960’s brought, one finds the Bilingual Education Act (BEA) of 1968. Although linguistic minorities, particularly Spanish-speaking groups such as the discriminated Mexican Americans, received it with hope (Secada 42), it had essential limitations from the start. It was not only vague as to what was meant by ‘bilingual’, so that it could be interpreted in the most contradictory ways ——– different groups “could pretty much read into the law what they wanted, (Secada 40)——- but also its goals and resources were extremely limited; federal funding reaching only 7.5 million for 79 projects covering only 26 500 students (Weyr, 56). But more problematic still, was that its primary intent was fundamentally the anglification of Non-English speakers. The BEA did not actively aim at instatiating additive bilingualism policies (De la Garza, 216). Nevertheless, even though these shortcomings have become apparent now, it is still true that it represented the first instance in which the federal government intervened in language issues at the national level. In particular, it sought to redress the educational and linguistic discrimination suffered by one of the Spanish speaking subgroups, the Mexican Americans.

The general interpretative movement of this act has been increasingly towards the understanding of bilingualism as simply a transitional phenomenon. In other words, bilingualism is taken exclusively as a means, so far as possible, to effective English monolingualism. But this movement, at the same time, does not seek to disregard the fundamental rights and freedoms of the individual; for instance, the use of the mother tongue in the private sphere. By the time the Act reached its 5th reauthorization, in 1988, it had become apparent that the hopes of additive bilingualism had suffered major blows. The federal funding which had steadily grown in the 70’s, remaining at around the level of 175 million (Weyr, 70), has to date remained at more or less the same level, reaching in 1992 the amount of 195 million. Although quantitatively superior, this figure actually represents only ½ the real dollar value of the previous decades (Stewart, 208). During the conservative Reagan government in particular, the funds directed to the program were, at one point, intended to be lowered to 94 million. Only through strong Hispanic efforts and protests was it eventually raised back to the level of 138 million (Weyr, 69). These figures, in the millions, might seem like an important federal contribution, but as one of the commentators argues: “in a 2 trillion economy a year, 1.7 (billion) spent over 17 years is a small beer indeed” (Weyr, 75).

If one compares this data to the Canadian government’s allowance to bilingual education in the year of 1990, the former’s contributions stood at 626.1 million while in the US “with ten times the population federal funds for bilingual education stand at 180 million” (Fleras, 161). Undoubtedly the conditions of both countries vary, as we shall see, but it still remains clear that the importance of the program is secondary and that, within it, increasing funds are directed towards a specific understanding of what ‘bilingualism’ entails. This redirection of the programs objectives is also exemplified by the fact that by 1988 the BEA was transformed so that 25% of it funds could be used to further transitional programs. Previously only 4% of its funds could go to programs focused on goals other than those seeking full bilingualism. These funds in turn have been applied to ESL (English as a Second Language) programs, the aim of which is to ease the transition of non-English speakers, known as LEPs, that is ‘limited English-proficiency speakers, into the English language and culture. It is indicative of this trend that emphasizes ESL over and even against bilingual programs, that the former’s federal funding levels increased from 90 million in 1985 to 114 million in 1989 (Stewart, 139).

In 1974, further legal backing to the 1968 BEA was set in place. The Supreme Court decision in the Lau vs Nichols case was meant to safeguard the equal educational rights of 1800 Chinese children who were seen to be at an educational disadvantage because of their inability to speak English. This situation was regarded as unjustly favouring some individuals over others. Currently this decision “requires (that) all school districts in the US with more than 20 limited-English students from a single language background to inform the Office of Civil Rights regarding the programs they are offering these students” (De la Garza, LOL, 215-6). However, just as in the case of the BEA, the remedies required to render such equal opportunities a reality were not clearly specified. Consequently, great flexibility was left to those school districts to engage in creative programs. (Weyr, 73).

In addition, in 1975 through the Voting Rights Act, discriminated groups such as the Mexican Americans were given the mechanisms to redress the existing unequal conditions at the level of political participation. They were given the possibility of using bilingual ballots so that entrance into the mainstream political sphere could be secured and actively fostered. As a commentator puts it, it became evident that language and political issues were deeply intertwined: “as Congress reviewed the extent to which Mexican Americans had been denied access to that political process, it became clear that a major factor contributing to that exclusion was that the electoral process was conducted completely in English” (De la Garza, LOL, 217).

During the 1980’s there was a a strong backlash, one which has continued in the 90’s with the confluence of policies, on the one hand, regarding education and language of national minority citizens, and on the other hand, the perception that immigrants, both legal and illegal, are unjustly taking advantage of services which were originally not intended for them (De la Garza, LOL, 224). This regressive movement is at the heart, as we shall see, of the shift towards transitional programs in federal funding. It is a backward motion which also finds clear expression in the growth of grass roots movements such as those of the Official English Movement whose dramatic growth is quite telling. With little initial funding it was able to grow from a small and anonymous group of 300 volunteers in 1983, to an impressive 450 000 member group in 1989. This astonishing growth has not gone unremarked by linguistic commentators who point out that the reamrkable characteristic of this movement: “has been their high degree of success in the face of almost universal opposition by politicians, public figures and the media” (Adams, 107). In 1984, for instance, this movement mustered the political force necessary to pass proposition ‘O’ in California, the proposition which set itself against the use of bilingual ballots. Two years later they were central in passing Proposition 63, with a majority of 73% voters declaring that English be made the official language of California. This amendment to the state constitution, which was brought about by the initial signature of 1 100 000 concerned citizens (the second largest in California (Diamond 116)), states that “the legislature and officials of the State of California shall take all steps necessary to insure that the role of English as the common language of the State of California is preserved and enhanced. The legislature shall make no law which diminishes or ignores the role of English as the common language of the State of California” (Ruiz, 20). This move, which follows the Meyer v.s. Nebraska decision of 1923 in which the federal government upheld the right of states to make English their official language, nonetheless cannot stand in the way of guaranteeing complementary second language services for minority ethnic groups (De la Garza, 211-12). This tendency, which finds in California its clearest expression, is one which has led 18 other states, to date, to declare English their official language (Stewart, 164).

 

D) 2 HEURISTIC MODELS OF INTERPRETATION

 

In an article which situates the discussion over bilingual education within the political context of the USA, Secada and Lightfoot offer two heuristic categories which represent the ideal poles around which the debate centers. On one of the extremes lie what they call the cultural and linguistic pluralists, and on the other, the advocates of assimilation into the English language and culture. These two perspectives, as we shall see, do not simply represent two views on the nature of the education of national minorities and immigrant populations. More importantly, they stand for what are, more often than not, conflicting views of what a liberal democratic state stands for. Both perceive the important symbolic function language has as identifying force. But they differ as to the number of languages that ought to fill that primordial political space. In doing so they cannot but stand in tension as to what the ‘we’ who constitutes the legitimate members of a given community ought to look like. Although it is true that no state can remain neutral with regards to the use of language within its borders, there certainly exist multiple ways of comprehending the always changing relationships between dominant languages and minority ones.

At the most conservative end of the spectrum one finds those whose banner is that of the ideal of complete assimilation. They do recognize the normative importance of rectifying historical inequalities which have taken place in the process of mainstreaming. This is why, although always with a view to learning the language of the majority, they believe certain aids ought to be provided both to those discriminated against and to those who, although having been accepted within the boundaries, have no knowledge of the dominant language. For them in consequence, every individual that arrives to the USA, and particularly children, has a right under the constitution to be treated fairly under the law. This means that each and every individual must be given the necessary resources to overcome “handicaps” which interfere with the goal of equal opportunity. But the aim of such aid is not, by any means, to foster the claims of a particular group over another, instead it is founded upon a clear understanding of the necessity to protect individual liberties and autonomy.

From this perspective language comes to be considered fundamentally as a problem that must be overcome. The legal mechanisms are therefore set in place to assure that this problematic sphere can be dealt with. Accordingly, Non-English speakers are seen as somehow lacking in ultimate self-sufficiency. This can be clearly inferred from the category developed to signal them out, the category of “Limited English Proficiency” (LEP) person. The way to redress the problem is not to seek the parallel maintenance of two (or more) languages, but rather to seek positive assimilation as fast as can be possibly done, without counterveining the law. Under this perspective ESL programs would pave the way to overcoming such linguistic limitations. Public education in particular, though it may use the native language as a means, sets itself the unique goal of creating a uniform citizenry bonded by a common language, namely, the English language. Advocates of this position will not attempt to eliminate, as was the case in the previous assimilationist models, the freedom of individuals and groups to use their language in the private sphere; at work, at home, in church. If linguistic minorities so wish, to they can do everything in their hands to preserve their language; but seeking federal intervention is particularly unfair if the beneficiary is only one group among many who are faced with the same disadvantages.

On the other extreme, one finds the ideal of the cultural and linguistic pluralists who claim that although linguistic disadvantages are surely a problem for the disadvantaged, nevertheless the value of language moves beyond the categories of ‘problem’ and ‘right’. Language is fundamentally, and much more positively, a resource which enriches the cultural framework of any given community. In this sense the flourishing of languages goes hand in hand with the flourishing of social possibilities and new forms of idenification. In the particular situation of the USA, such advocates do not by any means seek to overturn the importance of English by frustratingly seeking to remain monolingual in their own language. But they do critically regard as problematic a perspective who is blind to the possibilities of additive bilingualism among minority groups who are increasingly playing a demographic, political, and economic role in society as a whole. Varying degrees of bilingualism can be attempted, but only in strong additive programs lies the true overcoming of minority parents’ —–and their children’s—— economic, social and political disadvantages.

The actual interplay between these two heuristic models throughout the history of the BEA in the USA has been, as we have pointed out, one of increasingly moving towards the assimilationist camp: “during each reauthorization of the (BEA) funding program, the proponents of assimilationist goals have dictated the terms of the debate and hence, they have dictated the ultimate terms of the accommodation” (Secada, 42). However, the fact that linguistic policy has gone in this direction, does not imply that the direction cannot be challenged. Having laid down in outline the two positions amongst which the debate takes place, in the following section I propose to develop the basic schematic arguments around which such a challenge, from the part of the Latino population in particular, would take place.

 

 

E) A DIALOGICAL DEBATE BETWEEN TWO INTERLOCUTORS

 

One way of seeking to clarify what is at stake between those who aim at establishing assimilationist linguistic policies in the US, and those who see in the Latino fight for enrichment bilingualism an important challenge to the status quo, is to imagine a dialogue between two defenders of each perspective. Although a product of fiction, perhaps in their imaginary debate we can start to see more clearly why and where specific tensions between both positions lie. In creating this dialogue I will be moving away from extreme positions such as that of some radical Hispanics who claim that “(they) won’t assimilate and (they) can’t” (L. Chavez, intro), and away from those of prominent political figures such as ex-President Reagan who in 1981 argued: “It is absolutely wrong and against American concepts to have a bilingual education program that is now openly, admittedly dedicated to preserving students’ native language and never getting them adequate in English so they can go out in the job market and participate“ (Cummins, PoP, pg 187). These extreme positions stand in obvious tension, but from their struggle one would utterly fail to advance towards a healthier kind of dialogue.

For the assimilationist camp, John/Mary will speak, for the Latino position, the corresponding Juan/María duet. (Under conditions of full bilingualism the Latino position would be wholly written in Spanish, but as that is not possible in present circumstances, one has to assume that both Juan and María are quite fluent English speakers) I will center the conversation between them around five different, yet deeply interrelated arguments. These are what I have called, for lack of better terms: i) the historical argument, ii) the normative argument, iii) the bilingual education argument, iv) the democratic or majority argument, and finally, and v) the very tentatively developed economic argument. These arguments are neither intended to be the only ones that one ought to consider, nor to be fully developed. They stand instead as a first approximation between what at times have been two quite hostile counterpositions. Their claims, at least to me, seem to stand in a puzzling relation; this is so for each has, I think, quite a lot argumentative strength.

 

I) THE HISTORICAL ARGUMENT

 

John/Mary: Since its founding the US has been characterized by being a de facto monolingual nation. Although the framers of the constitution did not make English official, they did so precisely because they understood that such a measure might create internal confrontations. They were very pragmatic and wise policy makers who “understood the nation’s future need of immigrants, and perhaps they concluded that establishing an official language would suggest that some groups would be less welcome than others. Their actions indicate that they also recognized the benefits that would accrue from a common language” (De la Garza, LOL, 211). Up to now, the US has not had to make English the de jure official language because the previous waves of immigrants have understood that assimilation was to the benefit of the democratic functioning and well being of the whole political community.

Take for instance the strong communities of Germans who towards the turn of the century were even allowed to develop their own school system. At the time they made up 4% of the population and were allowed, even encouraged, to teach around 600 000 children in an additive bilingual environment. (Remembering the Dream, 103). However even this remarkable attempt failed to forge a strong linguistic minority. This, despite the fact that Germans received federal funding. The fact that things went this way “suggests that bilingual public schools may have aided the process of assimilation” (Pastora, 92). Of course one can hear German in states such as Pennsylvania, but my point is that these old immigrant populations have seen the benefits of assimilating fully into the mainstream English-speaking society. All previous generations of immigrants have followed a predictable course of adaptation. There has always been first generation entrenchment and second generation bilingualism; but finally the third generation becomes “essentially anglophone and culturally assimilated” (Edwards, 278). It is a slow process, a painful one perhaps, but one which has marked the history of migration to the USA. This is why I fail to understand what is so special about your Latino situation? Why could you ever be seen as distinct from all previous, and contemporary groups of immigrants who have not actively sought any special help in maintaining their own culture and language?

 

Juan/Maria: I hope I can clarify, at least in outline, some of your doubts. First of all it seems to me that your reading of the linguistic history of the US is quite benign. It does in fact forget the high costs of assimilation for different groups; particularly national minorities such as the Native Indians and Spanish speaking sub-groups such as the Mexican Americans. It is no wonder then to find articles strikingly entitled “Language policy in the US: a history of cultural genocide”; articles in which the troubling imposition of English over other languages is vividly documented. (Hernandez-Chavez, 141). In the 1950’s, for example, Mexican Americans were even forced to “kneel on upturned bottle caps ….. to hold bricks on outstretched hands in the schoolyard or to put their nose in a chalk circle drawn on a blackboard. And this would happen in Texan towns that were 98 percent Spanish-speaking” (Weyr, 52). It is likewise no chance affair, I believe, that New Mexico only became a state after having been partitioned, a decision later on resulting in the Hispanic population becoming a minority outnumbered by increasing number of settlers. (Chavez, )

Of course one cannot change the past. However, among us Spanish-speakers today you can still find the repercussions of such actions in the present situation of Mexican Americans. Moreover, among us there are yet other distinct sub-groups. I am speaking of the Puerto Ricans whom you yourselves recognize stand in a privileged situation. Because of their being by birth Spanish-speaking citizens they have, for instance, the option of not learning the English language. Special electorate material is likewise required in their case.

Likewise in the case of Cubans you held some type of preferential treatment due to the political nature of their arrival to the mainland. In their case, even prior to the enaction of the Bilingual Education Act, there were efforts to set up strong enrichment bilingual programs due to the fact that Cubans saw themselves as exiles, not as migrants. Take for instance the program funded by the Ford Corporation in 1963. The resulting program “was considered a success and provided a model for later efforts. Unlike later government funded programs, the Dade county program was oriented towards enrichment instead of remediation” (Casanova, 169). That Cubans are doing well in comparison to other Latino subgroups might have something to do with this welcoming attention that was once given to them.

Furthermore, just to reply to the German example you gave. The new wave of immigrants which is falsely thought to be flooding the USA (although the foreign born population in 1990 was the highest at 21.2 millon, it is not the highest percentage of foreign born residents as a proportion of total population; being only 8.5% as compared to 14.8% in 1890 (Stewart, 20)), is not identical to the previous European wave. This is so because there was and continues to be a steady stream of Latino immigrants to the same communities and cities throughout the US (Pastora 93). This is in part due to the proximity of their native homelands. Moreover, the sheer number of Latinos has made the USA the fourth largest Spanish-speaking country in the world. Because of the fact that they have sought to concentrate themselves in few states —-89% in 1 of 9 states—– and the fact that they have exceedingly high birth rates, their presence seems to challenge the previous process of assimilation. (see Section B ‘Situating the Latino Poulation’). You ought always to remember that by the year 2050, 22.5% of the US population will be of Latino origin. Latinos represent a major historical challenge.

 

II) TWO VIEWS OF LIBERALISM

 

John/Mary: We recognize that injustices have been committed. But therein lies the greatness of the USA, it has continuously sought to do away with such highly objectionable situations. But it does so by protecting the individual rights and freedoms of each citizen and resident alien who has been born in, or legally allowed into, this country. Take for instance the legislation concerning bilingual education. Both the Bilingual Education Act of 1968, and the 1974 Lau v.s. Nichols Supreme Court decision, were set in place precisely to redress these unjust realities. And just to remind you, the Lau case involved, not Hispanics, but rather “Chinese parents in San Francisnco (who) argued that failure to give some 1800 Chinese-speaking students extra language instruction denied them access to equal education and thus violated the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment” (Weyr, 58). It is true they lost twice in the local courts, but this was finally corrected at the national level.

Both pieces of legislation were set in place, not to favor any particular group —- though Mexican Americans were the primary beneficiaries of the BEA (de la Garza, LOL, 216)—– but to guarantee the rights of all those who found themselves at a disadvantage with respect to the English-speaking majority. The aim of these pieces of legislation was definitely not to encourage special claims from any singular immigrant group which somehow saw itself as distinct from all others. We have taken specific care to deal with the Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans, but new Latino immigrants are not thereby priviledged in any way.

 

Juan/Maria: Somehow I cannot but feel that by signaling to the internal differences among us Spanish-speakers you are following that famous strategy of conquer and divide. It is the same one you so clearly exemplified at the national level through the partition of states such as New Mexico.

But be that as it may, we are in total agreement as to the particularities which characterize your relation to Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans. That is definitely to their advantage, and what is to theirs is to ours too. But what you do not seem to understand is that, just as your older immigrant populations have found in English a unifying element, we find in Spanish, enriched by the always desired acquisition of English, the very conditions for our communal identification. It is true that some political analysts have interpreted the current debate as one in which “language is not the issue” (de la Garza, LOL). However they have done so, according to us, by sidestepping the very core element of the debate, namely the increasing central role of the Spanish-language in the US.

I perceive certain fear in your part as to the disrupting element which lies in such a claim; perhaps you fear that this language minority will one day end up becoming so strong that it will seek secession. The reality of a future Quebec seems to haunt you. These fears are grounded, some argue lucidly, in your history. According to Will Kymlicka, the liberal tradition which guides your policy making is one in which special minority treatments are regarded with suspicion. This is so, he tells us, not only because of the the desegregation model you endorsed following the Civil Rights Movement of blacks in the South, but also because of a misinterpretation of the objectives of the ethnic revival of the 1960’s and 70’s. The latter you perceived as the seed of a movement the aim of which was territorial separation through the creation of monolingual enclaves; particularly of a Spanish-speaking nature. For Kymlicka “the increasing politicization of immigrant groups profoundly unsettled the American liberals, for it affected the most basic assumptions and self-conceptions of American political culture” (Kymlicka 52). (And, one might add, today more than ever continues to unsettle you).

Your response to these diverse demands involved adopting a policy of benign neglect, a policy grounded in the ideal of the neutrality of the state. As you know this policy holds not only that minorities do not have any special rights to claim, but moreover that any such claiming can lead to a dangerous destabilization of the very conditions of social cohesion and bonding required to unite a society under commonly held banners. Kymlicka, you might be interested in knowing, even goes on to formulate diverse types of group differentiated rights for both national minorities and polyethnic groups.

However, the central element we want take over from him is that of the the role of language in defining what he calls a societal culture; that is the context of meaningful choice for an individual, in our case within a liberal democracy. As he puts it: “to understand the meaning of a social practice therefore requires, understanding the shared vocabulary ——i.e. understanding the language and the history which constitute this vocabulary, whether or not a course of action has any significance for us depends on whether, and how, our language renders vivid to us the point of that activity…… understanding those cultural narratives is a precondition of making intelligent judgments about how to live our lives” (72). Of course, being himself from a country with a high immigrant population, Kymlicka draws a very clear line between the rights of national minorities such as Mexican Americans and any new wave of immigrants. In the latter case, though he is ambiguous at times, he nevertheless claims that they have voluntarily uprooted themselves and therefore relinquished the right to seek to foster the societal culture from which they come.

