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Full text of "The Open Society And Its Enemies Popper, Karl Sir"
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The Open Society and Its Enemies

' . . . a work of first-class importance which ought to be widely read for its
masterly criticism of the enemies of democracy, ancient and modem. . . .
The book is a vigorous and profound defence of democracy, timely, very
interesting, and very well written. '

Bertrand Russell

'One of the great books of the century'

The Times

' . . . a modern classic'

The Independent

'Few philosophers. . . have combined such a vast width of knowledge with
the capacity to produce important original ideas as he did. '

The Guardian

' . . . a powerful and important book. Dr Popper writes with extreme clarity
and vigour. His studies in Greek history and Greek thought have
obviously been profound and original. Platonic exegesis will never be the
same again. Nor, I think, will Marxist exegesis.'

Gilbert Ryle

'... a brilliant polemic... It remains the best intellectual defence of

liberal democracy against know-it-all totalitarianism.'

The Economist

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Karl
Popper

The Open Society and Its Enemies

With a preface by Vaclav Havel

" London and New York

First published in two volumes in 1945
by Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd

Second edition 1952
Third edition 1957
Fourth edition 1962

Both volumes pubhshed in paperback 1962 by Routledge
Fifth edition 1966

One-volume hardback edition published 2002

First pubhshed in Routledge Classics 201 1
by Routledge

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-415-61021-6 (pbk)
Typeset in Joanna

by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk

Contents

FOREWORD

PREFACE: ^KARL POPPERS S THE OPEN SOCIETY AND ITS ENEMIES
IN THE CONTEMPORARY GLOBAL WORLD^ BY VACLAV
HAVEL

TERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PUBLICATION OF THE

OPEN SOCIETY BY E. H. GOMBRICH
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
INTRODUCTION

VOLUME I: THE SPELL OF PLATO
The Myth of Origin and Destiny

1 Historicism and the Myth of Destiny

2 Heraclitus

3 Plato's Theory of Forms or Ideas
Plato's Descriptive Sociology

4 Change and Rest

5 Nature and Convention

Plato's Political Programme

6 Totalitarian Justice

7 The Principle of Leadership

8 The Philosopher King

9 Aestheticism. Perfectionism. Utopianism

The Background of Plato's Attack

10 The Open Society and Its Enemies
Addenda (1957. 1961, 1965)

VOLUME II: THE HIGH TIDE OF PROPHECY
The Rise of Oracular Philosophy

1 1 The Aristotelian Roots of Hegelianism

12 Hegel and the New Tribalism

Marx's Method

13 Marx's Sociological Determinism

14 The Autonomy of Sociology

15 Economic Historicism

16 The Classes

17 The Legal and the Social System
Marx's Prophecy

18 The Coming of Socialism

19 The Social Revolution

20 Capitalism and its Fate

2 1 An Evaluation of the Prophecy

Marx's Ethics

22 The Moral Theory of Historicism
The Aftermath

23 The Sociology of Knowledge

24 Oracular Philosophy and the Revolt against Reason

Conclusion

25 Has History any Meaning?
Addenda (1961, 1965)

NOTES

NOTES TO VOLUME I
NOTES TO VOLUME II
INDEX

Foreword

Karl Raimund Popper (1902-1994) was born in Vienna, and was a student
at the University there throughout the 1920s. His early thinking was
influenced by the activities of the communists and the Social Democratic
party, by his work with the psychoanalyst Alfred Adler, by Eddington's
eclipse experiment to test Einstein's general theory of relativity, and later
by his acquaintance with members of the Vienna Circle. Though never a
member of the Circle, and usually in sharp disagreement with their main
doctrines, he shared their enthusiasm for science and for logic. Replacing
their verifiability criterion of meaning with the falsifiability criterion of
demarcation of empirical science, he put forward a solution to Hume's
problem of induction. More generally, he proposed an anti-authoritarian
approach to human knowledge, in which criticism is stressed and
justification abandoned.

The application of these ideas from the theory of knowledge to
political thought resulted in the two volumes of The Open Society and Its
Enemies. The book was completed while Popper was a Senior Lecturer at
Canterbury University College in Christchurch, New Zealand, where he
had taken up a post in 1937 in order to escape National Socialism, soon to
overpower not only Austria but most of Europe.

The Open Society and Its Enemies champions the cause of democracy,
which it shows to be the only form of government in which human reason
can prevail and non-violent reform can take place. Popper launched a
merciless attack on those he saw as the greatest enemies of democracy:
Plato, Marx and Hegel.

Volume I is concerned with The Spell of Plato. Popper vigorously
argued that Plato was guilty of the 'dangerous habit of historical
prophecy' and that his political thought was totalitarian in nature.
Volume II critiques Marx and Hegel. By analysing their work, Popper
was able to expand his theory of the connection between historicism and
totalitarianism which he found equally repugnant as obstacles both to the
rule of democracy and of reason.

Popper later called this book his 'war work'. It was published in 1945
just as the Marxist regimes of Eastern Europe were being installed. Its
author became something of a hero to dissidents in the communist
countries, and despite his forceful rejection of the idea that the course of
human history can be foretold, his work was hailed as prophetic when the
communist regimes collapsed in the early 1990s. A Russian translation
was published in 1992 and became a best-seller. The political stance of
the book, though fundamentally in the social democratic tradition, has
been endorsed by many conservative politicians in Britain and Europe.
Popper himself steadfastly refused identification with any political party.

In his later work. Popper returned to problems in the theory of
knowledge, the philosophy of science and many other areas. Up until his
death he continued to reflect on the Greek philosophers from the
PreSocratics onwards; the treatment of Plato (as also of Hegel and Marx)
sprang from the deepest roots of his thinking.

Karl Popper received many academic and other honours; he was
knighted in 1965 and created Companion of Honour in 1982. His books
have been translated into over thirty languages. Many of his papers,
lectures and correspondence are being prepared for publication through
Routledge.

Preface

Karl Popper's The Open Society and
Its Enemies in the contemporary

global world-

Vdclav Havel

Some time ago a wise old man came to see me in Prague and I listened to
him with admiration. Shortly afterwards I heard that this man had died.
His name was Karl Popper. He was a world traveller who followed the
biggest war ever waged by humankind - the war unleashed by the tribal
fury of Nazi ideology - from this country, from New Zealand. It was here
that he thought about the state of the world, and it was here that he wrote
his most important books. Undoubtedly influenced by the harmonious co-
existence of people of different cultures on these islands, he posed the
question why it was so difficult for the idea of an open society to prevail
against wave after wave of tribalism, and inquired into the spiritual
background of all enemies of open society and into the patterns of their
thinking.

One of the targets of Popper's profound criticism - which he supported
by ample evidence - was a phenomenon he called holistic social
engineering. He used this term to describe human attempts to change the

world for the better completely and globally, on the basis of some
preconceived ideology that purported to understand all the laws of
historical development and to describe inclusively, comprehensively and
holistically a state of affairs that would be the ultimate realization of
these laws. Popper clearly demonstrated that this pattern of human
thinking and behaviour can only lead to a totalitarian system.

I come from a country that lived under a Communist regime for
several decades. On the basis of my own experience, I can therefore
confirm that Sir Karl Popper was right. In the beginning was an allegedly
scientific theory of historical laws; that Marxist theory subsequently gave
rise to the Communist Utopia, the vision of a paradise on Earth, and the
latter eventually produced the gulags, the endless suffering of many
nations, the endless violation of the human being. Anything that in any
way opposed the vision of the world offered by Communism, thus calling
that vision into question or actually proving it wrong, was mercilessly
crushed. Needless to say, life, with its unfathomable diversity and
unpredictability, never allowed itself to be squeezed into the crude
Marxist cage. All that the guardians of the cage could do was to suppress
and destroy whatever they could not make fit into it. Ultimately, war had
to be declared on life itself and its innermost essence. I could give you
thousands of concrete examples of how all the natural manifestations of
life were stifled in the name of an abstract, theoretical vision of a better
world. It was not just that there were what we call human rights abuses.
This enforced vision led to the moral, political and economic devastation
of all of society.

Instead of such holistic engineering. Popper argued for a gradual
approach, an effort to improve incrementally the institutions,
mechanisms and techniques of human coexistence, to improve them by
remaining constantly in touch with life and constantly enriching our
experience. Improvements and changes must be made according to

whatever has proved to be good, practical, desirable and meaningful,
without the arrogant presumption that we have understood ever)^hing
about this world, and thus know everything there is to know about how to
change it for the better.

In my country, one of the understandable reactions to the tragic
experience of Communism is the opinion we sometimes encounter that
man should, if possible, refrain altogether from changing or ameliorating
the world, from devising long-range concepts, strategic plans or visions.
All this is seen as part of the armoury of holistic social engineering. This
opinion, of course, is a grave error. Paradoxically, it has much in
common with the fatalism Popper finds in those who believe they have
grasped the laws of history and that they serve those laws. This fatalism
takes the form of the peculiar idea that society is no more than a machine
that, once properly set in motion, can then run on its own, automatically
and permanently.

I am opposed to holistic social engineering. I refuse, however, to pour
out the baby with the bath water and I am a long way from thinking that
people should give up altogether on a constant search for ways of
improving the world in which they must live together. It must be done
even though they may never achieve more than partial improvements in
particular areas, will always have to wait to see whether the change was
the right thing to do, and must always be prepared to rectify whatever life
has shown to be wrong.

Recently I expressed this opinion in the presence of a philosopher
friend of mine. He looked somewhat puzzled at first, and then began
trying to persuade me of something I have never denied, that the world, in
its very essence, is a holistic entity; that everything in it is
interconnected; that whatever we do in any one place has an
unfathomable impact everywhere, though we may not see the whole of it;
that even the post-modern science of these days supplies evidence of that.

With this remark, my friend has compelled me to supplement what I
said, and perhaps even what Popper wrote. Yes, it is true that society -
the world, the universe, being itself - is a deeply mysterious
phenomenon, held together by billions of mysterious interconnections.
Knowing all this and humbly accepting it is one thing; the arrogant belief
that humanity, or the human spirit or reason, can grasp and describe the
world in its entirety and derive from this description a vision of its
improvement is something else altogether. It is one thing to be aware of
the interconnection of all events; believing that we have fully understood
this is something completely different.

In other words: I believe, as Popper does, that neither politicians, nor
scientists, nor entrepreneurs, nor anyone else should fall for the vain
belief that they can grasp the world as a whole and change it as a whole
by one single action. Seeking to improve it, people should proceed with
utmost caution and sensitivity, on a step-by-step basis, always paying
attention to what each change actually brings about. At the same time,
however, I believe - possibly differing from Popper's views to some
extent - that as they do so, they should constantly bear in mind all the
global interrelations that they are aware of, and know that beyond their
knowledge there exists an infinitely wider range of interrelations. My
relatively brief sojourn in the realm of so-called high politics convinces
me time and again of the need to take this very approach: most of the
threats hanging over the world now, as well as many of the problems
confronting it, could be handled much more effectively if we were able to
see past the ends of our noses and take into consideration, to some extent
at least, the broader interconnections that go beyond the scope of our
immediate or group interests. This awareness, of course, should never
become an arrogant Utopian conviction that we alone possess the whole
truth about these interconnections. On the contrary, it should emanate
from a deep and humble respect for them and for their mysterious order.

My country is now witnessing a debate about the role of intellectuals:
about how important or how dangerous they are, about the degree to
which they can be independent, about how much or in what ways they
should become engaged in politics. At times, the debate has been
confused, partly because the word 'intellectual' means different things to
different people. This is closely related to what I have just said here.

Let me try - just for the moment - to define an intellectual. To me, an
intellectual is a person who has devoted his or her life to thinking in more
general terms about the affairs of this world and the broader context of
things. Of course, it is not only intellectuals who do this. Intellectuals,
however, do it - if I may use the word - professionally. That is, their
principal occupation is studying, reading, teaching, writing, publishing,
addressing the public. Often - though certainly not always! - this makes
them more receptive toward more general issues; often - though by far
not always! - it leads them to embrace a broader sense of responsibility
for the state of the world and its future.

If we accept this definition of an intellectual, then it will come as no
surprise that many an intellectual has done a great deal of harm to the
world. Taking an interest in the world as a whole and feeling an increased
sense of responsibility for it, intellectuals often yield to the temptation to
attempt grasping the world as a whole, explaining it entirely and offering
universal solutions to its problems. An impatience of mind and a variety
of mental short-cuts are the usual reasons why intellectuals tend to devise
holistic ideologies and succumb to the seductive power of holistic social
engineering. For that matter - were not the forerunners of Nazi ideology,
the founders of Marxism, and the first Communist leaders intellectuals
par excellence? Did not a number of dictators, and even some terrorists -
from the leaders of the former German Red Brigades to Pol Pot start off
as intellectuals? Not to mention the many intellectuals who, though they
neither created nor introduced dictatorships, time and again failed to

stand up to them because they were more than others prone to accept the
delusion that there was a universal key to eliminating human woes. It was
to describe this phenomenon that the expression trahison des clercs - 'the
betrayal of the intellectuals' - was coined. The many different anti-
intellectual campaigns in my country have always supported their case
with reference to this type of intellectual. And it is from there that they
derive their belief that an intellectual is a biological species dangerous to
humankind.

Those who claim this are committing an error very similar to the one
committed by those whose utter rejection of socialist planning leads them
to reject any conceptual thinking whatsoever.

It would be nonsense to believe that all intellectuals have succumbed
to utopianism or holistic engineering. A great number of intellectuals
both past and present have done precisely what I think should be done:
they have perceived the broader context, seen things in more global
terms, recognized the mysterious nature of globality and humbly deferred
to it. Their increased sense of responsibility for this world has not made
such intellectuals identify with an ideology; it has made them identify
with humanity, its dignity and its prospects. These intellectuals build
people-to-people solidarity. They foster tolerance, struggle against evil
and violence, promote human rights and argue for their indivisibility. In a
word, they represent what has been called 'the conscience of society'.
They are not indifferent when people in an unknown country on the other
side of the planet are annihilated, or when children starve there, nor are
they unconcerned about global warming and whether future generations
will be able to lead an endurable life. They care about the fate of virgin
forests in faraway places, about whether or not humankind will soon
destroy all its non-renewable resources or whether a global dictatorship
of advertisement, consumerism and blood-and-thunder stories on TV will
ultimately lead the human race to a state of complete idiocy.

And where do intellectuals stand in relation to politics? There have
been many misunderstandings about that, too. My opinion is simple:
when meeting with Utopian intellectuals, we should make every effort not
to give in to their siren calls. If they enter politics, we should believe
them even less. The other type of intellectuals - those who know about
the ties that link everything in this world together, who approach the
world with humility, but also with an increased sense of responsibility,
who wage a struggle for every good thing - should be listened to with the
greatest attention, regardless of whether they work as independent critics,
holding up a much needed mirror to politics and power, or are directly
involved in politics. These two roles are very different from each other.
But while this is clearly so, it does not follow that we should bar such
intellectuals from the realm of politics on the pretext that they only
belong at universities or in the media. On the contrary: I am deeply
convinced that the more such people engage directly in practical politics,
the better our world will fare. By its very essence, politics induces those
who work in it to focus their attention on short-term issues that have a
direct bearing on the next elections instead of on what will happen a
hundred years from now. It compels them to pursue group interests rather
than the interests of the human community as a whole, to say things that
please everyone and not those which people are not so happy to hear, to
treat even truth itself with caution. But this is not a sign that intellectuals
have no place in politics. It is instead a challenge to draw into it as many
of them as possible. After all, who is better equipped to decide about the
fate of this globally interconnected civilization than someone who is
most keenly aware of these interconnections, who pays the greatest
regard to them, who takes the most responsible attitude toward the world
as a whole?

Note

The Chancellor's Lecture for 1995, Stout Research Centre, Victoria University of
Wellington, New Zealand. Given on the occasion of the visit of Vaclav Havel, the former
President of the Czech Republic, to the University to receive an Honorary Doctorate of
Literature. 1995 was the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of The Open Society and Its
Enemies.

Personal Recollections of the
Publication of The Open Society-

E. H. Gombrich

Karl Popper's two- volume work The Open Society and Its Enemies was
published fifty years ago. It stands to reason that this happy event was
preceded by a long period of preparation and uncertainty. In fact the
publication took two-and-a-half years from the moment that he sent the
manuscript from New Zealand to wartime England, and by that time, he
and his wife were on the boat taking them to London to start a new life
here at the LSE.

Though all this is by now very long ago, fortunately I need not rely on
my memory of these events, because I was personally much involved, and
hence the recipient of any number of letters which I naturally kept.
During most of the war such air letters from overseas were miniaturized
to save space and weight, and I have no less than ninety-five such
aerogramme forms in addition to other communications relating to his
job here at the LSE. They make fascinating reading, and all I can try is to
give you samples of these surviving documents.

But first a few words about the background. Popper was seven years
my senior, and though I had heard of him in my native Vienna, we only
met very fleetingly. It so happened that my father, who was a solicitor,
had spent the statutory years of his apprenticeship with Karl's father, who

was also a lawyer, and they must have kept in touch, for Karl mentioned
in one of his letters how helpful my father had been at the time after
Karl's father had died.

In any case, our friendship only dates from the spring of 1936 when I
was a junior research fellow at the Warburg Institute, and he came to this
country at the invitation of Susan Stebbing. One of our joint
acquaintances must have given him my address. We both lived in horrible
bedsitters in the Paddington area, and we met with increasing frequency. I
still remember having been incautious enough to mention that I had read
a pamphlet by Rudolf Carnap on the question of other minds, and found it
interesting. Karl was visibly distressed. "I am greatly disappointed that
you found that interesting," he said, and from then on I remained a little
selective in what I told him.

In 1936 I was twenty-seven and Popper thirty-four. My wife and I
visited him and his wife Hennie during a stay in Vienna, and we also saw
them during the few days they again spent in London in 1937, before
sailing to New Zealand, which was then, as Hennie once wrote "halfway
to the moon."

After the outbreak of the war in 1939, I joined the Listening Post, or
Monitoring Service, of the BBC. I remember writing to Karl, possibly
before that date, but I do not think I received an answer.

Then in May 1943, when the BBC had moved to Reading, I got a letter
from him dated 16 April, the first of the ninety- five; it turned out later
that Karl had had no idea where I lived, and only got my address almost
fortuitously, thanks to a common acquaintance. And so begins the saga of
the book, intertwined with that of his Readership here for which Hayek
had asked him to apply.

"Dear Ernst" the letter began:

I have not heard from you for a long time and I was very glad to get your cable. I very much
hope that all is well with you and your family. The reason why you have not heard from us

is that I have been writing a book. The manuscript is finished; its title is "A Social
Philosophy for Everyman." (It has about 700 pages i.e. about 280.000 words.) I believe that
the book is topical and its publication urgent - if one can say such a thing at a time when
only one thing is really important, the winning of the war. The book is a new philosophy of
politics and of history, and an examination of the principles of democratic reconstruction. It
also tries to contribute to an understanding of the totalitarian revolt against civilization, and
to show that this is as old as our democratic civilization itself.

Let me pause here for a moment to allow Popper's own description of his
book to sink in: that the totalitarian revolt against civilization is as old as
our democratic civilization itself.

I feel that too many readers of the book were either dazzled or irritated
by its lengthy polemics and all but missed the central point of the
argument. The book offers an explanatory hypothesis for the persistent
hostility to the open society. Totalitarian ideologies are interpreted as
reactions to what is described as the strain of civilization, or the sense of
drift which is associated with the transition from the closed tribal
societies of the past to the individualistic civilization that originated in
Athens in the fifth century B.C.

You may call it a psychological diagnosis, though Karl might not have
accepted this description without qualification. In any case, I must return
to his letter:

In view of the immense postal and other difficulties it is absolutely impossible to send the
book from here to a publisher and have it sent back if it is rejected; for that would mean
anything up to one year's delay in case of one rejection. This is why I need somebody in
England who sends the MS to the various publishers . . .

On 28 April, having received my consent, he sent me the manuscript,
together with a letter and other material.

I am ashamed that I have not written to you for such a long time ... I cannot tell you how
much it means to me that you are there and will look after the manuscript. You have no idea
how completely hopeless and isolated one often feels in my situation . . . But I must tell you
what happened so far to the book since I finished it in October [1942]. I had heard that the

paper shortage was less pressing in USA; also, the distance is smaller. For these reasons I
sent a copy to the USA branch of Macmillan (which, I gather, is quite independent of the
English Macmillan). At the same time I wrote to the only friend I had in the USA of whose
address I was sure, asking him to act on my behalf. Macmillan turned the book down
without even having read it. And this is more or less all I know after 6 months! My friend
unfortunately seems to have done absolutely nothing although he had very full instructions.
He did not even bother to write before February 16th, acknowledging the receipt of the MS
which he got in December! And in this acknowledgment he wrote nothing about what he
had done (because he had done nothing and obviously he is not going to do anything); he
only congratulates me to [sic] my effort in writing such a big book. I don't blame him much,
after all, it isn't his book, but you can understand what it means to get such a completely
empty letter after waiting for six months!

The situation is really rather dreadfiil. I feel that if one has written a book one ought not to
be forced to go begging to have it read, and printed.

From later conversations I know, of course, who that unreliable friend
was, but I am not going to reveal his name. It turns out not to have been
quite true that he did absolutely nothing. Feeling quite helpless with such
a work which was far removed from his field, he sent it to a well-known
professor of Political Science, at one of the ivy league universities. After
a time the manuscript was returned to him, with a note saying that it was
impossible to advocate the publication of a book which speaks so
disrespectfully of Plato.

In the parcel which I received I found a carefully drafted letter which
Karl wanted me to send to publishers, together with the manuscript.
There were another formidable three pages with the heading: "What 1
should like you to do,'' giving a list of seventeen publishers with their
addresses in the order of desirability. There are eighteen points of
instructions, some with sub-headings a) b) c), but let me just quote item
five: "I enclose two different title pages: 'A Social Philosophy For
Everyman' and 'A Critique of Political Philosophy' . . . The reason why I
have two different titles is that I am not quite satisfied with either. What
would you say to 'A Social Philosophy For Our Time'? (Too
pretentious?)"

On 4 May, Karl wrote another lengthy letter revising the order of
publishers. Up to that point we had very little idea of how the Poppers
were actually living in New Zealand, but on 29 July Hennie sent us a very
lively three-page letter from which I want to quote a few passages:

We live in a suburb on the hills with a very beautiful view across Christchurch and the
Canterbury plains. The climate is as nearly perfect as things in this world can be, very long
summers with an abundance of sunshine; ... It gets frightfully dry ... and the raising of
vegetables is not quite easy. I try hard in the little time I have and from October till March
we eat only "homegrown" vegetables, mainly peas, beans, potatoes, carrots, spinach,
silverbeet, lettuce and tomatoes. It is really never quite sufficient, but we have to make the
best of it. The rest of the year we live chiefly on a carrot and rice diet, for economy's sake.
Karl's salary was never adequate and is now less so than ever . . . During term-time Karl can
only work at the week ends, but during the summer holidays he worked literally 24 hours a
day. For the last three or four months he was in a state of almost complete exhaustion; he
hardly went to bed because he could not sleep . . . Karl finished just two days before College
started again. On both days which remained from our "holiday" we went to the sea and ate
as many icecreams as we could (I had planned it long ago that we would celebrate the end
with eating as many icecreams as we wanted).

Poor Hennie! - What she does not say in this letter is how hard she had
to work on the book and the correspondence, almost day and night. At a
much later date [24 October 1944], she wrote to us: "This isn't a proper
letter at all, I'm just rattling it off on the typewriter ... of course, 'rattling
it off is terribly exaggerated - I'm the worst possible typist, and the
more distance I gain from the last nightmare years of typing, the less I
can understand how on earth I managed it." Let me add, by way of
explanation, that Karl always wrote by hand, in the fluent, lucid script of
a former schoolteacher. I could not but smile when I saw an item in
Sotheby's catalogue photographed and described as "Popper's
typewriter." I very much doubt that Karl ever touched its keyboard. He
left it to Hennie, in what she described as the nightmare years, to type and
retype countless versions and revisions. Not that Karl was not utterly
devoted to her. He suffered agonies when she was ill. But he was

convinced that the importance of his work had always to override his own
comfort, that of Hennie, and possibly also my own, as the future was to
show.

Meanwhile, on 19 August I received a long letter dealing with some
critical remarks which he had encouraged me to make on reading the
book, for instance: "I fully agree with your remark that the humanitarian
democratic creed of the West is historically and emotionally based on
Christianity. But this fact has no bearing on my theory, as far as I can see.
Or has it?" I must have expostulated to him that he ridiculed Hegel, but
did not say a word about Schopenhauer, and he replied:

Although Schopenhauer was a reactionary, egoistically concerned only with the safety of his
investments (he openly acknowledges this), his absolute intellectual integrity is beyond
doubt. To be sure, his "Will" is not better than Hegel's "Spirit." But what Schopenhauer
says, and how he says it, sufficiently proves that he was an honest thinker; he did all he
could to make himself understood. Hegel did not intend to be understood; he wanted to
impress, to dazzle his readers. Schopenhauer always wrote sense, and sometimes excellent
sense; his Critique of Kant's philosophy is one of the most lucid and worthwhile
philosophical writings ever published in the German language. A reactionary may be
perfectly honest. But Hegel was dishonest.

I must not give the impression, however, that this correspondence
frequently turned on philosophical issues. Perhaps there was only one
other occasion, when I sent him Arthur Waley's Three Ways of Thought
in Ancient China, because I had been struck by certain similarities
between his analysis of the Greek situation and that described by Waley.
Popper responded by writing that he "had always been much attracted by
the Chinese, but always felt diffident concerning the possibility of a
proper interpretation, considering how much Plato, for example, has been
misinterpreted in spite of the fact that his thought and language has
immediately influenced our own." This remained his attitude. It was
never easy to interest him in the ideas of other civilizations because he
felt he lacked their context.

And now for the other theme of this symphony. On 9 December 1943
he wrote: "A few days ago I got a truly overpowering airgraph from
Hayek, whose indefatigable kindness to me promises no less than to
change the whole course of my life." Hayek had been asked to find out
whether Karl would accept a Readership at the LSE. Since the post had to
be advertised, Hayek advised Karl "to instruct your friend who is acting
for you over here, to apply in your name when such an advertisement is
published, and to supply him for that purpose with all the usual
information "- Now my poor dear friend who is acting for me over
there," Karl continued, "you see that I have, indeed, no choice: I must
trouble you again, much as I should like to spare you." Four days later
Karl wrote:

We are of course terribly excited, and shaken up in consequence of Hayek's airgraph
concerning the LSE readership. I do not think that I shall get it, owing to the fact that I have
so few publications; but if I don't get it, we shall be, of course, disappointed, much as we try
to fortify ourselves against such a development. I was so nicely working along with a new
paper on probability, and now: "My peace is gone, my heart is heavy." Don't think that I am
ungrateful. Nobody can feel more strongly than I feel about Hayek. He must have worked
for me like anything. And the moral effect of this on me is, of course, tremendous.

In consequence I received more instructions from Karl, his CV, a list
of references, and texts and testimonials he had previously had. I also
received, then or a little later, two and a half folio pages with comments
on the notes of the book. Karl realized, of course, that the notes seemed
excessively long and complex, and I had also made certain suggestions.
Needless to say he tried to prove that the arrangement he had chosen was
the only possible one:

I have most carefully constructed the text in such a way that it is absolutely self-contained
for a reader who simply belongs to the educated public, and who has no scientific axe to
grind. There is nothing in the text that is hard to understand without the notes. I have spent
immense labour on this point.

His comments, in fact, revealed, if that is the word, the importance
Karl attached to his book:

I am ... definitely against cuts. I believe that the book is of sufficient value to be sometimes
a trifle less brief than it might be possible to make it. / do not know any work of which one
could not say the same, often in a much higher degree. The book is written with unusual
care; I know hardly anybody who is so scrupulous and conscientious in all details as I am;
with the effect that, as everybody admits at once, the book achieves a rare degree of lucidity
and simplicity; and this in a book which is, as you will admit, thronged with thoughts on
every single page. I entirely reject the contention that there is the slightest intrinsic reason for
cuts. The extrinsic reason that the book is a very long book, I admit. But since ordinary
intelligent people have read through the text in one week-end, it cannot be too long. And
regarding the prospect of selling a long book: the ordinary intelligent man does not like to
be treated as illiterate or as an imbecile. He is ready, and even proud, to buy a thick book ...
I know there is no page in the book which is not full with worthwhile thoughts. This cannot
be said of so very many books.

He was surely right. And now the period began when he kept sending
me revisions and changes to be made to his manuscript. He was still very
uncertain about the best title, and asked, on the 22nd: "What do you think
of 'The Open Society and its Enemies' or of 'A Social Philosophy for our
Time'? which latter title is of course, very pretentious."

The winter and spring of 1943 and 1944 I had to report to him many
disappointments, and a number of publishers who had rejected the book. I
believe that is a story that can be told of many important books, but here I
can document it. However, in February 1944, I got a letter from Herbert
Read, then a director of Routledge, reporting that Hayek had sent him
Karl's manuscript. "I am enormously impressed by it, but before
presenting a case to my colleagues I should be glad if you would kindly
give me a little more information about the author." This I did, and
Herbert Read acknowledged it gratefully.

Karl received the contract from Routledge in April 1944, but he
instantly began to worry about the US copyright. And now he began to
rewrite the book, and I was charged with applying these corrections to the

manuscript. It is true that I had his approval to engage somebody to help,
an approval which was very necessary, because, after all, I had to do my
own work. For instance, on 30 April, he announced that he was sending
"by the same mail eleven other airgraphs containing the corrections.
They look more than they are," writes Karl, but to me they seemed quite
sufficient. He expressed the hope that nobody would touch his text,
confirming what I have also experienced: "I have only too often found
that corrections made matters worse. To be sure, any suggestion for a
correction proves that something is not quite in order; but only too often
the remedy turns out to be worse than the original mistake." On 4
September he announced in addition that he had completely rewritten
chapter 17, which duly arrived. I hope I may quote a fuller sample of the
type of letters which arrived so frequently:

In my typed airgraph of today, I mentioned that, as far as Ch. 12 is concerned, only the
Section Number Corrections have first priority. I now wish to amend this: there is also a
false quotation which is important to replace. It is the quotation on MS p.281, from "Hence"
in line 5 to the end of paragraph in line 7. - I suggest to correct these lines in accordance
with my "Corr. to Ch. 12", Airgraph 4. This however would imply that the passage on p.
281 is replaced by one that is about 2 lines longer. If this creates difficulties, then I suggest
to replace the "Hence ..." passage by the following of about equal length: + + States may
enter into agreements, but they are superior to agreements (i.e., they may break them). + + In
this case, it would suffice to amend the corresponding Note 72 simply by replacing, in line 3
of this note, "336" by + + 330 + +. If, however, there was room enough for using my
original correction to p.281, the "336" should be replaced by + + 330 + + and 333 + +. - Of
course, if the full corrections of Airgraphs 1 to 11(?) can be used, then Note 72 should be
corrected in accordance with Airgraph 9.

No wonder he wrote: "it will be a colossal job for everybody concerned.
It was a colossal job here and I was (and am) very ill while doing it. The
doctor has strictly forbidden any work, and I am, of course, now
absolutely down again."

Around that time there occurred an episode which is not recorded in
the correspondence, and for which I shall have to rely on my memory. It

happened when Routledge decided to publish the book in two volumes, an
idea which, of course, much agitated Karl; all the more as it was mooted
that paper shortage might necessitate publishing the second volume after
a time interval. It was during these discussions that I sent a cable to Karl
from our village post office: "Routledges [sic] want division after
Chapter 10." A few hours later I was summoned to the post office and
asked to explain what it all meant. The word "division" had alerted a
censor who thought, of course, of army divisions. Luckily I was believed.

Another complication was that Karl received a number of offers from
other universities in New Zealand and Australia, and naturally did not
want to give up the chance of London, but needed badly to get a decision.
In October he reports on

two important articles ... "Private and Public Values," the other "The Refutation of
Determinism." A third one, under the title "The Logic of Freedom" is probably too long for
being tackled during the vacations. When these three articles are finished, I intend to give up
political philosophy, and to return to practical methodology, especially of the natural
sciences. Last year I finished some papers on mathematical logic which I did not try to
publish so far because of their length. If possible, I should like to cut them now. This is my
working programme. Apart from that, I want to do some music. We have not been able to
afford a piano here; I had a beautiful Boesendorfer in Vienna, and I could not bring myself
to buying a very bad piano; besides, even the worst ones cost more than we could afford. So
I bought a harmonium for £3-10-0; I repaired it, and it is not so bad, but I am getting
hungry for a piano. I have had very little time for playing.

Meanwhile he was even more impatient to receive a binding promise
of a publication date from Routledge. All this was mixed up with the
worries about the various offers of a post. In one of his letters he wrote:

You kindly advise me to prefer Otago to Perth, in spite of the Cangeroos [sic]. But I think
you don't really know enough of Australia by far: the nicest animal there (and perhaps the
loveliest animal that exists) is the Koala bear. Cangeroos may be nice, but the opportunity of
seeing a Koala bear is worth putting up with anything, and it is without reservation my
strongest motive in wishing to go to Australia.

In April 1945 another cloud appeared on the horizon. I had to write to
him that Hayek was going to the United States for a period, and Karl
wrote, characteristically, "As you say yourself, the whole affair is pretty
awful; and so is the fact that 18 days after you sent your letter, the
registrar of London University has not yet answered you." He was eager
to leave Canterbury, for though he had many admirers and friends among
his colleagues, the head of his department had all but persecuted him. It
was reported to Karl that he had once said: "We know that he is too good
for this place. This we cannot help; and nobody will hold him if he goes
elsewhere." "The main fact", Karl explained, in a letter of 9 April,

is the presence of somebody who works hard and endangers certain accepted standards. I
mean standards of relaxation (all chairs are easy chairs). These difficulties have much
increased by the writing of a book, and still more, of course, by the delay in its publication.
- I am terribly sorry to hear that you feel so exhausted. But I can well understand it. I long to
hear you speak of your experiences, and of what you have learned during these years. (Will
it ever be? I am nearly 43 now, and if I don't manage to see you before I am 45, I may
never have the opportunity: I don't think that anybody would import to England a lecturer
over the age of 45 . . .).

Though I know the time is getting on, I really must quote for you the
whole story of how Karl received the news of his appointment, as he told
in his letter of 12 June 1945:

During the whole of April I was ill again. I am now always getting such terrible colds -
starting with a very sore throat, and developing in all directions. I was very weak. My doctor
insisted that I should go to the mountains during the May vacations and we went both to the
Hermitage, at the foot of Mt Cook (the highest mountain here). I was first pretty miserable
there, but after two days I had a marvellous recovery; we went up to a hut (the Ball Hut -
see pictures in "Mt Cook and the Glaciers") where we were very happy. On the bus journey
back from the Hermitage, on May 21st, in the first village (called Fairlie), the Postmistress
came with a cable to the bus. It was addressed to "Karl Popper c/o Bus from Hermitage to
Fairlie" and said "Congratulations on London appointment and thanks for excellent article
enquiring about permits Frederick Hayek." It was from Cambridge, May 16th. This was the
first we heard about it. I had given up the idea of going to London - though subconsciously
I still beheved in it. - We were both somewhat frightened, mainly in view of my rather bad

health, and especially the silly way in which my corpse reacts to bad weather I am sick of
being sick, you will think me a terrible hypochonder [sic]. So do I, but my doctor (a very
nice and kind person and an excellent doctor) says that it is unfortunately all true. Anyway,
it cannot be helped.

And Hennie added: "I am frightfully scared by the prospect of going to
London: I hate meeting new people, and tea parties. I can only hope that
tea is so rare and precious that parties have gone out of fashion!"

The new worry arose that Hayek had offered to write a preface to the
book. "I need not tell you that I could not accept this under any
circumstances (1) because I am too proud to accept such an offer (even if
it came from President Truman or John Dewey or Shirley Temple), (2)
because it would brand the book and myself." Our correspondence had by
then switched to the prospect of their arrival in England, and they kindly
inquired how much they should take with them to wartime England, and
what presents they might possibly bring. We suggested that it would be
lovely if they could bring a cricket bat for our son, and Karl "enlisted the
help of the very nice son of a friend of ours and now he knows all about
cricket and bats." Not that the complaints stopped. On 25 August he
wrote:

Our departure problems are appalling and (but don't tell that to Routledges!) we probably
won't be in England before the beginning of December: we have still no permits to enter
Great Britain and I begin to fear that we won't get any. I am, of course, in continuous
contact about this with Hayek who says that London University administration has
completely broken down.

So let me only quote the last letter of the sequence in full. It came from
Auckland, and was dated 16 November:

Dear Ernst, This time we are really off, I think. We have been allotted berths - in two
different four-berths cabins, though - on the M.V. "New Zealand Star", sailing from
Auckland between Nov. 28th and December 5th (according to the strike situation). It is a
frighter [sic]. Blue Star Line, carrying normally 12 passengers, and at present (in the same
cabins) 30. We are not terribly pleased to pay £320 for the pleasure of spending 5 or 6 very

rough weeks in the company of strangers. I am particularly concerned about the fact that I
cannot endure the smell of cigarets [sic] at sea without getting sick - still, I shall have to get
used to it. The passage will be very rough since we sail via Cape Horn - perhaps the
roughest spot in all the Seven Seas. Our corpses are expected to arrive, by the New Zealand
Star, on January 8th or thereabouts. Please receive them kindly. If there is important news it
can, I suppose, be wirelessed to the ship. I shall let you know more precisely when they
arrive, and if you could find them a room in a Boarding house or Hotel (where they might
perhaps be brought to life again), it would be very nice indeed. But I know this is practically
impossible: so don't waste your time, if you don't happen to hear about such a room: burry
[sic] them. To be serious, I am really cheered up by the prospect of seeing you in less than
two months - a very short time (at my age). Yours ever, K.

When they arrived we met them at the docks, and I was happy to be able
to bring him the first copy of The Open Society and Its Enemies, which he
eagerly scrutinized on the train and bus to our little semi-detached house
in Brent. Who of us would have dared to hope on that day that despite his
fragile health the new life he had just started would extend over nearly
half a century, let alone predict how immensely we would all be enriched
during these years by his ever active mind?

Note

* Appeared in Popper's Open Society After Fifty Years: The Continuing Relevance of Karl
Popper, edited by Ian Jarvie and Sandra Pralong, Routledge, 1999.

Acknowledgements

I wish to express my gratitude to all my friends who have made it
possible for me to write this book. Professor C. G. F. Simkin has not only
helped me with an earlier version, but has given me the opportunity of
clarifying many problems in detailed discussions over a period of nearly
four years. Dr. Margaret Dalziel has assisted me in the preparation of
various drafts and of the final manuscript. Her untiring help has been
invaluable. Dr. H. Larsen's interest in the problem of historicism was a
great encouragement. Professor T. K. Ewer has read the manuscript and
has made many suggestions for its improvement.

I am deeply indebted to Professor F. A. von Hayek. Without his
interest and support the book would not have been published. Professor E.
Gombrich has undertaken to see the book through the press, a burden to
which was added the strain of an exacting correspondence between
England and New Zealand. He has been so helpful that I can hardly say
how much I owe to him.

Christchurch, N.Z., April 1944.

In preparing the revised edition, I have received great help from detailed
critical annotations to the first edition kindly put at my disposal by
Professor Jacob Viner and by Mr. J. D. Mabbott.

London, August 1951.

In the third edition an Index of Subjects and an Index of Platonic
Passages have been added, both prepared by Dr. J. Agassi. He has also
drawn my attention to a number of mistakes which I have corrected. I am
very grateful for his help. In six places I have tried to improve and
correct quotations from Plato, or references to his text, in the light of Mr.
Richard Robinson's stimulating and most welcome criticism {The
Philosophical Review, vol. 60) of the American edition of this book.

Stanford, California, May 1957

Most of the improvements in the fourth edition I owe to Dr. William W.
Bartley and to Mr. Bryan Magee.

Penn, Buckinghamshire, May 1961

The fifth edition contains some new historical material (especially on
page 3 12 of volume I and in the Addenda) and also a brief new Addendum
in each volume. Additional material will be found in my Conjectures and
Refutations, especially in the second edition (1965). Mr. David Miller has
discovered, and corrected, many mistakes.

Penn, Buckesighamshire, July 1965

K. R. p.

Preface to the First Edition

If in this book harsh words are spoken about some of the greatest among
the intellectual leaders of mankind, my motive is not, I hope, the wish to
belittle them. It springs rather from my conviction that, if our civilization
is to survive, we must break with the habit of deference to great men.
Great men may make great mistakes; and as the book tries to show, some
of the greatest leaders of the past supported the perennial attack on
freedom and reason. Their influence, too rarely challenged, continues to
mislead those on whose defence civilization depends, and to divide them.
The responsibility for this tragic and possibly fatal division becomes ours
if we hesitate to be outspoken in our criticism of what admittedly is a part
of our intellectual heritage. By our reluctance to criticize some of it, we
may help to destroy it all.

The book is a critical introduction to the philosophy of politics and of
history, and an examination of some of the principles of social
reconstruction. Its aim and the line of approach are indicated in the
Introduction. Even where it looks back into the past, its problems are the
problems of our own time; and I have tried hard to state them as simply
as I could, in the hope of clarifying matters which concern us all.

Although the book presupposes nothing but open-mindedness in the
reader, its object is not so much to popularize the questions treated as to
solve them. In an attempt, however, to serve both of these purposes, I
have confined all matters of more specialized interest to Notes which
have been collected at the end of the book.

1943

Preface to the Second Edition

Although much of what is contained in this book took shape at an earlier
date, the final decision to write it was made in March 1938, on the day I
received the news of the invasion of Austria. The writing extended into
1943; and the fact that most of the book was written during the grave
years when the outcome of the war was uncertain may help to explain
why some of its criticism strikes me to-day as more emotional and
harsher in tone than I could wish. But it was not the time to mince words
— or at least, this was what I then felt. Neither the war nor any other
contemporary event was explicitly mentioned in the book; but it was an
attempt to understand those events and their background, and some of the
issues which were likely to arise after the war was won. The expectation
that Marxism would become a major problem was the reason for treating
it at some length.

Seen in the darkness of the present world situation, the criticism of
Marxism which it attempts is liable to stand out as the main point of the
book. This view of it is not wholly wrong and perhaps unavoidable,
although the aims of the book are much wider. Marxism is only an
episode — one of the many mistakes we have made in the perennial and
dangerous struggle for building a better and freer world.

Not unexpectedly, I have been blamed by some for being too severe in
my treatment of Marx, while others contrasted my leniency towards him
with the violence of my attack upon Plato. But I still feel the need for
looking at Plato with highly critical eyes, just because the general
adoration of the 'divine philosopher' has a real foundation in his

overwhelming intellectual achievement. Marx, on the other hand, has too
often been attacked on personal and moral grounds, so that here the need
is, rather, for a severe rational criticism of his theories combined with a
sympathetic understanding of their astonishing moral and intellectual
appeal. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that my criticism was devastating, and
that I could therefore afford to search for Marx's real contributions, and
to give his motives the benefit of the doubt. In any case, it is obvious that
we must try to appreciate the strength of an opponent if we wish to fight
him successfully. (I have added in 1965 a new note on this subject as
Addendum II to my second volume.)

No book can ever be finished. While working on it we learn just
enough to find it immature the moment we turn away from it. As to my
criticism of Plato and Marx, this inevitable experience was not more
disturbing than usual. But most of my positive suggestions and, above all,
the strong feeling of optimism which pervades the whole book struck me
more and more as naive, as the years after the war went by. My own voice
began to sound to me as if it came from the distant past — like the voice
of one of the hopeful social reformers of the eighteenth or even the
seventeenth century.

But my mood of depression has passed, largely as the result of a visit
to the United States; and I am now glad that, in revising the book, I
confined myself to the addition of new material and to the correction of
mistakes of matter and style, and that I resisted the temptation to subdue
its tenor. For in spite of the present world situation I feel as hopeful as I
ever did.

I see now more clearly than ever before that even our greatest troubles
spring from something that is as admirable and sound as it is dangerous
— from our impatience to better the lot of our fellows. For these troubles
are the by-products of what is perhaps the greatest of all moral and
spiritual revolutions of history, a movement which began three centuries

ago. It is the longing of uncounted unknown men to free themselves and
their minds from the tutelage of authority and prejudice. It is their
attempt to build up an open society which rejects the absolute authority
of the merely established and the merely traditional while trying to
preserve, to develop, and to establish traditions, old or new, that measure
up to their standards of freedom, of humaneness, and of rational
criticism. It is their unwillingness to sit back and leave the entire
responsibility for ruling the world to human or superhuman authority, and
their readiness to share the burden of responsibility for avoidable
suffering, and to work for its avoidance. This revolution has created
powers of appalling destructiveness; but they may yet be conquered.

1950

Introduction

I do not wish to hide the fact that I can only look with repugnance . . . upon the puffed-up
pretentiousness of all these volumes filled with wisdom, such as are fashionable nowadays.
For I am fully satisfied that ... the accepted methods must endlessly increase these follies
and blunders, and that even the complete annihilation of all these fanciful achievements
could not possibly be as harmful as this fictitious science with its accursed fertility.

Kant.

This book raises issues which may not be apparent from the table of
contents.

It sketches some of the difficulties faced by our civilization — a
civilization which might be perhaps described as aiming at humaneness
and reasonableness, at equality and freedom; a civilization which is still
in its infancy, as it were, and which continues to grow in spite of the fact
that it has been so often betrayed by so many of the intellectual leaders of
mankind. It attempts to show that this civilization has not yet fully
recovered from the shock of its birth — the transition from the tribal or
'closed society', with its submission to magical forces, to the 'open
society' which sets free the critical powers of man. It attempts to show
that the shock of this transition is one of the factors that have made
possible the rise of those reactionary movements which have tried, and
still try, to overthrow civilization and to return to tribalism. And it
suggests that what we call nowadays totalitarianism belongs to a tradition
which is just as old or just as young as our civilization itself.

It tries thereby to contribute to our understanding of totalitarianism,
and of the significance of the perennial fight against it.

It further tries to examine the application of the critical and rational
methods of science to the problems of the open society. It analyses the
principles of democratic social reconstruction, the principles of what I
may term 'piecemeal social engineering' in opposition to 'Utopian social
engineering' (as explained in Chapter 9). And it tries to clear away some
of the obstacles impeding a rational approach to the problems of social
reconstruction. It does so by criticizing those social philosophies which
are responsible for the widespread prejudice against the possibilities of
democratic reform. The most powerful of these philosophies is one which
I have callQd historicism. The story of the rise and influence of some
important forms of historicism is one of the main topics of the book,
which might even be described as a collection of marginal notes on the
development of certain historicist philosophies. A few remarks on the
origin of the book will indicate what is meant by historicism and how it is
connected with the other issues mentioned.

Although I am mainly interested in the methods of physics (and
consequently in certain technical problems which are far removed from
those treated in this book), I have also been interested for many years in
the problem of the somewhat unsatisfactory state of some of the social
sciences and especially of social philosophy. This, of course, raises the
problem of their methods. My interest in this problem was greatly
stimulated by the rise of totalitarianism, and by the failure of the various
social sciences and social philosophies to make sense of it.

In this connection, one point appeared to me particularly urgent.

One hears too often the suggestion that some form or other of
totalitarianism is inevitable. Many who because of their intelligence and
training should be held responsible for what they say, announce that there
is no escape from it. They ask us whether we are really naive enough to
believe that democracy can be permanent; whether we do not see that it is
just one of the many forms of government that come and go in the course

of history. They argue that democracy, in order to fight totalitarianism, is
forced to copy its methods and thus to become totalitarian itself. Or they
assert that our industrial system cannot continue to function without
adopting the methods of coUectivist planning, and they infer from the
inevitability of a collectivist economic system that the adoption of
totalitarian forms of social life is also inevitable.

Such arguments may sound plausible enough. But plausibility is not a
reliable guide in such matters. In fact, one should not enter into a
discussion of these specious arguments before having considered the
following question of method: Is it within the power of any social science
to make such sweeping historical prophecies? Can we expect to get more
than the irresponsible reply of the soothsayer if we ask a man what the
future has in store for mankind?

This is a question of the method of the social sciences. It is clearly
more fundamental than any criticism of any particular argument offered
in support of any historical prophecy.

A careful examination of this question has led me to the conviction
that such sweeping historical prophecies are entirely beyond the scope of
scientific method. The future depends on ourselves, and we do not depend
on any historical necessity. There are, however, influential social
philosophies which hold the opposite view. They claim that everybody
tries to use his brains to predict impending events; that it is certainly
legitimate for a strategist to try to foresee the outcome of a battle; and
that the boundaries between such a prediction and more sweeping
historical prophecies are fluid. They assert that it is the task of science in
general to make predictions, or rather, to improve upon our everyday
predictions, and to put them upon a more secure basis; and that it is, in
particular, the task of the social sciences to furnish us with long-term
historical prophecies. They also believe that they have discovered laws of
history which enable them to prophesy the course of historical events.

The various social philosophies which raise claims of this kind, I have
grouped together under the name historicism. Elsewhere, in The Poverty
of Historicism, I have tried to argue against these claims, and to show that
in spite of their plausibility they are based on a gross misunderstanding
of the method of science, and especially on the neglect of the distinction
hQtsNQQn scientific prediction dind historical prophecy. While engaged in
the systematic analysis and criticism of the claims of historicism, I also
tried to collect some material to illustrate its development. The notes
collected for that purpose became the basis of this book.

The systematic analysis of historicism aims at something like
scientific status. This book does not. Many of the opinions expressed are
personal. What it owes to scientific method is largely the awareness of its
limitations: it does not offer proofs where nothing can be proved, nor
does it pretend to be scientific where it cannot give more than a personal
point of view. It does not try to replace the old systems of philosophy by
a new system. It does not try to add to all these volumes filled with
wisdom, to the metaphysics of history and destiny, such as are
fashionable nowadays. It rather tries to show that this prophetic wisdom
is harmful, that the metaphysics of history impede the application of the
piecemeal methods of science to the problems of social reform. And it
further tries to show that we may become the makers of our fate when we
have ceased to pose as its prophets.

In tracing the development of historicism, I found that the dangerous
habit of historical prophecy, so widespread among our intellectual
leaders, has various functions. It is always flattering to belong to the
inner circle of the initiated, and to possess the unusual power of
predicting the course of history. Besides, there is a tradition that
intellectual leaders are gifted with such powers, and not to possess them
may lead to loss of caste. The danger, on the other hand, of their being
unmasked as charlatans is very small, since they can always point out that

it is certainly permissible to make less sweeping predictions; and the
boundaries between these and augury are fluid.

But there are sometimes further and perhaps deeper motives for
holding historicist beliefs. The prophets who prophesy the coming of a
millennium may give expression to a deep-seated feeling of
dissatisfaction; and their dreams may indeed give hope and
encouragement to some who can hardly do without them. But we must
also realize that their influence is liable to prevent us from facing the
daily tasks of social life. And those minor prophets who announce that
certain events, such as a lapse into totalitarianism (or perhaps into
'managerialism'), are bound to happen may, whether they like it or not,
be instrumental in bringing these events about. Their story that
democracy is not to last for ever is as true, and as little to the point, as the
assertion that human reason is not to last for ever, since only democracy
provides an institutional framework that permits reform without violence,
and so the use of reason in political matters. But their story tends to
discourage those who fight totalitarianism; its motive is to support the
revolt against civilization. A further motive, it seems, can be found if we
consider that historicist metaphysics are apt to relieve men from the
strain of their responsibilities. If you know that things are bound to
happen whatever you do, then you may feel free to give up the fight
against them. You may, more especially, give up the attempt to control
those things which most people agree to be social evils, such as war; or,
to mention a smaller but nevertheless important thing, the tyranny of the
petty official.

I do not wish to suggest that historicism must always have such effects.
There are historicists — especially the Marxists — ^who do not wish to
relieve men from the strain of their responsibilities. On the other hand,
there are some social philosophies which may or may not be historicistic
but which preach the impotence of reason in social life, and which, by

this anti-rationalism, propagate the attitude: 'either follow the Leader, the
Great Statesman, or become a Leader yourself; an attitude which for
most people must mean passive submission to the forces, personal or
anonymous, that rule society.

Now it is interesting to see that some of those who denounce reason,
and even blame it for the social evils of our time, do so on the one hand
because they realize the fact that historical prophecy goes beyond the
power of reason, and on the other hand because they cannot conceive of a
social science, or of reason in society, having another function but that of
historical prophecy. In other words, they are disappointed historicists;
they are men who, in spite of realizing the poverty of historicism, are
unaware that they retain the fundamental historicistic prejudice — the
doctrine that the social sciences, if they are to be of any use at all, must
be prophetic. It is clear that this attitude must lead to a rejection of the
applicability of science or of reason to the problems of social life — and
ultimately, to a doctrine of power, of domination and submission.

Why do all these social philosophies support the revolt against
civilization? And what is the secret of their popularity? Why do they
attract and seduce so many intellectuals? I am inclined to think that the
reason is that they give expression to a deepfelt dissatisfaction with a
world which does not, and cannot, live up to our moral ideals and to our
dreams of perfection. The tendency of historicism (and of related views)
to support the revolt against civilization may be due to the fact that
historicism itself is, largely, a reaction against the strain of our
civilization and its demand for personal responsibility.

These last allusions are somewhat vague, but they must suffice for this
introduction. They will later be substantiated by historical material,
especially in the chapter 'The Open Society and Its Enemies'. I was
tempted to place this chapter at the beginning of the book; with its topical
interest it would certainly have made a more inviting introduction. But I

found that the full weight of this historical interpretation cannot be felt
unless it is preceded by the material discussed earlier in the book. It
seems that one has first to be disturbed by the similarity between the
Platonic theory of justice and the theory and practice of modem
totalitarianism before one can feel how urgent it is to interpret these
matters.

Volume I

The Spell of Plato

It will be seen ... that the Erewhonians are a meek and long-suffering
people, easily led by the nose, and quick to offer up common sense at the
shrine of logic, when a philosopher arises among them who carries them
away ... by convincing them that their existing institutions are not based
on the strictest principles of morality.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

In my course I have known and, according to my measure, have co-
operated with great men; and I have never yet seen any plan which has
not been mended by the observations of those who were much inferior in
understanding to the person who took the lead in the business.

EDMUND BURKE.

The Spell of Plato

For the Open Society {about 430 B.C.):

Although only a few may originate a policy, we are all able to judge it.

PERICLES OF ATHENS.

Against the Open Society {about 80 years later):

The greatest principle of all is that nobody, whether male or female,
should be without a leader. Nor should the mind of anybody be habituated
to letting him do anything at all on his own initiative; neither out of zeal,
nor even playfully. But in war and in the midst of peace — ^to his leader he
shall direct his eye and follow him faithfully. And even in the smallest
matter he should stand under leadership. For example, he should get up,
or move, or wash, or take his meals . . . only if he has been told to do so.
In a word, he should teach his soul, by long habit, never to dream of
acting independently, and to become utterly incapable of it.

PLATO OF ATHENS.

The Myth of Origin and Destiny

Historicism and the Myth of Destiny

It is widely believed that a truly scientific or philosophical attitude
towards politics, and a deeper understanding of social life in general,
must be based upon a contemplation and interpretation of human history.
While the ordinary man takes the setting of his life and the importance of
his personal experiences and petty struggles for granted, it is said that the
social scientist or philosopher has to survey things from a higher plane.
He sees the individual as a pawn, as a somewhat insignificant instrument
in the general development of mankind. And he finds that the really
important actors on the Stage of History are either the Great Nations and
their Great Leaders, or perhaps the Great Classes, or the Great Ideas.
However this may be, he will try to understand the meaning of the play
which is performed on the Historical Stage; he will try to understand the
laws of historical development. If he succeeds in this, he will, of course,
be able to predict future developments. He might then put politics upon a
solid basis, and give us practical advice by telling us which political
actions are likely to succeed or likely to fail.

This is a brief description of an attitude which I call historicism. It is
an old idea, or rather, a loosely connected set of ideas which have
become, unfortunately, so much a part of our spiritual atmosphere that
they are usually taken for granted, and hardly ever questioned.

I have tried elsewhere to show that the historicist approach to the
social sciences gives poor results. I have also tried to outline a method

which, I believe, would yield better results.

But if historicism is a faulty method that produces worthless results,
then it may be useful to see how it originated, and how it succeeded in
entrenching itself so successfully. An historical sketch undertaken with
this aim can, at the same time, serve to analyse the variety of ideas which
have gradually accumulated around the central historicist doctrine — the
doctrine that history is controlled by specific historical or evolutionary
laws whose discovery would enable us to prophesy the destiny of man.

Historicism, which I have so far characterized only in a rather abstract
way, can be well illustrated by one of the simplest and oldest of its forms,
the doctrine of the chosen people. This doctrine is one of the attempts to
make history understandable by a theistic interpretation, i.e. by
recognizing God as the author of the play performed on the Historical
Stage. The theory of the chosen people, more specifically, assumes that
God has chosen one people to function as the selected instrument of His
will, and that this people will inherit the earth.

In this doctrine, the law of historical development is laid down by the
Will of God. This is the specific difference which distinguishes the
theistic form from other forms of historicism. A naturalistic historicism,
for instance, might treat the developmental law as a law of nature; a
spiritual historicism would treat it as a law of spiritual development; an
economic historicism, again, as a law of economic development. Theistic
historicism shares with these other forms the doctrine that there are
specific historical laws which can be discovered, and upon which
predictions regarding the future of mankind can be based.

There is no doubt that the doctrine of the chosen people grew out of the
tribal form of social life. Tribalism, i.e. the emphasis on the supreme
importance of the tribe without which the individual is nothing at all, is
an element which we shall find in many forms of historicist theories.
Other forms which are no longer tribalist may still retain an element of

collectivism-, they may still emphasize the significance of some group or
collective — for example, a class — without which the individual is nothing
at all. Another aspect of the doctrine of the chosen people is the
remoteness of what it proffers as the end of history. For although it may
describe this end with some degree of definiteness, we have to go a long
way before we reach it. And the way is not only long, but winding,
leading up and down, right and left. Accordingly, it will be possible to
bring every conceivable historical event well within the scheme of the
interpretation. No conceivable experience can refute it.- But to those who
believe in it, it gives certainty regarding the ultimate outcome of human
history.

A criticism of the theistic interpretation of history will be attempted in
the last chapter of this book, where it will also be shown that some of the
greatest Christian thinkers have repudiated this theory as idolatry. An
attack upon this form of historicism should therefore not be interpreted as
an attack upon religion. In the present chapter, the doctrine of the chosen
people serves only as an illustration. Its value as such can be seen from
the fact that its chief characteristics- are shared by the two most
important modern versions of historicism, whose analysis will form the
major part of this book — the historical philosophy of racialism or fascism
on the one (the right) hand and the Marxian historical philosophy on the
other (the left). For the chosen people racialism substitutes the chosen
race (of Gobineau's choice), selected as the instrument of destiny,
ultimately to inherit the earth. Marx's historical philosophy substitutes
for it the chosen class, the instrument for the creation of the classless
society, and at the same time, the class destined to inherit the earth. Both
theories base their historical forecasts on an interpretation of history
which leads to the discovery of a law of its development. In the case of
racialism, this is thought of as a kind of natural law; the biological
superiority of the blood of the chosen race explains the course of history.

past, present, and future; it is nothing but the struggle of races for
mastery. In the case of Marx's philosophy of history, the law is
economic; all history has to be interpreted as a struggle of classes for
economic supremacy.

The historicist character of these two movements makes our
investigation topical. We shall return to them in later parts of this book.
Each of them goes back directly to the philosophy of Hegel. We must,
therefore, deal with that philosophy as well. And since Hegel- in the main
follows certain ancient philosophers, it will be necessary to discuss the
theories of Heraclitus, Plato and Aristotle, before returning to the more
modern forms of historicism.

Heraclitus

It is not until Heraclitus that we find in Greece theories which could be
compared in their historicist character with the doctrine of the chosen
people. In Homer's theistic or rather polytheistic interpretation, history is
the product of divine will. But the Homeric gods do not lay down general
laws for its development. What Homer tries to stress and to explain is not
the unity of history, but rather its lack of unity. The author of the play on
the Stage of History is not one God; a whole variety of gods dabble in it.
What the Homeric interpretation shares with the Jewish is a certain vague
feeling of destiny, and the idea of powers behind the scenes. But ultimate
destiny, according to Homer, is not disclosed; unlike its Jewish
counterpart, it remains mysterious.

The first Greek to introduce a more markedly historicist doctrine was
Hesiod, who was probably influenced by oriental sources. He made use of
the idea of a general trend or tendency in historical development. His
interpretation of history is pessimistic. He believes that mankind, in their
development down from the Golden Age, are destined to degenerate, both
physically and morally. The culmination of the various historicist ideas
proffered by the early Greek philosophers came with Plato, who, in an
attempt to interpret the history and social life of the Greek tribes, and
especially of the Athenians, painted a grandiose philosophical picture of
the world. He was strongly influenced in his historicism by various
forerunners, especially by Hesiod; but the most important influence came

from Heraclitus.

Heraclitus was the philosopher who discovered the idea of change.
Down to this time, the Greek philosophers, influenced by oriental ideas,
had viewed the world as a huge edifice of which the material things were
the building material.- It was the totality of things — the cosmos (which
originally seems to have been an oriental tent or mantle). The questions
which the philosophers asked themselves were, 'What stuff is the world
made of?' or 'How is it constructed, what is its true ground-plan?'. They
considered philosophy, or physics (the two were indistinguishable for a
long time), as the investigation of 'nature', i.e. of the original material
out of which this edifice, the world, had been built. As far as any
processes were considered, they were thought of either as going on within
the edifice, or else as constructing or maintaining it, disturbing and
restoring the stability or balance of a structure which was considered to
be fundamentally static. They were cyclic processes (apart from the
processes connected with the origin of the edifice; the question 'Who has
made it?' was discussed by the orientals, by Hesiod, and by others). This
very natural approach, natural even to many of us to-day, was superseded
by the genius of Heraclitus. The view he introduced was that there was no
such edifice, no stable structure, no cosmos. 'The cosmos, at best, is like
a rubbish heap scattered at random', is one of his sayings.- He visualized
the world not as an edifice, but rather as one colossal process; not as the
sum-total of all things, but rather as the totality of all events, or changes,
or facts. 'Everything is in flux and nothing is at rest', is the motto of his
philosophy.

Heraclitus' discovery influenced the development of Greek philosophy
for a long time. The philosophies of Parmenides, Democritus, Plato, and
Aristotle can all be appropriately described as attempts to solve the
problems of that changing world which Heraclitus had discovered. The
greatness of this discovery can hardly be overrated. It has been described

as a terrifying one, and its effect has been compared with that of 'an
earthquake, in which everything ... seems to sway'-. And I do not doubt
that this discovery was impressed upon Heraclitus by terrifying personal
experiences suffered as a result of the social and political disturbances of
his day. Heraclitus, the first philosopher to deal not only with 'nature' but
even more with ethico-political problems, lived in an age of social
revolution. It was in his time that the Greek tribal aristocracies were
beginning to yield to the new force of democracy.

In order to understand the effect of this revolution, we must remember
the stability and rigidity of social life in a tribal aristocracy. Social life is
determined by social and religious taboos; everybody has his assigned
place within the whole of the social structure; everyone feels that his
place is the proper, the 'natural' place, assigned to him by the forces
which rule the world; everyone 'knows his place'.

According to tradition, Heraclitus' own place was that of heir to the
royal family of priest kings of Ephesus, but he resigned his claims in
favour of his brother. In spite of his proud refusal to take part in the
political life of his city, he supported the cause of the aristocrats who
tried in vain to stem the rising tide of the new revolutionary forces. These
experiences, in the social or political field are reflected in the remaining
fragments of his work.- 'The Ephesians ought to hang themselves man by
man, all the adults, and leave the city to be ruled by infants ...'is one of
his outbursts, occasioned by the people's decision to banish Hermodorus,
one of Heraclitus 's aristocratic friends. His interpretation of the people's
motives is most interesting, for it shows that the stock-in-trade of anti-
democratic argument has not changed much since the earliest days of
democracy. 'They said: nobody shall be the best among us; and if
someone is outstanding, then let him be so elsewhere, and among others.'
This hostility towards democracy breaks through everywhere in the
fragments: '... the mob fill their bellies like the beasts ... They take the

bards and popular belief as their guides, unaware that the many are bad
and that only the few are good ... In Priene lived Bias, son of Teutames,
whose word counts more than that of other men. (He said: "Most men are
wicked.") ... The mob does not care, not even about the things they
stumble upon; nor can they grasp a lesson — though they think they do.' In
the same vein he says: 'The law can demand, too, that the will of One
Man must be obeyed.' Another expression of Heraclitus' conservative
and anti-democratic outlook is, incidentally, quite acceptable to
democrats in its wording, though probably not in its intention: 'A people
ought to fight for the laws of the city as if they were its walls.'