But in our case something unique occurs. We are brought together by our native language regardless of our being immigrants or native born citizens. Internal differences persist, but this is also the case of all the diverse groups which you want to unite under the banner of the English language. And let me remind you, we are not seeking to become like an independent Quebec, I can assure you of that. We understand that as part of our duties (except for Puerto Ricans who nevertheless should be wise enough to realize the value of bilingualism) lies the learning of English if we want to become full citizens of the USA. However we are not about to let our native language simply drift into invisibility as has occurred to other immigrant groups. And we know that strong positive bilingual experiences are found in countries such as Switzerland, Finland, Canada and Australia. Ours is not a utopian dream.

 

John/Mary: Since you seem to mention Canada so much, I would first like to remind you that their bilingual programs are grounded historically in the —often quite tense—- coexistence of two founding nations. That is definitely not the case here.

But leaving this aside, we too have our own theorists. Take for instance the difference Walzer makes between two forms of liberalism: liberalism 1 and liberalism 2.. The first is committed in the strongest way to the protection of individual rights within the ideal framework of a neutral state, that is one without cultural, linguistic or religious projects, one with “no collective goal beyond personal freedom and physical security” (Walzer, Commentary, 99-103). This is the type of model Spanish speaking immigrants have come to join once they voluntarily decided to migrate here. In contrast to this first model, Walzer believes that something like what you are advocating, though not very clearly, is what characterizes liberalism 2. This is a model in which ideally “there is a state committed to the survival and flourishing of a particular nation culture or religion or of a (limited) set of nations, cultures and religions” (ibid), while ar the same time safeguarding the basic individual rights of its members. Quebec offers a model for such a perspective of what a liberal democracy ought to be like. And that is fine. However for us, here and now, the appropriate form and the one which ensures the highest equality freedom and justice for all is precisely the former. As Walzer points out “here the singular union claims to distinguish itself from all the plural unions, refusing to endorse or support their ways of life or to take an active interest in their social reproduction or to allow any one of them to seize state power, even locally” (101).

Now, of course this is only an ideal. But myths are part of the political fabric of any society. But as I argued above, though we do not deny the existence of discrimination, we deal with it in a very different way. Trying to deal with such injustices following the second model would go against the very nature of the liberal democratic model for which we stand. As Nathan Glazer puts it: “Our problem is that we are not a federation of peoples (like Canada or the Soviet Union) but of states, and our ethnic groups are already too dispersed, mixed, assimilated, integratred to permit without confusion a policy that separates out some for special treatment. But if we try to, then many other groups will join the queue, or try to, and the hope of a larger fraternity of all Americans will have to be abandoned” (quoted by Kymlicka, 56). Hispanics like you are not only the first in trying to set up the first long lasting queue, but somehow believe to have the right to be first in line.

 

Juan/Maria: I think that what you are expressing is captured quite well in a Spanish idiom which says: “les da uno la mano y le cogen hasta el codo”. I will translate it as best as I can, though perhaps you will miss some of its Latino flavor. It means something like this: “you give them a hand and they even take your elbow”. This idiomatic expression is used when you help somebody and they go on shamelessly to abuse your kindness.

As regards your reference to Glazer I will remind you what he once wrote on bilingual education: “because I teach about these matters to students who are either enthusiastic about such policies or critical the way they consider the overly timid or limited way in which they are being followed, I have also had to ask myself whether my skepticism is well based, and I have had at least to question my views” (Glazer, Pluralism and Ethnicity, 55) The openness found in this article, written in 1980, is precisely what has been lost in the whole debate. We feel it is you who have secured an already over-secure enclave.

Moreover, I tend to believe that the extreme inequalities which haunt the majority of the Spanish-speaking population will not go away unless direct measures are taken to deal with their specially challenging situation. Only by moving beyond benign neglect, and counting upon our active participation in the process, will the possibility of overcoming the circle of poverty most of us find ourselves in become a reality. According to us language is not simply a problem to be addressed, nor a right to be demanded. Language, if for once you cease to define it in negative terms, is fundamentally a resource (Ruiz, 18). It is not only an economic resource which is there to be appropriated to the benefit of the productivity of a nation (think of Nafta and the increasing search for a Latin American Market). It is not simply a positive asset in terms of the requirements of national security either (Ruiz, ) (Secada, ). It is fundamentally a resource in a sense that goes beyond its utility; it provides a given community with the skeletal framework of its, always changing, identity. Furthermore it provides a communicative channel for those willing to ease the tensions and disadvantages between Majority and minority groups. Some, like Marshall, have even argued from an ecological perspective, that the concern for minority languages lies in that they can be viewed as endangered species. Their positive acceptance and flourishing involves according to him: i) a higher quality of human life (stronger sense of identity and belonging), ii) a benefit in terms of the whole political body due to the lowering of potential conflicts and active search of a dialogue such as ours, and finally iii) a real advance towards the healthy conditions of our children’s future. Children both from majority and minority groups which are given not only a sense of security and well-being, but also the tools required to open up new possibilities which create a deeper and more challenging diversity than that which follows from your ideal of a melting pot (Marshall, 1989).

 

III) BILINGUAL EDUCATION

 

John/Mary: What you are saying seems rather optimistic, at times even poetic. But, if I remember correctly, a sympathetic Canadian Ukranian had, among other things, the following to say to Mashall: “Now, one could really get carried away with that point, but I will try to restrain myself. However lovely the thought may be, does anyone who is serious believe it…. “the entire world needs the diversity of ethnolinguistic entities for its own salvation…..” Really! Who says so? …… Davd Marshall? But how important are they in the eyes of the mighty?” (Comments, Lupul, 304).

I might admit that what you are saying seems to touch some deep chord inside me, but let’s face it, in the case of Hispanics it is absolutely clear that any attempt to establish enrichment bilingual programs has utterly failed. As Linda Chavez, ex-president of ‘U.S. English’ movement and author of Out of the Barrio tells us, it is precisely because the programs do not work that Hispanics, and children in particular, lose their self-esteem and sense of self-worth. There have been various governmental reports which clearly show how bilingual programs have failed. Take for instance the influential AIR report (Ammerican Institute for Research) which sampled 286 classrooms in all 38 Spanish/English programs for more than 4 years. Its findings are very critical of the kind of programs you would advocate. Among the findings these researchers highlighted were: 1) Hispanics are not more likely to keep up in subjects such as math or social studies than those in intensive English courses, 2) little impact on their self-esteem was achieved, 3) around 66% of the students who were already proficient in English still remained in bilingual programs (L. Chavez, 19).

A second governmental report from the Department of Education, the Baker and Kramer report, also concluded that: “many studies that had claimed promising results for biligual education were so flawed that they provided little useful information. Of the acceptable studies … eleven showed positive outcomes in teaching transitional bilingual education programs, fifteen showed no difference and 5 actually suggested a negative effect on English acquisition” (Chavez 26-27). And if this is not enough, it seems as though Latino parents, much like Asian parents, do not want their children to focus too much attention in the maintenance of their native language. This is why for 82% of Cuban parents, as well as 78% of those who are Mexican, opposed the teaching of Spanish if it stood in the way of the learning of English (Chavez, 29). It is also clear that immigrants anxiously see in the learning of the English language the first step towards breaking the cycle of poverty in which some of them find themselves (Stewart, 170).

 

Juan/Maria: It is amazing to see how when people look at reality they seem to find precisely what they looking for. Of course, if one sees language simply as a problem to be resolved, a handicap to be ‘cured’, then the evaluation of programs will be taken only in terms of the learning of English, without taking into consideration other unquestionable benefits such as the lowering of the level of school drop out, which is so troublingly high among the increasingly numerous Latino youth (Casanova, 170). Furthermore, in the reports you allude to there was no taking into account of the environmental conditions within which the children being taught lived. It is because of reasons like these that the Baker report is widely agreed to have had such terrible limitations that “it would not be published in any serious peer-reviewed journal”. However the commentator continues “it did fit the antibilingual political agenda” (Hakuta, 207). Under the very limited and handicaped perspective of ‘language-as-a-problem’ you hold, then obviously any release from the language which stands in the way of a problem-less atmosphere comes to be seen even as a source of liberation and self-fulfillment. It is because of this that the discussion is already decided from the start in favor of transitional/assimilationist programs. As Ruiz, —–a steadfast defender of a tripartite understanding of language in terms of problem, right and underlying these, resource ——— puts it: “the question has already been decided; if the programs are accepted at all, they are to the extent that they are effective as transitions” (Ruiz, 8) The very notion of “transitional bilingualism” is a contradiction in terms, it implies a transition to a full-fledged monolingualism, not to any real biliteracy.

But furthermore a Canadian researcher on bilingual education at the education department of the prestigious University of Toronto gives us more troubling information to reflect upon. He too, like us, finds that the position which sees in the Latino demands for enrichment bilingual education a premeditated plan to reach Spanish monolingualism in enclaves ready to secede, would be laughable “if such arguments were not taken seriously by so many North Americans” (Cummins, 183). In his article entitled ‘The Politics of Paranoia’ (1992), he claims, to begin, that neither the political critics nor the media are truly informed about the abundant positive data surrounding the value of bilingualism. This is particularly appalling, he argues, due to the fact that it is an area where policy decisions affect so many individuals and families (Cummins, 184).

But he even goes on to argue, almost subversively, that there is a deliberate process of disinformation set up so as to eliminate the success of any positive findings regarding bilingualism. Although abundant data shows the benefits of bilingual education, he believes that there is a policy set to counteract the threat of good examples. This is done, according to him, by: i) limiting the framework of discourse, b) denying or distorting empirically documented counterexamples and iii) ignoring logical inconsistencies in the position held. Take for instance the fact that clear evidence has been found which contradicts one of the fundamental assimilationists claims, namely that there is a direct relationship between the amount of instruction in English and achievement in English. A logical inconsistency which he points to, is that of a policy which seeks to actively eliminate a groups’ native language, in order to set all its efforts —which are not that great either (de la Garza, LOL, 224)—– on trying to teach those very same languages at the high school and university level. (198).

 

V) THE DEMOCRATIC ARGUMENT

 

John/Mary: Before I proceed I will only add here that, as far as I am concerned, there is no logical inconsistency in defending foreign language teaching, while simultaneously not advocating Spanish maintenance. This is so because, as de la Garza points out, teaching all children different languages is unobjectionable both politically and educationally. However focusing only on Spanish emphasizes “only one language in ways that are educationally acceptable but ethically untenable and politically explosive” (LOL, 224). But leaving this point aside, I will refer you to one uncontroversial piece of data. Take for instance the case of Proposition 63 in California, a proposition which sought to amend that State’s Constitution so “that no activity or policy be created by the state government which diminishes the satuts of the Engish language” (Ruiz, 20) (Diamond, 107). This piece of legislation passed in 1986 with a resounding majority, 73% of voters in favor. The very growth of the movement which sought, and eventually got, its implementation is impressive; it grew from 300 volunteer members and one office in 1983, to 450 000 in 1989 (Diamond 111). For the amendment to be even considered more than 650 000 signatures were needed; the group was able to get almost twice as many, 1 100 000. The voting itself was the second largest in the State’s history. And as you know 19 states have already passed similar legislation; among them Florida and Colorado which passed similar legal protections in the 80’s with equally resounding victories; 84 and 60% of acceptance respectively (Diamond 116). Now, one would think that Latinos in particular would have voted against such legislation, which at least symbolically affects their attempts to seek full bilingual education. However, in the analysis of the voting pattern by Dyste, one finds to one’s surprise that a majority of 53% the Hispanic vote was in favor of such legislation; while only 37% voted against it.(Dyste, 145). Now if this does not clearly show you how Hispanics feel about your attempt to seek bilingualism, then I do not know what will. The ‘will of the people’ seems to be clear.

 

Juan/Maria: Well, if one looks at the way the voting was carried out one ought to remember that 43% of Hispanics had not even heard of the proposition. Moreover most of those who voted against it were liberal voters (54%), the highly educated (46%), and the Asian population (46%) (Dyste 145). It seems to me that there is not only a problem of disinformation, but also at the local and national level a problem of political underepresentation. This is made worse still by the fact that a high percentage of immigrants have not sought to become politically active citizens, but have rather chosen to remain as resident aliens unable to vote. Take for instance the data found for the presidential campaign of 1988: “only about 36% of the Hispanics of voting age regristered to vote while about 65% of black and white Americans registered ….. However, about one-third of Hispanics are ineligible to vote because they are not citizens. Of those eligible to vote, 54 percent were registered for the ….. elections”. (Valdivieso, 12; see also ‘Section B) Situating the Latino population’) In Los Angeles, for instance, the information gathered in 1990 showed that a striking 69% were not elligible to vote; levels in other cities varied from another high of 55.5%, in Miami to a low of 11.7% of New York where most Puerto Rican citizens live. (de la Garza, Barrio Ballots, table 1.1) I can assure you that this will slowly change due to the efforts of the National Association of Latino Elected and Appointed Officials (NALEO), which has conducted campaigns to encourage Hispanic legal residents to become citizens and to involve more women in the political process. (Valdivieso, 14). And you must prepare yourselves for the political implications of such growth. Perhaps the ‘will of the people’ changes as the identity and multiple allegiances of ‘the people’ do.

 

VI) COSTS OF BILINGUAL EDUCATION

 

John/Mary: Again, let me remind you that we are not challenging your fundamental right to keep using and fomenting the use of your language in private spheres such as your homes, your churches, and even your community centers. But the costs for such maintenance can only follow from the private sphere, not from a duty on the part of the public federal funds to which all tax-payers contribute. I am no economist, but the problem, I believe, is as follows.

It is true that the federal government has de facto recognized the particularities of groups such as Mexican Americans, and disadvantaged non-English speaking immigrants. But if you desire to further empower your linguistic heritage, you must assume the costs of so doing, and not provide an added burden to the whole community which either has already assimilated, or is well in the process of so doing. Some of us have even argued for instance that, as part of the immigrant contract, “it seems plausible to ask someone to contribute 5% of one year’s income for the right to come here to take a job or to bring a relative into the country”. (Soro, 111) This way in the 1992 fiscal year alone, with around 1 000 000 citizens eligible for such a tax, the total revenues would have reached the 1 billion mark. If you assume part of the costs, and take advantage of our help in learning the language, then surely the current immigrant situation will be ameliorated. As for illegal immigrants, mostly of Spanish-speaking origin, state governments had to spend around 5.4 billion in 1990 on their welfare; 2.1 billion alone going to education programs (Stewart, 204). This situation cannot, in the least, foster good relations between both parties

Likewise Increasing criticism has been waived regarding the self-serving purpose of a bureaucracy of Hispanic elite members who cling to their jobs (Chavez, 36). Worse yet, these bureaucrats follow a double agenda the aim of which is to pretend to seek bilingualism while actually fostering Spanish monolingualism. They know all too well “that public financial support for bilingual education would evaoprate if it were presented as a way to preserve the language and culture of a single ethnic group” (Chavez, 37).

 

Juan/Maria: Fortunately I am no economist either. However, it is evident that in the case of illegal immigrants there is little we can do to prevent their entry. But in the case of legal immigrants at least, we can tell you that no one really knows how much their educational costs are (Stewart 203). Nonetheless it is clear that the federal expenses on language policy have not been a national priority; reaching only 195 million by 1992. This amount representing only one-half the real value of those almost identical digits in the 70’ and 80’s. (see section C). And as you know, after the fifth reauthorization of the BEA, 25% of the federal funds are now directly going to programs focusing on transitional language education. Previously only 4% of these funds could go to programs other than enrichment bilingual ones (Stewart 208). So in reality about 150 million are going to addititive bilingual programs, a minute percentage if one takes into account the fact that the national GNP is in the level of the trillions. ( see Section C for comparative funds in Canada). The funds spent on adult ESL programs, which one would expect to be much higher, actually stood at 113 million in 1990 (Stewart , 139). No wonder you find waiting lists of 40 000 and 25 000 immigrants for ESL instruction in cities like Los Angeles and New York. (de la Garza, LOL, 223) Even the “Emergency Immigrant Education Act”, created to finance the crisis of school districts in high immigration areas, has remained steady at 30 million per year. But again the real value has gone from $86 per student in 84-85 to 62 in 89-90. As Stewart puts it “mere pittance in relation to needs” (Stewart).

Moreover, as he goes on to point out, it is precisely the federal government, the one so intent on finding a unifying linguistic bond between its citizens, precisely the entity which shifts the costs of education to the states and local communities. It allows entrance of immigrants, but does not assume the responsibilities of a government which recognizes that it is a nation built on these immigrants. This shift of burdens to localities is “unfair and shortsighted” (Stewart 210). Whenever congressmen from Texas, Florida and California have attempted to address the conditions for the health and education infrastructure of the high immigration populations they have to deal with, their propositions are “soundly defeated because of lack of representation of the districts affected. (Stewart, 213).

But the most important economic argument for education goes as follows. The education of the whole population, and here I would like to remind you of the extremely disadvantaged position of most Spanish-speakers, is an investment on the future of a nation. For the most part immigrants do not cause a negative cash flow to taxpayers. However education is the exception because those who seek to benefit from it are the more disadvantaged (Stewart 213, 14). Given that in 2050 Latinos will represent 22.5% of the US population it is crucially important to remember that: “a narrow or short-term view of educational expenditures, however, ignores the investment dimension of education. Immediate financial return should not be the measure that is applied in these instances. Few acions are more costly to society than failure to provide appropriate educational opportunities for all of society’s members. Dollars invested in education for immigrants and their children now will be repaid many times in the future” (Stewart 214). We Latino’s, as opposed to other immigrant groups, have made specific remarks as to what the nature of such long-term educational process ought to be like.

 

John/Mary: There is still much to be said about this highly complex issue. But perhaps now together we can look at what can be done under the present circumstances; reminding ourselves of the dictum ‘ought implies can’.

 

Juan/Maria: Me parece una buena idea …….., I mean, that sounds like a good idea.

 

 

F) SOME TENTATIVE CONSIDERATIONS AS TO WHAT OUGHT TO, AND WHAT CAN, BE DONE

Having heard these two conflicting perspectives, I would now like to conclude this already too extensive essay by briefly focusing on two interrelated matters. On the one hand, I will take up some of the issues present at the level of principle, that is to say, issues regarding what I consider to be morally just in this particularly complex case. In order to do so I will retake some of the arguments explicited in the previous section. Having looked at what is required at the normative level, I will conclude by referring the reader to some general policy guidelines which deal directly with the possibilities of implementing what has been taken to be morally required. Although both questions, the normative and the practical, would receive a very different answer, depending on whether the duet John/Mary or of Juan/María answered them, I will focus only on the Spanish-speaking couple towards whom the scale of justice, in my view, tends to tilt most heavily.

As was seen in the ‘theoretical argument’ above, there existed two broad forms of liberalism both of which secured individual rights and personal autonomy, but one of which sought to do so by acknowledging that neutrality is a limited tool as regards disadvantaged minorities, i.e., Liberalism 2. Its opponents argued that under the present conditions, it is Liberalism 1, i.e., the one founded upon the theory of benign neglect, the one most suited to the actual US political situation. But this traditional understanding, which is not true itself to the complexities of the history of liberalism itself (Kymlicka, Chapter 3), has survived and become all the more entrenched, I believe, because of the fact that no alternatives models can be considered under its presuppositions. If neutrality is the unique ideal to be actively sought, then any attempt to fight for group differences is, from the start, seen as suspicious, as demanding something that is “truly” un-liberal. The history of the ethnic revival in general, and that of bilingual education in particular, clearly portray how, after a certain openness was reached, a backlash ensued precisely when stronger emphasis on minority issues became too difficult to deal theoretically with the model which has traditionally been seen as the most suitable for the “here and now”. However, as we argued above, the history upon which this tradition has come to cement itself, can be read quite differently from the point of view of disadvantaged minorities and discriminated immigrant populations.

In the case of bilingual education the traditional theoretical framework clearly disallows any new modes of self-understanding. The wide emphasis on transitional programs is grounded precisely in this neutrality perspective which can allow only one language to flourish in the public sphere. Whatever the unquestionable benefits of bilingualism, its active presence is seen as disrupting the liberal model which has underpinned the claims to justice of traditional groups in the USA. ESL programs are constantly preferred because they assure that a common language will counteract any special considerations, and allegedly really provide a social cohesion which would otherwise be lacking. Fortunately, if all goes well, according to this view, the handicapped non-English speakers will finally leave his/her societal network, and by the third generation will have become fully integrated into the system.