But Heraclitus' fight for the ancient laws of his city was in vain, and
the transitoriness of all things impressed itself strongly upon him. His
theory of change gives expression to this feeling-: 'Everything is in flux',
he said; and 'You cannot step twice into the same river.' Disillusioned, he
argued against the belief that the existing social order would remain for
ever: 'We must not act like children reared with the narrow outlook "As
it has been handed down to us".'

This emphasis on change, and especially on change in social life, is an
important characteristic not only of Heraclitus' philosophy but of
historicism in general. That things, and even kings, change, is a truth
which needs to be impressed especially upon those who take their social
environment for granted. So much is to be admitted. But in the
Heraclitean philosophy one of the less commendable characteristics of
historicism manifests itself, namely, an over-emphasis upon change,
combined with the complementary belief in an inexorable and immutable
law of destiny.

In this belief we are confronted with an attitude which, although at first
sight contradictory to the historicist's over-emphasis upon change, is
characteristic of most, if not all, historicists. We can explain this attitude,
perhaps, if we interpret the historicist's over-emphasis on change as a

symptom of an effort needed to overcome his unconscious resistance to
the idea of change. This would also explain the emotional tension which
leads so many historicists (even in our day) to stress the novelty of the
unheard-of revelation which they have to make. Such considerations
suggest the possibility that these historicists are afraid of change, and that
they cannot accept the idea of change without serious inward struggle. It
often seems as if they were trying to comfort themselves for the loss of a
stable world by clinging to the view that change is ruled by an
unchanging law. (In Parmenides and in Plato, we shall even find the
theory that the changing world in which we live is an illusion and that
there exists a more real world which does not change.)

In the case of Heraclitus, the emphasis upon change leads him to the
theory that all material things, whether solid, liquid, or gaseous, are like
flames — that they are processes rather than things, and that they are all
transformations of fire; the apparently solid earth (which consists of
ashes) is only a fire in a state of transformation, and even liquids (water,
the sea) are transformed fire (and may become fuel, perhaps in the form
of oil). 'The first transformation of fire is the sea; but of the sea, half is
earth, and half hot air.' - Thus all the other 'elements' — earth, water, and
air — are transformed fire: 'Everything is an exchange for fire, and fire for
everything; just as gold for wares, and wares for gold.'

But having reduced all things to flames, to processes, like combustion,
Heraclitus discerns in the processes a law, a measure, a reason, a wisdom;
and having destroyed the cosmos as an edifice, and declared it to be a
rubbish heap, he re-introduces it as the destined order of events in the
world-process.

Every process in the world, and especially fire itself, develops
according to a definite law, its 'measure'-. It is an inexorable and
irresistible law, and to this extent it resembles our modern conception of
natural law as well as the conception of historical or evolutionary laws of

modern historicists. But it differs from these conceptions in so far as it is
the decree of reason, enforced by punishment, just as is the law imposed
by the state. This failure to distinguish between legal laws or norms on
the one hand and natural laws or regularities on the other is characteristic
of tribal tabooism: both kinds of law alike are treated as magical, which
makes a rational criticism of the man-made taboos as inconceivable as an
attempt to improve upon the ultimate wisdom and reason of the laws or
regularities of the natural world: 'All events proceed with the necessity of
fate . . . The sun will not outstep the measure of his path; or else the
goddesses of Fate, the handmaids of Justice, will know how to find him.'
But the sun does not only obey the law; the Fire, in the shape of the sun
and (as we shall see) of Zeus' thunderbolt, watches over the law, and
gives judgement according to it. 'The sun is the keeper and guardian of
the periods, limiting and judging and heralding and manifesting the
changes and seasons which bring forth all things ... This cosmic order
which is the same for all things has not been created, neither by gods nor
by men; it always was, and is, and will be, an ever living Fire, flaring up
according to measure, and dying down according to measure ... In its
advance, the Fire will seize, judge, and execute, everything.'

Combined with the historicist idea of a relentless destiny we frequently
find an element of mysticism. A critical analysis of mysticism will be
given in chapter 24. Here I wish only to show the role of anti-rationalism
and mysticism in Heraclitus' philosophy-: 'Nature loves to hide', he
writes, and 'The Lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither reveals nor
conceals, but he indicates his meaning through hints.' Heraclitus'
contempt of the more empirically minded scientists is typical of those
who adopt this attitude: 'Who knows many things need not have many
brains; for otherwise Hesiod and Pythagoras would have had more, and
also Xenophanes ... Pythagoras is the grandfather of all impostors.'
Along with this scorn of scientists goes the mystical theory of an intuitive

understanding. Heraclitus' theory of reason takes as its starting point the
fact that, if we are awake, we live in a common world. We can
communicate, control, and check one another; and herein lies the
assurance that we are not victims of illusion. But this theory is given a
second, a symbolic, a mystical meaning. It is the theory of a mystical
intuition which is given to the chosen, to those who are awake, who have
the power to see, hear, and speak: 'One must not act and talk as if asleep
. . . Those who are awake have One common world; those who are asleep,
turn to their private worlds . . . They are incapable both of listening and of
talking . . . Even if they do hear they are like the deaf. The saying applies
to them: They are present yet they are not present ... One thing alone is
wisdom: to understand the thought which steers everything through
everything.' The world whose experience is common to those who are
awake is the mystical unity, the oneness of all things which can be
apprehended only by reason: 'One must follow what is common to all ...
Reason is common to all ... All becomes One and One becomes All . . .
The One which alone is wisdom wishes and does not wish to be called by
the name of Zeus ... It is the thunderbolt which steers all things.'

So much for the more general features of the Heraclitean philosophy of
universal change and hidden destiny. From this philosophy springs a
theory of the driving force behind all change; a theory which exhibits its
historicist character by its emphasis upon the importance of 'social
dynamics' as opposed to 'social statics'. Heraclitus' dynamics of nature
in general and especially of social life confirms the view that his
philosophy was inspired by the social and political disturbances he had
experienced. For he declares that strife or war is the dynamic as well as
the creative principle of all change, and especially of all differences
between men. And being a typical historicist, he accepts the judgement of
history as a moral one-; for he holds that the outcome of war is always
just—: 'War is the father and the king of all things. It proves some to be

gods and others to be mere men, turning these into slaves and the former
into masters . . . One must know that war is universal, and that justice —
the lawsuit — is strife, and that all things develop through strife and by
necessity.'

But if justice is strife or war; if 'the goddesses of Fate' are at the same
time 'the handmaids of Justice' if history, or more precisely, if success,
i.e. success in war, is the criterion of merit, then the standard of merit
must itself be 'in flux'. Heraclitus meets this problem by his relativism,
and by his doctrine of the identity of opposites. This springs from his
theory of change (which remains the basis of Plato's and even more of
Aristotle's theory). A changing thing must give up some property and
acquire the opposite property. It is not so much a thing as a process of
transition from one state to an opposite state, and thereby a unification of
the opposite states—: 'Cold things become warm and warm things
become cold; what is moist becomes dry and what is dry becomes moist
. . . Disease enables us to appreciate health . . . Life and death, being awake
and being asleep, youth and old age, all this is identical; for the one turns
into the other and the other turns into the one ... What struggles with
itself becomes committed to itself: there is a link or harmony due to
recoil and tension, as in the bow or the lyre . . . The opposites belong to
each other, the best harmony results from discord, and everything
develops by strife . . . The path that leads up and the path that leads down
are identical . . . The straight path and the crooked path are one and the
same ... For gods, all things are beautiful and good and just; men,
however, have adopted some things as just, others as unjust . . . The good
and the bad are identical.'

But the relativism of values (it might even be described as an ethical
relativism) expressed in the last fragment does not prevent Heraclitus
from developing upon the background of his theory of the justice of war
and the verdict of history a tribalist and romantic ethic of Fame, Fate, and

the superiority of the Great Man, all strangely similar to some very
modern ideas—: 'Who falls fighting will be glorified by gods and by men
. . . The greater the fall the more glorious the fate . . . The best seek one
thing above all others: eternal fame ... One man is worth more than ten
thousand, if he is Great.'

It is surprising to find in these early fragments, dating from about 500
B.C., so much that is characteristic of modern historicist and anti-
democratic tendencies. But apart from the fact that Heraclitus was a
thinker of unsurpassed power and originality, and that, in consequence,
many of his ideas have (through the medium of Plato) become part of the
main body of philosophic tradition, the similarity of doctrine can perhaps
be explained, to some extent, by the similarity of social conditions in the
relevant periods. It seems as if historicist ideas easily become prominent
in times of great social change. They appeared when Greek tribal life
broke up, as well as when that of the Jews was shattered by the impact of
the Babylonian conquest—. There can be little doubt, I believe, that
Heraclitus' philosophy is an expression of a feeling of drift; a feeling
which seems to be a typical reaction to the dissolution of the ancient
tribal forms of social life. In modern Europe, historicist ideas were
revived during the industrial revolution, and especially through the
impact of the political revolutions in America and France—. It appears to
be more than a mere coincidence that Hegel, who adopted so much of
Heraclitus' thought and passed it on to all modern historicist movements,
was a mouthpiece of the reaction against the French Revolution.

Plato's Theory of Forms or Ideas

Plato lived in a period of wars and of political strife which was, for all we
know, even more unsettled than that which had troubled Heraclitus.
While he grew up, the breakdown of the tribal life of the Greeks had led
in Athens, his native city, to a period of tyranny, and later to the
establishment of a democracy which tried jealously to guard itself against
any attempts to reintroduce either a tyranny or an oligarchy, i.e. a rule of
the leading aristocratic families-. During his youth, democratic Athens
was involved in a deadly war against Sparta, the leading city-state of the
Peloponnese, which had preserved many of the laws and customs of the
ancient tribal aristocracy. The Peloponnesian war lasted, with an
interruption, for twenty-eight years. (In chapter 10, where the historical
background is reviewed in more detail, it will be shown that the war did
not end with the fall of Athens in 404 B.C., as is sometimes asserted-.)
Plato was born during the war, and he was about twenty-four when it
ended. It brought terrible epidemics, and, in its last year, famine, the fall
of the city of Athens, civil war, and a rule of terror, usually called the rule
of the Thirty Tyrants; these were led by two of Plato's uncles, who both
lost their lives in the unsuccessful attempt to uphold their regime against
the democrats. The re-establishment of the democracy and of peace

meant no respite for Plato. His beloved teacher Socrates, whom he later
made the main speaker of most of his dialogues, was tried and executed.
Plato himself seems to have been in danger; together with other
companions of Socrates he left Athens.

Later, on the occasion of his first visit to Sicily, Plato became
entangled in the political intrigues which were spun at the court of the
older Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse, and even after his return to Athens
and the foundation of the Academy, Plato continued, along with some of
his pupils, to take an active and ultimately fateful part in the conspiracies
and revolutions- that constituted Syracusan politics.

This brief outline of political events may help to explain why we find
in the work of Plato, as in that of Heraclitus, indications that he suffered
desperately under the political instability and insecurity of his time. Like
Heraclitus, Plato was of royal blood; at least, the tradition claims that his
father's family traced its descent from Codrus, the last of the tribal kings
of Attica-. Plato was very proud of his mother's family which, as he
explains in his dialogues (in the Charmides and the Timaeus), was related
to that of Solon, the lawgiver of Athens. His uncles, Critias and
Charmides, the leading men of the Thirty Tyrants, also belonged to his
mother's family. With such a family tradition, Plato could be expected to
take a deep interest in public affairs; and indeed, most of his works fulfil
this expectation. He himself relates (if the Seventh Letter is genuine) that
he was- 'from the beginning most anxious for political activity', but that
he was deterred by the stirring experiences of his youth. 'Seeing that
everything swayed and shifted aimlessly, I felt giddy and desperate.'
From the feeling that society, and indeed 'everything', was in flux, arose,
I believe, the fundamental impulse of his philosophy as well as of the
philosophy of Heraclitus; and Plato summed up his social experience,
exactly as his historicist predecessor had done, by proffering a law of
historical development. According to this law, which will be more fully

discussed in the next chapter, all social change is corruption or decay or
degeneration.

This fundamental historical law forms, in Plato's view, part of a
cosmic law — of a law which holds for all created or generated things. All
things in flux, all generated things, are destined to decay. Plato, like
Heraclitus, felt that the forces which are at work in history are cosmic
forces.

It is nearly certain, however, that Plato believed that this law of
degeneration was not the whole story. We have found, in Heraclitus, a
tendency to visualize the laws of development as cyclic laws; they are
conceived after the law which determines the cyclic succession of the
seasons. Similarly we can find, in some of Plato's works, the suggestion
of a Great Year (its length appears to be 36,000 ordinary years), with a
period of improvement or generation, presumably corresponding to
Spring and Summer, and one of degeneration and decay, corresponding to
Autumn and Winter. According to one of Plato's dialogues (the
Statesman), a. Golden Age, the age of Cronos — an age in which Cronos
himself rules the world, and in which men spring from the earth — is
followed by our own age, the age of Zeus, an age in which the world is
abandoned by the gods and left to its own resources, and which
consequently is one of increasing corruption. And in the story of the
Statesman there is also a suggestion that, after the lowest point of
complete corruption has been reached, the god will again take the helm of
the cosmic ship, and things will start to improve.

It is not certain how far Plato believed in the story of the Statesman. He
made it quite clear that he did not believe that all of it was literally true.
On the other hand, there can be little doubt that he visualized human
history in a cosmic setting; that he believed his own age to be one of deep
depravity — possibly of the deepest that can be reached — and the whole
preceding historical period to be governed by an inherent tendency

toward decay, a tendency shared by both the historical and the cosmic
development.- Whether or not he also believed that this tendency must
necessarily come to an end once the point of extreme depravity has been
reached seems to me uncertain. But he certainly believed that it is
possible for us, by a human, or rather by a superhuman effort, to break
through the fatal historical trend, and to put an end to the process of
decay.

Great as the similarities are between Plato and Heraclitus, we have struck
here an important difference. Plato believed that the law of historical
destiny, the law of decay, can be broken by the moral will of man,
supported by the power of human reason.

It is not quite clear how Plato reconciled this view with his belief in a
law of destiny. But there are some indications which may explain the
matter.

Plato believed that the law of degeneration involved moral
degeneration. Political degeneration at any rate depends in his view
mainly upon moral degeneration (and lack of knowledge); and moral
degeneration, in its turn, is due mainly to racial degeneration. This is the
way in which the general cosmic law of decay manifests itself in the field
of human affairs.

It is therefore understandable that the great cosmic turning-point may
coincide with a turning-point in the field of human affairs — the moral
and intellectual field — and that it may, therefore, appear to us to be
brought about by a moral and intellectual human effort. Plato may well
have believed that, just as the general law of decay did manifest itself in

moral decay leading to political decay, so the advent of the cosmic
turning-point would manifest itself in the coming of a great law-giver
whose powers of reasoning and whose moral will are capable of bringing
this period of political decay to a close. It seems likely that the prophecy,
in the Statesman, of the return of the Golden Age, of a new millennium, is
the expression of such a belief in the form of a myth. However this may
be, he certainly believed in both — in a general historical tendency
towards corruption, and in the possibility that we may stop further
corruption in the political field hy arresting all political change. This,
accordingly, is the aim he strives for.- He tries to realize it by the
establishment of a state which is free from the evils of all other states
because it does not degenerate, because it does not change. The state
which is free from the evil of change and corruption is the best, the
perfect state. It is the state of the Golden Age which knew no change. It is
the arrested state.

Ill

In believing in such an ideal state which does not change, Plato deviates
radically from the tenets of historicism which we found in Heraclitus. But
important as this difference is, it gives rise to further points of similarity
between Plato and Heraclitus.

Heraclitus, despite the boldness of his reasoning, seems to have shrunk
from the idea of replacing the cosmos by chaos. He seems to have
comforted himself, we said, for the loss of a stable world by clinging to
the view that change is ruled by an unchanging law. This tendency to
shrink back from the last consequences of historicism is characteristic of
many historicists.

In Plato, this tendency becomes paramount. (He was here under the
influence of the philosophy of Parmenides, the great critic of Heraclitus.)
Heraclitus had generalized his experience of social flux by extending it to
the world of 'all things', and Plato, I have hinted, did the same. But Plato
also extended his belief in a perfect state that does not change to the
realm of 'all things'. He believed that to every kind of ordinary or
decaying thing there corresponds also a perfect thing that does not decay.
This belief in perfect and unchanging things, usually called the Theory oj
Forms or Ideas-, became the central doctrine of his philosophy.

Plato's belief that it is possible for us to break the iron law of destiny,
and to avoid decay by arresting all change, shows that his historicist
tendencies had definite limitations. An uncompromising and fully
developed historicism would hesitate to admit that man, by any effort,
can alter the laws of historical destiny even after he has discovered them.
It would hold that he cannot work against them, since all his plans and
actions are means by which the inexorable laws of development realize
his historical destiny; just as Oedipus met his fate because of the
prophecy, and the measures taken by his father for avoiding it, and not in
spite of them. In order to gain a better understanding of this out-and-out
historicist attitude, and to analyse the opposite tendency inherent in
Plato's belief that he could influence fate, I shall contrast historicism, as
we find it in Plato, with a diametrically opposite approach, also to be
found in Plato, which may be called the attitude of social engineering-.

The social engineer does not ask any questions about historical
tendencies or the destiny of man. He believes that man is the master of

his own destiny and that, in accordance with our aims, we can influence
or change the history of man just as we have changed the face of the
earth. He does not believe that these ends are imposed upon us by our
historical background or by the trends of history, but rather that they are
chosen, or even created, by ourselves, just as we create new thoughts or
new works of art or new houses or new machinery. As opposed to the
historicist who believes that intelligent political action is possible only if
the future course of history is first determined, the social engineer
believes that a scientific basis of politics would be a very different thing;
it would consist of the factual information necessary for the construction
or alteration of social institutions, in accordance with our wishes and
aims. Such a science would have to tell us what steps we must take if we
wish, for instance, to avoid depressions, or else to produce depressions;
or if we wish to make the distribution of wealth more even, or less even.
In other words, the social engineer conceives as the scientific basis of
politics something like ?i social technology (Plato, as we shall see,
compares it with the scientific background of medicine), as opposed to
the historicist who understands it as a science of immutable historical
tendencies.

From what I have said about the attitude of the social engineer, it must
not be inferred that there are no important differences within the camp of
the social engineers. On the contrary, the difference between what I call
'piecemeal social engineering' and 'Utopian social engineering' is one of
the main themes of this book. (Cp. especially chapter 9, where I shall
give my reasons for advocating the former and rejecting the latter.) But
for the time being, I am concerned only with the opposition between
historicism and social engineering. This opposition can perhaps be
further clarified if we consider the attitudes taken up by the historicist
and by the social engineer towards social institutions, i.e. such things as
an insurance company, or a police force, or a government, or perhaps a

grocer's shop.

The historicist is inclined to look upon social institutions mainly from
the point of view of their history, i.e. their origin, their development, and
their present and future significance. He may perhaps insist that their
origin is due to a definite plan or design and to the pursuit of definite
ends, either human or divine; or he may assert that they are not designed
to serve any clearly conceived ends, but are rather the immediate
expression of certain instincts and passions; or he may assert that they
have once served as means to definite ends, but that they have lost this
character. The social engineer and technologist, on the other hand, will
hardly take much interest in the origin of institutions, or in the original
intentions of their founders (although there is no reason why he should
not recognize the fact that 'only a minority of social institutions are
consciously designed, while the vast majority have just "grown", as the
undesigned results of human actions'—). Rather, he will put his problem
like this. If such and such are our aims, is this institution well designed
and organized to serve them? As an example we may consider the
institution of insurance. The social engineer or technologist will not
worry much about the question whether insurance originated as a profit-
seeking business; or whether its historical mission is to serve the
common weal. But he may offer a criticism of certain institutions of
insurances, showing, perhaps, how to increase their profits, or, which is a
very different thing, how to increase the benefit they render to the public;
and he will suggest ways in which they could be made more efficient in
serving the one end or the other. As another example of a social
institution, we may consider a police force. Some historicists may
describe it as an instrument for the protection of freedom and security,
others as an instrument of class rule and oppression. The social engineer
or technologist, however, would perhaps suggest measures that would
make it a suitable instrument for the protection of freedom and security.

and he might also devise measures by which it could be turned into a
powerful weapon of class rule. (In his function as a citizen who pursues
certain ends in which he believes, he may demand that these ends, and the
appropriate measures, should be adopted. But as a technologist, he would
carefully distinguish between the question of the ends and their choice
and questions concerning the facts, i.e. the social effects of any measure
which might be taken—.)

Speaking more generally, we can say that the engineer or the
technologist approaches institutions rationally as means that serve certain
ends, and that as a technologist he judges them wholly according to their
appropriateness, efficiency, simplicity, etc. The historicist, on the other
hand, would rather attempt to find out the origin and destiny of these
institutions in order to assess the 'true role' played by them in the
development of history — evaluating them, for instance, as 'willed by
God', or as 'willed by Fate', or as 'serving important historical trends',
etc. All this does not mean that the social engineer or technologist will be
committed to the assertion that institutions are means to ends, or
instruments; he may be well aware of the fact that they are, in many
important respects, very different from mechanical instruments or
machines. He will not forget, for example, that they 'grow' in a way
which is similar (although by no means equal) to the growth of
organisms, and that this fact is of great importance for social engineering.
He is not committed to an 'instrumentalist' philosophy of social
institutions. (Nobody will say that an orange is din instrument, or a means
to an end; but we often look upon oranges as means to ends, for example,
if we wish to eat them, or, perhaps, to make our living by selling them.)

The two attitudes, historicism and social engineering, occur sometimes
in typical combinations. The earliest and probably the most influential
example of these is the social and political philosophy of Plato. It
combines, as it were, some fairly obvious technological elements in the

foreground, with a background dominated by an elaborate display of
typically historicist features. The combination is representative of quite a
number of social and political philosophers who produced what have been
later described as Utopian systems. All these systems recommend some
kind of social engineering, since they demand the adoption of certain
institutional means, though not always very realistic ones, for the
achievement of their ends. But when we proceed to a consideration of
these ends, then we frequently find that they are determined by
historicism. Plato's political ends, especially, depend to a considerable
extent on his historicist doctrines. First, it is his aim to escape the
Heraclitean flux, manifested in social revolution and historical decay.
Secondly, he believes that this can be done by establishing a state which
is so perfect that it does not participate in the general trend of historical
development. Thirdly, he believes that the model or original of his
perfect state can be found in the distant past, in a Golden Age which
existed in the dawn of history; for if the world decays in time, then we
must find increasing perfection the further we go back into the past. The
perfect state is something like the first ancestor, the primogenitor, of the
later states, which are, as it were, the degenerate offspring of this perfect,
or best, or 'ideal' state—; an ideal state which is not a mere phantasm, nor
a dream, nor an 'idea in our mind', but which is, in view of its stability,
more real than all those decaying societies which are in flux, and liable to
pass away at any moment.

Thus even Plato's political end, the best state, is largely dependent on
his historicism; and what is true of his philosophy of the state can be
extended, as already indicated, to his general philosophy of 'all things',
to his Theory of Forms or Ideas.

The things in flux, the degenerate and decaying things, are (like the state)
the offspring, the children, as it were, of perfect things. And like children,
they are copies of their original primogenitors. The father or original of a
thing in flux is what Plato calls its 'Form' or its 'Pattern' or its 'Idea'. As
before, we must insist that the Form or Idea, in spite of its name, is no
'idea in our mind'; it is not a phantasm, nor a dream, but a real thing. It
is, indeed, more real than all the ordinary things which are in flux, and
which, in spite of their apparent solidity, are doomed to decay; for the
Form or Idea is a thing that is perfect, and does not perish.

The Forms or Ideas must not be thought to dwell, like perishable
things, in space and time. They are outside space, and also outside time
(because they are eternal). But they are in contact with space and time;
for since they are the primogenitors or models of the things which are
generated, and which develop and decay in space and time, they must
have been in contact with space, at the beginning of time. Since they are
not with us in our space and time, they cannot be perceived by our senses,
as can the ordinary changing things which interact with our senses and
are therefore called 'sensible things'. Those sensible things, which are
copies or children of the same model or original, resemble not only this
original, their Form or Idea, but also one another, as do children of the
same family; and as children are called by the name of their father, so are
the sensible things, which bear the name of their Forms or Ideas; 'They
are all called after them', as Aristotle says—.

As a child may look upon his father, seeing in him an ideal, a unique
model, a god-like personification of his own aspiration; the embodiment
of perfection, of wisdom, of stability, glory, and virtue; the power which
created him before his world began; which now preserves and sustains
him; and in 'virtue' of which he exists; so Plato looks upon the Forms or

Ideas. The Platonic Idea is the original and the origin of the thing; it is
the rationale of the thing, the reason of its existence — the stable,
sustaining principle in 'virtue' of which it exists. It is the virtue of the
thing, its ideal, its perfection.

The comparison between the Form or Idea of a class of sensible things
and the father of a family of children is developed by Plato in the
Timaeus, one of his latest dialogues. It is in close agreement— with much
of his earlier writing, on which it throws considerable light. But in the
Timaeus, Plato goes one step beyond his earlier teaching when he
represents the contact of the Form or Idea with the world of space and
time by an extension of his simile. He describes the abstract 'space' in
which the sensible things move (originally the space or gap between
heaven and earth) as a receptacle, and compares it with the mother of
things, in which at the beginning of time the sensible things are created
by the Forms which stamp or impress themselves upon pure space, and
thereby give the offspring their shape. 'We must conceive', writes Plato,
'three kinds of things: first, those which undergo generation; secondly,
that in which generation takes place; and thirdly, the model in whose
likeness the generated things are born. And we may compare the
receiving principle to a mother, and the model to a father, and their
product to a child.' And he goes on to describe first more fully the
models — the fathers, the unchanging Forms or Ideas: 'There is first the
unchanging Form which is uncreated and indestructible, . . . invisible and
imperceptible by any sense, and which can be contemplated only by pure
thought.' To any single one of these Forms or Ideas belongs its offspring
or race of sensible things, 'another kind of things, bearing the name of
their Form and resembling it, but perceptible to sense, created, always in
flux, generated in a place and again vanishing from that place, and
apprehended by opinion based upon perception'. And the abstract space,
which is likened to the mother, is described thus: 'There is a third kind.

which is space, and is eternal, and cannot be destroyed, and which
provides a home for all generated things . . . '—

It may contribute to the understanding of Plato's theory of Forms or
Ideas if we compare it with certain Greek religious beliefs. As in many
primitive religions, some at least of the Greek gods are nothing but
idealized tribal primogenitors and heroes — ^personifications of the
'virtue' or 'perfection' of the tribe. Accordingly, certain tribes and
families traced their ancestry to one or other of the gods. (Plato's own
family is reported to have traced its descent from the god Poseidon—.)
We have only to consider that these gods are immortal or eternal, and
perfect — or very nearly so — while ordinary men are involved in the flux
of all things, and subject to decay (which indeed is the ultimate destiny of
every human individual), in order to see that these gods are related to
ordinary men in the same way as Plato's Forms or Ideas are related to
those sensible things which are their copies— (or his perfect state to the
various states now existing). There is, however, an important difference
between Greek mythology and Plato's Theory of Forms or Ideas. While
the Greeks venerated many gods as the ancestors of various tribes or
families, the Theory of Ideas demands that there should be only one Form
or Idea of man—; for it is one of the central doctrines of the Theory of
Forms that there is only one Form of every 'race' or 'kind' of things. The
uniqueness of the Form which corresponds to the uniqueness of the
primogenitor is a necessary element of the theory if it is to perform one
of its most important functions, namely, to explain the similarity of
sensible things, by proposing that the similar things are copies or
imprints of one Form. Thus if there were two equal or similar Forms,
their similarity would force us to assume that both are copies of a third
original which thereby would turn out to be the only true and single
Form. Or, as Plato puts it in the Timaeus: 'The resemblance would thus
be explained, more precisely, not as one between these two things, but in

reference to that superior thing which is their prototype.'— In the
Republic, which is earlier than the Timaeus, Plato had explained his point
even more clearly, using as his example the 'essential bed', i.e. the Form
or Idea of a bed: 'God ... has made one essential bed, and only one; two
or more he did not produce, and never will . . . For . . . even if God were to
make two, and no more, then another would be brought to light, namely
the Form exhibited by those two; this, and not those two, would then be
the essential bed.'—

This argument shows that the Forms or Ideas provide Plato not only
with an origin or starting point for all developments in space and time
(and especially for human history) but also with an explanation of the
similarities between sensible things of the same kind. If things are
similar because of some virtue or property which they share, for instance,
whiteness, or hardness, or goodness, then this virtue or property must be
one and the same in all of them; otherwise it would not make them
similar. According to Plato, they all participate in the one Form or Idea of
whiteness, if they are white; of hardness, if they are hard. They
participate in the sense in which children participate in their father's
possessions and gifts; just as the many particular reproductions of an
etching which are all impressions from one and the same plate, and hence
similar to one another, may participate in the beauty of the original.

The fact that this theory is designed to explain the similarities in
sensible things does not seem at first sight to be in any way connected
with historicism. But it is; and as Aristotle tells us, it was just this
connection which induced Plato to develop the Theory of Ideas. I shall
attempt to give an outline of this development, using Aristotle's account
together with some indications in Plato's own writings.

If all things are in continuous flux, then it is impossible to say anything
definite about them. We can have no real knowledge of them, but, at the
best, vague and delusive 'opinions'. This point, as we know from Plato

and Aristotle—, worried many followers of Heraclitus. Parmenides, one
of Plato's predecessors who influenced him greatly, had taught that the
pure knowledge of reason, as opposed to the delusive opinion of
experience, could have as its object only a world which did not change,
and that the pure knowledge of reason did in fact reveal such a world. But
the unchanging and undivided reality which Parmenides thought he had
discovered behind the world of perishable things— was entirely unrelated
to this world in which we live and die. It was therefore incapable of
explaining it.

With this, Plato could not be satisfied. Much as he disliked and
despised this empirical world of flux, he was, at bottom, most deeply
interested in it. He wanted to unveil the secret of its decay, of its violent
changes, and of its unhappiness. He hoped to discover the means of its
salvation. He was deeply impressed by Parmenides' doctrine of an
unchanging, real, solid, and perfect world behind this ghostly world in
which he suffered; but this conception did not solve his problems as long
as it remained unrelated to the world of sensible things. What he was
looking for was knowledge, not opinion; the pure rational knowledge of a
world that does not change; but, at the same time, knowledge that could
be used to investigate this changing world, and especially, this changing
society; political change, with its strange historical laws. Plato aimed at
discovering the secret of the royal knowledge of politics, of the art of
ruling men.

But an exact science of politics seemed as impossible as any exact
knowledge of a world in flux; there were no fixed objects in the political
field. How could one discuss any political questions when the meaning of
words like 'government' or 'state' or 'city' changed with every new
phase in the historical development? Political theory must have seemed
to Plato in his Heraclitean period to be just as elusive, fluctuating, and
unfathomable as political practice.

In this situation Plato obtained, as Aristotle tells us, a most important
hint from Socrates. Socrates was interested in ethical matters; he was an
ethical reformer, a moralist who pestered all kinds of people, forcing
them to think, to explain, and to account for the principles of their
actions. He used to question them and was not easily satisfied by their
answers. The typical reply which he received — that we act in a certain
way because it is 'wise' to act in this way or perhaps 'efficient', or 'just',
or 'pious', etc. — only incited him to continue his questions by asking
what is wisdom; or efficiency; or justice; or piety. In other words, he was
led to enquire into the 'virtue' of a thing. So he discussed, for instance,
the wisdom displayed in various trades and professions, in order to find
out what is common to all these various and changing 'wise' ways of
behaviour, and so to find out what wisdom really is, or what 'wisdom'
really means, or (using Aristotle's way of putting it) what its essence is.
'It was natural', says Aristotle, 'that Socrates should search for the
essence'—, i.e. for the virtue or rationale of a thing and for the real, the
unchanging or essential meanings of the terms. 'In this connection he
became the first to raise the problem of universal definitions.'

These attempts of Socrates to discuss ethical terms like 'justice' or
'modesty' or 'piety' have been rightly compared with modern discussions
on Liberty (by Mill—, for instance), or on Authority, or on the Individual
and Society (by Catlin, for instance). There is no need to assume that
Socrates, in his search for the unchanging or essential meaning of such
terms, personified them, or that he treated them like things. Aristotle's
report at least suggests that he did not, and that it was Plato who
developed Socrates' method of searching for the meaning or essence into
a method of determining the real nature, the Form or Idea of a thing.
Plato retained 'the Heraclitean doctrines that all sensible things are ever
in a state of flux, and that there is no knowledge about them', but he
found in Socrates' method a way out of these difficulties. Though there

'could be no definition of any sensible thing, as they were always
changing', there could be definitions and true knowledge of things of a
different kind — of the virtues of the sensible things. 'If knowledge or
thought were to have an object, there would have to be some different,
some unchanging entities, apart from those which are sensible', says
Aristotle—, and he reports of Plato that 'things of this other sort, then, he
called Forms or Ideas, and the sensible things, he said, were distinct from
them, and all called after them. And the many things which have the same
name as a certain Form or Idea exist by participating in it'.

This account of Aristotle's corresponds closely to Plato's own
arguments proffered in the Timaeus—, and it shows that Plato's
fundamental problem was to find a scientific method of dealing with
sensible things. He wanted to obtain purely rational knowledge, and not
merely opinion; and since pure knowledge of sensible things could not be
obtained, he insisted, as mentioned before, on obtaining at least such pure
knowledge as was in some way related, and applicable, to sensible things.
Knowledge of the Forms or Ideas fulfilled this demand, since the Form
was related to its sensible things like a father to his children who are
under age. The Form was the accountable representative of the sensible
things, and could therefore be consulted in important questions
concerning the world of flux.

According to our analysis, the theory of Forms or Ideas has at least
three different functions in Plato's philosophy. (1) It is a most important
methodological device, for it makes possible pure scientific knowledge,
and even knowledge which could be applied to the world of changing
things of which we cannot immediately obtain any knowledge, but only
opinion. Thus it becomes possible to enquire into the problems of a
changing society, and to build up a political science. (2) It provides the
clue to the urgently needed theory of change, and of decay, to a theory of
generation and degeneration, and especially, the clue to history. (3) It

opens a way, in the social realm, towards some kind of social
engineering; and it makes possible the forging of instruments for
arresting social change, since it suggests designing a 'best state' which so
closely resembles the Form or Idea of a state that it cannot decay.

Problem (2), the theory of change and of history, will be dealt with in
the next two chapters, 4 and 5, where Plato's descriptive sociology is
treated, i.e. his description and explanation of the changing social world
in which he lived. Problem (3), the arresting of social change, will be
dealt with in chapters 6 to 9, treating Plato's political programme.
Problem (1), that of Plato's methodology, has with the help of Aristotle's
account of the history of Plato's theory been briefly outlined in the
present chapter. To this discussion, I wish to add here a few more
remarks.

I use the name methodological essentialism to characterize the view, held
by Plato and many of his followers, that it is the task of pure knowledge
or 'science' to discover and to describe the true nature of things, i.e. their
hidden reality or essence. It was Plato's peculiar belief that the essence of
sensible things can be found in other and more real things — in their
primogenitors or Forms. Many of the later methodological essentialists,
for instance Aristotle, did not altogether follow him in this; but they all
agreed with him in determining the task of pure knowledge as the
discovery of the hidden nature or Form or essence of things. All these
methodological essentialists also agreed with Plato in holding that these
essences may be discovered and discerned with the help of intellectual
intuition; that every essence has a name proper to it, the name after which

the sensible things are called; and that it may be described in words. And
a description of the essence of a thing they all called a 'definition'.
According to methodological essentialism, there can be three ways of
knowing a thing: 'I mean that we can know its unchanging reality or
essence; and that we can know the definition of the essence; and that we
can know its name. Accordingly, two questions may be formulated about
any real thing . . . : A person may give the name and ask for the definition;
or he may give the definition and ask for the name.' As an example of
this method, Plato uses the essence of 'even' (as opposed to 'odd'):
'Number . . . may be a thing capable of division into equal parts. If it is so
divisible, number is named "even"; and the definition of the name "even"
is "a number divisible into equal parts"... And when we are given the
name and asked about the definition, or when we are given the definition
and asked about the name, we speak, in both cases, of one and the same
essence, whether we call it now "even" or "a number divisible into equal
parts".' After this example, Plato proceeds to apply this method to a
'proof concerning the real nature of the soul, about which we shall hear
more later—.

Methodological essentialism, i.e. the theory that it is the aim of science
to reveal essences and to describe them by means of definitions, can be
better understood when contrasted with its opposite, methodological
nominalism. Instead of aiming at finding out what a thing really is, and at
defining its true nature, methodological nominalism aims at describing
how a thing behaves in various circumstances, and especially, whether
there are any regularities in its behaviour. In other words, methodological
nominalism sees the aim of science in the description of the things and
events of our experience, and in an 'explanation' of these events, i.e. their
description with the help of universal laws—. And it sees in our language,
and especially in those of its rules which distinguish properly constructed
sentences and inferences from a mere heap of words, the great instrument

of scientific description—; words it considers rather as subsidiary tools
for this task, and not as names of essences. The methodological
nominalist will never think that a question like 'What is energy?' or
'What is movement?' or ' What is an atom?' is an important question for
physics; but he will attach importance to a question like: 'How can the
energy of the sun be made useful?' or 'How does a planet move?' or
'Under what condition does an atom radiate light?' And to those
philosophers who tell him that before having answered the 'what is'
question he cannot hope to give exact answers to any of the 'how'
questions, he will reply, if at all, by pointing out that he much prefers that
modest degree of exactness which he can achieve by his methods to the
pretentious muddle which they have achieved by theirs.

As indicated by our example, methodological nominalism is nowadays
fairly generally accepted in the natural sciences. The problems of the
social sciences, on the other hand, are still for the most part treated by
essentialist methods. This is, in my opinion, one of the main reasons for
their backwardness. But many who have noticed this situation— judge it
differently. They believe that the difference in method is necessary, and
that it reflects an 'essential' difference between the 'natures' of these two
fields of research.

The arguments usually offered in support of this view emphasize the
importance of change in society, and exhibit other aspects of historicism.
The physicist, so runs a typical argument, deals with objects like energy
or atoms which, though changing, retain a certain degree of constancy. He
can describe the changes encountered by these relatively unchanging
entities, and does not have to construct or detect essences or Forms or
similar unchanging entities in order to obtain something permanent on
which he can make definite pronouncements. The social scientist,
however, is in a very different position. His whole field of interest is
changing. There are no permanent entities in the social realm, where

everything is under the sway of historical flux. How, for instance, can we
study government? How could we identify it in the diversity of
governmental institutions, found in different states at different historical
periods, without assuming that they have somQthing essentially in
common? We call an institution a government if we think that it is
essentially a government, i.e. if it complies with our intuition of what a
government is, an intuition which we can formulate in a definition. The
same would hold good for other sociological entities, such as
'civilization'. We must grasp their essence, so the historicist argument
concludes, and lay it down in the form of a definition.

These modem arguments are, I think, very similar to those reported
above which, according to Aristotle, led Plato to his doctrine of Forms or
Ideas. The only difference is that Plato (who did not accept the atomic
theory and knew nothing about energy) applied his doctrine to the realm
of physics also, and thus to the world as a whole. We have here an
indication of the fact that, in the social sciences, a discussion of Plato's
methods may be topical even to-day.

Before proceeding to Plato's sociology and to the use he made of his
methodological essentialism in that field, I wish to make it quite clear
that I am confining my treatment of Plato to his historicism, and to his
'best state'. I must therefore warn the reader not to expect a
representation of the whole of Plato's philosophy, or what may be called
a 'fair and just' treatment of Platonism. My attitude towards historicism
is one of frank hostility, based upon the conviction that historicism is
futile, and worse than that. My survey of the historicist features of
Platonism is therefore strongly critical. Although I admire much in
Plato's philosophy, far beyond those parts which I believe to be Socratic,
I do not take it as my task to add to the countless tributes to his genius. I
am, rather, bent on destroying what is in my opinion mischievous in this
philosophy. It is the totalitarian tendency of Plato's political philosophy

which I shall try to analyse, and to criticize.—

Plato's Descriptive Sociology

Change and Rest

Plato was one of the first social scientists and undoubtedly by far the
most influential. In the sense in which the term 'sociology' was
understood by Comte, Mill, and Spencer, he was a sociologist; that is to
say, he successfully applied his idealist method to an analysis of the
social life of man, and of the laws of its development as well as the laws
and conditions of its stability. In spite of Plato's great influence, this side
of his teaching has been little noticed. This seems to be due to two
factors. First of all, much of Plato's sociology is presented by him in such
close connection with his ethical and political demands that the
descriptive elements have been largely overlooked. Secondly, many of
his thoughts were taken so much for granted that they were simply
absorbed unconsciously and therefore uncritically. It is mainly in this
way that his sociological theories became so influential.

Plato's sociology is an ingenious blend of speculation with acute
observation of facts. Its speculative setting is, of course, the theory of
Forms and of universal flux and decay, of generation and degeneration.
But on this idealist foundation Plato constructs an astonishingly realistic
theory of society, capable of explaining the main trends in the historical
development of the Greek city-states as well as the social and political
forces at work in his own day.

The speculative or metaphysical setting of Plato's theory of social change
has already been sketched. It is the world of unchanging Forms or Ideas,
of which the world of changing things in space and time is the offspring.
The Forms or Ideas are not only unchanging, indestructible, and
incorruptible, but also perfect, true, real, and good; in fact, 'good' is
once, in thQ Republic-, explained as 'everything that preserves', and
'evil' as 'everything that destroys or corrupts'. The perfect and good
Forms or Ideas are prior to the copies, the sensible things, and they are
something like primogenitors or starting points- of all the changes in the
world of flux. This view is used for evaluating the general trend and main
direction of all changes in the world of sensible things. For if the starting
point of all change is perfect and good, then change can only be a
movement that leads away from the perfect and good; it must be directed
towards the imperfect and the evil, towards corruption.

This theory can be developed in detail. The more closely a sensible
thing resembles its Form or Idea, the less corruptible it must be, since the
Forms themselves are incorruptible. But sensible or generated things are
not perfect copies; indeed, no copy can be perfect, since it is only an
imitation of the true reality, only appearance and illusion, not the truth.
Accordingly, no sensible things (except perhaps the most excellent ones)
resemble their Forms sufficiently closely to be unchangeable. 'Absolute
and eternal immutability is assigned only to the most divine of all things,
and bodies do not belong to this order'-, says Plato. A sensible or
generated thing — such as a physical body, or a human soul — if it is a
good copy, may change only very little at first; and the most ancient
change or motion — the motion of the soul — is still 'divine' (as opposed
to secondary and tertiary changes). But every change, however small.

must make it different, and thus less perfect, by reducing its resemblance
to its Form. In this way, the thing becomes more changeable with every
change, and more corruptible, since it becomes further removed from its
Form which is its 'cause of immobility and of being at rest', as Aristotle
says, who paraphrases Plato's doctrine as follows: 'Things are generated
by participating in the Form, and they decay by losing the Form.' This
process of degeneration, slow at first and more rapid afterwards — ^this
law of decline and fall — is dramatically described by Plato in the Laws,
the last of his great dialogues. The passage deals primarily with the
destiny of the human soul, but Plato makes it clear that it holds for all
things that 'share in soul', by which he means all living things. 'AH
things that share in soul change', he writes, '... and while they change,
they are carried along by the order and law of destiny. The smaller the
change in their character, the less significant is the beginning decline in
their level of rank. But when the change increases, and with it the
iniquity, then they fall — down into the abyss and what is known as the
infernal regions.' (In the continuation of the passage, Plato mentions the
possibility that 'soul gifted with an exceptionally large share of virtue
can, by force of its own will if it is in communion with the divine
virtue, become supremely virtuous and move to an exalted region'. The
problem of the exceptional soul which can save itself — and perhaps
others — from the general law of destiny will be discussed in chapter 8.)
Earlier in the Laws, Plato summarizes his doctrine of change: 'Any
change whatever, except the change of an evil thing, is the gravest of all
the treacherous dangers that can befall a thing — ^whether it is now a
change of season, or of wind, or of the diet of the body, or of the
character of the soul.' And he adds, for the sake of emphasis: 'This
statement applies to everything, with the sole exception, as I said just
now, of something evil.' In brief, Plato teaches that change is evil, and
that rest is divine.

We see now that Plato's theory of Forms or Ideas implies a certain
trend in the development of the world in flux. It leads to the law that the
corruptibility of all things in that world must continually increase. It is
not so much a rigid law of universally increasing corruption, but rather a
law of increasing corruptibility; that is to say, the danger or the
likelihood of corruption increases, but exceptional developments in the
other direction are not excluded. Thus it is possible, as the last quotations
indicate, that a very good soul may defy change and decay, and that a
very evil thing, for instance a very evil city, may be improved by
changing it. (In order that such an improvement should be of any value,
we would have to try to make it permanent, i.e. to arrest all further
change.)

In full accordance with this general theory is Plato's story, in the
Timaeus, of the origin of species. According to this story, man, the
highest of animals, is generated by the gods; the other species originate
from him by a process of corruption and degeneration. First, certain men
— the cowards and villains — degenerate into women. Those who are
lacking wisdom degenerate step by step into the lower animals. Birds, we
hear, came into being through the transformation of harmless but too
easy-going people who would trust their senses too much; 'land animals
came from men who had no interest in philosophy' ; and fishes, including
shell-fish, 'degenerated from the most foolish, stupid, and ... unworthy'
of all men-.

It is clear that this theory can be applied to human society, and to its
history. It then explains Hesiod's- pessimistic law of development, the
law of historical decay. If we are to believe Aristotle's report (outlined in
the last chapter), then the theory of Forms or Ideas was originally
introduced in order to meet a methodological demand, the demand for
pure or rational knowledge which is impossible in the case of sensible
things in flux. We now see that the theory does more than that. Over and

above meeting these methodological demands, it provides a theory oj
change. It explains the general direction of the flux of all sensible things,
and thereby the historical tendency to degenerate shown by man and
human society. (And it does still more; as we shall see in chapter 6, the
theory of Forms determines the trend of Plato's political demands also,
and even the means for their realization.) If, as I believe, the philosophies
of Plato as well as Heraclitus sprang from their social experience,
especially from the experience of class war and from the abject feeling
that their social world was going to pieces, then we can understand why
the theory of Forms came to play such an important part in Plato's
philosophy when he found that it was capable of explaining the trend
towards degeneration. He must have welcomed it as the solution of a
most mystifying riddle. While Heraclitus had been unable to pass a direct
ethical condemnation upon the trend of the political development, Plato
found, in his theory of Forms, the theoretical basis for a pessimistic
judgement in Hesiod's vein.

But Plato's greatness as a sociologist does not lie in his general and
abstract speculations about the law of social decay. It lies rather in the
wealth and detail of his observations, and in the amazing acuteness of his
sociological intuition. He saw things which had not been seen before him,
and which were rediscovered only in our own time. As an example I may
mention his theory of the primitive beginnings of society, of tribal
patriarchy, and, in general, his attempt to outline the typical periods in
the development of social life. Another example is Plato's sociological
and economic historicism, his emphasis upon the economic background
of the political life and the historical development; a theory revived by
Marx under the name 'historical materialism'. A third example is Plato's
most interesting law of political revolutions, according to which all
revolutions presuppose a disunited ruling class (or 'elite'); a law which
forms the basis of his analysis of the means of arresting political change

and creating a social equilibrium, and which has been recently
rediscovered by the theoreticians of totalitarianism, especially by Pareto.

I shall now proceed to a more detailed discussion of these points,
especially the third, the theory of revolution and of equilibrium.

The dialogues in which Plato discusses these questions are, in
chronological order, the Republic, a dialogue of much later date called
the Statesman (or the Politicus), and the Laws, the latest and longest of
his works. In spite of certain minor differences, there is much agreement
between these dialogues, which are in some respects parallel, in others
complementary, to one another. The Laws-, for instance, present the story
of the decline and fall of human society as an account of Greek prehistory
merging without any break into history; while the parallel passages of the
Republic give, in a more abstract way, a systematic outline of the
development of government; the Statesman, still more abstract, gives a
logical classification of types of government, with only a few allusions to
historical events. Similarly, the Laws formulate the historicist aspect of
the investigation very clearly. 'What is the archetype or origin of a
state?' asks Plato there, linking this question with the other: 'Is not the
best method of looking for an answer to this question ... that of
contemplating the growth of states as they change either towards the good
or towards the evil?' But within the sociological doctrines, the only major
difference appears to be due to a purely speculative difficulty which
seems to have worried Plato. Assuming as the starting point of the
development a perfect and therefore incorruptible state, he found it
difficult to explain the first change, the Fall of Man, as it were, which

sets everything going-. We shall hear, in the next chapter, of Plato's
attempt to solve this problem; but first I shall give a general survey of his
theory of social development.

According to the Republic, the original or primitive form of society,
and at the same time, the one that resembles the Form or Idea of a state
most closely, the 'best state', is a kingship of the wisest and most godlike
of men. This ideal city-state is so near perfection that it is hard to
understand how it can ever change. Still, a change does take place; and
with it enters Heraclitus' strife, the driving force of all movement.
According to Plato, internal strife, class war, fomented by self-interest
and especially material or economic self-interest, is the main force of
'social dynamics'. The Marxian formula 'The history of all hitherto
existing societies is a history of class struggle'- fits Plato's historicism
nearly as well as that of Marx. The four most conspicuous periods or
'landmarks in the history of political degeneration', and, at the same
time, 'the most important ... varieties of existing states'-, are described
by Plato in the following order. First after the perfect state comes
'timarchy' or 'timocracy', the rule of the noble who seek honour and
fame; secondly, oligarchy, the rule of the rich families; 'next in order,
democracy is born', the rule of liberty which means lawlessness; and last
comes 'tyranny . . . the fourth and final sickness of the city'—.

As can be seen from the last remark, Plato looks upon history, which to
him is a history of social decay, as if it were the history of an illness: the
patient is society; and, as we shall see later, the statesman ought to be a
physician (and vice versa) — a healer, a saviour. Just as the description of
the typical course of an illness is not always applicable to every
individual patient, so is Plato's historical theory of social decay not
intended to apply to the development of every individual city. But it is
intended to describe both the original course of development by which
the main forms of constitutional decay were first generated, and the

typical course of social change—. We see that Plato aimed at setting out a
system of historical periods, governed by a law of evolution; in other
words, he aimed at a historicist theory of society. This attempt was
revived by Rousseau, and was made fashionable by Comte and Mill, and
by Hegel and Marx; but considering the historical evidence then
available, Plato's system of historical periods was just as good as that of
any of these modern historicists. (The main difference lies in the
evaluation of the course taken by history. While the aristocrat Plato
condemned the development he described, these modern authors
applauded it, believing as they did in a law of historical progress.)

Before discussing Plato's perfect state in any detail, I shall give a brief
sketch of his analysis of the role played by economic motives and the
class struggle in the process of transition between the four decaying
forms of the state. The first form into which the perfect state degenerates,
timocracy, the rule of the ambitious noblemen, is said to be in nearly all
respects similar to the perfect state itself. It is important to note that
Plato explicitly identified this best and oldest among the existing states
with the Dorian constitution of Sparta and Crete, and that these two tribal
aristocracies did in fact represent the oldest existing forms of political
life within Greece. Most of Plato's excellent description of their
institutions is given in certain parts of his description of the best or
perfect state, to which timocracy is so similar. (Through his doctrine of
the similarity between Sparta and the perfect state, Plato became one of
the most successful propagators of what I should like to call 'the Great
Myth of Sparta' — the perennial and influential myth of the supremacy of
the Spartan constitution and way of life.)

The main difference between the best or ideal state and timocracy is
that the latter contains an element of instability; the once united
patriarchal ruling class is now disunited, and it is this disunity which
leads to the next step, to its degeneration into oligarchy. Disunion is

brought about by ambition. 'First', says Plato, speaking of the young
timocrat, 'he hears his mother complaining that her husband is not one of
the rulers Thus he becomes ambitious and longs for distinction. But
decisive in bringing about the next change are competitive and
acquisitive social tendencies. 'We must describe', says Plato, 'how
timocracy changes into oligarchy . . . Even a blind man must see how it
changes ... It is the treasure house that ruins this constitution. They' (the
timocrats) 'begin by creating opportunities for showing off and spending
money, and to this end they twist the laws, and they and their wives
disobey them and they try to outrival one another.' In this way arises
the first class conflict: that between virtue and money, or between the
old-established ways of feudal simplicity and the new ways of wealth.
The transition to oligarchy is completed when the rich establish a law that
'disqualifies from public office all those whose means do not reach the
stipulated amount. This change is imposed by force of arms, should
threats and blackmail not succeed . . . '

With the establishment of the oligarchy, a state of potential civil war
between the oligarchs and the poorer classes is reached: 'just as a sick
body ... is sometimes at strife with itself . . ., so is this sick city. It falls ill
and makes war on itself on the slightest pretext, whenever the one party
or the other manages to obtain help from outside, the one from an
oligarchic city, or the other from a democracy. And does not this sick
state break out at times into civil war, even without any such help from
outside?'— This civil war begets democracy: 'Democracy is born ...
when the poor win the day, killing some . . ., banishing others, and sharing
with the rest the rights of citizenship and of public offices, on terms of
equality . . . '

Plato's description of democracy is a vivid but intensely hostile and
unjust parody of the political life of Athens, and of the democratic creed
which Pericles had formulated in a manner which has never been

surpassed, about three years before Plato was born. (Pericles' programme
is discussed in chapter 10, below—.) Plato's description is a brilliant
piece of political propaganda, and we can appreciate what harm it must
have done if we consider, for instance, that a man like Adam, an excellent
scholar and editor of thQ Republic, is unable to resist the rhetoric of
Plato's denunciation of his native city. 'Plato's description of the genesis
of the democratic man', Adam— writes, 'is one of the most royal and
magnificent pieces of writing in the whole range of literature, whether
ancient or modern.' And when the same writer continues: 'the description
of the democratic man as the chameleon of the human society paints him
for all time\ then we see that Plato has succeeded at least in turning this
thinker against democracy, and we may wonder how much damage his
poisonous writing has done when presented, unopposed, to lesser minds.

It seems that often when Plato's style, to use a phrase of Adam's—,
becomes a 'full tide of lofty thoughts and images and words', he is in
urgent need of a cloak to cover up the rags and tatters of his
argumentation, or even, as in the present case, the complete absence of
rational arguments. In their stead he uses invective, identifying liberty
with lawlessness, freedom with licence, and equality before the law with
disorder. Democrats are described as profligate and niggardly, as
insolent, lawless, and shameless, as fierce and as terrible beasts of prey,
as gratifying every whim, as living solely for pleasure, and for
unnecessary and unclean desires. ('They fill their bellies like the beasts',
was Heraclitus' way of putting it.) They are accused of calling 'reverence
a folly temperance they call cowardice moderation and orderly
expenditure they call meanness and boorishness'— , etc. 'And there are
more trifles of this kind', says Plato, when the flood of his rhetorical
abuse begins to abate, 'the schoolmaster fears and flatters his pupils
and old men condescend to the young ... in order to avoid the appearance
of being sour and despotic' (It is Plato the Master of the Academy who

puts this into the mouth of Socrates, forgetting that the latter had never
been a schoolmaster, and that even as an old man he had never appeared
to be sour or despotic. He had always loved, not to 'condescend' to the
young, but to treat them, for instance the young Plato, as his companions
and friends. Plato himself, we have reason to believe, was less ready to
'condescend', and to discuss matters with his pupils.) 'But the height of
all this abundance of freedom ... is reached', Plato continues, 'when
slaves, male as well as female, who have been bought on the market, are
every whit as free as those whose property they are . . . And what is the
cumulative effect of all this? That the citizens' hearts become so very
tender that they get irritated at the mere sight of anything like slavery and
do not suffer anybody to submit to its presence ... so that they may have
no master over them.' Here, after all, Plato pays homage to his native
city, even though he does it unwittingly. It will for ever remain one of the
greatest triumphs of Athenian democracy that it treated slaves humanely,
and that in spite of the inhuman propaganda of philosophers like Plato
himself and Aristotle it came, as he witnesses, very close to abolishing
slavery.—

Of much greater merit, although it too is inspired by hatred, is Plato's
description of tyranny and especially of the transition to it. He insists that
he describes things which he has seen himself—; no doubt, the allusion is
to his experiences at the court of the older Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse.
The transition from democracy to tyranny, Plato says, is most easily
brought about by a popular leader who knows how to exploit the class
antagonism between the rich and the poor within the democratic state,
and who succeeds in building up a bodyguard or a private army of his
own. The people who have hailed him first as the champion of freedom
are soon enslaved; and then they must fight for him, in 'one war after
another which he must stir up . . . because he must make the people feel

the need of a general'—. With tyranny, the most abject state is reached.

A very similar survey of the various forms of government can be found
in the Statesman, where Plato discusses 'the origin of the tyrant and king,
o f oligarchies and aristocracies, and of democracies'—. Again we find
that the various forms of existing governments are explained as debased
copies of the true model or Form of the state, of the perfect state, the
standard of all imitations, which is said to have existed in the ancient
times of Cronos, father of Zeus. One difference is that Plato here
distinguishes six types of debased states; but this difference is
unimportant, especially if we remember that Plato says in the Republic—
that the four types discussed are not exhaustive, and that there are some
intermediate stages. The six types are arrived at, in the Statesman, by first
distinguishing between three forms of government, the rule of one man,
of a few, and of the many. Each of these is then subdivided into two
types, of which one is comparatively good and the other bad, according to
whether or not they imitate 'the only true original' by copying and
preserving its ancient laws—. In this way, three conservative or lawful
and three utterly depraved or lawless forms are distinguished; monarchy,
aristocracy, and a conservative form of democracy are the lawful
imitations, in order of merit. But democracy changes into its lawless
form, and deteriorates further, through oligarchy, the lawless rule of the
few, into a lawless rule of the one, tyranny, which, just as Plato has said
in the Republic, is the worst of all.

That tyranny, the most evil state, need not be the end of the
development is indicated in a passage in the Laws which partly repeats,
and partly— connects with, the story of the Statesman. 'Give me a state
governed by a young tyrant', exclaims Plato there, '... who has the good
fortune to be the contemporary of a great legislator, and to meet him by
some happy accident. What more could a god do for a city which he
wants to make happy?' Tyranny, the most evil state, may be reformed in

this way. (This agrees with the remark in the Laws, quoted above, that all
change is evil, 'except the change of an evil thing'. There is little doubt
that Plato, when speaking of the great lawgiver and the young tyrant,
must have been thinking of himself and his various experiments with
young tyrants, and especially of his attempts at reforming the younger
Dionysius' tyranny over Syracuse. These ill-fated experiments will be
discussed later.)

One of the main objects of Plato's analysis of political developments is
to ascertain the driving force of all historical change. In theZaw^, the
historical survey is explicitly undertaken with this aim in view: 'Have not
uncounted thousands of cities been born during this time . . . and has not
each of them been under all kinds of government? . . . Let us, if we can,
get hold of the cause of so much change. I hope that we may thus reveal
the secret both of the birth of constitutions, and also of their changes.'—
As the result of these investigations he discovers the sociological law that
internal disunion, class war fomented by the antagonism of economic
class interests, is the driving force of all political revolutions. But Plato's
formulation of this fundamental law goes even further. He insists that
only internal sedition within the ruling class itself can weaken it so much
that its rule can be overthrown. 'Changes in any constitution originate,
without exception, within the ruling class itself, and only when this class
becomes the seat of disunion'—, is his formula in the Republic, and in the
Laws he says (possibly referring to this passage of \hQ Republic): 'How
can a kingship, or any other form of government, ever be destroyed by
anybody but the rulers themselves? Have we forgotten what we said a
while ago, when dealing with this subject, as we did the other day?' This
sociological law, together with the observation that economic interests
are the most likely causes of disunion, is Plato's clue to history. But it is
more. It is also the clue to his analysis of the conditions necessary for the
establishment of political equilibrium, i.e. for arresting political change.

He assumes that these conditions were realized in the best or perfect state
of ancient times.

Ill

Plato's description of the perfect or best state has usually been
interpreted as the Utopian programme of a progressivist. In spite of his
repeated assertions, in the Republic, Timaeus, and Critias, that he is
describing the distant past, and in spite of the parallel passages in the
Laws whose historical intention is manifest, it is often assumed that it
was his intention to give a veiled description of the future. But I think
that Plato meant what he said, and that many characteristics of his best
state, especially as described in Books Two to Four of the Republic, are
intended (like his accounts of primitive society in the Statesman and the
Laws) to be historical—, or perhaps prehistorical. This may not apply to
all characteristics of the best state. Concerning, for example, the kingship
of the philosophers (described in Books Five to Seven of the Republic),
Plato indicates himself that it may be a characteristic only of the timeless
world of Forms or Ideas, of the 'City in Heaven'. These intentionally
unhistorical elements of his description will be discussed later, together
with Plato's ethico-political demands. It must, of course, be admitted that
he did not intend, in his description of the primitive or ancient
constitutions, to give an exact historical account; he certainly knew that
he did not possess the necessary data for achieving anything like that. I
believe, however, that he made a serious attempt to reconstruct the
ancient tribal forms of social life as well as he could. There is no reason
to doubt this, especially since the attempt was, in a good number of its
details, very successful. It could hardly be otherwise, since Plato arrived

at his picture by an idealized description of the ancient tribal
aristocracies of Crete and Sparta. With his acute sociological intuition he
had seen that these forms were not only old, but petrified, arrested; that
they were relics of a still older form. And he concluded that this still
older form had been even more stable, more securely arrested. This very
ancient and accordingly very good and very stable state he tried to
reconstruct in such a way as to make clear how it had been kept free from
disunion; how class war had been avoided, and how the influence of
economic interests had been reduced to a minimum, and kept well under
control. These are the main problems of Plato's reconstruction of the best
state.

How does Plato solve the problem of avoiding class war? Had he been
a progressivist, he might have hit on the idea of a classless, equalitarian
society; for, as we can see for instance from his own parody of Athenian
democracy, there were strong equalitarian tendencies at work in Athens.
But he was not out to construct a state that might come, but a state that
had been — the father of the Spartan state, which was certainly not a
classless society. It was a slave state, and accordingly Plato's best state is
based on the most rigid class distinctions. It is a caste state. The problem
of avoiding class war is solved, not by abolishing classes, but by giving
the ruling class a superiority which cannot be challenged. As in Sparta,
the ruling class alone is permitted to carry arms, it alone has any political
or other rights, and it alone receives education, i.e. a specialized training
in the art of keeping down its human sheep or its human cattle. (In fact,
its overwhelming superiority disturbs Plato a little; he fears that its
members 'may worry the sheep', instead of merely shearing them, and
'act as wolves rather than dogs'—. This problem is considered later in the
chapter.) As long as the ruling class is united, there can be no challenge
to their authority, and consequently no class war.

Plato distinguishes three classes in his best state, the guardians, their

armed auxiliaries or warriors, and the working class. But actually there
are only two castes, the military caste — the armed and educated rulers —
and the unarmed and uneducated ruled, the human sheep; for the
guardians are no separate caste, but merely old and wise warriors who
have been promoted from the ranks of the auxiliaries. That Plato divides
his ruling caste into two classes, the guardians and the auxiliaries,
without elaborating similar subdivisions within the working class, is
largely due to the fact that he is interested only in the rulers. The workers,
tradesmen, etc., do not interest him at all, they are only human cattle
whose sole function is to provide for the material needs of the ruling
class. Plato even goes so far as to forbid his rulers to legislate for people
of this class, and for their petty problems.— This is why our information
about the lower classes is so scanty. But Plato's silence is not wholly
uninterrupted. 'Are there not drudges', he asks once, 'who do not possess
a spark of intelligence and are unworthy to be admitted into the
community, but who have strong bodies for hard labour?' Since this nasty
remark has given rise to the soothing comment that Plato does not admit
slaves into his city, I may here point out that this view is mistaken. It is
true that Plato discusses nowhere explicitly the status of slaves in his best
state, and it is even true that he says that the name 'slave' should better
be avoided, and that we shoulder// the workers 'supporters' or even
'employers'. But this is done for propagandist reasons. Nowhere is the
slightest suggestion to be found that the institution of slavery is to be
abolished, or to be mitigated. On the contrary, Plato has only scorn for
those 'tenderhearted' Athenian democrats who supported the abolitionist
movement. And he makes his view quite clear, for example, in his
description of timocracy, the second-best state, and the one directly
following the best. There he says of the timocratic man: 'He will be
inclined to treat slaves cruelly, for he does not despise them as much as a
well-educated man would.' But since only in the best city can education

be found which is superior to that of timocracy, we are bound to conclude
that there are slaves in Plato's best city, and that they are not treated with
cruelty, but are properly despised. In his righteous contempt for them,
Plato does not elaborate the point. This conclusion is fully corroborated
by the fact that a passage in thQ Republic which criticizes the current
practice of Greeks enslaving Greeks ends up with the explicit
endorsement of the enslaving of barbarians, and even with a
recommendation to 'our citizens' — i.e. those of the best city — to 'do unto
barbarians as Greeks now do unto Greeks'. And it is further corroborated
by the contents of the Laws, and the most inhuman attitude towards
slaves adopted there.

Since the ruling class alone has political power, including the power of
keeping the number of the human cattle within such limits as to prevent
them from becoming a danger, the whole problem of preserving the state
is reduced to that of preserving the internal unity of the master class.
How is this unity of the rulers preserved? By training and other
psychological influences, but otherwise mainly by the elimination of
economic interests which may lead to disunion. This economic
abstinence is achieved and controlled by the introduction of communism,
i.e. by the abolition of private property, especially of precious metals.
(The possession of precious metals was forbidden in Sparta.) This
communism is confined to the ruling class, which alone must be kept free
from disunion; quarrels among the ruled are not worthy of consideration.
Since all property is common property, there must also be a common
ownership of women and children. No member of the ruling class must be
able to identify his children, or his parents. The family must be
destroyed, or rather, extended to cover the whole warrior class. Family
loyalties might otherwise become a possible source of disunion; therefore
'each should look upon all as if belonging to one family'—. (This
suggestion was neither so novel nor so revolutionary as it sounds; we

must remember such Spartan restrictions on the privacy of family life as
the ban on private meals, constantly referred to by Plato as the institution
of 'common meals'.) But even the common ownership of women and
children is not quite sufficient to guard the ruling class from all economic
dangers. It is important to avoid prosperity as well as poverty. Both are
dangers to unity: poverty, because it drives people to adopt desperate
means to satisfy their needs; prosperity, because most change arises from
abundance, from an accumulation of wealth which makes dangerous
experiments possible. Only a communist system which has room neither
for great want nor for great wealth can reduce economic interests to a
minimum, and guarantee the unity of the ruling class.

The communism of the ruling caste of his best city can thus be derived
from Plato's fundamental sociological law of change; it is a necessary
condition of the political stability which is its fundamental characteristic.
But although an important condition, it is not a sufficient one. In order
that the ruling class may feel really united, that it should feel like one
tribe, i.e. like one big family, pressure from without the class is as
necessary as are the ties between the members of the class. This pressure
can be secured by emphasizing and widening the gulf between the rulers
and the ruled. The stronger the feeling that the ruled are a different and an
altogether inferior race, the stronger will be the sense of unity among the
rulers. We arrive in this way at the fundamental principle, announced
only after some hesitation, that there must be no mingling between the
classes—: 'Any meddling or changing over from one class to another',
says Plato, 'is a great crime against the city and may rightly be
denounced as the basest wickedness.' But such a rigid division of the
classes must be justified, and an attempt to justify it can only proceed
from the claim that the rulers are superior to the ruled. Accordingly, Plato
tries to justify his class division by the threefold claim that the rulers are
vastly superior in three respects — in race, in education, and in their scale

of values. Plato's moral valuations, which are, of course, identical with
those of the rulers of his best state, will be discussed in chapters 6 to 8; I
may therefore confine myself here to describing some of his ideas
concerning the origin, the breeding, and the education of his ruling class.
(Before proceeding to this description, I wish to express my belief that
personal superiority, whether racial or intellectual or moral or
educational, can never establish a claim to political prerogatives, even if
such superiority could be ascertained. Most people in civilized countries
nowadays admit racial superiority to be a myth; but even if it were an
established fact, it should not create special political rights, though it
might create special moral responsibilities for the superior persons.
Analogous demands should be made of those who are intellectually and
morally and educationally superior; and I cannot help feeling that the
opposite claims of certain intellectualists and moralists only show how
little successful their education has been, since it failed to make them
aware of their own limitations, and of their Pharisaism.)

If we want to understand Plato's views about the origin, breeding, and
education of his ruling class, we must not lose sight of the two main
points of our analysis. We must keep in mind, first of all, that Plato is
reconstructing a city of the past, although one connected with the present
in such a way that certain of its features are still discernible in existing
states, for instance, in Sparta; and secondly, that he is reconstructing his
city with a view to the conditions of its stability, and that he seeks the
guarantees for this stability solely within the ruling class itself, and more
especially, in its unity and strength.

Regarding the origin of the ruling class, it may be mentioned that Plato
speaks in the Statesman of a time, prior even to that of his best state,
when 'God himself was the shepherd of men, ruling over them exactly as
man ... still rules over the beasts. There was ... no ownership of women
and children'—. This is not merely the simile of the good shepherd; in the
light of what Plato says in the Laws, it must be interpreted more literally
than that. For there we are told that this primitive society, which is prior
even to the first and best city, is one of nomad hill shepherds under a
patriarch: 'Government originated', says Plato there of the period prior to
the first settlement, '... as the rule of the eldest who inherited his
authority from his father or mother; all the others followed him like a
flock of birds, thus forming one single horde ruled by that patriarchal
authority and kingship which of all kingships is the most just.' These
nomad tribes, we hear, settled in the cities of the Peloponnese, especially
in Sparta, under the name of 'Dorians'. How this happened is not very
clearly explained, but we understand Plato's reluctance when we get a
hint that the 'settlement' was in fact a violent subjugation. This, for all
we know, is the true story of the Dorian settlement in the Peloponnese.
We therefore have every reason to believe that Plato intended his story as
a serious description of prehistoric events; as a description not only of the
origin of the Dorian master race but also of the origin of their human
cattle, i.e. the original inhabitants. In a parallel passage in ihQ Republic,
Plato gives us a mythological yet very pointed description of the conquest
itself, when dealing with the origin of the 'earthborn', the ruling class of
the best city. (The Myth of the Earthborn will be discussed from a
different point of view in chapter 8.) Their victorious march into the city,
previously founded by the tradesmen and workers, is described as
follows: 'After having armed and trained the earthborn, let us now make
them advance, under the command of the guardians, till they arrive in the
city. Then let them look round to find out the best place for their camp —

the spot that is most suitable for keeping down the inhabitants, should
anyone show unwillingness to obey the law, and for holding back external
enemies who may come down like wolves on the fold.' This short but
triumphant tale of the subjugation of a sedentary population by a
conquering war horde (who are identified, in the Statesman, with the
nomad hill shepherds of the period before the settlement) must be kept in
mind when we interpret Plato's reiterated insistence that good rulers,
whether gods or demigods or guardians, are patriarchal shepherds of men,
and that the true political art, the art of ruling, is a kind of herdsmanship,
i.e. the art of managing and keeping down the human cattle. And it is in
this light that we must consider his description of the breeding and
training of 'the auxiliaries who are subject to the rulers like sheep-dogs to
the shepherds of the state'.

The breeding and the education of the auxiliaries and thereby of the
ruling class of Plato's best state is, like their carrying of arms, a class
symbol and therefore a class prerogative—. And breeding and education
are not empty symbols but, like arms, instruments of class rule, and
necessary for ensuring the stability of this rule. They are treated by Plato
solely from this point of view, i.e. as powerful political weapons, as
means which are useful for herding the human cattle, and for unifying the
ruling class.

To this end, it is important that the master class should feel as one
superior master race. 'The race of the guardians must be kept pure'—,
says Plato (in defence of infanticide), when developing the racialist
argument that we breed animals with great care while neglecting our own
race, an argument which has been repeated ever since. (Infanticide was
not an Athenian institution; Plato, seeing that it was practised at Sparta
for eugenic reasons, concluded that it must be ancient and therefore
good.) He demands that the same principles be applied to the breeding of
the master race as are applied, by an experienced breeder, to dogs, horses.

or birds. 'If you did not breed them in this way, don't you think that the
race of your birds or dogs would quickly degenerate?' Plato argues; and
he draws the conclusion that 'the same principles apply to the race of
men'. The racial qualities demanded from a guardian or from an auxiliary
are, more specifically, those of a sheep-dog. 'Our warrior- athletes ...
must be vigilant like watch-dogs', demands Plato, and he asks: 'Surely,
there is no difference, so far as their natural fitness for keeping guard is
concerned, between a gallant youth and a well-bred dog?' In his
enthusiasm and admiration for the dog, Plato goes so far as to discern in
him a 'genuine philosophical nature'; for 'is not the love of learning
identical with the philosophical attitude?'

The main difficulty which besets Plato is that guardians and auxiliaries
must be endowed with a character that is fierce and gentle at the same
time. It is clear that they must be bred to be fierce, since they must 'meet
any danger in a fearless and unconquerable spirit'. Yet 'if their nature is
to be like that, how are they to be kept from being violent against one
another, or against the rest of the citizens?' — Indeed, it would be 'simply
monstrous if the shepherds should keep dogs ... who would worry the
sheep, behaving like wolves rather than dogs'. The problem is important
from the point of view of the political equilibrium, or rather, of the
stability of the state, for Plato does not rely on an equilibrium of the
forces of the various classes, since that would be unstable. A control of
the master class, its arbitrary powers, and its fierceness, through the
opposing force of the ruled, is out of the question, for the superiority of
the master class must remain unchallenged. The only admissible control
of the master class is therefore self-control. Just as the ruling class must
exercise economic abstinence, i.e. refrain from an excessive economic
exploitation of the ruled, so it must also be able to refrain from too much
fierceness in its dealings with the ruled. But this can only be achieved if
the fierceness of its nature is balanced by its gentleness. Plato finds this a

very serious problem, since 'the fierce nature is the exact opposite of the
gentle nature'. His speaker, Socrates, reports that he is perplexed, until he
remembers the dog again. 'Well-bred dogs are by nature most gentle to
their friends and acquaintances, but the very opposite to strangers', he
says. It is therefore proved 'that the character we try to give our
guardians is not contrary to nature'. The aim of breeding the master race
is thus established, and shown to be attainable. It has been derived from
an analysis of the conditions which are necessary for keeping the state
stable.

Plato's educational aim is exactly the same. It is the purely political
aim of stabilizing the state by blending a fierce and a gentle element in
the character of the rulers. The two disciplines in which children of the
Greek upper class were educated, gymnastics and music (the latter, in the
wider sense of the word, included all literary studies), are correlated by
Plato with the two elements of character, fierceness and gentleness.
'Have you not observed', asks Plato—, 'how the character is affected by
an exclusive training in gymnastics without music, and how it is affected
by the opposite training? ... Exclusive preoccupation with gymnastics
produces men who are fiercer than they ought to be, while an analogous
preoccupation with music makes them too soft . . . But we maintain that
our guardians must combine both of these natures ... This is why I say
that some god must have given man these two arts, music and
gymnastics; and their purpose is not so much to serve soul and body
respectively, but rather to tune properly the two main strings', i.e. to
bring into harmony the two elements of the soul, gentleness and
fierceness. 'These are the outlines of our system of education and
training', Plato concludes in his analysis.

In spite of the fact that Plato identifies the gentle element of the soul
with her philosophic disposition, and in spite of the fact that philosophy
is going to play such a dominant role in the later parts of the Republic, he

is not at all biased in favour of the gentle element of the soul, or of
musical, i.e. literary, education. The impartiality in balancing the two
elements is the more remarkable as it leads him to impose the most
severe restrictions on literary education, compared with what was, in his
time, customary in Athens. This, of course, is only part of his general
tendency to prefer Spartan customs to Athenian ones. (Crete, his other
model, was even more anti-musical than Sparta—.) Plato's political
principles of literary education are based upon a simple comparison.
Sparta, he saw, treated its human cattle just a little too harshly; this is a
symptom or even an admission of a feeling of weakness—, and therefore
a symptom of the incipient degeneration of the master class. Athens, on
the other hand, was altogether too liberal and slack in her treatment of
slaves. Plato took this as proof that Sparta insisted just a little too much
on gymnastics, and Athens, of course, far too much on music. This simple
estimate enabled him readily to reconstruct what in his opinion must have
been the true measure or the true blend of the two elements in the
education of the best state, and to lay down the principles of his
educational policy. Judged from the Athenian viewpoint, it is nothing less
than the demand that all literary education be strangled— by a close
adherence to the example of Sparta with its strict state control of all
literary matters. Not only poetry but also music in the ordinary sense of
the term are to be controlled by a rigid censorship, and both are to be
devoted entirely to strengthening the stability of the state by making the
young more conscious of class discipline—, and thus more ready to serve
class interests. Plato even forgets that it is the function of music to make
the young more gentle, for he demands such forms of music as will make
them braver, i.e. fiercer. (Considering that Plato was an Athenian, his
arguments concerning music proper appear to me almost incredible in
their superstitious intolerance, especially if compared with a more
enlightened contemporary criticism—. But even now he has many

musicians on his side, possibly because they are flattered by his high
opinion of the importance of music, i.e. of its political power. The same
is true of educationists, and even more of philosophers, since Plato
demands that they should rule; a demand which will be discussed in
chapter 8.)

The political principle that determines the education of the soul,
namely, the preservation of the stability of the state, determines also that
of the body. The aim is simply that of Sparta. While the Athenian citizen
was educated to a general versatility, Plato demands that the ruling class
shall be trained as a class of professional warriors, ready to strike against
enemies from without or from within the state. Children of both sexes, we
are told twice, 'must be taken on horseback within the sight of actual war;
and provided it can be done safely, they must be brought into battle, and
made to taste blood; just as one does with young hounds'—. The
description of a modern writer, who characterizes contemporary
totalitarian education as 'an intensified and continual form of
mobilization', fits Plato's whole system of education very well indeed.

This is an outline of Plato's theory of the best or most ancient state, of
the city which treats its human cattle exactly as a wise but hardened
shepherd treats his sheep; not too cruelly, but with the proper contempt
... As an analysis both of Spartan social institutions and of the conditions
of their stability and instability, and as an attempt at reconstructing more
rigid and primitive forms of tribal life, this description is excellent
indeed. (Only the descriptive aspect is dealt with in this chapter. The
ethical aspects will be discussed later.) I believe that much in Plato's
writings that has been usually considered as mere mythological or
Utopian speculation can in this way be interpreted as sociological
description and analysis. If we look, for instance, at his myth of the
triumphant war hordes subjugating a settled population, then we must
admit that from the point of view of descriptive sociology it is most

successful. In fact, it could even claim to be an anticipation of an
interesting (though possibly too sweeping) modern theory of the origin of
the state, according to which centralized and organized political power
generally originates in such a conquest—. There may be more
descriptions of this kind in Plato's writings than we can at present
estimate.

To sum up. In an attempt to understand and to interpret the changing
social world as he experienced it, Plato was led to develop a systematic
historicist sociology in great detail. He thought of existing states as
decaying copies of an unchanging Form or Idea. He tried to reconstruct
this Form or Idea of a state, or at least to describe a society which
resembled it as closely as possible. Along with ancient traditions, he used
as material for his reconstruction the results of his analysis of the social
institutions of Sparta and Crete — the most ancient forms of social life he
could find in Greece — in which he recognized arrested forms of even
older tribal societies. But in order to make a proper use of this material,
he needed a principle for distinguishing between the good or original or
ancient traits of the existing institutions and their symptoms of decay.
This principle he found in his law of political revolutions, according to
which disunion in the ruling class, and their preoccupation with economic
affairs, are the origin of all social change. His best state was therefore to
be reconstructed in such a way as to eliminate all the germs and elements
of disunion and decay as radically as this could be done; that is to say, it
was to be constructed out of the Spartan state with an eye to the
conditions necessary for the unbroken unity of the master class.

guaranteed by its economic abstinence, its breeding, and its training.

Interpreting existing societies as decadent copies of an ideal state,
Plato furnished Hesiod's somewhat crude views of human history at once
with a theoretical background and with a wealth of practical application.
He developed a remarkably realistic historicist theory which found the
cause of social change in Heraclitus' disunion, and in the strife of classes
in which he recognized the driving as well as the corrupting forces of
history. He applied these historicist principles to the story of the Decline
and Fall of the Greek city-states, and especially to a criticism of
democracy, which he described as effeminate and degenerate. And we
may add that later, in the Laws—, he applied them also to a story of the
Decline and Fall of the Persian Empire, thus making the beginning of a
long series of Decline-and-Fall dramatizations of the histories of empires
and civilizations. (O. Spengler's notorious Decline of the West is perhaps
the worst but not the last— of them.) All this, I think, can be interpreted
as an attempt, and a most impressive one, to explain, and to rationalize,
his experience of the breakdown of the tribal society; an experience
analogous to that which had led Heraclitus to develop the first philosophy
of change.

But our analysis of Plato's descriptive sociology is still incomplete.
His stories of the Decline and Fall, and with it nearly all the later stories,
exhibit at least two characteristics which we have not discussed so far. He
conceived these declining societies as some kind of organism, and the
decline as a process similar to ageing. And he believed that the decline is
well deserved, in the sense that moral decay, a fall and decline of the
soul, goes hand in hand with that of the social body. All this plays an
important role in Plato's theory of the first change — in the Story of the
Number and of the Fall of Man. This theory, and its connection with the
doctrine of Forms or Ideas, will be discussed in the next chapter.

Nature and Convention

Plato was not the first to approach social phenomena in the spirit of
scientific investigation. The beginning of social science goes back at least
to the generation of Protagoras, the first of the great thinkers who called
themselves 'Sophists'. It is marked by the realization of the need to
distinguish between two different elements in man's environment — his
natural environment and his social environment. This is a distinction
which is difficult to make and to grasp, as can be inferred from the fact
that even now it is not clearly established in our minds. It has been
questioned ever since the time of Protagoras. Most of us, it seems, have a
strong inclination to accept the peculiarities of our social environment as
if they were 'natural'.

It is one of the characteristics of the magical attitude of a primitive
tribal or 'closed' society that it lives in a charmed circle- of unchanging
taboos, of laws and customs which are felt to be as inevitable as the rising
of the sun, or the cycle of the seasons, or similar obvious regularities of
nature. And it is only after this magical 'closed society' has actually
broken down that a theoretical understanding of the difference between
'nature' and 'society' can develop.

An analysis of this development requires, I believe, a clear grasp of an
important distinction. It is the distinction between (a) natural laws, or
laws of nature, such as the laws describing the movements of the sun, the
moon, and the planets, the succession of the seasons, etc., or the law of
gravity or, say, the laws of thermodynamics and, on the other hand, {b)
normative laws, or norms, or prohibitions and commandments, i.e. such
rules as forbid or demand certain modes of conduct; examples are the Ten
Commandments or the legal rules regulating the procedure of the election
of Members of Parliament, or the laws that constitute the Athenian
Constitution.

Since the discussion of these matters is often vitiated by a tendency to
blur this distinction, a few more words may be said about it. A law in
sense {a) — a natural law — is describing a strict, unvarying regularity
which either in fact holds in nature (in this case, the law is a true
statement) or does not hold (in this case it is false). If we do not know
whether a law of nature is true or false, and if we wish to draw attention
to our uncertainty, we often call it an 'hypothesis'. A law of nature is
unalterable; there are no exceptions to it. For if we are satisfied that
something has happened which contradicts it, then we do not say that
there is an exception, or an alteration to the law, but rather that our
hypothesis has been refuted, since it has turned out that the supposed
strict regularity did not hold, or in other words, that the supposed law of
nature was not a true law of nature, but a false statement. Since laws of
nature are unalterable, they can be neither broken nor enforced. They are
beyond human control, although they may possibly be used by us for
technical purposes, and although we may get into trouble by not knowing
them, or by ignoring them.

All this is very different if we turn to laws of the kind (Z?), that is, to
normative laws. A normative law, whether it is now a legal enactment or
a moral commandment, can be enforced by men. Also, it is alterable. It

may be perhaps described as good or bad, right or wrong, acceptable or
unacceptable; but only in a metaphorical sense can it be called 'true' or
'false', since it does not describe a fact, but lays down directions for our
behaviour. If it has any point or significance, then it can be broken; and if
it cannot be broken then it is superfluous and without significance. 'Do
not spend more money than you possess' is a significant normative law;
it may be significant as a moral or legal rule, and the more necessary as it
is so often broken. 'Do not take more money out of your purse than there
was in it' may be said to be, by its wording, also a normative law; but
nobody would consider seriously such a rule as a significant part of a
moral or legal system, since it cannot be broken. If a significant
normative law is observed, then this is always due to human control — to
human actions and decisions. Usually it is due to the decision to
introduce sanctions — to punish or restrain those who break the law.

I believe, in common with a great number of thinkers, and especially
with many social scientists, that the distinction between laws in sense (a),
i.e. statements describing regularities of nature, and laws in sense (b), i.e.
norms such as prohibitions or commandments, is a fundamental one, and
that these two kinds of law have hardly more in common than a name.
But this view is by no means generally accepted; on the contrary, many
thinkers believe that there are norms — ^prohibitions or commandments —
which are 'natural' in the sense that they are laid down in accordance
with natural laws in sense (a). They say, for example, that certain legal
norms are in accordance with human nature, and therefore with
psychological natural laws in sense (a), while other legal norms may be
contrary to human nature; and they add that those norms which can be
shown to be in accordance with human nature are really not very different
from natural laws in sense (a). Others say that natural laws in sense (a)
are really very similar to normative laws since they are laid down by the
will or decision of the Creator of the Universe — a view which.

undoubtedly, lies behind the use of the originally normative word 'law'
for laws of the kind (a). All these views may be worthy of being
discussed. But in order to discuss them, it is necessary first to distinguish
between laws in the sense of (a) and laws in the sense of (b), and not to
confuse the issue by a bad terminology. Thus we shall reserve the term
'natural laws' exclusively for laws of type (a), and we shall refuse to
apply this term to any norms which are claimed to be, in some sense or
other, 'natural'. The confusion is quite unnecessary since it is easy to
speak of 'natural rights and obligations' or of 'natural norms' if we wish
to stress the 'natural' character of laws of type (b).

I believe that it is necessary for the understanding of Plato's sociology to
consider how the distinction between natural and normative laws may
have developed. I shall first discuss what seem to have been the starting
point and the last step of the development, and later what seem to have
been three intermediate steps, which all play a part in Plato's theory. The
starting point can be described as a naive monism. It may be said to be
characteristic of the 'closed society'. The last step, which I describe as
critical dualism (or critical conventionalism), is characteristic of the
'open society'. The fact that there are still many who try to avoid making
this step may be taken as an indication that we are still in the midst of the
transition from the closed to the open society. (With all this, compare
chapter 10.)

The starting point which I have called 'naive monism' is the stage at
which the distinction between natural and normative laws is not yet
made. Unpleasant experiences are the means by which man learns to

adjust himself to his environment. No distinction is made between
sanctions imposed by other men, if a normative taboo is broken, and
unpleasant experiences suffered in the natural environment. Within this
stage, we may further distinguish between two possibilities. The one can
be described as a naive naturalism. At this stage regularities, whether
natural or conventional, are felt to be beyond the possibility of any
alteration whatever. But I believe that this stage is only an abstract
possibility which probably was never realized. More important is a stage
which we can describe as a naive conventionalism — a stage at which both
natural and normative regularities are experienced as expressions of, and
as dependent upon, the decisions of man-like gods or demons. Thus the
cycle of the seasons, or the peculiarities of the movements of the sun, the
moon, and the planets, may be interpreted as obeying the 'laws' or
'decrees' or 'decisions' which 'rule heaven and earth', and which were
laid down and 'pronounced by the creator-god in the beginning'-. It is
understandable that those who think in this way may believe that even the
natural laws are open to modifications, under certain exceptional
circumstances; that with the help of magical practices man may
sometimes influence them; and that natural regularities are upheld by
sanctions, as if they were normative. This point is well illustrated by
Heraclitus' saying: 'The sun will not outstep the measure of his path; or
else the goddesses of Fate, the handmaids of Justice, will know how to
find him.'

The breakdown of magic tribalism is closely connected with the
realization that taboos are different in various tribes, that they are
imposed and enforced by man, and that they may be broken without
unpleasant repercussions if one can only escape the sanctions imposed by
one's fellow-men. This realization is quickened when it is observed that
laws are altered and made by human lawgivers. I have in mind not only
such lawgivers as Solon, but also the laws which were made and enforced

by the common people of democratic cities. These experiences may lead
to a conscious differentiation between the man-enforced normative laws,
based on decisions or conventions, and the natural regularities which are
beyond his power. When this differentiation is clearly understood, then
we can describe the position reached as a critical dualism, or critical
conventionalism. In the development of Greek philosophy this dualism of
facts and norms announces itself in terms of the opposition between
nature and convention.-

In spite of the fact that this position was reached a long time ago by the
Sophist Protagoras, an older contemporary of Socrates, it is still so little
understood that it seems necessary to explain it in some detail. First, we
must not think that critical dualism implies a theory of the historical
origin of norms. It has nothing to do with the obviously untenable
historical assertion that norms in the first place were consciously made or
introduced by man, instead of having been found by him to be simply
there (whenever he was first able to find anything of this kind). It
therefore has nothing to do with the assertion that norms originate with
man, and not with God, nor does it underrate the importance of normative
laws. Least of all has it anything to do with the assertion that norms,
since they are conventional, i.e. man-made, are therefore 'merely
arbitrary'. Critical dualism merely asserts that norms and normative laws
can be made and changed by man, more especially by a decision or
convention to observe them or to alter them, and that it is therefore man
who is morally responsible for them; not perhaps for the norms which he
finds to exist in society when he first begins to reflect upon them, but for
the norms which he is prepared to tolerate once he has found out that he
can do something to alter them. Norms are man-made in the sense that we
must blame nobody but ourselves for them; neither nature, nor God. It is
our business to improve them as much as we can, if we find that they are
objectionable. This last remark implies that by describing norms as

conventional, I do not mean that they must be arbitrary, or that one set of
normative laws will do just as well as another. By saying that some
systems of laws can be improved, that some laws may be better than
others, I rather imply that we can compare the existing normative laws
(or social institutions) with some standard norms which we have decided
are worthy of being realized. But even these standards are of our making
in the sense that our decision in favour of them is our own decision, and
that we alone carry the responsibility for adopting them. The standards
are not to be found in nature. Nature consists of facts and of regularities,
and is in itself neither moral nor immoral. It is we who impose our
standards upon nature, and who in this way introduce morals into the
natural world-, in spite of the fact that we are part of this world. We are
products of nature, but nature has made us together with our power of
altering the world, of foreseeing and of planning for the future, and of
making far-reaching decisions for which we are morally responsible. Yet
responsibility, decisions, enter the world of nature only with us.

Ill

It is important for the understanding of this attitude to realize that these
decisions can never be derived from facts (or from statements of facts),
although they pertain to facts. The decision, for instance, to oppose
slavery does not depend upon the fact that all men are born free and
equal, and that no man is born in chains. For even if all were born free,
some men might perhaps try to put others in chains, and they may even
believe that they ought to put them in chains. And conversely, even if
men were born in chains, many of us might demand the removal of these
chains. Or to put this matter more precisely, if we consider a fact as

alterable — such as the fact that many people are suffering from diseases
— ^then we can always adopt a number of different attitudes towards this
fact: more especially, we can decide to make an attempt to alter it; or we
can decide to resist any such attempt; or we can decide not to take action
at all.

All moral decisions pertain in this way to some fact or other, especially
to some fact of social life, and all (alterable) facts of social life can give
rise to many different decisions. Which shows that the decisions can
never be derivable from these facts, or from a description of these facts.

But they cannot be derived from another class of facts either; I mean
those natural regularities which we describe with the help of natural laws.
It is perfectly true that our decisions must be compatible with the natural
laws (including those of human physiology and psychology), if they are
ever to be carried into effect; for if they run counter to such laws, then
they simply cannot be carried out. The decision that all should work
harder and eat less, for example, cannot be carried out beyond a certain
point for physiological reasons, i.e. because beyond a certain point it
would be incompatible with certain natural laws of physiology. Similarly,
the decision that all should work less and eat more also cannot be carried
out beyond a certain point, for various reasons, including the natural laws
of economics. (As we shall see below, in section iv of this chapter, there
are natural laws in the social sciences also; we shall call them
'sociological laws'.)

Thus certain decisions may be eliminated as incapable of being
executed, because they contradict certain natural laws (or 'unalterable
facts'). But this does not mean, of course, that any decision can be
logically derived from such 'unalterable facts'. Rather, the situation is
this. In view of any fact whatsoever, whether it is alterable or unalterable,
we can adopt various decisions — such as to alter it; to protect it from
those who wish to alter it; not to interfere, etc. But if the fact in question

is unalterable — either because an alteration is impossible in view of the
existing laws of nature, or because an alteration is for other reasons too
difficult for those who wish to alter it — then any decision to alter it will
be simply impracticable; in fact, any decision concerning such a fact will
be pointless and without significance.

Critical dualism thus emphasizes the impossibility of reducing
decisions or norms to facts; it can therefore be described as a dualism oj
facts and decisions.

But this dualism seems to be open to attack. Decisions are facts, it may
be said. If we decide to adopt a certain norm, then the making of this
decision is itself a psychological or sociological fact, and it would be
absurd to say that there is nothing in common between such facts and
other facts. Since it cannot be doubted that our decisions about norms, i.e.
the norms we adopt, clearly depend upon certain psychological facts,
such as the influence of our upbringing, it seems to be absurd to postulate
a dualism of facts and decisions, or to say that decisions cannot be
derived from facts. This objection can be answered by pointing out that
we can speak of a 'decision' in two different senses. We may speak of a
certain decision which has been submitted, or considered, or reached, or
been decided upon; or alternatively, we may speak of an act of deciding
and call this a 'decision'. Only in the second sense can we describe a
decision as a fact. The situation is analogous with a number of other
expressions. In one sense, we may speak of a certain resolution which has
been submitted to some council, and in the other sense, the council's act
of taking it may be spoken of as the council's resolution. Similarly, we
may speak of a proposal or a suggestion before us, and on the other hand
of the act of proposing or suggestion something, which may also be
called 'proposal' or 'suggestion'. An analogous ambiguity is well known
in the field of descriptive statements. Let us consider the statement:
'Napoleon died on St. Helena.' It will be useful to distinguish this

statement from the fact which it describes, and which we may call the
primary fact, viz. the fact that Napoleon died at St. Helena. Now a
historian, say Mr. A, when writing the biography of Napoleon, may make
the statement mentioned. In doing so, he is describing what we called the
primary fact. But there is also a secondary fact, which is altogether
different from the primary one, namely the fact that he made this
statement; and another historian, Mr. B, when writing the biography of
Mr. A, may describe this second fact by saying: 'Mr. A stated that
Napoleon died on St. Helena.' The secondary fact described in this way
happens to be itself a description. But it is a description in a sense of the
word that must be distinguished from the sense in which we called the
statement 'Napoleon died on St. Helena' a description. The making of a
description, or of a statement, is a sociological or psychological fact. But
the description made is to be distinguished from the fact that it has been
made. It cannot even be derived from this fact; for that would mean that
we can validly deduce 'Napoleon died on St. Helena' from 'Mr. A stated
that Napoleon died on St. Helena', which obviously we cannot.

In the field of decisions, the situation is analogous. The making of a
decision, the adoption of a norm or of a standard, is a fact. But the norm
or standard which has been adopted, is not a fact. That most people agree
with the norm 'Thou shalt not steal' is a sociological fact. But the norm
'Thou shalt not steal' is not a fact, and can never be inferred from
sentences describing facts. This will be seen most clearly when we
remember that there are always various and even opposite decisions
possible with respect to a certain relevant fact. For instance, in face of the
sociological fact that most people adopt the norm 'Thou shalt not steal',
it is still possible to decide either to adopt this norm, or to oppose its
adoption; it is possible to encourage those who have adopted the norm, or
to discourage them, and to persuade them to adopt another norm. To sum
up, it is impossible to derive a sentence stating a norm or a decision or,

say, a proposal for a policy from a sentence stating a fact ; this is only
another way of saying that it is impossible to derive norms or decisions
or proposals from facts.-

The statement that norms are man-made (man-made not in the sense
that they were consciously designed, but in the sense that men can judge
and alter them — that is to say, in the sense that the responsibility for
them is entirely ours) has often been misunderstood. Nearly all
misunderstandings can be traced back to one fundamental
misapprehension, namely, to the belief that 'convention' implies
'arbitrariness'; that if we are free to choose any system of norms we like,
then one system is just as good as any other. It must, of course, be
admitted that the view that norms are conventional or artificial indicates
that there will be a certain element of arbitrariness involved, i.e. that
there may be different systems of norms between which there is not much
to choose (a fact that has been duly emphasized by Protagoras). But
artificiality by no means implies full arbitrariness. Mathematical calculi,
for instance, or symphonies, or plays, are highly artificial, yet it does not
follow that one calculus or symphony or play is just as good as any other.
Man has created new worlds — of language, of music, of poetry, of
science; and the most important of these is the world of the moral
demands, for equality, for freedom, and for helping the weak-. When
comparing the field of morals with the field of music or of mathematics,
I do not wish to imply that these similarities reach very far. There is,
more especially, a great difference between moral decisions and
decisions in the field of art. Many moral decisions involve the life and
death of other men. Decisions in the field of art are much less urgent and
important. It is therefore most misleading to say that a man decides for or
against slavery as he may decide for or against certain works of music
and literature, or that moral decisions are purely matters of taste. Nor are
they merely decisions about how to make the world more beautiful, or

about other luxuries of this kind; they are decisions of much greater
urgency. (With all this, cp. also chapter 9.) Our comparison is only
intended to show that the view that moral decisions rest with us does not
imply that they are entirely arbitrary.

The view that norms are man-made is also, strangely enough, contested
by some who see in this attitude an attack on religion. It must be
admitted, of course, that this view is an attack on certain forms of
religion, namely, on the religion of blind authority, on magic and
tabooism. But I do not think that it is in any way opposed to a religion
built upon the idea of personal responsibility and freedom of conscience.
I have in mind, of course, especially Christianity, at least as it is usually
interpreted in democratic countries; that Christianity which, as against all
tabooism, preaches, 'Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time
. . . But I say unto you . . . ' ; opposing in every case the voice of conscience
to mere formal obedience and the fulfilment of the law.

I would not admit that to think of ethical laws as being man-made in
this sense is incompatible with the religious view that they are given to us
by God. Historically, all ethics undoubtedly begin with religion; but I do
not now deal with historical questions. I do not ask who was the first
ethical lawgiver. I only maintain that it is we, and we alone, who are
responsible for adopting or rejecting some suggested moral laws; it is we
who must distinguish between the true prophets and the false prophets.
All kinds of norms have been claimed to be God- given. If you accept the
'Christian' ethics of equality and toleration and freedom of conscience
only because of its claim to rest upon divine authority, then you build on
a weak basis; for it has been only too often claimed that inequality is
willed by God, and that we must not be tolerant with unbelievers. If,
however, you accept the Christian ethics not because you are commanded
to do so but because of your conviction that it is the right decision to
take, then it is you who have decided. My insistence that we make the

decisions and carry the responsibility must not be taken to imply that we
cannot, or must not, be helped by faith, and inspired by tradition or by
great examples. Nor does it imply that the creation of moral decisions is
merely a 'natural' process, i.e. of the order of physico-chemical
processes. In fact, Protagoras, the first critical dualist, taught that nature
does not know norms, and that the introduction of norms is due to man,
and the most important of human achievements. He thus held that
'institutions and conventions were what raised men above the brutes', as
Burnet- puts it. But in spite of his insistence that man creates norms, that
it is man who is the measure of all things, he believed that man could
achieve the creation of norms only with supernatural help. Norms, he
taught, are superimposed upon the original or natural state of affairs by
man, but with the help of Zeus. It is at Zeus' bidding that Hermes gives to
men an understanding of justice and honour; and he distributes this gift to
all men equally. The way in which the first clear statement of critical
dualism makes room for a religious interpretation of our sense of
responsibility shows how little critical dualism is opposed to a religious
attitude. A similar approach can be discerned, I believe, in the historical
Socrates (see chapter 10 ) who felt compelled, by his conscience as well
as by his religious beliefs, to question all authority, and who searched for
the norms in whose justice he could trust. The doctrine of the autonomy
of ethics is independent of the problem of religion, but compatible with,
or perhaps even necessary for, any religion which respects individual
conscience.

So much concerning the dualism of facts and decisions, or the doctrine of

the autonomy of ethics, first advocated by Protagoras and Socrates-. It is,
I believe, indispensable for a reasonable understanding of our social
environment. But of course this does not mean that all 'social laws', i.e.
all regularities of our social life, are normative and man-imposed. On the
contrary, there are important natural laws of social life also. For these,
the term sociological laws seems appropriate. It is just the fact that in
social life we meet with both kinds of laws, natural and normative, which
makes it so important to distinguish them clearly.

In speaking of sociological laws or natural laws of social life, I do not
think so much of the alleged laws of evolution in which historicists such
as Plato are interested, although if there are any such regularities of
historical developments, their formulations would certainly fall under the
category of sociological laws. Nor do I think so much of the laws of
'human nature', i.e. of psychological and socio-psychological regularities
of human behaviour. I have in mind, rather, such laws as are formulated
by modern economic theories, for instance, the theory of international
trade, or the theory of the trade cycle. These and other important
sociological laws are connected with the functioning oi social
institutions. (Cp. chapters 3 and 9.) These laws play a role in our social
life corresponding to the role played in mechanical engineering by, say,
the principle of the lever. For institutions, like levers, are needed if we
want to achieve anything which goes beyond the power of our muscles.
Like machines, institutions multiply our power for good and evil. Like
machines, they need intelligent supervision by someone who understands
their way of functioning and, most of all, their purpose, since we cannot
build them so that they work entirely automatically. Furthermore, their
construction needs some knowledge of social regularities which impose
limitations upon what can be achieved by institutions-. (These limitations
are somewhat analogous, for instance, to the law of conservation of
energy, which amounts to the statement that we cannot build a perpetual

motion machine.) But fundamentally, institutions are always made by
establishing the observance of certain norms, designed with a certain aim
i n mind. This holds especially for institutions which are consciously
created; but even those — ^the vast majority — ^which arise as the
undesigned results of human actions (cp. chapter 14) are the indirect
results of purposive actions of some kind or other; and their functioning
depends, largely, on the observance of norms. (Even mechanical engines
are made, as it were, not only of iron, but by combining iron and norms;
i.e. by transforming physical things, but according to certain normative
rules, namely their plan or design.) In institutions, normative laws and
sociological, i.e. natural, laws are closely interwoven, and it is therefore
impossible to understand the functioning of institutions without being
able to distinguish between these two. (These remarks are intended to
suggest certain problems rather than to give solutions. More especially,
the analogy mentioned between institutions and machines must not be
interpreted as proposing the theory that institutions are machines — in
some essentialist sense. Of course they are not machines. And although
the thesis is here proposed that we may obtain useful and interesting
results if we ask ourselves whether an institution does serve any purpose,
and what purposes it may serve, it is not asserted that every institution
serves some definite purpose — its essential purpose, as it were.)

As indicated before, there are many intermediate steps in the
development from a naive or magical monism to a critical dualism which
clearly realizes the distinction between norms and natural laws. Most of
these intermediate positions arise from the misapprehension that if a

norm is conventional or artificial, it must be wholly arbitrary. To
understand Plato's position, which combines elements of them all, it is
necessary to make a survey of the three most important of these
intermediate positions. They are (1) biological naturalism, (2) ethical or
juridical positivism, and (3) psychological or spiritual naturalism. It is
interesting that every one of these positions has been used for defending
ethical views which are radically opposed to each other; more especially,
for defending the worship of power, and for defending the rights of the
weak.

(1) Biological naturalism, or more precisely, the biological form of
ethical naturalism, is the theory that in spite of the fact that moral laws
and the laws of states are arbitrary, there are some eternal unchanging
laws of nature from which we can derive such norms. Food habits, i.e. the
number of meals, and the kind of food taken, are an example of the
arbitrariness of conventions, the biological naturalist may argue; yet
there are undoubtedly certain natural laws in this field. For instance, a
man will die if he takes either insufficient or too much food. Thus it
seems that just as there are realities behind appearances, so behind our
arbitrary conventions there are some unchanging natural laws and
especially the laws of biology.

Biological naturalism has been used not only to defend
equalitarianism, but also to defend the anti-equalitarian doctrine of the
rule of the strong. One of the first to put forward this naturalism was the
poet Pindar, who used it to support the theory that the strong should rule.
He claimed— that it is a law, valid throughout nature, that the stronger
does with the weaker whatever he likes. Thus laws which protect the
weak are not merely arbitrary but artificial distortions of the true natural
law that the strong should be free and the weak should be his slave. The
view is discussed a good deal by Plato; it is attacked in the Gorgias, a
dialogue which is still much influenced by Socrates; in the Republic, it is

put in the mouth of Thrasymachus, and identified with ethical
individualism (see the next chapter); in the Laws, Plato is less
antagonistic to Pindar's view; but he still contrasts it with the rule of the
wisest, which, he says, is a better principle, and just as much in
accordance with nature (see also the quotation later in this chapter).

The first to put forward a humanitarian or equalitarian version of
biological naturalism was the Sophist Antiphon. To him is due also the
identification of nature with truth, and of convention with opinion (or
'delusive opinion'—). Antiphon is a radical naturalist. He believes that
most norms are not merely arbitrary, but directly contrary to nature.
Norms, he says, are imposed from outside, while the rules of nature are
inevitable. It is disadvantageous and even dangerous to break man-
imposed norms if the breach is observed by those who impose them; but
there is no inner necessity attached to them, and nobody needs to be
ashamed of breaking them; shame and punishment are only sanctions
arbitrarily imposed from outside. On this criticism of conventional
morals, Antiphon bases a utilitarian ethics. 'Of the actions here
mentioned, one would find many to be contrary to nature. For they
involve more suffering where there should be less, and less pleasure
where there could be more, and injury where it is unnecessary.'— At the
same time, he taught the need for self-control. His equalitarianism he
formulates as follows: 'The nobly born we revere and adore; but not the
lowly born. These are barbarous habits. For as to our natural gifts, we are
all on an equal footing, on all points, whether we now happen to be
Greeks or Barbarians . . . We all breathe the air through our mouths and
nostrils.'

A similar equalitarianism was voiced by the Sophist Hippias, whom
Plato represents as addressing his audience: 'Gentlemen, I believe that we
are all kinsmen and friends and fellow-citizens; if not by conventional
law, then by nature. For by nature, likeness is an expression of kinship;

but conventional law, the tyrant of mankind, compels us to do much that
is against nature.'— This spirit was bound up with the Athenian
movement against slavery (mentioned in chapter 4) to which Euripides
gave expression: 'The name alone brings shame upon the slave who can
be excellent in every way and truly equal to the free born man.'
Elsewhere, he says: 'Man's law of nature is equality.' And Alcidamas, a
disciple of Gorgias and a contemporary of Plato, wrote: 'God has made
all men free; no man is a slave by nature.' Similar views are also
expressed by Lycophron, another member of Gorgias' school: 'The
splendour of noble birth is imaginary, and its prerogatives are based upon
a mere word. '

Reacting against this great humanitarian movement — the movement of
the 'Great Generation', as I shall call it later ( chapter 10 ) — Plato, and his
disciple Aristotle, advanced the theory of the biological and moral
inequality of man. Greeks and barbarians are unequal by nature; the
opposition between them corresponds to that between natural masters and
natural slaves. The natural inequality of men is one of the reasons for
their living together, for their natural gifts are complementary. Social life
begins with natural inequality, and it must continue upon that foundation.
I shall discuss these doctrines later in more detail. At present, they may
serve to show how biological naturalism can be used to support the most
divergent ethical doctrines. In the light of our previous analysis of the
impossibility of basing norms upon facts this result is not unexpected.

Such considerations, however, are perhaps not sufficient to defeat a
theory as popular as biological naturalism; I therefore propose two more
direct criticisms. First, it must be admitted that certain forms of
behaviour may be described as more 'natural' than other forms; for
instance, going naked or eating only raw food; and some people think that
this in itself justifies the choice of these forms. But in this sense it
certainly is not natural to interest oneself in art, or science, or even in

arguments in favour of naturalism. The choice of conformity with
'nature' as a supreme standard leads ultimately to consequences which
few will be prepared to face; it does not lead to a more natural form of
civilization, but to beastliness—. The second criticism is more important.
The biological naturalist assumes that he can derive his norms from the
natural laws which determine the conditions of health, etc., if he does not
naively believe that we need adopt no norms whatever but simply live
according to the 'laws of nature'. He overlooks the fact that he makes a
choice, a decision; that it is possible that some other people cherish
certain things more than their health (for instance, the many who have
consciously risked their lives for medical research). And he is therefore
mistaken if he believes that he has not made a decision, or that he has
derived his norms from biological laws.

(2) Ethical positivism shares with the biological form of ethical natural
ism the belief that we must try to reduce norms to facts. But the facts are
this time sociological facts, namely, the actual existing norms. Positivism
maintains that there are no other norms but the laws which have actually
been set up (or 'posited') and which have therefore a positive existence.
Other standards are considered as unreal imaginations. The existing laws
are the only possible standards of goodness: what is, is good. (Might is
right.) 'According to some forms of this theory, it is a gross
misunderstanding to believe that the individual can judge the norms of
society; rather, it is society which provides the code by which the
individual must be judged.

As a matter of historical fact, ethical (or moral, or juridical) positivism
has usually been conservative, or even authoritarian; and it has often
invoked the authority of God. Its arguments depend, I believe, upon the
alleged arbitrariness of norms. We must believe in existing norms, it
claims, because there are no better norms which we may find for
ourselves. In reply to this it might be asked: What about this norm 'We

must believe etc.'? If this is only an existing norm, then it does not count
as an argument in favour of these norms; but if it is an appeal to our
insight, then it admits that we can, after all, find norms ourselves. And if
we are told to accept norms on authority because we cannot judge them,
then neither can we judge whether the claims of the authority are
justified, or whether we may not follow a false prophet. And if it is held
that there are no false prophets because laws are arbitrary anyhow, so that
the main thing is to have some laws, then we may ask ourselves why it
should be so important to have laws at all; for if there are no further
standards, why then should we not choose to have no laws? (These
remarks may perhaps indicate the reasons for my belief that authoritarian
or conservative principles are usually an expression of ethical nihilism;
that is to say, of an extreme moral scepticism, of a distrust of man and of
his possibilities.)

While the theory of natural rights has, in the course of history, often
been proffered in support of equalitarian and humanitarian ideas, the
positivist school was usually in the opposite camp. But this is not much
more than an accident. As has been shown, ethical naturalism may be
used with very different intentions. (It has recently been used for
confusing the whole issue by advertising certain allegedly 'natural' rights
and obligations as 'natural laws'.) Conversely, there are also
humanitarian and progressive positivists. For if all norms are arbitrary,
why not be tolerant? This is a typical attempt to justify a humanitarian
attitude along positivist lines.

(3) Psychological or spiritual naturalism is in a way a combination of
the two previous views, and it can best be explained by means of an
argument against the one-sidedness of these views. The ethical positivist
is right, this argument runs, if he emphasizes that all norms are
conventional, i.e. a product of man, and of human society; but he
overlooks the fact that they are therefore an expression of the

psychological or spiritual nature of man, and of the nature of human
society. The biological naturalist is right in assuming that there are
certain natural aims or ends, from which we can derive natural norms; but
he overlooks the fact that our natural aims are not necessarily such aims
as health, pleasure, or food, shelter or propagation. Human nature is such
that man, or at least some men, do not want to live by bread alone, that
they seek higher aims, spiritual aims. We may thus derive man's true
natural aims from his own true nature, which is spiritual, and social. And
we may, further, derive the natural norms of life from his natural ends.

This plausible position was, I believe, first formulated by Plato, who
was here under the influence of the Socratic doctrine of the soul, i.e. of
Socrates' teaching that the spirit matters more than the flesh—. Its appeal
to our sentiments is undoubtedly very much stronger than that of the
other two positions. It can however be combined, like these, with any
ethical decision; with a humanitarian attitude as well as with the worship
of power. For we can, for instance, decide to treat all men as participating
in this spiritual human nature; or we can insist like Heraclitus, that the
many 'fill their bellies like the beasts', and are therefore of an inferior
nature, and that only a few elect ones are worthy of the spiritual
community of men. Accordingly, spiritual naturalism has been much
used, and especially by Plato, to justify the natural prerogatives of the
'noble' or 'elect' or 'wise' or of the 'natural leader'. (Plato's attitude is
discussed in the following chapters.) On the other hand, it has been used
by Christian and other— humanitarian forms of ethics, for instance by
Paine and by Kant, to demand the recognition of the 'natural rights' of
every human individual. It is clear that spiritual naturalism can be used to
defend any 'positive', i.e. existing, norm. For it can always be argued that
these norms would not be in force if they did not express some traits of
human nature. In this way, spiritual naturalism can, in practical problems,
become one with positivism, in spite of their traditional opposition. In

fact, this form of naturalism is so wide and so vague that it may be used
to defend anything. There is nothing that has ever occurred to man which
could not be claimed to be 'natural'; for if it were not in his nature, how
could it have occurred to him?

Looking back at this brief survey, we may perhaps discern two main
tendencies which stand in the way of adopting a critical dualism. The first
i s a general tendency towards monism—, that is to say, towards the
reduction of norms to facts. The second lies deeper, and it possibly forms
the background of the first. It is based upon our fear of admitting to
ourselves that the responsibility for our ethical decisions is entirely ours
and cannot be shifted to anybody else; neither to God, nor to nature, nor
to society, nor to history. All these ethical theories attempt to find
somebody, or perhaps some argument, to take the burden from us—. But
we cannot shirk this responsibility. Whatever authority we may accept, it
is we who accept it. We only deceive ourselves if we do not realize this
simple point.

We now turn to a more detailed analysis of Plato's naturalism and its
relation to his historicism. Plato, of course, does not always use the term
'nature' in the same sense. The most important meaning which he
attaches to it is, I believe, practically identical with that which he
attaches to the term 'essence'. This way of using the term 'nature' still
survives among essentialists even in our day; they still speak, for
instance, of the nature of mathematics, or of the nature of inductive
inference, or of the 'nature of happiness and misery'—. When used by
Plato in this way, 'nature' means nearly the same as 'Form' or 'Idea'; for

the Form or Idea of a thing, as shown above, is also its essence. The main
difference between natures and Forms or Ideas seems to be this. The
Form or Idea of a sensible thing is, as we have seen, not in that thing, but
separated from it; it is its forefather, its primogenitor; but this Form or
father passes something on to the sensible things which are its offspring
or race, namely, their nature. This 'nature' is thus the inborn or original
quality of a thing, and in so far, its inherent essence; it is the original
power or disposition of a thing, and it determines those of its properties
which are the basis of its resemblance to, or of its innate participation in,
its Form or Idea.

'Natural' is, accordingly, what is innate or original or divine in a thing,
while 'artificial' is that which has been later changed by man or added or
imposed by him, through external compulsion. Plato frequently insists
that all products of human 'art' at their best are only copies of 'natural'
sensible things. But since these in turn are only copies of the divine
Forms or Ideas, the products of art are only copies of copies, twice
removed from reality, and therefore less good, less real, and less true—
than even the (natural) things in flux. We see from this that Plato agrees
with Antiphon— in at least one point, namely in assuming that the
opposition between nature and convention or art corresponds to that
between truth and falsehood, between reality and appearance, between
primary or original and secondary or man-made things, and to that
between the objects of rational knowledge and those of delusive opinion.
The opposition corresponds also, according to Plato, to that between 'the
offspring of divine workmanship' or 'the products of divine art', and
'what man makes out of them, i.e. the products of human art'.— All those
things whose intrinsic value Plato wishes to emphasize he therefore
claims to be natural as opposed to artificial. Thus he insists in the Laws
that the soul has to be considered prior to all material things, and that it
must therefore be said to exist by nature: 'Nearly everybody ... is

ignorant of the power of the soul, and especially of her origin. They do
not know that she is among the first of things, and prior to all bodies . . .
In using the word "nature" one wants to describe the things that were
created first; but if it turns out that it is the soul which is prior to other
things (and not, perhaps, fire or air), . . . then the soul, beyond all others,
may be asserted to exist by nature, in the truest sense of the word.'—
(Plato here re-affirms his old theory that the soul is more closely akin to
the Forms or Ideas than the body; a theory which is also the basis of his
doctrine of immortality.)

But Plato not only teaches that the soul is prior to other things and
therefore exists 'by nature'; he uses the term 'nature', if applied to man,
frequently also as a name for spiritual powers or gifts or natural talents,
so that we can say that a man's 'nature' is much the same as his 'soul'; it
is the divine principle by which he participates in the Form or Idea, in the
divine primogenitor of his race. And the term 'race', again, is frequently
used in a very similar sense. Since a 'race' is united by being the
offspring of the same primogenitor, it must also be united by a common
nature. Thus the terms 'nature' and 'race' are frequently used by Plato as
synonyms, for instance, when he speaks of the 'race of philosophers' and
of those who have 'philosophic natures'; so that both these terms are
closely akin to the terms 'essence' and 'soul'.

Plato's theory of 'nature' opens another approach to his historicist
methodology. Since it seems to be the task of science in general to
examine the true nature of its objects, it is the task of a social or political
science to examine the nature of human society, and of the state. But the
nature of a thing, according to Plato, is its origin; or at least it is
determined by its origin. Thus the method of any science will be the
investigation of the origin of things (of their 'causes'). This principle,
when applied to the science of society and of politics, leads to the
demand that the origin of society and of the state must be examined.

History therefore is not studied for its own sake but serves as the method
of the social sciences. This is the historicist methodology.

What is the nature of human society, of the state? According to
historicist methods, this fundamental question of sociology must be
reformulated in this way: what is the origin of society and of the state?
The reply given by Plato in the Republic as well as in the Laws—, agrees
with the position described above as spiritual naturalism. The origin of
society is a convention, di social contract. But it is not only that; it is,
rather, a natural convention, i.e. a convention which is based upon human
nature, and more precisely, upon the social nature of man.

This social nature of man has its origin in the imperfection of the
human individual. In opposition to Socrates—, Plato teaches that the
human individual cannot be self-sufficient, owing to the limitations
inherent in human nature. Although Plato insists that there are very
different degrees of human perfection, it turns out that even the very few
comparatively perfect men still depend upon others (who are less
perfect); if for nothing else, then for having the dirty work, the manual
work, done by them—. In this way, even the 'rare and uncommon natures'
who approach perfection depend upon society, upon the state. They can
reach perfection only through the state and in the state; the perfect state
must offer them the proper 'social habitat', without which they must
grow corrupt and degenerate. The state therefore must be placed higher
than the individual since only the state can be self-sufficient ('autark'),
perfect, and able to make good the necessary imperfection of the
individual.

Society and the individual are thus interdependent. The one owes its
existence to the other. Society owes its existence to human nature, and
especially to its lack of self-sufficiency; and the individual owes his
existence to society, since he is not self-sufficient. But within this
relationship of interdependence, the superiority of the state over the

individual manifests itself in various ways; for instance, in the fact that
the seed of the decay and disunion of a perfect state does not spring up in
the state itself, but rather in its individuals; it is rooted in the
imperfection of the human soul, of human nature; or more precisely, in
the fact that the race of men is liable to degenerate. To this point, the
origin of political decay, and its dependence upon the degeneration of
human nature, I shall return presently; but I wish first to make a few
comments on some of the characteristics of Plato's sociology, especially
upon his version of the theory of the social contract, and upon his view of
the state as a super-individual, i.e. his version of the biological or organic
theory of the state.

Whether Protagoras first proposed a theory that laws originate with a
social contract, or whether Lycophron (whose theory will be discussed in
the next chapter) was the first to do so, is not certain. In any case, the idea
is closely related to Protagoras' conventionalism. The fact that Plato
consciously combined some conventionalist ideas, and even a version of
the contract theory, with his naturalism, is in itself an indication that
conventionalism in its original form did not maintain that laws are
wholly arbitrary; and Plato's remarks on Protagoras confirm this—. How
conscious Plato was of a conventionalist element in his version of
naturalism can be seen from a passage in the Laws. Plato there gives a list
of the various principles upon which political authority might be based,
mentioning Pindar's biological naturalism (see above), i.e. 'the principle
that the stronger shall rule and the weaker be ruled', which he describes
as a principle 'according to nature, as the Theban poet Pindar once
stated' . Plato contrasts this principle with another which he recommends
by showing that it combines conventionalism with naturalism: 'But there
is also a . . . claim which is the greatest principle of all, namely, that the
wise shall lead and rule, and that the ignorant shall follow; and this, O
Pindar, wisest of poets, is surely not contrary to nature, but according to

nature; for what it demands is not external compulsion but the truly
natural sovereignty of a law which is based upon mutual consent.'—

In the Republic we find elements of the conventionalist contract theory
in a similar way combined with elements of naturalism (and
utilitarianism). 'The city originates', we hear there, 'because we are not
self-sufficient; ... or is there another origin of settlement in cities? ...
Men gather into one settlement many . . . helpers, since they need many
things ... And when they share their goods with one another, the one
giving, the other partaking, does not every one expect in this way to
further his own interest?'— Thus the inhabitants gather in order that each
may further his own interest; which is an element of the contract theory.
But behind this stands the fact that they are not self-sufficient, a fact of
human nature; which is an element of naturalism. And this element is
developed further. 'By nature, no two of us are exactly alike. Each has his
peculiar nature, some being fit for one kind of work and some for another
... Is it better that a man should work in many crafts or that he should
work in one only? . . . Surely, more will be produced and better and more
easily if each man works in one occupation only, according to his natural
gifts.'

In this way, the economic principle of the division of labour is
introduced (reminding us of the affinity between Plato's historicism and
the materialist interpretation of history). But this principle is based here
upon an element of biological naturalism, namely, upon the natural
inequality of men. At first, this idea is introduced inconspicuously and, as
it were, innocently. But we shall see in the next chapter that it has far-
reaching consequences; indeed, the only really important division of
labour turns out to be that between rulers and ruled, claimed to be based
upon the natural inequality of masters and slaves, of wise and ignorant.

We have seen that there is a considerable element of conventionalism
as well as of biological naturalism in Plato's position; an observation

which is not surprising when we consider that this position is, on the
whole, that of spiritual naturalism which, because of its vagueness, easily
allows for all such combinations. This spiritual version of naturalism is
perhaps best formulated in thQLaws. 'Men say', says Plato, 'that the
greatest and most beautiful things are natural ... and the lesser things
artificial.' So far he agrees; but he then attacks the materialists who say
'that fire and water, and earth and air, all exist by nature ... and that all
normative laws are altogether unnatural and artificial and based upon
superstitions which are not true.' Against this view, he shows first, that it
is not bodies nor elements, but the soul which truly 'exists by nature'— (I
have quoted this passage above); and from this he concludes that order,
and law, must also be by nature, since they spring from the soul: 'If the
soul is prior to the body, then things dependent upon the soul' (i.e.
spiritual matters) 'are also prior to those dependent upon body . . . And the
soul orders and directs all things.' This supplies the theoretical
background for the doctrine that 'laws and purposeful institutions exist
by nature, and not by anything lower than nature, since they are born of
reason and true thought.' This is a clear statement of spiritual naturalism;
and it is combined as well with positivist beliefs of a conservative kind:
'Thoughtful and prudent legislation will find a most powerful help
because the laws will remain unchanged once they have been laid down in
writing. '

From all this it can be seen that arguments derived from Plato's
spiritual naturalism are quite incapable of helping to answer any question
which may arise concerning the 'just' or 'natural' character of any
particular law. Spiritual naturalism is much too vague to be applied to
any practical problem. It cannot do much beyond providing some general
arguments in favour of conservativism. In practice, everything is left to
the wisdom of the great lawgiver (a godlike philosopher, whose picture,
especially in the Laws, is undoubtedly a self-portrait; see also chapter 8 ).

As opposed to his spiritual naturalism, however, Plato's theory of the
interdependence of society and the individual furnishes more concrete
results; and so does his anti-equalitarian biological naturalism.

VII

It has been indicated above that because of its self-sufficiency, the ideal
state appears to Plato as the perfect individual, and the individual citizen,
accordingly, as an imperfect copy of the state. This view which makes of
the state a kind of super- organism or Leviathan introduces into the
Occident the so-called organic or biological theory of the state. The
principle of this theory will be criticized later—. Here I wish first to draw
attention to the fact that Plato does not defend the theory, and indeed
hardly formulates it explicitly. But it is clearly enough implied; in fact,
the fundamental analogy between the state and the human individual is
one of the standard topics of the Republic. It is worth mentioning, in this
connection, that the analogy serves to further the analysis of the
individual rather than that of the state. One could perhaps defend the view
that Plato (perhaps under the influence of Alcmaeon) does not offer so
much a biological theory of the state as a political theory of the human
individual—. This view, I think, is fully in accordance with his doctrine
that the individual is lower than the state, and a kind of imperfect copy of
it. In the very place in which Plato introduces his fundamental analogy, it
is used in this way; that is to say, as a method of explaining and
elucidating the individual. The city, it is said, is greater than the
individual, and therefore easier to examine. Plato gives this as his reason
for suggesting that 'we should begin our inquiry' (namely, into the nature
of justice) 'in the city, and continue it afterwards in the individual.

always watching for points of similarity ... May we not expect in this
way to discern more easily what we are looking for?'

From his way of introducing it we can see that Plato (and perhaps his
readers) took his fundamental analogy for granted. This may well be a
symptom of nostalgia, of a longing for a unified and harmonious, an
'organic' state: for a society of a more primitive kind. (See chapter 10 .)
The city state ought to remain small, he says, and should grow only as
long as its increase does not endanger its unity. The whole city should, by
its nature, be one, and not many.— Plato thus emphasizes the 'oneness' or
individuality of his city. But he also emphasizes the 'manyness' of the
human individual. In his analysis of the individual soul, and of its
division into three parts, reason, energy, and animal instincts,
corresponding to the three classes of his state, the guardians, warriors,
and workers (who still continue to 'fill their bellies like the beasts', as
Heraclitus had said), Plato goes so far as to oppose these parts to one
another as if they were 'distinct and conflicting persons'—. 'We are thus
told', says Grote, 'that though man is apparently One, he is in reality
Many . . . though the perfect Commonwealth is apparently Many, it is in
reality One.' It is clear that this corresponds to the Ideal character of the
state of which the individual is a kind of imperfect copy. Such an
emphasis upon oneness and wholeness — especially of the state; or
perhaps of the world — may be described as 'holism'. Plato's holism, I
believe, is closely related to the tribal collectivism mentioned in earlier
chapters. Plato was longing for the lost unity of tribal life. A life of
change, in the midst of a social revolution, appeared to him unreal. Only
a stable whole, the permanent collective, has reality, not the passing
individuals. It is 'natural' for the individual to subserve the whole, which
is no mere assembly of individuals, but a 'natural' unit of a higher order.

Plato gives many excellent sociological descriptions of this 'natural',
i.e. tribal and collectivist, mode of social life: 'The law', he writes in the

Republic, ' ... is designed to bring about the welfare of the state as a
whole, fitting the citizens into one unit, by means of both persuasion and
force. It makes them all share in whatever benefit each of them can
contribute to the community. And it is actually the law which creates for
the state men of the right frame of mind; not for the purpose of letting
them loose, so that everybody can go his own way, but in order to utilize
them all for welding the city together.'— That there is in this holism an
emotional aestheticism, a longing for beauty, can be seen, for instance,
from a remark in the Laws: 'Every artist . . . executes the part for the sake
of the whole, and not the whole for the sake of the part.' At the same
place, we also find a truly classical formulation of political holism: 'You
are created for the sake of the whole, and not the whole for the sake of
you.' Within this whole, the different individuals, and groups of
individuals, with their natural inequalities, must render their specific and
very unequal services.

All this would indicate that Plato's theory was a form of the organic
theory of the state, even if he had not sometimes spoken of the state as an
organism. But since he did this, there can be no doubt left that he must be
described as an exponent, or rather, as one of the originators, of this
theory. His version of this theory may be characterized as a personalist or
psychological one, since he describes the state not in a general way as
similar to some organism or other, but as analogous to the human
individual, and more specifically to the human soul. Especially the
disease of the state, the dissolution of its unity, corresponds to the disease
of the human soul, of human nature. In fact, the disease of the state is not
only correlated with, but is directly produced by, the corruption of human
nature, more especially of the members of the ruling class. Every single
one of the typical stages in the degeneration of the state is brought about
by a corresponding stage in the degeneration of the human soul, of human
nature, of the human race. And since this moral degeneration is

interpreted as based upon racial degeneration, we might say that the
biological element in Plato's naturalism turns out, in the end, to have the
most important part in the foundation of his historicism. For the history
of the downfall of the first or perfect state is nothing but the history of
the biological degeneration of the race of men.