But what I have been trying to argue for, clearly requires those who blindly follow this model, to assume a much more critical attitude towards a postion which fails to undertake initiatives because from the start they are seen as dangerous and problematic. Besides, when such lack of openness actually follows a period of gains, one tends to believe that the model is primarily trying not only to secure itself, although it is already quite secure, but also to disallow alternative models of understanding the reality in which multiple participants face each other.

Ideally, given the numerous presence of Latino’s ——due to high birth rates and continuous migration——- the Spanish language ought to be regarded as the most important challenge to this perspective. This is not to say that Spanish ought to replace English in the public realm, but rather that, normatively speaking, full enrichment bilingualism should become a fundamental goal in those areas where Spanish and English have come to play a crucial role. The benefits of such courageous undertaking clearly outweigh the initial difficulties one would run into as regards their actual implementation. But in order to be able to do so the sharp line drawn by theorists between, on the one hand, national minorities, and on the other, immigrant populations, must be made much more flexible than is currently supposed to be. Latinos are the prime example of a situation where such an extreme differentiation suspiciously seems to aim at safeguarding the status quo rather than dealing with the actual claims of justice. If we are to seriously take the role language plays in the identity of a given community, like the USA takes seriously the role of English, then Spanish will increasingly become an equally important identifying force. All efforts must be placed to avoid a parallel existence between both by building multiple intersections between them. The primary ways in which such interaction can occur include, not simply the provision of bilingual emergency services, nor that of bilingual ballots to make the electoral possibilites more just, but primarily by seeking to educate the younger generations, those in elementary and high school as to the value of a bilingual citizenry. Moreover, normatively speaking, the fact that Latino’s are demanding such recognition ought not to be seen as unjustly priviledging them over other immigrant groups. All other immigrant groups, who like Hispanics desire to face the challenge of not loosing their language by seeking to change the way language is regarded within Liberalism 1, are more than welcome to do so. But clearly it is Hispanics, due to their particualr situation, who have in their hands the greatest possibility of bringing about such a change, one which involves a reconsideration of what for, and for who, a liberal democracy stands.

However, from the very outset I compared such political project to that of Don Quijote’s attack on those old mills, deeply entrenched and proudly standing, who fail to recognize the symptoms of their own decline. At least Don Quijote, though he took a great beating, was imaginative enough to see in these already rundown structures, gigantic possibilities. But that this seems not be so in our present case, is due not only to the difficulties alluded to in trying to change how Liberalism 1 perceives itself, but likewise because of the lack of cohesiveness within the Latino population itself. It stands divided, not only by internal differences, members preferring to be Cuban or Mexican, rather than Latinos united by the common force of their language, but also because of the great class differences newly arrived immigrants bring with them from their home countries in Latin America. If the Latino struggle is to succeed, its members must come to realize that in their language lies the most important possibility of safeguarding their distinctness, and that of eventually, through a long process, redefining their, and the majority’s identity. However, that this is far from being so, can even be inferred by one of the articles which gives the most realistic policies to develop. It is entitled: “Latinos and the Official English Debate in the United States: LANGUAGE IS NOT THE ISSUE”. Although it is an article written in 1988, that is to say, when the ethnic revival backlash had reached its peak, it nevertheless is quite sobering as regards the possiblity of actual change in the realm of practical affairs and political wisdom.

Its author, De la Garza, constantly differentiates between the claims of resident aliens and citizens ——-which goes to the heart of the problem of the political inactivity of Latino’s—— as well as the claims of Spanish speaking immigrants and Spanish speaking national minorities, a division which runs counter to the centrality of language argued for above. According to him English should continue to be the national language of the USA, but without its being declared official. This both because making it official at the national level would increase tensions and because at the present moment it seems unnecessary. Moreover, the federal government ought to remain neutral on language issues for any purposes other those of elections or related political issues. This would allow minority groups to privately enhance their languages in their schools, and to use them freely in realms of recreation, church, and at work. But this neutrality would be partly set off by placing much more emphasis on the duty on the part of the state to guarantee educational help to those who do not know any, or sufficient, English. (This duty, for instance, would deal with the increasing waiting lists of immigrants wishing to learn the language but being unable to do so because of lack of federal interest). Neutrality would likewise allow Latinos to develop their own Spanish-speaking community centers, and all other such centers for the use of their language, but not really with a view to stable bilingualism. This because of the socio-linguistic process (the third generation has historically become monolingual), and the actual state of Spanish maintenance (a high interest in learning English over Spanish).

Thirdly, according to de la Garza, governmental agencies would continue to promote English at the national level with two central exceptions. At the level of public schools, although programs would be conducted in English, promoting of the learning of other foreign languages, and aiding non-English speakers, would remain priorities. For de la Garza, as was pointed in dialogue, there is no contradiction between the giving up of minority languages and eventual foreign language learning, because not giving up one’s language implies being unjustly privileged. In order to aid those who are disadvantaged becasue of their lack of knowledge of English special programs, mostly ESL oriented, would be set in place with local flexibility and variation. The second exception would be that of the Puerto Ricans, and other national minorities, who have an autonomous and distinct identity and consequently do not have to learn English. These subgroups already have some kind of de facto special treatment, but one which under the current condtions, is difficult to extend to other groups.

The fourth consideration de la Garza takes into account is that of a permanent anti-discrimination policy to be advocated by the federal governement. Againt this is a policy which flows perfectly from the neutrality perspective the aim of which is not to tolerate “actions by any public agencies that in any way undermine, attack or discriminate against the use of languages other than English by individuals in their private activities” (De la Garza, 226). Finally, all electoral activities should be conducted in English so that the important difference between resident aliens and citizens is maintained. While the former have access to all fundamental rights and at the same time not being obliged to English, the latter alone enjoying the possibility of active political participation within the publicly developed democratic institutions. However, even here two exceptions would still hold. On the one hand that of Puerto Ricans, who are under no obligation to vote in, or learn, the English language (though they would be quite unwise if the did not), and on the other the Mexican Americans who in a somewhat different vein have asked for the use of such material in order to redress imbalances to a point of “normalcy”, to the point where integration is made possible.

But besides these very weak, but realistic demands, put forward by de la Garza, Latino’s must engage in other activities which alone will ensure that these small demands can one day become much greater. The different Latino groups must keep the already existing bilingual program flexibility in order to pursue the best course of action within specific local situations at both the state and community level. By safeguarding this flexibility the conditions can be created through creative implementations for the growth of intercommunicative channels between school boards, the community as a whole and Latino parents and their children. The public school would become a forum for the voicing of the different positions by way of dialogical encounters such as that presented in this paper. For instance, although at the normative level full bilingualism is an ideal goal to be sought, perhaps seeking it under the present economic circumstances might actually be detrimental to a given Spanish speaking sub-group who is in need of urgently acquiring some language skills as soon as possible. Politically speaking sometimes the urgent must be faced prior to addressing the most important. But this would imply, nevertheless, that more and particularly more federal, but also state sources, ought to be directed to language programs; whether they be ESL or BE. Although practically speaking it seems certain that most funds will go towards ESL oriented programs, Latino’s must actively seek to organize themselves politically and rally upon the common banner of bilingualism as a goal. Perhaps their private efforts can follow in the steps of a Quebecois “quiet revolution”, but certainly one whose aim is not that of separation, but one, from the start, guided by the desire for mutual recognition. Naturalization of resident alien becomes a priority, as well as women’s active particpation, for majority decisions will continue to determine the content, extent and course of future linguistic projects within the USA. Only by actively empowering the growing Latino youth will Spanish-speakers eventually be able to enter their claims, with greater force, into the democratic process. But if one day they do succeed, perhaps for the first time in the United States’ history will it truly become much more ‘American’ than it actually is.

 

____________

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adams, Karen and Brink Daniel, Perspectives on Official Language¸ Monton de Gruyter, Berlin, 1990, “English—-the Official Language of California 1983-1988”, Stanley Diamond, pgs. 111-119; “The Popularity of California’s Proposition 63: an Analysis” Connie Dyste, pgs. 139-150; “Bilingualism and the Constitution”, John Travina, pgs. 281-84.

Carens, Joseph, “Realistic and Idealistic Approaches to the Ethics of Migration”.

 

——– “Complex Justice, Cultural Difference and Political Community”.

 

——– “Democracy and Respect for Difference: The Case of Fiji”.

 

 

Chavez, Linda, Out of the Barrio: Towards a New Politics of Hispanic Assimilation, Basic Books, Harper Collins Publishers, n.d., 1991. Introduction and Chap. 1, “The Blingual Battleground”, pgs. 9-38.

 

Edwards, John, (ed), Linguistic Minorities, Policies and Pluralism¸ Academic Press, London, 1984; Chap. 5, “Problems of Language Planning inthe United States” Glendon Drake, pgs, 141-9; Chap. 6, “Bilingual Education and its Social Implications”, William Mackey, pgs. 151-177; and Chap. 10, “Language, Diversity and Identity”, John Edwards, pgs. 277-305.

 

Fleras, Augie and Elliot J.L. Multiculturalism in Canada: the Challenge of Diversity , Nelson Canada, Scarborough, 1992. Chapters 7,8, 9.

 

Garcia, Ofelia (ed.), Bilingual Education, Vol I, John Benjamins Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1991; Section IV: “Bilingual Education: Politics or Pedagogy”, Ursula Casanova, pgs. 167-182; “The Politics of Paranoia”, Jim Cummins, pgs 183-202; “What Bilingual Education Has Taught the Experimental Psychologist”, Kenki Hakuta, pgs, 203-214.

 

Gutman, Amy, Multiculturalism, Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1994. Particularly, “Commentary” by Michael Walzer, pgs 99-103.

Kymlicka, Will, Multicultural Citizenship.

Mackay Snadra Lee and Wong Cynthia (Eds.) Language Diversity: Problem or Resource?, Newbury House Publishers, Cambridge, 1988; Chap 1. “Orientations in Language Planning”, Richard Ruiz, pgs. 3-25; Chap. 12, “Weighing Educational Alternatives”, Sandra McKay, pgs. 338-366; Chap. 13, “Educational Rights of Language Minorities” Sandra Cynthia Wong, pgs. 367-383.

Parekh, Bhikhu, “British Citizenship and Cultural Difference”.

 

——– “The Rushdie Affair: Research Agenda for Political Philosophy”.

 

Oboler, Suzanne, Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives: Identity and the Politics of (re)Presentation in the U.S.¸University of Minessota Press, Minneapolis, 1995; Chap. 1, “Hispanics? That’s What They Call Us?”; Chap. 7, “Imagined Communities Revisited”, pgs. 158-175.

 

Pachon, Harry and Desipio, Louis, New Americans by Choice, Westview Press, Boulder, 1994; “Introduction”.

 

Ridge, Martin (ed.), The New Bilingualism: An American Dilemma, University of Southern California Press, Rutgers University, May 1980; “Pluralism and Ethnicity” Nathan Glazer, pgs. 55-70; and “The New Bilingualism”, Martin Ridge, pgs. 259-267.

 

Safa, Helen, “Migration and Identity: A Comparison of Puerto Rican and Cuban Migrants in the United States”, pgs. 137-149. in The Hispanic Experience in the US, Edna Acosta Belen (ed.), Praeger, New York, 1985.

 

Scneiderman, David (de.), Language and the State, Yvon Blais, Conwasville, 1989. Particularly “Reducing the Tensions Resulting From Language Contacts: Personal or Territorial Solutions” J.A. Laponce, pgs173-9; “Latinos and the Official English Debate in the United States: Language is not the Issue”, Rodolfo de la Garza pgs, 209-227; “Why Should We be Concerned About Language Rights: Language Rights as Human Rights from an Ecological Perspective”, David Marshall, pgs. 289-303 (plus “Comments” by Manoly Lupul, 303-309).

 

Skutnabb-Kangas, Tove and Phillipson, Robert, (eds.), Linguistic Human Rights, Mouton de Gruyer, Berlin, 1994; “Language policy in the United States: A history of Cultural Genocide”, Eduardo Hernández-Chávez, pgs. 141-58; “The Discourse of Disinformation: the Debate on Bilingual Education and Language Rights in the United States”, Jim Cummins, pgs. 159-177.

 

San Juan Cafferty, Pastora, Chapter 5 “Language and Social Assimilation” in Hspanics in the United States, Transaction Books, New Brunswick, 1985

 

Secada, Walter and Lightfoot, Theodora, “Symbols and the Political Context of Bilingual Education in the United States”, Chapter 2 of Bilingual Education: Politics, Practice and Research, Beatriz Arias (ed.), University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1993. pgs. 36-60.

 

Soro, Roberto, Remembering the American Dream: Hispanic Integration and National Policy, Twentieth Century Fund Press, New York, 1994; Chap 9 “Beyond the Melting Pot and Mosaic”; Chap. 10, “Immigration to the Burn Zone”, pgs 71-113.

Stewart, David. Immigration and Education, Lexington Books, New York, 1993. Chaps. 18 “Financing Immigrant Education”.

 

Valdivieso, Rafael and Davis Cary, US Hispanics: Challenging Issues for the 1990’s, Population Trends and Public Policy, Number 17, December 1988.

 

Waldron, Jeremy, “Minority Cultures and the Cosmopolitan Alternative”.

 

Walzer, Michael, “Three Paths in Moral Philosophy”.

 

Weyr, Thomas, Hispanic USA, Harper and Row Publishers, New York, 1988. Chapter III, “Education”, pgs. 51-75.

 

Young, Iris, “Polity and Group Difference: A Critique of the Ideal of Universal Citizenship”.

 

In order to try to better understand the different ways in which the moral virtues are exhibited and understood, on the one hand, by the person pursuing the theoretical life, and on the other, by the one who seeks the practical life, I propose to briefly look at the specific moral virtue of courage as understood by Aristotle.

A) Practical Courage and Its Complexities

In a lengthy section of Book III, Aristotle lays out his basic tenets regarding courage. The courageous, in order to truly exhibit her virtue, must know what she is doing, choose it for its own sake, and do so from a fixed and permanent disposition (1105b33). Moreover, her choosing involves aiming at the mean lying between rashness and cowardice as determined rationally by the prudent man (1107a1).

Practically speaking, the truly courageous are those who face the greatest terrors that humans can face, those of the battlefield where the dangers are “greatest and most glorious” (1115a30). City-states honour their dead; presumably then we would expect Aristotle to base the choosing of courageous actions as the means to the, more important, survival of the community by safeguarding the conditions for the common good. But Aristotle wants instead to investigate the viability of choosing the moral life for ITS own sake, not for anything external to it (only later to be considered under the banner of justice). This is the reason why for Aristotle civic courage, though the most akin to moral courage, is not quite it. The civically courageous yearns to receive something in return for what she knows involves the greatest of self-sacrifices, death. What moves her to act is truly something outside the action itself, namely the honour bestowed on those who are remembered as martyrs of the community. Now, if the greatest courage involves death in the battlefield, and such actions cannot be grounded on one’s own love of one’s country, then one is puzzled and led to ask, what precisely is the courageous rationally choosing, in choosing to die for its own sake?

According to Aristotle, having negatively characterized what courage is not, it should not be difficult to grasp what courage actually is (1117b22). But, if our target is that of happiness, at the core of which lie the moral virtues in a complete life (1101a16), and which is pleasant in itself because virtuous actions are pleasant in themselves (1199a14), it looks as though courage as virtue stands quite at odds with such a goal.

Aristotle tells us that the pleasurable in courage lies in the end obtained, just as boxers who receive punches, but in the end gain glory (if they win). So, and if the analogy holds, the courageous human will endure death and wounds “because it is a fine thing OR because it is a disgrace not to” (1117b8). (The ‘or’ revealing the tension between choosing it for its own sake, or for something else).

In the case of the happy human the conflict reaches its peak for his life is pleasurable and supremely worth living; “he will be distressed at the thought of death” (1117b10). However, as morally virtuous, she will choose, and more bravely than any other, to give up his life “because in preference to these blessings he chooses a gallant end in war” (1117b14)

B) Contemplation and courage

In Book X, *6, Aristotle reminds us that happiness involves activity chosen for its own sake; in it nothing is required beyond the exercise of the activity. (1176b9). Strikingly, it seems he still maintains that happiness consists in activities in accordance with virtue (1177a9, reminding us of 1098a16 in BK. I).

Chapter *7 therefore is quite illuminating in that it points to a reconsideration of the possibility of human happiness through the activity of contemplation; the “highest virtue” in us corresponding to the best in us (1177a12). Not only is this activity the most continuous, the most perfect and self-sufficient, one seeking no end beyond itself, but that which is most akin to the divine. The gods are the supremely happy beings, and we ought therefore to aim, not simply at living according to mortal thoughts, but instead, “so far as in us lies, to put on immortality” (1177b33).

Herein lies “the perfect happiness of man” (1177b33), not simply the secondary kind of “happiness” associated to the actions of the morally minded human. Politics and warfare (courage being as central virtue to both), lack the necessary leisure (1177b9) and are chosen for something external to themselves (1177b16). Moreover, all the virtues cataloged by the morally minded, are unworthy of the gods (1178b15), who instead are dearest to those engaging in the contemplative life (1179a28).

Given all this, in the case of a courage demanding situation, how will the contemplative human act? Will he run away leaving his friends and the city which is worthy of defending? Will he not seek to preserve himself instead?

Although the contemplative human is the most self-sufficient, he can practice contemplation by himself, Aristotle is quick to point out that “he does it better with the help of fellow-workers” (1177a33). Besides, like the moral human, the contemplative is in need of external necessities such as that of a healthy body (1178b31), and friends (1170b12). But in excess these can even become a hindrance (1178ba). Aristotle quotes both the man of practical affairs (Solon) and the man of wisdom (Anaxagoras) as agreeing on the  limited importance of such external accessories. The happy human might turn out to be “an oddity in most people’s eyes, because they judge from outward appearances” (1179a12). But how precisely would this human regard courageous action? Who could be such a courageous human?

Perhaps one ought to consider a being such as Socrates whose courage was displayed both in words and in deeds. He was courageous, not only in the battlefield, where particularly in retreat he shone like no other in the defense of his worth-while city and worth-while friends (Symp. 220 , Laches 181b), but also in the world of the struggle for articulation and clarification. The contemplative Socrates tries to get clearer on the nature of courage in the Platonic Laches. Although the dialogue seemingly ends in Socratic aporia, for he tells us “what I don’t advise is that we allow ourselves to remain in the same condition we are now” (201a), it carries the seeds to move beyond aporia in the very picture of Socrates. Socrates’ quest is one of self-understanding and courageous questioning of his and other’s way of life. Socrates will fight, but he will do so nowhere better than in the realm of understanding. Perhaps even deaths will follow and new re-births from a wise human who leads us “into giving an account of (our) present life-style and of the way (we have) spent it in the past” (187e). However, unlike Socrates, Aristotle, whose work so questions us while at the same time aiding us in clarifying our perplexities, did not choose the hemlock.

INTRODUCTION

 

 The very fact that Aristotle dedicates two complete books to the issue of friendship, coupled with the strategically important positioning of the discussion —–suspiciously close to the final considerations on the supreme value of the contemplative life and its relation to happiness—— immediately lets it known to the reader that she is entering what is both difficult and decisive territory. It is no small wonder, then, to see many questions flourishing as one pursues their reading: why are they situated in between two discussions of pleasure? Why are they broken down into two Books  separated by a seemingly untruthful “so much for our discussion of this topic” (1163b28)? Why did Aristotle not simply write one single Book, however long it might have turned out to be? Is he simply giving us a friendly break so that as listeners of his lectures we can digest all the information and gather our minds? Is there something to the fact that the discussion on friendship as expressed in the household and in the city is taken up in the first book? Is Aristotle pointing towards a form of friendship which somehow goes beyond all conventional links, just as natural right went beyond, or better, completed, its legal or conventional counterpart?

  These questions are indeed puzzling and difficult. But to begin to get clearer on some of them, however imperfectly and indirectly, I would like to center this essay on the difficult and sometimes obscure relation between the most perfect form of friendship, the noble variant, and the possibility of self-love. What exactly does Aristotle consider to be the characteristics of the former? Is the noble friend simply a selfless being intent of benefiting his friend over everything else? Is the self-lover identical to the happy human? Is Aristotle pointing towards a new form of self-love which goes beyond its conventional understanding?

  Although the issues I will explore in addressing some of these questions are still very undeveloped, in order to do so I propose to divide the essay into three sections. In the first I will begin by focusing on the three kinds of friendship as outlined in Book VIII; in particular by paying attention to the problematic relation between the inferior kinds based on utility and pleasure, and how still in the higher form these two elements seems to persist though perhaps modified to a great extent. In the second section I propose to look more closely at some of the aspects found in Book IX, particularly by looking at what kind of agent Aristotle has in mind when speaking of self-love, and contrasting her to the happy human being from which, if I understand the chapters involved correctly, she is quite distinct.. Finally, and all too briefly, I will take up some of the differences between Montaigne’s understanding  of friendship and Aristotle’s own position, particularly by centering on the death of one’s friends, and the consequent impossibility of attaining the fullest happiness achieveable by human beings.

   However, even before taking up the issue more closely, one must remind oneself continuously that Aristotle only once, in the whole of the Nicomachean Ethics (except of course for the very title itself),  refers to his friends. He does so early on in the complex discussion on the nature of the Good and the Platonic Forms. There he tells us: “yet, surely it would be thought better, or rather necessary (above all for philosophers) to refute, in defense of the truth, even views to which one is attached; since although both are dear, it is right to give preference to the truth” (1096a11-14). That among Aristotle’s friends one finds a Plato clearly sets quite a high standard on the nature of friendship, but that even in such a case there is something which goes beyond the allegiance to friends ——namely, a friendship of the truth—– is more telling indeed.

 

SECTION I: SOME ASPECTS ON NOBLE OR PERFECT FRIENDSHIP IN BOOK VIII.

 

  Having extensively praised the value of friendship as necessary to us humans even at the levels of the family and the political community, Aristotle proceeds to question the different views on what friendship has been taken to be (1155a32). In so doing once again Aristotle tries to clarify for us the internal workings of something we take to be central to our human self-understanding.

  Divergent answers have been given regarding the question “Who are friends?”, and in order to clarify where the possible nobility of friendship lies, Aristotle is led to ask among other things, whether there is one kind of friendship or several ones. Without even waiting for a reply Aristotle immediately tells us: ”those who think that there is only one, on the ground that it admits of degrees, have based their belief on insufficient evidence, because things that differ in species also admit of difference  in degree”. (1155b13ff) Now, if I understand this passage correctly, Aristotle seems to be arguing that there exist different kinds of friendship just as there are different kinds of fruits: apples, peaches, and even sour lemons. So it would be odd, for instance, to compare apples and oranges. But moreover, even within each distinct kind of friendship there seem to be varying degrees of perfection, so that some apples are more fully developed apples than others. And some lemons much more bitter than others.

  In order to begin to understand what these different species of friendship are, Aristotle asks us in chapter 2, to consider what is and how many are the objects of affection. Not everything is loved by us, Aristotle argues, but only the good, the pleasant and the useful (1155b16). Seemingly it is these three things which set us going, which somehow are sought as satisfying in different ways the needs we as humans have. However, Aristotle sets a sharp demarcatory line between the first two, the love of the good and the pleasant,  and the love of the useful. Only in the loving of the good and the pleasant do we aim at ends in themselves; in contrast, the love of the useful seems to involve a relation purely of a means towards an end. The latter, one could say, requires a relation of pure instrumentality. Now, given this sharp separation it seems not odd to ask: if all benefit is fundamentally the use of another to further one’s own good and pleasure, then, can there really be a truly selfless friend? Moreover, are not the good and the pleasurable, the things which are particularly “beneficial” to the soul, to the furtherance of its intellectual strength and emotional health?

  We know, having read on, that Aristotle will ground his three kinds of friendship upon these different objects of affection (which suspiciously do not include in them the beautiful), but instead of immediately listing these, Aristotle instead reminds us of something already asked before: do we humans love the Good simply/absolutely,  do we not love the good as somehow good for us? What would it mean to love the Good if loving it involved somehow transcending our bodily desiring nature, our human neediness? Would this not be a desire to end all desire, an objective which paradoxically ends human longing as we actually know it? Cautiously Aristotle answers our questions by telling us: “It seems that each individual loves what is good for himself; i.e. that while the good is absolutely lovable, it is the good of the individual that is lovable for the individual” (b24). The good, it seems, cannot be see independently of its being good for someone.

  (This discussion, of course, reminds one of the critique held against Plato’s conception of the Good. There, although Aristotle accepted the plausibility of the Platonic argument about whether it is not necessary to gain knowledge of the good  in order to attain the goods of practical life (1097a2-5), he criticized it primarily because in the realm of ethical and  practical affairs involving human conduct, one deals with particular individuals. So too the doctor centers his activity not so much on achieving health for human beings but rather the health “of a particular patient, because what he treats is the individual” (1097a12-14).)

   It looks as if  because the good is good for someone, Aristotle is led to remind us also that we humans do not in reality love what is good, but what appears  to us to be so (1155b24). This would seem to imply that our needy nature can at times go radically astray, missing the mark. This perhaps because many a time we may not be clear on ourselves, on what and why we desire what we do. Would not our friends, and our friendship to others, precisely allow us to clarify ourselves so as to get clarity on this appearance?

  However, be that as it may, it is only after having provided us with the tripartite division of the objects of affection, and reminded us of two earlier  central points, that Aristotle finally returns to his discussion of friendship (1155b27). We speak of friendship where we sensibly can expect some return of affection. As humans it seems as though friendship gives us something which inanimate objects (perhaps even the books we love) cannot provide. This is so because in the case of inanimate objects we cannot wish for the good of the object. In  contrast, it is characteristic of friendship, Aristotle tells us ‘they’ say —–it is not clear precisely who this ‘they’ are—– that we “ought to wish (our friend) good for his own sake” (1159b30). Friends are truly friends when such a wish becomes reciprocal and mutual affection sets in.

   But after having heard this one cannot but be puzzled. Did not Aristotle say just a few lines before that what the individual loves is precisely what is, or at least appears, good for himself? Is it possible then to simultaneously seek the good for ourselves while at the same time arguing that what we really do in seeking friends is actually to do the good for the other? Moreover, if the lovable objects upon which the different kinds of friendship will be based, involve not only the good but also the pleasant and the useful, then how precisely do we, for instance, ‘use’ our friends as means, while almost contradictorily at the same time claiming that when we do so we are actually seeking their good  and not ours? Will good friends not have to redefine the foundations of their mutual benefit? However, did Aristotle not say that the different forms of friendship were different in KIND, not in degree?

  Having quietly alluded to these puzzles Aristotle finally  gives us his famous tripartite division of the kinds of friendship.  The three forms correspond neatly to the three objects of affection: there is a friendship based on utility, another on pleasure, and the final, most perfect friendship, on goodness. All of these, Aristotle claims, are characterized by involving not only mutual affection known to both parties, but also a wishing “for each other’s good in respect of the quality for which they love (each other)” (1156a7). Bewildered we are led to ask once again, does Aristotle seriously entertain the idea that when we enter into relationships of utility we are actually doing a good to the other? This is particularly problematic in view of the fact that Aristotle points out, when we desire the good of the other in terms of utility or pleasure, we are primarily motivated by our own good, not that of our friend: “these friendships (being)  accidental, because the person loved is not loved on the ground of his actual nature, but merely as providing some benefit or pleasure” (1156a17-8). Now, if this is true, then how do good humans ever end up feeling a need for the other?

  Having said this Aristotle now proceeds to characterize each friendship. The friendship of utility is of an impermanent nature and found primarily among the elderly and middle aged, specifically those centered on seeking their own advantage. This allusion to the elderly, who are continuously regarded as difficult to be friends with and even linked to the sour (1158a5),  reminds the reader of Cephalus’ concern for money in the beginning of the Republic. No wonder then that, as the Book progresses, we will be told that it is these relationships which for the most part “give rise to complaints because since each associates with each other for his own benefit, they are always wanting the better of the bargain, and thinking that they have less than they should, and grumbling because they do not get as much as they want, although they deserve it” (1162b17ff) (see also 1157a14).

 Friendships based on pleasure, in contrast to the utilitarian ones, are characteristic of the young of whom, from the start of the book, we are told tend to follow their feelings (1095a4ff). Although this might sometimes lead them astray, this too makes them much more capable of having a more generous nature (1158a22). In this they differ from the instrumentalist. However, they share with them the fact that their friendships are anything but long lasting: their erotic impermanence proves ground even for some Aristotelian humour: “that is why they fall in and out of friendship quickly, changing their attitude often within the same day” (1156b3-4). What kind of friendship would prove both much more permanent and agreeable?

  It looks as though to find such characteristics we have to turn to the third form of friendship, the one founded on the goodness of both (or more) parties. At first we are told that this friendship stands in stark contrast to what we have been told about the other two. It seems as though only until now do we come up with a real selfless mutual regard. It is the friendship “of those who are good and similar in their goodness” (1156b5) who alone are capable of wishing their friends good for what they are essentially, and not simply accidentally (1156b9).

   However, as the discussion moves on Aristotle proceeds to make a very puzzling remark, one which seems to run counter to what was argued before. According to him at this level “also each party is good both absolutely and for his friend since the good are both good absolutely and USEFUL to each other. Similarly they PLEASE one another too; for the good are pleasing both absolutely and to each other” (1156b13-16).  (see also 1157a1-3) Saying this seems to imply that the three forms of friendship are then not really like different fruits, but rather like one fruit capable of perfection in all its constituent elements. Does this not come closer to the way we perceive friendship? If so, would this not allow us to better comprehend how it is that the good humans, which are desiring beings like all of us, by somehow transforming what they take to be pleasurable and useful, nonetheless see in the pleasurable and the beneficial the starting ground for the full-fledged formation of mutual goodwill?

   Aristotle explicitly stresses the fact that even at this level both parties receive a benefit (11565b9). And moreover each provides the other, through his healthy outlook and flourishing nature, the possibility of pleasure: for “everyone is pleased with his own conduct and conduct that resembles it” (1156b17). And this is much more so of those who are good. However, if this is so why does the good friend not simply turn out to be a mirror of self-satisfaction, rather than a window for self-comprehension and that of the world? What if this mirror, as we shall see in Book IX, ends up being somewhat stained?

  Of course Aristotle goes on to tell us that such relationships are extremely rare among us humans, not only because these friends need intimacy and time to know each other —— Aristotle uses the example of eating salt together which seems to portray the idea not of happiness but rather of making it together “through tough times”—— but also because of the fact that these good men only become friends once they have proven, and know each other is worthy of their love (1156b23-29). But if this is true, how is it possible then for some good humans to actually be deluded, thus falling into utility or pleasure based friendships? (1157a15).

  It seems then that the good humans are not blind to the pleasure and the benefits that accrue from engaging in conversation and spending time  with each other. But what they seem to find pleasurable and beneficial seems to be radically different from what is normally taken to be so. Perhaps part of the answer starts to develop in Chapter 5 where Aristotle reminds us that friendship involves not only a state and a feeling, but primarily an activity. Likewise it seems as though it is not a chance affair  that,  here for the first time in the whole discussion of friendship, Aristotle mentions the happy human being. We are told that nothing is so characteristic of friends as spending time together because they are agreeable to each other. And in an oddly situated parenthetical remark we are told “those who are in need are anxious for help, and even the supremely happy are eager for company, for they above all are the least suited by a solitary existence” (1157b20-20).

  Happiness comes back onto the stage, but it does very indirectly, silently. Happiness too, we were told in Book I involved activity, it was precisely the end of all actions. (1097b19-21) Perhaps only later on will it become clearer what this activity, in the case of friends, might involve. However, we are reminded too that friendship involves a state, a permanent disposition from which good choice emerges in accordance to moral virtue. Particularly in the highest form of friendship, the good friends choose each other, and choice we know “is either appetitive intellect or intellectual appetition” (1139b3-4). When choosing a friend then desire has a say, and this Aristotle clearly argues as we read on: “for when a good man becomes a friend to another he becomes that other’s good; so each loves his own good, and repays what he receives by wishing the good of the other and giving him pleasure” (1157b30-31). In the case of the happy human too that pleasure is central, for she would not even pursue the Good “if (s)he found it unpleasant” (1158a24).

   Now,  also in the case of the happy human being the paradox we alluded to in friendship, seems to recur. The friends of the happy human seemingly are not Gods, for Aristotle tells us friendship with the gods is impossible because between us and them there lies too great a gulf (1159a6). This is why it seems that in the case of the happy human, if she acts for the sake of the good of the friend, he must wish for his friend to remain human: “so if we were right in saying that a friend wishes his friend’s good for his friend’s sake the latter must remain as he is, whatever that may be. So his friend will wish for him the greatest goods possible for a human being. And presumably not all of these; because it is for himself that everyone most of all wishes what is good” (1159a 10-12). Now this seems unproblematic except for the fact that in Book X we will be told something quite striking, true happiness lies in contemplation and this kind of life involves a move beyond the merely human “for any man who lives it will do so not as a human being but in virtue of something divine within him .. and we ought not to listen to those who warn us ‘man should not think the thoughts of man’” (1177b26 and 31-32). The happy human too seems to be caught in the tension between seeking his own good, and at the same time, seeking the good of his friends. However one is led to ask, is the divine self-sufficiency towards which the happiest and healthiest of humans strive, comprehensible to us in our human terms which precisely involve needy friends? Will Book IX, in which the problematic relation between friendship, self-love and happiness is discussed allow us to, however faintly, get clearer on these questions?

 

SECTION II: SOME TENTATIVE ASPECTS OF  THE IDEAS OF SELF-LOVE  AND HAPPINESS IN BOOK IX

 

 Aristotle resumes his discussion of friendship in Book IX by placing particular emphasis on the motives that underpin the mutual affection between friends. Again he reminds us once more that the highest form of friendship, that founded on character, is reeally disinterested (1164a13). This is an assertion which would seem to take us back to the paradox to which we alluded in the previous section. However, already in chapter 1 new information is given to us. In speaking of the relationship between what is due to a benefactor Aristotle suddenly, out of the blue, mentions philosophy. An activity which in its very name alludes to a kind of friendship, a friendship of wisdom; the useless activity in which Anaxagoras and Thales were engaged (1141a5). In contrast to the Sophists who require a pay back in monetary terms for their services, the benefits accrued by philosophy involve a strikingly unique payless payback: “presumably it is enough if (as in the case of the gods or one’s parents) the beneficiary makes such a return as lies in his power” (1164a5). Perhaps the highest possible form of friendship between humans is founded on such a perception of mutual benefit. But, according to Aristotle this view is inconceivable for most who tend to see the relation between beneficiary and benefactor as analogous to the relationship between a creditor and a debtor. They do so because they are looking at things from the “dark side”, something which Aristotle tells us “is not inconsistent with human nature, because most people have short memories and are anxious to be well treated than to treat others well” (1167b26). Generosity seems not to be the order of the day amongst most.

  To this sudden unexpected appearance Aristotle adds in chapter 2 a reminder about the methodological difficulties involved in dealing with practical affairs. In considering the actual complexities of the problems involved in our friendships —–in particular our conflicting allegiances, our friends, the household, the city—– Aristotle reminds us that “it is perhaps no easy matter to lay down exact lines in such cases, because they involve a great many differences of every kind” (1164b27-8) (see also 1165a12). One is led to ask, why does Aristotle wait until this point to remind us of this? Why not mention it at the beginning of Book VIII with its contradictory assertions? Is Aristotle letting us know here that the classificatory divisions set in place are somehow in Book IX more closely tied to actual practical conflicts such as the grounds for dissolving friendship?

  It is by focusing on the latter that it becomes clear that the clear cut divisions and assertions found in Book VIII, are revisited and enriched. Take for instance the, perhaps all too frequent, cases of deception and self-deception among friends. Even though previously we have been told that friendship among the good makes  slander an impossibility (1157a21), it seems as though sometimes things can, and do go wrong. This is particularly so when “when the basis of their friendship is not what (friends) suppose to be” (1165b6). This is puzzling, particularly in the case of good friends, whom we were told only become friends precisely after they know that each other is worthy of their affection. How then does it happen that sometimes they can be deceived by the other so that in such case it is correct to protest  “even more than if it had been a case of uttering false coin, since the offense concerns something more valuable than money” ? (1165b11).

  We would expect Aristotle to somehow tell us that in such cases the good must somehow run for cover and protect his own good. However, astonishing as it might seem, Aristotle tells us that even if the other turns out to be, or even appear like a villain (one here is somewhat confused and is led to ask, what does ‘appearing like a villain’ mean?),  the good friend ought to stay and, as far as possible, help out. This is of course not in cases of utter depravity (but how would a good man ever end up with an utterly depraved one?), but in those cases where a transformation of the situation is possible: “those who are capable of recovery are entitled to our help for their characters even more than for their fortunes, inasmuch as the character is a higher thing and more closely bound up with friendship” (1165b18-20). Here, one could think  of a friend of ours who due to difficult circumstances has sought, or had sought, refuge in drinking or worse. It seems as though sometimes friendships do involve sacrifices, but in  surpassing them there lies too the strongest of goodwills possible. (Perhaps we know this because we have found ourselves in difficult times, and yet have not failed to remain our own best friends).

 Perhaps then, by looking at the feelings we have towards ourselves, we might understand why it is that it is possible both to seek our own good while at the same time that of our friends. In chapter 4 Aristotle claims that not only the feelings we have towards our neighbors, but also the characteristics of the different kinds of friendship, SEEM to be derived from our feelings to ourselves (1166a1-3). He then proceeds to do three things: i) to tell us how it is people define friends (1166a3ff), ii) to tell us how the morally good man defines himself (a11ff), and finally, iii) to tell us, not exactly how the bad human defines himself, but how the good man, as standard, sheds light on the torn nature of the bad humans; who, besides, according to Aristotle are the majority (1166b2).

  Will we finally arrive at an easing of the tension between the seeking for our good and that of our friend. It does not seem so. This is so for if one looks at the lists characterizing the definition of a friend and that of the feelings we hold towards ourselves, not only do they vary in order and are actually transformed as Aristotle goes through them, but more importantly, seem to  stand in outright conflict at times.

  The first and most obvious tension is that to which we have alluded throughout: while we define a good friend as one who first of all wishes to effect the good or apparent good for us, the healthy feelings towards ourselves involve seeking the good for us, not for another. But, another more striking tension seems to come to light when we realize that a good friend is he who wishes the existence and preservation of his friend for his friend’s sake. Now, in the case of our friendly feelings towards ourselves we desire not only our preservation and safety, but Aristotle goes on to say, the preservation of the highest part in us. What to do then in the case of life-threatening situations in which the life of our friend and ours is at stake? Precisely in such extreme situations the tension between our preservation and our friend’s comes to light. However that may turn out to be, after looking at the different characteristics, Aristotle concludes that self-love “it would seem from what we have said ….. IS possible” (1166b1-2).                                           

   But, exactly what is involved in this self-love which leads to goodwill towards our friend? As we have seen it seems to imply a reconsideration of what is to be understood as beneficial between the strongest and healthiest human beings. And not only that, but a reconsideration of what is beneficial to ourselves, that is to say, in what self-love lies. According to Aristotle “the author of a kindness feels affection and love for the recipient even if he neither is nor is likely to be of any use to him”. The theme of disinterest comes to the surface once again. This time it is exemplified most clearly in the works of the poets who regard their creations even as their children (1168a1). Aristotle allows us to see what is going on in the creative activity of the poets. A poet’s creations provide the artist no other benefit than that of a self-clarification which never ends, but is a continuous process founded on a rare and strong openness, few have, towards the world and themselves. Just as in the case of the poets the benefactor loves his handiwork better than work loves the maker. As to why this is so is explained in a complex way, one which prefigures the discussion of the need for friends of the happy human: “The reason for this is that existence is to everyone the object of choice and love, and we exist through activity (because we exist by living and acting); and the maker of the work exists, in a sense, through his activity… the maker loves his work, because he loves existence. This is a natural principle for the work reveals in actuality what is only potentially” (1168a4ff). Benevolence allow friends to mutually make themselves into beings who delight in their seeing what is potentially in them flourish in different forms. However both in the case of poets and benefactors somoething is lacking; neither of them is “loved” back by their work, which is precisely what we somehow expect from our friends.