VIII

It was mentioned in the last chapter that the problem of the beginning of
change and decay is one of the major difficulties of Plato's historicist
theory of society. The first, the natural and perfect city-state, cannot be
supposed to carry within itself the germ of dissolution, 'for a city which
carries within itself the germ of dissolution is for that very reason
imperfect'—. Plato tries to get over the difficulty by laying the blame on
his universally valid historical, biological, and perhaps even
cosmological, evolutionary law of degeneration, rather than on the
particular constitution of the first or perfect city—: 'Everything that has
been generated must decay.' But this general theory does not provide a
fully satisfactory solution, for it does not explain why even a sufficiently
perfect state cannot escape the law of decay. And indeed, Plato hints that
historical decay might have been avoided—, had the rulers of the first or
natural state been trained philosophers. But they were not. They were not
trained (as he demands that the rulers of his heavenly city should be) in
mathematics and dialectics; and in order to avoid degeneration, they
would have needed to be initiated into the higher mysteries of eugenics,
of the science of 'keeping pure the race of the guardians', and of avoiding
the mixture of the noble metals in their veins with the base metals of the
workers. But these higher mysteries are difficult to reveal. Plato

distinguishes sharply, in the fields of mathematics, acoustics, and
astronomy, between mere (delusive) opinion which is tainted by
experience, and which cannot reach exactness, and is altogether on a low
level, and pure rational knowledge, which is free from sensual experience
and exact. This distinction he applies also to the field of eugenics. A
merely empirical art of breeding cannot be precise, i.e. it cannot keep the
race perfectly pure. This explains the downfall of the original city which
is so good, i.e. so similar to its Form or Idea, that 'a city thus constituted
can hardly be shaken'. 'But this', Plato continues, 'is the way it
dissolves', and he proceeds to outline his theory of breeding, of the
Number, and of the Fall of Man.

All plants and animals, he tells us, must be bred according to definite
periods of time, if barrenness and degeneration are to be avoided. Some
knowledge of these periods, which are connected with the length of the
life of the race, will be available to the rulers of the best state, and they
will apply it to the breeding of the master race. It will not, however, be
rational, but only empirical knowledge; it will be 'calculation aided by
(or based on) perception' (cp. the next quotation). But as we have just
seen, perception and experience can never be exact and reliable, since its
objects are not the pure Forms or Ideas, but the world of things in flux;
and since the guardians have no better kind of knowledge at their
disposal, the breed cannot be kept pure, and racial degeneration must
creep in. This is how Plato explains the matter: 'Concerning your own
race' (i.e. the race of men, as opposed to animals), 'the rulers of the city
whom you have trained may be wise enough; but since they are using
calculation aided by perception, they will not hit, accidentally, upon the
way of getting either good offspring, or none at all.' Lacking a purely
rational method,— 'they will blunder, and some day they will beget
children in the wrong way'. In what follows next, Plato hints, rather
mysteriously, that there is now a way to avoid this through the discovery

of a purely rational and mathematical science which possesses in the
'Platonic Number' (a number determining the True Period of the human
race) the key to the master law of higher eugenics. But since the
guardians of old times were ignorant of Pythagorean number-mysticism,
and with it, of this key to the higher knowledge of breeding, the otherwise
perfect natural state could not escape decay. After partially revealing the
secret of his mysterious Number, Plato continues: 'This ... number is
master over better or worse births; and whenever these guardians of yours
— who are ignorant of these matters — unite bride and bridegroom in the
wrong manner—, the children will have neither good natures nor good
luck. Even the best of them . . . will prove unworthy when succeeding to
the power of their fathers; and as soon as they are guardians, they will not
listen to us any more' — that is, in matters of musical and gymnastic
education, and, as Plato especially emphasizes, in the supervision of
breeding. 'Hence rulers will be appointed who are not altogether fit for
their task as guardians; namely to watch, and to test, the metals in the
races (which are Hesiod's races as well as yours), gold and silver and
bronze and iron. So iron will mingle with silver and bronze with gold and
from this mixture. Variation will be born and absurd Irregularity; and
whenever these are born they will beget Strife and Hostility. And this is
how we must describe the ancestry and birth of Dissension, wherever she
arises.'

This is Plato's story of the Number and of the Fall of Man. It is the
basis of his historicist sociology, especially of his fundamental law of
social revolutions discussed in the last chapter—. For racial degeneration
explains the origin of disunion in the ruling class, and with it, the origin
of all historical development. The internal disunion of human nature, the
schism of the soul, leads to the schism of the ruling class. And as with
Heraclitus, war, class war, is the father and promoter of all change, and of
the history of man, which is nothing but the history of the breakdown of

society. We see that Plato's idealist historicism ultimately rests not upon
a spiritual, but upon a biological basis; it rests upon a kind of meta-
biology— of the race of men. Plato was not only a naturalist who
proffered a biological theory of the state, he was also the first to proffer a
biological and racial theory of social dynamics, of political history. 'The
Platonic Number', says Adam—, 'is thus the setting in which Plato's
"Philosophy of History" is framed.'

It is, I think, appropriate to conclude this sketch of Plato's descriptive
sociology with a summary and an evaluation.

Plato succeeded in giving an astonishingly true, though of course
somewhat idealized, reconstruction of an early Greek tribal and
collectivist society similar to that of Sparta. An analysis of the forces,
especially the economic forces, which threaten the stability of such a
society, enables him to describe the general policy as well as the social
institutions which are necessary for arresting it. And he gives,
furthermore, a rational reconstruction of the economic and historical
development of the Greek city-states.

These achievements are impaired by his hatred of the society in which
he was living, and by his romantic love for the old tribal form of social
life. It is this attitude which led him to formulate an untenable law of
historical development, namely, the law of universal degeneration or
decay. And the same attitude is also responsible for the irrational,
fantastic, and romantic elements of his otherwise excellent analysis. On
the other hand, it was just his personal interest and his partiality which
sharpened his eye and so made his achievements possible. He derived his
historicist theory from the fantastic philosophical doctrine that the
changing visible world is only a decaying copy of an unchanging
invisible world. But this ingenious attempt to combine a historicist
pessimism with an ontological optimism leads, when elaborated, to
difficulties. These difficulties forced upon him the adoption of a

biological naturalism, leading (together with 'psychologism— , i.e. the
theory that society depends on the 'human nature' of its members) to
mysticism and superstition, culminating in a pseudo-rational
mathematical theory of breeding. They even endangered the impressive
unity of his theoretical edifice.

Looking back at this edifice, we may briefly consider its ground-plan—.
This ground-plan, conceived by a great architect, exhibits a fundamental
metaphysical dualism in Plato's thought. In the field of logic, this
dualism presents itself as the opposition between the universal and the
particular. In the field of mathematical speculation, it presents itself as
the opposition between the One and the Many. In the field of
epistemology, it is the opposition between rational knowledge based on
pure thought, and opinion based on particular experiences. In the field of
ontology, it is the opposition between the one, original, invariable, and
true, reality, and the many, varying, and delusive, appearances; between
pure being and becoming, or more precisely, changing. In the field of
cosmology, it is the opposition between that which generates and that
which is generated, and which must decay. In ethics, it is the opposition
between the good, i.e. that which preserves, and the evil, i.e. that which
corrupts. In politics, it is the opposition between the one collective, the
state, which may attain perfection and autarchy, and the great mass of the
people — the many individuals, the particular men who must remain
imperfect and dependent, and whose particularity is to be suppressed for
the sake of the unity of the state (see the next chapter). And this whole
dualist philosophy, I believe, originated from the urgent wish to explain

the contrast between the vision of an ideal society, and the hateful actual
state of affairs in the social field — ^the contrast between a stable society,
and a society in the process of revolution.

Plato's Political Programme

Totalitarian Justice

The analysis of Plato's sociology makes it easy to present his political
programme. His fundamental demands can be expressed in either of two
formulae, the first corresponding to his idealist theory of change and rest,
the second to his naturalism. The idealist formula is: Arrest all political
change! Change is evil, rest divine-. All change can be arrested if the
state is made an exact copy of its original, i.e. of the Form or Idea of the
city. Should it be asked how this is practicable, we can reply with the
naturalistic formula: Back to nature! Back to the original state of our
forefathers, the primitive state founded in accordance with human nature,
and therefore stable; back to the tribal patriarchy of the time before the
Fall, to the natural class rule of the wise few over the ignorant many.

I believe that practically all the elements of Plato's political
programme can be derived from these demands. They are, in turn, based
upon his historicism; and they have to be combined with his sociological
doctrines concerning the conditions for the stability of class rule. The
principal elements I have in mind are:

(a) The strict division of the classes; i.e. the ruling class consisting
of herdsmen and watch- dogs must be strictly separated from the
human cattle.

(b) The identification of the fate of the state with that of the ruling
class; the exclusive interest in this class, and in its unity; and

subservient to this unity, the rigid rules for breeding and
educating this class, and the strict supervision and collectivization
of the interests of its members.

From these principal elements, others can be derived, for instance the
following:

(c) The ruling class has a monopoly of things like military virtues
and training, and of the right to carry arms and to receive
education of any kind; but it is excluded from any participation in
economic activities, and especially from earning money.

(d) There must be a censorship of all intellectual activities of the
ruling class, and a continual propaganda aiming at moulding and
unifying their minds. All innovation in education, legislation, and
religion must be prevented or suppressed.

(e) The state must be self-sufficient. It must aim at economic
autarchy; for otherwise the rulers would either be dependent upon
traders, or become traders themselves. The first of these
alternatives would undermine their power, the second their unity
and the stability of the state.

This programme can, I think, be fairly described as totalitarian. And it
is certainly founded upon a historicist sociology.

But is that all? Are there no other features of Plato's programme,
elements which are neither totalitarian nor founded upon historicism?
What about Plato's ardent desire for Goodness and Beauty, or his love of
Wisdom and of Truth? What about his demand that the wise, the
philosophers, should rule? What about his hopes of making the citizens of
his state virtuous as well as happy? And what about his demand that the
state should be founded upon Justice? Even writers who criticize Plato

believe that his political doctrine, in spite of certain similarities, is
clearly distinguished from modern totalitarianism by these aims of his,
the happiness of the citizens, and the rule of justice. Grossman, for
instance, whose critical attitude can be gauged from his remark that
'Plato's philosophy is the most savage and most profound attack upon
liberal ideas which history can show'-, seems still to believe that Plato's
plan is 'the building of a perfect state in which every citizen is really
happy'. Another example is Joad who discusses the similarities between
Plato's programme and that of fascism at some length, but who asserts
that there are fundamental differences, since in Plato's best state 'the
ordinary man ... achieves such happiness as appertains to his nature', and
since this state is built upon the ideas of 'an absolute good and an
absolute justice'.

In spite of such arguments I believe that Plato's political programme,
far from being morally superior to totalitarianism, is fundamentally
identical with it. I believe that the objections against this view are based
upon an ancient and deep-rooted prejudice in favour of idealizing Plato.
That Grossman has done much to point out and to destroy this inclination
may be seen from this statement: 'Before the Great War ... Plato ... was
rarely condemned outright as a reactionary, resolutely opposed to every
principle of the liberal creed. Instead he was elevated to a higher rank, . . .
removed from practical life, dreaming of a transcendent Gity of God.'-
Grossman himself, however, is not free from that tendency which he so
clearly exposes. It is interesting that this tendency could persist for such a
long time in spite of the fact that Grote and Gomperz had pointed out the
reactionary character of some doctrines of the Republic and the Laws. But
even they did not see all the implications of these doctrines; they never
doubted that Plato was, fundamentally, a humanitarian. And their adverse
criticism was ignored, or interpreted as a failure to understand and to
appreciate Plato who was by Ghristians considered a 'Ghristian before

Christ', and by revolutionaries a revolutionary. This kind of complete
faith in Plato is undoubtedly still dominant, and Field, for instance, finds
it necessary to warn his readers that 'we shall misunderstand Plato
entirely if we think of him as a revolutionary thinker'. This is, of course,
very true; and it would clearly be pointless if the tendency to make of
Plato a revolutionary thinker, or at least a progressivist, were not fairly
widespread. But Field himself has the same kind of faith in Plato; for
when he goes on to say that Plato was 'in strong opposition to the new
and subversive tendencies' of his time, then surely he accepts too readily
Plato's testimony for the subversiveness of these new tendencies. The
enemies of freedom have always charged its defenders with subversion.
And nearly always they have succeeded in persuading the guileless and
well-meaning.

The idealization of the great idealist permeates not only the
interpretations of Plato's writings, but also the translations. Drastic
remarks of Plato's which do not fit the translator's views of what a
humanitarian should say are frequently either toned down or
misunderstood. This tendency begins with the translation of the very title
of Plato's so-called 'Republic'. What comes first to our mind when
hearing this title is that the author must be a liberal, if not a
revolutionary. But the title 'Republic' is, quite simply, the English form
of the Latin rendering of a Greek word that had no associations of this
kind, and whose proper English translation would be 'The Constitution'
or 'The City State' or 'The State'. The traditional translation 'The
Republic' has undoubtedly contributed to the general conviction that
Plato could not have been a reactionary.

In view of all that Plato says about Goodness and Justice and the other
Ideas mentioned, my thesis that his political demands are purely
totalitarian and anti-humanitarian needs to be defended. In order to
undertake this defence, I shall, for the next four chapters, break off the

analysis of historicism, and concentrate upon a critical examination of
the ethical Ideas mentioned, and of their part in Plato's political
demands. In the present chapter, I shall examine the Idea of Justice; in
the three following chapters, the doctrine that the wisest and best should
rule, and the Ideas of Truth, Wisdom, Goodness, and Beauty.

What do we really mean when we speak of 'Justice'? I do not think that
verbal questions of this kind are particularly important, or that it is
possible to make a definite answer to them, since such terms are always
used in various senses. However, I think that most of us, especially those
whose general outlook is humanitarian, mean something like this: (a) an
equal distribution of the burden of citizenship, i.e. of those limitations of
freedom which are necessary in social life-; (b) equal treatment of the
citizens before the law, provided, of course, that (c) the laws show neither
favour nor disfavour towards individual citizens or groups or classes; (d)
impartiality of the courts of justice; and (e) an equal share in the
advantages (and not only in the burden) which membership of the state
may offer to its citizens. If Plato had meant by 'justice' anything of this
kind, then my claim that his programme is purely totalitarian would
certainly be wrong and all those would be right who believe that Plato's
politics rested upon an acceptable humanitarian basis. But the fact is that
he meant by 'justice' something entirely different.

What did Plato mean by 'justice'? I assert that in the Republic he used
the term 'just' as a synonym for 'that which is in the interest of the best
state'. And what is in the interest of this best state? To arrest all change,
by the maintenance of a rigid class division and class rule. If I am right in

this interpretation, then we should have to say that Plato's demand for
justice leaves his political programme at the level of totalitarianism; and
we should have to conclude that we must guard against the danger of
being impressed by mere words.

Justice is the central topic of thQ Republic; in fact, 'On Justice' is its
traditional sub-title. In his enquiry into the nature of justice, Plato makes
use of the method mentioned- in the last chapter; he first tries to search
for this Idea in the state, and then attempts to apply the result to the
individual. One cannot say that Plato's question 'What is justice?'
quickly finds an answer, for it is only given in the Fourth Book. The
considerations which lead up to it will be analysed more fully later in this
chapter. Briefly, they are these.

The city is founded upon human nature, its needs, and its limitations-.
'We have stated, and, you will remember, repeated over and over again
that each man in our city should do one work only; namely, that work for
which his nature is naturally best fitted.' From this Plato concludes that
everyone should mind his own business; that the carpenter should confine
himself to carpentering, the shoemaker to making shoes. Not much harm
is done, however, if two workers change their natural places. 'But should
anyone who is by nature a worker (or else a member of the money-
earning class) . . . manage to get into the warrior class; or should a warrior
get into the class of the guardians, without being worthy of it; ... then this
kind of change and of underhand plotting would mean the downfall of the
city.' From this argument which is closely related to the principle that the
carrying of arms should be a class prerogative, Plato draws his final
conclusion that any changing or intermingling within the three classes
must be injustice, and that the opposite, therefore, is justice: 'When each
class in the city minds its own business, the money-earning class as well
as the auxiliaries and the guardians, then this will be justice.' This
conclusion is reaffirmed and summed up a little later: 'The city is just . . .

if each of its three classes attends to its own work.' But this statement
means that Plato identifies justice with the principle of class rule and of
class privilege. For the principle that every class should attend to its own
business means, briefly and bluntly, that the state is just if the ruler rules,
if the worker works, and- if the slave slaves.

It will be seen that Plato's concept of justice is fundamentally different
from our ordinary view as analysed above. Plato calls class privilege
'just', while we usually mean by justice rather the absence of such
privilege. But the difference goes further than that. We mean by justice
some kind of equality in the treatment of individuals, while Plato
considers justice not as a relationship between individuals, but as a
property of the whole state, based upon a relationship between its classes.
The state is just if it is healthy, strong, united — stable.

But was Plato perhaps right? Does 'justice' perhaps mean what he says? I
do not intend to discuss such a question. If anyone should hold that
'justice' means the unchallenged rule of one class, then I should simply
reply that I am all for injustice. In other words, I believe that nothing
depends upon words, and everything upon our practical demands or upon
the proposals for framing our policy which we decide to adopt. Behind
Plato's definition of justice stands, fundamentally, his demand for a
totalitarian class rule, and his decision to bring it about.

But was he not right in a different sense? Did his idea of justice
perhaps correspond to the Greek way of using this word? Did the Greeks
perhaps mean by 'justice', something holistic, like the 'health of the
state', and is it not utterly unfair and unhistorical to expect from Plato an

anticipation of our modern idea of justice as equality of the citizens
before the law? This question, indeed, has been answered in the
affirmative, and the claim has been made that Plato's holistic idea of
'social justice' is characteristic of the traditional Greek outlook, of the
'Greek genius' which 'was not, like the Roman, specifically legal', but
rather 'specifically metaphysical'-. But this claim is untenable. As a
matter of fact, the Greek way of using the word 'justice' was indeed
surprisingly similar to our own individualistic and equalitarian usage.

In order to show this, I may first refer to Plato himself who, in the
dialogue Gorgias (which is earlier than the Republic), speaks of the view
that 'justice is equality' as one held by the great mass of the people, and
as one which agrees not only with 'convention', but with 'nature itself. I
may further quote Aristotle, another opponent of equalitarianism, who,
under the influence of Plato's naturalism, elaborated among other things
the theory that some men are by nature born to slave-. Nobody could be
less interested in spreading an equalitarian and individualistic
interpretation of the term 'justice'. But when speaking of the judge,
whom he describes as 'a personification of that which is just', Aristotle
says that it is the task of the judge to 'restore equality'. He tells us that
'all men think justice to be a kind of equality', an equality, namely,
which 'pertains to persons'. He even thinks (but here he is wrong) that the
Greek word for 'justice' is to be derived from a root that means 'equal
division'. (The view that 'justice' means a kind of 'equality in the
division of spoils and honours to the citizens' agrees with Plato's views
in the Laws, where two kinds of equality in the distribution of spoils and
honours are distinguished — 'numerical' or 'arithmetical' equality and
'proportionate' equality; the second of which takes account of the degree
in which the persons in question possess virtue, breeding, and wealth —
and where this proportionate equality is said to constitute 'political
justice'.) And when Aristotle discusses the principles of democracy, he

says that 'democratic justice is the application of the principle of
arithmetical equality (as distinct from proportionate equality).' All this is
certainly not merely his personal impression of the meaning of justice,
nor is it perhaps only a description of the way in which the word was
used, after Plato, under the influence of the Gorgias and the Laws] it is,
rather, the expression of a universal and ancient as well as popular use of
the word 'justice'.—

In view of this evidence, we must say, I think, that the holistic and
anti-equalitarian interpretation of justice in thQ Republic was an
innovation, and that Plato attempted to present his totalitarian class rule
as 'just' while people generally meant by 'justice' the exact opposite.

This result is startling, and opens up a number of questions. Why did
Plato claim, in the Republic, that justice meant inequality if in general
usage, it meant equality? To me the only likely reply seems to be that he
wanted to make propaganda for his totalitarian state by persuading the
people that it was the 'just' state. But was such an attempt worth his
while, considering that it is not words but what we mean by them that
matters? Of course it was worth while; this can be seen from the fact that
he fully succeeded in persuading his readers, down to our own day, that
he was candidly advocating justice, i.e. that justice they were striving for.
And it is a fact that he thereby spread doubt and confusion among
equalitarians and individualists who, under the influence of his authority,
began to ask themselves whether his idea of justice was not truer and
better than theirs. Since the word 'justice' symbolizes to us an aim of
such importance, and since so many are prepared to endure anything for
it, and to do all in their power for its realization, the enlistment of these
humanitarian forces, or at least, the paralysing of equalitarianism, was
certainly an aim worthy of being pursued by a believer in totalitarianism.
But was Plato aware that justice meant so much to men? He was; for he
writes in thQ Republic: 'When a man has committed an injustice, ... is it

not true that his courage refuses to be stirred? . . . But when he believes
that he has suffered injustice, does not his vigour and his wrath flare up at
once? And is it not equally true that when fighting on the side of what he
believes to be just, he can endure hunger and cold, and any kind of
hardship? And does he not hold on until he conquers, persisting in his
exalted state until he has either achieved his aim, or perished?'—

Reading this, we cannot doubt that Plato knew the power of faith, and,
above all, of a faith in justice. Nor can we doubt that the Republic must
tend to pervert this faith, and to replace it by a directly opposite faith.
And in the light of the available evidence, it seems to me most probable
that Plato knew very well what he was doing. Equalitarianism was his
arch-enemy, and he was out to destroy it; no doubt in the sincere belief
that it was a great evil and a great danger. But his attack upon
equalitarianism was not an honest attack. Plato did not dare to face the
enemy openly.

I proceed to present the evidence in support of this contention.

Ill

The Republic is probably the most elaborate monograph on justice ever
written. It examines a variety of views about justice, and it does this in a
way which leads us to believe that Plato omitted none of the more
important theories known to him. In fact, Plato clearly implies— that
because of his vain attempts to track it down among the current views, a
new search for justice is necessary. Yet in his survey and discussion of
the current theories, the view that justice is equality before the law
{'isonomy') is never mentioned. This omission can be explained only in
two ways. Either he overlooked the equalitarian theory—, or he purposely

avoided it. The first possibility seems very unlikely if we consider the
care with which the Republic is composed, and the necessity for Plato to
analyse the theories of his opponents if he was to make a forceful
presentation of his own. But this possibility appears even more
improbable if we consider the wide popularity of the equalitarian theory.
We need not, however, rely upon merely probable arguments since it can
be easily shown that Plato was not only acquainted with the equalitarian
theory but well aware of its importance when he wrote the Republic. As
already mentioned in this chapter (in section II), and as will be shown in
detail later (in section VIII), equalitarianism played a considerable role in
the earlier Gorgias where it is even defended; and in spite of the fact that
the merits or demerits of equalitarianism are nowhere seriously discussed
in the Republic, Plato did not change his mind regarding its influence, for
the Republic itself testifies to its popularity. It is there alluded to as a
very popular democratic belief; but it is treated only with scorn, and all
we hear about it consists of a few sneers and pin-pricks—, well matched
with the abusive attack upon Athenian democracy, and made at a place
where justice is not the topic of the discussion. The possibility that the
equalitarian theory of justice was overlooked by Plato is therefore ruled
out, and so is the possibility that he did not see that a discussion of an
influential theory diametrically opposed to his own was requisite. The
fact that his silence in thQ Republic is broken only by a few jocular
remarks (apparently he thought them too good to be suppressed—) can be
explained only as a conscious refusal to discuss it. In view of all that, I do
not see how Plato's method of impressing upon his readers the belief that
all important theories have been examined can be reconciled with the
standards of intellectual honesty; though we must add that his failure is
undoubtedly due to his complete devotion to a cause in whose goodness
he firmly believed.

In order to appreciate fully the implications of Plato's practically

unbroken silence on this issue, we must first see clearly that the
equalitarian movement as Plato knew it represented all he hated, and that
his own theory, in the Republic and in all later works, was largely a reply
to the powerful challenge of the new equalitarianism and
humanitarianism. To show this, I shall discuss the main principles of the
humanitarian movement, and contrast them with the corresponding
principles of Platonic totalitarianism.

The humanitarian theory of justice makes three main demands or
proposals, namely (a) the equalitarian principle proper, i.e. the proposal
to eliminate 'natural' privileges, (Z?) the general principle of
individualism, and (c) the principle that it should be the task and the
purpose of the state to protect the freedom of its citizens. To each of
these political demands or proposals there corresponds a directly opposite
principle of Platonism, namely {a^) the principle of natural privilege, (Z?^)
the general principle of holism or collectivism, and (c^) the principle that
it should be the task and the purpose of the individual to maintain, and to
strengthen, the stability of the state. — I shall discuss these three points in
order, devoting to each of them one of the sections IV, V, and VI of this
chapter.

Equalitarianism proper is the demand that the citizens of the state should
be treated impartially. It is the demand that birth, family connection, or
wealth must not influence those who administer the law to the citizens. In
other words, it does not recognize any 'natural' privileges, although
certain privileges may be conferred by the citizens upon those they trust.
This equalitarian principle had been admirably formulated by Pericles

a few years before Plato's birth, in an oration which has been preserved
by Thucydides— . It will be quoted more fully in chapter 10, but two of its
sentences may be given here: 'Our laws', said Pericles, 'afford equal
justice to all alike in their private disputes, but we do not ignore the
claims of excellence. When a citizen distinguishes himself, then he is
preferred to the public service, not as a matter of privilege, but as a
reward for merit; and poverty is not a bar ...'These sentences express
some of the fundamental aims of the great equalitarian movement which,
as we have seen, did not even shrink from attacking slavery. In Pericles'
own generation, this movement was represented by Euripides, Antiphon,
and Hippias, who have all been quoted in the last chapter, and also by
Herodotus—. In Plato's generation, it was represented by Alcidamas and
Lycophron, both quoted above; another supporter was Antisthenes, who
had been one of Socrates' closest friends.

Plato's principle of justice was, of course, diametrically opposed to all
this. He demanded natural privileges for the natural leaders. But how did
he contest the equalitarian principle? And how did he establish his own
demands?

It will be remembered from the last chapter that some of the best-
known formulations of the equalitarian demands were couched in the
impressive but questionable language of 'natural rights', and that some of
their representatives argued in favour of these demands by pointing out
the 'natural', i.e. biological, equality of men. We have seen that the
argument is irrelevant; that men are equal in some important respects,
and unequal in others; and that normative demands cannot be derived
from this fact, or from any other fact. It is therefore interesting to note
that the naturalist argument was not used by all equalitarians, and that
Pericles, for one, did not even allude to it—.

Plato quickly found that naturalism was a weak spot within the
equalitarian doctrine, and he took the fullest advantage of this weakness.

To tell men that they are equal has a certain sentimental appeal. But this
appeal is small compared with that made by a propaganda that tells them
that they are superior to others, and that others are inferior to them. Are
you naturally equal to your servants, to your slaves, to the manual worker
who is no better than an animal? The very question is ridiculous! Plato
seems to have been the first to appreciate the possibilities of this
reaction, and to oppose contempt, scorn, and ridicule to the claim to
natural equality. This explains why he was anxious to impute the
naturalistic argument even to those of his opponents who did not use it; in
thQ Menexenus, a parody of Pericles' oration, he therefore insists on
linking together the claims to equal laws and to natural equality: 'The
basis of our constitution is equality of birth', he says ironically. 'We are
all brethren, and are all children of one mother; ... and the natural
equality of birth induces us to strive for equality before the law.'—

Later, in the Laws, Plato summarizes his reply to equalitarianism in the
formula: 'Equal treatment of unequals must beget inequity'—; and this
was developed by Aristotle into the formula 'Equality for equals,
inequality for unequals'. This formula indicates what may be termed the
standard objection to equalitarianism; the objection that equality would
be excellent if only men were equal, but that it is manifestly impossible
since they are not equal, and since they cannot be made equal. This
apparently very realistic objection is, in fact, most unrealistic, for
political privileges have never been founded upon natural differences of
character. And, indeed, Plato does not seem to have had much confidence
in this objection when writing thQ Republic, for it is used there only in
one of his sneers at democracy when he says that it 'distributes equality
to equals and unequals alike.'— Apart from this remark, he prefers not to
argue against equalitarianism, but to forget it.

Summing up, it can be said that Plato never underrated the significance
of the equalitarian theory, supported as it was by a man like Pericles, but

that, in XhQ Republic, he did not treat it at all; he attacked it, but not
squarely and openly.

But how did he try to establish his own anti-equalitarianism, his
principle of natural privilege? In \hQ Republic, he proffered three
different arguments, though two of them hardly deserve the name. The
first— is the surprising remark that, since all the other three virtues of the
state have been examined, the remaining fourth, that of 'minding one's
own business', must be 'justice'. I am reluctant to believe that this was
meant as an argument; but it must be, for Plato's leading speaker,
'Socrates', introduces it by asking: 'Do you know how I arrive at this
conclusion?' The second argument is more interesting, for it is an attempt
to show that his anti-equalitarianism can be derived from the ordinary
(i.e. equalitarian) view that justice is impartiality. I quote the passage in
full. Remarking that the rulers of the city will also be its judges,
'Socrates' says—: 'And will it not be the aim of their jurisdiction that no
man shall take what belongs to another, and shall be deprived of what is
his own?' — 'Yes', is the reply of 'Glaucon', the interlocutor, 'that will be
their intention.' — 'Because that would be just?' — 'Yes.' — 'Accordingly,
to keep and to practise what belongs to us and is our own will be
generally agreed upon to be justice.' Thus it is established that 'to keep
and to practise what is one's own' is the principle of just jurisdiction,
according to our ordinary ideas of justice. Here the second argument
ends, giving way to the third (to be analysed below) which leads to the
conclusion that it is justice to keep one's own station (or to do one's own
business), which is the station (or the business) o/ ones own class or
caste.

The sole purpose of this second argument is to impress upon the reader
that 'justice', in the ordinary sense of the word, requires us to keep our
own station, since we should always keep what belongs to us. That is to
say, Plato wishes his readers to draw the inference: 'It is just to keep and

to practise what is one's own. My place (or my business) is my own. Thus
it is just for me to keep to my place (or to practise my business).' This is
about as sound as the argument: 'It is just to keep and to practise what is
one's own. This plan of stealing your money is my own. Thus it is just for
me to keep to my plan, and to put it into practice, i.e. to steal your
money.' It is clear that the inference which Plato wishes us to draw is
nothing but a crude juggle with the meaning of the term 'one's own'. (For
the problem is whether justice demands that everything which is in some
sense 'our own', e.g. 'our own' class, should therefore be treated, not
only as our possession, but as our inalienable possession. But in such a
principle Plato himself does not believe; for it would clearly make a
transition to communism impossible. And what about keeping our own
children?) This crude juggle is Plato's way of establishing what Adam
calls 'a point of contact between his own view of Justice and the popular
... meaning of the word'. This is how the greatest philosopher of all time
tries to convince us that he has discovered the true nature of justice.

The third and last argument which Plato offers is much more serious. It
is an appeal to the principle of holism or collectivism, and is connected
with the principle that it is the purpose of the individual to maintain the
stability of the state. It will therefore be discussed, in this analysis,
below, in sections V and VI.

But before proceeding to these points, I wish to draw attention to the
'preface' which Plato places before his description of the 'discovery'
which we are here examining. It must be considered in the light of the
observations we have made so far. Viewed in this light, the 'lengthy
preface' — this is how Plato himself describes it — appears as an ingenious
attempt to prepare the reader for the 'discovery of justice' by making him
believe that there is an argument going on when in reality he is only faced
with a display of dramatic devices, designed to soothe his critical
faculties.

Having discovered wisdom as the virtue proper to the guardians and
courage as that proper to the auxiliaries, 'Socrates' announces his
intention of making a final effort to discover justice. 'Two things are
left'—, he says, 'which we shall have to discover in the city: temperance,
and finally that other thing which is the main object of all our
investigations, namely justice.' — 'Exactly', says Glaucon. Socrates now
suggests that temperance shall be dropped. But Glaucon protests and
Socrates gives in, saying that 'it would be wrong' (or 'crooked') to
refuse. This little dispute prepares the reader for the re-introduction of
justice, suggests to him that Socrates possesses the means for its
'discovery', and reassures him that Glaucon is carefully watching Plato's
intellectual honesty in conducting the argument which he, the reader
himself, need not therefore watch at all—.

Socrates next proceeds to discuss temperance which he discovers to be
the only virtue proper to the workers. (By the way, the much debated
question whether Plato's 'justice' is distinguishable from his
'temperance' can be easily answered. Justice means to keep ones place',
temperance means to know ones place — that is to say, more precisely, to
be satisfied with it. What other virtue could be proper to the workers who
fill their bellies like the beasts?) When temperance has been discovered,
Socrates asks: 'And what about the last principle? Obviously it will be
justice.' — 'Obviously', replies Glaucon.

'Now, my dear Glaucon', says Socrates, 'we must, like hunters,
surround her cover and keep a close watch, and we must not allow her to
escape, and to get away; for surely, justice must be somewhere near this
spot. You had better look out and search the place. And if you are the first
to see her, then give me a shout!' Glaucon, like the reader, is of course
unable to do anything of the sort, and implores Socrates to take the lead.
'Then offer your prayers with me', says Socrates, 'and follow me.' But
even Socrates finds the ground 'hard to traverse, since it is covered with

underwood; it is dark, and difficult to explore ... But', he says, 'we must
go on with it'. And instead of protesting 'Go on with what? With our
exploration, i.e. with our argument? But we have not even started. There
has not been a glimmer of sense in what you have said so far', Glaucon,
and the naive reader with him replies meekly: 'Yes, we must go on.' Now
Socrates reports that he has 'got a glimpse' (we have not), and gets
excited. 'Hurray! Hurray!' he cries, 'Glaucon! There seems to be a track!
I think now that the quarry will not escape us!' — 'That is good news',
replies Glaucon. 'Upon my word', says Socrates, 'we have made utter
fools of ourselves. What we were looking for at a distance, has been lying
at our very feet all the time! And we never saw it!' With exclamations
and repeated assertions of this kind, Socrates continues for a good while,
interrupted by Glaucon, who gives expression to the reader's feelings and
asks Socrates what he has found. But when Socrates says only 'We have
been talking of it all the time, without realizing that we were actually
describing it', Glaucon expresses the reader's impatience and says: 'This
preface gets a bit lengthy; remember that I want to hear what it is all
about.' And only then does Plato proceed to proffer the two 'arguments'
which I have outlined.

Glaucon's last remark may be taken as an indication that Plato was
conscious of what he was doing in this 'lengthy preface'. I cannot
interpret it as anything but an attempt — it proved to be highly successful
— to lull the reader's critical faculties, and, by means of a dramatic
display of verbal fire-works, to divert his attention from the intellectual
poverty of this masterly piece of dialogue. One is tempted to think that
Plato knew its weakness, and how to hide it.

The problem of individualism and collectivism is closely related to that
of equality and inequality. Before going on to discuss it, a few
terminological remarks seem to be necessary.

The term 'individualism' can be used (according to the Oxford
Dictionary) in two different ways: {a) in opposition to collectivism, and
{b) in opposition to altruism. There is no other word to express the former
meaning, but several synonyms for the latter, for example 'egoism' or
'selfishness'. This is why in what follows I shall use the term
'individualism' exclusively in sense (a), using terms like 'egoism' or
'selfishness' if sense {b) is intended. A little table may be useful:

{a) Individualism is opposed to {a^ Collectivism,

(b) Egoism is opposed to (b) Altruism.

Now these four terms describe certain attitudes, or demands, or
decisions, or proposals, for codes of normative laws. Though necessarily
vague, they can, I believe, be easily illustrated by examples and so be
used with a precision sufficient for our present purpose. Let us begin with
collectivism—, since this attitude is already familiar to us from our
discussion of Plato's holism. His demand that the individual should
subserve the interests of the whole, whether this be the universe, the city,
the tribe, the race, or any other collective body, was illustrated in the last
chapter by a few passages. To quote one of these again, but more fully—:
'The part exists for the sake of the whole, but the whole does not exist for
the sake of the part . . . You are created for the sake of the whole and not
the whole for the sake of you.' This quotation not only illustrates holism
and collectivism, but also conveys its strong emotional appeal of which
Plato was conscious (as can be seen from the preamble to the passage).
The appeal is to various feelings, e.g. the longing to belong to a group or
a tribe; and one factor in it is the moral appeal for altruism and against

selfishness, or egoism. Plato suggests that if you cannot sacrifice your
interests for the sake of the whole, then you are selfish.

Now a glance at our little table will show that this is not so.
Collectivism is not opposed to egoism, nor is it identical with altruism or
unselfishness. Collective or group egoism, for instance class egoism, is a
very common thing (Plato knew— this very well), and this shows clearly
enough that collectivism as such is not opposed to selfishness. On the
other hand, an anti-collectivist, i.e. an individualist, can, at the same
time, be an altruist; he can be ready to make sacrifices in order to help
other individuals. One of the best examples of this attitude is perhaps
Dickens. It would be difficult to say which is the stronger, his passionate
hatred of selfishness or his passionate interest in individuals with all their
human weaknesses; and this attitude is combined with a dislike, not only
of what we now call collective bodies or collectives—, but even of a
genuinely devoted altruism, if directed towards anonymous groups rather
than concrete individuals. (I remind the reader of Mrs. Jellyby in Bleak
House, 'a lady devoted to public duties'.) These illustrations, I think,
explain sufficiently clearly the meaning of our four terms; and they show
that any of the terms in our table can be combined with either of the two
terms that stand in the other line (which gives four possible
combinations).

Now it is interesting that for Plato, and for most Platonists, an
altruistic individualism (as for instance that of Dickens) cannot exist.
According to Plato, the only alternative to collectivism is egoism; he
simply identifies all altruism with collectivism, and all individualism
with egoism. This is not a matter of terminology, of mere words, for
instead of four possibilities, Plato recognized only two. This has created
considerable confusion in speculation on ethical matters, even down to
our own day.

Plato's identification of individualism with egoism furnishes him with

a powerful weapon for his defence of collectivism as well as for his
attack upon individualism. In defending collectivism, he can appeal to
our humanitarian feeling of unselfishness; in his attack, he can brand all
individualists as selfish, as incapable of devotion to anything but
themselves. This attack, although aimed by Plato against individualism in
our sense, i.e. against the rights of human individuals, reaches of course
only a very different target, egoism. But this difference is constantly
ignored by Plato and by most Platonists.

Why did Plato try to attack individualism? I think he knew very well
what he was doing when he trained his guns upon this position, for
individualism, perhaps even more than equalitarianism, was a stronghold
in the defences of the new humanitarian creed. The emancipation of the
individual was indeed the great spiritual revolution which had led to the
breakdown of tribalism and to the rise of democracy. Plato's uncanny
sociological intuition shows itself in the way in which he invariably
discerned the enemy wherever he met him.

Individualism was part of the old intuitive idea of justice. That justice
is not, as Plato would have it, the health and harmony of the state, but
rather a certain way of treating individuals, is emphasized by Aristotle, it
will be remembered, when he says 'justice is something that pertains to
persons'—. This individualistic element had been emphasized by the
generation of Pericles. Pericles himself made it clear that the laws must
guarantee equal justice 'to all alike in their private disputes'; but he went
further. 'We do not feel called upon', he said, 'to nag at our neighbour if
he chooses to go his own way.' (Compare this with Plato's remark — that
the state does not produce men 'for the purpose of letting them loose,
each to go his own way ...'.) Pericles insists that this individualism must
be linked with altruism: 'We are taught ... never to forget that we must
protect the injured'; and his speech culminates in a description of the
young Athenian who grows up 'to a happy versatility, and to self-

reliance.'

This individualism, united with altruism, has become the basis of our
western civilization. It is the central doctrine of Christianity ('love your
neighbour', say the Scriptures, not 'love your tribe'); and it is the core of
all ethical doctrines which have grown from our civilization and
stimulated it. It is also, for instance, Kant's central practical doctrine
('always recognize that human individuals are ends, and do not use them
as mere means to your ends'). There is no other thought which has been
so powerful in the moral development of man.

Plato was right when he saw in this doctrine the enemy of his caste
state; and he hated it more than any other of the 'subversive' doctrines of
his time. In order to show this even more clearly, I shall quote two
passages from the Laws— whose truly astonishing hostility towards the
individual is, I think, too little appreciated. The first of them is famous as
a reference to thQ Republic, whose 'community of women and children
and property' it discusses. Plato describes here the constitution of the
Republic as 'the highest form of the state'. In this highest state, he tells
us, 'there is common property of wives, of children, and of all chattels.
And everything possible has been done to eradicate from our life
everywhere and in every way all that is private and individual. So far as it
can be done, even those things which nature herself has made private and
individual have somehow become the common property of all. Our very
eyes and ears and hands seem to see, to hear, and to act, as if they
belonged not to individuals but to the community. All men are moulded
to be unanimous in the utmost degree in bestowing praise and blame, and
they even rejoice and grieve about the same things, and at the same time.
And all the laws are perfected for unifying the city to the utmost.' Plato
goes on to say that 'no man can find a better criterion of the highest
excellence of a state than the principles just expounded'; and he describes
such a state as 'divine', and as the 'model' or 'pattern' or 'original' of the

state, i.e. as its Form or Idea. This is Plato's own view of the Republic,
expressed at a time when he had given up hope of realizing his political
ideal in all its glory.

The second passage, also from theZaw^, is, if possible, even more
outspoken. It should be emphasized that the passage deals primarily with
military expeditions and with military discipline, but Plato leaves no
doubt that these same militarist principles should be adhered to not only
in war, but also 'in peace, and from the earliest childhood on'. Like other
totalitarian militarists and admirers of Sparta, Plato urges that the all-
important requirements of military discipline must be paramount, even in
peace, and that they must determine the whole life of all citizens; for not
only the full citizens (who are all soldiers) and the children, but also the
very beasts must spend their whole life in a state of permanent and total
mobilization—. 'The greatest principle of all', he writes, 'is that nobody,
whether male or female, should ever be without a leader. Nor should the
mind of anybody be habituated to letting him do anything at all on his
own initiative, neither out of zeal, nor even playfully. But in war and in
the midst of peace — to his leader he shall direct his eye, and follow him
faithfully. And even in the smallest matters he should stand under
leadership. For example, he should get up, or move, or wash, or take his
meals— . . . only if he has been told to do so ... In a word, he should teach
his soul, by long habit, never to dream of acting independently, and to
become utterly incapable of it. In this way the life of all will be spent in
total community. There is no law, nor will there ever be one, which is
superior to this, or better and more effective in ensuring salvation and
victory in war. And in times of peace, and from the earliest childhood on
should it be fostered — this habit of ruling others, and of being ruled by
others. And every trace of anarchy should be utterly eradicated from all
the life of all the men, and even of the wild beasts which are subject to
men.'

These are strong words. Never was a man more in earnest in his
hostility towards the individual. And this hatred is deeply rooted in the
fundamental dualism of Plato's philosophy; he hated the individual and
his freedom just as he hated the varying particular experiences, the
variety of the changing world of sensible things. In the field of politics,
the individual is to Plato the Evil One himself.

This attitude, anti-humanitarian and anti- Christian as it is, has been
consistently idealized. It has been interpreted as humane, as unselfish, as
altruistic, and as Christian. E. B. England, for instance, calls— the first of
these two passages from thQ Laws 'a vigorous denunciation of
selfishness'. Similar words are used by Barker, when discussing Plato's
theory of justice. He says that Plato's aim was 'to replace selfishness and
civil discord by harmony', and that 'the old harmony of the interests of
the State and the individual ... is thus restored in the teachings of Plato;
but restored on a new and higher level, because it has been elevated into a
conscious sense of harmony'. Such statements and countless similar ones
can be easily explained if we remember Plato's identification of
individualism with egoism; for all these Platonists believe that anti-
individualism is the same as selflessness. This illustrates my contention
that this identification had the effect of a successful piece of anti-
humanitarian propaganda, and that it has confused speculation on ethical
matters down to our own time. But we must also realize that those who,
deceived by this identification and by high-sounding words, exalt Plato's
reputation as a teacher of morals and announce to the world that his
ethics is the nearest approach to Christianity before Christ, are preparing
the way for totalitarianism and especially for a totalitarian, anti-Christian
interpretation of Christianity. And this is a dangerous thing, for there
have been times when Christianity was dominated by totalitarian ideas.
There was an Inquisition; and, in another form, it may come again.

It may therefore be worth while to mention some further reasons why

guileless people have persuaded themselves of the humaneness of Plato's
intentions. One is that when preparing the ground for his collectivist
doctrines, Plato usually begins by quoting a maxim or proverb (which
seems to be of Pythagorean origin): 'Friends have in common all things
they possess.'— This is, undoubtedly, an unselfish, high-minded and
excellent sentiment. Who could suspect that an argument starting from
such a commendable assumption would arrive at a wholly anti-
humanitarian conclusion? Another and important point is that there are
many genuinely humanitarian sentiments expressed in Plato's dialogues,
particularly in those written before the Republic when he was still under
the influence of Socrates. I mention especially Socrates' doctrine, in the
Gorgias, that it is worse to do injustice than to suffer it. Clearly, this
doctrine is not only altruistic, but also individualistic; for in a collectivist
theory of justice like that of the Republic, injustice is an act against the
state, not against a particular man, and though a man may commit an act
of injustice, only the collective can suffer from it. But in the Gorgias we
find nothing of the kind. The theory of justice is a perfectly normal one,
and the examples of injustice given by 'Socrates' (who has here probably
a good deal of the real Socrates in him) are such as boxing a man's ears,
injuring, or killing him. Socrates' teaching that it is better to suffer such
acts than to do them is indeed very similar to Christian teaching, and his
doctrine of justice fits in excellently with the spirit of Pericles. (An
attempt to interpret this will be made in chapter 10.)

Now thQ Republic develops a new doctrine of justice which is not
merely incompatible with such an individualism, but utterly hostile
towards it. But a reader may easily believe that Plato is still holding fast
to the doctrine of the Gorgias. For in the Republic, Plato frequently
alludes to the doctrine that it is better to suffer than to commit injustice,
in spite of the fact that this is simply nonsense from the point of view of
the collectivist theory of justice proffered in this work. Furthermore, we

hear in thQ Republic the opponents of 'Socrates' giving voice to the
opposite theory, that it is good and pleasant to inflict injustice, and bad to
suffer it. Of course, every humanitarian is repelled by such cynicism, and
when Plato formulates his aims through the mouth of Socrates: 'I fear to
commit a sin if I permit such evil talk about Justice in my presence,
without doing my utmost to defend her'—, then the trusting reader is
convinced of Plato's good intentions, and ready to follow him wherever
he goes.

The effect of this assurance of Plato's is much enhanced by the fact
that it follows, and is contrasted with, the cynical and selfish speeches—
of Thrasymachus, who is depicted as a political desperado of the worst
kind. At the same time, the reader is led to identify individualism with
the views of Thrasymachus, and to think that Plato, in his fight against it,
is fighting against all the subversive and nihilistic tendencies of his time.
But we should not allow ourselves to be frightened by an individualist
bogy such as Thrasymachus (there is a great similarity between his
portrait and the modern collectivist bogy of 'bolshevism') into accepting
another more real and more dangerous because less obvious form of
barbarism. For Plato replaces Thrasymachus' doctrine that the
individual's might is right by the equally barbaric doctrine that right is
everything that furthers the stability and the might of the state.

To sum up. Because of his radical collectivism, Plato is not even
interested in those problems which men usually call the problems of
justice, that is to say, in the impartial weighing of the contesting claims
of individuals. Nor is he interested in adjusting the individual's claims to
those of the state. For the individual is altogether inferior. 'I legislate
with a view to what is best for the whole state', says Plato, ' . . . for I justly
place the interests of the individual on an inferior level of value.'— He is
concerned solely with the collective whole as such, and justice, to him, is
nothing but the health, unity, and stability of the collective body.

So far, we have seen that humanitarian ethics demands an equalitarian
and individualistic interpretation of justice; but we have not yet outlined
the humanitarian view of the state as such. On the other hand, we have
seen that Plato's theory of the state is totalitarian; but we have not yet
explained the application of this theory to the ethics of the individual.
Both these tasks will be undertaken now, the second first; and I shall
begin by analysing the third of Plato's arguments in his 'discovery' of
justice, an argument which has so far been sketched only very roughly.
Here is Plato's third argument—:

'Now see whether you agree with me', says Socrates. 'Do you think it
would do much harm to the city if a carpenter started making shoes and a
shoemaker carpentering?' — 'Not very much.' — 'But should one who is
by nature a worker, or a member of the money-earning class . . . manage
to get into the warrior class; or should a warrior get into the guardians'
class without being worthy of it; then this kind of change and of
underhand plotting would mean the downfall of the city?' — 'Most
definitely it would.' — 'We have three classes in our city, and I take it that
any such plotting or changing from one class to another is a great crime
against the city, and may rightly be denounced as the utmost
wickedness?' — 'Assuredly.' — 'But you will certainly declare that utmost
wickedness towards one's own city is injustice?' — 'Certainly.' — 'Then
this is injustice. And conversely, we shall say that when each class in the
city attends to its own business, the money-earning class as well as the
auxiliaries and the guardians, then this will be justice.'

Now if we look at this argument, we find (a) the sociological
assumption that any relaxing of the rigid caste system must lead to the
downfall of the city; (b) the constant reiteration of the one argument that

what harms the city is injustice; and (c) the inference that the opposite is
justice. Now we may grant here the sociological assumption (a) since it is
Plato's ideal to arrest social change, and since he means by 'harm'
anything that may lead to change; and it is probably quite true that social
change can be arrested only by a rigid caste system. And we may further
grant the inference (c) that the opposite of injustice is justice. Of greater
interest, however, is (b); a glance at Plato's argument will show that his
whole trend of thought is dominated by the question: does this thing harm
the city? Does it do much harm or little harm? He constantly reiterates
that what threatens to harm the city is morally wicked and unjust.

We see here that Plato recognizes only one ultimate standard, the
interest of the state. Everything that furthers it is good and virtuous and
just; everything that threatens it is bad and wicked and unjust. Actions
that serve it are moral; actions that endanger it, immoral. In other words,
Plato's moral code is strictly utilitarian; it is a code of coUectivist or
political utilitarianism. The criterion of morality is the interest of the
state. Morality is nothing but political hygiene.

This is the collectivist, the tribal, the totalitarian theory of morality:
'Good is what is in the interest of my group; or my tribe; or my state.' It
is easy to see what this morality implied for international relations: that
the state itself can never be wrong in any of its actions, as long as it is
strong; that the state has the right, not only to do violence to its citizens,
should that lead to an increase of strength, but also to attack other states,
provided it does so without weakening itself. (This inference, the explicit
recognition of the amorality of the state, and consequently the defence of
moral nihilism in international relations, was drawn by Hegel.)

From the point of view of totalitarian ethics, from the point of view of
collective utility, Plato's theory of justice is perfectly correct. To keep
one's place is a virtue. It is that civil virtue which corresponds exactly to
the military virtue of discipline. And this virtue plays exactly that role

which 'justice' plays in Plato's system of virtues. For the cogs in the
great clockwork of the state can show 'virtue' in two ways. First, they
must be fit for their task, by virtue of their size, shape, strength, etc.; and
secondly, they must be fitted each into its right place and must retain that
place. The first type of virtues, fitness for a specific task, will lead to a
differentiation, in accordance with the specific task of the cog. Certain
cogs will be virtuous, i.e. fit, only if they are ('by their nature') large;
others if they are strong; and others if they are smooth. But the virtue of
keeping to one's place will be common to all of them; and it will at the
same time be a virtue of the whole: that of being properly fitted together
— of being in harmony. To this universal virtue Plato gives the name
'justice'. This procedure is perfectly consistent and it is fully justified
from the point of view of totalitarian morality. If the individual is
nothing but a cog, then ethics is nothing but the study of how to fit him
into the whole.

I wish to make it clear that I believe in the sincerity of Plato's
totalitarianism. His demand for the unchallenged domination of one class
over the rest was uncompromising, but his ideal was not the maximum
exploitation of the working classes by the upper class; it was the stability
of the whole. The reason, however, which he gives for the need to keep
the exploitation within limits, is again purely utilitarian. It is the interest
of stabilizing the class rule. Should the guardians try to get too much, he
argues, then they will in the end have nothing at all. 'If they are not
satisfied with a life of stability and security, . . . and are tempted, by their
power, to appropriate for themselves all the wealth of the city, then surely
they are bound to find out how wise Hesiod was when he said, "the half is
more than the whole".'— But we must realize that even this tendency to
restrict the exploitation of class privileges is a fairly common ingredient
of totalitarianism. Totalitarianism is not simply amoral. It is the morality
of the closed society — of the group, or of the tribe; it is not individual

selfishness, but it is collective selfishness.

Considering that Plato's third argument is straightforward and
consistent, the question may be asked why he needed the 'lengthy
preface' as well as the two preceding arguments. Why all this uneasiness?
(Platonists will of course reply that this uneasiness exists only in my
imagination. That may be so. But the irrational character of the passages
can hardly be explained away.) The answer to this question is, I believe,
that Plato's collective clockwork would hardly have appealed to his
readers if it had been presented to them in all its barrenness and
meaninglessness. Plato was uneasy because he knew and feared the
strength and the moral appeal of the forces he tried to break. He did not
dare to challenge them, but tried to win them over for his own purposes.
Whether we witness in Plato's writings a cynical and conscious attempt
to employ the moral sentiments of the new humanitarianism for his own
purposes, or whether we witness rather a tragic attempt to persuade his
own better conscience of the evils of individualism, we shall never know.
My personal impression is that the latter is the case, and that this inner
conflict is the main secret of Plato's fascination. I think that Plato was
moved to the depths of his soul by the new ideas, and especially by the
great individualist Socrates and his martyrdom. And I think that he
fought against this influence upon himself as well as upon others with all
the might of his unequalled intelligence, though not always openly. This
explains also why from time to time, amid all his totalitarianism, we find
some humanitarian ideas. And it explains why it was possible for
philosophers to represent Plato as a humanitarian.

A strong argument in support of this interpretation is the way in which
Plato treated, or rather, maltreated, the humanitarian and rational theory
of the state, a theory which had been developed for the first time in his
generation.

In a clear presentation of this theory, the language of political demands

or of political proposals (cp. chapter 5, III) should be used; that is to say,
we should not try to answer the essentialist question: What is the state,
what is its true nature, its real meaning? Nor should we try to answer the
historicist question: How did the state originate, and what is the origin of
political obligation? We should rather put our question in this way: What
do we demand from a state? What do we propose to consider as the
legitimate aim of state activity? And in order to find out what our
fundamental political demands are, we may ask: Why do we prefer living
in a well-ordered state to living without a state, i.e. in anarchy? This way
of asking our question is a rational one. It is a question which a
technologist must try to answer before he can proceed to the construction
or reconstruction of any political institution. For only if he knows what
he wants can he decide whether a certain institution is or is not well
adapted to its function.

Now if we ask our question in this way, the reply of the humanitarian
will be: What I demand from the state is protection; not only for myself,
but for others too. I demand protection for my own freedom and for other
people's. I do not wish to live at the mercy of anybody who has the larger
fists or the bigger guns. In other words, I wish to be protected against
aggression from other men. I want the difference between aggression and
defence to be recognized, and defence to be supported by the organized
power of the state. (The defence is one of a status quo, and the principle
proposed amounts to this — that the status quo should not be changed by
violent means, but only according to law, by compromise or arbitration,
except where there is no legal procedure for its revision.) I am perfectly
ready to see my own freedom of action somewhat curtailed by the state,
provided I can obtain protection of that freedom which remains, since I
know that some limitations of my freedom are necessary; for instance, I
must give up my 'freedom' to attack, if I want the state to support
defence against any attack. But I demand that the fundamental purpose of

the state should not be lost sight of; I mean, the protection of that
freedom which does not harm other citizens. Thus I demand that the state
must limit the freedom of the citizens as equally as possible, and not
beyond what is necessary for achieving an equal limitation of freedom.

Something like this will be the demand of the humanitarian, of the
equalitarian, of the individualist. It is a demand which permits the social
technologist to approach political problems rationally, i.e. from the point
of view of a fairly clear and definite aim.

Against the claim that an aim like this can be formulated sufficiently
clearly and definitely, many objections have been raised. It has been said
that once it is recognized that freedom must be limited, the whole
principle of freedom breaks down, and the question what limitations are
necessary and what are wanton cannot be decided rationally, but only by
authority. But this objection is due to a muddle. It mixes up the
fundamental question of what we want from a state with certain
important technological difficulties in the way of the realization of our
aims. It is certainly difficult to determine exactly the degree of freedom
that can be left to the citizens without endangering that freedom whose
protection is the task of the state. But that something like an approximate
determination of that degree is possible is proved by experience, i.e. by
the existence of democratic states. In fact, this process of approximate
determination is one of the main tasks of legislation in democracies. It is
a difficult process, but its difficulties are certainly not such as to force
upon us a change in our fundamental demands. These are, stated very
briefly, that the state should be considered as a society for the prevention
of crime, i.e. of aggression. And the whole objection that it is hard to
know where freedom ends and crime begins is answered, in principle, by
the famous story of the hooligan who protested that, being a free citizen,
he could move his fist in any direction he liked; whereupon the judge
wisely replied: 'The freedom of the movement of your fists is limited by

the position of your neighbour's nose.'

The view of the state which I have sketched here may be called
'protectionism'. The term 'protectionism' has often been used to describe
tendencies which are opposed to freedom. Thus the economist means by
protectionism the policy of protecting certain industrial interests against
competition; and the moralist means by it the demand that officers of the
state shall establish a moral tutelage over the population. Although the
political theory which I call protectionism is not connected with any of
these tendencies, and although it is fundamentally a liberal theory, I think
that the name may be used to indicate that, though liberal, it has nothing
to do with the policy of strict non-intervention (often, but not quite
correctly, called 'laissez-faire'). Liberalism and state-interference are not
opposed to each other. On the contrary, any kind of freedom is clearly
impossible unless it is guaranteed by the state—. A certain amount of
state control in education, for instance, is necessary, if the young are to
be protected from a neglect which would make them unable to defend
their freedom, and the state should see that all educational facilities are
available to everybody. But too much state control in educational matters
is a fatal danger to freedom, since it must lead to indoctrination. As
already indicated, the important and difficult question of the limitations
of freedom cannot be solved by a cut and dried formula. And the fact that
there will always be borderline cases must be welcomed, for without the
stimulus of political problems and political struggles of this kind, the
citizens' readiness to fight for their freedom would soon disappear, and
with it, their freedom. (Viewed in this light, the alleged clash between
freedom and security, that is, a security guaranteed by the state, turns out
to be a chimera. For there is no freedom if it is not secured by the state;
and conversely, only a state which is controlled by free citizens can offer
them any reasonable security at all.)

Stated in this way, the protectionist theory of the state is free from any

elements of historicism or essentialism. It does not say that the state
originated as an association of individuals with a protectionist aim, or
that any actual state in history was ever consciously ruled in accordance
with this aim. And it says nothing about the essential nature of the state,
or about a natural right to freedom. Nor does it say anything about the
way in which states actually function. It formulates a political demand, or
more precisely, a proposal for the adoption of a certain policy. I suspect,
however, that many conventionalists who have described the state as
originating from an association for the protection of its members,
intended to express this very demand, though they did it in a clumsy and
misleading language — the language of historicism. A similar misleading
way of expressing this demand is to assert that it is essentially the
function of the state to protect its members; or to assert that the state is to
be defined as an association for mutual protection. All these theories
must be translated, as it were, into the language of demands or proposals
for political actions before they can be seriously discussed. Otherwise,
endless discussions of a merely verbal character are unavoidable.

An example of such a translation may be given. A criticism of what I
call protectionism has been proffered by Aristotle—, and repeated by
Burke, and by many modern Platonists. This criticism asserts that
protectionism takes too mean a view of the tasks of the state which is
(using Burke's words) 'to be looked upon with other reverence, because it
is not a partnership in things subservient only to the gross animal
existence of a temporary and perishable nature'. In other words, the state
is said to be something higher or nobler than an association with rational
ends; it is an object of worship. It has higher tasks than the protection of
human beings and their rights. It has moral tasks. 'To take care of virtue
is the business of a state which truly deserves this name', says Aristotle.
If we try to translate this criticism into the language of political demands,
then we find that these critics of protectionism want two things. First,

they wish to make the state an object of worship. From our point of view,
there is nothing to say against this wish. It is a religious problem; and the
state-worshippers must solve for themselves how to reconcile their creed
with their other religious beliefs, for example, with the First
Commandment. The second demand is political. In practice, this demand
would simply mean that officers of the state should be concerned with the
morality of the citizens, and that they should use their power not so much
for the protection of the citizens' freedom as for the control of their
moral life. In other words, it is the demand that the realm of legality, i.e.
of state-enforced norms, should be increased at the expense of the realm
of morality proper, i.e. of norms enforced not by the state but by our own
moral decisions — ^by our conscience. Such a demand or proposal can be
rationally discussed; and it can be said against it that those who raise
such demands apparently do not see that this would be the end of the
individual's moral responsibility, and that it would not improve but
destroy morality. It would replace personal responsibility by tribalistic
taboos and by the totalitarian irresponsibility of the individual. Against
this whole attitude, the individualist must maintain that the morality of
states (if there is any such thing) tends to be considerably lower than that
of the average citizen, so that it is much more desirable that the morality
of the state should be controlled by the citizens than the opposite. What
we need and what we want is to moralize politics, and not to politicize
morals.

It should be mentioned that, from the protectionist point of view, the
existing democratic states, though far from perfect, represent a very
considerable achievement in social engineering of the right kind. Many
forms of crime, of attack on the rights of human individuals by other
individuals, have been practically suppressed or very considerably
reduced, and courts of law administer justice fairly successfully in
difficult conflicts of interest. There are many who think that the

extension of these methods— to international crime and international
conflict is only a Utopian dream; but it is not so long since the institution
of an effective executive for upholding civil peace appeared Utopian to
those who suffered under the threats of criminals, in countries where at
present civil peace is quite successfully maintained. And I think that the
engineering problems of the control of international crime are really not
so difficult, once they are squarely and rationally faced. If the matter is
presented clearly, it will not be hard to get people to agree that protective
institutions are necessary, both on a regional and on a world-wide scale.
Let the state-worshippers continue to worship the state, but demand that
the institutional technologists be allowed not only to improve its internal
machinery, but also to build up an organization for the prevention of
international crime.

VII

Returning now to the history of these movements, it seems that the
protectionist theory of the state was first proffered by the Sophist
Lycophron, a pupil of Gorgias. It has already been mentioned that he was
(like Alcidamas, also a pupil of Gorgias) one of the first to attack the
theory of natural privilege. That he held the theory which I have called
'protectionism' is recorded by Aristotle, who speaks about him in a
manner which makes it very likely that he originated it. From the same
source we learn that he formulated it with a clarity which has hardly been
attained by any of his successors.

Aristotle tells us that Lycophron considered the law of the state as a
'covenant by which men assure one another of justice' (and that it has not
the power to make citizens good or just). He tells us furthermore— that

Lycophron looked upon the state as an instrument for the protection of its
citizens against acts of injustice (and for permitting them peaceful
intercourse, especially exchange), demanding that the state should be a
'co-operative association for the prevention of crime'. It is interesting
that there is no indication in Aristotle's account that Lycophron
expressed his theory in a historicist form, i.e. as a theory concerning the
historical origin of the state in a social contract. On the contrary, it
emerges clearly from Aristotle's context that Lycophron's theory was
solely concerned with the end of the state; for Aristotle argues that
Lycophron has not seen that the essential end of the state is to make its
citizens virtuous. This indicates that Lycophron interpreted this end
rationally, from a technological point of view, adopting the demands of
equalitarianism, individualism, and protectionism.

In this form, Lycophron's theory is completely secure from the
objections to which the traditional historicist theory of the social contract
is exposed. It is often said, for instance by Barker—, that the contract
theory 'has been met by modern thinkers point by point'. That may be so;
but a survey of Barker's points will show that they certainly do not meet
the theory of Lycophron, in whom Barker sees (and in this point I am
inclined to agree with him) the probable founder of the earliest form of a
theory which has later been called the contract theory. Barker's points
can be set down as follows: (a) There was, historically, never a contract;
(b) the state was, historically, never instituted; (c) laws are not
conventional, but arise out of tradition, superior force, perhaps instinct,
etc.; they are customs before they become codes; (d) the strength of the
laws does not lie in the sanctions, in the protective power of the state
which enforces them, but in the individual's readiness to obey them, i.e.
in the individual's moral will.

It will be seen at once that objections (a), (b), and (c), which in
themselves are admittedly fairly correct (although there have been some

contracts) concern the theory only in its historicist form and are
irrelevant to Lycophron's version. We therefore need not consider them
at all. Objection (J), however, deserves closer consideration. What can be
meant by it? The theory attacked stresses the 'will', or better the decision
of the individual, more than any other theory; in fact, the word 'contract'
suggests an agreement by 'free will'; it suggests, perhaps more than any
other theory, that the strength of the laws lies in the individual's
readiness to accept and to obey them. How, then, can (d) be an objection
against the contract theory? The only explanation seems to be that Barker
does not think the contract to spring from the 'moral will' of the
individual, but rather from a selfish will; and this interpretation is the
more likely as it is in keeping with Plato's criticism. But one need not be
selfish in order to be a protectionist. Protection need not mean self-
protection; many people insure their lives with the aim of protecting
others and not themselves, and in the same way they may demand state
protection mainly for others, and to a lesser degree (or not at all) for
themselves. The fundamental idea of protectionism is: protect the weak
from being bullied by the strong. This demand has been raised not only
by the weak, but often by the strong also. It is, to say the least of it,
misleading to suggest that it is a selfish or an immoral demand.

Lycophron's protectionism is, I think, free of all these objections. It is
the most fitting expression of the humanitarian and equalitarian
movement of the Periclean age. And yet, we have been robbed of it. It has
been handed down to later generations only in a distorted form; as the
historicist theory of the origin of the state in a social contract; or as an
essentialist theory claiming that the true nature of the state is that of a
convention; and as a theory of selfishness, based on the assumption of the
fundamentally immoral nature of man. All this is due to the
overwhelming influence of Plato's authority.

VIII

There can be little doubt that Plato knew Lycophron's theory well, for he
was (in all likelihood) Lycophron's younger contemporary. And, indeed,
this theory can be easily identified with one which is mentioned first in
the Gorgias and later in thQ Republic. (In neither place does Plato
mention its author; a procedure often adopted by him when his opponent
was alive.) In the Gorgias, the theory is expounded by Callicles, an
ethical nihilist like the Thrasymachus of the Republic. In the Republic, it
is expounded by Glaucon. In neither case does the speaker identify
himself with the theory he presents.

The two passages are in many respects parallel. Both present the theory
in a historicist form. I.e. as a theory of the origin of 'justice'. Both
present it as if its logical premises were necessarily selfish and even
nihilistic; i.e. as if the protectionist view of the state was upheld only by
those who would like to inflict injustice, but are too weak to do so, and
who therefore demand that the strong should not do so either; a
presentation which is certainly not fair, since the only necessary premise
of the theory is the demand that crime, or injustice, should be suppressed.

So far, the two passages in the Gorgias and in the Republic run
parallel, a parallelism which has often been commented upon. But there
is a tremendous difference between them which has, so far as I know,
been overlooked by commentators. It is this. In the Gorgias, the theory is
presented by Callicles as one which he opposes; and since he also
opposes Socrates, the protectionist theory is, by implication, not attacked
but rather defended by Plato. And, indeed, a closer view shows that
Socrates upholds several of its features against the nihilist Callicles. But
in ihQ Republic, the same theory is presented by Glaucon as an

elaboration and development of the views of Thrasymachus, i.e. of the
nihilist who takes here the place of Callicles; in other words, the theory is
presented as nihilist, and Socrates as the hero who victoriously destroys
this devilish doctrine of selfishness.

Thus the passages in which most commentators find a similarity
between the tendencies of the Gorgias and the Republic reveal, in fact, a
complete change of front. In spite of Callicles' hostile presentation, the
tendency of the Gorgias is favourable to protectionism; but the Republic
is violently against it.

Here is an extract from Callicles' speech in the Gorgias—: 'The laws
are made by the great mass of the people which consists mainly of the
weak men. And they make the laws ... in order to protect themselves and
their interests. Thus they deter the stronger men ... and all others who
might get the better of them, from doing so; ... and they mean by the
word "injustice" the attempt of a man to get the better of his neighbours;
and being aware of their inferiority, they are, I should say, only too glad
if they can obtain equality.' If we look at this account and eliminate what
is due to Callicles' open scorn and hostility, then we find all the elements
of Lycophron's theory: equalitarianism, individualism, and protection
against injustice. Even the reference to the 'strong' and to the 'weak' who
are aware of their inferiority fits the protectionist view very well indeed,
provided the element of caricature is allowed for. It is not at all unlikely
that Lycophron's doctrine explicitly raised the demand that the state
should protect the weak, a demand which is, of course, anything but
ignoble. (The hope that this demand will one day be fulfilled is expressed
by the Christian teaching: 'The meek shall inherit the earth.')

Callicles himself does not like protectionism; he is in favour of the
'natural' rights of the stronger. It is very significant that Socrates, in his
argument against Callicles, comes to the rescue of protectionism; for he
connects it with his own central thesis — that it is better to suffer injustice

than to inflict it. He says, for instance—: 'Are not the many of the
opinion, as you were lately saying, that justice is equality? And also that
it is more disgraceful to inflict injustice than to suffer it?' And later:
nature itself, and not only convention, affirms that to inflict injustice is
more disgraceful than to suffer it, and that justice is equality.' (In spite of
its individualistic and equalitarian and protectionist tendencies, the
Gorgias also exhibits some leanings which are strongly anti-democratic.
The explanation may be that Plato when writing the Gorgias had not yet
developed his totalitarian theories; although his sympathies were already
anti-democratic, he was still under Socrates' influence. How anybody can
think that the Gorgias and the Republic can be both at the same time true
accounts of Socrates' opinions, I fail to understand.)

Let us now turn to the Republic, where Glaucon presents protectionism
as a logically more stringent but ethically unchanged version of
Thrasymachus' nihilism. 'My theme', says Glaucon—, 'is the origin of
justice, and what sort of thing it really is. According to some it is by
nature an excellent thing to inflict injustice upon others, and a bad thing
to suffer it. But they hold that the badness of suffering injustice much
exceeds the desirability of inflicting it. For a time, then, men will inflict
injustice on one another, and of course suffer it, and they will get a good
taste of both. But ultimately, those who are not strong enough to repel it,
or to enjoy inflicting it, decide that it is more profitable for them to join
in a contract, mutually assuring one another that no one should inflict
injustice, or suffer it. This is the way in which laws were established . . .
And this is the nature and the origin of justice, according to that theory.'

As far as its rational content goes, this is clearly the same theory; and
the way in which it is represented also resembles in detail— Callicles'
speech in the Gorgias. And yet, Plato has made a complete change of
front. The protectionist theory is now no longer defended against the
allegation that it is based on cynical egoism; on the contrary. Our

humanitarian sentiments, our moral indignation, already aroused by
Thrasymachus' nihilism, are utilized for turning us into enemies of
protectionism. This theory, whose humanitarian character has been
indicated in the Gorgias, is now made by Plato to appear as anti-
humanitarian, and indeed, as the outcome of the repulsive and most
unconvincing doctrine that injustice is a very good thing — for those who
can get away with it. And he does not hesitate to rub this point in. In an
extensive continuation of the passage quoted, Glaucon elaborates in much
detail the allegedly necessary assumptions or premises of protectionism.
Among these he mentions, for instance, the view that the inflicting of
injustice is 'the best of all things'—; that justice is established only
because many men are too weak to commit crimes; and that to the
individual citizen, a life of crime would be most profitable. And
'Socrates', i.e. Plato, vouches explicitly— for the authenticity of
Glaucon's interpretation of the theory presented. By this method, Plato
seems to have succeeded in persuading most of his readers, and at any
rate all Platonists, that the protectionist theory here developed is identical
with the ruthless and cynical selfishness of Thrasymachus—; and, what is
more important, that all forms of individualism amount to the same,
namely, selfishness. But it was not only his admirers he persuaded; he
even succeeded in persuading his opponents, and especially the adherents
of the contract theory. From Carneades— to Hobbes, they not only
adopted his fatal historicist presentation, but also Plato's assurances that
the basis of their theory was an ethical nihilism.

Now it must be realized that the elaboration of its allegedly selfish
basis is the whole of Plato's argument against protectionism; and
considering the space taken up by this elaboration, we may safely assume
that it was not his reticence which made him proffer no better argument,
but the fact that he had none. Thus protectionism had to be dismissed by
an appeal to our moral sentiments — as an affront against the idea of

justice, and against our feelings of decency.

This is Plato's method of dealing with a theory which was not only a
dangerous rival of his own doctrine, but also representative of the new
humanitarian and individualistic creed, i.e. the arch-enemy of everything
that was dear to Plato. The method is clever; its astonishing success
proves it. But I should not be fair if I did not frankly admit that Plato's
method appears to me dishonest. For the theory attacked does not need
any assumption more immoral than that injustice is evil, i.e. that it should
be avoided, and brought under control. And Plato knew quite well that the
theory was not based on selfishness, for in the Gorgias he had presented
it not as identical with the nihilistic theory from which it is 'derived' in
the Republic, but as opposed to it.

Summing up, we can say that Plato's theory of justice, as presented in
the Republic and later works, is a conscious attempt to get the better of
the equalitarian, individualistic, and protectionist tendencies of his time,
and to re-establish the claims of tribalism by developing a totalitarian
moral theory. At the same time, he was strongly impressed by the new
humanitarian morality; but instead of combating equalitarianism with
arguments, he avoided even discussing it. And he successfully enlisted
the humanitarian sentiments, whose strength he knew so well, in the
cause of the totalitarian class rule of a naturally superior master race.

These class prerogatives, he claimed, are necessary for upholding the
stability of the state. They constitute therefore the essence of justice.
Ultimately, this claim is based upon the argument that justice is useful to
the might, health, and stability of the state; an argument which is only too
similar to the modem totalitarian definition: right is whatever is useful to
the might of my nation, or my class, or my party.

But this is not yet the whole story. By its emphasis on class
prerogative, Plato's theory of justice puts the problem 'Who should
rule?' in the centre of political theory. His reply to this question was that

the wisest, and the best, should rule. Does not this excellent reply modify
the character of his theory?

The Principle of Leadership

The wise shall lead and rule, and the ignorant shall follow.

Plato.

Certain objections- to our interpretation of Plato's political programme
have forced us into an investigation of the part played, within this
programme, by such moral ideas as Justice, Goodness, Beauty, Wisdom,
Truth, and Happiness. The present and the two following chapters are to
continue this analysis, and the part played by the idea of Wisdom in
Plato's political philosophy will occupy us next.

We have seen that Plato's idea of justice demands, fundamentally, that
the natural rulers should rule and the natural slaves should slave. It is part
of the historicist demand that the state, in order to arrest all change,
should be a copy of its Idea, or of its true 'nature'. This theory of justice
indicates very clearly that Plato saw the fundamental problem of politics
in the question: JVho shall rule the state?

It is my conviction that by expressing the problem of politics in the form
'Who should rule?' or 'Whose will should be supreme?', etc., Plato
created a lasting confusion in political philosophy. It is indeed analogous

to the confusion he created in the field of moral philosophy by his
identification, discussed in the last chapter, of collectivism and altruism.
It is clear that once the question 'Who should rule?' is asked, it is hard to
avoid some such reply as 'the best' or 'the wisest' or 'the born ruler' or
'he who masters the art of ruling' (or, perhaps, 'The General Will' or
'The Master Race' or 'The Industrial Workers' or 'The People'). But
such a reply, convincing as it may sound — for who would advocate the
rule of 'the worst' or 'the greatest fool' or 'the born slave'? — is, as I shall
try to show, quite useless.

First of all, such a reply is liable to persuade us that some fundamental
problem of political theory has been solved. But if we approach political
theory from a different angle, then we find that far from solving any
fundamental problems, we have merely skipped over them, by assuming
that the question 'Who should rule?' is fundamental. For even those who
share this assumption of Plato's admit that political rulers are not always
sufficiently 'good' or 'wise' (we need not worry about the precise
meaning of these terms), and that it is not at all easy to get a government
on whose goodness and wisdom one can implicitly rely. If that is granted,
then we must ask whether political thought should not face from the
beginning the possibility of bad government; whether we should not
prepare for the worst leaders, and hope for the best. But this leads to a
new approach to the problem of politics, for it forces us to replace the
question: Who should rule? by the new- question: How can we so
organize political institutions that bad or incompetent rulers can be
prevented from doing too much damage?

Those who believe that the older question is fundamental, tacitly
assume that political power is 'essentially' unchecked. They assume that
someone has the power — either an individual or a collective body, such
as a class. And they assume that he who has the power can, very nearly,
do what he wills, and especially that he can strengthen his power, and

thereby approximate it further to an unlimited or unchecked power. They
assume that political power is, essentially, sovereign. If this assumption
is made, then, indeed, the question 'Who is to be the sovereign?' is the
only important question left.

I shall call this assumption the theory of (unchecked) sovereignty ,
using this expression not for any particular one of the various theories of
sovereignty, proffered more especially by such writers as Bodin,
Rousseau, or Hegel, but for the more general assumption that political
power is practically unchecked, or for the demand that it ought to be so;
together with the implication that the main question left is to get this
power into the best hands. This theory of sovereignty is tacitly assumed
in Plato's approach, and has played its role ever since. It is also implicitly
assumed, for instance, by those modern writers who believe that the main
problem is: Who should dictate? The capitalists or the workers?

Without entering into a detailed criticism, I wish to point out that there
are serious objections against a rash and implicit acceptance of this
theory. Whatever its speculative merits may appear to be, it is certainly a
very unrealistic assumption. No political power has ever been unchecked,
and as long as men remain human (as long as the 'Brave New World' has
not materialized), there can be no absolute and unrestrained political
power. So long as one man cannot accumulate enough physical power in
his hands to dominate all others, just so long must he depend upon his
helpers. Even the most powerful tyrant depends upon his secret police,
his henchmen and his hangmen. This dependence means that his power,
great as it may be, is not unchecked, and that he has to make concessions,
playing one group off against another. It means that there are other
political forces, other powers besides his own, and that he can exert his
rule only by utilizing and pacifying them. This shows that even the
extreme cases of sovereignty are never cases of pure sovereignty. They
are never cases in which the will or the interest of one man (or, if there

were such a thing, the will or the interest of one group) can achieve his
aim directly, without giving up some of it in order to enlist powers which
he cannot conquer. And in an overwhelming number of cases, the
limitations of political power go much further than this.

I have stressed these empirical points, not because I wish to use them
as an argument, but merely in order to avoid objections. My claim is that
every theory of sovereignty omits to face a more fundamental question —
the question, namely, whether we should not strive towards institutional
control of the rulers by balancing their powers against other powers. This
theory of checks and balances can at least claim careful consideration.
The only objections to this claim, as far as I can see, are {a) that such a
control is practically impossible, or (b) that it is essentially
inconceivable since political power is essentially sovereign-. Both of
these dogmatic objections are, I believe, refuted by the facts; and with
them fall a number of other influential views (for instance, the theory that
the only alternative to the dictatorship of one class is that of another
class).

In order to raise the question of institutional control of the rulers, we
need not assume more than that governments are not always good or
wise. But since I have said something about historical facts, I think I
should confess that I feel inclined to go a little beyond this assumption. I
am inclined to think that rulers have rarely been above the average, either
morally or intellectually, and often below it. And I think that it is
reasonable to adopt, in politics, the principle of preparing for the worst,
as well as we can, though we should, of course, at the same time try to
obtain the best. It appears to me madness to base all our political efforts
upon the faint hope that we shall be successful in obtaining excellent, or
even competent, rulers. Strongly as I feel in these matters, I must insist,
however, that my criticism of the theory of sovereignty does not depend
on these more personal opinions.

Apart from these personal opinions, and apart from the above
mentioned empirical arguments against the general theory of sovereignty,
there is also a kind of logical argument which can be used to show the
inconsistency of any of the particular forms of the theory of sovereignty;
more precisely, the logical argument can be given different but analogous
forms to combat the theory that the wisest should rule, or else the
theories that the best, or the law, or the majority, etc., should rule. One
particular form of this logical argument is directed against a too naive
version of liberalism, of democracy, and of the principle that the majority
should rule; and it is somewhat similar to the well-known 'paradox oj
freedom' which has been used first, and with success, by Plato. In his
criticism of democracy, and in his story of the rise of the tyrant, Plato
raises implicitly the following question: What if it is the will of the
people that they should not rule, but a tyrant instead? The free man, Plato
suggests, may exercise his absolute freedom, first by defying the laws
and ultimately by defying freedom itself and by clamouring for a tyrant-.
This is not just a far-fetched possibility; it has happened a number of
times; and every time it has happened, it has put in a hopeless intellectual
position all those democrats who adopt, as the ultimate basis of their
political creed, the principle of the majority rule or a similar form of the
principle of sovereignty. On the one hand, the principle they have adopted
demands from them that they should oppose any but the majority rule,
and therefore the new tyranny; on the other hand, the same principle
demands from them that they should accept any decision reached by the
majority, and thus the rule of the new tyrant. The inconsistency of their
theory must, of course, paralyse their actions-. Those of us democrats
who demand the institutional control of the rulers by the ruled, and
especially the right of dismissing the government by a majority vote,
must therefore base these demands upon better grounds than a self-
contradictory theory of sovereignty. (That this is possible will be briefly

shown in the next section of this chapter.)

Plato, we have seen, came near to discovering the paradoxes of
freedom and of democracy. But what Plato and his followers overlooked
is that all the other forms of the theory of sovereignty give rise to
analogous inconsistencies. ^4// theories of sovereignty are paradoxical.
For instance, we may have selected 'the wisest' or 'the best' as a ruler.
But 'the wisest' in his wisdom may find that not he but 'the best' should
rule, and 'the best' in his goodness may perhaps decide that 'the
majority' should rule. It is important to notice that even that form of the
theory of sovereignty which demands the 'Kingship of the Law' is open
to the same objection. This, in fact, has been seen very early, as
Heraclitus' remark- shows: 'The law can demand, too, that the will of
One Man must be obeyed. '

In summing up this brief criticism, one can, I believe, assert that the
theory of sovereignty is in a weak position, both empirically and
logically. The least that can be demanded is that it must not be adopted
without careful consideration of other possibilities.

And indeed, it is not difficult to show that a theory of democratic control
can be developed which is free of the paradox of sovereignty. The theory
I have in mind is one which does not proceed, as it were, from a doctrine
of the intrinsic goodness or righteousness of a majority rule, but rather
from the baseness of tyranny; or more precisely, it rests upon the
decision, or upon the adoption of the proposal, to avoid and to resist
tyranny.

For we may distinguish two main types of government. The first type

consists of governments of which we can get rid without bloodshed — for
example, by way of general elections; that is to say, the social institutions
provide means by which the rulers may be dismissed by the ruled, and the
social traditions- ensure that these institutions will not easily be
destroyed by those who are in power. The second type consists of
governments which the ruled cannot get rid of except by way of a
successful revolution — that is to say, in most cases, not at all. I suggest
the term 'democracy' as a shorthand label for a government of the first
type, and the term 'tyranny' or 'dictatorship' for the second. This, I
believe, corresponds closely to traditional usage. But I wish to make clear
that no part of my argument depends on the choice of these labels; and
should anybody reverse this usage (as is frequently done nowadays), then
I should simply say that I am in favour of what he calls 'tyranny', and
object to what he calls 'democracy'; and I should reject as irrelevant any
attempt to discover what 'democracy' 'really' or 'essentially' means, for
example, by translating the term into 'the rule of the people'. (For
although 'the people' may influence the actions of their rulers by the
threat of dismissal, they never rule themselves in any concrete, practical
sense.)

If we make use of the two labels as suggested, then we can now
describe, as the principle of a democratic policy, the proposal to create,
develop, and protect, political institutions for the avoidance of tyranny.
This principle does not imply that we can ever develop institutions of this
kind which are faultless or foolproof, or which ensure that the policies
adopted by a democratic government will be right or good or wise — or
even necessarily better or wiser than the policies adopted by a benevolent
tyrant. (Since no such assertions are made, the paradox of democracy is
avoided.) What may be said, however, to be implied in the adoption of
the democratic principle is the conviction that the acceptance of even a
bad policy in a democracy (as long as we can work for a peaceful change)

is preferable to the submission to a tyranny, however wise or benevolent.
Seen in this light, the theory of democracy is not based upon the principle
that the majority should rule; rather, the various equalitarian methods of
democratic control, such as general elections and representative
government, are to be considered as no more than well-tried and, in the
presence of a widespread traditional distrust of tyranny, reasonably
effective institutional safeguards against tyranny, always open to
improvement, and even providing methods for their own improvement.

He who accepts the principle of democracy in this sense is therefore
not bound to look upon the result of a democratic vote as an authoritative
expression of what is right. Although he will accept a decision of the
majority, for the sake of making the democratic institutions work, he will
feel free to combat it by democratic means, and to work for its revision.
And should he live to see the day when the majority vote destroys the
democratic institutions, then this sad experience will tell him only that
there does not exist a foolproof method of avoiding tyranny. But it need
not weaken his decision to fight tyranny, nor will it expose his theory as
inconsistent.

Ill

Returning to Plato, we find that by his emphasis upon the problem 'who
should rule', he implicitly assumed the general theory of sovereignty.
The question of an institutional control of the rulers, and of an
institutional balancing of their powers, is thereby eliminated without ever
having been raised. The interest is shifted from institutions to questions
of personnel, and the most urgent problem now becomes that of selecting
the natural leaders, and that of training them for leadership.

In view of this fact some people think that in Plato's theory, the
welfare of the state is ultimately an ethical and spiritual matter,
depending on persons and personal responsibility rather than on the
construction of impersonal institutions. I believe that this view of
Platonism is superficial.^// long-term politics are institutional. There is
no escape from that, not even for Plato. The principle of leadership does
not replace institutional problems by problems of personnel, it only
creates new institutional problems. As we shall see, it even burdens the
institutions with a task which goes beyond what can be reasonably
demanded from a mere institution, namely, with the task of selecting the
future leaders. It would be therefore a mistake to think that the
opposition between the theory of balances and the theory of sovereignty
corresponds to that between institutionalism and personalism. Plato's
principle of leadership is far removed from a pure personalism since it
involves the working of institutions; and indeed it may be said that a pure
personalism is impossible. But it must be said that a pure institutionalism
is impossible also. Not only does the construction of institutions involve
important personal decisions, but the functioning of even the best
institutions (such as democratic checks and balances) will always depend,
to a considerable degree, on the persons involved. Institutions are like
fortresses. They must be well designed and manned.

This distinction between the personal and the institutional element in a
social situation is a point which is often missed by the critics of
democracy. Most of them are dissatisfied with democratic institutions
because they find that these do not necessarily prevent a state or a policy
from falling short of some moral standards or of some political demands
which may be urgent as well as admirable. But these critics misdirect
their attacks; they do not understand what democratic institutions may be
expected to do, and what the alternative to democratic institutions would
be. Democracy (using this label in the sense suggested above) provides

the institutional framework for the reform of political institutions. It
makes possible the reform of institutions without using violence, and
thereby the use of reason in the designing of new institutions and the
adjusting of old ones. It cannot provide reason. The question of the
intellectual and moral standard of its citizens is to a large degree a
personal problem. (The idea that this problem can be tackled, in turn, by
an institutional eugenic and educational control is, I believe, mistaken;
some reasons for my belief will be given below.) It is quite wrong to
blame democracy for the political shortcomings of a democratic state.
We should rather blame ourselves, that is to say, the citizens of the
democratic state. In a non-democratic state, the only way to achieve
reasonable reforms is by the violent overthrow of the government, and
the introduction of a democratic framework. Those who criticize
democracy on any 'moral' grounds fail to distinguish between personal
and institutional problems. It rests with us to improve matters. The
democratic institutions cannot improve themselves. The problem of
improving them is always a problem for persons rather than for
institutions. But if we want improvements, we must make clear which
institutions we want to improve.

There is another distinction within the field of political problems
corresponding to that between persons and institutions. It is the one
between the problems of the day and the problems of the future. While
the problems of the day are largely personal, the building of the future
must necessarily be institutional. If the political problem is approached
by asking 'Who should rule?', and if Plato's principle of leadership is
adopted — that is to say, the principle that the best should rule — then the
problem of the future must take the form of designing institutions for the
selection of future leaders.

This is one of the most important problems in Plato's theory of
education. In approaching it I do not hesitate to say that Plato utterly

corrupted and confused the theory and practice of education by linking it
up with his theory of leadership. The damage done is, if possible, even
greater than that inflicted upon ethics by the identification of
collectivism with altruism, and upon political theory by the introduction
of the principle of sovereignty. Plato's assumption that it should be the
task of education (or more precisely, of the educational institutions) to
select the future leaders, and to train them for leadership, is still largely
taken for granted. By burdening these institutions with a task which must
go beyond the scope of any institution, Plato is partly responsible for
their deplorable state. But before entering into a general discussion of his
view of the task of education, I wish to develop, in more detail, his theory
of leadership, the leadership of the wise.

I think it most likely that this theory of Plato's owes a number of its
elements to the influence of Socrates. One of the fundamental tenets of
Socrates was, I believe, his moral intellectualism. By this I understand
(a) his identification of goodness and wisdom, his theory that nobody acts
against his better knowledge, and that lack of knowledge is responsible
for all moral mistakes; (b) his theory that moral excellence can be taught,
and that it does not require any particular moral faculties, apart from the
universal human intelligence.

Socrates was a moralist and an enthusiast. He was the type of man who
would criticize any form of government for its short-comings (and
indeed, such criticism would be necessary and useful for any government,
although it is possible only under a democracy) but he recognized the
importance of being loyal to the laws of the state. As it happened, he

spent his life largely under a democratic form of government, and as a
good democrat he found it his duty to expose the incompetence and
windbaggery of some of the democratic leaders of his time. At the same
time, he opposed any form of tyranny; and if we consider his courageous
behaviour under the Thirty Tyrants then we have no reason to assume that
his criticism of the democratic leaders was inspired by anything like anti-
democratic leanings-. It is not unlikely that he demanded (like Plato) that
the best should rule, which would have meant, in his view, the wisest, or
those who knew something about justice. But we must remember that by
'justice' he meant equalitarian justice (as indicated by the passages from
the Gorgias quoted in the last chapter), and that he was not only an
equalitarian but also an individualist — ^perhaps the greatest apostle of an
individualistic ethics of all time. And we should realize that, if he
demanded that the wisest men should rule, he clearly stressed that he did
not mean the learned men; in fact, he was sceptical of all professional
learnedness, whether it was that of the philosophers of the past or of the
learned men of his own generation, the Sophists. The wisdom he meant
was of a different kind. It was simply the realization: how little do I
know! Those who did not know this, he taught, knew nothing at all. (This
is the true scientific spirit. Some people still think, as Plato did when he
had established himself as a learned Pythagorean sage-, that Socrates'
agnostic attitude must be explained by the lack of success of the science
of his day. But this only shows that they do not understand this spirit, and
that they are still possessed by the pre-Socratic magical attitude towards
science, and towards the scientist, whom they consider as a somewhat
glorified shaman, as wise, learned, initiated. They judge him by the
amount of knowledge in his possession, instead of taking, with Socrates,
his awareness of what he does not know as a measure of his scientific
level as well as of his intellectual honesty.)

It is important to see that this Socratic intellectualism is decidedly

equalitarian. Socrates believed that everyone can be taught; in the Meno,
we see him teaching a young slave a version— of the now so-called
theorem of Pythagoras, in an attempt to prove that any uneducated slave
has the capacity to grasp even abstract matters. And his intellectualism is
also anti-authoritarian. A technique, for instance rhetoric, may perhaps be
dogmatically taught by an expert, according to Socrates; but real
knowledge, wisdom, and also virtue, can be taught only by a method
which he describes as a form of midwifery. Those eager to learn may be
helped to free themselves from their prejudice; thus they may learn self-
criticism, and that truth is not easily attained. But they may also learn to
make up their minds, and to rely, critically, on their decisions, and on
their insight. In view of such teaching, it is clear how much the Socratic
demand (if he ever raised this demand) that the best, i.e. the intellectually
honest, should rule, differs from the authoritarian demand that the most
learned, or from the aristocratic demand that the best, i.e. the most noble,
should rule. (Socrates' belief that even courage is wisdom can, I think, be
interpreted as a direct criticism of the aristocratic doctrine of the nobly
born hero.)

But this moral intellectualism of Socrates is a two-edged sword. It has
its equalitarian and democratic aspect, which was later developed by
Antisthenes. But it has also an aspect which may give rise to strongly
anti- democratic tendencies. Its stress upon the need for enlightenment,
for education, might easily be misinterpreted as a demand for
authoritarianism. This is connected with a question which seems to have
puzzled Socrates a great deal: that those who are not sufficiently
educated, and thus not wise enough to know their deficiencies, are just
those who are in the greatest need of education. Readiness to learn in
itself proves the possession of wisdom, in fact all the wisdom claimed by
Socrates for himself; for he who is ready to learn knows how little he
knows. The uneducated seems thus to be in need of an authority to wake

him up, since he cannot be expected to be self-critical. But this one
element of authoritarianism was wonderfully balanced in Socrates'
teaching by the emphasis that the authority must not claim more than
that. The true teacher can prove himself only by exhibiting that self-
criticism which the uneducated lacks. 'Whatever authority I may have
rests solely upon my knowing how little I know' : this is the way in which
Socrates might have justified his mission to stir up the people from their
dogmatic slumber. This educational mission he believed to be also a
political mission. He felt that the way to improve the political life of the
city was to educate the citizens to self-criticism. In this sense he claimed
to be 'the only politician of his day'—, in opposition to those others who
flatter the people instead of furthering their true interests.

This Socratic identification of his educational and political activity
could easily be distorted into the Platonic and Aristotelian demand that
the state should look after the moral life of its citizens. And it can easily
be used for a dangerously convincing proof that all democratic control is
vicious. For how can those whose task it is to educate be judged by the
uneducated? How can the better be controlled by the less good? But this
argument is, of course, entirely un-Socratic. It assumes an authority of
the wise and learned man, and goes far beyond Socrates' modest idea of
the teacher's authority as founded solely on his consciousness of his own
limitations. State- authority in these matters is liable to achieve, in fact,
the exact opposite of Socrates' aim. It is liable to produce dogmatic self-
satisfaction and massive intellectual complacency, instead of critical
dissatisfaction and eagerness for improvement. I do not think that it is
unnecessary to stress this danger which is seldom clearly realized. Even
an author like Grossman, who, I believe, understood the true Socratic
spirit, agrees— with Plato in what he calls Plato's third criticism of
Athens: 'Education, which should be the major responsibility of the State,
had been left to individual caprice . . . Here again was a task which should

be entrusted only to the man of proven probity. The future of any State
depends on the younger generation, and it is therefore madness to allow
the minds of children to be moulded by individual taste and force of
circumstances. Equally disastrous had been the State's laissez-faire
policy with regard to teachers and schoolmasters and sophist-lecturers.'—
But the Athenian state's laissez-faire policy, criticized by Grossman and
Plato, had the invaluable result of enabling certain sophist-lecturers to
teach, and especially the greatest of them all, Socrates. And when this
policy was later dropped, the result was Socrates' death. This should be a
warning that state control in such matters is dangerous, and that the cry
for the 'man of proven probity' may easily lead to the suppression of the
best. (Bertrand Russell's recent suppression is a case in point.) But as far
as basic principles are concerned, we have here an instance of the deeply
rooted prejudice that the only alternative to laissez-faire is full state
responsibility. I certainly believe that it is the responsibility of the state
to see that its citizens are given an education enabling them to participate
in the life of the community, and to make use of any opportunity to
develop their special interests and gifts; and the state should certainly
also see (as Grossman rightly stresses) that the lack of 'the individual's
capacity to pay' should not debar him from higher studies. This, I
believe, belongs to the state's protective functions. To say, however, that
'the future of the state depends on the younger generation, and that it is
therefore madness to allow the minds of children to be moulded by
individual taste', appears to me to open wide the door to totalitarianism.
State interest must not be lightly invoked to defend measures which may
endanger the most precious of all forms of freedom, namely, intellectual
freedom. And although I do not advocate 'laissez-faire with regard to
teachers and schoolmasters', I believe that this policy is infinitely
superior to an authoritative policy that gives officers of the state full
powers to mould minds, and to control the teaching of science, thereby

backing the dubious authority of the expert by that of the state, ruining
science by the customary practice of teaching it as an authoritative
doctrine, and destroying the scientific spirit of inquiry — the spirit of the
search for truth, as opposed to the belief in its possession.

I have tried to show that Socrates' intellectualism was fundamentally
equalitarian and individualistic, and that the element of authoritarianism
which it involved was reduced to a minimum by Socrates' intellectual
modesty and his scientific attitude. The intellectualism of Plato is very
different from this. The Platonic 'Socrates' of the Republic— is the
embodiment of an unmitigated authoritarianism. (Even his self-
deprecating remarks are not based upon awareness of his limitations, but
are rather an ironical way of asserting his superiority.) His educational
aim is not the awakening of self-criticism and of critical thought in
general. It is, rather, indoctrination — the moulding of minds and of souls
which (to repeat a quotation from ihQLaws—) are 'to become, by long
habit, utterly incapable of doing anything at all independently'. And
Socrates' great equalitarian and liberating idea that it is possible to
reason with a slave, and that there is an intellectual link between man and
man, a medium of universal understanding, namely, 'reason', this idea is
replaced by a demand for an educational monopoly of the ruling class,
coupled with the strictest censorship, even of oral debates.

Socrates had stressed that he was not wise; that he was not in the
possession of truth, but that he was a searcher, an inquirer, a lover of
truth. This, he explained, is expressed by the word 'philosopher', i.e. the
lover of wisdom, and the seeker for it, as opposed to 'Sophist', i.e. the
professionally wise man. If ever he claimed that statesmen should be
philosophers, he could only have meant that, burdened with an excessive
responsibility, they should be searchers for truth, and conscious of their
limitations.

How did Plato convert this doctrine? At first sight, it might appear that

he did not alter it at all, when demanding that the sovereignty of the state
should be invested in the philosophers; especially since, like Socrates, he
defined philosophers as lovers of truth. But the change made by Plato is
indeed tremendous. His lover is no longer the modest seeker, he is the
proud possessor of truth. A trained dialectician, he is capable of
intellectual intuition, i.e. of seeing, and of communicating with, the
eternal, the heavenly Forms or Ideas. Placed high above all ordinary men,
he is 'god-like, if not ... divine'—, both in his wisdom and in his power.
Plato's ideal philosopher approaches both to omniscience and to
omnipotence. He is the Philosopher-King. It is hard, I think, to conceive a
greater contrast than that between the Socratic and the Platonic ideal of a
philosopher. It is the contrast between two worlds — the world of a
modest, rational individualist and that of a totalitarian demi-god.

Plato's demand that the wise man should rule — the possessor of truth,
the 'fully qualified philosopher '^^^ — raises, of course, the problem of
selecting and educating the rulers. In a purely personalist (as opposed to
an institutional) theory, this problem might be solved simply by declaring
that the wise ruler will in his wisdom be wise enough to choose the best
man for his successor. This is not, however, a very satisfactory approach
to the problem. Too much would depend on uncontrolled circumstances;
an accident may destroy the future stability of the state. But the attempt
to control circumstances, to foresee what might happen and to provide for
it, must lead here, as everywhere, to the abandonment of a purely
personalist solution, and to its replacement by an institutional one. As
already stated, the attempt to plan for the future must always lead to
institutionalism.

The institution which according to Plato has to look after the future
leaders can be described as the educational department of the state. It is,
from a purely political point of view, by far the most important
institution within Plato's society. It holds the keys to power. For this
reason alone it should be clear that at least the higher grades of education
are to be directly controlled by the rulers. But there are some additional
reasons for this. The most important is that only 'the expert and ... the
man of proven probity', as Grossman puts it, which in Plato's view means
only the very wisest adepts, that is to say, the rulers themselves, can be
entrusted with the final initiation of the future sages into the higher
mysteries of wisdom. This holds, above all, for dialectics, i.e. the art of
intellectual intuition, of visualizing the divine originals, the Forms or
Ideas, of unveiling the Great Mystery behind the common man's
everyday world of appearances.

What are Plato's institutional demands regarding this highest form of
education? They are remarkable. He demands that only those who are
past their prime of life should be admitted. 'When their bodily strength
begins to fail, and when they are past the age of public and military
duties, then, and only then, should they be permitted to enter at will the
sacred field ...'— namely, the field of the highest dialectical studies.
Plato's reason for this amazing rule is clear enough. He is afraid of the
power of thought. 'All great things are dangerous'— is the remark by
which he introduces the confession that he is afraid of the effect which
philosophic thought may have upon brains which are not yet on the verge
of old age. (All this he puts into the mouth of Socrates, who died in
defence of his right of free discussion with the young.) But this is exactly
what we should expect if we remember that Plato's fundamental aim was
to arrest political change. In their youth, the members of the upper class
shall fight. When they are too old to think independently, they shall
become dogmatic students to be imbued with wisdom and authority in

order to become sages themselves and to hand on their wisdom, the
doctrine of collectivism and authoritarianism, to future generations.

It is interesting that in a later and more elaborate passage which
attempts to paint the rulers in the brightest colours, Plato modifies his
suggestion. Now— he allows the future sages to begin their preparatory
dialectical studies at the age of thirty, stressing, of course, 'the need for
great caution' and the dangers of 'insubordination ... which corrupts so
many dialecticians'; and he demands that 'those to whom the use of
arguments may be permitted must possess disciplined and well-balanced
natures'. This alteration certainly helps to brighten the picture. But the
fundamental tendency is the same. For, in the continuation of this
passage, we hear that the future leaders must not be initiated into the
higher philosophical studies — into the dialectic vision of the essence of
the Good — before they reach, having passed through many tests and
temptations, the age of fifty.

This is the teaching of thQ Republic. It seems that the dialogue
Parmenides— contains a similar message, for here Socrates is depicted as
a brilliant young man who, having dabbled successfully in pure
philosophy, gets into serious trouble when asked to give an account of the
more subtle problems of the theory of ideas. He is dismissed by the old
Parmenides with the admonition that he should train himself more
thoroughly in the art of abstract thought before venturing again into the
higher field of philosophical studies. It looks as if we had here (among
other things) Plato's answer — 'Even a Socrates was once too young for
dialectics' — to his pupils who pestered him for an initiation which he
considered premature.

Why is it that Plato does not wish his leaders to have originality or
initiative? The answer, I think, is clear. He hates change and does not
want to see that re-adjustments may become necessary. But this
explanation of Plato's attitude does not go deep enough. In fact, we are

faced here with a fundamental difficulty of the leader principle. The very
idea of selecting or educating future leaders is self-contradictory. You
may solve the problem, perhaps, to some degree in the field of bodily
excellence. Physical initiative and bodily courage are perhaps not so hard
to ascertain. But the secret of intellectual excellence is the spirit of
criticism; it is intellectual independence. And this leads to difficulties
which must prove insurmountable for any kind of authoritarianism. The
authoritarian will in general select those who obey, who believe, who
respond to his influence. But in doing so, he is bound to select
mediocrities. For he excludes those who revolt, who doubt, who dare to
resist his influence. Never can an authority admit that the intellectually
courageous, i.e. those who dare to defy his authority, may be the most
valuable type. Of course, the authorities will always remain convinced of
their ability to detect initiative. But what they mean by this is only a
quick grasp of their intentions, and they will remain for ever incapable of
seeing the difference. (Here we may perhaps penetrate the secret of the
particular difficulty of selecting capable military leaders. The demands of
military discipline enhance the difficulties discussed, and the methods of
military advancement are such that those who do dare to think for
themselves are usually eliminated. Nothing is less true, as far as
intellectual initiative is concerned, than the idea that those who are good
in obeying will also be good in commanding—. Very similar difficulties
arise in political parties: the 'Man Friday' of the party leader is seldom a
capable successor.)

We are led here, I believe, to a result of some importance, and to one
which can be generalized. Institutions for the selection of the outstanding
can hardly be devised. Institutional selection may work quite well for
such purposes as Plato had in mind, namely for arresting change. But it
will never work well if we demand more than that, for it will always tend
to eliminate initiative and originality, and, more generally, qualities

which are unusual and unexpected. This is not a criticism of political
institutionalism. It only re-affirms what has been said before, that we
should always prepare for the worst leaders, although we should try, of
course, to get the best. But it is a criticism of the tendency to burden
institutions, especially educational institutions, with the impossible task
of selecting the best. This should never be made their task. This tendency
transforms our educational system into a race-course, and turns a course
of studies into a hurdle-race. Instead of encouraging the student to devote
himself to his studies for the sake of studying, instead of encouraging in
him a real love for his subject and for inquiry—, he is encouraged to study
for the sake of his personal career; he is led to acquire only such
knowledge as is serviceable in getting him over the hurdles which he
must clear for the sake of his advancement. In other words, even in the
field of science, our methods of selection are based upon an appeal to
personal ambition of a somewhat crude form. (It is a natural reaction to
this appeal if the eager student is looked upon with suspicion by his
colleagues.) The impossible demand for an institutional selection of
intellectual leaders endangers the very life not only of science, but of
intelligence.

It has been said, only too truly, that Plato was the inventor of both our
secondary schools and our universities. I do not know a better argument
for an optimistic view of mankind, no better proof of their indestructible
love for truth and decency, of their originality and stubbornness and
health, than the fact that this devastating system of education has not
utterly ruined them. In spite of the treachery of so many of their leaders,
there are quite a number, old as well as young, who are decent, and
intelligent, and devoted to their task. 'I sometimes wonder how it was
that the mischief done was not more clearly perceptible,' says Samuel
Butler—, 'and that the young men and women grew up as sensible and
goodly as they did, in spite of the attempts almost deliberately made to

warp and stunt their growth. Some doubtless received damage, from
which they suffered to their life's end; but many seemed little or none the
worse, and some almost the better. The reason would seem to be that the
natural instinct of the lads in most cases so absolutely rebelled against
their training, that do what the teachers might they could never get them
to pay serious heed to it.'

It may be mentioned here that, in practice, Plato did not prove too
successful as a selector of political leaders. I have in mind not so much
the disappointing outcome of his experiment with Dionysius the Younger,
tyrant of Syracuse, but rather the participation of Plato's Academy in
Dio's successful expedition against Dionysius. Plato's famous friend Dio
was supported in this adventure by a number of members of Plato's
Academy. One of them was Callippus, who became Dio's most trusted
comrade. After Dio had made himself tyrant of Syracuse he ordered
Heraclides, his ally (and perhaps his rival), to be murdered. Shortly
afterwards he was himself murdered by Callippus who usurped the
tyranny, which he lost after thirteen months. (He was, in turn, murdered
by the Pythagorean philosopher Leptines.) But this event was not the only
one of its kind in Plato's career as a teacher. Clearchus, one of Plato's
(and of Isocrates') disciples, made himself tyrant of Heraclea after
having posed as a democratic leader. He was murdered by his relation,
Chion, another member of Plato's Academy. (We cannot know how
Chion, whom some represent as an idealist, would have developed, since
he was soon killed.) These and a few similar experiences of Plato's^^^ —
who could boast a total of at least nine tyrants among his onetime pupils
and associates — throw light on the peculiar difficulties connected with
the selection of men who are to be invested with absolute power. It is
hard to find a man whose character will not be corrupted by it. As Lord
Acton says — all power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

To sum up. Plato's political programme was much more institutional

than personalist; he hoped to arrest political change by the institutional
control of succession in leadership. The control was to be educational,
based upon an authoritarian view of learning — ^upon the authority of the
learned expert, and 'the man of proven probity'. This is what Plato made
of Socrates' demand that a responsible politician should be a lover of
truth and of wisdom rather than an expert, and that he was wise only— if
he knew his limitations.

The Philosopher King

And the state will erect monuments ... to commemorate them. And sacrifices will be offered
to them as demigods, ... as men who are blessed by grace, and godlike.

Plato.

The contrast between the Platonic and the Socratic creed is even greater
than I have shown so far. Plato, I have said, followed Socrates in his
definition of the philosopher. 'Whom do you call true philosophers? —
Those who love truth', we read in thQ Republic-. But he himself is not
quite truthful when he makes this statement. He does not really believe in
it, for he bluntly declares in other places that it is one of the royal
privileges of the sovereign to make full use of lies and deceit: 'It is the
business of the rulers of the city, if it is anybody's, to tell lies, deceiving
both its enemies and its own citizens for the benefit of the city; and no
one else must touch this privilege. '-

'For the benefit of the city', says Plato. Again we find that the appeal
to the principle of collective utility is the ultimate ethical consideration.
Totalitarian morality overrules everything, even the definition, the Idea,
of the philosopher. It need hardly be mentioned that, by the same
principle of political expediency, the ruled are to be forced to tell the
truth. 'If the ruler catches anyone else in a lie ... then he will punish him
for introducing a practice which injures and endangers the city . . . '- Only
in this slightly unexpected sense are the Platonic rulers — the philosopher

kings — lovers of truth.

Plato illustrates this application of his principle of collective utility to the
problem of truthfulness by the example of the physician. The example is
well chosen, since Plato likes to visualize his political mission as one of
the healer or saviour of the sick body of society. Apart from this, the role
which he assigns to medicine throws light upon the totalitarian character
of Plato's city where state interest dominates the life of the citizen from
the mating of his parents to his grave. Plato interprets medicine as a form
of politics, or as he puts it himself, he 'regards Aesculapius, the god of
medicine, as a politician'-. Medical art, he explains, must not consider
the prolongation of life as its aim, but only the interest of the state. 'In all
properly ruled communities, each man has his particular work assigned to
him in the state. This he must do, and no one has time to spend his life in
falling ill and getting cured.' Accordingly, the physician has 'no right to
attend to a man who cannot carry out his ordinary duties; for such a man
is useless to himself and to the state'. To this is added the consideration
that such a man might have 'children who would probably be equally
sick', and who also would become a burden to the state. (In his old age,
Plato mentions medicine, in spite of his increased hatred of
individualism, in a more personal vein. He complains of the doctor who
treats even free citizens as if they were slaves, 'issuing his orders like a
tyrant whose will is law, and then rushing off to the next slave-patient'-,
and he pleads for more gentleness and patience in medical treatment, at
least for those who are not slaves.) Concerning the use of lies and deceit,
Plato urges that these are 'useful only as a medicine'-; but the ruler of the

state, Plato insists, must not behave like some of those 'ordinary doctors'
who have not the courage to administer strong medicines. The
philosopher king, a lover of truth as a philosopher, must, as a king, be 'a
more courageous man', since he must be determined 'to administer a
great many lies and deceptions' — for the benefit of the ruled, Plato
hastens to add. Which means, as we already know, and as we learn here
again from Plato's reference to medicine, 'for the benefit of the state'.
(Kant remarked once in a very different spirit that the sentence
'Truthfulness is the best policy' might indeed be questionable, whilst the
sentence 'Truthfulness is better than policy' is beyond dispute-.)

What kind of lies has Plato in mind when he exhorts his rulers to use
strong medicine? Grossman rightly emphasizes that Plato means
'propaganda, the technique of controlling the behaviour of ... the bulk of
the ruled majority'-. Certainly, Plato had these first in his mind; but when
Grossman suggests that the propaganda lies were only intended for the
consumption of the ruled, while the rulers should be a fully enlightened
intelligentsia, then I cannot agree. I think, rather, that Plato's complete
break with anything resembling Socrates' intellectualism is nowhere
more obvious than in the place where he twice expresses his hope that
even the rulers themselves, at least after a few generations, might be
induced to believe his greatest propaganda lie; I mean his racialism, his
Myth of Blood and Soil, known as the Myth of the Metals in Man and of
the Earthborn. Here we see that Plato's utilitarian and totalitarian
principles overrule everything, even the ruler's privilege of knowing, and
of demanding to be told, the truth. The motive of Plato's wish that the
rulers themselves should believe in the propaganda lie is his hope of
increasing its wholesome effect, i.e. of strengthening the rule of the
master race, and ultimately, of arresting all political change.

Plato introduces his Myth of Blood and Soil with the blunt admission that
it is a fraud. 'Well then', says the Socrates of the Republic, 'could we
perhaps fabricate one of those very handy lies which indeed we
mentioned just recently? With the help of one single lordly lie we may, if
we are lucky, persuade even the rulers themselves — but at any rate the
rest of the city.'- It is interesting to note the use of the term 'persuade'.
To persuade somebody to believe a lie means, more precisely, to mislead
or to hoax him; and it would be more in tune with the frank cynicism of
the passage to translate 'we may, if we are lucky, hoax even the rulers
themselves'. But Plato uses the term 'persuasion' very frequently, and its
occurrence here throws some light on other passages. It may be taken as a
warning that in similar passages he may have propaganda lies in his
mind; more especially where he advocates that the statesman should rule
'by means of both persuasion and force'—.

After announcing his 'lordly lie', Plato, instead of proceeding directly
to the narration of his Myth, first develops a lengthy preface, somewhat
similar to the lengthy preface which precedes his discovery of justice; an
indication, I think, of his uneasiness. It seems that he did not expect the
proposal which follows to find much favour with his readers. The Myth
itself introduces two ideas. The first is to strengthen the defence of the
mother country; it is the idea that the warriors of his city are
autochthonous, 'born of the earth of their country', and ready to defend
their country which is their mother. This old and well-known idea is
certainly not the reason for Plato's hesitation (although the wording of
the dialogue cleverly suggests it). The second idea, however, 'the rest of
the story', is the myth of racialism: 'God ... has put gold into those who
are capable of ruling, silver into the auxiliaries, and iron and copper into

the peasants and the other producing classes.'— These metals are
hereditary, they are racial characteristics. In this passage, in which Plato,
hesitatingly, first introduces his racialism, he allows for the possibility
that children may be born with an admixture of another metal than those
of their parents; and it must be admitted that he here announces the
following rule: if in one of the lower classes 'children are born with an
admixture of gold and silver, they shall ... be appointed guardians, and . . .
auxiliaries'. But this concession is rescinded in later passages of the
Republic (and also in the Laws), especially in the story of the Fall of Man
and of the Number—, partially quoted in chapter 5 above. From this
passage we learn that any admixture of one of the base metals must be
excluded from the higher classes. The possibility of admixtures and
corresponding changes in status therefore only means that nobly born but
degenerate children may be pushed down, and not that any of the base
born may be lifted up. The way in which any mixing of metals must lead
to destruction is described in the concluding passage of the story of the
Fall of Man: 'Iron will mingle with silver and bronze with gold, and from
this mixture variation will be born and absurd irregularity; and whenever
these are born they will beget struggle and hostility. And this is how we
must describe the ancestry and birth of Dissension, wherever she
arises'—. It is in this light that we must consider that the Myth of the
Earthborn concludes with the cynical fabrication of a prophecy by a
fictitious oracle 'that the city must perish when guarded by iron and
copper'—. Plato's reluctance to proffer his racialism at once in its more
radical form indicates, I suppose, that he knew how much it was opposed
to the democratic and humanitarian tendencies of his time.

If we consider Plato's blunt admission that his Myth of Blood and Soil
is a propaganda lie, then the attitude of the commentators towards the
Myth is somewhat puzzling. Adam, for instance, writes: 'Without it, the
present sketch of a state would be incomplete. We require some

guarantee for the permanence of the city . . . ; and nothing could be more
in keeping with the prevailing moral and religious spirit of Plato's ...
education than that he should find that guarantee in faith rather than in
reason.'— I agree (though this is not quite what Adam meant) that
nothing is more in keeping with Plato's totalitarian morality than his
advocacy of propaganda lies. But I do not quite understand how the
religious and idealistic commentator can declare, by implication, that
religion and faith are on the level of an opportunist lie. As a matter of
fact, Adam's comment is reminiscent of Hobbes' conventionalism, of the
view that the tenets of religion, although not true, are a most expedient
and indispensable political device. And this consideration shows us that
Plato, after all, was more of a conventionalist than one might think. He
does not even stop short of establishing a religious faith 'by convention'
(we must credit him with the frankness of his admission that it is only a
fabrication), while the reputed conventionalist Protagoras at least
believed that the laws, which are our making, are made with the help of
divine inspiration. It is hard to understand why those of Plato's
commentators— who praise him for fighting against the subversive
conventionalism of the Sophists, and for establishing a spiritual
naturalism ultimately based on religion, fail to censure him for making a
convention, or rather an invention, the ultimate basis of religion. In fact,
Plato's attitude towards religion as revealed by his 'inspired lie' is
practically identical with that of Critias, his beloved uncle, the brilliant
leader of the Thirty Tyrants who established an inglorious blood-regime
in Athens after the Peloponnesian war. Critias, a poet, was the first to
glorify propaganda lies, whose invention he described in forceful verses
eulogizing the wise and cunning man who fabricated religion, in order to
'persuade' the people, i.e. to threaten them into submission.—

'Then came, it seems, that wise and cunning man.

The first inventor of the fear of gods . . .

He framed a tale, a most alluring doctrine,

Concealing truth by veils of lying lore.

He told of the abode of awful gods.

Up in revolving vaults, whence thunder roars

And lightning's fearful flashes blind the eye ...

He thus encircled men by bonds of fear;

Surrounding them by gods in fair abodes.

He charmed them by his spells, and daunted them —

And lawlessness turned into law and order.

In Critias' view, religion is nothing but the lordly lie of a great and
clever statesman. Plato's views are strikingly similar, both in the
introduction of the Myth in the Republic (where he bluntly admits that
the Myth is a lie) and in the Laws where he says that the installation of
rites and of gods is 'a matter for a great thinker'—. — But is this the whole
truth about Plato's religious attitude? Was he nothing but an opportunist
in this field, and was the very different spirit of his earlier works merely
Socratic?

There is of course no way of deciding this question with certainty,
though I feel, intuitively, that there may sometimes be a more genuine
religious feeling expressed even in the later works. But I believe that
wherever Plato considers religious matters in their relation to politics, his
political opportunism sweeps all other feelings aside. Thus Plato
demands, in the Laws, the severest punishment even for honest and
honourable people— if their opinions concerning the gods deviate from
those held by the state. Their souls are to be treated by a Nocturnal
Council of inquisitors—, and if they do not recant or if they repeat the
offence, the charge of impiety means death. Has he forgotten that
Socrates had fallen a victim to that very charge?

That it is mainly state interest which inspires these demands, rather
than interest in the religious faith as such, is indicated by Plato's central
religious doctrine. The gods, he teaches in the Laws, punish severely all

those on the wrong side in the conflict between good and evil, a conflict
which is explained as that between collectivism and individualism—. And
the gods, he insists, take an active interest in men, they are not merely
spectators. It is impossible to appease them. Neither through prayers nor
through sacrifices can they be moved to abstain from punishment—. The
political interest behind this teaching is clear, and it is made even clearer
by Plato's demand that the state must suppress all doubt about any part of
this politico-religious dogma, and especially about the doctrine that the
gods never abstain from punishment.

Plato's opportunism and his theory of lies makes it, of course, difficult
to interpret what he says. How far did he believe in his theory of justice?
How far did he believe in the truth of the religious doctrines he preached?
Was he perhaps himself an atheist, in spite of his demand for the
punishment of other (lesser) atheists? Although we cannot hope to answer
any of these questions definitely, it is, I believe, difficult, and
methodologically unsound, not to give Plato at least the benefit of the
doubt. And especially the fundamental sincerity of his belief that there is
an urgent need to arrest all change can, I think, hardly be questioned. (I
shall return to this in chapter 10.) On the other hand, we cannot doubt that
Plato subjects the Socratic love of truth to the more fundamental
principle that the rule of the master class must be strengthened.

It is interesting, however, to note that Plato's theory of truth is slightly
less radical than his theory of justice. Justice, we have seen, is defined,
practically, as that which serves the interest of his totalitarian state. It
would have been possible, of course, to define the concept of truth in the
same utilitarian or pragmatist fashion. The Myth is true, Plato could have
said, since anything that serves the interest of my state must be believed
and therefore must be called 'true'; and there must be no other criterion
of truth. In theory, an analogous step has actually been taken by the
pragmatist successors of Hegel; in practice, it has been taken by Hegel

himself and his racialist successors. But Plato retained enough of the
Socratic spirit to admit candidly that he was lying. The step taken by the
school of Hegel was one that could never have occurred, I think, to any
companion of Socrates—.

Ill

So much for the role played by the Idea of Truth in Plato's best state. But
apart from Justice and Truth, we have still to consider some further Ideas,
such as Goodness, Beauty, and Happiness, if we wish to remove the
objections, raised in chapter 6, against our interpretation of Plato's
political programme as purely totalitarian, and as based on historicism.
An approach to the discussion of these Ideas, and also to that of Wisdom,
which has been partly discussed in the last chapter, can be made by
considering the somewhat negative result reached by our discussion of
the Idea of Truth. For this result raises a new problem: Why does Plato
demand that the philosophers should be kings or the kings philosophers,
if he defines the philosopher as a lover of truth, insisting, on the other
hand, that the king must be 'more courageous', and use lies?

The only reply to this question is, of course, that Plato has, in fact,
something very different in mind when he uses the term 'philosopher'.
And indeed, we have seen in the last chapter that his philosopher is not
the devoted seeker for wisdom, but its proud possessor. He is a learned
man, a sage. What Plato demands, therefore, is the rule of learnedness —
sophocracy, if I may so call it. In order to understand this demand, we
must try to find what kind of functions make it desirable that the ruler of
Plato's state should be a possessor of knowledge, a 'fully qualified
philosopher', as Plato says. The functions to be considered can be divided

into two main groups, namely those connected with the foundation of the
state, and those connected with its preservation.

The first and the most important function of the philosopher king is that
of the city's founder and lawgiver. It is clear why Plato needs a
philosopher for this task. If the state is to be stable, then it must be a true
copy of the divine Form or Idea of the State. But only a philosopher who
is fully proficient in the highest of sciences, in dialectics, is able to see,
and to copy, the heavenly Original. This point receives much emphasis in
the part of the Republic in which Plato develops his arguments for the
sovereignty of the philosophers—. Philosophers 'love to see the truth',
and a real lover always loves to see the whole, not merely the parts. Thus
he does not love, as ordinary people do, sensible things and their
'beautiful sounds and colours and shapes', but he wants 'to see, and to
admire the real nature of beauty' — the Form or Idea of Beauty. In this
way, Plato gives the term philosopher a new meaning, that of a lover and
a seer of the divine world of Forms or Ideas. As such, the philosopher is
the man who may become the founder of a virtuous city—: 'The
philosopher who has communion with the divine' may be 'overwhelmed
by the urge to realize ... his heavenly vision', of the ideal city and of its
ideal citizens. He is like a draughtsman or a painter who has 'the divine
as his model'. Only true philosophers can 'sketch the ground-plan of the
city', for they alone can see the original, and can copy it, by 'letting their
eyes wander to and fro, from the model to the picture, and back from the
picture to the model'.

As 'a painter of constitutions'—, the philosopher must be helped by the

light of goodness and of wisdom. A few remarks will be added
concerning these two ideas, and their significance for the philosopher in
his function as a founder of the city.

Plato's Idea of the Good is the highest in the hierarchy of Forms. It is
the sun of the divine world of Forms or Ideas, which not only sheds light
on all the other members, but is the source of their existence—. It is also
the source or cause of all knowledge and all truth—. The power of seeing,
of appreciating, of knowing the Good is thus indispensable— to the
dialectician. Since it is the sun and the source of light in the world of
Forms, it enables the philosopher-painter to discern his objects. Its
function is therefore of the greatest importance for the founder of the
city. But this purely formal information is all we get. Plato's Idea of the
Good nowhere plays a more direct ethical or political role; never do we
hear which deeds are good, or produce good, apart from the well-known
collectivist moral code whose precepts are introduced without recourse to
the Idea of Good. Remarks that the Good is the aim, that it is desired by
every man—, do not enrich our information. This empty formalism is still
more marked in thQ Philebus, where the Good is identified— with the
Idea of 'measure' or 'mean'. And when I read the report that Plato, in his
famous lecture 'On the Good', disappointed an uneducated audience by
defining the Good as 'the class of the determinate conceived as a unity',
then my sympathy is with the audience. In thQ Republic, Plato says
frankly— that he cannot explain what he means by 'the Good'. The only
practical suggestion we ever get is the one mentioned at the beginning of
chapter 4 — that good is everything that preserves, and evil everything
that leads to corruption or degeneration. ('Good' does not, however, seem
to be here the Idea of Good, but rather a property of things which makes
them resemble the ideas.) Good is, accordingly, an unchanging, an
arrested state of things; it is the state of things at rest.

This does not seem to carry us very far beyond Plato's political

totalitarianism; and the analysis of Plato's Idea of Wisdom leads to
equally disappointing results. Wisdom, as we have seen, does not mean to
Plato the Socratic insight into one's own limitations; nor does it mean
what most of us would expect, a warm interest in, and a helpful
understanding of, humanity and human affairs. Plato's wise men, highly
preoccupied with the problems of a superior world, 'have no time to look
down at the affairs of men they look upon, and hold fast to, the
ordered and the measured'. It is the right kind of learning that makes a
man wise: 'Philosophic natures are lovers of that kind of learning which
reveals to them a reality that exists for ever and is not harassed by
generation and degeneration.' It does not seem that Plato's treatment of
wisdom can carry us beyond the ideal of arresting change.

Although the analysis of the functions of the city's founder has not
revealed any new ethical elements in Plato's doctrine, it has shown that
there is a definite reason why the founder of the city must be a
philosopher. But this does not fully justify the demand for the permanent
sovereignty of the philosopher. It only explains why the philosopher must
be the first lawgiver, but not why he is needed as the permanent ruler,
especially since none of the later rulers must introduce any change. For a
full justification of the demand that the philosophers should rule, we
must therefore proceed to analyse the tasks connected with the city's
preservation.

We know from Plato's sociological theories that the state, once
established, will continue to be stable as long as there is no split in the
unity of the master class. The bringing up of that class is, therefore, the

great preserving function of the sovereign, and a function which must
continue as long as the state exists. How far does it justify the demand
that a philosopher must rule? To answer this question, we distinguish
again, within this function, between two different activities: the
supervision of education, and the supervision of eugenic breeding.

Why should the director of education be a philosopher? Why is it not
sufficient, once the state and its educational system are established, to put
an experienced general, a soldier-king, in charge of it? The answer that
the educational system must provide not only soldiers but philosophers,
and therefore needs philosophers as well as soldiers as supervisors, is
obviously unsatisfactory; for if no philosophers were needed as directors
of education and as permanent rulers, then there would be no need for the
educational system to produce new ones. The requirements of the
educational system cannot as such justify the need for philosophers in
Plato's state, or the postulate that the rulers must be philosophers. This
would be different, of course, if Plato's education had an individualistic
aim, apart from its aim to serve the interest of the state; for example, the
aim to develop philosophical faculties for their own sake. But when we
see, as we did in the preceding chapter, how frightened Plato was of
permitting anything like independent thought—; and when we now see
that the ultimate theoretical aim of this philosophic education was merely
a 'Knowledge of the Idea of the Good' which is incapable of giving an
articulate account of this Idea, then we begin to realize that this cannot be
the explanation. And this impression is strengthened if we remember
chapter 4, where we have seen that Plato also demanded restrictions in
the Athenian 'musical' education. The great importance which Plato
attaches to a philosophical education of the rulers must be explained by
other reasons — by reasons which must be purely political.

The main reason I can see is the need for increasing to the utmost the
authority of the rulers. If the education of the auxiliaries functions

properly, there will be plenty of good soldiers. Outstanding military
faculties may therefore be insufficient to establish an unchallenged and
unchallengeable authority. This must be based on higher claims. Plato
bases it upon the claims of supernatural, mystical powers which he
develops in his leaders. They are not like other men. They belong to
another world, they communicate with the divine. Thus the philosopher
king seems to be, partly, a copy of a tribal priest-king, an institution
which we have mentioned in connection with Heraclitus. (The institution
of tribal priest-kings or medicine-men or shamans seems also to have
influenced the old Pythagorean sect, with their surprisingly naive tribal
taboos. Apparently, most of these were dropped even before Plato. But
the claim of the Pythagoreans to a supernatural basis of their authority
remained.) Thus Plato's philosophical education has a definite political
function. It puts a mark on the rulers, and it establishes a barrier between
the rulers and the ruled. (This has remained a major function of 'higher'
education down to our own time.) Platonic wisdom is acquired largely for
the sake of establishing a permanent political class rule. It can be
described as political 'medicine', giving mystic powers to its possessors,
the medicine-men.—

But this cannot be the full answer to our question of the functions of
the philosopher in the state. It means, rather, that the question why a
philosopher is needed has only been shifted, and that we would have now
to raise the analogous question of the practical political functions of the
shaman or the medicine-man. Plato must have had some definite aim
when he devised his specialized philosophic training. We must look for a
permanent function of the ruler, analogous to the temporary function of
the lawgiver. The only hope of discovering such a function seems to be in
the field of breeding the master race.