  Presumably if we look at the issue of self-love we will start to move beyond this paradox. In chapter 8, where the discussion of self-love finds its climatic formulation, Aristotle mentions two conflicting views. The first view of self-love seems to involve a two-sided coin. Under this view people believe that the self-lovers are truly bad men whose chief concern is only with their selfish motives. And simultaneously, on the other side of the coin, these same people view the good man as the complete opposite, namely the purely self-less individual who acting from fine motive does everything “for sake of his friend and neglects his own interest”  (111168b2). As regards this two-sided camp founded on the view “that a man should love his best friend most”, Aristotle is quick to tell us that it is not surprisingly, not borne by the facts (b3-4).

  To this position, I think,  Aristotle counters another starting at  (b4) with the following words “But a man’s best friend is the one who not only wishes him well but wishes it for his own sake (even though nobody will ever know it); and this condition is best fulfilled by his attitude towards himself” (1168b5). Unlike the previous camp built on absolute self-sacrifice, and perhaps getting something in return for it, this new camp is seemingly not so interested in what others might think. It is primarily concerned on what the person thinks about himself for  “a man’s best friend is himself” (1168b9). These two broad camps inevitably stand in conflict with each other, and Aristotle is quick to point this out: “naturally it is hard to say which of these opinions one should follow since each has some plausibility” (1168b10).

  In order to clarify what underlies each camp, Aristotle tells us that we ought to get clearer on the different ways that people view self-love. One way, which is that of the first camp, is to link it to the irrational cravings of humans seeking more than their share in goods such as money, public honours and bodily pleasures: “because most people have a craving for these, and set their hearts on them as the greatest goods, which makes them objects of fiercest competition” (1168b18ff). Immediately after having mentioned this first side of the coin, Aristotle points out that on the other hand the person performing just (which implies acting for the sake of the good of another) or temperate acts and in general acting honourably (which seems to involve a desire for public recognition), of this exceptional kind of person, “certainly nobody would reproach him for being a self-lover”. (1168b27).

  It seems to me that Aristotle is here still taking us for a voyage in the geography of the first camp, the one in which selflessness is the basis of true self-love. This person “might be considered to have a better title to the name” (1168b28). Why so? This is so because just as was argued in the feelings towards oneself he wishes what is good on account of the intellectual part in him (1166a18) and  this human being assigns himself what is most honourable and most truly good (1168b32). Moreover, this human acts voluntarily through reasoned acts so that in comparison to the self-lovers who incur reproach he is “far superior … as life ruled by reason is to life ruled by feeling, and as desire for what is fine is to desire for an apparent advantage” (1169ba7)

  It seems then that we have found the true self-lover, who in loving himself actually does the good thing for his friend. However, is the self-lover Aristotle speaking of here really that selfless, benefiting the other without himself seeking some kind of return? Would this human act as he does even if ‘nobody will ever know it’? Or does this human really bring to an end the paradox of friendship alluded to in section I, as Aristotle seems to argue “and if everyone were striving for what is fine, and trying his hardest to do the finest deeds, then both the public welfare would be truly served, and each individual would enjoy the greatest goods, since virtue is of this kind” (111169a12).

 It seems as though we have reason to be rather optimistic. However, this optimism seems to collapse once Aristotle tells us a little more about the kind of actions in which this selfless self-lover is engaged. According to Aristotle this morally good man, presumably engaged in moral and noble friendships, “performs many actions for the sake of his friends and his country, and if necessary even dies for them. For he will sacrifice both money and honours and in general the goods that people struggle to obtain, in his pursuit of what is morally fine” (1169a19). The most noble of friends seems to desire even death before upsetting the recognition of others. This becomes more evident yet if one looks closely at the actions in which this self-lover is involved. In reality, if I understand it correctly, his disinterest seems to hide a craving for something more, some kind of payback for his activities. This would seem to account for the fact that this human would rather have intense pleasure for a short period of time rather than quiet pleasure for a long period of time, live finely one year rather than indifferently many and, more strikingly yet, do one glorious deed rather than many petty ones. 1169a23-5). Do this actions not evidently involve something beyond pure  selflessness, so that even the most selfless act is done out of a need for public recognition: “this result is presumably achieved by those who give their lives for others; so their choice is a glorious prize”? (1169a25).

  Somehow these words ring a bell. They stand, I believe, as a striking reference to the portrait of the magnanimous or high-spirited human “who does not take petty risks, nor does he court danger, because there are few things that he values highly; but he takes great risks, and when he faces danger he is unsparing of his life, because to him there are circumstances in which it is not worth living” (1124b6). The magnanimous human in his actions clearly disrupts two of the fundamental factors involved in the possibility of achieving human happiness: first, the fact that  happiness involves a complete life time (1100b20 and 1098a20), and second, the fact that the happy human is, of humans, the most self-sufficient (1097b21). Moreover this form of self-lover, who is ready to give up his life for recognition, clearly is tied to an inferior view of courage namely, that of civic courage which, though the closest to real courage, is not courage precisely because of its linkage to public recognition (1116a28). It is worth recalling too the few words dedicated to the happy human in that specific discussion, the happier he is “the more he will be distressed at the thought of death. For to such a man life is supremely worth living; and he is loosing one of his greatest blessings and he knows it and this is a grievous thing” (11711ff). Happiness seems to require a new view of what self-love is all about.

  In this sense it is really illuminating to find that the chapter which follows the discussion of  self-love (which I take has really moved only in the field of the first camp), deals directly with the happy human and the question as to whether she needs friends or not. Why introduce this question precisely here? Does Aristotle intend us to consider what a new conception of self-love with a view to happiness would require? What would be the “needs” of this most complete human type?

  As was the case with the discussion on self-love, also here Aristotle finds two conflicting camps. According to the first, the happy human needs no friends for she is wholly self-sufficient, needing nothing further to complete his existence (1169b7). To this position Aristotle immediately counterargues that this position seems quite odd for it is strange not only not to assign the happy human friends, who are the ‘greatest of external goods” and allow her to confer benefits upon them, but also  because it is paradoxical to have the happiest human living in solitude while humans are characterized by being social creatures. These two “arguments” thus point to the need for the happy human to have friends. (1169b23).

  Having said this, Aristotle goes on to look more carefully at the first camp: “what then, is the meaning of those who uphold the first view, and what truth is there in their argument?” (1169b23). The idea that the happy human needs no friends stems from the erroneous popular conception of friendship conceived solely in terms of utility or pleasure. (1169b26-28). Of the first, the happy human has no need, of the second “only to a limited extent”. It is because of this that the happy human is thought not to need friends, “but this is presumably not true” (1169b29)

   The happy human seems to need friends, but friends of a particular nature. In him the need for another seems to have been so transformed that a new kind of benevolence shines forth. But how exactly is this so?  It seems that some of it has to do with a process towards our self-formation. In trying to make it clearer for us Aristotle returns to the very beginnings of the Nicomachean Ethics.   

  Although the arguments put forward by Aristotle are extremely complex and difficult to follow, I will try to understand in what general direction they are moving. Happiness, Aristotle told us way back, (1098a7, 16, b31) is a kind of activity. Now, if friendship brings about the possibility not of extreme self-sacrifice, but of mutual enrichment then it too involves a kind of activity. Both friendship and happiness then involve not a possessing of something already given, but more precisely a task and a work which must be given time to grow its fruits and reproduce them both in oneself and in others. Happiness, Aristotle tells us, consists  in living and being active, but not just living for the sake of preserving life; more importantly living so as to bring to light those activities which stand as highest possibilities for us human beings. Now, among the multiple and concentrated arguments put forward by Aristotle in what is a weird rush, he alludes to the value of a friend as guarantor against the possibility of self-deception: as Aristotle puts it in an important conditional statement, “if we are better able to observe our neighbors than ourselves, and their actions than our own” (1169b33-4). Presumably we do not only delight in sharing in the birth and rebirth of another human being intent on exploring his capacities, but we do so primarily because we too, to an extent have sworn allegiance to this never ending process of change. As Aristotle puts it, in order to fully enjoy life, the happy human needs others for it is difficult to “keep up continuous activity by oneself” (1170a6). Friends stand as references and guides towards mutual goals.

   Finally, and in order to defend the view that happy humans do need friends, Aristotle provides his reader with a set of very complex and scientific arguments. (Only twice has Aristotle used scientific arguments previously: in his critique of Plato, and in his reference to Socrates’ doctrine concerning the impossibility of weakness of the will). In what is a tidal wave of intricately interconnected arguments, I would like to signal some in particular. First of all one finds in them a position which stands in stark contrast to the attitude of the self-lover of chapter 8. Here in contrast we are reminded that for the happy human “Life is in itself good and pleasant (as appears from the fact that it is sought after by all, especially by those who are virtuous and truly happy, because their life is in the highest degree desirable and their existence the truest felicity” (1170a26). Second, and in contrast to the exclusive reference to the  rational part which the self-lover gratifies (1168b34), here in contrast the highest involves much more than this: “hence it appears that to live is primarily to perceive or to think” (1170a17) and furhter down “to be conscious that we are perceiving or thinking is to be conscious of our existence” (1170a33). Third, we are reminded that this capacity for perceiving or thinking is a “capacity relative to its activity, and its realization is dependent upon the activity” (1170a17); in other words, it is a determinate activity, one in which a potentiality is capable of  being actualized. But how, more precisely, can such activity be brought to the fore in all its strength?

  As a conclusion to his long and complicated scientific argument, Aristotle points out:

            If all this is true, it follows that for a given person the existence of his friend is desirable, or almost as desirable as his own.. But as we saw, what makes      existence desirable is the consciousness of one’s own goodness and such      consciousness is pleasant in itself. So a person ought to be conscious of his             friend’s existence, and this can be achieved by living together and conversing            and exchanging ideas with him — for this would seem to be what living    together means in the case of human beings; not being pastured like cattle in             the same field (1170b5-13).

 

The happy human’s type of self-love is primary, and from it flows his goodwill towards others whose existence is “almost as desirable as his own”. But though clearly of the most self-sufficient kind, this human nevertheless knows quite well of a strong bondage which becomes redirected with another’s presence towards higher pleasures and benefits. This  is why although Aristotle, unlike Plato is puzzingly silent about erotic love, he nevertheless sees in its passionate force something akin, though distinct from the strongest friends. (for the strength of the desire as compared to that of lovers see 1171a8ff and 1171b30).

   These happy human beings realize that the consciousness they aim at is not itself a given, but must “be actualized in their life together” (1172a1). All humans know of this desire to share in the occupations and activities which “constitute… (their) existence or makes life worth living”. Some, Aristotle goes on to tell us, seek each other simply to drink, other to play dice, yet others to engage in athletic competitions. But some see in the philosophical way of life that which provides them with the highest satisfaction (1172a5). As contrasted to the friendship of what Aristotle considers to be the “worthless”:

            the friendship of the good is good, and increases in goodness because of their         association. They seem even to become better men by exercising their      friendship and improving each other; for the traits that they admire in each       other get transferred to themselves. Hence the saying: From good men goodness     (11728-13).

 

Engaged in the mutually enriching activity of good happy humans, these friends together,, but without having become one, come slowly to perceive and act on that terrain within which goodness is nourished and flourishes by some for us to try to emulate.

 

 

 

SECTION III: MONTAIGNE’S VIEWS ON FRIENDSHIP IN LIGHT OF ARISTOTLE’S   

 

  To conclude this already too extensive essay, in this final section I would like, briefly and very sketchily, to hint at some of the striking differences one finds between Montainge’s views on friendship and the one’s already addressed in Aristotle.  However, rather than being a fully developed section, I take this final words to be more like an incomplete appendix which, perhaps later on, might be delineated and completed much more fully. In trying to make sense of the differences between both authors I propose to follow a numerical ordering. Of course the different themes  interact in deep ways, but for the sake of clarity such ennumaration may end up proving helpful.

   But before looking at Montaigne himself one can always remember Freud’s own words, found in Civilization and its Discontents, regarding the search for human happiness through a life centered on a strong bondage between lovers. For him “the weak side of this tehnique is that we are never so defenceless agaisnt suffering as when we love, never so helpelessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love“ (Penguin, 270). Words which seem to fit quite perfectly the whole underlying position of Montaigne.

  Now, some of the striking differences that one finds between the Greek and  French thinkers are:

 

1) Montaigne begins his essay by attempting to imitate  a painter who fills a wall with grotesque and fantastic pictures “having no other charm than their variety and strangeness” (161). He himself perceives his own works  as “grotesque bodies, pieced together of sundry members, without definite shape, having neither order, coherence or proportion, except by accident” (161). This imitation, not of nature, but of the grotesque, stands in outright conflict with the whole Aristotlian position which sees in nature a teleological ordering of which we form a part, and without which the highest form of happiness seems inconceivable.

 

2) Montaigne throughout his essay frequently refers to, either the intervention of chance or god’s will, in his attempt to comprehend how incredible it seems to him that a person such as de la Boétie somehow came to be part of his life. As he puts it: “preparing the way for that friendship which we cherished, so long as it was God’s will, with such entirety and such perfection …. It needs so many concurring factors to build it up that it is much if fortune attains to it in three centuries” (162) (or elsewhere: “I know not what inexplicable and fated power that brought this union …. I believe it was by some decree of heaven” (166)) However, according to Montaigne himself it is this God which has taken the friend away from him: “which I/ Shall ever hold, for so ye gods have willed/ sacred to grief and honour without end” (171) In contrast, as we saw, for Aristole, not only is there a gulf between us and the Gods (which are of a very different nature than Montainge’s), but likewise friendship involves choice, not simply an inarticulate fate.

 

3) Montainge’s emphasis on the type of bond which comes about among friends reflects a loss of self in which one even turns out to have the other in his power. This position cannot but remind one, to what occurs to Aristophanes’ half creatures permanently looking for their other halves in order to achieve true completion (though it is not by any means identical for Aristophanes speaks of erotic lovers; and ‘eros’ is strangely absent froom Aristotle’s account). As Montainge puts it: “in the friendship I speak of they mingle and unite one with the other in a blend so perfect that the seam which has joined them together is effaced, and can never be found again”  (166). (or elsewhere “It is I know not what quintessence of all this mixture which, having seized my whole soul, brought it to plunge and loose itself in his” (167); ”the complete fusion of wills” (168); “one soul in two bodies” (169)). This particular outlook seems to deny the view that, as we saw, for the happiest most self-sufficient human, the existence of his friend is “almost” as desirable as his own; ‘almost’, but not quite the same.

 

4) From Montaigne’s emphasis on a strong fussion between friends, follow demands which perhaps to others, who have not experienced such proximity, appear wholly irrational. As Montaigne puts it: “this answer carries no better sound than mine would do to one that should question to me in this fashion: “If your will should command you to kill your daughter, would you fdo it?. and I should answer that I would. For this carries no proof of consent to such act, because I have no doubt of my own will, and just as little of the will of such a friend. No action of his, what face soever it might bear, could be presented to me of which I could not instantly find the moving cause” (167). (and elsewhere: “should trust myself more willingly with him than with myself” (168)) For Aristotle it would seem odd that a friend would even make us entertain such thoughts. And as we know, Aristotle criticizes even friends of the caliber of Plato precisely because their outlooks might prove, in the realm of pratical life, to have diverse shortcomings. Likewise, Aristotle struggles as we saw above with the possibilities both of deception and self-deception among what amy appear to be even the noblest of friends.

 

5) Tied to the previous remarks, one finds a difference regarding the actual number of friends one can have. For Aristotle in the case of the happy human: “presumably there is no one correct number (of friends), but anything between certain limits” seems reasonable (1170b30). It is true that Aristotle does remind us that in friendships “the celebrated cases are reported as occurring between two” (1171a14). But his understanding of the helathiest friendships is not limited to two beings fused together by the power of a Hephaestus. In contrast, Montaigne tells us about his most perfect form of friendship: “(it) is indivisible; each one gives himself so entirely to his frriend that he has nothing left to distribute to others; on the contrary, he is sorry that he is not double, triple or quadruple, and that he has not several souls and several wills, to confer them all upon this ONE object” (169). Montaigne had one friend in his life, and now he has departed.

 

6) Yet another striking difference partially alluded to above, lies in the actual reference to particular individuals in the analysis. We know exactly who Montaigne is talking about, though we are not so clear as to the character of his friend. But this seems to be not a fundamental problem for him because he speaks only to those who have actually experienced such a mutual belonging:: “so I also, could wish to speak to such as have had experience of what I say. But knowing how remote a thing such a friendship is from common practice and how rarely it is found, I do not look to meet with any competent judge. For even the discourses of antiquity upon this subject seem to me flat in comparison with the feeling of it. And, in this particular, the facts surpass even the precepts of philosophy” (170). The attack on writings such as that of Aristotle seems to be  very poignant and clear. However, it is likewise true that Montaigne fails to see that in Plato something like what he speaks of can be seen not only in the confrontation between Alcibiades (and in a different sense Aristophanes) and Socrates in the Symposium, but also in the type of “symbolic” pederasty found in the beautiful Phaedrus.

 

7) And this brings us to another discrepancy between both writers. There seems to be in their view of friendship a struggle between poetry and philosophy. Montaigne finds in the poets the only words to express the force and strength of what he as needy human being feels. Thus he persistently quotes writers who have experienced what he, right now feels burdens his heart with an overwhelming weight: “Why should I linger on, with deadened sense/ and ever-aching heart/ a worthless fragment of a fallen shrine?/ No, no one day hath seen thy death and mine” (172). Now, this tragic overtones, though comprehensible to Aristotle, nevertheless are precisely what stand in the way of actual human self-sufficiency and the completeness required in order to pursue the contemplative life. Thus is speaking of whether we need friends in good or bad times, Aristotle tells us: “a man of resolute nature takes no care to involve his friends in his troubles ….; and in general does not give them a chance to lament with him, because he himself does not indulge in lamentation either” (1171b6ff).

 

8) The previous difference brings us to the last and most fundamental clash between both perspectives. Just as in Freud, for Montaigne it is painfully clear that the death of his friend has so marked his life that it is a blow from which he cannot nor sees how it is possible to recover. Life without him is a life of nebulosity in which all lights have been exhausted, and consequently all consciousness fades. If it were not because of the grace of God such condition would truly be unbearable:: “For in truth, if I compare the rest of my life, though with the grace of God it has passed sweetly and easily and, except for the loss of such a friend, free form any griveous affliction and in great tranquility of mind, seeing I was content with my natural and original advantages without seeking others, if I should compare it all, I say, with the four years that were granted to me to enjoy the sweet company and society of that man, it is nothing but smoke, nothing but a dark and irksome night” (171). Montaigne is now only half of what he once knew was possible, namely a oneness of unspeakable strength and beauty. In contrast to such a life devoid of happiness and concentrated on “tranquility”, Aristotle tells us, as part of the “scientific argument” to which we alluded at the end of our second section: “we must not take the case of a vicious life and corrupt life, or of one that is passed in suffering, because such a life is indeterminate, just as are the conditions that attach to it” (1170a22-4). The happy human is not content with what is given her, but seeks as far as possible to allow and foster, with the desirable presence of others, the growth of what as humans, and more than humans, we are capable of.

 

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

A) Primary Sources

 

Aristotle, The Ethics of Aristotle, Penguin Books, London, 1rst- 1953, 1988. Translated by J.A.K. Thomson.

 

Montaigne, Michel de, The Essays of Michel de Montaigne, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1934, Translated by Jacob Zeilin. Volume I, Essay 28,  pgs 161-173.

ARISTOPHANES’ SPEECH IN PLATO’S SYMPOSIUM: A presentation

 

1) SITUATING THE SPEECH

 

  Just as Socrates covers up his physical ugliness through his unusual use of “fancy slippers” (174a), so Aristophanes covers up the tragic nature of his brief speech on the nature of human erotic longing with the temporary soothing elements of comic myth. In this sense Ar. shares, as we shall see, Freud’s own pessimism regarding the search for human happiness through a life centered fundamentally on the erotic intermingling between lovers. For Freud, as we already know, “the weak side of this technique  of living is easy to see … it is that we are never so defenceless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love” (CiD, 270). But before looking more closely at the way this pessimism finds expression in Aristophanes’ speech, we must seek to briefly situate the comedian’s words within the whole of the Platonic dialogue. In doing so we should keep in mind the fact that it is not Aristophanes the author of The Clouds who speaks, but rather Plato appropriating the comedian’s way of life for his own purposes.