The best way to find out why a philosopher is needed as a permanent
ruler is to ask the question: What happens, according to Plato, to a state
which is not permanently ruled by a philosopher? Plato has given a clear
answer to this question. If the guardians of the state, even of a very
perfect one, are unaware of Pythagorean lore and of the Platonic Number,
then the race of the guardians, and with it the state, must degenerate.

Racialism thus takes up a more central part in Plato's political
programme than one would expect at first sight. Just as the Platonic racial
or nuptial Number provides the setting for his descriptive sociology, 'the
setting in which Plato's Philosophy of History is framed' (as Adam puts
it), so it also provides the setting of Plato's political demand for the
sovereignty of the philosophers. After what has been said in chapter 4
about the graziers' or cattle breeders' background of Plato's state, we are
perhaps not quite unprepared to find that his king is a breeder king. But it
may still surprise some that his philosopher turns out to be a philosophic
breeder. The need for scientific, for mathematico-dialectical and
philosophical breeding is not the least of the arguments behind the claim
for the sovereignty of the philosophers.

It has been shown in chapter 4 how the problem of obtaining a pure
breed of human watch-dogs is emphasized and elaborated in the earlier
parts of thQ Republic. But so far we have not met with any plausible
reason why only a genuine and fully qualified philosopher should be a
proficient and successful political breeder. And yet, as every breeder of
dogs or horses or birds knows, rational breeding is impossible without a
pattern, an aim to guide him in his efforts, an ideal which he may try to
approach by the methods of mating and of selecting. Without such a
standard, he could never decide which offspring is 'good enough'; he

could never speak of the difference between 'good offspring' and 'bad
offspring'. But this standard corresponds exactly to a Platonic Idea of the
race which he intends to breed.

Just as only the true philosopher, the dialectician, can see, according to
Plato, the divine original of the city, so it is only the dialectician who can
see that other divine original — the Form or Idea of Man. Only he is
capable of copying this model, of calling it down from Heaven to Earth—,
and of realizing it here. It is a kingly Idea, this Idea of Man. It does not,
as some have thought, represent what is common to all men; it is not the
universal concept 'man'. It is, rather, the godlike original of man, an
unchanging superman; it is a super-Greek, and a super-master. The
philosopher must try to realize on earth what Plato describes as the race
of 'the most constant, the most virile, and, within the limits of
possibilities, the most beautifully formed men . . . : nobly born, and of
awe-inspiring character'—. It is to be a race of men and women who are
'godlike if not divine ... sculptured in perfect beauty '^^^ — a lordly race,
destined by nature to kingship and mastery.

We see that the two fundamental functions of the philosopher king are
analogous: he has to copy the divine original of the city, and he has to
copy the divine original of man. He is the only one who is able, and who
has the urge, 'to realize, in the individual as well as in the city, his
heavenly vision'—.

Now we can understand why Plato drops his first hint that a more than
ordinary excellence is needed in his rulers in the same place where he
first claims that the principles of animal breeding must be applied to the
race of men. We are, he says, most careful in breeding animals. 'If you
did not breed them in this way, don't you think that the race of your birds
or your dogs would quickly degenerate?' When inferring from this that
man must be bred in the same careful way, 'Socrates' exclaims: 'Good
heavens! ... What surpassing excellence we shall have to demand from

our rulers, if the same principles apply to the race of men!'— This
exclamation is significant; it is one of the first hints that the rulers may
constitute a class of 'surpassing excellence' with status and training of
their own; and it thus prepares us for the demand that they ought to be
philosophers. But the passage is even more significant in so far as it
directly leads to Plato's demand that it must be the duty of the rulers, as
doctors of the race of men, to administer lies and deception. Lies are
necessary, Plato asserts, 'if your herd is to reach highest perfection'; for
this needs 'arrangements that must be kept secret from all but the rulers,
if we wish to keep the herd of guardians really free from disunion'.
Indeed, the appeal (quoted above) to the rulers for more courage in
administering lies as a medicine is made in this connection; it prepares
the reader for the next demand, considered by Plato as particularly
important. He decrees— that the rulers should fabricate, for the purpose
of mating the young auxiliaries, 'an ingenious system of balloting, so that
the persons who have been disappointed . . . may blame their bad luck, and
not the rulers', who are, secretly, to engineer the ballot. And immediately
after this despicable advice for dodging the admission of responsibility
(by putting it into the mouth of Socrates, Plato libels his great teacher),
'Socrates' makes a suggestion— which is soon taken up and elaborated by
Glaucon and which we may therefore call the Glauconic Edict. I mean the
brutal law— which imposes on everybody of either sex the duty of
submitting, for the duration of a war, to the wishes of the brave: 'As long
as the war lasts, ... nobody may say "No" to him. Accordingly, if a
soldier wishes to make love to anybody, whether male or female, this law
will make him more eager to carry off the price of valour.' The state, it is
carefully pointed out, will thereby obtain two distinct benefits — more
heroes, owing to the incitement, and again more heroes, owing to the
increased numbers of children from heroes. (The latter benefit, as the
most important one from the point of view of a long-term racial policy, is

put into the mouth of 'Socrates'.)

VII

No special philosophical training is required for this kind of breeding.
Philosophical breeding, however, plays its main part in counteracting the
dangers of degeneration. In order to fight these dangers, a fully qualified
philosopher is needed, i.e. one who is trained in pure mathematics
(including solid geometry), pure astronomy, pure harmonics, and, the
crowning achievement of all, in dialectics. Only he who knows the secrets
of mathematical eugenics, of the Platonic Number, can bring back to
man, and preserve for him, the happiness enjoyed before the Fall—. All
this should be borne in mind when, after the announcement of the
Glauconic Edict (and after an interlude dealing with the natural
distinction between Greeks and Barbarians, corresponding, according to
Plato, to that between masters and slaves), the doctrine is enunciated
which Plato carefully marks as his central and most sensational political
demand — the sovereignty of the philosopher king. This demand alone, he
teaches, can put an end to the evils of social life; to the evil rampant in
states, i.Q. political instability, as well as to its more hidden cause, the
evil rampant in the members of the race of men, i.e. racial degeneration.
This is the passage.—

'Well,' says Socrates, 'I am now about to dive into that topic which I
compared before to the greatest wave of all. Yet I must speak, even
though I foresee that this will bring upon me a deluge of laughter. Indeed,
I can see it now, this very wave, breaking over my head into an uproar of
laughter and defamation ...' — 'Out with the story!' says Glaucon.
'Unless,' says Socrates, 'unless, in their cities, philosophers are vested

with the might of kings, or those now called kings and oligarchs become
genuine and fully qualified philosophers; and unless these two, political
might and philosophy, are fused (while the many who nowadays follow
their natural inclination for only one of these two are suppressed by
force), unless this happens, my dear Glaucon, there can be no rest; and
the evil will not cease to be rampant in the cities — nor, I believe, in the
race of men.' (To which Kant wisely replied: 'That kings should become
philosophers, or philosophers kings, is not likely to happen; nor would it
be desirable, since the possession of power invariably debases the free
judgement of reason. It is, however, indispensable that a king — or a
kingly, i.e. self-ruling, people — should not suppress philosophers but
leave them the right of public utterance.'—)

This important Platonic passage has been quite appropriately described
as the key to the whole work. Its last words, 'nor, I believe, in the race of
men', are, I think, an afterthought of comparatively minor importance in
this place. It is, however, necessary to comment upon them, since the
habit of idealizing Plato has led to the interpretation— that Plato speaks
here about 'humanity', extending his promise of salvation from the scope
of the cities to that of 'mankind as a whole'. It must be said, in this
connection, that the ethical category of 'humanity' as something that
transcends the distinction of nations, races, and classes, is entirely
foreign to Plato. In fact, we have sufficient evidence of Plato's hostility
towards the equalitarian creed, a hostility which is seen in his attitude
towards Antisthenes— , an old disciple and friend of Socrates. Antisthenes
also belonged to the school of Gorgias, like Alcidamas and Lycophron,
whose equalitarian theories he seems to have extended into the doctrine
of the brotherhood of all men, and of the universal empire of men—. This
creed is attacked in the Republic by correlating the natural inequality of
Greeks and Barbarians to that of masters and slaves; and it so happens
that this attack is launched— immediately before the key passage we are

here considering. For these and other reasons—, it seems safe to assume
that Plato, when speaking of the evil rampant in the race of men, alluded
to a theory with which his readers would be sufficiently acquainted at this
place, namely, to his theory that the welfare of the state depends,
ultimately, upon the 'nature' of the individual members of the ruling
class; and that their nature, and the nature of their race, or offspring, is
threatened, in turn, by the evils of an individualistic education, and, more
important still, by racial degeneration. Plato's remark, with its clear
allusion to the opposition between divine rest and the evil of change and
decay, fore-shadows the story of the Number and the Fall of Man— .

It is very appropriate that Plato should allude to his racialism in this
key passage in which he enunciates his most important political demand.
For without the 'genuine and fully qualified philosopher', trained in all
those sciences which are prerequisite to eugenics, the state is lost. In his
story of the Number and the Fall of Man, Plato tells us that one of the
first and fatal sins of omission committed by the degenerate guardians
will be their loss of interest in eugenics, in watching and testing the
purity of the race: 'Hence rulers will be ordained who are altogether unfit
for their task as guardians; namely, to watch, and to test, the metals in the
races (which are Hesiod's races as well as yours), gold and silver and
bronze and iron.'—

It is ignorance of the mysterious nuptial Number which leads to all
that. But the Number was undoubtedly Plato's own invention. (It
presupposes pure harmonics, which in turn presupposes solid geometry, a
new science at the time when the Republic was written.) Thus we see that
nobody but Plato himself knew the secret of, and held the key to, true
guardianship. But this can mean only one thing. The philosopher king is
Plato himself, and the Republic is Plato's own claim for kingly power —
to the power which he thought his due, uniting in himself, as he did, both
the claims of the philosopher and of the descendant and legitimate heir of

Codrus the martyr, the last of Athens' kings, who, according to Plato, had
sacrificed himself 'in order to preserve the kingdom for his children'.

VIII

Once this conclusion has been reached, many things which otherwise
would remain unrelated become connected and clear. It can hardly be
doubted, for instance, that Plato's work, full of allusions as it is to
contemporary problems and characters, was meant by its author not so
much as a theoretical treatise, but as a topical political manifesto. 'We do
Plato the gravest of wrongs', says A. E. Taylor, 'if we forget that the
Republic is no mere collection of theoretical discussions about
government . . . but a serious project of practical reform put forward by an
Athenian set on fire, like Shelley, with a "passion for reforming the
world".'— This is undoubtedly true, and we could have concluded from
this consideration alone that, in describing his philosopher kings, Plato
must have thought of some of the contemporary philosophers. But in the
days when thQ Republic was written, there were in Athens only three
outstanding men who might have claimed to be philosophers:
Antisthenes, Isocrates, and Plato himself. If we approach thQ Republic
with this in mind, we find at once that, in the discussion of the
characteristics of the philosopher kings, there is a lengthy passage which
is clearly marked out by Plato as containing personal allusions. It
begins— with an unmistakable allusion to a popular character, namely
Alcibiades, and ends by openly mentioning a name (that of Theages), and
with a reference of 'Socrates' to himself—. Its upshot is that only very
few can be described as true philosophers, eligible for the post of
philosopher king. The nobly born Alcibiades, who was of the right type.

deserted philosophy, in spite of Socrates' attempts to save him. Deserted
and defenceless, philosophy was claimed by unworthy suitors.
Ultimately, 'there is left only a handful of men who are worthy of being
associated with philosophy' . From the point of view we have reached, we
would have to expect that the 'unworthy suitors' are Antisthenes and
Isocrates and their school (and that they are the same people whom Plato
demands to have 'suppressed by force', as he says in the key passage of
the philosopher king). And, indeed, there is some independent evidence
corroborating this expectation—. Similarly, we should expect that the
'handful of men who are worthy' includes Plato and, perhaps, some of his
friends (possibly Dio); and, indeed, a continuation of this passage leaves
little doubt that Plato speaks here of himself: 'He who belongs to this
small band ... can see the madness of the many, and the general
corruption of all public affairs. The philosopher ... is like a man in a cage
of wild beasts. He will not share the injustice of the many, but his power
does not suffice for continuing his fight alone, surrounded as he is by a
world of savages. He would be killed before he could do any good, to his
city or to his friends . . . Having duly considered all these points, he will
hold his peace, and confine his efforts to his own work ...'—. The strong
resentment expressed in these sour and most un-Socratic— words marks
them clearly as Plato's own. For a full appreciation, however, of this
personal confession, it must be compared with the following: 'It is not in
accordance with nature that the skilled navigator should beg the unskilled
sailors to accept his command; nor that the wise man should wait at the
doors of the rich . . . But the true and natural procedure is that the sick,
whether rich or poor, should hasten to the doctor's door. Likewise should
those who need to be ruled besiege the door of him who can rule; and
never should a ruler beg them to accept his rule, if he is any good at all.'
Who can miss the sound of an immense personal pride in this passage?
Here am I, says Plato, your natural ruler, the philosopher king who knows

how to rule. If you want me, you must come to me, and if you insist, I
may become your ruler. But I shall not come begging to you.

Did he believe that they would come? Like many great works of
literature, the Republic shows traces that its author experienced
exhilarating and extravagant hopes of success—, alternating with periods
of despair. Sometimes, at least, Plato hoped that they would come; that
the success of his work, the fame of his wisdom, would bring them along.
Then again, he felt that they would only be incited to furious attacks; that
all he would bring upon himself was 'an uproar of laughter and
defamation' — ^perhaps even death.

Was he ambitious? He was reaching for the stars — for god-likeness. I
sometimes wonder whether part of the enthusiasm for Plato is not due to
the fact that he gave expression to many secret dreams—. Even where he
argues against ambition, we cannot but feel that he is inspired by it. The
philosopher, he assures us—, is not ambitious; although 'destined to rule,
he is the least eager for it'. But the reason given is — that his status is too
high. He who has had communion with the divine may descend from his
heights to the mortals below, sacrificing himself for the sake of the
interest of the state. He is not eager; but as a natural ruler and saviour, he
is ready to come. The poor mortals need him. Without him the state must
perish, for he alone knows the secret of how to preserve it — the secret of
arresting degeneration.

I think we must face the fact that behind the sovereignty of the
philosopher king stands the quest for power. The beautiful portrait of the
sovereign is a self-portrait. When we have recovered from the shock of
this finding, we may look anew at the awe-inspiring portrait; and if we
can fortify ourselves with a small dose of Socrates' irony then we may
cease to find it so terrifying. We may begin to discern its human, indeed,
its only too human features. We may even begin to feel a little sorry for
Plato, who had to be satisfied with establishing the first professorship.

instead of the first kingship, of philosophy; who could never realize his
dream, the kingly Idea which he had formed after his own image.
Fortified by our dose of irony, we may even find, in Plato's story, a
melancholy resemblance to that innocent and unconscious little satire on
Platonism, the story of the Ugly Dachshund, of Tono, the Great Dane,
who forms his kingly Idea of 'Great Dog' after his own image (but who
happily finds in the end that he is Great Dog himself)—.

What a monument of human smallness is this idea of the philosopher
king. What a contrast between it and the simplicity and humaneness of
Socrates, who warned the statesman against the danger of being dazzled
by his own power, excellence, and wisdom, and who tried to teach him
what matters most — that we are all frail human beings. What a decline
from this world of irony and reason and truthfulness down to Plato's
kingdom of the sage whose magical powers raise him high above
ordinary men; although not quite high enough to forgo the use of lies, or
to neglect the sorry trade of every shaman — the selling of spells, of
breeding spells, in exchange for power over his fellow-men.

Aestheticism, Perfectionism,
Utopianism

'Everything has got to be smashed to start with. Our whole damned civilization has got to
go, before we can bring any decency into the world.'

'Mourlan', in Du Gard'S Les Thibaults.

Inherent in Plato's programme there is a certain approach towards
politics which, I believe, is most dangerous. Its analysis is of great
practical importance from the point of view of rational social
engineering. The Platonic approach I have in mind can be described as
that of Utopian engineering, as opposed to another kind of social
engineering which I consider as the only rational one, and which may be
described by the name of piecemeal engineering. The Utopian approach is
the more dangerous as it may seem to be the obvious alternative to an
out-and-out historicism — ^to a radically historicist approach which
implies that we cannot alter the course of history; at the same time, it
appears to be a necessary complement to a less radical historicism, like
that of Plato, which permits human interference.

The Utopian approach may be described as follows. Any rational action
must have a certain aim. It is rational in the same degree as it pursues its
aim consciously and consistently, and as it determines its means
according to this end. To choose the end is therefore the first thing we
have to do if we wish to act rationally; and we must be careful to

determine our real or ultimate ends, from which we must distinguish
clearly those intermediate or partial ends which actually are only means,
or steps on the way, to the ultimate end. If we neglect this distinction,
then we must also neglect to ask whether these partial ends are likely to
promote the ultimate end, and accordingly, we must fail to act rationally.
These principles, if applied to the realm of political activity, demand that
we must determine our ultimate political aim, or the Ideal State, before
taking any practical action. Only when this ultimate aim is determined, in
rough outline at least, only when we are in possession of something like a
blueprint of the society at which we aim, only then can we begin to
consider the best ways and means for its realization, and to draw up a
plan for practical action. These are the necessary preliminaries of any
practical political move that can be called rational, and especially of
social engineering.

This, in brief, is the methodological approach which I call Utopian
engineering-. It is convincing and attractive. In fact, it is just the kind of
methodological approach to attract all those who are either unaffected by
historicist prejudices or reacting against them. This makes it only the
more dangerous, and its criticism the more imperative.

Before proceeding to criticize Utopian engineering in detail, I wish to
outline another approach to social engineering, namely, that of piecemeal
engineering. It is an approach which I think to be methodologically
sound. The politician who adopts this method may or may not have a
blueprint of society before his mind, he may or may not hope that
mankind will one day realize an ideal state, and achieve happiness and
perfection on earth. But he will be aware that perfection, if at all
attainable, is far distant, and that every generation of men, and therefore
also the living, have a claim; perhaps not so much a claim to be made
happy, for there are no institutional means of making a man happy, but a
claim not to be made unhappy, where it can be avoided. They have a

claim to be given all possible help, if they suffer. The piecemeal engineer
will, accordingly, adopt the method of searching for, and fighting against,
the greatest and most urgent evils of society, rather than searching for,
and fighting for, its greatest ultimate good-. This difference is far from
being merely verbal. In fact, it is most important. It is the difference
between a reasonable method of improving the lot of man, and a method
which, if really tried, may easily lead to an intolerable increase in human
suffering. It is the difference between a method which can be applied at
any moment, and a method whose advocacy may easily become a means
of continually postponing action until a later date, when conditions are
more favourable. And it is also the difference between the only method of
improving matters which has so far been really successful, at any time,
and in any place (Russia included, as will be seen), and a method which,
wherever it has been tried, has led only to the use of violence in place of
reason, and if not to its own abandonment, at any rate to that of its
original blueprint.

In favour of his method, the piecemeal engineer can claim that a
systematic fight against suffering and injustice and war is more likely to
be supported by the approval and agreement of a great number of people
than the fight for the establishment of some ideal. The existence of social
evils, that is to say, of social conditions under which many men are
suffering, can be comparatively well established. Those who suffer can
judge for themselves, and the others can hardly deny that they would not
like to change places. It is infinitely more difficult to reason about an
ideal society. Social life is so complicated that few men, or none at all,
could judge a blueprint for social engineering on the grand scale; whether
it be practicable; whether it would result in a real improvement; what
kind of suffering it may involve; and what may be the means for its
realization. As opposed to this, blueprints for piecemeal engineering are
comparatively simple. They are blueprints for single institutions, for

health and unemployed insurance, for instance, or arbitration courts, or
anti-depression budgeting-, or educational reform. If they go wrong, the
damage is not very great, and a re-adjustment not very difficult. They are
less risky, and for this very reason less controversial. But if it is easier to
reach a reasonable agreement about existing evils and the means of
combating them than it is about an ideal good and the means of its
realization, then there is also more hope that by using the piecemeal
method we may get over the very greatest practical difficulty of all
reasonable political reform, namely, the use of reason, instead of passion
and violence, in executing the programme. There will be a possibility of
reaching a reasonable compromise and therefore of achieving the
improvement by democratic methods. ('Compromise' is an ugly word,
but it is important for us to learn its proper use. Institutions are inevitably
the result of a compromise with circumstances, interests, etc., though as
persons we should resist influences of this kind.)

As opposed to that, the Utopian attempt to realize an ideal state, using
a blueprint of society as a whole, is one which demands a strong
centralized rule of a few, and which therefore is likely to lead to a
dictatorship-. This I consider a criticism of the Utopian approach; for I
have tried to show, in the chapter on the Principle of Leadership, that an
authoritarian rule is a most objectionable form of government. Some
points not touched upon in that chapter furnish us with even more direct
arguments against the Utopian approach. One of the difficulties faced by
a benevolent dictator is to find whether the effects of his measures agree
with his good intentions (as de Tocqueville saw clearly more than a
hundred years ago-). The difficulty arises out of the fact that
authoritarianism must discourage criticism; accordingly, the benevolent
dictator will not easily hear of complaints concerning the measures he
has taken. But without some such check, he can hardly find out whether
his measures achieve the desired benevolent aim. The situation must

become even worse for the Utopian engineer. The reconstruction of
society is a big undertaking which must cause considerable
inconvenience to many, and for a considerable span of time. Accordingly,
the Utopian engineer will have to be deaf to many complaints; in fact, it
will be part of his business to suppress unreasonable objections. (He will
say, like Lenin, 'You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.')
But with it, he must invariably suppress reasonable criticism also.
Another difficulty of Utopian engineering is related to the problem of the
dictator's successor. In chapter 7 I have mentioned certain aspects of this
problem. Utopian engineering raises a difficulty analogous to but even
more serious than the one which faces the benevolent tyrant who tries to
find an equally benevolent successor (see note 25 to chapter 7). The very
sweep of such a Utopian undertaking makes it improbable that it will
realize its ends during the lifetime of one social engineer, or group of
engineers. And if the successors do not pursue the same ideal, then all the
sufferings of the people for the sake of the ideal may have been in vain.

A generalization of this argument leads to a further criticism of the
Utopian approach. This approach, it is clear, can be of practical value
only if we assume that the original blueprint, perhaps with certain
adjustments, remains the basis of the work until it is completed. But that
will take some time. It will be a time of revolutions, both political and
spiritual, and of new experiments and experience in the political field. It
is therefore to be expected that ideas and ideals will change. What had
appeared the ideal state to the people who made the original blueprint,
may not appear so to their successors. If that is granted, then the whole
approach breaks down. The method of first establishing an ultimate
political aim and then beginning to move towards it is futile if we admit
that the aim may be considerably changed during the process of its
realization. It may at any moment turn out that the steps so far taken
actually lead away from the realization of the new aim. And if we change

our direction according to the new aim, then we expose ourselves to the
same risk again. In spite of all the sacrifices made, we may never get
anywhere at all. Those who prefer one step towards a distant ideal to the
realization of a piecemeal compromise should always remember that if
the ideal is very distant, it may even become difficult to say whether the
step taken was towards or away from it. This is especially so if the course
should proceed by zigzag steps, or, in Hegel's jargon, 'dialectically', or if
it is not clearly planned at all. (This bears upon the old and somewhat
childish question of how far the end can justify the means. Apart from
claiming that no end could ever justify all means, I think that a fairly
concrete and realizable end may justify temporary measures which a
more distant ideal never could-.)

We see now that the Utopian approach can be saved only by the
Platonic belief in one absolute and unchanging ideal, together with two
further assumptions, namely (a) that there are rational methods to
determine once and for all what this ideal is, and (b) what the best means
of its realization are. Only such far-reaching assumptions could prevent
us from declaring the Utopian methodology to be utterly futile. But even
Plato himself and the most ardent Platonists would admit that (a) is
certainly not true; that there is no rational method for determining the
ultimate aim, but, if anything, only some kind of intuition. Any
difference of opinion between Utopian engineers must therefore lead, in
the absence of rational methods, to the use of power instead of reason, i.e.
to violence. If any progress in any definite direction is made at all, then it
is made in spite of the method adopted, not because of it. The success
may be due, for instance, to the excellence of the leaders; but we must
never forget that excellent leaders cannot be produced by rational
methods, but only by luck.

It is important to understand this criticism properly; I do not criticize
the ideal by claiming that an ideal can never be realized, that it must

always remain a Utopia. This would not be a valid criticism, for many
things have been realized which have once been dogmatically declared to
be unrealizable, for instance, the establishment of institutions for
securing civil peace, i.e. for the prevention of crime within the state; and
I think that, for instance, the establishment of corresponding institutions
for the prevention of international crime, i.e. armed aggression or
blackmail, though often branded as Utopian, is not even a very difficult
problem-. What I criticize under the name Utopian engineering
recommends the reconstruction of society as a whole, i.e. very sweeping
changes whose practical consequences are hard to calculate, owing to our
limited experiences. It claims to plan rationally for the whole of society,
although we do not possess anything like the factual knowledge which
would be necessary to make good such an ambitious claim. We cannot
possess such knowledge since we have insufficient practical experience
in this kind of planning, and knowledge of facts must be based upon
experience. At present, the sociological knowledge necessary for large-
scale engineering is simply non-existent.

In view of this criticism, the Utopian engineer is likely to grant the
need for practical experience, and for a social technology based upon
practical experiences. But he will argue that we shall never know more
about these matters if we recoil from making social experiments which
alone can furnish us with the practical experience needed. And he might
add that Utopian engineering is nothing but the application of the
experimental method to society. Experiments cannot be carried out
without involving sweeping changes. They must be on a large scale,
owing to the peculiar character of modern society with its great masses of
people. An experiment in socialism, for instance, if confined to a factory,
or to a village, or even to a district, would never give us the kind of
realistic information which we need so urgently.

Such arguments in favour of Utopian engineering exhibit a prejudice

which is as widely held as it is untenable, namely, the prejudice that
social experiments must be on a 'large scale', that they must involve the
whole of society if they are to be carried out under realistic conditions.
But piecemeal social experiments can be carried out under realistic
conditions, in the midst of society, in spite of being on a 'small scale',
that is to say, without revolutionizing the whole of society. In fact, we are
making such experiments all the time. The introduction of a new kind of
life-insurance, of a new kind of taxation, of a new penal reform, are all
social experiments which have their repercussions through the whole of
society without remodelling society as a whole. Even a man who opens a
new shop, or who reserves a ticket for the theatre, is carrying out a kind
of social experiment on a small scale; and all our knowledge of social
conditions is based on experience gained by making experiments of this
kind. The Utopian engineer we are opposing is right when he stresses that
an experiment in socialism would be of little value if carried out under
laboratory conditions, for instance, in an isolated village, since what we
want to know is how things work out in society under normal social
conditions. But this very example shows where the prejudice of the
Utopian engineer lies. He is convinced that we must recast the whole
structure of society, when we experiment with it; and he can therefore
conceive a more modest experiment only as one that recasts the whole
structure of a small society. But the kind of experiment from which we
can learn most is the alteration of one social institution at a time. For
only in this way can we learn how to fit institutions into the framework of
other institutions, and how to adjust them so that they work according to
our intentions. And only in this way can we make mistakes, and learn
from our mistakes, without risking repercussions of a gravity that must
endanger the will to future reforms. Furthermore, the Utopian method
must lead to a dangerous dogmatic attachment to a blueprint for which
countless sacrifices have been made. Powerful interests must become

linked up with the success of the experiment. All this does not contribute
to the rationality, or to the scientific value, of the experiment. But the
piecemeal method permits repeated experiments and continuous
readjustments. In fact, it might lead to the happy situation where
politicians begin to look out for their own mistakes instead of trying to
explain them away and to prove that they have always been right. This —
and not Utopian planning or historical prophecy — would mean the
introduction of scientific method into politics, since the whole secret of
scientific method is a readiness to learn from mistakes-.

These views can be corroborated, I believe, by comparing social and,
for instance, mechanical engineering. The Utopian engineer will of
course claim that mechanical engineers sometimes plan even very
complicated machinery as a whole, and that their blueprints may cover,
and plan in advance, not only a certain kind of machinery, but even the
whole factory which produces this machinery. My reply would be that the
mechanical engineer can do all this because he has sufficient experience
at his disposal, i.e. theories developed by trial and error. But this means
that he can plan because he has made all kinds of mistakes already; or in
other words, because he relies on experience which he has gained by
applying piecemeal methods. His new machinery is the result of a great
many small improvements. He usually has a model first, and only after a
great number of piecemeal adjustments to its various parts does he
proceed to a stage where he could draw up his final plans for the
production. Similarly, his plan for the production of his machine
incorporates a great number of experiences, namely, of piecemeal
improvements made in older factories. The wholesale or large-scale
method works only where the piecemeal method has furnished us first
with a great number of detailed experiences, and even then only within
the realm of these experiences. Few manufacturers would be prepared to
proceed to the production of a new engine on the basis of a blueprint

alone, even if it were drawn up by the greatest expert, without first
making a model and 'developing' it by little adjustments as far as
possible.

It is perhaps useful to contrast this criticism of Platonic Idealism in
politics with Marx's criticism of what he calls 'Utopianism'. What is
common to Marx's criticism and mine is that both demand more realism.
We both believe that Utopian plans will never be realized in the way they
were conceived, because hardly any social action ever produces precisely
the result expected. (This does not, in my opinion, invalidate the
piecemeal approach, because here we may learn — or rather, we ought to
learn — and change our views, while we act.) But there are many
differences. In arguing against Utopianism, Marx condemns in fact all
social engineering — a point which is rarely understood. He denounces the
faith in a rational planning of social institutions as altogether unrealistic,
since society must grow according to the laws of history and not
according to our rational plans. All we can do, he asserts, is to lessen the
birthpangs of the historical processes. In other words, he adopts a
radically historicist attitude, opposed to all social engineering. But there
is one element within Utopianism which is particularly characteristic of
Plato's approach and which Marx does not oppose, although it is perhaps
the most important of those elements which I have attacked as
unrealistic. It is the sweep of Utopianism, its attempt to deal with society
as a whole, leaving no stone unturned. It is the conviction that one has to
go to the very root of the social evil, that nothing short of a complete
eradication of the offending social system will do if we wish to 'bring
any decency into the world' (as Du Gard says). It is, in short, its
uncompromising radicalism. (The reader will notice that I am using this
term in its original and literal sense — not in the now customary sense of a
'liberal progressivism', but in order to characterize an attitude of 'going
to the root of the matter'.) Both Plato and Marx are dreaming of the

apocalyptic revolution which will radically transfigure the whole social
world.

This sweep, this extreme radicalism of the Platonic approach (and of
the Marxian as well) is, I believe, connected with its aestheticism, i.e.
with the desire to build a world which is not only a little better and more
rational than ours, but which is free from all its ugliness: not a crazy
quilt, an old garment badly patched, but an entirely new gown, a really
beautiful new world-. This aestheticism is a very understandable attitude;
in fact, I believe most of us suffer a little from such dreams of perfection.
(Some reasons why we do so will, I hope, emerge from the next chapter.)
But this aesthetic enthusiasm becomes valuable only if it is bridled by
reason, by a feeling of responsibility, and by a humanitarian urge to help.
Otherwise it is a dangerous enthusiasm, liable to develop into a form of
neurosis or hysteria.

Nowhere do we find this aestheticism more strongly expressed than in
Plato. Plato was an artist; and like many of the best artists, he tried to
visualize a model, the 'divine original' of his work, and to 'copy' it
faithfully. A good number of the quotations given in the last chapter
illustrate this point. What Plato describes as dialectics is, in the main, the
intellectual intuition of the world of pure beauty. His trained philosophers
are men who 'have seen the truth of what is beautiful and just, and
good'—, and can bring it down from heaven to earth. Politics, to Plato, is
the Royal Art. It is an art — not in a metaphorical sense in which we may
speak about the art of handling men, or the art of getting things done, but
in a more literal sense of the word. It is an art of composition, like music,
painting, or architecture. The Platonic politician composes cities, for
beauty's sake.

But here I must protest. I do not believe that human lives may be made
the means for satisfying an artist's desire for self-expression. We must
demand, rather, that every man should be given, if he wishes, the right to

model his life himself, as far as this does not interfere too much with
others. Much as I may sympathize with the aesthetic impulse, I suggest
that the artist might seek expression in another material. Politics, I
demand, must uphold equalitarian and individualistic principles; dreams
of beauty have to submit to the necessity of helping men in distress, and
men who suffer injustice; and to the necessity of constructing institutions
to serve such purposes—.

It is interesting to observe the close relationship between Plato's utter
radicalism, the demand for sweeping measures, and his aestheticism. The
following passages are most characteristic. Plato, speaking about 'the
philosopher who has communion with the divine', mentions first that he
will be 'overwhelmed by the urge ... to realize his heavenly vision in
individuals as well as in the city', — a city which 'will never know
happiness unless its draughtsmen are artists who have the divine as their
model'. Asked about the details of their draughtsmanship, Plato's
'Socrates' gives the following striking reply: 'They will take as their
canvas a city and the characters of men, and they will, first of all, make
their canvas clean — ^by no means an easy matter. But this is just the
point, you know, where they will differ from all others. They will not
start work on a city nor on an individual (nor will they draw up laws)
unless they are given a clean canvas, or have cleaned it themselves.'—

The kind of thing Plato has in mind when he speaks of canvas-cleaning
is explained a little later. 'How can that be done?' asks Glaucon. 'All
citizens above the age of ten', Socrates answers, 'must be expelled from
the city and deported somewhere into the country; and the children who
are now free from the influence of the manners and habits of their parents
must be taken over. They must be educated in the ways [of true
philosophy], and according to the laws, which we have described.' (The
philosophers are not, of course, among the citizens to be expelled: they
remain as educators, and so do, presumably, those non-citizens who must

keep them going.) In the same spirit, Plato says in the Statesman of the
royal rulers who rule in accordance with the Royal Science of
Statesmanship: 'Whether they happen to rule by law or without law, over
willing or unwilling subjects; ... and whether they purge the state for its
good, by killing or by deporting [or 'banishing'] some of its citizens . . . —
so long as they proceed according to science and justice, and preserve . . .
the state and make it better than it was, this form of government must be
declared the only one that is right.'

This is the way in which the artist-politician must proceed. This is
what canvas-cleaning means. He must eradicate the existing institutions
and traditions. He must purify, purge, expel, banish, and kill. ('Liquidate'
is the terrible modern term for it.) Plato's statement is indeed a true
description of the uncompromising attitude of all forms of out-and-out
radicalism — of the aestheticist's refusal to compromise. The view that
society should be beautiful like a work of art leads only too easily to
violent measures. But all this radicalism and violence is both unrealistic
and futile. (This has been shown by the example of Russia's
development. After the economic breakdown to which the canvas-
cleaning of the so-called 'war communism' had led, Lenin introduced his
'New Economic Policy', in fact a kind of piecemeal engineering, though
without the conscious formulation of its principles or of a technology. He
started by restoring most of the features of the picture which had been
eradicated with so much human suffering. Money, markets,
differentiation of income, and private property — for a time even private
enterprise in production — ^were reintroduced, and only after this basis was
re-established began a new period of reform—.)

In order to criticize the foundations of Plato's aesthetic radicalism, we
may distinguish two different points.

The first is this. What some people have in mind who speak of our
'social system', and of the need to replace it by another 'system', is very

similar to a picture painted on a canvas which has to be wiped clean
before one can paint a new one. But there are some great differences. One
of them is that the painter and those who co-operate with him as well as
the institutions which make their life possible, his dreams and plans for a
better world, and his standards of decency and morality, are all part of the
social system, i.e. of the picture to be wiped out. If they were really to
clean the canvas, they would have to destroy themselves, and their
Utopian plans. (And what follows then would probably not be a beautiful
copy of a Platonic ideal but chaos.) The political artist clamours, like
Archimedes, for a place outside the social world on which he can take his
stand, in order to lever it off its hinges. But such a place does not exist;
and the social world must continue to function during any reconstruction.
This is the simple reason why we must reform its institutions little by
little, until we have more experience in social engineering.

This leads us to the more important second point, to the irrationalism
which is inherent in radicalism. In all matters, we can only learn by trial
and error, by making mistakes and improvements; we can never rely on
inspiration, although inspirations may be most valuable as long as they
can be checked by experience. Accordingly, it is not reasonable to
assume that a complete reconstruction of our social world would lead at
once to a workable system. Rather we should expect that, owing to lack of
experience, many mistakes would be made which could be eliminated
only by a long and laborious process of small adjustments; in other
words, by that rational method of piecemeal engineering whose
application we advocate. But those who dislike this method as
insufficiently radical would have again to wipe out their freshly
constructed society, in order to start anew with a clean canvas; and since
the new start, for the same reasons, would not lead to perfection either,
they would have to repeat this process without ever getting anywhere.
Those who admit this and are prepared to adopt our more modest method

of piecemeal improvements, but only after the first radical canvas-
cleaning, can hardly escape the criticism that their first sweeping and
violent measures were quite unnecessary.

Aestheticism and radicalism must lead us to jettison reason, and to
replace it by a desperate hope for political miracles. This irrational
attitude which springs from an intoxication with dreams of a beautiful
world is what I call Romanticism—. It may seek its heavenly city in the
past or in the future; it may preach 'back to nature' or 'forward to a world
of love and beauty' ; but its appeal is always to our emotions rather than
to reason. Even with the best intentions of making heaven on earth it only
succeeds in making it a hell — that hell which man alone prepares for his
fellow-men.

The Background of Plato's Attack

The Open Society and its Enemies

He will restore us to our original nature, and heal us, and make us happy and blessed.

Plato.

There is still something missing from our analysis. The contention that
Plato's political programme is purely totalitarian, and the objections to
this contention which were raised in chapter 6, have led us to examine the
part played, within this programme, by such moral ideas as Justice,
Wisdom, Truth, and Beauty. The result of this examination was always
the same. We found that the role of these ideas is important, but that they
do not lead Plato beyond totalitarianism and racialism. But one of these
ideas we have still to examine: that of Happiness. It may be remembered
that we quoted Grossman in connection with the belief that Plato's
political programme is fundamentally a 'plan for the building of a perfect
state in which every citizen is really happy', and that I described this
belief as a relic of the tendency to idealize Plato. If called upon to justify
my opinion, I should not have much difficulty in pointing out that Plato's
treatment of happiness is exactly analogous to his treatment of justice;
and especially, that it is based upon the same belief that society is 'by
nature' divided into classes or castes. True happiness-, Plato insists, is
achieved only by justice, i.e. by keeping one's place. The ruler must find
happiness in ruling, the warrior in warring; and, we may infer, the slave
in slaving. Apart from that, Plato says frequently that what he is aiming

at is neither the happiness of individuals nor that of any particular class
in the state, but only the happiness of the whole, and this, he argues, is
nothing but the outcome of that rule of justice which I have shown to be
totalitarian in character. That only this justice can lead to any true
happiness is one of the main theses of the Republic.

In view of all this, it seems to be a consistent and hardly refutable
interpretation of the material to present Plato as a totalitarian party-
politician, unsuccessful in his immediate and practical undertakings, but
in the long run only too successful- in his propaganda for the arrest and
overthrow of a civilization which he hated. But one only has to put the
matter in this blunt fashion in order to feel that there is something
seriously amiss with this interpretation. At any rate, so I felt, when I had
formulated it. I felt perhaps not so much that it was untrue, but that it was
defective. I therefore began to search for evidence which would refute
this interpretation-. However, in every point but one, this attempt to
refute my interpretation was quite unsuccessful. The new material made
the identity between Platonism and totalitarianism only the more
manifest.

The one point in which I felt that my search for a refutation had
succeeded concerned Plato's hatred of tyranny. Of course, there was
always the possibility of explaining this away. It would have been easy to
say that his indictment of tyranny was mere propaganda. Totalitarianism
often professes a love for 'true' freedom, and Plato's praise of freedom as
opposed to tyranny sounds exactly like this professed love. In spite of
this, I felt that certain of his observations on tyranny-, which will be
mentioned later in this chapter, were sincere. The fact, of course, that
'tyranny' usually meant in Plato's day a form of rule based on the support
of the masses made it possible to claim that Plato's hatred of tyranny was
consistent with my original interpretation. But I felt that this did not
remove the need for modifying my interpretation. I also felt that the mere

emphasis on Plato's fundamental sincerity was quite insufficient to
accomplish this modification. No amount of emphasis could offset the
general impression of the picture. A new picture was needed which would
have to include Plato's sincere belief in his mission as healer of the sick
social body, as well as the fact that he had seen more clearly than
anybody else before or after him what was happening to Greek society.
Since the attempt to reject the identity of Platonism and totalitarianism
had not improved the picture, I was ultimately forced to modify my
interpretation of totalitarianism itself. In other words, my attempt to
understand Plato by analogy with modern totalitarianism led me, to my
own surprise, to modify my view of totalitarianism. It did not modify my
hostility, but it ultimately led me to see that the strength of both the old
and the new totalitarian movements rested on the fact that they attempted
to answer a very real need, however badly conceived this attempt may
have been.

In the light of my new interpretation, it appears to me that Plato's
declaration of his wish to make the state and its citizens happy is not
merely propaganda. I am ready to grant his fundamental benevolence-. I
also grant that he was right, to a limited extent, in the sociological
analysis on which he based his promise of happiness. To put this point
more precisely: I believe that Plato, with deep sociological insight, found
that his contemporaries were suffering under a severe strain, and that this
strain was due to the social revolution which had begun with the rise of
democracy and individualism. He succeeded in discovering the main
causes of their deeply rooted unhappiness — social change, and social
dissension — and he did his utmost to fight them. There is no reason to
doubt that one of his most powerful motives was to win back happiness
for the citizens. For reasons discussed later in this chapter, I believe that
the medico-political treatment which he recommended, the arrest of
change and the return to tribalism, was hopelessly wrong. But the

recommendation, though not practicable as a therapy, testifies to Plato's
power of diagnosis. It shows that he knew what was amiss, that he
understood the strain, the unhappiness, under which the people were
labouring, even though he erred in his fundamental claim that by leading
them back to tribalism he could lessen the strain, and restore their
happiness.

It is my intention to give in this chapter a very brief survey of the
historical material which induced me to hold such opinions. A few
critical remarks on the method adopted, that of historical interpretation,
will be found in the last chapter of the book. It will therefore suffice here
if I say that I do not claim scientific status for this method, since the tests
of an historical interpretation can never be as rigorous as those of an
ordinary hypothesis. The interpretation is mainly a point of view, whose
value lies in its fertility, in its power to throw light upon the historical
material, to lead us to find new material, and to help us to rationalize and
to unify it. What I am going to say here is therefore not meant as a
dogmatic assertion, however boldly I may perhaps sometimes express my
opinions.

Our Western civilization originated with the Greeks. They were, it seems,
the first to make the step from tribalism to humanitarianism. Let us
consider what that means.

The early Greek tribal society resembles in many respects that of
peoples like the Polynesians, the Maoris for instance. Small bands of
warriors, usually living in fortified settlements, ruled by tribal chiefs or
kings, or by aristocratic families, were waging war against one another on

sea as well as on land. There were, of course, many differences between
the Greek and the Polynesian ways of life, for there is, admittedly, no
uniformity in tribalism. There is no standardized 'tribal way of life'. It
seems to me, however, that there are some characteristics that can be
found in most, if not all, of these tribal societies. I mean their magical or
irrational attitude towards the customs of social life, and the
corresponding rigidity of these customs.

The magical attitude towards social custom has been discussed before.
Its main element is the lack of distinction between the customary or
conventional regularities of social life and the regularities found in
'nature'; and this often goes together with the belief that both are
enforced by a supernatural will. The rigidity of the social customs is
probably in most cases only another aspect of the same attitude. (There
are some reasons to believe that this aspect is even more primitive, and
that the supernatural belief is a kind of rationalization of the fear of
changing a routine — a fear which we can find in very young children.)
When I speak of the rigidity of tribalism I do not mean that no changes
can occur in the tribal ways of life. I mean rather that the comparatively
infrequent changes have the character of religious conversions or
revulsions, or of the introduction of new magical taboos. They are not
based upon a rational attempt to improve social conditions. Apart from
such changes — ^which are rare — ^taboos rigidly regulate and dominate all
aspects of life. They do not leave many loop-holes. There are few
problems in this form of life, and nothing really equivalent to moral
problems. I do not mean to say that a member of a tribe does not
sometimes need much heroism and endurance in order to act in
accordance with the taboos. What I mean is that he will rarely find
himself in the position of doubting how he ought to act. The right way is
always determined, though difficulties must be overcome in following it.
It is determined by taboos, by magical tribal institutions which can never

become objects of critical consideration. Not even a Heraclitus
distinguishes clearly between the institutional laws of tribal life and the
laws of nature; both are taken to be of the same magical character. Based
upon the collective tribal tradition, the institutions leave no room for
personal responsibility. The taboos that establish some form of group-
responsibility may be the forerunner of what we call personal
responsibility, but they are fundamentally different from it. They are not
based upon a principle of reasonable accountability, but rather upon
magical ideas, such as the idea of appeasing the powers of fate.

It is well known how much of this still survives. Our own ways of life
are still beset with taboos; food taboos, taboos of politeness, and many
others. And yet, there are some important differences. In our own way of
life there is, between the laws of the state on the one hand and the taboos
we habitually observe on the other, an ever-widening field of personal
decisions, with its problems and responsibilities; and we know the
importance of this field. Personal decisions may lead to the alteration of
taboos, and even of political laws which are no longer taboos. The great
difference is the possibility of rational reflection upon these matters.
Rational reflection begins, in a way, with Heraclitus-. With Alcmaeon,
Phaleas and Hippodamus, with Herodotus and the Sophists, the quest for
the 'best constitution' assumes, by degrees, the character of a problem
which can be rationally discussed. And in our own time, many of us make
rational decisions concerning the desirability or otherwise of new
legislation, and of other institutional changes; that is to say, decisions
based upon an estimate of possible consequences, and upon a conscious
preference for some of them. We recognize rational personal
responsibility.

In what follows, the magical or tribal or collectivist society will also
be called the closed society, and the society in which individuals are
confronted with personal decisions, the open society.

A closed society at its best can be justly compared to an organism. The
so-called organic or biological theory of the state can be applied to it to a
considerable extent. A closed society resembles a herd or a tribe in being
a semi-organic unit whose members are held together by semi-biological
ties — kinship, living together, sharing common efforts, common dangers,
common joys and common distress. It is still a concrete group of concrete
individuals, related to one another not merely by such abstract social
relationships as division of labour and exchange of commodities, but by
concrete physical relationships such as touch, smell, and sight. And
although such a society may be based on slavery, the presence of slaves
need not create a fundamentally different problem from that of
domesticated animals. Thus those aspects are lacking which make it
impossible to apply the organic theory successfully to an open society.

The aspects I have in mind are connected with the fact that, in an open
society, many members strive to rise socially, and to take the places of
other members. This may lead, for example, to such an important social
phenomenon as class struggle. We cannot find anything like class
struggle in an organism. The cells or tissues of an organism, which are
sometimes said to correspond to the members of a state, may perhaps
compete for food; but there is no inherent tendency on the part of the legs
to become the brain, or of other members of the body to become the
belly. Since there is nothing in the organism to correspond to one of the
most important characteristics of the open society, competition for status
among its members, the so-called organic theory of the state is based on a
false analogy. The closed society, on the other hand, does not know much
of such tendencies. Its institutions, including its castes, are sacrosanct —
taboo. The organic theory does not fit so badly here. It is therefore not
surprising to find that most attempts to apply the organic theory to our
society are veiled forms of propaganda for a return to tribalism-.

As a consequence of its loss of organic character, an open society may

become, by degrees, what I should like to term an 'abstract society'. It
may, to a considerable extent, lose the character of a concrete or real
group of men, or of a system of such real groups. This point which has
been rarely understood may be explained by way of an exaggeration. We
could conceive of a society in which men practically never meet face to
face — in which all business is conducted by individuals in isolation who
communicate by typed letters or by telegrams, and who go about in
closed motor-cars. (Artificial insemination would allow even propagation
without a personal element.) Such a fictitious society might be called a
'completely abstract or depersonalized society'. Now the interesting
point is that our modem society resembles in many of its aspects such a
completely abstract society. Although we do not always drive alone in
closed motor cars (but meet face to face thousands of men walking past
us in the street) the result is very nearly the same as if we did — we do not
establish as a rule any personal relation with our fellow-pedestrians.
Similarly, membership of a trade union may mean no more than the
possession of a membership card and the payment of a contribution to an
unknown secretary. There are many people living in a modem society
who have no, or extremely few, intimate personal contacts, who live in
anonymity and isolation, and consequently in unhappiness. For although
society has become abstract, the biological make-up of man has not
changed much; men have social needs which they cannot satisfy in an
abstract society.

Of course, our picture is even in this form highly exaggerated. There
never will be or can be a completely abstract or even a predominantly
abstract society — ^no more than a completely rational or even a
predominantly rational society. Men still form real groups and enter into
real social contacts of all kinds, and try to satisfy their emotional social
needs as well as they can. But most of the social groups of a modem open
society (with the exception of some lucky family groups) are poor

substitutes, since they do not provide for a common life. And many of
them do not have any function in the life of the society at large.

Another way in which the picture is exaggerated is that it does not, so
far, contain any of the gains made — only the losses. But there are gains.
Personal relationships of a new kind can arise where they can be freely
entered into, instead of being determined by the accidents of birth; and
with this, a new individualism arises. Similarly, spiritual bonds can play
a major role where the biological or physical bonds are weakened; etc.
However this may be, our example, I hope, will have made plain what is
meant by a more abstract society in contradistinction to a more concrete
or real social group; and it will have made it clear that our modern open
societies function largely by way of abstract relations, such as exchange
or co-operation. (It is the analysis of these abstract relations with which
modern social theory, such as economic theory, is mainly concerned. This
point has not been understood by many sociologists, such as Durkheim,
who never gave up the dogmatic belief that society must be analysed in
terms of real social groups.)

In the light of what has been said, it will be clear that the transition
from the closed to the open society can be described as one of the deepest
revolutions through which mankind has passed. Owing to what we have
described as the biological character of the closed society, this transition
must be felt deeply indeed. Thus when we say that our Western
civilization derives from the Greeks, we ought to realize what it means. It
means that the Greeks started for us that great revolution which, it seems,
is still in its beginning — the transition from the closed to the open
society.

Of course, this revolution was not made consciously. The breakdown of
tribalism, of the closed societies of Greece, may be traced back to the
time when population growth began to make itself felt among the ruling
class of landed proprietors. This meant the end of 'organic' tribalism. For
it created social tension within the closed society of the ruling class. At
first, there appeared to be something like an 'organic' solution of this
problem, the creation of daughter cities. (The 'organic' character of this
solution was underlined by the magical procedures followed in the
sending out of colonists.) But this ritual of colonization only postponed
the breakdown. It even created new danger spots wherever it led to
cultural contacts; and these, in turn, created what was perhaps the worst
danger to the closed society — commerce, and a new class engaged in
trade and seafaring. By the sixth century B.C., this development had led to
the partial dissolution of the old ways of life, and even to a series of
political revolutions and reactions. And it had led not only to attempts to
retain and to arrest tribalism by force, as in Sparta, but also to that great
spiritual revolution, the invention of critical discussion, and, in
consequence, of thought that was free from magical obsessions. At the
same time we find the first symptoms of a new uneasiness. The strain oj
civilization was beginning to be felt.

This strain, this uneasiness, is a consequence of the breakdown of the
closed society. It is still felt even in our day, especially in times of social
change. It is the strain created by the effort which life in an open and
partially abstract society continually demands from us — ^by the endeavour
to be rational, to forgo at least some of our emotional social needs, to
look after ourselves, and to accept responsibilities. We must, I believe,
bear this strain as the price to be paid for every increase in knowledge, in
reasonableness, in co-operation and in mutual help, and consequently in
our chances of survival, and in the size of the population. It is the price
we have to pay for being human.

The strain is most closely related to the problem of the tension between
the classes which is raised for the first time by the breakdown of the
closed society. The closed society itself does not know this problem. At
least to its ruling members, slavery, caste, and class rule are 'natural' in
the sense of being unquestionable. But with the breakdown of the closed
society, this certainty disappears, and with it all feeling of security. The
tribal community (and later the 'city') is the place of security for the
member of the tribe. Surrounded by enemies and by dangerous or even
hostile magical forces, he experiences the tribal community as a child
experiences his family and his home, in which he plays his definite part;
a part he knows well, and plays well. The breakdown of the closed
society, raising as it does the problems of class and other problems of
social status, must have had the same effect upon the citizens as a serious
family quarrel and the breaking up of the family home is liable to have on
children^. Of course, this kind of strain was felt by the privileged classes,
now that they were threatened, more strongly than by those who had
formerly been suppressed; but even the latter felt uneasy. They also were
frightened by the breakdown of their 'natural' world. And though they
continued to fight their struggle, they were often reluctant to exploit their
victories over their class enemies who were supported by tradition, the
status quo, a higher level of education, and a feeling of natural authority.

In this light we must try to understand the history of Sparta, which
successfully tried to arrest these developments, and of Athens, the
leading democracy.

Perhaps the most powerful cause of the breakdown of the closed
society was the development of sea-communications and commerce.
Close contact with other tribes is liable to undermine the feeling of
necessity with which tribal institutions are viewed; and trade, commercial
initiative, appears to be one of the few forms in which individual
initiative- and independence can assert itself, even in a society in which

tribalism still prevails. These two, seafaring and commerce, became the
main characteristics of Athenian imperialism, as it developed in the fifth
century B.C. And indeed they were recognized as the most dangerous
developments by the oligarchs, the members of the privileged, or of the
formerly privileged, classes of Athens. It became clear to them that the
trade of Athens, its monetary commercialism, its naval policy, and its
democratic tendencies were parts of one single movement, and that it was
impossible to defeat democracy without going to the roots of the evil and
destroying both the naval policy and the empire. But the naval policy of
Athens was based upon its harbours, especially the Piraeus, the centre of
commerce and the stronghold of the democratic party; and strategically,
upon the walls which fortified Athens, and later, upon the Long Walls
which linked it to the harbours of the Piraeus and Phalerum. Accordingly,
we find that for more than a century the empire, the fleet, the harbour,
and the walls were hated by the oligarchic parties of Athens as the
symbols of the democracy and as the sources of its strength which they
hoped one day to destroy.

Much evidence of this development can be found in Thucydides'
History of the Peloponnesian War, or rather, of the two great wars of
431^21 and 419- 403 B.C., between Athenian democracy and the arrested
oligarchic tribalism of Sparta. When reading Thucydides we must never
forget that his heart was not with Athens, his native city. Although he
apparently did not belong to the extreme wing of the Athenian oligarchic
clubs who conspired throughout the war with the enemy, he was certainly
a member of the oligarchic party, and a friend neither of the Athenian
people, the demos, who had exiled him, nor of its imperialist policy. (I do
not intend to belittle Thucydides, the greatest historian, perhaps, who
ever lived. But however successful he was in making sure of the facts he
records, and however sincere his efforts to be impartial, his comments
and moral judgements represent an interpretation, a point of view; and in

this we need not agree with him.) I quote first from a passage describing
Themistocles' policy in 482 B.C., half a century before the Peloponnesian
war: 'Themistocles also persuaded the Athenians to finish the Piraeus ...
Since the Athenians had now taken to the sea, he thought that they had a
great opportunity for building an empire. He was the first who dared to
say that they should make the sea their domain . . . '— Twenty- five years
later, 'the Athenians began to build their Long Walls to the sea, one to the
harbour of Bhalerum, the other to the Piraeus'—. But this time, twenty-
six years before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war, the oligarchic
party was fully aware of the meaning of these developments. We hear
from Thucydides that they did not shrink even from the most blatant
treachery. As sometimes happens with oligarchs, class interest
superseded their patriotism. An opportunity offered itself in the form of a
hostile Spartan expeditionary force operating in the north of Athens, and
they determined to conspire with Sparta against their own country.
Thucydides writes: 'Certain Athenians were privately making overtures
to them' (i.e. to the Spartans) ' in the hope that they would put an end to
the democracy, and to the building of the Long Walls. But the other
Athenians ... suspected their design against democracy.' The loyal
Athenian citizens therefore went out to meet the Spartans, but were
defeated. It appears, however, that they had weakened the enemy
sufficiently to prevent him from joining forces with the fifth columnists
within their own city. Some months later, the Long Walls were
completed, which meant that the democracy could enjoy security as long
as it upheld its naval supremacy.

This incident throws light on the tenseness of the class situation in
Athens, even twenty-six years before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian
war, during which the situation became much worse. It also throws light
on the methods employed by the subversive and pro- Spartan oligarchic

party. Thucydides, one must note, mentions their treachery only in
passing, and he does not censure them, although in other places he speaks
most strongly against class struggle and party spirit. The next passages
quoted, written as a general reflection on the Corcyraean Revolution of
427 B.C., are interesting, first as an excellent picture of the class situation;
secondly, as an illustration of the strong words Thucydides could find
when he wanted to describe analogous tendencies on the side of the
democrats of Corcyra. (In order to judge his lack of impartiality we must
remember that in the beginning of the war Corcyra had been one of
Athens' democratic allies, and that the revolt had been started by the
oligarchs.) Moreover, the passage is an excellent expression of the
feeling of a general social breakdown: 'Nearly the whole Hellenic world',
writes Thucydides, 'was in commotion. In every city, the leaders of the
democratic and of the oligarchic parties were trying hard, the one to bring
in the Athenians, the other the Lacedaemonians . . . The tie of party was
stronger than the tie of blood . . . The leaders on either side used specious
names, the one party professing to uphold the constitutional equality of
the many, the other the wisdom of the nobility; in reality they made the
public interest their price, professing, of course, their devotion to it. They
used any conceivable means for getting the better of one another, and
committed the most monstrous crimes ... This revolution gave birth to
every form of wickedness in Hellas . . . Everywhere prevailed an attitude
of perfidious antagonism. There was no word binding enough, no oath
terrible enough, to reconcile enemies. Each man was strong only in the
conviction that nothing was secure.'—

The full significance of the attempt of the Athenian oligarchs to accept
the help of Sparta and stop the building of the Long Walls can be gauged
when we realize that this treacherous attitude had not changed when
Aristotle wrote his Politics, more than a century later. We hear there
about an oligarchic oath, which, Aristotle said, 'is now in vogue'. This is

how it runs: 'I promise to be an enemy of the people, and to do my best to
give them bad advice!'— It is clear that we cannot understand the period
without remembering this attitude.

I mentioned above that Thucydides himself was an anti-democrat. This
becomes clear when we consider his description of the Athenian empire,
and the way it was hated by the various Greek states. Athens' rule over its
empire, he tells us, was felt to be no better than a tyranny, and all the
Greek tribes were afraid of her. In describing public opinion at the
outbreak of the Peloponnesian war, he is mildly critical of Sparta and
very critical of Athenian imperialism. 'The general feeling of the peoples
was strongly on the side of the Lacedaemonians; for they maintained that
they were the liberators of Hellas. Cities and individuals were eager to
assist them and the general indignation against the Athenians was
intense. Some were longing to be liberated from Athens, others fearful of
falling under its sway.' — It is most interesting that this judgement of the
Athenian empire has become, more or less, the official judgement of
'History', i.e. of most of the historians. Just as the philosophers find it
hard to free themselves from Plato's point of view, so are the historians
bound to that of Thucydides. As an example I may quote Meyer (the best
German authority on this period), who simply repeats Thucydides when
he says: 'The sympathies of the educated world of Greece were ... turned
away from Athens.'—

But such statements are only expressions of the anti-democratic point
of view. Many facts recorded by Thucydides — for instance, the passage
quoted which describes the attitude of the democratic and oligarchic
party leaders — show that Sparta was 'popular' not among the peoples of
Greece but only among the oligarchs; among the 'educated', as Meyer
puts it so nicely. Even Meyer admits that 'the democratically minded
masses hoped in many places for her victory'—, i.e. for the victory of
Athens; and Thucydides' narrative contains many instances which prove

Athens' popularity among the democrats and the suppressed. But who
cares for the opinion of the uneducated masses? If Thucydides and the
'educated' assert that Athens was a tyrant, then she was a tyrant.

It is most interesting that the same historians who hail Rome for her
achievement, the foundation of a universal empire, condemn Athens for
her attempt to achieve something better. The fact that Rome succeeded
where Athens failed is not a sufficient explanation of this attitude. They
do not really censure Athens for her failure, since they loathe the very
idea that her attempt might have been successful. Athens, they believe,
was a ruthless democracy, a place ruled by the uneducated, who hated and
suppressed the educated, and were hated by them in turn. But this view —
the myth of the cultural intolerance of democratic Athens — makes
nonsense of the known facts, and above all of the astonishing spiritual
productivity of Athens in this particular period. Even Meyer must admit
this productivity. 'What Athens produced in this decade', he says with
characteristic modesty, 'ranks equal with one of the mightiest decades of
German literature.'— Pericles, who was the democratic leader of Athens
at this time, was more than justified when he called her 'The School of
Hellas'.

I am far from defending everything that Athens did in building up her
empire, and I certainly do not wish to defend wanton attacks (if such have
occurred), or acts of brutality; nor do I forget that Athenian democracy
was still based on slavery—. But it is necessary, I believe, to see that
tribalist exclusiveness and self-sufficiency could be superseded only by
some form of imperialism. And it must be said that certain of the
imperialist measures introduced by Athens were rather liberal. One very
interesting instance is the fact that Athens offered, in 405 B.C., to her ally,
the Ionian island Samos, 'that the Samians should be Athenians from now
on; and that both cities should be one state; and that the Samians should

order their internal affairs as they chose, and retain their laws.' — Another
instance is Athens' method of taxing her empire. Much has been said
about these taxes, or tributes, which have been described — very unjustly,
I believe — as a shameless and tyrannical way of exploiting the smaller
cities. In an attempt to evaluate the significance of these taxes, we must,
of course, compare them with the volume of the trade which, in return,
was protected by the Athenian fleet. The necessary information is given
by Thucydides, from whom we learn that the Athenians imposed upon
their allies, in 413 B.C., 'in place of the tribute, a duty of 5 per cent, on all
things imported and exported by sea; and they thought that this would
yield more'—. This measure, adopted under severe strain of war,
compares favourably, I believe, with the Roman methods of
centralization. The Athenians, by this method of taxation, became
interested in the development of allied trade, and so in the initiative and
independence of the various members of their empire. Originally, the
Athenian empire had developed out of a league of equals. In spite of the
temporary predominance of Athens, publicly criticized by some of her
citizens (cp. Aristophanes' Lysistrata), it seems probable that her interest
in the development of trade would have led, in time, to some kind of
federal constitution. At least, we know in her case of nothing like the
Roman method of 'transferring' the cultural possessions from the empire
to the dominant city, i.e. of looting. And whatever one might say against
plutocracy, it is preferable to a rule of looters—.

This favourable view of Athenian imperialism can be supported by
comparing it with the Spartan methods of handling foreign affairs. They
were determined by the ultimate aim that dominated Sparta's policy, by
its attempt to arrest all change and to return to tribalism. (This is
impossible, as I shall contend later on. Innocence once lost cannot be
regained, and an artificially arrested closed society, or a cultivated
tribalism, cannot equal the genuine article.) The principles of Spartan

policy were these. (1) Protection of its arrested tribalism: shut out all
foreign influences which might endanger the rigidity of tribal taboos. —
(2) Anti-humanitarianism: shut out, more especially, all equalitarian,
democratic, and individualistic ideologies. — (3) Autarky: be independent
of trade. — (4) Anti-universalism or particularism: uphold the
differentiation between your tribe and all others; do not mix with
inferiors. — (5) Mastery: dominate and enslave your neighbours. — (6) But
do not become too large: 'The city should grow only as long as it can do
so without impairing its unity'—, and especially, without risking the
introduction of universalistic tendencies. — If we compare these six
principal tendencies with those of modern totalitarianism, then we see
that they agree fundamentally, with the sole exception of the last. The
difference can be described by saying that modern totalitarianism appears
to have imperialist tendencies. But this imperialism has no element of a
tolerant universalism, and the world-wide ambitions of the modern
totalitarians are imposed upon them, as it were, against their will. Two
factors are responsible for this. The first is the general tendency of all
tyrannies to justify their existence by saving the state (or the people)
from its enemies — a tendency which must lead, whenever the old
enemies have been successfully subdued, to the creation or invention of
new ones. The second factor is the attempt to carry into effect the closely
related points (2) and (5) of the totalitarian programme.
Humanitarianism, which, according to point (2), must be kept out, has
become so universal that, in order to combat it effectively at home, it
must be destroyed all over the world. But our world has become so small
that everybody is now a neighbour, so that, to carry out point (5),
everybody must be dominated and enslaved. But in ancient times, nothing
could have appeared more dangerous to those who adopted a
particularism like Sparta's, than Athenian imperialism, with its inherent
tendency to develop into a commonwealth of Greek cities, and perhaps

even into a universal empire of man.