  That this concern is central in trying to understand the comic’s speech can be clearly seen in that Ar. is mysteriously silenced by Plato at different crucially climatic points of the dialogue. The first of these occurs just after Socrates has finished recollecting Diotima’s complex words concerning the possibility of an ascent to “the beautiful in itself”. Diotima’s speech not only explicitly mentions and rejects Aristophanes’ myth ———due to its distancing itself, allegedly, from the goodness of the lovers involved (206d-e)——– but also involves a starting point in the ascent that stands in outright conflict with the comedian’s understanding of what is involved in the erotic interrelation between lovers. For Diotima the initiate in erotic understanding “first of all … must love one body and there generate beautiful speeches. Then he must realize that the beauty that is in any body whatsoever is related to that in another body; and if he must pursue the beauty of looks, it is great folly not to believe that the beauty of all bodies is one and the same. And with this realization he must be the lover of all beautiful bodies and in contempt slacken this erotic intensity for only one body, in the belief that it is petty” (210a). For the Diotimian lover the uniquely beautiful body of the loved one is not only interchangeable with others, but is linked  to a kind of brutishness unworthy of those engaged in ascending towards “higher ground” (and those who believe this bodily interchangeability is not so problematic, must grapple with the fact that it also holds for the individual soul of that human being which we love as no other (210d)). Now, what is extremely suspicious from the stance of the defender of Ar.’s speech lies in that, once Socrates has finished speaking, we learn that the comedian does not only NOT praise it, but moreover is just about to speak when Plato silences his reservations via the entrance of the bodily beautiful and drunken Alcibiades. (212c). Perhaps Alcibiades’ speech will retake elements of Ar.’s myth, but perhaps too Alcibiades will not fully express the comedian’s deepest reservations. Now, however that may turn out to be, it is likewise suspicious that towards the end of the dialogue Plato once again is quick to silence Ar. In the culminating conversation between Ar., Agathon and Socrates, conversation in which the latter is trying to “compel” (223d) the other two to admit that the tragic poet is also a comic poet, Ar. , by the magical hand of the author, is the first to be “put to sleep”. Socrates, in contrast, goes on sleepless to the Lyceum. How to understand this? Is their a hierarchy between the different speeches, Socrates’ being the culminating one? Does Socrates speech take up and complete Ar.’s, just as Pausanias claimed to complete Phaedrus’? Does Ar.’s speech present itself not as a dialectical “stepping stone” for what is to follow, but rather as a sort of broken bridge which divides two different ways of living one’s erotic life? Could one then not say that Ar. sleeps first for he somehow knows that his speech has already accomplished what Socrates is trying him to compel him to admit, namely, that comedy and tragedy are two sides of a circle eternally split for us humans who are continually torn between the bitterness of tears and the sweetness of laughter.

  The  competition  between Socrates, who is characterized by his ‘strangeness’ (215a), ‘outrageousness’ (175c) and ‘oddness’ (175a), and Ar., is further made clear by the starting point each takes up in order to the clarify our erotic involvements. While Socrates, unlike in the Apology, claims to have “perfect knowledge of erotics” —— a knowledge expressed not by him but by Diotima (177d) ——– Ar. speaks from his own personal, perhaps lived-through, opinion (189c) (although it is also important to remember that Ar., of all the speakers, is the only not paired with any other as lover to beloved). Moreover, both speakers seems to hold allegiance to very different gods. Socrates lets us know that Ar.’s “whole activity is devoted to Dionysius and Aphrodite” (177d). Ar. is concerned with two very particular Olympians: on the one hand Dionysius, the only god who knows of death and a subsequent rebirth, the god of wine and music (music being “exiled” from the dialogue, while wine is “moderated”), the god of excess which Agathon calls upon to judge the rivalry between him and Socrates (175e), and on the other hand, Aphrodite, the beautiful goddess of delicate feet born asexually from the genitals of Uranus after having been conquered by Cronos, the goddess who commits adultery with Ares, god of war, and is made to pay for it by Hephaestus, to whom we shall return. (It is noteworthy that Ar. seems to avoid Pausanias’ clever and complex split between the Uranian and Pandemian Aphrodites, a split which leads to controverial dualities such as those of beloved/lover, passive/active, body/mind and, their social expression in conventional roles such as those of the “machismo/marianismo” dichotomy in a Latin American context). These two gods, which are mysteriously absent from Ar.’s speech itself, stand in outright contrast to the Apollinian values of self-knowledge and moderation, values which partly characterize the behaviour of Socrates.

  Aristophanes’ linkage to the love of wine, and thus to Dionysius, is made clear from the very line which marks his entrance. Celebrating Agathon’s victory he drank not moderately, but rather like a human sponge, taking in so much that he has become completely soaked. (176b). Aristophanes is not by any means a measured  Athenian gentleman. His disordering presence becomes even more evident precisely when his turn to speak arrives. If Socrates rudely interrupts by his bodily inacitivity the dinner to which he is invited (174d), Ar. rudely interrupts by his bodily activity the original order of the speeches. Just when Pausanias has finished his sophisticated speech on pederasty, Ar. reveals that hiccups have gotten the best of him. Hiccups, we are mysteriously told, due to “satiety or something else” (perhaps wine?) (185d). Eryximachus, the physician who had played a key role both in ordering the whole banquet (177d), and in moderating the dangerous effects of wine (176d), sets out to cure the poor comedian’s sudden illness. Medicine rescues the comedian by putting forward the strongest of cures known to hiccuping, the soaking outbursts of sneezing. Once Eryximachus’ “doctoral” speech come to an end (presumably with Ar. hiccuping and sneezing throughout), the comedian ironically challenges the doctor’s claims to understanding the nature and erotics of the body. He says: “so I wonder at the orderly decency of the body, desiring such noises and garglings as a sneeze is; for my hiccuping stopped right away as I applied the sneeze to it” (189c). That Ar. is not by any means thanking his doctor, is made evident by the laughter of all those present;  a laughter which comes into conflict with the seriousness of the doctor who fights back by way of an aggressive challenge. Eryximachus will become the guardian of comedy; “you did have the  chance to speak in peace”, he tells Ar. (189b). The comic poet becomes now the doctor who must cure the excessive anger which bursts easily from the moderate physician. Ar.  seeks a truce (as in his work Peace), claiming to want to start from the beginning: “let what has been said be as if it were never spoken” (189b). (An apology which seems to imply that the previous speeches have somehow gone wrong.) Eryximachus, in turn, demands that the poet give a rational account (‘logos’) of eros; a demand which, if fulfilled, would reduce the speech of the comic to pure silence.  Ar. will speak in another vein, it is one which involves story-telling, imaginative interaction and poetic creativity; much the same things we feel are neccesary in speaking about one’s love for that other who makes us feel “head over heels”. Finally, the comedian shares with us his one big fear; Ar. is not afraid of saying laughable things, that is to say, things which can be shared by all of us who somehow feel ourselves identified with what is said —–things which, besides, represent a gain for the poetic Muse (189c)—— but he is afraid of saying things that are “laughed at”, that is to say, things from which we think we can distance ourselves and judge from a higher plane than that of our vulnerable and tragic condition (189b).

 

2) ASPECTS OF THE SPEECH

   

  At the outset  I argued that Freud and Ar. investigate the viability and shortcomings of the highly risky human possibility which centers the attainment of happiness on a radical emphasis in the life of erotic  sharing between two individuals. But besides this similarity, what is more amazing still, is that we find in Freud a passage in which he makes us recollect Ar.’s own mythological comprehension of the power of Eros in our lives. For Freud: “ a pair of lovers are sufficient to themselves, …… in no other case does Eros so clearly betray the core of his being, his purpose of making one out of more than one … (thus) we can  imagine quite well a cultural community consisting of double individuals like this, who libidinally satisfied in themselves, are connected with one another through the bonds of common work and common interests …. but this desirable state of things does not, and never did, exist” (CiD, 298). For Ar., once upon a time, such state did “exist”, and his story stands as imaginative “proof”. It  is a story which allows us to re-’collect’ the  genesis of human erotic longing. Only through its understanding can we come closer to comprehending that force in us which strives to reach out for another’s physical and psychical partnership.

  The brevity of the speech stands in stark contrast with its complexity. Too many issues are brought together and unfortunately, I cannot, nor know how to, deal with many of them. Therefore, I propose first to put forward some questions regarding a few of the most relevant aspects within the myth, and second,  to zero-in more closely on one of these aspects, namely, the central issue which links Ar. to Freud’s ‘community of double individuals’..

  Some of the questions one could  consider in trying to begin to understand the comic speech by Ar. are: i) Why are the circular gods of nature ——– the sun, the earth and finally the moon as intermediary between both—— gods from which the circular beings are born (male, female, androgynous respectively) (190b), quickly transformed into the anthropomorphic gods of Olympus whose origin is not even discussed (190c)? How to understand the needy nature of the Olympic gods (particularly Zeus) who wisely, after being perplexed, come to realize that by destroying the circular race of protohumans they will end up destroying their ‘other half’, namely, the one which honours and praises them? Is the Zeus mentioned here identical with the Olympian Zeus of tradition? And if so, then why so much emphasis on his deliberation (190c), his perplexity and his pity (191b)? Moreover, why, if Socrates has told us that Ar.’s god’s are Dionysius and Aphrodite, do precisely these gods not appear in the mythical narration of the genesis of eros and our permanent illness? Furthermore, why is Zeus made to speak three times in the present  “says” (190c), “supplies” and “rearranges” (191b), while the rest of his speech is in the past? Does this imply, as in Freud, that somehow the process of civilization, although comprehensible to a certain extent regressively, is nevertheless a process which has constituted us in a radically imperfect and incomplete way, a process that is, in other words, ‘here to stay’? Finally, is the process of what Ar. considers the unjust splitting up by Zeus, a split which seems to link sexuality to shamefulness,  comparable to the “unjust”  process of religion in Freud’s own perspective, a process which links sexuality to guilt? How could one link this new reference to shame, to the shame of the lovers of honour which one finds in Phaedrus’ speech? ; ii) How to understand the fact that the circular beings, who seem complete in themselves, nevertheless are, from their very mysterious conception, made to lack something so that they are taken over by “proud thoughts” which make them try to overturn, not the natural gods, but the anthropomorphic gods of Olympus (190b)? How do they end up getting this overwhelming desire for power into their heads in the first place? And if not their own fault, then why are they punished for something which presumably is not in their power to modify? Moreover, what is one to make of the status of the ‘androgynous’ original kind which has mysteriously disappeared, leaving only its reproachable name behind (189e)? Is it reproachable, not for Ar. who in the Lysistrata  reaches peace through a Panhellenic strike of wives, but for the Greeks in general due to their view that men are superior to women? Could one link this ‘androgynous’ type to Freud’s views on bisexuality, particularly as it finds expression in each individual?; iii) How can we understand Ar.’s intention of including in his speech a concern for all human beings by focusing on human nature in general (189c-d, 190d, 191c-d), and not just a few who have the ‘real’ key to loving? Does not Ar. then miss the fact that loving IS somehow or other inevitably linked to the customs (‘nomos’) within which it develops; so that for instance loving between Canadians, Latin Americans and Japanese is really quite different?; iv) What is the relationship between the, ironic, yet serious reference Ar. makes to pederasty as the only activity which prepares men to political office, but does so by setting aside the very procreation of the species and thus endangering the very subsistence  of the city (192a)?; v) Is Diotima’s critique concerning the ethical nature of lovers one that radically undermines Ar.’s position? (For instance, we think there is something odd in saying that Eva Brown was the ‘other half’ of Adolf Hitler) Moreover, don’t we conceive of lovers likewise as somehow seeking out to become friends in terms of character?; and finally, vi) given that each half of the circular beings, I think,  must have been generated simultaneously in time, and that in their original form they each had their  own set of everything, except for the head which was shared by the two opposing faces, could one not then somehow link these creatures to Freud’s notion of narcissim by looking at the following passage in which he discusses the relationship between love and hypnosis: “we see that the object is being treated in the same way as our own ego, so that when we are in love a considerable amount of narcissitic libido overflows onto the object. It is even obvious, in many forms of love-choice, that the object serves as a substitute for some unattained ego ideal of our own. We love it on account of the perfections which we have striven to reach for our own ego, and which we should now like ro procure in this roundabout way as a means of satisfying our narcissim.” (GP, 143). (one could also look at the Phaedrus  (252e) where the beloved becomes a mirror image of us, a divine mirror image that is) Would one not have to consider then the complex relation between self-love and the love of others?

   Not having the space, nor the understanding to even start to provide some answers to these questions, I would like instead to focus now on Ar.’s claim that the power of Eros lies in its providing us with the greatest possible happiness any human being could ever expect to achieve in this world. As he puts it: “Eros is the most philanthropic of gods, the helper of human beings as well as a physician dealing with an illness the healing of which would result in the greatest happiness for the human race” (189c-d)”.  According to Ar. we humans can allegedly reach happiness via erotic involvement, but it seems, not just with anybody. Eros represents this regressive possibility by allowing us to catch a glimpse of our ancient nature (also, but differently, Phaedrus 250 ff). Unlike the tragic results of the first operation by Zeus, operation which culminated in the painful death of the two newly severed parts which were left to cling unto each other, dying “due to hunger and  the rest of thier inactivity, because they were unwilling to do anything apart from one another” (191b), (a  reminder of the cicadas in the Phaedrus (259b)), for us who are the  “beneficiaries” of the second more complex Apollinian operation, sexuality has been brought to the fore. Having placed the genitals, the “shameful things” in Greek,  in the front (191b), we can move beyond clinging by now engaging in sexual activity. Through the latter the previous oneness can be, only temporarily for sure, remembered once again. Eros’ power allows this, and it is because of it that we must thank, praise and sacrifice to this god’s, usually  taken for granted, divine presence (189c). But sexual interaction with just anyone will not lead to the happiness which reminds us of our past protohuman “fulfillment”. We must permanently search for that other who matches the jagged features of our patched up bodies (191a). Eros is then  “the bringer-together of their (that is to say, ‘our’) ancient anture, who tries to make one of two and to heal their (that is to say, ‘our’) human nature. Each of us is a token (‘symbolon’) of a human being ….. and so each is always in search of his own token” (191d). Ever since we become old enough to feel the erotic longing for another’s patches, we turn into permanent seekers of what in Spanish we call “mi otra media naranja”, that is to say, that “my other half-orange” who will complete our fruit like original nature in which we ressembled the natural gods. The Greeks here preferred to speak of apples (190e).

   And if ever we are so lucky as to be allowed by Eros to find that other who strikes us wondrously with friendship and erotic love to the point that, now,  we “are unwilling to be apart from one another even for a short time” (192c), then human bliss seems to reach its highest possible peak. The other’s presence modifies one’s own self-perception and that of the world in a way in which both are mutually enriched; we feel ourselves enhanced in a world which suddenly opens itself to new, previously unseen, possibilities. Nietzsche captures this optimism beautifully: “the lover is more valuable, is stronger …. his whole economy is richer than before, more powerful, more complete than in those who do not love. The lover becomes a squanderer, he is rich enough for it. Now he dares, he becomes an adventurer, becomes an ass in magnanimity and innocence; he believes in god again. He believes in virtue because he believes in love; and on the other hand this happy idiot grows wings and new capabilities, and even the door of art is opened to him” (WtP #808) (The very same wings that the lover of the Phaedrus will grow in one of the most beautiful passages of all the Platonic dialogues (255ff.))

  But unlike Nietzschean optimism, Ar. and Freud seem to have reservations. Freud, as I have said from the outset, centers  his critique on the loss  of the beloved. Ar., though  aware of this danger, provides a more devastating critique by looking at the problematic functioning of erotic desire itself. The lucky lovers who are finally able to reach each other, presumably following several painful misses and rather uncomfortable fits ——— for Ar. makes it clear that this reunion is not what normally happens at present (193b) ———- these lucky lovers nevertheless seem to desire something more. This something, Ar. jokingly says, one could not conceivably take it simply to be the delight of sexual intercourse with that other half which seems to fit, ‘just right’, in yourself: “as though it were for this reason —-of all things—– that each so enjoys being with the other… but the soul of each wants something else” (192c) But that ellusive ‘something else’ which the soul of each wants for him/herself, that cannot be easily put into words. Just as it so happens when one is asked why one loves his/her, hopefully, ‘real’  other half, there comes a point where you cannot quite “explain”, and instead just feel like saying, “Can’t you see why?, well that is really odd”.

  Nevertheless Ar. challenges this silence, the same silence which Plato forces on him, by providing us with a riddle to be solved. The riddle, like Oedipus’, concerns humans, but unlike the King’s, Ar.’s concerns a dilemma which is brought to light by looking at our desiring nature. The riddle is spoken by yet another Olympian god, Hephaestus, the weak god of fire and crafts/arts (techne). It is he who chained Aphrodite and Ares for having committed adultery; chaining them, not to bring them eternal bliss, but rather eternal boredom. Hephaestus seems, tragically, to seek welding as punishment (Od  315). This god is made to ask us humans what we really want out of love, and, just as Zeus was perplexed with the attitude of the circular beings, so we humans stand perplexed by Hephaestus’ question (192d). He must therefore not only rephrase the question, but very directly answer it in doing so. Would we not really desire just to become one once again, our belly wrinkles giving way to a stronger sphericity? What more lovely than reaching this “golden state” capable even of denying the individual death of its members, so that even “in Hades you (that is to say, we) would be together one instead of two?” (192e). Would this not be the ultimate happiness, that which involved a shared immortality?

  The riddle, and riddles one would think are so because they are, presumably, very difficult to answer, is to our perplexity immediately answered in the affirmative. It seems as though nothing would be more desirable for us, ill halves, than to permanently rejoin that other whom Eros has granted us, finally, to reach. However, we should remember that even the protohumans though fused to their extremities, nonetheless did not seem to have seen themeselves as part of a Paradise in which nothing was lacking. Even human sphericity finds itself lacking, striving to move beyond its original condition. Oneness reaches beyond itself, although of course it reaches out more powerfully with four arms, four legs, not just two of each. And moreover, what distinguishes our humanity lies precisely in that,  like it or not,  we will forever remain as halves in constant search for that which we lack. Desire flourishes precisely due to this incompleteness which moves us beyond ourselves. The feverish conditions which evolve out of the absence of the loved one seem to move in the same direction. If Hephaestus’ riddle were not only answered in the affirmative, but actually set in place, our human condition as we know it, fragile and ill as it may be, would come to a permanent end. Letting Hephaestus do his work would turn out to be a punishment much severer than that of Zeus who intended to break us down once more, leaving us “hopping on one leg” ( 190d). Seeking to become spherical again requires the death of Eros’ presence in our lives. And Ar. hints to this towards the end of his speech in a paragraph which links past, present and future possibilities: “our race would be happy if we were to bring our love to a consummate end, and each of us were to get his own favorite on his return to his ancient nature. And if this is the best, it  must necesarrilly be the case that, IN PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES, that  which is closest to it is the best; and that is to get a favorite whose nature is to one’s tastes” (193c) (here a specific reference to the  pederasts, but shedding light, I believe, into all the different kinds of relationships). Ar. qualifies his appeal to a return to oneness by continually using the hypothetical ‘if’, as in ‘if this is the best’. But as I have argued this undoubtedly is not the best desirable course for us humans to take. Our present circumstances cannot be done away with, no matter how hard we imagine ourselves to have been otherwise. At best we should seek out to reach the sweetness of that other who allows the growth of  those beautiful wings characteristic of the highest kind of lovers in the Phaedrus (251e); but, at the same time bitterly knowing, or perhaps feeling, full well that Eros’ presence immediately sets us humans in the web of a dilemma which maybe Sophocles, a tragedian, can better help us to understand. Eros is like ice, we delight in having it, yet its presence is a reminder of a painful reality, that of our constant neediness:

            “Like children that beneath a frosty heaven

            Snatch in their eagerness at icicles

            (First they are ravished with this latest toy;

            Yet soon they find it hurts their hands to hold

            That icy thing; and yet how hard to drop it!)

            Even such are lovers too, when what they love

            Tears them between ‘I would not’ and ‘I would’” (Lucas, 224)

 

INTRODUCTION

One of the main reasons why an understanding of the relationship between ‘natural right’ and ‘conventional right’ must be high in the hierarchy of activities we engage in, lies in that its consideration brings to light the difficult issues of relativity between, and criticality of, different political communities. The extremely compressed passage in which Aristotle takes up this relationship is full of difficult lines, lines which are themselves enlightened by sometimes perplexing examples. In it, one could say, Aristotle seems to move back and forth from one kind of right to the other; uncomfortably trying to delineate the space which lies between them.

The tension between both kinds of right leads to an array of difficult questions which come to light precisely out of the opposition in which they stand. On the one hand, if political justice is wholly conventional, one is necessarily led to ask; is it not then doomed to be variable to the extent that, what a given community considers to be just, is just as valid as what any other does? Will the question of justice not be reduced to a prior question, namely, ‘whose justice’ are we speaking of; justice becoming then a relative term? This is more problematic because if, as Aristotle holds, law shapes our very being, then, “stepping aside” to critically assess the regime which seeks to foster precisely its own outlook, seems a rather difficult, if not impossible, course of action. In other words, if one’s tradition determines to a large extent what one considers to be just, how is it possible for “us” to reach some kind of ‘objective’ standpoint from which our own and other conventional conceptions of right can be judged? Must tolerance be reduced to a passive acceptance of difference, independent of the ethical considerations and violations underlying such diversity?

On the other hand, if one holds onto a natural view of political justice, then although one can claim to be able to assess all conventional right by measuring it to a common ground, a standard to which all political communities have access in virtue of something common to all humans (e.g. rationality), still the position is not itself without difficulties. First of all that ‘common something’ seems contested by the different traditions themselves. But besides this, if all perspectives can be assessed by way of this standard, still, how to figure out and agree upon what is the fundamental nature of such standard is by all means not an easy task. Is it grounded on a transcendental ideal to which only few have access? Is it to be found in the natural order of things? Does it follow alone from divine revelation? Is it ultimately, particularly for us moderns, simply a matter of promoting and defending some group of basic inalienable human rights and duties (perhaps to be supplemented by different kinds of group differentiated rights for minorities)? Or, if it is indeed based on a distinctively human capacity such as reason, how is one to conceive of this rationality —- be it that of classical thought or that of the Enlightenment—— other than by acknowledging it as part of a specific tradition which has come to understand itself in such ‘rational’ terms? What guarantee do we have that when assessing other cultures by way of some form of natural right, we are not simply, though disguisedly, projecting the values of our own? Finally, what is the relationship between philosophy, born out of a particular tradition, and the search for this critical space in which the city, and all cities for that matter, come to be questioned? (*1)

The complexity and importance of the issue under consideration is well put by Strauss:

“If there is no standard higher than the ideal of our society, we are utterly unable to take a critical distance from that ideal. But the mere fact that we can raise the question of worth of the ideal of our society shows that there is something in man that is not altogether in slavery to his society, and therefore, that we are able and hence obliged to look for a standard with reference to which we can judge the ideals of our society as well as any society” (NRH, 3) (*2)

To question is part of our nature, but indeed it would be rather absurd to try to answer all these mind-boggling puzzles in a short essay like this. Nevertheless they stand as avenues that can be pursued, some of which we will begin to pursue here only tentatively. But before proceeding, I would like to make two cautionary remarks. The first deals with the idea that whatever conception of natural right is ultimately available to us moderns, its grounding cannot proceed from the imitation of a given hierarchical ordering of a purposeful universe which we admire in its beauty and inherent goodness; an external teleological reality which, by shaping ourselves according to it, allows our own human beauty and goodness to flourish. Nature for us moderns is not a mirror we model ourselves upon. As Charles Taylor puts it with respect to the creative imagination found in art’s capacity to transfigure reality:

“it becomes possible for us to see a crisis of affirmation as something we have to meet through a transfiguration of our vision, rather than simply through a recognition of some objective standard of goodness. The recovery may have to take the form of a transfiguration of our stance towards the word and the self, rather than simply the registering of external reality” (SotS, 448) (*3)

The second prefatory point is that, even though the search for such a ‘objective’ standpoint ——-which is somehow or other implied in the notion of natural right—– is of great importance in judging and differentiating unjust regimes, as well as individuals, from just ones, that this ‘natural’ standard can ultimately be found is another matter altogether:

“our aversion to fanatical obscurantism must not lead us to embrace natural right in a spirit of fanatical obscurantism. Let us beware of the danger of pursuing a Socratic goal with the means, and the temper of Thrasymachus. Certainly the seriousness of the need of natural right does not prove that the need can be satisfied” (Strauss, NRH, 6) (*4)

Having said this, and in order to get somewhat clearer on the relationship between conventional and natural right, I would like to divide the essay into two sections. In the first I will look at the difficult and compressed passage in the Nicomachean Ethics where Aristotle deals directly with the subject matter; chapter seven of the Book on Justice. There I will try to follow Aristotle’s own struggle with the issue by looking and trying to elucidate, as far as possible, the arguments and examples given to us readers. In the second section I will take up two of the most prominent interpretations of the passage; one by Saint Thomas Aquinas, the other by Marsilius of Padua. I will there try to, briefly and in outline, show that neither does justice in their reinterpretation to the complexities found in the first section where the text by Aristotle was considered. To conclude this section, I will likewise question some of the arguments put forward by Strauss in his search for a middle road between these conflicting interpretations.

SECTION I: ARISTOTLE AND THE MUTABILITY OF BOTH NATURAL AND CONVENTIONAL RIGHT IN POLITICAL JUSTICE.

Aristotle is the first to point out that when speaking of the just, one can do so in many ways. For instance one can consider, either general justice (1129b12 ff.), or a part of this general form, that is to say, particular justice and its distributive and corrective aspects. Some even speak of justice in terms solely of the relation of the parts of the soul and its health (1138b1 ff). Furthermore, one can speak of justice with reference to the different domains in which relationships between agents take place. In this sense political justice is not the same as the justice appropriate to the household; relations between citizens, for Aristotle, are not the same as those of inferior kind that hold between husband and wife, master and slave, and father and son (MM, 1194b5 ff.). (*5)

Besides, it is not just any social organization which meets Aristotle’s criteria for being considered political. This is why in the chapter immediately preceding the one dealing with the relationship between conventional and natural right, Aristotle points out the conditions for the politically just. It

“obtains between those who share a life for the satisfaction of their needs as persons free and equal … hence in the associations where these conditions are not present there is no political justice between members, but only a sort of approximation to justice” (1134a26-8)

This seems rather puzzling. We have not even begun to attempt to determine what natural right might be, and yet Aristotle has already set up a criteria for the consideration of the political, namely, equality and freedom between participants who share at the same time in being ruled and ruling (1134b16-19). Now, if political justice develops under these conditions, and if it is true that “if anyone wants to make a serious study of the fine and just things, or of political science generally, he must have been well trained in his habits” (1095b2-4), then truly few regimes will be able to carry out such an inquiry, namely those in which such equality and freedom already exists, in some sense or other. Presumably a tyranny could not then reflect on the politically just precisely because the conditions for its appearance are in it wholly lacking. But let us look closer then at this very specific type of justice, that is to say, political justice.

In the Magna Moralia, even though one finds the bipartite differentiation between the just things, on the one hand by nature, and on the other by convention, there what is considered to be politically just is reduced only to the realm of the conventional:

“so the just according to nature is better than the just according to convention, but what we are inquiring about is the politically just; and the politically just is that which is by convention, not that which is by nature” (MM, 1194a1-4)

It seems as though in that work Aristotle is skeptical of finding any such natural justice within the political. But this position is altogether different from what Aristotle himself holds in the corresponding passage of his Nicomachean Ethics.

The conflict between both is strikingly made evident from the very first line where we are told that the division between natural right and conventional right IS set, unlike the previous quotation, within the overall discussion of political justice (1134b18-19). Perhaps why this difference exists can be somewhat understood by looking at the passage more closely.

In it, Aristotle first defines natural right as “that which has everywhere the same power and does not depend on being opined or not”. The “naturalness” of natural right resides precisely in its being independent both of spatial and temporal differences —-it is in a sense transhistorical and transcultural——, and of the multiplicity of conflicting opinions held by different humans. Natural right is truly something unchanging, or so it would seem. Suspiciously, Aristotle here gives no example to elaborate upon.

Conventional right, in contrast, can be seen in three interrelated forms. First it refers to “that with regard to which in the beginning it makes no difference whether matters are this or that way, but once it is established one way or another it does make a difference”. An interpretation could be as follows. For instance, in the downfall of a regime or in its early periods of consolidation, some aspects of conventional right can go in many different possible ways. It is ‘up for grabs’, so to speak. But once it has been set down as law, it determines (to a large extent in a negative form) what is to be considered just and what unjust. And here, unlike the case of natural right, Aristotle aids us somewhat by providing some examples. These refer specifically to laws regarding some aspect or other of war, the ransom of prisoners, and of religion, the number and nature of animals to be sacrificed. (Would it be too exaggerated to read these then as portraying how relativity appears foremost and most dangerously in the realm of the defense of one’s community and in religious strife?) Perhaps another example of this type of conventional right could be the national symbols of different states. Colombia’s or Canada’s flag could presumably have been otherwise, but now that they have been set in place it does make a difference if someone were to attempt to modify them in one way or another. In the religious realm for instance one could say it makes a great difference if one is brought up as Catholic or as Muslim (*6).

As a second field of conventional right Aristotle points to legislation that takes place in particular cases; private laws which for instance require sacrifices for outstanding, honour-deserving individuals such as the sacrifices for Brasidas, a spartan general (Penguin, 371). Conventional law then seeks to put forward legislation which acknowledges the sacrifices of some distinguished people who, for the sake of the political community, have sacrificed themselves and therefore “ought to be given some reward, honour or dignity. It is those who are not satisfied with these rewards that develop into despots” (1134b6-8). A similar contemporary example of this type of ‘conventional right’ would be the changing of the name of a city street to remember a given person ——for instance, in Montreal, the ‘Rene Levesque Avenue’—– however this example is not closely linked to law itself. (*7)

Finally the third category is that of ‘things passed by vote’. Although it is not clear to me what Aristotle refers to, perhaps one could think of cases such as the referendum in Quebec. If it had gone through, matters would now stand a quite different light. Aquinas sees this category of conventional right as referring to the decrees of judges (1022). If this is the correct way to understand it then examples of these type of decisions can be seen in multicultural societies where different conventional understandings require the transformation of the positive laws already set in place. As Parekh puts it:

“In all these cases person’s cultural background made a difference to his or her treatment by the courts. The law was pluralized and departures from the norm of formal equality were made in different ways and guises, showing how to reconcile the apparently conflicting demands of uniformity and diversity” (Parekh, BCCD, 200)

Having given us a first look at the differentiation between natural and conventional right, Aristotle then proceeds to argue against those who believe that the politically just is only what is conventionally just; a position with which he himself sides, as we saw in the Magna Moralia. Aristotle continues his argument as follows: “but in the opinion of some, all things are such on the ground that what is by nature is unchangeable and has everywhere the same power, just as fire here and in Persia burns, but they see that the just things change”. Fire burns equally in Greece and in Persia, but what the Greeks and the Persians take to be ‘the just’, varies considerably. And furthermore, if what we said at the outset concerning the conditions of political justice is true, then Persia does not meet the conditions for speaking of political justice at all. This because of their not sharing in freedom and equality. Having chosen Persia in the example, therefore seems not to have been by luck.

Presumably Aristotle would go on to tell us, finally, just precisely how this standard, which natural right is, works. But to our disappointment this is precisely what Aristotle proceeds NOT do; or at least fully. Instead he tells us that all natural right is in fact just as changeable as conventional right. Or, he pauses, almost always, he says. That is, natural right seems unchangeable in reference to the gods, the celestial beings which for the Aristotle, as Aquinas reminds us (1026), are unchanging. But to our surprise once again the statement is qualified; even in divine matters the unchangeability of natural right is only ‘probably’ so. In this sense, as we shall see, Aristotle’s Gods do not fit well with Aquinas’. But leaving this question aside, for our purposes it is important to point to the changeability that Aristotle makes characteristic of natural right; the tranformability of that standard through which we aim somehow at ranking conventional understandings of the just. As Aristotle puts it, among us humans (*9): “while there is something by nature, it is ALL changeable and yet nevertheless there is that which is by nature and that which is not by nature”. The variability of natural right does not preclude its remaining to a degree invariable. The standard, if it exists at all, would then seem to resemble not an iron pole, but a more flexible structure such as that of a rubber band; capable of transforming itself without necessarily becoming something other that that which it is.

And while we stand rather perplexed by all of what has bee said, Aristotle, one feels almost jokingly, tells us that all this ought to be as clear as daylight: “now, which is by nature of the things that can be otherwise and which is not, but is instead conventional and by agreement, since both of them are equally changeable is CLEAR”. Well perhaps it is not. However, unlike the previous definition of natural right which excluded variability, this new qualified perspective is indeed, finally, followed by an example. But it is an extremely odd example, one which seems rather removed from the discussion of the politically just. It goes like this: “by nature the right is stronger though it is possible for everyone to become ambidextrous”. Few words which make one wonder what Aristotle is getting at.

Our first reaction could be to say; but look around you, there are many left handed people, for instance my brother –in–law, for whom the left hand is by nature the strongest. Is their left hand not ‘by nature’ the strongest? So Aristotle, what you are saying is not at all true (*10). Unfortunately our first objection seems made irrelevant if one looks at the corresponding example found in the Magna Moralia. There the same example is put forward, but with the notion of superiority left on the side: “yet nevertheless the left is such and such by nature, and the right is no less better than the left, even if we were to do everything with the left as with the right” (MM 1199b31-34). Aquinas understands this example as showing that natural right is valid in the majority of cases, but in some few cases it does not hold (1029); a position to which we shall return in the following section (*11). But perhaps there is another way to comprehend this flexibility of natural right, while having its kind of flexibility not partaking of the same type which characterizes that of the conventional.

One imaginative, perhaps too imaginative, way to do interpret the example, though this is not what Aristotle himself says, would be as follows. By nature most of us are indeed right handed, and some left handed. But being left handed or right handed takes no extraordinary effort on our part; we are so equipped by nature one way or the other. Aristotle himself has told us that we are equipped as humans in just the very same way not only as regards the different faculties of the soul, namely, the vegetative, the desiderative and the rational (1102b28ff), but likewise in the case of the potentiality to develop the moral virtues of which he says we are “constituted by nature to receive them” (1103a29). But although this is true under normal conditions, still few seek to modify what is given to us by nature, transforming it so that new, more complete organizations, can be achieved. Becoming ambidextrous, through a habitual practice involving throwing with the other hand (MM 1194b27), is just such a practice which changes what is, without making it something wholly different. In a similar way, the passage alluded to above, the one concerning the moral virtues, culminates by telling us that “their full development is due to habit”. Becoming virtuous transforms us in that, what we are potentially capacitated to do, reaches its utmost level of actualization. If one can imagine those who have indeed attempted to become ambidextrous, one can imagine the patience and personal commitment required in order to achieve that end which represents a flourishing towards higher natural completeness. And this end goes beyond utility and survival, though perhaps ambidextrous people will be more helpful under certain circumstances, for instance in the case of strikers in soccer who, because they can use both legs to hit the ball, can score more goals. This end involves, in a sense, a healthier realization, a completeness comparable to works of art (1106b9). It would be a little like becoming fully bilingual, not an easy matter, assuming that is that one learns the language not simply as a child. Unfortunately our imaginative analysis seems far removed from what Aristotle argues in the passage considered, for the passage as a whole focuses principally on political justice, not on individual health. (*12) But perhaps some regimes are healthier than others; some regimes fighting against all odds in order to become more readily ambidextrous.

Aristotle goes on to exemplify how, in contrast to the variability of the natural, so too the conventional has its own kind of variation. The conventional is now defined as that which “is by agreement and what is beneficial”. The appearance of the beneficial, which had not entered into the argument previously, seems to determine natural right contrastively as that which is not primarily concerned with utility, though it can incidentally be useful in different ways (as we saw in the case of the soccer striker). And once more, to clarify the issue, Aristotle gives us an obscure example regarding measures. A similar example, if I understand the issue correctly, would be that of the beneficial, and agreed to, use of human standards such as that of the metric system. We all agree what a 100 meters are, we sense it is beneficial to agree thus, particularly in Olympic races. However the conventional nature of this standard, the metric one, comes to the fore when compared to other systems like the US system and its use of feet. Unfortunately these examples do not refer to lawful arrangements and in this way would seem to differ somewhat from what Aristotle tells us. But if this example is not the best, Aristotle himself has provided us with one in the whole discussion of Justice, that of the use of money by communities. Even the name itself of money, nomisma reflects its conventionality: “this is why money is so called, because it exists not by nature but by custom, and it is in our power to change its value or render it useless” (1133a29-31).

The fact that Aristotle somehow senses that his own example concerning measures is far removed from political justice, surfaces in the line which continues his argumentation. Relativity and conventionality are present not simply in measurements, but principally in political regimes: “the just things that are not by nature but merely by humans are not the same everywhere, since the regimes are not”. It is precisely here where political justice seems to be destined to a relativity based upon the different views of what conventional right is, or might be. But this is not new to Aristotle. He has pointed to this difficulty from the very start of the Book on Justice, particularly in his consideration of justice in the general sense. There justice as the lawful, which aims at securing happiness for the members of the political community, was partly understood as follows:

“the laws prescribe for all departments of life aiming at the common advantage whether of all the citizens, or of the best of them, or of the ruling class, or on some other basis. So in a sense we call just anything that tends to produce or conserve the happiness (and constituents of happiness) of a political association (1129b16-21)

If law so varies from regime to regime, then it seems that the search for a natural right from which to critically assess the different interpretation of the role of law is ruled out as utopian. This troubling conclusion is in fact made worse because of the fact that within each type of regime there exists fallibility as to the setting down of the laws themselves: “the law commands some kinds of behaviour and forbids others; rightly of the law is rightly enacted, but not so well if it is an improvised measure” (1129b28-29). There would then be different types of happiness, one here, one there; all equally unquestionable. Or so it would seem.

Aristotle knows of this variability of conventional law, but he knows too of the necessity of providing a human standard from which judgment can be passed on diversity. This is why the passage we have been analyzing continues precisely by calling forth such criteria. The complete passage reads: “similarly the just things that are not by nature but merely by humans are not the same everywhere, since the regimes are not, THOUGH there is only one that is everywhere according to nature the best”. We stand perplexed for Aristotle seems to want it both ways. He wants to argue that what is merely by humans is not by nature, and presumably all political justice concerns the human, and, therefore cannot be by nature. And yet there is such a regime, he claims, that is by nature the best of possible regimes; and presumably if this regime has anything to tell us humans, then it is of human form. Perhaps natural here could be understood by looking back at the example of the ambidextrous individual. Just as by nature we are all born either right handed or left handed, so by nature, according to Aristotle, we humans are political animals; we live in political associations where alone the good life can be achieved. However all existing regimes deviate to different extents from the best human level of political fulfillment and health; one must therefore seek to understand the complex circumstances in which such deviations have come about.

But if the development of the ambidextrous person requires a level of personal commitment and dedication that is undertaken by few; this effort presumably would be much more difficult to obtain at the level of the whole political community. A tension arises between those transforming themselves in order to become ambidextrous, and the need to transform the political conditions in which becoming ambidextrous rises as a human possibility. As Aristotle puts it:

“As for the education of the individual, that which makes him simply a good man, we must determine later whether it falls under political science or some other, because probably it is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen” (1130b25-30)

But indeed it would seem too that the healthier the regime’s commitment to political justice, the healthier the individuals partaking of that standard; and vice-versa the healthier the individuals, the healthier the political association itself. (e.g. 1129a16-21). Furthermore. the fact that this standard is not a transcendental object independent of the way we humans live in our always imperfect political communities, is hinted too also in the Ethics. The final lines of the work tell us of an investigatory procedure that must be followed to complete our understanding of the realm of the ethical by way of a study of the political:

“So let us first try to review any valid statements … that have been made by our predecessors; and then to consider, in the light of our collected examples of constitutions what influences are conservative and what are destructive of a state …. and for what reasons states are well governed … for after examining these questions we shall perhaps see more comprehensively what kind of constit ution is the best ….” (1181b13-21).

What is by nature the best is not an immutable given, but the end object of a comparative study of the different existing regimes which remain always wanting due to the very complex circumstances in which they develop. In this sense political justice by nature is transformable though it is not made completely anew each time new information is gathered as regards the different conventional political communities. (*14) Respect for multiplicity does not signify not being able to reach out to certain criteria which the best possible polis ought to follow; an issue taken up at length in the Politics.

SECTION II: AQUINAS AND MARSILIUS OF PADUA ON ARISTOTLE: IS A MIDDLE ROAD CONCEIVABLE?