Summing up our analysis so far, we can say that the political and
spiritual revolution which had begun with the breakdown of Greek
tribalism reached its climax in the fifth century, with the outbreak of the
Peloponnesian war. It had developed into a violent class war, and, at the
same time, into a war between the two leading cities of Greece.

Ill

But how can we explain the fact that outstanding Athenians like
Thucydides stood on the side of reaction against these new
developments? Class interest is, I believe, an insufficient explanation; for
what we have to explain is the fact that, while many of the ambitious
young nobles became active, although not always reliable, members of
the democratic party, some of the most thoughtful and gifted resisted its
attraction. The main point seems to be that although the open society was
already in existence, although it had, in practice, begun to develop new
values, new equalitarian standards of life, there was still something
missing, especially for the 'educated'. The new faith of the open society,
its only possible faith, humanitarianism, was beginning to assert itself,
but was not yet formulated. For the time being, one could not see much
more than class war, the democrats' fear of the oligarchic reaction, and
the threat of further revolutionary developments. The reaction against
these developments had therefore much on its side — tradition, the call for
defending old virtues, and the old religion. These tendencies appealed to
the feelings of most men, and their popularity gave rise to a movement to
which, although it was led and used for their own ends by the Spartans
and their oligarchic friends, many upright men must have belonged, even

at Athens. From the slogan of the movement, 'Back to the state of our
forefathers', or 'Back to the old paternal state', derives the term 'patriot'.
It is hardly necessary to insist that the beliefs popular among those who
supported this 'patriotic' movement were grossly perverted by those
oligarchs who did not shrink from handing over their own city to the
enemy, in the hope of gaining support against the democrats. Thucydides
was one of the representative leaders of this movement for the 'paternal
state'—, and though he probably did not support the treacherous acts of
the extreme anti-democrats, he could not disguise his sympathies with
their fundamental aim — to arrest social change, and to fight the
universalistic imperialism of the Athenian democracy and the
instruments and symbols of its power, the navy, the walls, and commerce.
(In view of Plato's doctrines concerning commerce, it may be interesting
to note how great the fear of commercialism was. When after his victory
over Athens in 404 B.C. the Spartan king, Lysander, returned with great
booty, the Spartan 'patriots', i.e. the members of the movement for the
'paternal state', tried to prevent the import of gold; and though it was
ultimately admitted, its possession was limited to the state, and capital
punishment was imposed on any citizen found in possession of precious
metals. In Plato's Laws, very similar procedures are advocated—).

Although the 'patriotic' movement was partly the expression of the
longing to return to more stable forms of life, to religion, decency, law
and order, it was itself morally rotten. Its ancient faith was lost, and was
largely replaced by a hypocritical and even cynical exploitation of
religious sentiments.— Nihilism, as painted by Plato in the portraits of
Callicles and Thrasymachus, could be found if anywhere among the
young 'patriotic' aristocrats who, if given the opportunity, became
leaders of the democratic party. The clearest exponent of this nihilism
was perhaps the oligarchic leader who helped to deal the death-blow at
Athens, Plato's uncle Critias, the leader of the Thirty Tyrants.—

But at this time, in the same generation to which Thucydides belonged,
there rose a new faith in reason, freedom and the brotherhood of all men
— the new faith, and, as I believe, the only possible faith, of the open
society.

This generation which marks a turning point in the history of mankind, I
should like to call the Great Generation; it is the generation which lived
in Athens just before, and during, the Peloponnesian war.— There were
great conservatives among them, like Sophocles, or Thucydides. There
were men among them who represent the period of transition; who were
wavering, like Euripides, or sceptical, like Aristophanes. But there was
also the great leader of democracy, Pericles, who formulated the principle
of equality before the law and of political individualism, and Herodotus,
who was welcomed and hailed in Pericles' city as the author of a work
that glorified these principles. Protagoras, a native of Abdera who
became influential in Athens, and his countryman Democritus must also
be counted among the Great Generation. They formulated the doctrine
that human institutions of language, custom, and law are not of the
magical character of taboos but man-made, not natural but conventional,
insisting, at the same time, that we are responsible for them. Then there
was the school of Gorgias — Alcidamas, Lycophron and Antisthenes, who
developed the fundamental tenets of antislavery, of a rational
protectionism, and of anti-nationalism, i.e. the creed of the universal
empire of men. And there was, perhaps the greatest of all, Socrates, who
taught the lesson that we must have faith in human reason, but at the
same time beware of dogmatism; that we must keep away both from

misology— , the distrust of theory and of reason, and from the magical
attitude of those who make an idol of wisdom; who taught, in other
words, that the spirit of science is criticism.

Since I have not so far said much about Pericles, and nothing at all
about Democritus, I may use some of their own words in order to
illustrate the new faith. First Democritus: 'Not out of fear but out of a
feeling of what is right should we abstain from doing wrong . . . Virtue is
based, most of all, upon respecting the other man . . . Every man is a little
world of his own . . . We ought to do our utmost to help those who have
suffered injustice ... To be good means to do no wrong; and also, not to
want to do wrong ... It is good deeds, not words, that count ... The
poverty of a democracy is better than the prosperity which allegedly goes
with aristocracy or monarchy, just as liberty is better than slavery . . . The
wise man belongs to all countries, for the home of a great soul is the
whole world.' To him is due also that remark of a true scientist: 'I would
rather find a single causal law than be the king of Persia! '—

In their humanitarian and universalistic emphasis some of these
fragments of Democritus sound, although they are of earlier date, as if
they were directed against Plato. The same impression is conveyed, only
much more strongly, by Pericles' famous funeral oration, delivered at
least half a century before the Republic was written. I have quoted two
sentences from this oration in chapter 6, when discussing
equalitarianism— , but a few passages may be quoted here more fully in
order to give a clearer impression of its spirit. 'Our political system does
not compete with institutions which are elsewhere in force. We do not
copy our neighbours, but try to be an example. Our administration
favours the many instead of the few: this is why it is called a democracy.
The laws afford equal justice to all alike in their private disputes, but we
do not ignore the claims of excellence. When a citizen distinguishes
himself, then he will be called to serve the state, in preference to others.

not as a matter of privilege, but as a reward of merit; and poverty is no
bar ... The freedom we enjoy extends also to ordinary life; we are not
suspicious of one another, and do not nag our neighbour if he chooses to
go his own way . . . But this freedom does not make us lawless. We are
taught to respect the magistrates and the laws, and never to forget that we
must protect the injured. And we are also taught to observe those
unwritten laws whose sanction lies only in the universal feeling of what is
right . . .

'Our city is thrown open to the world; we never expel a foreigner ...
We are free to live exactly as we please, and yet we are always ready to
face any danger . . . We love beauty without indulging in fancies, and
although we try to improve our intellect, this does not weaken our will . . .
To admit one's poverty is no disgrace with us; but we consider it
disgraceful not to make an effort to avoid it. An Athenian citizen does not
neglect public affairs when attending to his private business ... We
consider a man who takes no interest in the state not as harmless, but as
useless; and although only a few may originate a policy, we are all able
to judge it. We do not look upon discussion as a stumbling-block in the
way of political action, but as an indispensable preliminary to acting
wisely . . . We believe that happiness is the fruit of freedom and freedom
that of valour, and we do not shrink from the dangers of war ... To sum
up, I claim that Athens is the School of Hellas, and that the individual
Athenian grows up to develop a happy versatility, a readiness for
emergencies, and self-reliance.'—

These words are not merely a eulogy on Athens; they express the true
spirit of the Great Generation. They formulate the political programme of
a great equalitarian individualist, of a democrat who well understands
that democracy cannot be exhausted by the meaningless principle that
'the people should rule', but that it must be based on faith in reason, and
on humanitarianism. At the same time, they are an expression of true

patriotism, of just pride in a city which had made it its task to set an
example; which became the school, not only of Hellas, but, as we know,
of mankind, for millennia past and yet to come.

Pericles' speech is not only a programme. It is also a defence, and
perhaps even an attack. It reads, as I have already hinted, like a direct
attack on Plato. I do not doubt that it was directed, not only against the
arrested tribalism of Sparta, but also against the totalitarian ring or 'link'
at home; against the movement for the paternal state, the Athenian
'Society of the Friends of Laconia' (as Th. Gomperz called them in
1902—). The speech is the earliest— and at the same time perhaps the
strongest statement ever made in opposition to this kind of movement. Its
importance was felt by Plato, who caricatured Pericles' oration half a
century later in the passages of thQ Republic— in which he attacks
democracy, as well as in that undisguised parody, the dialogue called
Menexenus or the Funeral Oration—. But the Friends of Laconia whom
Pericles attacked retaliated long before Plato. Only five or six years after
Pericles' oration, a pamphlet on the Constitution of Athens— was
published by an unknown author (possibly Critias), now usually called
the 'Old Oligarch'. This ingenious pamphlet, the oldest extant treatise on
political theory, is, at the same time, perhaps the oldest monument of the
desertion of mankind by its intellectual leaders. It is a ruthless attack
upon Athens, written no doubt by one of her best brains. Its central idea,
an idea which became an article of faith with Thucydides and Plato, is the
close connection between naval imperialism and democracy. And it tries
to show that there can be no compromise in a conflict between two
worlds—, the worlds of democracy and of oligarchy; that only the use of
ruthless violence, of total measures, including the intervention of allies
from outside (the Spartans), can put an end to the unholy rule of freedom.
This remarkable pamphlet was to become the first of a practically infinite
sequence of works on political philosophy which were to repeat more or

less, openly or covertly, the same theme down to our own day. Unwilling
and unable to help mankind along their difficult path into an unknown
future which they have to create for themselves, some of the 'educated'
tried to make them turn back into the past. Incapable of leading a new
way, they could only make themselves leaders of the perennial revolt
against freedom. It became the more necessary for them to assert their
superiority by fighting against equality as they were (using Socratic
language) misanthropists and misologists — incapable of that simple and
ordinary generosity which inspires faith in men, and faith in human
reason and freedom. Harsh as this judgement may sound, it is just, I fear,
if it is applied to those intellectual leaders of the revolt against freedom
who came after the Great Generation, and especially after Socrates. We
can now try to see them against the background of our historical
interpretation.

The rise of philosophy itself can be interpreted, I think, as a response
to the breakdown of the closed society and its magical beliefs. It is an
attempt to replace the lost magical faith by a rational faith; it modifies
the tradition of passing on a theory or a myth by founding a new tradition
— the tradition of challenging theories and myths and of critically
discussing them—. (A significant point is that this attempt coincides with
the spread of the so-called Orphic sects whose members tried to replace
the lost feeling of unity by a new mystical religion.) The earliest
philosophers, the three great lonians and Pythagoras, were probably quite
unaware of the stimulus to which they were reacting. They were the
representatives as well as the unconscious antagonists of a social
revolution. The very fact that they founded schools or sects or orders, i.e.
new social institutions or rather concrete groups with a common life and
common functions, and modelled largely after those of an idealized tribe,
proves that they were reformers in the social field, and therefore, that
they were reacting to certain social needs. That they reacted to these

needs and to their own sense of drift, not by imitating Hesiod in inventing
a historicist myth of destiny and decay—, but by inventing the tradition of
criticism and discussion, and with it the art of thinking rationally, is one
of the inexplicable facts which stand at the beginning of our civilization.
But even these rationalists reacted to the loss of the unity of tribalism in a
largely emotional way. Their reasoning gives expression to their feeling
of drift, to the strain of a development which was about to create our
individualistic civilization. One of the oldest expressions of this strain
goes back to Anaximander— , the second of the Ionian philosophers.
Individual existence appeared to him as hubris, as an impious act of
injustice, as a wrongful act of usurpation, for which individuals must
suffer, and do penance. The first to become conscious of the social
revolution and the struggle of classes was Heraclitus. How he rationalized
his feeling of drift by developing the first anti-democratic ideology and
the first historicist philosophy of change and destiny, has been described
in the second chapter of this book. Heraclitus was the first conscious
enemy of the open society.

Nearly all these early thinkers were labouring under a tragic and
desperate strain—. The only exception is perhaps the monotheist
Xenophanes— , who carried his burden courageously. We cannot blame
them for their hostility towards the new developments in the way in
which we may, to some extent, blame their successors. The new faith of
the open society, the faith in man, in equalitarian justice, and in human
reason, was perhaps beginning to take shape, but it was not yet
formulated.

The greatest contribution to this faith was to be made by Socrates, who
died for it. Socrates was not a leader of Athenian democracy, like
Pericles, or a theorist of the open society, like Protagoras. He was, rather,
a critic of Athens and of her democratic institutions, and in this he may
have borne a superficial resemblance to some of the leaders of the
reaction against the open society. But there is no need for a man who
criticizes democracy and democratic institutions to be their enemy,
although both the democrats he criticizes, and the totalitarians who hope
to profit from any disunion in the democratic camp, are likely to brand
him as such. There is a fundamental difference between a democratic and
a totalitarian criticism of democracy. Socrates' criticism was a
democratic one, and indeed of the kind that is the very life of democracy.
(Democrats who do not see the difference between a friendly and a
hostile criticism of democracy are themselves imbued with the
totalitarian spirit. Totalitarianism, of course, cannot consider any
criticism as friendly, since every criticism of such an authority must
challenge the principle of authority itself.)

I have already mentioned some aspects of Socrates' teaching: his
intellectualism, i.e. his equalitarian theory of human reason as a universal
medium of communication; his stress on intellectual honesty and self-
criticism; his equalitarian theory of justice, and his doctrine that it is
better to be a victim of injustice than to inflict it upon others. I think it is
this last doctrine which can help us best to understand the core of his
teaching, his creed of individualism, his belief in the human individual as
an end in himself.

The closed society, and with it its creed that the tribe is everything and
the individual nothing, had broken down. Individual initiative and self-
assertion had become a fact. Interest in the human individual as
individual, and not only as tribal hero and saviour, had been aroused—.
But a philosophy which makes man the centre of its interest began only

with Protagoras. And the belief that there is nothing more important in
our life than other individual men, the appeal to men to respect one
another and themselves, appears to be due to Socrates.

Burnet has stressed— that it was Socrates who created the conception
of the soul, a conception which had such an immense influence upon our
civilization. I believe that there is much in this view, although I feel that
its formulation may be misleading, especially the use of the term 'soul';
for Socrates seems to have kept away from metaphysical theories as
much as he could. His appeal was a moral appeal, and his theory of
individuality (or of the 'soul', if this word is preferred) is, I think, a
moral and not a metaphysical doctrine. He was fighting, with the help of
this doctrine, as always, against self-satisfaction and complacency. He
demanded that individualism should not be merely the dissolution of
tribalism, but that the individual should prove worthy of his liberation.
This is why he insisted that man is not merely a piece of flesh — a body.
There is more in man, a divine spark, reason; and a love of truth, of
kindness, humaneness, a love of beauty and of goodness. It is these that
make a man's life worth while. But if I am not merely a 'body', what am
I, then? You are, first of all, intelligence, was Socrates' reply. It is your
reason that makes you human; that enables you to be more than a mere
bundle of desires and wishes; that makes you a self-sufficient individual
and entitles you to claim that you are an end in yourself. Socrates' saying
'care for your souls' is largely an appeal for intellectual honesty, just as
the saying 'know thyself is used by him to remind us of our intellectual
limitations.

These, Socrates insisted, are the things that matter. And what he
criticized in democracy and democratic statesmen was their inadequate
realization of these things. He criticized them rightly for their lack of
intellectual honesty, and for their obsession with power-politics—. With
his emphasis upon the human side of the political problem, he could not

take much interest in institutional reform. It was the immediate, the
personal aspect of the open society in which he was interested. He was
mistaken when he considered himself a politician; he was a teacher.

But if Socrates was, fundamentally, the champion of the open society,
and a friend of democracy, why, it may be asked, did he mix with anti-
democrats? For we know that among his companions were not only
Alcibiades, who for a time went over to the side of Sparta, but also two of
Plato's uncles, Critias who later became the ruthless leader of the Thirty
Tyrants, and Charmides who became his lieutenant.

There is more than one reply to this question. First we are told by Plato
that Socrates' attack upon the democratic politicians of his time was
carried out partly with the purpose of exposing the selfishness and lust
for power of the hypocritical flatterers of the people, more particularly,
of the young aristocrats who posed as democrats, but who looked upon
the people as mere instruments of their lust for power—. This activity
made him, on the one hand, attractive to some at least of the enemies of
democracy; on the other hand it brought him into contact with ambitious
aristocrats of that very type. And here enters a second consideration.
Socrates, the moralist and individualist, would never merely attack these
men. He would, rather, take a real interest in them, and he would hardly
give them up without making a serious attempt to convert them. There
are many allusions to such attempts in Plato's dialogues. We have reason,
and this is a third consideration, to believe that Socrates, the teacher-
politician, even went out of his way to attract young men and to gain
influence over them, especially when he considered them open to
conversion, and thought that some day they might possibly hold offices
of responsibility in their city. The outstanding example is, of course,
Alcibiades, singled out from his very childhood as the great future leader
of the Athenian empire. And Critias' brilliancy, ambition and courage
made him one of the few likely competitors of Alcibiades. (He co-

operated with Alcibiades for a time, but later turned against him. It is not
at all improbable that the temporary co-operation was due to Socrates'
influence.) From all we know about Plato's own early and later political
aspirations, it is more than likely that his relations with Socrates were of
a similar kind—. Socrates, though one of the leading spirits of the open
society, was not a party man. He would have worked in any circle where
his work might have benefited his city. If he took interest in a promising
youth he was not to be deterred by oligarchic family connections.

But these connections were to cause his death. When the great war was
lost, Socrates was accused of having educated the men who had betrayed
democracy and conspired with the enemy to bring about the downfall of
Athens.

The history of the Peloponnesian war and the fall of Athens is still
often told, under the influence of Thucydides' authority, in such a way
that the defeat of Athens appears as the ultimate proof of the moral
weaknesses of the democratic system. But this view is merely a
tendentious distortion, and the well-known facts tell a very different
story. The main responsibility for the lost war rests with the treacherous
oligarchs who continuously conspired with Sparta. Prominent among
these were three former disciples of Socrates, Alcibiades, Critias, and
Charmides. After the fall of Athens in 404 B.C. the two latter became the
leaders of the Thirty Tyrants, who were no more than a puppet
government under Spartan protection. The fall of Athens, and the
destruction of the walls, are often presented as the final results of the
great war which had started in 431 B.C. But in this presentation lies a
major distortion; for the democrats fought on. At first only seventy
strong, they prepared under the leadership of Thrasybulus and Anytus the
liberation of Athens, where Critias was meanwhile killing scores of
citizens; during the eight months of his reign of terror the death-roll
contained 'rather a greater number of Athenians than the Peloponnesians

had killed during the last ten years of war'—. But after eight months (in
403 B.C.) Critias and the Spartan garrison were attacked and defeated by
the democrats, who established themselves in the Piraeus, and both of
Plato's uncles lost their lives in the battle. Their oligarchic followers
continued for a time the reign of terror in the city of Athens itself, but
their forces were in a state of confusion and dissolution. Having proved
themselves incapable of ruling, they were ultimately abandoned by their
Spartan protectors, who concluded a treaty with the democrats. The peace
re-established democracy in Athens. Thus the democratic form of
government had proved its superior strength under the most severe trials,
and even its enemies began to think it invincible. (Nine years later, after
the battle of Cnidus, the Athenians could re-erect their walls. The defeat
of democracy had turned into victory.)

As soon as the restored democracy had re-established normal legal
conditions—, a case was brought against Socrates. Its meaning was clear
enough; he was accused of having had his hand in the education of the
most pernicious enemies of the state, Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides.
Certain difficulties for the prosecution were created by an amnesty for all
political crimes committed before the re-establishment of the democracy.
The charge could not therefore openly refer to these notorious cases. And
the prosecutors probably sought not so much to punish Socrates for the
unfortunate political events of the past which, as they knew well, had
happened against his intentions; their aim was, rather, to prevent him
from continuing his teaching, which, in view of its effects, they could
hardly regard otherwise than as dangerous to the state. For all these
reasons, the charge was given the vague and rather meaningless form that
Socrates was corrupting the youth, that he was impious, and that he had
attempted to introduce novel religious practices into the state. (The latter
two charges undoubtedly expressed, however clumsily, the correct feeling

that in the ethico-religious field he was a revolutionary.) Because of the
amnesty, the 'corrupted youth' could not be more precisely named, but
everybody knew, of course, who was meant—. In his defence, Socrates
insisted that he had no sympathy with the policy of the Thirty, and that he
had actually risked his life by defying their attempt to implicate him in
one of their crimes. And he reminded the jury that among his closest
associates and most enthusiastic disciples there was at least one ardent
democrat, Chaerephon, who fought against the Thirty (and who was, it
appears, killed in battle)—.

It is now usually recognized that Anytus, the democratic leader who
backed the prosecution, did not intend to make a martyr of Socrates. The
aim was to exile him. But this plan was defeated by Socrates' refusal to
compromise his principles. That he wanted to die, or that he enjoyed the
role of martyr, I do not believe—. He simply fought for what he believed
to be right, and for his life's work. He had never intended to undermine
democracy. In fact, he had tried to give it the faith it needed. This had
been the work of his life. It was, he felt, seriously threatened. The
betrayal of his former companions let his work and himself appear in a
light which must have disturbed him deeply. He may even have
welcomed the trial as an opportunity to prove that his loyalty to his city
was unbounded.

Socrates explained this attitude most carefully when he was given an
opportunity to escape. Had he seized it, and become an exile, everybody
would have thought him an opponent of democracy. So he stayed, and
stated his reasons. This explanation, his last will, can be found in Plato's
Crito—. It is simple. If I go, said Socrates, I violate the laws of the state.
Such an act would put me in opposition to the laws, and prove my
disloyalty. It would do harm to the state. Only if I stay can I put beyond
doubt my loyalty to the state, with its democratic laws, and prove that I
have never been its enemy. There can be no better proof of my loyalty

than my willingness to die for it.

Socrates' death is the ultimate proof of his sincerity. His fearlessness,
his simplicity, his modesty, his sense of proportion, his humour never
deserted him. 'I am the gadfly that God has attached to this city', he said
in his Apology, 'and all day long and in all places I am always fastening
upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you. You would not
readily find another like me, and therefore I should advise you to spare
me ... If you strike at me, as Anytus advises you, and rashly put me to
death, then you will remain asleep for the rest of your lives, unless God in
his care sends you another gadfly'—. He showed that a man could die, not
only for fate and fame and other grand things of this kind, but also for the
freedom of critical thought, and for a self-respect which has nothing to do
with self-importance or sentimentality.

Socrates had only one worthy successor, his old friend Antisthenes, the
last of the Great Generation. Plato, his most gifted disciple, was soon to
prove the least faithful. He betrayed Socrates, just as his uncles had done.
These, besides betraying Socrates, had also tried to implicate him in their
terrorist acts, but they did not succeed, since he resisted. Plato tried to
implicate Socrates in his grandiose attempt to construct the theory of the
arrested society; and he had no difficulty in succeeding, for Socrates was
dead.

I know of course that this judgement will seem outrageously harsh,
even to those who are critical of Plato—. But if we look upon the Apology
and the Crito as Socrates' last will, and if we compare these testaments of
his old age with Plato's testament, the Laws, then it is difficult to judge

otherwise. Socrates had been condemned, but his death was not intended
by the initiators of the trial. Plato's Laws remedy this lack of intention.
Here he elaborates coolly and carefully the theory of inquisition. Free
thought, criticism of political institutions, teaching new ideas to the
young, attempts to introduce new religious practices or even opinions, are
all pronounced capital crimes. In Plato's state, Socrates might have never
been given the opportunity of defending himself publicly; and he
certainly would have been handed over to the secret Nocturnal Council
for the purpose of 'attending' to his diseased soul, and finally for
punishing it.

I cannot doubt the fact of Plato's betrayal, nor that his use of Socrates
as the main speaker of the Republic was the most successful attempt to
implicate him. But it is another question whether this attempt was
conscious.

In order to understand Plato we must visualize the whole contemporary
situation. After the Peloponnesian war, the strain of civilization was felt
as strongly as ever. The old oligarchic hopes were still alive, and the
defeat of Athens had even tended to encourage them. The class struggle
continued. Yet Critias' attempt to destroy democracy by carrying out the
programme of the Old Oligarch had failed. It had not failed through lack
of determination; the most ruthless use of violence had been
unsuccessful, in spite of favourable circumstances in the shape of
powerful support from victorious Sparta. Plato felt that a complete
reconstruction of the programme was needed. The Thirty had been beaten
in the realm of power politics largely because they had offended the
citizens' sense of justice. The defeat had been largely a moral defeat. The
faith of the Great Generation had proved its strength. The Thirty had
nothing of this kind to offer; they were moral nihilists. The programme of
the Old Oligarch, Plato felt, could not be revived without basing it upon
another faith, upon a persuasion which re-affirmed the old values of

tribalism, opposing them to the faith of the open society. Men must be
taught that justice is inequality, and that the tribe, the collective, stands
higher than the individual—. But since Socrates' faith was too strong to
be challenged openly, Plato was driven to re- interpret it as a faith in the
closed society. This was difficult; but it was not impossible. For had not
Socrates been killed by the democracy? Had not democracy lost any right
to claim him? And had not Socrates always criticized the anonymous
multitude as well as its leaders for their lack of wisdom? It was not so
very difficult, moreover, to re-interpret Socrates as having recommended
the rule of the 'educated', the learned philosophers. In this interpretation,
Plato was much encouraged when he discovered that it was also part of
the ancient Pythagorean creed; and most of all, when he found, in
Archytas of Tarentum, a Pythagorean sage as well as a great and
successful statesman. Here, he felt, was the solution of the riddle. Had not
Socrates himself encouraged his disciples to participate in politics? Did
this not mean that he wanted the enlightened, the wise, to rule? What a
difference between the crudity of the ruling mob of Athens and the
dignity of an Archytas! Surely Socrates, who had never stated his solution
of the constitutional problem, must have had Pythagoreanism in mind.

In this way Plato may have found that it was possible to give by
degrees a new meaning to the teaching of the most influential member of
the Great Generation, and to persuade himself that an opponent whose
overwhelming strength he would never have dared to attack directly, was
an ally. This, I believe, is the simplest interpretation of the fact that Plato
retained Socrates as his main speaker even after he had departed so
widely from his teaching that he could no longer deceive himself about
this deviation—. But it is not the whole story. He felt, I believe, in the
depth of his soul, that Socrates' teaching was very different indeed from
this presentation, and that he was betraying Socrates. And I think that
Plato's continuous efforts to make Socrates re-interpret himself are at the

same time Plato's efforts to quiet his own bad conscience. By trying
again and again to prove that his teaching was only the logical
development of the true Socratic doctrine, he tried to persuade himself
that he was not a traitor.

In reading Plato we are, I feel, witnesses of an inner conflict, of a truly
titanic struggle in Plato's mind. Even his famous 'fastidious reserve, the
suppression of his own personality'—, or rather, the attempted
suppression — for it is not at all difficult to read between the lines — is an
expression of this struggle. And I believe that Plato's influence can partly
be explained by the fascination of this conflict between two worlds in one
soul, a struggle whose powerful repercussions upon Plato can be felt
under that surface of fastidious reserve. This struggle touches our
feelings, for it is still going on within ourselves. Plato was the child of a
time which is still our own. (We must not forget that it is, after all, only a
century since the abolition of slavery in the United States, and even less
since the abolition of serfdom in Central Europe.) Nowhere does this
inner struggle reveal itself more clearly than in Plato's theory of the soul.
That Plato, with his longing for unity and harmony, visualized the
structure of the human soul as analogous to that of a class-divided
society— shows how deeply he must have suffered.

Plato's greatest conflict arises from the deep impression made upon
him by the example of Socrates, but his own oligarchic inclinations strive
only too successfully against it. In the field of rational argument, the
struggle is conducted by using the argument of Socrates'
humanitarianism against itself. What appears to be the earliest example
of this kind can be found in the Euthyphro—. I am not going to be like
Euthyphro, Plato assures himself; I shall never take it upon myself to
accuse my own father, my own venerated ancestors, of having sinned
against a law and a humanitarian morality which is on the level of vulgar
piety. Even if they took human life, it was, after all, only the lives of their

own serfs, who are no better than criminals; and it is not my task to judge
them. Did not Socrates show how hard it is to know what is right and
wrong, pious and impious? And was he not himself prosecuted for
impiety by these so-called humanitarians? Other traces of Plato's
struggle can, I believe, be found in nearly every place where he turns
against humanitarian ideas, especially in thQ Republic. His evasiveness
and his resort to scorn in combating the equalitarian theory of justice, his
hesitant preface to his defence of lying, to his introduction of racialism,
and to his definition of justice, have all been mentioned in previous
chapters. But perhaps the clearest expression of the conflict can be found
in thQ Menexenus, that sneering reply to Pericles' funeral oration. Here, I
feel, Plato gives himself away. In spite of his attempt to hide his feelings
behind irony and scorn, he cannot but show how deeply he was impressed
by Pericles' sentiments. This is how Plato makes his 'Socrates'
maliciously describe the impression made upon him by Pericles' oration:
'A feeling of exultation stays with me for more than three days; not until
the fourth or fifth day, and not without an effort, do I come to my senses
and realize where I am.'— Who can doubt that Plato reveals here how
seriously he was impressed by the creed of the open society, and how
hard he had to struggle to come to his senses and to realize where he was
— namely, in the camp of its enemies?

VII

Plato's strongest argument in this struggle was, I believe, sincere:
According to the humanitarian creed, he argued, we should be ready to
help our neighbours. The people need help badly, they are unhappy, they
labour under a severe strain, a sense of drift. There is no certainty, no

security— in life, when everything is in flux. I am ready to help them. But
I cannot make them happy without going to the root of the evil.

And he found the root of the evil. It is the 'Fall of Man', the breakdown
of the closed society. This discovery convinced him that the Old Oligarch
and his followers had been fundamentally right in favouring Sparta
against Athens, and in aping the Spartan programme of arresting change.
But they had not gone far enough; their analysis had not been carried
sufficiently deep. They had not been aware of the fact, or had not cared
for it, that even Sparta showed signs of decay, in spite of its heroic effort
to arrest all change; that even Sparta had been half-hearted in her
attempts at controlling breeding in order to eliminate the causes of the
Fall, the 'variations' and 'irregularities' in the number as well as the
quality of the ruling race—. (Plato realized that population increase was
one of the causes of the Fall.) Also, the Old Oligarch and his followers
had thought, in their superficiality, that with the help of a tyranny, such
as that of the Thirty, they would be able to restore the good old days.
Plato knew better. The great sociologist saw clearly that these tyrannies
were supported by, and that they were kindling in their turn, the modern
revolutionary spirit; that they were forced to make concessions to the
equalitarian cravings of the people; and that they had indeed played an
important part in the breakdown of tribalism. Plato hated tyranny. Only
hatred can see as sharply as he did in his famous description of the tyrant.
Only a genuine enemy of tyranny could say that tyrants must 'stir up one
war after another in order to make the people feel the need of a general',
of a saviour from extreme danger. Tyranny, Plato insisted, was not the
solution, nor any of the current oligarchies. Although it is imperative to
keep the people in their place, their suppression is not an end in itself.
The end must be the complete return to nature, a complete cleaning of the
canvas.

The difference between Plato's theory on the one hand, and that of the

Old Oligarch and the Thirty on the other, is due to the influence of the
Great Generation. Individualism, equalitarianism, faith in reason and love
of freedom were new, powerful, and, from the point of view of the
enemies of the open society, dangerous sentiments that had to be fought.
Plato had himself felt their influence, and, within himself, he had fought
them. His answer to the Great Generation was a truly great effort. It was
an effort to close the door which had been opened, and to arrest society
by casting upon it the spell of an alluring philosophy, unequalled in depth
and richness. In the political field he added but little to the old oligarchic
programme against which Pericles had once argued—. But he discovered,
perhaps unconsciously, the great secret of the revolt against freedom,
formulated in our own day by Pareto— ; ' To take advantage of sentiments,
not wasting one's energies in futile efforts to destroy them .' Instead of
showing his hostility to reason, he charmed all intellectuals with his
brilliance, flattering and thrilling them by his demand that the learned
should rule. Although arguing against justice he convinced all righteous
men that he was its advocate. Not even to himself did he fully admit that
he was combating the freedom of thought for which Socrates had died;
and by making Socrates his champion he persuaded all others that he was
fighting for it. Plato thus became, unconsciously, the pioneer of the many
propagandists who, often in good faith, developed the technique of
appealing to moral, humanitarian sentiments, for anti-humanitarian,
immoral purposes. And he achieved the somewhat surprising effect of
convincing even great humanitarians of the immorality and selfishness of
their creed—. I do not doubt that he succeeded in persuading himself. He
transfigured his hatred of individual initiative, and his wish to arrest all
change, into a love of justice and temperance, of a heavenly state in
which everybody is satisfied and happy and in which the crudity of
money- grabbing— is replaced by laws of generosity and friendship. This
dream of unity and beauty and perfection, this aestheticism and holism

and collectivism, is the product as well as the symptom of the lost group
spirit of tribalism—. It is the expression of, and an ardent appeal to, the
sentiments of those who suffer from the strain of civilization. (It is part
of the strain that we are becoming more and more painfully aware of the
gross imperfections in our life, of personal as well as of institutional
imperfection; of avoidable suffering, of waste and of unnecessary
ugliness; and at the same time of the fact that it is not impossible for us
to do something about all this, but that such improvements would be just
as hard to achieve as they are important. This awareness increases the
strain of personal responsibility, of carrying the cross of being human.)

VIII

Socrates had refused to compromise his personal integrity. Plato, with all
his uncompromising canvas-cleaning, was led along a path on which he
compromised his integrity with every step he took. He was forced to
combat free thought, and the pursuit of truth. He was led to defend lying,
political miracles, tabooistic superstition, the suppression of truth, and
ultimately, brutal violence. In spite of Socrates' warning against
misanthropy and misology, he was led to distrust man and to fear
argument. In spite of his own hatred of tyranny, he was led to look to a
tyrant for help, and to defend the most tyrannical measures. By the
internal logic of his anti-humanitarian aim, the internal logic of power, he
was led unawares to the same point to which once the Thirty had been
led, and at which, later, his friend Dio arrived, and others among his
numerous tyrant-disciples—. He did not succeed in arresting social
change. (Only much later, in the dark ages, was it arrested by the magic
spell of the Platonic-Aristotelian essentialism.) Instead, he succeeded in

binding himself, by his own spell, to powers which once he had hated.

The lesson which we thus should learn from Plato is the exact opposite
of what he tries to teach us. It is a lesson which must not be forgotten.
Excellent as Plato's sociological diagnosis was, his own development
proves that the therapy he recommended is worse than the evil he tried to
combat. Arresting political change is not the remedy; it cannot bring
happiness. We can never return to the alleged innocence and beauty of the
closed society—. Our dream of heaven cannot be realized on earth. Once
we begin to rely upon our reason, and to use our powers of criticism, once
we feel the call of personal responsibilities, and with it, the responsibility
of helping to advance knowledge, we cannot return to a state of implicit
submission to tribal magic. For those who have eaten of the tree of
knowledge, paradise is lost. The more we try to return to the heroic age of
tribalism, the more surely do we arrive at the Inquisition, at the Secret
Police, and at a romanticized gangsterism. Beginning with the
suppression of reason and truth, we must end with the most brutal and
violent destruction of all that is human—. There is no return to a
harmonious state of nature. If we turn back, then we must go the whole
way — we must return to the beasts.

It is an issue which we must face squarely, hard though it may be for us
to do so. If we dream of a return to our childhood, if we are tempted to
rely on others and so be happy, if we shrink from the task of carrying our
cross, the cross of humaneness, of reason, of responsibility, if we lose
courage and flinch from the strain, then we must try to fortify ourselves
with a clear understanding of the simple decision before us. We can
return to the beasts. But if we wish to remain human, then there is only
one way, the way into the open society. We must go on into the unknown,
the uncertain and insecure, using what reason we may have to plan as
well as we can for both security and freedom.

Addenda

Plato and Geometry (1957)

In the second edition of this book, I made a lengthy addition to note 9 to
chapter 6 (pp. 248 to 253). The historical hypothesis propounded in this
note was later amplified in my paper 'The Nature of Philosophical
Problems and Their Roots in Science' {British Journal for the Philosophy
of Science, 3, 1952, pp. 124 ff.; now also in my Conjectures and
Refutations). It may be restated as follows: (1) the discovery of the
irrationality of the square root of two which led to the breakdown of the
Pythagorean programme of reducing geometry and cosmology (and
presumably all knowledge) to arithmetic, produced a crisis in Greek
mathematics; (2) Euclid's Elements are not a textbook of geometry, but
rather the final attempt of the Platonic School to resolve this crisis by
reconstructing the whole of mathematics and cosmology on a geometrical
basis, in order to deal with the problem of irrationality systematically
rather thanaJ hoc, thus inverting the Pythagorean programme of
arithmetization; (3) it was Plato who first conceived the programme later
carried out by Euclid: it was Plato who first recognized the need for a
reconstruction; who chose geometry as the new basis, and the geometrical
method of proportion as the new method; who drew up the programme
for di geometrization of mathematics, including arithmetic, astronomy,
and cosmology; and who became the founder of the geometrical picture

of the world, and thereby also the founder of modern science — of the
science of Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, and Newton.

I suggested that the famous inscription over the door of Plato's
Academy (p. 248, (2)) alluded to this programme of geometrization.
(That it was intended to announce an inversion of the Pythagorean
programme seems likely in view of Archytas, fragment A, Diels-Kranz.)

In the middle of the last paragraph on p. 249 I suggested 'that Plato
was one of the first to develop a specifically geometrical method aiming
at rescuing what could be rescued ... from the breakdown of
Pythagoreanism'; and I described this suggestion as 'a highly uncertain
historical hypothesis'. I no longer think that the hypothesis is so very
uncertain. On the contrary, I now feel that a re-reading of Plato, Aristotle,
Euclid, and Proclus, in the light of this hypothesis, would produce as
much corroborating evidence as one could expect. In addition to the
confirming evidence referred to in the paragraph quoted, I now wish to
add that already ih^Gorgias (451a/b; c; 453e) takes the discussion of
'odd' and 'even' as characteristic of arithmetic, thereby, clearly
identifying arithmetic with Pythagorean number theory, while
characterizing the geometer as the man who adopts the method of
proportions (465b/c). Moreover, in the passage from the Gorgias (508a)
Plato speaks not only of geometrical equality (cp. note 48 to chapter 8)
but he also states implicitly the principle which he was later to develop
fully in thQ Timaeus: that the cosmic order is di geometrical order.
Incidentally, the Gorgias also proves that the word 'alogos' was not
associated in Plato's mind with irrational numbers, since 465a says that
even a technique, or art, must not be alogos; which would hold a fortiori
for a science such as geometry. I think we may simply translate 'alogos'
as 'alogical'. (Cp. also Gorgias 496a/b; and 522e.) The point is important
for the interpretation of the title of Democritus's lost book, mentioned
earlier on p. 249.

My paper on 'The Nature of Philosophical Problems' (see above)
contains some further suggestions concerning Plato's geometrization oj
arithmetic and of cosmology in general (his inversion of the Pythagorean
programme), and his theory of forms.

Added in 1961

Since this addendum was first published in 1957, in the third edition of
this book, I have found, almost by accident, some interesting
corroboration of the historical hypothesis formulated above, in the first
paragraph under (2). It is a passage in Proclus' commentaries to the First
Book of Euclid's Elements (ed. Friedlein, 1873, Prologus ii, p. 71, 2-5)
from which it becomes clear that there existed a tradition according to
which Euclid's elements were a Platonic cosmology, a treatment of the
problems of the Timaeus.

The Dating of the Theaetetus (1961)

There is a hint in note 50 (6), to chapter 8, p. 281, that 'the Theaetetus is
perhaps (as against the usual assumption) earlier than the Republic'. This
suggestion was made to me by the late Dr. Robert Eisler in a conversation
not long before his death in 1949. But since he did not tell me any more
about his conjecture than that it was partly based on Theaetetus 174e, f. —
the crucial passage whose post-Republican dating did not seem to me to
fit into my theory — I felt that there was not sufficient evidence for it, and
that it was too ad hoc to justify me in publicly saddling Eisler with the

responsibility for it.

However, I have since found quite a number of independent arguments
in favour of an earlier dating of the Theaetetus, and I therefore wish now
to acknowledge Eisler's original suggestion.

Since Eva Sachs (cp. Socrates, 5, 1917, 531 f.) established that the
proem of the Theaetetus, as we know it, was written after 369, the
conjecture of a Socratic core and an early dating involves another — ^that
of an earlier lost edition, revised by Plato after Theaetetus' death. The
latter conjecture was proposed independently by various scholars, even
before the discovery of a papyrus (ed. by Diels, Berlin, Klassikerhefte, 2,
1905) that contains part of a Commentary to the Theaetetus and refers to
two distinct editions. The following arguments seem to support both
conjectures.

(1) Certain passages in Aristotle seem to allude to the Theaetetus: they
fit the text of the Theaetetus perfectly, and they claim, at the same time,
that the ideas there expressed belong to Socrates rather than to Plato. The
passages I have in mind are the ascription to Socrates of the invention of
induction {Metaphysics 1078b 17-33; cp. 987b 1 and 1086b3) which, I
think, is an allusion to Socrates' maieutic (developed at length in the
Theaetetus), his method of helping the pupil to perceive the true essence
of a thing through purging his mind of his false prejudices; and the
further ascription to Socrates of the attitude so strongly expressed again
and again in the Theaetetus: 'Socrates used to ask questions and not to
answer them; for he used to confess that he did not know' {Soph. EL
183b7). (These passages are discussed, in a different context, in my
lecture On the Sources of Knowledge and of Ignorance, Proceedings of
the British Academy, 46, 1960 (see especially p. 50) which is also
separately published by Oxford University Press and is now included in
my Conjectures and Refutations.)

(2) The Theaetetus has a surprisingly inconclusive ending, even though

it turns out that it was so planned and prepared almost from the
beginning. (In fact, as an attempt to solve the problem of knowledge
which it ostensibly tries to do, this beautiful dialogue is a complete
failure.) But endings of a similarly inconclusive nature are known to be
characteristic of a number of early dialogues.

(3) 'Know thyself is interpreted, as in the Apology, as 'Know how
little you know'. In his final speech Socrates says 'After this, Theaetetus
. . . you will be less harsh and gentler to your associates, for you will have
the wisdom not to think that you know what you do not know. So much
my art [of maieutic] can accomplish; nor do I know any of the things that
are known by others . . . '

(4) That ours is a second edition, revised by Plato, seems likely,
especially in view of the fact that the Introduction to the dialogue (142a
to the end of 143c) which might well have been added as a memorial to a
great man, actually contradicts a passage which may have survived the
revision of the earlier edition of this dialogue; I mean its very end which,
like a number of other early dialogues, alludes to Socrates' trial as
imminent. The contradiction consists in the fact that Euclid, who appears
as a character in the Introduction and who narrates how the dialogue
came to be written down, tells us (142c/d, 143a) that he went repeatedly
to Athens (from Megara, presumably), using every time the opportunity
of checking his notes with Socrates, and making 'corrections' here and
there. This is told in a way which makes it quite clear that the dialogue
itself must have taken place at least several months before Socrates' trial
and death; but this is inconsistent with the ending of the dialogue. (I have
not seen any reference to this point, but I cannot imagine that it has not
been discussed by some Platonist.) It may even be that the reference to
'corrections', in 143a, and also the much discussed description of the
'new style' in 143b-c (see for example C. Ritter's Plato, vol. I, 1910, pp.
220 f.) were introduced in order to explain some deviations of the revised

edition from the original edition. (This would make it possible to place
the revised edition even after the Sophist.)

Ill

Reply to a Critic (1961)

I have been asked to say something in reply to the critics of this volume.
But before doing so, I should like to thank again those whose criticism
has helped me to improve the book in various ways.

Of the others — those I have come across — I feel reluctant to say much.
In attacking Plato I have, as I now realize, offended and hurt many
Platonists, and I am sorry for this. Still, I have been surprised by the
violence of some of the reactions.

I think most of the defenders of Plato have denied facts which, it seems
to me, cannot be seriously denied. This is true even of the best of them:
Professor Ronald B. Levinson in his monumental book (645 closely
printed pages) In Defense of Plato.

In trying to answer Professor Levinson I have before me two tasks of
very unequal importance. The less important task — defending myself
against a number of accusations — ^will be tackled first (in section A), so
that the more important task — replying to Professor Levinson 's defence
of Plato (in section B) — will not be too much obscured by my personal
defence.

The portrait of myself painted by Professor Levinson has caused me to
doubt the truth of my own portrait of Plato; for if it is possible to derive
from a living author's book so distorted an image of his doctrines and
intentions, what hope can there be of producing anything like a true
portrait of an author born almost twenty-four centuries ago?

Yet how can I defend myself against being identified with the supposed
original of the portrait painted by Professor Levinson? All I can do is to
show that some at least of the mistranslations, misrepresentations, and
distortions of Plato with which Professor Levinson charges me are really
non-existent. And even this I can only do by analysing two or three
representative samples, taken at random from hundreds: there seem to be
more such charges in the book than there are pages. Thus all I can do is to
prove that some at least of the most violent accusations levelled against
me are baseless.

I should have liked to do this without raising any counter-accusation of
misquotation, etc.; but as this has turned out to be impossible, I wish to
make it quite clear that I now see that Professor Levinson, like other
Platonists, must have found my book not only exasperating, but almost
sacrilegious. And since I am that man by whom the offence cometh, I
must not complain if I am bitterly denounced.

So let us examine a few of the relevant passages.

Professor Levinson writes (p. 273, note 72) of me: 'As with others of
whom he disapproves, so here with Critias, Popper has further blackened
his character by exaggeration. For the verses cited represent religion,
though a fabrication, as being aimed at the general good of society, not at
the selfish benefit of the cunning fabricator himself .

Now if this means anything, it must mean that I have asserted, or at
least hinted, in the passages quoted by Professor Levinson (that is, pp.
179 and 140 of A, which corresponds to pp. 183-184, and pp. 142-143 of
E-) that Critias' verses which I have quoted represent religion not only as

a fabrication, but as a fabrication 'aimed ... at the selfish benefit of the
cunning fabricator himself.'

I deny that I either asserted, or even hinted at, anything of the kind. On
the contrary, my concern has been to point out that the 'general good of
society' is one of the dominant preoccupations of Plato, and that his
attitude in this respect 'is practically identical with that of Critias'. The
basis of my criticism is clearly announced at the beginning of chapter 8
(second paragraph) where I write: '"For the benefit of the city", says
Plato. Again we find that the appeal to the principle of collective utility is
the ultimate ethical consideration. '

What I assert is that this moral principle which posits 'the general
good of society' as a moral aim, is not good enough as a basis of ethics;
for example, that it leads to lying — 'for the general good of society' or
'for the benefit of the city'. In other words, I try to show that ethical
collectivism is mischievous, and that it corrupts. But I nowhere interpret
Critias' quoted verses in the sense alleged by Professor Levinson. I
should be inclined to ask 'Who blackens whose character by
exaggeration?', were it not for the fact that I recognize that the severity
of my attack was a provocation which excuses Professor Levinson's
charges. But it does not make them true.

A second example is this. Professor Levinson writes (pp. 354 f.): 'One
of Popper's most extravagant assertions is that Plato had viewed as a
"favourable circumstance" the presence in Athens of Spartan troops,
summoned to assist the Thirty in maintaining themselves and their
iniquitous regime and had felt no other emotion than approval at the
thought of Athens beneath the Spartan yoke; he would have been
prepared, we are led to suppose, to summon them again, if their presence
could aid him in achieving his neooligarchical revolution. There is no
text which Popper can cite in support of such a charge; it arises solely
from his picture of Plato as a third head upon the double-headed monster

he has created, called "the Old Oligarch and Critias"; it is guilt by
association, the very ultimate example of the witch-hunt technique.'

To this my reply is: if this is one of my 'most extravagant assertions',
then I cannot have made any extravagant assertions. For this assertion
was never made by me; nor does it fit into the picture which I have of
Plato, and which I have tried — ^not wholly successfully, it seems — to
convey.

I do believe that Plato was led, by his distrust of the common man, and
by his ethical collectivism, to approve of violence; but I simply never
have made any assertion about Plato even faintly similar to the one which
Professor Levinson here asserts, somewhat extravagantly, that I have
made. There is therefore no text which Professor Levinson can cite in
support of his charge that I have made this assertion: it arises solely from
his picture of Popper as a third head upon the double-headed monster of
Otto Neurath and J. A. Lauwerys which Professor Levinson has created;
and as to 'guilt by association', I can only refer to Professor Levinson's
p. 441. There he is 'helped towards answering this question' — the
question of 'the predisposing cause that leads Popper chronically to
indulge these sinister imaginings' — by associating me with 'an older
compatriot of Popper's, the late versatile Austrian philosopher and
sociologist, Otto Neurath'. (In fact neither Neurath nor I had any
sympathy for the other's philosophy, as emerges only too clearly from
Neurath's and my own writings; Neurath, for example, defended Hegel,
and attacked both Kantianism and my own praise of Kant. Of Neurath's
attack on Plato I heard for the first time when I read about it in Professor
Levinson's book; and I have not yet seen Neurath's relevant papers.)

But to return to my alleged 'extravagant assertion': what I actually said
(p. 195E = 190A) about Plato's feelings is almost the opposite of what
Professor Levinson (p. 354) reports. I did not at all suggest that Plato
viewed as a 'favourable circumstance' the presence in Athens of Spartan

troops, or that he 'felt no other emotion than approval at the thought of
Athens beneath the Spartan yoke'. What I tried to convey, and what I
said, was that the Thirty Tyrants had failed 'in spite of favourable
circumstances in the shape of powerful support from victorious Sparta';
and I suggested that Plato saw the cause of their failure — just as I do — in
the moral failure of the Thirty. I wrote: 'Plato felt that a complete
reconstruction of the programme was needed. The Thirty had been beaten
in the realm of power politics largely because they had offended the
citizens' sense of justice. The defeat had been largely a moral defeat.'

This is all I say here of Plato's feelings. (I say twice 'Plato felt'.) I
suggest that the failure of the Thirty induced a partial moral conversion
in Plato — though not a sufficiently far-reaching one. There is no
suggestion here of those feelings which Professor Levinson makes me
attribute to Plato; and I would never have dreamt that anybody could read
this into my text.

I certainly do attribute to Plato a measure of sympathy with the Thirty
Tyrants and especially with their pro- Spartan aims. But this is of course
something completely different from the 'extravagant assertions' which
Professor Levinson attributes to me. I can only say that I did suggest that
he admired his uncle Critias, the leader of the Thirty. I did suggest that he
was in sympathy with some of Critias' aims and views. But I also said
that he considered the oligarchy of the Thirty as a moral failure, and that
this led him to reconstruct his collectivist morality.

It will be seen that my answer to two of Professor Levinson' s charges
has taken up almost as much space as the charges themselves. This is
unavoidable; and I must therefore confine myself to only two further
examples (out of hundreds), both connected with my alleged
mistranslations of Plato's text.

The first is Professor Levinson's allegation that I worsen, or
exaggerate, Plato's text. 'Popper, however, as before, employs the

unfavourable word "deport" in his translation, in place of "send out",'
writes Professor Levinson on p. 349, note 244. But this is simply a
mistake — Professor Levinson's mistake. If he looks at the passage again,
he will find that I employ the word 'deport' where his translation — or
rather Fowler's — uses 'banish'. (The part of the passage in which
Fowler's translation uses 'send out' simply does not occur in my
quotation but is replaced by dots.)

As a consequence of this mistake, it turns out that, in this context.
Professor Levinson's remark 'as before' is highly appropriate. For before
the passage just discussed he writes of me (p. 348, note 243): 'Popper
reenforces his interpretation [p. 166E = p. 162A] of the Platonic passage
[Rep. 540e/541a] by slight inaccuracies in the translation, tending to give
the impression of greater scorn or violence in Plato's attitude. Thus he
translates "send away" (apopempo) as "expel and deport" . . . ' Now first
of all, there is another of Professor Levinson's slips here (which makes
two in two consecutive footnotes); for Plato does not use here the word
'apopempd\ but the word 'ekpempd\ This certainly does not make much
difference; yet 'ekpempo' has, at any rate, the ' ex' of ' expeP; and one of
its dictionary meanings is 'to drive away' and another 'to send away in
disgrace' (or 'to send away with the collateral notion of disgrace' as my
edition of Liddell and Scott has it). The word is a somewhat stronger
form of 'pempo' — 'to send off, 'to dispatch' — ^which, if used in
connection with Hades ('to send to Hades') 'commonly means to send a
living man to Hades, i.e. to kill him'. (I am quoting Liddell and Scott.
Nowadays some people might even 'commonly' say 'to dispatch him'.
Closely related is the meaning intended when Phaedrus tells us in Plato's
Symposium 179e — a passage referred to by Professor Levinson on p. 348
— that the gods, redeeming and honouring Achilles for his valour and his
love of Patroclus, 'sent him to the Islands of the Blessed' — ^while Homer
sent him to Hades.) It seems obvious that neither of the translations

'expel' or 'deport' is open to criticism here on scholarly grounds. Yet
Professor Levinson is open to criticism when he quotes me as writing
'expel and deport' for I do not use the words in this way. (He would have
been at least technically correct had he quoted me 'must be expelled ...
and deported': the three dots make some difference here, for to write
'expel and deport' could be an attempt to exaggerate, by way of 're-
enforcing' the one expression with the other. Thus this slight inaccuracy
tends to re-enforce my alleged misdeed — my alleged re-enforcing of my
interpretation of this Platonic passage by slight inaccuracies in my
translation.)

But anyhow, this case amounts to nothing. For take the passage in
Shorey's translation. (Shorey is, rightly, accepted as an authority by
Professor Levinson.) 'AH inhabitants above the age of ten', Shorey
translates, 'they [the 'philosophers' who have become 'masters of the
state'] will send out into the fields, and they will take over the children,
remove them from the manners and habits of their parents, and bring
them up in their own customs and laws which will be such as we have
described.' Now does this not say exactly what I said (though perhaps not
quite as clearly as I did on my p. 166E = 162A)? For who can believe that
the 'sending out' of 'all the inhabitants above the age of ten' can be
anything but a violent expulsion and deportation? Would they just
meekly go, leaving their children behind, when 'sent out', if they were
not threatened, and compelled, by the 'philosophers' who have become
'masters of the state'? (Professor Levinson's suggestion, p. 349, that they
are sent to 'their . . . country estates, outside the city proper' is supported
by him, ironically enough, with a reference to ihQ Symposium 179e and
the 'Islands of the Blessed', the place to which Achilles was sent by the
gods — or more precisely by Apollo's or Paris 's arrow. Gorgias, 526c,
would have been a more appropriate reference.)

In all this, there is an important principle involved. I mean the

principle that there is no such thing as a literal translation', that all
translations are interpretations; and that we always have to take the
context into account, and even parallel passages.

That the passages with which (on p. 166E = p. 162A) I have associated
the one just quoted may indeed be so associated is confirmed by Shorey's
own footnotes: he refers, especially, to the passage which I have called
the 'canvas-cleaning' passage, and to the 'kill-and-banish' passage from
the Statesman, 293 c-e. 'Whether they happen to rule by law or without
law, over willing or unwilling subjects; ... and whether they purge the
state for its good, by killing or by deporting [or, as Professor Levinson
translates with Fowler, 'by killing or banishing'; see above] some of its
citizens . . . this form of government must be declared to be the only one
that is right.' (See my text, p. 166E = p. 162A.)

Professor Levinson quotes (p. 349) part of this passage more fully than
I do. Yet he omits to quote that part which I quoted as its commencement,
'Whether they happen to rule by law or without law, over willing or
unwilling subjects'. The point is interesting, because it fits Professor
Levinson's attempt to make the kill-and-banish passage appear in an
almost innocent light. Immediately after quoting the passage. Professor
Levinson writes: 'Fair interpretation of this stated principle [I do not see
any 'principle' here stated, unless it is that all is permitted if it is done
for the benefit of the state] requires at least a brief indication of the
general pattern of the dialogue.' In the course of this 'brief indication' of
Plato's aims and tendencies, we hear — ^without a direct quotation from
Plato — that 'Other traditional and currently accepted criteria, such as
whether rule be exercised ... over willing or unwilling subjects, or in
accord or not in accord with law, are rejected as irrelevant or non-
essential'. The words from Professor Levinson's passage which I have
here italicized will be seen to be a near-quotation of the commencement
(not quoted by Professor Levinson) of my own quotation from Plato's

kill-and-banish passage. Yet this commencement appears now in a very
harmless light: no longer are the rulers told to kill and banish 'with or
without law\ as I indicated; and Professor Levinson's readers get the
impression that this question is here merely dismissed as a side issue — as
'irrelevant' to the problem in hand.

But Plato's readers, and even the participants in his dialogue, get a
different impression. Even the 'Younger Socrates', who intervened just
before (after the commencement of the passage as quoted by me) with the
one exclamation 'Excellent!' is shocked by the lawlessness of the
proposed killing; for immediately after the enunciation of the kill-and-
banish principle (perhaps it really is a 'principle', after all) he says, in
Fowler's translation (the italics are of course mine): 'Everything else that
you have said seems reasonable; but that government [and such hard
measures, too, it is implied] should be carried out without laws is a hard
saying.'

I think that this remark proves that the commencement of my quotation
— 'by law or without law' — is really meant by Plato to be part of his kill-
and-banish principle; that I was right in commencing the quotation where
I did; and that Professor Levinson is simply mistaken when he suggests
that 'with or without law' is here merely intended to mean that this is a
question which is here 'rejected as irrelevant' to the essence of the
problem in hand.

In interpreting the kill-and-banish passage, Professor Levinson is
clearly deeply disturbed; yet at the end of his elaborate attempt to defend
Plato by comparing his practices with our own he arrives at the following
view of the passage: 'Looked at in this context, Plato's statesman, with
his apparent readiness to kill, banish, and enslave, where we should
prescribe either the penitentiary, at one end, or psychiatric social service,
at the other, loses much of his sanguinary coloration.'

Now I do not doubt that Professor Levinson is a genuine humanitarian

— a democrat and a liberal. But is it not perturbing to see that a genuine
humanitarian, in his eagerness to defend Plato, can be led to compare in
this fashion our admittedly very faulty penal practices and our no less
faulty social services with the avowedly lawless killing and banishing
(and enslaving) of citizens by the 'true statesman' — a good and wise man
— 'for the benefit of the city'? Is this not a frightening example of the
spell which Plato casts over many of his readers, and of the danger of
Platonism?

There is too much of this — all mixed with accusations against a largely
imaginary Popper — for me to deal with. But I wish to say that I regard
Professor Levinson's book not only as a very sincere attempt to defend
Plato, but also as an attempt to see Plato in a new light. And though I
have found only one passage — and quite an unimportant one — which has
led me to think that, in this place, I interpreted Plato's text (though not
his meaning) somewhat too freely, I do not wish to create the impression
that Professor Levinson's is not a very good and interesting book —
especially if we forget all about the scores of places where 'Popper' is
quoted, or (as I have shown) slightly misquoted, and very often radically
misunderstood.

But more important than these personal questions is the question: how
far does Professor Levinson's defence of Plato succeed?

I have learnt that when faced with a new attack on my book by a defender
of Plato it is best to disregard the smaller points and to look for answers
to the following five cardinal points.

(1) How is my assertion met that thQ Republic and the Laws condemn
the Socrates of the Apology (as pointed out in chapter 10, second
paragraph of section vi)? As explained in a note (note 55 to chapter 10)
the assertion was in effect made by Grote, and supported by Taylor. If it
is fair — and I think it is — then it supports also my assertion mentioned in
my next point, (2).

(2) How is my assertion met that Plato's anti-liberal and anti-
humanitarian attitude cannot possibly be explained by the alleged fact
that better ideas were not known to him, or that he was, for those days,
comparatively liberal and humanitarian?

(3) How is my assertion met that Plato (for example in the canvas-
cleaning passage of the Republic and in the kill-and-banish passage of the
Statesman) encouraged his rulers to use ruthless violence 'for the benefit
of the state'?

(4) How is my assertion met that Plato established for his philosopher
kings the duty and privilege of using lies and deceit for the benefit of the
city, especially in connection with racial breeding, and that he was one of
the founding fathers of racialism?

(5) What is said in answer to my quotation of the passage from the
Laws used as a motto for The Spell of Plato on p. 7 (and, as announced at
the beginning of the Notes on p. 203, 'discussed in some detail in notes
33 and 34 to chapter 6')?

I often tell my students that what I say about Plato is — necessarily —
merely an interpretation, and that I should not be surprised if Plato
(should I ever meet his shade) were to tell me, and to establish to my
satisfaction, that it is a misrepresentation; but I usually add that he would
have quite a task to explain away a number of the things he had said.

Has Professor Levinson succeeded on Plato's behalf in this task,
regarding any of the five points mentioned above?

I really do not think he has.

(r) As to the first point, I ask anybody in doubt to read carefully the
text of the last speech made by the Athenian Stranger in book X of the
Laws (907d down to, say, 909d). The legislation there discussed is
concerned with the type of crime of which Socrates was accused. My
contention is that, while Socrates had a way out (most critics think, in
view of the evidence of the Apology, that he would probably have escaped
death had he been willing to accept banishment), Plato's Laws do not
make any such provision. I shall quote from a passage in Bury's
translation (which seems to be acceptable to Levinson) of this very long
speech. After classifying his 'criminals' (that is, those guilty of 'impiety'
or 'the disease of atheism': the translation is Bury's; cp. 908c), the
Athenian Stranger discusses first 'those who, though they utterly
disbelieve the existence of gods, possess by nature a just character ... and
... are incapable of being induced to commit unjust actions'. (908b-c;
this is almost a portrait — of course an unconscious one — of Socrates,
apart from the important fact that he does not seem to have been an
atheist, though accused of impiety and unorthodoxy.) About these Plato
says:

' . . . those criminals . . . being devoid of evil disposition and character,
shall be placed by the judge according to law in the reformatory for a
period of not less than five years, during which time no other of the
citizens shall hold intercourse with them save only those who take part in
the nocturnal assembly, and they shall company with them [I should
translate 'they shall attend to them'] to minister to their soul's salvation
by admonition ...' Thus the 'good' among the impious men get a
minimum of five years of solitary confinement, only relieved by
'attention' to their sick souls from the members of the Nocturnal Council.
' . . . and when the period of their incarceration has expired, if any of them
seems to be reformed, he shall dwell with those who are reformed, but if
not, and if he be convicted again on a like charge, he shall be punished by

death. '

I have nothing to add to this.

(2') The second point is perhaps the most important from Professor
Levinson's point of view: it is one of his main claims that I am mistaken
in my assertion that there were humanitarians — ^better ones than Plato —
among those whom I have called the 'Great Generation'.

He asserts, in particular, that my picture of Socrates as a man very
different from Plato in this respect is quite fictitious.

Now I have devoted a very long footnote (note 56 to chapter 10), in
fact quite an essay, to this problem — the Socratic Problems and I do not
see any reason to change my views on it. But I wish to say here that I
have received support in this historical conjecture of mine about the
Socratic Problem, from a Platonic scholar of the eminence of Richard
Robinson; support which is the more significant as Robinson castigates
me severely (and perhaps justly) for the tone of my attack on Plato.
Nobody who reads his review of my book {Philosophical Review, 60,
1951) can accuse him of undue partiality for me; and Professor Levinson
quotes him approvingly (p. 20) for speaking of my 'rage to blame' Plato.
But although Professor Levinson (in a footnote on p. 20) refers to Richard
Robinson as 'mingling praise and blame in his extensive review of the
Open Society', and although (in another footnote, on p. 61) he rightly
refers to Robinson as an authority about 'the growth of Plato's logic from
its Socratic beginnings through its middle period'. Professor Levinson
never tells his readers that Robinson agrees not only with my main
accusations against Plato, but also, more especially, with my conjectural
solution of the Socratic Problem. (Incidentally, Robinson also agrees that
my quotation mentioned here in point (5) is correct; see below.)

Since Robinson, as we have heard, 'mingles praise and blame', some of
his readers (anxious to find confirmation for their 'rage to blame' me)
may have overlooked the praise contained in the surprising last sentence

of the following forceful passage from his review (p. 494):

'Dr. Popper holds that Plato perverted the teaching of Socrates ... To
him Plato is a very harmful force in politics but Socrates a very
beneficial one. Socrates died for the right to talk freely to the young; but
in the Republic Plato makes him take up an attitude of condescension and
distrust towards them. Socrates died for truth and free speech; but in the
Republic "Socrates" advocates lying. Socrates was intellectually modest;
but in the Republic he is a dogmatist. Socrates was an individualist; but in
the Republic he is a radical collectivist. And so on.