Two of the most important interpretations of the passage we have attempted to clarify have been those of Saint Thomas Aquinas and Marsilius of Padua. Their positions are so divergent that for Strauss they can be said to exemplify the opposition between the ‘theological’ and the ‘philosophical’ interpretations of natural right (Strauss, PAW 96-7). Are these two views thus condemned to the very incommensurability which we have argued an account of natural right seeks to counter at the level of the political? Is one more in accordance with the Aristotelian position as articulated in the text itself? Or do both take from Aristotle what fits their personal mold, so that the Aristotelian perspective is, though transformed, not Aristotelian in a strong sense? Can one, as Strauss proposes, seek some middle road between what, perhaps in the final analysis turn out to be not two extremes in a continuum, but rather two altogether different fields of human understanding? Perhaps by looking critically at each of the authors in turn, we might gain some insight, however slight, on these difficult questions.

Aquinas’ outlook of the world and ourselves is that of one of the major strands to be found within the Catholic tradition; the other being that of Saint Augustine. Because of this, Aquinas superimposes a Catholic mold over the pre-Christian Aristotelian interpretation of natural right. And this does not go by unnoticed when one compares it to the original text in Aristotle. One of the places where this recasting of Aristotle’s wording becomes more salient can be seen in what Aquinas takes to be the relationship between the principles concerning speculative matters, and those that serve as guides for human action in the variable realm of practical affairs. In his commentary on the Ethics he tells us that, just as in speculative philosophy:

“likewise in practical matters there are some principles naturally known as it were, indemonstrable principles and truths related to them, as evil must be avoided, no one is to be unjustly injured, theft must not be committed and so on” (1018)

The ethical, according to Aquinas, deals with indemonstrable principles which we humans ought to take as starting points and guidelines by way of which we can determine the just or unjust nature of actions, both at the level of the individual and that of the political community. Just as we cannot prove Euclid’s most fundamental axioms, so in the realm of conduct we cannot demonstrate the validity of those fundamental principles which determine that evil, injustice and theft ought always, without exception, to be avoided. (*15)

Although it is quite true that Aristotle sometimes speaks in an Aquinas-like fashion, particularly in Book 2 of his Ethics, he nonetheless goes out of his way to clarify more fully what is set there as an introductory framework; one to be followed by different qualifications. The passage in question, which concerns the inexistence of a mean in some cases, reads as follows: “but not every action or feeling admits of a mean; because some have names that directly connote depravity, such as malice, shamelessness and envy and among actions, adultery, theft and murder ….. in either case … one is ALWAYS wrong” (1107a9-15). Though superficially on the same track as Aquinas’ argument, nevertheless Aristotle gives us much more, and much less, than Aquinas does. Aristotle never alludes to any indemonstrable truths, and besides, his longer list includes not only actions, but feelings as well. For Aristotle goodness is concerned not only with the way we act on the world and others, but also, and just as importantly, with the way we are open to this world and others with whom we share in it (1109b30).

Besides Aristotle does not leave this statement, which appears early on in the text, unqualified. Instead his different discussions ——on the difficulty of defining the mean when considered in relation to us and the action concerned, on the relationship between voluntary and involuntary action, and on his analysis of the virtues and the tension present in their being taken as ends in themselves or for the sake of something else—— rids the Aristotelian passage of Aquinas’ sense of immutability and indemonstrability. And this is no surprise to us who sense that Aquinas’ “free(dom) from hesitations and ambiguities” (Strauss, CNR) (*16), is somehow linked to the certainty offered by the presence of clear cut, and clearly articulated, divine commandments. Aquinas lacks, at times, the permanent Aristotelian consideration for the fluidity and flexibility characteristic of the practical affairs in which different human beings are involved. For Aristotle:

“questions of conduct and expediency have as little fixity about them as questions about what is healthful; and if this is true of the general rule, it is still more true that its application to particular problems admits of no precision” (1104a3-7) (see also 1094a11 ff).

(Which is of course not to say that Aristotle does not have criteria for the consideration of an action as praiseworthy or blameworthy). A clear example of the tension between both the Catholic and the Greek outlook can be seen by focusing on one of the actions to which both writers allude, namely, that of theft. For Aquinas “those actions belonging to the very nature of justice cannot be changed in anyway, for example, theft must not be commited because an injustice” (1029). Robbing is an activity that we should strive with all our might to avoid for it involves, under all circumstances, committing an unjustice. Stealing is sinful. In contrast, by taking up the Aristotelian multilayered qualifications, one could eventually come to conceive of, or be actually involved in, situations where stealing would not only not be evil, but perhaps the best possible course of action under the constraining circumstances. War sets the conditions for just this kind of exceptional undertakings. (*17)

But this reading is rather unfair to the very sensitivity which is characteristic of Aquinas’ outlook. The Catholic philosopher himself acknowledges some variability. Nevertheless it concerns not the principles (i.e. no variability in terms of natural right), but the specific actions undertaken. His interpretation of the passage on becoming ambidextrous is here, I think, revealing. He tells us: “so also the things that are just be nature, for example, that a deposit ought to be returned must be observed in the majority of cases but is changed in the minority”(1028) (which deals with part of the first definition of justice given by Polemarchus to Socrates in Plato’s Republic 331d (*18)). However, although this example does qualify somewhat what we previously said, still the principle to which this specific example alludes, is definitely not of the stronger type, the kind which merits inclusion under the Decalogue.

But no matter how the matter stands here, that which is most un-Aristotelian in the whole interpretation by Aquinas on natural right, lies in that the standard upon which such right is founded is not of human origin. Aquinas’ yardstick, though it is in fact related to human rationality ——a faculty Aquinas tells us is shared by all humans making them capable of distinguishing what is disgraceful from what is honorable (1019)—— is itself measured by a not so human standard. Reason is completed only with view to faith; natural right is superseded, or finds its fundamental expression in divine law. As Strauss puts it: “the ultimate consequence of the Thomistic point of view is practically inseparable from natural theology … but even from revealed theology” (Strauss, NRH, 164). This theological perspective retakes some of the conceptions presented by Aristotle, but informs them with a mold which at times does not fit as gracefully as one would desire. Natural right looses the ambivalence which enriched the Aristotelian perspective, and which we saw was continually present in the struggles faced in the passage analyzed. All conventional right, all political justice, can therefore be adequately compared to that standard which holds universally and equally for all. And given that its fundamental seal of guarantee lies not in rationality but rather in faith, no matter what one makes of this position, it remains true that Aquinas’ faith in the Catholic God, as contrasted to the divine in Aristotle, stands unchallenged by any appeal to reason. (*19) Precisely because of this, finding some kind of middle road between this interpretation, and Marsilius’, seems an unfortunate project to undertake. One cannot have both of them at the same time, for their standards for measuring are fundamentally of a different qualitative kind. These would stand very much in accordance to Marsilius view. But to see why this is so, one needs to consider the other side of the balance.

What Strauss calls the ‘philosophical’ interpretation of Aristotle, is carried out by Marsilius of Padua, following Averroes. While the Renaissance writer does take up some of the elements analyzed in the discussion of the Aristotelian passage, his primary objective seems to be to set itself as a radically different alternative to Aquinas’ ‘theological’ view. In that Marsilius seems —–I say ‘seems’ for, as we shall see, this is not completely so—— to set himself against a religious tradition, one finds a first parallel between him and Aristotle. The latter too sets his conception of philosophy against a traditional perspective of the divine which finds its clearest expression in the Delphic inscription found both ethics (EN 1099a26-7). However, the religious traditions which they both question, are of a very different nature.

In his attack on the view of natural right which links it to divine law, Marsilius puts forward two arguments concerning the relationship between it, and its counterpart, conventional right. In order to go through each I will designate the first the ‘as-if’ argument, and the second, the ‘plural rationalities’ argument. According to the first, natural right concerns “that which almost everyone agrees is respectable”. A statement with which neither Aquinas nor Aristotle would agree. On the one hand, for Aquinas it is precisely its immutability that which gives natural right its divine force. On the other, for Aristotle, it is precisely its being independent of opinion that which makes natural right that which it is; general agreement belongs only to the realm of conventional right. Moreover, to differentiate himself much more profoundly from the Catholic alternative, Marsilius includes under this conception the immutable laws which conform the Decalogue; obligations which are, according to Aquinas, exception-free, such as worshiping God and honouring one’s parents. What I have called the ‘as-if’ argument really gets its name it what follows position based on consent. Marsilius understands natural as being conceivable solely in a “metaphorical” sense. If one is clear about natural right, then one does not delude oneself into really believing it can be taken in the literal sense. Natural right is not univocal but equivocal; it is simply a very good intentioned belief we humans hold on to. It is neither an indemonstrable truth as for Aquinas, nor a real standard as for Aristotle.

It is particularly illuminating in understanding the difference between Marsilius and Aristotle, to look at the example concerning the fact that fire burns equally everywhere. In Marsilius its articulation is completely transformed. And this change points us back to one of the prefatory remarks I made in the introduction, namely, that the non-teleological view of the universe is the view of nature open to us moderns. As Marsilius puts it: “like the acts of natural things NOT having purpose are everywhere the same, such as fire which burns here just as it does in Persia”. Nothing would seem more foreign to the Aristotelian conception of teleological nature. For Marsilius, in a universe devoid of purposefulness, the notion of natural right cannot stem from a consideration of an external order which we seek to understand, and in so doing reach our highest potentialities. (However, it seems clear that Aristotle in his own argumentation did not lay claim to such teleology as grounding his own perspective on natural right).

The second argument, what I have called the ‘plural rationalities argument’, seems once again set primarily against Aquinas’ view of natural right; though it is likewise not wholly in accordance with what Aristotle has told us. As we saw, for Aquinas the force of natural right stemmed from the rational capacity we humans have to be able to recognize and live by the principles revealed to us by God. In stark contrast, Marsilius tells us, quite sure of himself —— he uses the words ‘of course’—- that these rational principles (not to say anything of the divine principles underpinning them), are not at all known to all humans. An affirmation which, for instance would still seem not to preclude the search for evangelization. This is so because with an effort on the part of different missionaries, all of us could be brought to finally see and abide by these standards. However, the ignorance of the ‘correct’ principles, for Marsilius, leads consequently to the much more problematic fact that they are “not admitted by all, and all nations do not concede (them) to be respectable”. Presumably those who do not admit them, as opposed to those who are merely ignorant of them, could also be brought to finally admitting them. But the history which lies behind this procedure, particularly in the case of the Catholic Church, would make us now hesitate over considering such “forceful” transformation. Natural right, and it is noteworthy that nowhere does Marsilius mention the example of the ambidextrous human, would then seem to be inexistent. Consequently, any attempt to judge these different nations would be, if not an unrealistic affair, at least a much more arduous one than either Aquina or Aristotle would allow. For Marsilius what each nation finds respectable, is precisely what each holds to be their view of conventional right. Natural right ceases to exist because as Strauss puts it:

“The effectiveness of general rules depends on their being taught without ifs or buts. But the omission of the qualification which makes the rule —— makes them at the same time untrue. The unqualified rules are not natural right but conventional right” (Strauss, NRH, 158).

Or so it would seem. What Strauss does not mention, though it is striking and reminds us of Aristotle’s ambivalence, is that Marsilius, in the end, pauses to tell us that, for the most part, we can still go on with divine law: “There are also precepts, prohibitions, or permissions in accordance with divine law which agree in this respect with human law, which since they are known in many instances, I have not given examples of for the sake of abbreviating this sermon”. But even at this level one would, following Marsilius own propositions, be led to ask; which set of divine laws are you speaking of?

As has been seen, both Aquinas’ and Marsilius’ interpretations not only stand in conflict with each other, but likewise read into, and suspiciously pass over, central elements of the Aristotelian passage analyzed. Furthermore, as we pointed out, seeking to find a middle road between these alternatives is an entreprise which seems to be blind to the fact that both stand in rather different spaces of inquiry. However Strauss has attempted to move in that direction seeking to avoid the extreme immutability of Aquinas’ position, and the extreme variability of Marsilius’. Briefly put, for Strauss natural right consists in highly particular decisions, taken in concrete circumstances. However this variability of the natural is, as in Aristotle, at the same time accompanied by an underpinning sense of what are the ethical principles: “(for) one can hardly deny that in all concrete decisions general principles are implied and presupposed” (159). An instance in which such concrete and variable decision making becomes evident, lies in those extreme circumstances in which the survival of the political community, the existence of the common good itself, is what is at stake. In such circumstances normality is shaken to the point that what becomes primary, and urgently so, is the very survival of the community itself: “in extreme situations the normally valid rules of natural right are justly changed, or changed in accordance with natural right, the exceptions are as just as the rules” (160) (*20). One could ask, however, are extreme situations the only ones in which natural right, in all its variability, appears? Is its scope then so limited as to become rather secondary? Moreover, in a given community one need ask, who is it precisely that decides what constitutes an extreme situation in which normalcy can be temporarily waived? (*21) What if the regime in question precisely seeks such appeals to set itself as unquestionable?

Strauss acknowledges these difficulties in his distancing himself from the Machiavellian conception of natural right, founded on the extreme situations themselves rather than on the normality which Aristotle takes as starting point. Moreover, Strauss points out to a critical standard which, he holds, holds universally for all conventional right:

“there is a universally valid hierarchy of ends, but there are no universally valid rules of action” (162) ….or elsewhere “the only universally valid standard is the hierarchy of ends. This standard is sufficient for passing judgment of the nobility of individuals and of actions and institutions. But it is insufficient for guiding our actions” (163).

Unlike Aquinas’ position, Strauss’ has the virtue of regaining the fluidity and transformability of natural right which characterized the Aristotelian understanding. Likewise, unlike Marsilius’ alternative it does present us, like Aristotle, with some natural standard which would allow political justice to surge above the ephimerality of conventional right. Moreover, he points to the fact that Aristotle’s hesitations stem from the multiplicity of circumstances in which human beings find themselves throughout their lives. As we saw: “questions of conduct and expedience have as little fixity about them as questions about what is healthful; and if this is true of the general urle, it is still more true that its application to particular problems admits of no precision” (1104a4-9). Furthermore, as in Aristotle the focus too is not primarily on knowing what goodness is, but on learning how to become good human beings (1103b28-9) (a statement qualified for young people in 1095a5 who fail to learn anything from lectures on ethics for they are lead away by their passionate natures into different types of actions).

But, precisely how this hierarchy of ends is to be understood is quite a different problem altogether. As we saw not even Aquinas and Marsilius seemed to be in agreement as to an extremely short passage within Aristotle’s text. Presumably then one cannot claim to have the unique interpretation which will, finally, clarify what counts as constitutive of this hierarchy. How to understand is a contested matter presumably to be cleared by reading and re-reading the text itself. However, let us conclude by saying that an elucidation of this hierarchy must consider different passages in which such a hierarchical structuring takes place. Briefly, some of these are: i) the existence of a hierarchy in the arts which culminates in the architectonic arts, ii) the formulation of happiness as the highest possible end for us humans, end under which all other goods are subordinated, iii) the hierarchical division of the soul into the vegetative, the appetitive and the rational (logos); linked to the corresponding proper function of humans according to rational principle, iv) the hierarchy of goods as found in the tripartite division, goods of the body, external goods, and goods of the soul, v) the hierarchy of different types of lives; the life of business, of enjoyment, of politics and of philosophical contemplation, vi) the hierarchy of the moral virtues, hierarchy in which greatness of soul stands as one of the peaks and finally, vii) the peak which justice represents, one revealing a reconsideration of the moral virtues under the perspective of the good, fundamentally, for the other.

FOOTNOTES

INTRODUCTION

1. This important question is posed by Strauss in his Persecution and the Art of Writing pg 95.

2. Strauss goes on to compare modern relativity to nihilism; though he does not mention that nihilism can be of two very different variants, the active and the passive. Nietzsche, Will to Power #22.

3. Strauss agrees with Taylor here, pg. 164

4. Taylor agrees with Strauss here. Section 3.1

SECTION I

5. Arendt deals with this extremely important difference, between the private and the public, in her The Human Condition.

6. A case in point is that of Charly Garcia, a famous Argentinian rock star, and his reinterpretation of the Argentinian National Anthem in heavy metal form. It shocked many Argentinians.

7. Presumably the important issue of equity, as dealing with the faulty generality of law, would somehow be linked to these particular transformations of the law.

8. Parekh gives examples such as this: “In R v Bibi (1980) the Court of Appeal reduced the imprisonment of a Muslim widow, found guilty of importing cannabis, from three years to 6 months on the ground, that, among other things, she was totally dependent on her brother-in-law and was socialized by her religion into subservience to the male members of her household” (200) Other very interesting and complex examples are given in the readings by Carens (see bibliography).

9. The qualification ‘in relation to us’ has taken place not only concerning ethical inquiry in general (1095b11 ff), but also concerning the mean (1106a30 ff)

10. It is interesting to note that under Catholicism the left hand has had a rather unfortunate history. This is more salient in the Spanish words siniestra, the left, and diestra, the right. Siniestra has altogether negative connotations just as sinister does in English.

11. Aquinas gives an example of humans having by nature two feet; this of course is not the Aristotelian example precisely because it does not deal with the transformability of the natural.

12. The connection here between this example and the always elusive issue of health as regards justice (see chapter 1) I believe is there, though I do not quite know how to articulate it fully at the moment.

13. That these matters make a difference can be seen, for instance, if one asks somebody used to one of the given measurements to imagine the other. If somebody asked me, for instance, the altitude of Santafé de Bogotá in feet, I would be at a loss as to what to answer. Though I know, and was brought up to memorize as a child, the corresponding measure in meters.

14. This looking at actual real cases is what lies behind Carens’ appeal to differentiating between policy making and philosophical comprehension, or between idealistic and realistic approaches to politics. He asks one to, rather than staying at one of the extremes. move towards a form of reflexive equilibrium. On a different note, the passage which ends the chapter to be analyzed was left on the side primarily because of the difficulty in viewing how to link it to the whole discussion. Is there such a connection?

SECTION II

15. Of course in modern geometry Euclid’s axioms are only a set of the possible starting points. Conventionality has reached even such indemonstrable truths for us moderns.

16. Kantian ethics is too permeated by this rigidity, primarily as regards its distinction between the moral and the non-moral spheres. There is a sharp line differentiating both.

17. Strauss gives the example of espionage. pg 160

18. Socrates “tricks” Thrasymachus into assuming a natural standard which he himself did not hold by way of his definition of justice with reference to the strongest.

19. The question as to whether one can return to the Greeks, having had 2000 years of Catholic tradition, is a difficult one. One can see he ambivalence in poems such as Rimbaud’s nostalgic Soleil et Chair.

20. The extreme situation for the individual is presented by Aristotle in 1100b31 ff.

21. In Colombia, where I was born, there is such a law which is called “Ley de Conmocion Interior”. It can be set in place when the public order is imperiled; as it has happened many times happens under the Colombian reality, one of a weak form of democracy (some would argue an oligarchy). But it is limited to a 3 month period of application; presumably so that the exception does not become the satte of normalcy. But also so that the government does not use it to further its own objectives. Under this law for instance military officials require no warrants in the persecution of criminals. However the governement has used it, I believe, as a weapon to fight matters which go beyond the defense of the public realm; or at least as a substitute for other measures which would go to the heart of the violence and poverty which permeates everyday reality.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

A) Primary Sources

Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1rst 1894, 20th 1988, Edited by I. Bywater.

Aristotle, The Ethics of Aristotle, Penguin Books, London, 1rst- 1953, 1988. Translated by J.A.K. Thomson.

B) Secondary Sources

Carens, Joseph, “Complex Justice, Cultural Difference and Political Community”

——– “Realistic and Idealistic Approaches to the Ethics of Migration”

——– “Democracy and Respect for Difference”

Course Handouts:

——Aquinas, Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics, 1018-1032

——Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. 5, chap 7 9113418-35a15)

——Marsilius of Padua, Defender of Peace, Discourse 2, Chap 12, sec 7-9

Parekh, Bikhu, “British Citizenship and Cultural Difference”, in Geoff Andrews (de.) Citizenship, Lawrence and Wishart, London, pp.  183-204.

Strauss, Leo, Natural Right and History, University of Chicago Press, “Introduction“ and “Classical Natural Right”, pp.  156-164.

——- Persecution and the Art of Writing, pp.  95-98

Taylor, Charles, Sources of the Self, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1990.