'What is Dr. Popper's evidence for the views of the real Socrates? It is
drawn exclusively from Plato himself, from the early dialogues, and
primarily from thQ Apology. Thus the angel of light with whom he
contrasts the demon Plato is known to us only from the demon's own
account! Is this absurd?

'It is not absurd, in my opinion, but entirely correct.'

This passage shows that at least one scholar, admitted by Professor
Levinson to be an authority on Plato, has found that my view on the
Socratic Problem is not absurd.

But even if my conjectural solution of the Socratic Problem should be
mistaken, there is plenty of evidence left for the existence of
humanitarian tendencies in this period.

Concerning the speech of Hippias, to be found in Plato's Protagoras,
337e (see above p. 70; Professor Levinson seems for once not to object to
my translation; see his p. 144), Professor Levinson writes (p. 147): 'We
must begin by assuming that Plato is here reflecting faithfully a well-
known sentiment of Hippias.' So far Professor Levinson and I agree. But
we disagree completely about the relevance of Hippias' speech. On this I
have now even stronger views than those I expressed in the text of this
volume. (Incidentally, I don't think I ever asserted that there was
evidence that Hippias was an opponent of slavery; what I said of him was

that 'this spirit was bound up with the Athenian movement against
slavery'; thus Professor Levinson's elaborate argument that I am not
justified 'in including him [Hippias] among the opponents of slavery' is
pointless.)

I now see Hippias' speech as a manifesto — the first perhaps — of a
humanitarian faith which inspired the ideas of the Enlightenment and the
French Revolution: that all men are brothers, and that it is conventional,
man-made, law and custom which divide them and which are the source
of much avoidable unhappiness; so that it is not impossible for men to
make things better by a change in the laws — ^by legal reform. These ideas
also inspired Kant. And Schiller speaks of conventional law as 'the
fashion' which sternly (' streng') — Beethoven says 'insolently' ('frech')
— divides mankind.

As to slavery, my main contention is that the Republic contains
evidence of the existence of tendencies in Athens which may be described
as opposition to slavery. Thus the 'Socrates' of the Republic (563b) says,
in a speech satirizing Athenian democracy (I quoted it in chapter 4, ii, p.
43E = p. 44 A; but I am here using Shorey's translation): 'And the climax
of popular liberty ... is attained in such a city when the purchased slaves,
male and female, are no less free than the owners who paid for them.'

Shorey has a number of cross-references to this passage (see footnote
below); but the passage speaks for itself. Levinson says of this passage
elsewhere (p. 176): 'Let us contribute the just-quoted passage to help fill
the modest inventory of Plato's social sins', and on the next page he
refers to it when he speaks of 'Another instance of Platonic hauteur'. But
this is no answer to my contention that, taken together with a second
passage from the Republic quoted in my text (p. 43E = p. 44A), this first
passage supplies evidence of an anti-slavery movement. The second
passage (which follows in Plato immediately after an elaboration of the
first, here quoted at the end of the preceding paragraph) reads in Shorey's

translation {Republic 563d; the previous passage v^diS Republic 563b):
'And do you know that the sum total of all these items ... is that they
render the souls of the citizens so sensitive that they chafe at the slightest
suggestion of servitude [I translated 'slavery'] and will not endure it?'

How does Professor Levinson deal with this evidence? First, by
separating the two passages: the first he does not discuss until p. 176,
long after he has smashed to bits (on p. 153) my alleged evidence
concerning an anti-slavery movement. The second he dismisses on p. 153
as a grotesque mistranslation of mine; for he writes there: 'Yet it is all a
mistake; though Plato uses the word douleia (slavery or servitude), it
bears only a figurative allusion [my italics] to slavery in the usual sense.'

This may sound plausible when the passage is divorced from its
immediate predecessor (only mentioned by Professor Levinson more than
twenty pages later, where he explains it by Plato's hauteur); but in its
context — in connection with Plato's complaint about the licentious
behaviour of slaves (and even of animals) — ^there can be no doubt
whatever that, in addition to the meaning which Professor Levinson
correctly ascribes to the passage, the passage also bears a second meaning
which takes 'douleia' quite literally; for it says, and it means, that the
free democratic citizens cannot stand slavery in any form — ^not only do
they not submit themselves to any suggestion of servitude (not even to
laws, as Plato goes on to say), but they have become so tender-hearted
that they cannot bear 'even the slightest suggestion of servitude' — such
as the slavery of 'purchased slaves, male or female'.

Professor Levinson (p. 153, after discussing Plato's second passage)
asks: 'in the light of the evidence ... what, then, can fairly be said to
remain standing in Popper's case ...? The simplest answer is "Nothing,"
if words are taken in anything like their literal sense.' Yet his own case
rests upon taking 'douleia\ in a context which clearly refers to slavery,
not in its literal sense but as 'only a figurative allusion', as he himself has

put it a few lines earlier.-

And yet, he says of the grotesque 'mistake' I made in translating
'douleia' literally: 'This misreading has borne fruit in the preface to
Sherwood Anderson's play Barefoot in Athens . . . where the unsuspecting
playwright, following Popper' (Professor Levinson asserts on p. 24 that
'the Andersonian version of Plato plainly bespeaks a close and docile
reading of Popper', but he gives no evidence for this strange accusation)
'passes on to his readers in turn the allusion, and declares flatly ... as on
Plato's own authority, that the Athenians ... "advocate[d] the
manumission of all slaves" . . . '

Now this remark of Maxwell (not Sherwood) Anderson's may well be
an exaggeration. But where have I said anything similar to this? And what
is the worth of a case if, in its defence, the defender has to exaggerate the
views of his opponent, or blacken them by associating them with the
(alleged) guilt of some 'docile' reader? (See also the Index to this
volume, under 'Slavery'.)

(3') My contention that Plato encouraged his rulers to use ruthless and
lawless violence, though it is combated by Professor Levinson, is
nowhere really denied by him, as will be seen from his discussion of the
'kill-and-banish' passage of the Statesman mentioned in this Addendum
towards the end of section A. All he denies is that a number of other
passages in the Republic — the canvas-cleaning passages — are similar, as
both Shorey and I think. Apart from this, he tries to derive comfort and
moral support from some of our modern violent practices — a comfort
which, I fear, will be diminished if he re-reads the passage of the
Statesman together with its commencement, quoted by me, but first
omitted by Professor Levinson, and later dismissed as irrelevant.

(4') As to Plato's racialism, and his injunction to his rulers to use lies
and deceit for the benefit of the state, I wish to remind my readers, before
entering into any discussion with Professor Levinson, of Kant's saying

(see p. 139E = p. 137A) that though 'truthfulness is the best policy' might
be questionable, 'truthfulness is better than policy' is beyond dispute.

Professor Levins on writes (p. 434, referring to my pp. 138 ff. E = pp.
136 ff. A, and especially to p. 150E = p. 148A) very fairly: 'First of all,
we must agree that the use of lies in certain circumstances is advocated
[my italics] in the Republic for purposes of government This, after
all, is my main point. No attempt to play it down or to diminish its
significance — and no counterattack on my alleged exaggerations — should
be allowed to obscure this admission.

Professor Levinson also admits, in the same place, that 'there can be no
doubt that some use of the persuasive art of speech would be required to
make the auxiliaries "blame chance and not the rulers" when they are told
[see my p. 150E = p. 148 A] that the fall of the lot has determined their
marriages, whereas really these are engineered by the rulers for eugenic
reasons'.

This was my second main point.

Professor Levinson continues (pp. 434 f.; my italics): 'In this instance
we have the only sanctioning by Plato of an outright practical lie,- to be
told, to be sure, for benevolent reasons (and only for such purposes does
Plato sanction the telling), but a lie and nothing more. We, like Popper,
find this policy distasteful. This lie, then, and any others like it which
Plato's rather general permission might justify, constitute such basis as
exists for Popper's charge that Plato proposes to use "lying propaganda"
in his city.'

Is this not enough? Let us assume that I was wrong in my other points
(which, of course, I deny), does not all this at least excuse my suspicion
that Plato would not have scrupled to make some further use of his
'rather general permission' of 'the use of lies' — especially in view of the
fact that he actually 'advocated' the 'use of lies' as Professor Levinson
has it?

Moreover, the lying is here used in connection with 'eugenics', or
more precisely, with the breeding of the master race — ^the race of the
guardians.

In defending Plato against my accusation that he was a racialist
Professor Levinson tries to compare him favourably with some
'notorious' modem totalitarian racialists whose names I have tried to
keep out of my book. (And I shall continue to do so.) He says of these (p.
541; my italics) that their 'breeding schedule' 'was primarily intended to
preserve the purity of the master race, din aim which we have been at
some pains to show Plato did not share.'

Did he not? Was my quotation from one of the main eugenic
discussions of the Republic (460c) perhaps a mistranslation? I wrote (p.
51E = p. 52A); I am here introducing new italics):

'''The race of the guardians must be kept pure'\ says Plato (in defence
of infanticide) when developing the racialist argument that we breed
animals with great care while neglecting our own race, an argument
which has been repeated ever since.'

Is my translation wrong? Or my assertion that this has been, ever since
Plato, the main argument of racialists and breeders of the master race? Or
are the guardians not the masters of Plato's best city?

As to my translation, Shorey puts it a little differently; I shall quote
from his translation (the italics are mine) also the preceding sentence
(referring to infanticide): the offspring of the inferior, and any of
those of the other sort who are bom defective, they [the rulers] will
properly dispose of in secret, so that no one will know what has become
of them. "That is the condition," he said, "of preserving the purity of the
guardian 's breed

It will be seen that Shorey 's last sentence is slightly weaker than mine.
But the difference is trifling, and does not affect my thesis. And at any
rate, I stick to my translation. 'At all events the breed of the guardians

must be preserved pure' or 'If at all events [as we agree] the purity of the
breed of the guardians must be preserved' would be a translation which,
using some of Shorey's words, brings out precisely the same meaning as
my translation in the body of the book (p. 5 IE = p. 52A) and here
repeated.

I cannot see, therefore, what the difference is between Professor
Levinson's formulation of that 'notorious ... breeding schedule' of the
totalitarians, and Plato's formulation of his own breeding aims. Whatever
minor difference there may be is irrelevant to the central question.

As to the problem whether Plato allowed — very exceptionally — a
mingling of his races (which would be the consequence of promoting a
member of the lower race), opinions may differ. I still believe that what I
said is true. But I cannot see that it would make any difference if
exceptions were permitted. (Even those modern totalitarians to whom
Professor Levinson alludes permitted exceptions.)

(5') I have been repeatedly and severely attacked for quoting — or rather
misquoting — a passage from the Laws which I have taken as one of the
two mottos of The Spell of Plato (the other and contrasting passage is
from Pericles' funeral oration). These mottos were printed by my
American publishers on the jacket of the American edition; the English
editions have no such advertisement. As is usual with jackets, I was not
consulted by the publishers about them. (But I certainly have no objection
to my American publishers' choice: why should they not print my mottos
— or anything else I wrote in the book — on their jackets?)

My translation and interpretation of this passage has been pronounced
to be correct by Richard Robinson, as mentioned above; but others went
so far as to ask me whether I had not consciously tried to hide its identity,
in order to make it impossible for my readers to check the text! And this
although I have taken more trouble, I think, than most authors to make it
possible for my readers to check any passage quoted or referred to. Thus I

have a reference to my mottos at the beginning of my notes — although it
is somewhat unusual to make references to one's mottos.

The main accusation against me for using this passage is that I do not
say, or do not emphasize sufficiently, that it refers to military matters.
But here I have testimony in my favour from Professor Levinson himself
who writes (p. 531, footnote; my italics):

'Popper, in citing this passage in his text, p. 102 [= p. 103E] duly
emphasizes its reference to military matters.'

Thus this charge is answered. However, Professor Levinson continues:
but [Popper] protests simultaneously that Plato means the same
"militarist principles" to be adhered to in peace as well as in war, and that
they are to be applied to every area of peaceful existence rather than
simply to the program of military training. He then quotes the passage
with perverse mistranslations which tend to obscure its military reference
. . . ' and so on.

Now the first charge here is that I 'protest simultaneously' that Plato
means these militarist principles to be adhered to in peace as well as in
war. Indeed I have said so — quoting Plato: it is Plato who says so. Should
I have suppressed it? Plato says, in Bury's translation of which Professor
Levinson approves (though I prefer mine: I ask my readers whether there
is any difference of meaning between them, as distinct from one of
clarity; see p. 103E = p. 102A): nor should anyone, whether at work
or in play, grow habituated in mind to acting alone and on his own
initiative, but he should live always both in war and peace, with his eyes
fixed constantly on his commander . . . ' (Laws, Loeb Library, vol. ii, p.
477; my italics).

And later (p. 479):

'This task of ruling, and of being ruled by, others must be practised in
peace from earliest childhood . . . '

As to mistranslation, I can only say that there is practically no

difference between my translation and Bury's — except that I have broken
up Plato's two very long sentences which, as they stand, are not quite
easy to follow. Professor Levinson says (p. 531) that I have 'made great
and illegitimate use' of this passage; and he continues: 'His journalistic
misapplication of a selection from it on the dust cover' [the publishers'
advertisement; see above] 'and on the title page of Part I of his book will
be dissected in our note, where we also print the passage in full.'

The dissection of my 'journalistic misapplication' in this note consists,
apart from some alleged 'corrections' of my translation which I do not
accept, mainly of the same charge — that I have printed the passage on the
jacket and in other important places. For Professor Levinson writes (p.
532; italics mine):

'This small unfairness is entirely eclipsed, however, by what Popper
has done with the passage elsewhere. On the title page of Part I of his
book, and also on the dust jacket' [who is unfair to whom?] 'he prints a,
carefully chosen selection drawn from it, and beside it prints, as its very
antithesis, a sentence drawn from Pericles' funeral oration ... This is to
print in parallel a political ideal and a proposed military regulation ; yet
Popper has not only failed to apprise the reader of this selection of its
military reference, but employing the same mistranslations, has deleted
absolutely all those parts of the passage which would reveal the fact.'

My answer to this is very simple, {a) The mistranslations are non-
existent, {b) I have tried to show at length that the passage, in spite of its
military reference, formulates, like the Pericles passage (which
incidentally also has some, though less, military reference), a political
ideal — that is, Plato's political ideal.

I have seen no valid reason to change my belief that I am right in
holding that this passage — like so many similar passages in the Laws —
formulates Plato's political ideal. But whether this belief of mine is true
or not, I have certainly given strong reasons for it (reasons which

Professor Levinson fails to undermine). And since I have done so, and
since Professor Levinson does not at all question the fact that I believe
that I have done so, it constitutes neither a 'small unfairness' nor a great
one if I try to present the passage as what I believe it to be: Plato's own
description of his political ideal — of his totalitarian and militaristic ideal
state.

As to my mistranslations, I shall confine myself to the one which
Professor Levinson finds important enough to discuss in his text (as
distinct from his footnote). He writes, on p. 533:

'A further objection concerns Popper's use of the word "leader." Plato
uses "archdn'\ the same word he employs for officials of the state and for
military commanders; it is clearly the latter, or the directors of the
athletic contests, whom he has here in mind. '

Clearly, there is no case for me to answer. (Should I have perhaps
translated 'director'?) Anybody who consults a Greek dictionary can
ascertain that 'archdn\ in its most basic meaning, is properly and
precisely rendered by the English word 'leader' (or the Latin ' dux' or the
Italian '// duce'). The word is described, by Liddell and Scott, as a
participle of the verb 'archon' whose fundamental meaning, according to
these authorities, is 'to be first', either 'in point of Time', or 'in point of
Place or Station'. In this second sense the first meanings given are: 'to
lead, rule, govern, command, be leader or commander'. Accordingly we
find, under archon, 'a ruler, commander, captain ; also, with respect to
Athens, the chief magistrates at Athens, nine in number.' This should
suffice to show that 'leader' is not a mistranslation, provided it fits the
text. That it does can be seen from Bury's own version in which, it will be
remembered, the passage is rendered as follows: 'but he should live
always, both in war and peace, with his eyes fixed constantly on his
commander and following his lead' . In fact, 'leader' fits the text only too
well: it is the horrifying fittingness of the word which has produced

Professor Levinson's protest. Since he is unable to see Plato as an
advocate of totalitarian leadership, he feels that it must be my 'perverse
mistranslations' (p. 531) which are to be blamed for the horrifying
associations which this passage evokes.

But I assert that it is Plato's text, and Plato's thought, which is
horrifying. I am, as is Professor Levinson, shocked by the 'leader', and
all that this term connotes. Yet these connotations must not be played
down if we wish to understand the appalling implications of the Platonic
ideal state. These I set out to bring home, as well as I could.

It is perfectly true that in my comments I have stressed the fact that,
although the passage refers to military expeditions, Plato leaves no doubt
that its principles are to apply to the whole life of his soldier-citizens. It
is no answer to say that a Greek citizen was, and had to be, a soldier; for
this is true of Pericles and the time of his funeral oration (for soldiers
fallen in battle) at least as much as of Plato and the time of his Laws.

This is the point which my mottos were meant to bring out as clearly as
possible. This made it necessary to cut out one clause from this unwieldy
passage, thereby omitting (as indicated by the insertion of dots) some of
those references to military matters which would have obscured my main
point: I mean the fact that the passage has a general application, to war
and to peace, and that many Platonists have misread it, and missed its
point, because of its length and obscure formulation, and because of their
anxiety to idealize Plato. This is how the case stands. Yet I am accused in
this context by Professor Levinson (p. 532) of using 'tactics' which
'make it necessary to check in merciless detail every one of Popper's
citations from the Platonic text', in order to 'reveal how far from the path
of objectivity and fairness Popper has been swept'.

Faced with these accusations and allegations, and with suspicions cast
upon me, I can only try to defend myself. But I am conscious of the
principle that no man ought to be judge in his own cause. It is for this

reason that I wish here to quote what Richard Robinson says (on p. 491 of
The Philosophical Review, 60) about this Platonic passage, and about my
translation of it. It should be remembered that Robinson is 'mingling
praise with blame' in his review of my book, and that part of the blame
consists in the assertion that my translations of Plato are biased. Yet he
writes:

'Biased though they are, they should certainly not be disregarded. They
draw attention to real and important features of Plato's thought that are
usually overlooked. In particular. Dr. Popper's show piece, the horrible
passage irom Laws 942 about never acting on one's own, is correctly
translated. (It might be urged that Plato intended this to apply only to the
military life of his citizens, and it is true that the passage begins as a
prescription for army discipline; but by the end Plato is clearly wishing to
extend it to all life; cf. "the anarchy must be removed from all the life of
all the men" [Laws, 942d 1]).'

I feel that I should add nothing to Robinson's statement.

To sum up. I cannot possibly attempt to answer even a fraction of the
charges Professor Levinson has brought against me. I have tried to
answer only a few of them, bearing in mind, as well as I could, that more
important than the problem of who is unfair to whom is the question
whether or not my assertions about Plato have been refuted. I have tried
to give reasons for my belief that they have not been refuted. But I repeat
that no man ought to be judge in his own cause: I must leave it to my
readers to decide.

Yet I do not wish to end this long discussion without reaffirming my
conviction of Plato's overwhelming intellectual achievement. My opinion
that he was the greatest of all philosophers has not changed. Even his
moral and political philosophy is, as an intellectual achievement, without
parallel, though I find it morally repulsive, and indeed horrifying. As to

his physical cosmology, I have changed my mind between the first and
second edition (more precisely, between the first English edition and the
first American edition) of this book; and I have tried to give reasons why
I now think that he is the founder of the geometrical theory of the world',
a theory whose importance has continuously increased down the ages. His
literary powers I should think it presumptuous to praise. What my critics
have shown is, I believe, that Plato's greatness makes it all the more
important to fight his moral and political philosophy, and to warn those
who may fall under his magic spell.

IV (1965)

In note 3 1 to Chapter 3 I mentioned a number of works which seemed to
me to anticipate my views of Plato's politics. Since writing this note I
have read Diana Spearman's great attack, of 1939, on appeasers and
dictators. Mo Jer^ Dictatorship. Her chapter, 'The Theory of Autocracy',
contains one of the deepest and most penetrating, and at the same time
one of the briefest analyses of Plato's political theory that I have seen.

Notes

1 'A' stands in this Addendum for the American editions of 1950 and 1956; 'E' for the present
edition and for the English editions from 1932 on.

2 Added in 1965. That the word ' douleia' in the passage in question (Republic 563d) bears
this literal meaning (in addition to the figurative meaning which Professor Levinson
correctly attributes to it) is confirmed by Shorey, the great Platonist and open enemy of

democracy, whom Professor Levinson considers an authority on Plato's text. (I can often
agree with Shorey's interpretation of Plato because he rarely tries to humanize or liberalize
Plato's text.) For in a footnote which Shorey attaches to the word 'servitude' {douleid) in his
translation of Republic 563d, he refers to two parallel passages: Gorgias 49 le, dindLaws
890a. The first of these reads in W. R. M. Lamb's translation (Loeb Edition): 'For how can a
man be happy if he is a slave to anybody at all?' Here the phrase 'to be a slave' has, like the
one in the Republic, not only the figurative meaning 'to submit oneself but also the literal
meaning; indeed, the whole point is the merging of the two meanings. The passage from the
Laws 890a (an elaborate attack on certain Sophists of the Great Generation) reads in Bury's
translation (Loeb Edition) as follows: 'these teachers [who corrupt the young men] attract
them towards the life . . . "according to nature" which consists in being master over the rest,
in reality [ale-theia\, instead of being a slave to others, according to legal convention.' Plato
clearly alludes here among others to those Sophists (p. TOE = p. 70A and note 13 to chapter
5) who taught that men cannot be slaves 'by nature' or 'in truth', but only 'by legal
convention' (by legal fiction). Thus Shorey connects the crucial passage of the Republic by
this reference at least indirectly to the great classical discussion of the theory of slavery
('slavery' in the literal sense).

3 It is by no means the only instance, as may be seen from my chapter 8. The passage quoted
in the text to note 2, for example {Rep., 389b), is a different instance from the passage {Rep.,
460a) which Professor Levinson has in mind. There are several other passages. See Rep.,
415d and especially Tim., 18e, which prove that Plato finds his instruction to lie of sufficient
importance to be included in the very brief summary of the Republic. (See also Laws, 663d
down to 664b.)

Volume II

The High Tide of Prophecy: Hegel,
Marx, and the Aftermath

To the debacle of liberal science can be traced the moral schism of the
modem world which so tragically divides enlightened men.

WALTER LIPPMANN.

The High Tide of Prophecy

The Rise of Oracular Philosophy

The Aristotelian Roots of Hegelianism

The task of writing a history of the ideas in which we are interested — of
historicism and its connection with totalitarianism — will not be
attempted here. The reader will remember, I hope, that I do not even try
to give more than a few scattered remarks which may throw light on the
background of the modem version of these ideas. The story of their
development, more particularly during the period from Plato to Hegel and
Marx, could not possibly be told while keeping the size of the book
within reasonable limits. I shall therefore not attempt a serious treatment
of Aristotle, except in so far as his version of Plato's essentialism has
influenced the historicism of Hegel, and thereby that of Marx. The
restriction to those ideas of Aristotle with which we have become
acquainted in our criticism of Plato, Aristotle's great master, does not,
however, create as serious a loss as one might fear at first sight. For
Aristotle, in spite of his stupendous learning and his astonishing scope,
was not a man of striking originality of thought. What he added to the
Platonic store of ideas was, in the main, systematization and a burning
interest in empirical and especially in biological problems. To be sure, he
is the inventor of logic, and for this and his other achievements, he amply
deserves what he himself claimed (at the end of his Sophistic Refutations)
— our warm thanks, and our pardon for his shortcomings. Yet for readers
and admirers of Plato these shortcomings are formidable.

In some of Plato's latest writings, we can find an echo of the
contemporary political developments in Athens — of the consolidation of
democracy. It seems that even Plato began to doubt whether some form
of democracy had not come to stay. In Aristotle, we find indications that
he did not doubt any longer. Although he is no friend of democracy, he
accepts it as unavoidable, and is ready to compromise with the enemy.

An inclination to compromise, strangely mixed with an inclination to
find fault with his predecessors and contemporaries (and with Plato in
particular), is one of the outstanding characteristics of Aristotle's
encyclopaedic writings. They show no trace of the tragic and stirring
conflict that is the motive of Plato's work. Instead of Plato's flashes of
penetrating insight, we find dry systematization and the love, shared by
so many mediocre writers of later times, for settling any question
whatever by issuing a 'sound and balanced judgement' that does justice
to everybody; which means, at times, by elaborately and solemnly
missing the point. This exasperating tendency which is systematized in
Aristotle's famous 'doctrine of the mean' is one of the sources of his so
often forced and even fatuous criticism of Plato-. An example of
Aristotle's lack of insight, in this case of historical insight (he also was a
historian), is the fact that he acquiesced in the apparent democratic
consolidation just when it had been superseded by the imperial monarchy
of Macedon; a historical event which happened to escape his notice.
Aristotle, who was, as his father had been, a courtier at the Macedonian
court, chosen by Philip to be the teacher of Alexander the Great, seems to
have underrated these men and their plans; perhaps he thought he knew
them too well. 'Aristotle sat down to dinner with Monarchy without

becoming aware of it', is Gomperz's appropriate comment. -

Aristotle's thought is entirely dominated by Plato's. Somewhat
grudgingly, he followed his great teacher as closely as his temperament
permitted, not only in his general political outlook but practically
everywhere. So he endorsed, and systematized, Plato's naturalistic theory
of slavery-: 'Some men are by nature free, and others slaves; and for the
latter, slavery is fitting as well as just ... A man who is by nature not his
own, but another's, is by nature a slave ... Hellenes do not like to call
themselves slaves, but confine this term to barbarians ... The slave is
totally devoid of any faculty of reasoning', while free women have just a
very little of it. (We owe to Aristotle's criticisms and denunciations most
of our knowledge of the Athenian movement against slavery. By arguing
against the fighters for freedom, he preserved some of their utterances.)
In some minor points Aristotle slightly mitigates Plato's theory of
slavery, and duly censures his teacher for being too harsh. He could
neither resist an opportunity for criticizing Plato, nor one for a
compromise, not even if it was a compromise with the liberal tendencies
of his time.

But the theory of slavery is only one of Plato's many political ideas to
be adopted by Aristotle. Especially his theory of the Best State, as far as
we know it, is modelled upon the theories of the Republic and the Laws',
and his version throws considerable light on Plato's. Aristotle's Best
State is a compromise between three things, a romantic Platonic
aristocracy, a 'sound and balanced' feudalism, and some democratic
ideas; but feudalism has the best of it. With the democrats, Aristotle
holds that all citizens should have the right to participate in the
government. But this, of course, is not meant to be as radical as it sounds,
for Aristotle explains at once that not only slaves but all members of the
producing classes are excluded from citizenship. Thus he teaches with
Plato that the working classes must not rule and the ruling classes must

not work, nor earn any money. (But they are supposed to have plenty.)
They own the land, but must not work it themselves. Only hunting, war,
and similar hobbies are considered worthy of the feudal rulers. Aristotle's
fear of any form of money earning, i.e. of all professional activities, goes
perhaps even further than Plato's. Plato had used the term 'banausic'- to
describe a plebeian, abject, or depraved state of mind. Aristotle extends
the disparaging use of the term so as to cover all interests which are not
pure hobbies. In fact, his use of the term is very near to our use of the
term 'professional', more especially in the sense in which it disqualifies
in an amateur competition, but also in the sense in which it applies to any
specialized expert, such as a physician. For Aristotle, every form of
professionalism means a loss of caste. A feudal gentleman, he insists-,
must never take too much interest in 'any occupation, art or science ...
There are also some liberal arts, that is to say, arts which a gentleman
may acquire, but always only to a certain degree. For if he takes too much
interest in them, then these evil effects will follow', namely, he will
become proficient, like a professional, and lose caste. This is Aristotle's
idea of a liberal education, the idea, unfortunately not yet obsolete-, of a
gentleman's education, as opposed to the education of a slave, serf,
servant, or professional man. It is in the same vein that he repeatedly
insists that 'the first principle of all action is leisure'-. Aristotle's
admiration and deference for the leisured classes seems to be the
expression of a curious feeling of uneasiness. It looks as if the son of the
Macedonian court physician was troubled by the question of his own
social position, and especially by the possibility that he might lose caste
because of his own scholarly interests which might be considered
professional. 'One is tempted to believe', says Gomperz-, 'that he feared
to hear such denunciations from his aristocratic friends ... It is indeed
strange to see that one of the greatest scholars of all time, if not the
greatest, does not wish to be a professional scholar. He would rather be a

dilettante, and a man of the world Aristotle's feelings of inferiority
have, perhaps, still another basis, apart from his wish to prove his
independence of Plato, apart from his own 'professional' origin, and apart
from the fact that he was, undoubtedly, a professional 'sophist' (he even
taught rhetoric). For with Aristotle, Platonic philosophy gives up her
great aspirations, her claims to power. From this moment, it could
continue only as a teaching profession. And since hardly anybody but a
feudal lord had the money and the leisure for studying philosophy, all
that philosophy could aspire to was to become an annex to the traditional
education of a gentleman. With this more modest aspiration in view,
Aristotle finds it very necessary to persuade the feudal gentleman that
philosophical speculation and contemplation may become a most
important part of his 'good life'; for it is the happiest and noblest and the
most refined method of whiling away one's time, if one is not occupied
with political intrigues or by war. It is the best way of spending one's
leisure since, as Aristotle himself puts it, 'nobody . . . would arrange a war
for that purpose'-.

It is plausible to assume that such a courtier's philosophy will tend to
be optimistic, since it will hardly be a pleasant pastime otherwise. And
indeed, in its optimism lies the one important adjustment made by
Aristotle in his systematization— of Platonism. Plato's sense of drift had
expressed itself in his theory that all change, at least in certain cosmic
periods, must be for the worse; all change is degeneration. Aristotle's
theory admits of changes which are improvements; thus change may be
progress. Plato had taught that all development starts from the original,
the perfect Form or Idea, so that the developing thing must lose its
perfection in the degree in which it changes and in which its similarity to
the original decreases. This theory was given up by his nephew and
successor, Speusippus, as well as by Aristotle. But Aristotle censured
Speusippus' arguments as going too far, since they implied a general

biological evolution towards higher forms. Aristotle, it seems, was
opposed to the much-discussed evolutionary biological theories of his
time—. But the peculiar optimistic twist which he gave to Platonism was
an outcome of biological speculation also. It was based upon the idea of a
final cause.

According to Aristotle, one of the four causes of anything — also of any
movement or change — is the final cause, or the end towards which the
movement aims. In so far as it is an aim or a desired end, the final cause
isalsogooJ. It follows from this that ^omQ good may not only be the
starting point of a movement (as Plato had taught, and as Aristotle
admitted—) but that some good must also stand at its end. And this is
particularly important for anything that has a beginning in time, or, as
Aristotle puts it, for anything that comes into being. The Form or essence
of anything developing is identical with the purpose or end or final state
towards which it develops. Thus we obtain after all, in spite of Aristotle's
disclaimer, something very closely resembling Speusippus' adjustment of
Platonism. The Form or Idea, which is still, with Plato, considered to be
good, stands at the end, instead of the beginning. This characterizes
Aristotle's substitution of optimism for pessimism.

Aristotle's teleology, i.e. his stress upon the end or aim of change as its
final cause, is an expression of his predominantly Z?/o/og/ca/ interests. It
is influenced by Plato's biological theories—, and also by Plato's
extension of his theory of justice to the universe. For Plato did not
confine himself to teaching that each of the different classes of citizens
has its natural place in society, a place to which it belongs and for which
it is naturally fitted; he also tried to interpret the world of physical bodies
and their different classes or kinds on similar principles. He tried to
explain the weight of heavy bodies, like stones, or earth, and their
tendency to fall, as well as the tendency of air and fire to rise, by the

assumption that they strive to retain, or to regain, the place inhabited by
their kind. Stones and earth fall because they strive to be where most
stones and earth are, and where they belong, in the just order of nature;
air and fire rise because they strive to be where air and fire (the heavenly
bodies) are, and where they belong, in the just order of nature—. This
theory of motion appealed to the zoologist Aristotle; it combines easily
with the theory of final causes, and it allows an explanation of all motion
as being analogous with the canter of horses keen to return to their
stables. He developed it as his famous theory of natural places.
Everything if removed from its own natural place has a natural tendency
to return to it.

Despite some alterations, Aristotle's version of Plato's essentialism
shows only unimportant differences. Aristotle insists, of course, that
unlike Plato he does not conceive the Forms or Ideas as existing apart
from sensible things. But in so far as this difference is important, it is
closely connected with the adjustment in the theory of change. For one of
the main points in Plato's theory is that he must consider the Forms or
essences or originals (or fathers) as existing prior to, and therefore apart
from, sensible things, since these move further and further away from
them. Aristotle makes sensible things move towards their final causes or
ends, and these he identifies— with their Forms or essences. And as a
biologist, he assumes that sensible things carry potentially within
themselves the seeds, as it were, of their final states, or of their essences.
This is one of the reasons why he can say that the Form or essence is in
the thing, not, as Plato said, prior and external to it. For Aristotle, all
movement or change means the realization (or 'actualization') of some of
the potentialities inherent in the essence of a thing—. It is, for example,
an essential potentiality of a piece of timber, that it can float on water, or
that it can burn; these potentialities remain inherent in its essence even if
it should never float or burn. But if it does, then it realizes a potentiality.

and thereby changes or moves. Accordingly, the essence, which embraces
all the potentialities of a thing, is something like its internal source of
change or motion. This Aristotelian essence or Form, this 'formal' or
'final' cause, is therefore practically identical with Plato's 'nature' or
'soul'; and this identification is corroborated by Aristotle himself.
'Nature', he writes— in ihQ Metaphysics , 'belongs also to the same class
as potentiality; for it is a principle of movement inherent in the thing
itself.' On the other hand, he defines the 'soul' as the 'first entelechy of a
living body', and since 'entelechy', in turn, is explained as the Form, or
the formal cause, considered as a motive force—, we arrive, with the help
of this somewhat complicated terminological apparatus, back at Plato's
original point of view: that the soul or nature is something akin to the
Form or Idea, but inherent in the thing, and its principle of motion.
(When Zeller praised Aristotle for his 'definite use and comprehensive
development of a scientific terminology'—, I think he must have felt a bit
uneasy in using the word 'definite'; but the comprehensiveness is to be
admitted, as well as the most deplorable fact that Aristotle, by using this
complicated and somewhat pretentious jargon, fascinated only too many
philosophers; so that, as Zeller puts it, 'for thousands of years he showed
philosophy her way'.)

Aristotle, who was a historian of the more encyclopaedic type, made no
direct contribution to historicism. He adhered to a more restricted version
of Plato's theory that floods and other recurring catastrophes destroy the
human race from time to time, leaving only a few survivors.— But he
does not seem, apart from this, to have interested himself in the problem
of historical trends. In spite of this fact, it may be shown here how his
theory of change lends itself to historicist interpretations, and that it
contains all the elements needed for elaborating a grandiose historicist
philosophy. (This opportunity was not fully exploited before Hegel.)
Three historicist doctrines which directly follow from Aristotle's

essentialism may be distinguished. (1) Only if a person or a state
develops, and only by way of its history, can we get to know anything
about its 'hidden, undeveloped essence' (to use a phrase of Hegel's—).
This doctrine leads later, first of all, to the adoption of an historicist
method; that is to say, of the principle that we can obtain any knowledge
of social entities or essences only by applying the historical method, by
studying social changes. But the doctrine leads further (especially when
connected with Hegel's moral positivism which identifies the known as
well as the real with the good) to the worship of History and its exaltation
as the Grand Theatre of Reality as well as the World's Court of Justice.
(2) Change, by revealing what is hidden in the undeveloped essence, can
only make apparent the essence, the potentialities, the seeds, which from
the beginning have inhered in the changing object. This doctrine leads to
the historicist idea of an historical fate or an inescapable essential
destiny; for, as Hegel— showed later, 'what we call principle, aim,
destiny' is nothing but the 'hidden undeveloped essence'. This means that
whatever may befall a man, a nation, or a state, must be considered to
emanate from, and to be understandable through, the essence, the real
thing, the real 'personality' that manifests itself in this man, this nation,
or this state. 'A man's fate is immediately connected with his own being;
it is something which, indeed, he may fight against, but which is really a
part of his own life.' This formulation (due to Caird— ) of Hegel's theory
of fate is clearly the historical and romantic counterpart of Aristotle's
theory that all bodies seek their own 'natural places'. It is, of course, no
more than a bombastic expression of the platitude, that what befalls a
man depends not only on his external circumstances, but also on himself,
on the way he reacts to them. But the na'ive reader is extremely pleased
with his ability to understand, and to feel the truth of this depth of
wisdom that needs to be formulated with the help of such thrilling words
as 'fate' and especially 'his own being'. (3) In order to become real or

actual, the essence must unfold itself in change. This doctrine assumes
later, with Hegel, the following form—: 'That which exists for itself only,
is ... a mere potentiality: it has not yet emerged into Existence ... It is
only by activity that the Idea is actualized.' Thus if I wish to 'emerge into
Existence' (surely a very modest wish), then I must 'assert my
personality'. This still rather popular theory leads, as Hegel sees clearly,
to a new justification of the theory of slavery. For self-assertion means—,
in so far as one's relations to others are concerned, the attempt to
dominate them. Indeed, Hegel points out that all personal relations can
thus be reduced to the fundamental relation of master and slave, of
domination and submission. Each must strive to assert and prove himself,
and he who has not the nature, the courage, and the general capacity for
preserving his independence, must be reduced to servitude. This
charming theory of personal relations has, of course, its counterpart in
Hegel's theory of international relations. Nations must assert themselves
on the Stage of History; it is their duty to attempt the domination of the
World.

All these far-reaching historicist consequences, which will be
approached from a different angle in the next chapter, were slumbering
for more than twenty centuries, 'hidden and undeveloped', in Aristotle's
essentialism. Aristotelianism was more fertile and promising than most
of its many admirers know.

The chief danger to our philosophy, apart from laziness and woolliness, is scholasticism, . . .
which is treating what is vague as if it were precise. . .

F. P. Ramsey.

We have reached a point from which we could without delay proceed to
an analysis of the historicist philosophy of Hegel, or, at any rate, to the
brief comments upon the developments between Aristotle and Hegel and
upon the rise of Christianity that conclude, as section III, the present
chapter. As a kind of digression, however, I shall next discuss a more
technical problem, Aristotle's essentialist method of Definitions .

The problem of definitions and of the 'meaning of terms' does not
directly bear upon historicism. But it has been an inexhaustible source of
confusion and of that particular kind of verbiage which, when combined
with historicism in Hegel's mind, has bred that poisonous intellectual
disease of our own time which I call oracular philosophy. And it is the
most important source of Aristotle's regrettably still prevailing
intellectual influence, of all that verbal and empty scholasticism that
haunts not only the Middle Ages, but our own contemporary philosophy;
for even a philosophy as recent as that of L. Wittgenstein— suffers, as we
shall see, from this influence. The development of thought since Aristotle
could, I think, be summed up by saying that every discipline, as long as it
used the Aristotelian method of definition, has remained arrested in a
state of empty verbiage and barren scholasticism, and that the degree to
which the various sciences have been able to make any progress depended
on the degree to which they have been able to get rid of this essentialist
method. (This is why so much of our 'social science' still belongs to the
Middle Ages.) The discussion of this method will have to be a little
abstract, owing to the fact that the problem has been so thoroughly
muddled by Plato and Aristotle, whose influence has given rise to such
deep-rooted prejudices that the prospect of dispelling them does not seem
very bright. In spite of all that, it is perhaps not without interest to
analyse the source of so much confusion and verbiage.

Aristotle followed Plato in distinguishing between knowledge and
opinion—. Knowledge, or science, according to Aristotle, may be of two

kinds — either demonstrative or intuitive. Demonstrative knowledge is
also a knowledge of 'causes'. It consists of statements that can be
demonstrated — the conclusions — together with their syllogistic
demonstrations (which exhibit the 'causes' in their 'middle terms').
Intuitive knowledge consists in grasping the 'indivisible form' or essence
or essential nature of a thing (if it is 'immediate', i.e. if its 'cause' is
identical with its essential nature); it is the originative source of all
science since it grasps the original basic premises of all demonstrations.

Undoubtedly, Aristotle was right when he insisted that we must not
attempt to prove or demonstrate all our knowledge. Every proof must
proceed from premises; the proof as such, that is to say, the derivation
from the premises, can therefore never finally settle the truth of any
conclusion, but only show that the conclusion must be true provided the
premises are true. If we were to demand that the premises should be
proved in their turn, the question of truth would only be shifted back by
another step to a new set of premises, and so on, to infinity. It was in
order to avoid such an infinite regress (as the logicians say) that Aristotle
taught that we must assume that there are premises which are indubitably
true, and which do not need any proof; and these he called 'basic
premises'. If we take for granted the methods by which we derive
conclusions from these basic premises, then we could say that, according
to Aristotle, the whole of scientific knowledge is contained in the basic
premises, and that it would all be ours if only we could obtain an
encyclopaedic list of the basic premises. But how to obtain these basic
premises? Like Plato, Aristotle believed that we obtain all knowledge
ultimately by an intuitive grasp of the essences of things. 'We can know a
thing only by knowing its essence', Aristotle writes—, and 'to know a
thing is to know its essence'. A 'basic premise' is, according to him,
nothing but a statement describing the essence of a thing. But such a
statement is just what he calls— a definition. Thus all 'basic premises oj

proofs ' are definitions.

What does a definition look like? An example of a definition would be:
'A puppy is a young dog.' The subject of such a definition- sentence, the
term 'puppy', is called the term to be defined (or defined term)', the words
'young dog' are called the defining formula. As a rule, the defining
formula is longer and more complicated than the defined term, and
sometimes very much so. Aristotle considers— the term to be defined as a
name of the essence of a thing, and the defining formula as the
description of that essence. And he insists that the defining formula must
give an exhaustive description of the essence or the essential properties
of the thing in question; thus a statement like 'A puppy has four legs',
although true, is not a satisfactory definition, since it does not exhaust
what may be called the essence of puppiness, but holds true of a horse
also; and similarly the statement 'A puppy is brown', although it may be
true of some, is not true of all puppies; and it describes what is not an
essential but merely an accidental property of the defined term.

But the most difficult question is how we can get hold of definitions or
basic premises, and make sure that they are correct — that we have not
erred, not grasped the wrong essence. Although Aristotle is not very clear
on this point—, there can be little doubt that, in the main, he again
follows Plato. Plato taught— that we can grasp the Ideas with the help of
some kind of unerring intellectual intuition] that is to say, we visualize or
look at them with our 'mental eye', a process which he conceived as
analogous to seeing, but dependent purely upon our intellect, and
excluding any element that depends upon our senses. Aristotle's view is
less radical and less inspired than Plato's, but in the end it amounts to the
same—. For although he teaches that we arrive at the definition only after
we have made many observations, he admits that sense-experience does
not in itself grasp the universal essence, and that it cannot, therefore,
fully determine a definition. Eventually he simply postulates that we

possess an intellectual intuition, a mental or intellectual faculty which
enables us unerringly to grasp the essences of things, and to know them.
And he further assumes that if we know an essence intuitively, we must
be capable of describing it and therefore of defining it. (His arguments in
thQ Posterior Analytic in favour of this theory are surprisingly weak.
They consist merely in pointing out that our knowledge of the basic
premises cannot be demonstrative, since this would lead to an infinite
regress, and that the basic premises must be at least as true and as certain
as the conclusions based upon them. 'It follows from this', he writes,
'that there cannot be demonstrative knowledge of the primary premises;
and since nothing but intellectual intuition can be more true than
demonstrative knowledge, it follows that it must be intellectual intuition
that grasps the basic premises.' In the De Anima, and in the theological
part of the Metaphysics, we find more of an argument; for here we have a
theory of intellectual intuition — ^that it comes into contact with its object,
the essence, and that it even becomes one with its object. 'Actual
knowledge is identical with its object.')

Summing up this brief analysis, we can give, I believe, a fair
description of the Aristotelian ideal of perfect and complete knowledge if
we say that he saw the ultimate aim of all inquiry in the compilation of an
encyclopaedia containing the intuitive definitions of all essences, that is
to say, their names together with their defining formulae; and that he
considered the progress of knowledge as consisting in the gradual
accumulation of such an encyclopaedia, in expanding it as well as in
filling up the gaps in it and, of course, in the syllogistic derivation from it
of 'the whole body of facts' which constitute demonstrative knowledge.

Now there can be little doubt that all these essentialist views stand in
the strongest possible contrast to the methods of modern science. (I have
the empirical sciences in mind, not perhaps pure mathematics.) First,
although in science we do our best to find the truth, we are conscious of

the fact that we can never be sure whether we have got it. We have
learned in the past, from many disappointments, that we must not expect
finality. And we have learned not to be disappointed any longer if our
scientific theories are overthrown; for we can, in most cases, determine
with great confidence which of any two theories is the better one. We can
therefore know that we are making progress; and it is this knowledge that
to most of us atones for the loss of the illusion of finality and certainty.
In other words, we know that our scientific theories must always remain
hypotheses, but that, in many important cases, we can find out whether or
not a new hypothesis is superior to an old one. For if they are different,
then they will lead to different predictions, which can often be tested
experimentally; and on the basis of such a crucial experiment, we can
sometimes find out that the new theory leads to satisfactory results where
the old one breaks down. Thus we can say that in our search for truth, we
have replaced scientific certainty by scientific progress. And this view of
scientific method is corroborated by the development of science. For
science does not develop by a gradual encyclopaedic accumulation of
essential information, as Aristotle thought, but by a much more
revolutionary method; it progresses by bold ideas, by the advancement of
new and very strange theories (such as the theory that the earth is not flat,
or that 'metrical space' is not flat), and by the overthrow of the old ones.

But this view of scientific method means— that in science there is no
'knowledge', in the sense in which Plato and Aristotle understood the
word, in the sense which implies finality; in science, we never have
sufficient reason for the belief that we have attained the truth. What we
usually call 'scientific knowledge' is, as a rule, not knowledge in this
sense, but rather information regarding the various competing hypotheses
and the way in which they have stood up to various tests; it is, using the
language of Plato and Aristotle, information concerning the latest, and
the best tested, scientific 'opinion'. This view means, furthermore, that

we have no proofs in science (excepting, of course, pure mathematics and
logic). In the empirical sciences, which alone can furnish us with
information about the world we live in, proofs do not occur, if we mean
by 'proof an argument which establishes once and for ever the truth of a
theory. (What may occur, however, are refutations of scientific theories.)
On the other hand, pure mathematics and logic, which permit of proofs,
give us no information about the world, but only develop the means of
describing it. Thus we could say (as I have pointed out elsewhere—): 'In
so far as scientific statements refer to the world of experience, they must
be refutable; and, in so far as they are irrefutable, they do not refer to the
world of experience.' But although proof does not play any part in the
empirical sciences, argument still does—; indeed, its part is at least as
important as that played by observation and experiment.

The role of definitions in science, especially, is also very different
from what Aristotle had in mind. Aristotle taught that in a definition we
have first pointed to the essence — ^perhaps by naming it — and that we
then describe it with the help of the defining formula; just as in an
ordinary sentence like 'This puppy is brown', we first point to a certain
thing by saying 'this puppy', and then describe it as 'brown'. And he
taught that by thus describing the essence to which the term points which
is to be defined, we determine or explain the meaning— of the term also.
Accordingly, the definition may at one time answer two very closely
related questions. The one is 'What is it?', for example, 'What is a
puppy?'; it asks what the essence is which is denoted by the defined term.
The other is 'What does it mean?', for example, 'What does "puppy"
mean?'; it asks for the meaning of a term (namely, of the term that
denotes the essence). In the present context, it is not necessary to
distinguish between these two questions; rather, it is important to see
what they have in common; and I wish, especially, to draw attention to
the fact that both questions are raised by the term that stands, in the

definition, on the left side and answered by the defining formula which
stands on the right side. This fact characterizes the essentialist view,
from which the scientific method of definition radically differs.

While we may say that the essentialist interpretation reads a definition
'normally', that is to say, from the left to the right, we can say that a
definition, as it is normally used in modern science, must be read back to
front, or from the right to the left', for it starts with the defining formula,
and asks for a short label to it. Thus the scientific view of the definition
'A puppy is a young dog' would be that it is an answer to the question
'What shall we call a young dog?' rather than an answer to the question
'What is a puppy?'. (Questions like 'What is life?' or ' What is gravity?'
do not play any role in science.) The scientific use of definitions,
characterized by the approach 'from the right to the left', may be called
its nominalist interpretation, as opposed to its Aristotelian or essentialist
interpretation—. In modern science, only— nominalist definitions occur,
that is to say, shorthand symbols or labels are introduced in order to cut a
long story short. And we can at once see from this that definitions do not
play any very important part in science. For shorthand symbols can
always, of course, be replaced by the longer expressions, the defining
formula, for which they stand. In some cases this would make our
scientific language very cumbersome; we should waste time and paper.
But we should never lose the slightest piece of factual information. Our
'scientific knowledge', in the sense in which this term may be properly
used, remains entirely unaffected if we eliminate all definitions; the only
effect is upon our language, which would lose, not precision—, but
merely brevity. (This must not be taken to mean that in science there
cannot be an urgent practical need for introducing definitions, for
brevity's sake.) There could hardly be a greater contrast than that
between this view of the part played by definitions, and Aristotle's view.
For Aristotle's essentialist definitions are the principles from which all

our knowledge is derived; they thus contain all our knowledge; and they
serve to substitute a long formula for a short one. As opposed to this, the
scientific or nominalist definitions do not contain any knowledge
whatever, not even any 'opinion'; they do nothing but introduce new
arbitrary shorthand labels; they cut a long story short.

In practice, these labels are of the greatest usefulness. In order to see
this, we only need to consider the extreme difficulties that would arise if
a bacteriologist, whenever he spoke of a certain strain of bacteria, had to
repeat its whole description (including the methods of dyeing, etc., by
which it is distinguished from a number of similar species). And we may
also understand, by a similar consideration, why it has so often been
forgotten, even by scientists, that scientific definitions must be read
'from the right to the left', as explained above. For most people, when
first studying a science, say bacteriology, must try to find out the
meanings of all these new technical terms with which they are faced. In
this way, they really learn the definition 'from the left to the right',
substituting, as if it were an essentialist definition, a very long story for a
very short one. But this is merely a psychological accident, and a teacher
or writer of a textbook may indeed proceed quite differently; that is to
say, he may introduce a technical term only after the need for it has

arisen—.

So far I have tried to show that the scientific or nominalist use of
definitions is entirely different from Aristotle's essentialist method of
definitions. But it can also be shown that the essentialist view of
definitions is simply untenable in itself. In order not to prolong this
digression unduly—, I shall criticize two only of the essentialist
doctrines; two doctrines which are of significance because some
influential modern schools are still based upon them. One is the esoteric
doctrine of intellectual intuition, and the other the very popular doctrine
that 'we must define our terms', if we wish to be precise.

Aristotle held with Plato that we possess a faculty, intellectual
intuition, by which we can visualize essences and find out which
definition is the correct one, and many modern essentialists have repeated
this doctrine. Other philosophers, following Kant, maintain that we do not
possess anything of the sort. My opinion is that we can readily admit that
we possess something which may be described as 'intellectual intuition';
or more precisely, that certain of our intellectual experiences may be thus
described. Everybody who 'understands' an idea, or a point of view, or an
arithmetical method, for instance, multiplication, in the sense that he has
'got the feel of it', might be said to understand that thing intuitively; and
there are countless intellectual experiences of that kind. But I would
insist, on the other hand, that these experiences, important as they may be
for our scientific endeavours, can never serve to establish the truth of any
idea or theory, however strongly somebody may feel, intuitively, that it
must be true, or that it is 'self-evident'—. Such intuitions cannot even
serve as an argument, although they may encourage us to look for
arguments. For somebody else may have just as strong an intuition that
the same theory is false. The way of science is paved with discarded
theories which were once declared self-evident; Francis Bacon, for
example, sneered at those who denied the self-evident truth that the sun
and the stars rotated round the earth, which was obviously at rest.
Intuition undoubtedly plays a great part in the life of a scientist, just as it
does in the life of a poet. It leads him to his discoveries. But it may also
lead him to his failures. And it always remains his private affair, as it
were. Science does not ask how he has got his ideas, it is only interested
in arguments that can be tested by everybody. The great mathematician.
Gauss, described this situation very neatly once when he exclaimed: 'I
have got my result; but I do not know yet how to get it.' All this applies,
of course, to Aristotle's doctrine of intellectual intuition of so-called
essences—, which was propagated by Hegel, and in our own time by E.

Husserl and his numerous pupils; and it indicates that the 'intellectual
intuition of essences' or 'pure phenomenology', as Husserl calls it, is a
method of neither science nor philosophy. (The much debated question
whether it is a new invention, as the pure phenomenologists think, or
perhaps a version of Cartesianism or Hegelianism, can be easily decided;
it is a version of Aristotelianism.)

The second doctrine to be criticized has even more important
connections with modern views; and it bears especially upon the problem
of verbalism. Since Aristotle, it has become widely known that one
cannot prove all statements, and that an attempt to do so would break
down because it would lead only to an infinite regression of proofs. But
neither he— nor, apparently, a great many modern writers seem to realize
that the analogous attempt to define the meaning of all our terms must, in
the same way, lead to an infinite regression of definitions. The following
passage from Grossman's Plato To-Day is characteristic of a view which
by implication is held by many contemporary philosophers of repute, for
example, by Wittgenstein—: '... if we do not know precisely the
meanings of the words we use, we cannot discuss anything profitably.
Most of the futile arguments on which we all waste time are largely due
to the fact that we each have our own vague meanings for the words we
use and assume that our opponents are using them in the same senses. If
we defined our terms to start with, we could have far more profitable
discussions. Again, we have only to read the daily papers to observe that
propaganda (the modern counterpart of rhetoric) depends largely for its
success on confusing the meaning of the terms. If politicians were
compelled by law to define any term they wished to use, they would lose
most of their popular appeal, their speeches would be shorter, and many
of their disagreements would be found to be purely verbal.' This passage
is very characteristic of one of the prejudices which we owe to Aristotle,
of the prejudice that language can be made more precise by the use of

definitions. Let us consider whether this can really be done.

First, we can see clearly that if 'politicians' (or anybody else) 'were
compelled by law to define any term they wished to use', their speeches
would not be shorter, but infinitely long. For a definition cannot establish
the meaning of a term any more than a logical derivation— can establish
the truth of a statement; both can only shift this problem back. The
derivation shifts the problem of truth back to the premises, the definition
shifts the problem of meaning back to the defining terms (i.e., the terms
that make up the defining formula). But these, for many reasons—, are
likely to be just as vague and confusing as the terms we started with; and
in any case, we should have to go on to define them in turn; which leads
to new terms which too must be defined. And so on, to infinity. One sees
that the demand that all our terms should be defined is just as untenable
as the demand that all our statements should be proved.

At first sight this criticism may seem unfair. It may be said that what
people have in mind, if they demand definitions, is the elimination of the
ambiguities so often connected with words such as— 'democracy',
'liberty', 'duty', 'religion', etc.; that it is clearly impossible to define all
our terms, but possible to define some of these more dangerous terms and
to leave it at that; and that the defining terms have just to be accepted,
i.e., that we must stop after a step or two in order to avoid an infinite
regression. This defence, however, is untenable. Admittedly, the terms
mentioned are much misused. But I deny that the attempt to define them
can improve matters. It can only make matters worse. That by 'defining
their terms' even once, and leaving the defining terms undefined, the
politicians would not be able to make their speeches shorter, is clear; for
any essentialist definition, i.e. one that 'defines our terms' (as opposed to
the nominalist one which introduces new technical terms), means the
substitution of a long story for a short one, as we have seen. Besides, the
attempt to define terms would only increase the vagueness and confusion.

For since we cannot demand that all the defining terms should be defined
in their turn, a clever politician or philosopher could easily satisfy the
demand for definitions. If asked what he means by 'democracy', for
example, he could say 'the rule of the general will' or 'the rule of the
spirit of the people'; and since he has now given a definition, and so
satisfied the highest standards of precision, nobody will dare to criticize
him any longer. And, indeed, how could he be criticized, since the
demand that 'rule' or 'people' or 'will' or 'spirit' should be defined in
their turn, puts us well on the way to an infinite regression so that
everybody would hesitate to raise it? But should it be raised in spite of all
that, then it can be equally easily satisfied. On the other hand, a quarrel
about the question whether the definition was correct, or true, can only
lead to an empty controversy about words.

Thus the essentialist view of definition breaks down, even if it does
not, with Aristotle, attempt to establish the 'principles' of our knowledge,
but only makes the apparently more modest demand that we should
'define the meaning of our terms'.

But undoubtedly, the demand that we speak clearly and without
ambiguity is very important, and must be satisfied. Can the nominalist
view satisfy it? And can nominalism escape the infinite regression?

It can. For the nominalist position there is no difficulty which
corresponds to the infinite regression. As we have seen, science does not
use definitions in order to determine the meaning of its terms, but only in
order to introduce handy shorthand labels. And it does not depend on
definitions; all definitions can be omitted without loss to the information
imparted. It follows from this that in science, all the terms that are really
needed must be undefined terms. How then do the sciences make sure of
the meanings of their terms? Various replies to this question have been
suggested—, but I do not think that any of them are satisfactory. The
situation seems to be this. Aristotelianism and related philosophies have

told us for such a long time how important it is to get a precise
knowledge of the meaning of our terms that we are all inclined to believe
it. And we continue to cling to this creed in spite of the unquestionable
fact that philosophy, which for twenty centuries has worried about the
meaning of its terms, is not only full of verbalism but also appallingly
vague and ambiguous, while a science like physics which worries hardly
at all about terms and their meaning, but about facts instead, has achieved
great precision. This, surely, should be taken as indicating that, under
Aristotelian influence, the importance of the meaning of terms has been
grossly exaggerated. But I think that it indicates even more. For not only
does this concentration on the problem of meaning fail to establish
precision; it is itself the main source of vagueness, ambiguity, and
confusion.

In science, we take care that the statements we make should never
depend upon the meaning of our terms. Even where the terms are defined,
we never try to derive any information from the definition, or to base any
argument upon it. This is why our terms make so little trouble. We do not
overburden them. We try to attach to them as little weight as possible.
We do not take their 'meaning' too seriously. We are always conscious
that our terms are a little vague (since we have learned to use them only
in practical applications) and we reach precision not by reducing their
penumbra of vagueness, but rather by keeping well within it, by carefully
phrasing our sentences in such a way that the possible shades of meaning
of our terms do not matter. This is how we avoid quarrelling about words.

The view that the precision of science and of scientific language
depends upon the precision of its terms is certainly very plausible, but it
is none the less, I believe, a mere prejudice. The precision of a language
depends, rather, just upon the fact that it takes care not to burden its
terms with the task of being precise. A term like 'sand-dune' or 'wind' is
certainly very vague. (How many inches high must a little sand-hill be in

order to be called 'sand-dune'? How quickly must the air move in order
to be called 'wind'?) However, for many of the geologist's purposes,
these terms are quite sufficiently precise; and for other purposes, when a
higher degree of differentiation is needed, he can always say 'dunes
between 4 and 30 feet high' or 'wind of a velocity of between 20 and 40
miles an hour'. And the position in the more exact sciences is analogous.
In physical measurements, for instance, we always take care to consider
the range within which there may be an error; and precision does not
consist in trying to reduce this range to nothing, or in pretending that
there is no such range, but rather in its explicit recognition.

Even where a term has made trouble, as for instance the term
'simultaneity' in physics, it was not because its meaning was unprecise or
ambiguous, but rather because of some intuitive theory which induced us
to burden the term with too much meaning, or with too 'precise' a
meaning, rather than with too little. What Einstein found in his analysis
of simultaneity was that, when speaking of simultaneous events,
physicists made a false assumption which would have been
unchallengeable were there signals of infinite velocity. The fault was not
that they did not mean anything, or that their meaning was ambiguous, or
the term not precise enough; what Einstein found was, rather, that the
elimination of a theoretical assumption, unnoticed so far because of its
intuitive self-evidence, was able to remove a difficulty which had arisen
in science. Accordingly, he was not really concerned with a question of
the meaning of a term, but rather with the truth of a theory. It is very
unlikely that it would have led to much if someone had started, apart
from a definite physical problem, to improve the concept of simultaneity
by analysing its 'essential meaning', or even by analysing what physicists
'really mean' when they speak of simultaneity.

I think we can learn from this example that we should not attempt to
cross our bridges before we come to them. And I also think that the

preoccupation with questions concerning the meaning of terms, such as
their vagueness or their ambiguity, can certainly not be justified by an
appeal to Einstein's example. Such a preoccupation rests, rather, on the
assumption that much depends upon the meaning of our terms, and that
we operate with this meaning; and therefore it must lead to verbalism and
scholasticism. From this point of view, we may criticize a doctrine like
that of Wittgenstein—, who holds that while science investigates matters
of fact, it is the business of philosophy to clarify the meaning of terms,
thereby purging our language, and eliminating linguistic puzzles. It is
characteristic of the views of this school that they do not lead to any
chain of argument that could be rationally criticized; the school therefore
addresses its subtle analyses— exclusively to the small esoteric circle of
the initiated. This seems to suggest that any preoccupation with meaning
tends to lead to that result which is so typical of Aristotelianism:
scholasticism and mysticism.

Let us consider briefly how these two typical results of Aristotelianism
have arisen. Aristotle insisted that demonstration or proof, and definition,
are the two fundamental methods of obtaining knowledge. Considering
the doctrine of proof first, it cannot be denied that it has led to countless
attempts to prove more than can be proved; medieval philosophy is full
of this scholasticism and the same tendency can be observed, on the
Continent, down to Kant. It was Kant's criticism of all attempts to prove
the existence of God which led to the romantic reaction of Fichte,
Schelling, and Hegel. The new tendency is to discard proofs, and with
them, any kind of rational argument. With the romantics, a new kind of
dogmatism becomes fashionable, in philosophy as well as in the social
sciences. It confronts us with its dictum. And we can take it or leave it.
This romantic period of an oracular philosophy, called by Schopenhauer
the 'age of dishonesty', is described by him as follows—: 'The character
of honesty, that spirit of undertaking an inquiry together with the reader.

which permeates the works of all previous philosophers, disappears here
completely. Every page witnesses that these so-called philosophers do not
attempt to teach, but to bewitch the reader.'

A similar result was produced by Aristotle's doctrine of definition.
First it led to a good deal of hairsplitting. But later, philosophers began to
feel that one cannot argue about definitions. In this way, essentialism not
only encouraged verbalism, but it also led to the disillusionment with
argument, that is, with reason. Scholasticism and mysticism and despair
in reason, these are the unavoidable results of the essentialism of Plato
and Aristotle. And Plato's open revolt against freedom becomes, with
Aristotle, a secret revolt against reason.

As we know from Aristotle himself, essentialism and the theory of
definition met with strong opposition when they were first proposed,
especially from Socrates' old companion Antisthenes, whose criticism
seems to have been most sensible—. But this opposition was
unfortunately defeated. The consequences of this defeat for the
intellectual development of mankind can hardly be overrated. Some of
them will be discussed in the next chapter. With this I conclude my
digression, the criticism of the Platonic-Aristotelian theory of definition.

Ill

It will hardly be necessary again to stress the fact that my treatment of
Aristotle is most sketchy — much more so than my treatment of Plato. The
main purpose of what has been said about both of them is to show the role
they have played in the rise of historicism and in the fight against the
open society, and to show their influence on problems of our own time —
on the rise of the oracular philosophy of Hegel, the father of modern

historicism and totalitarianism. The developments between Aristotle and
Hegel cannot be treated here at all. In order to do anything like justice to
them, at least another volume would be needed. In the remaining few
pages of this chapter I shall, however, attempt to indicate how this period
might be interpreted in terms of the conflict between the open and the
closed society.

The conflict between the Platonic-Aristotelian speculation and the
spirit of the Great Generation, of Pericles, of Socrates, and of
Democritus, can be traced throughout the ages. This spirit was preserved,
more or less purely, in the movement of the Cynics who, like the early
Christians, preached the brotherhood of man, which they connected with
a monotheistic belief in the fatherhood of God. Alexander's empire as
well as that of Augustus was influenced by these ideas which had first
taken shape in the imperialist Athens of Pericles, and which had always
been stimulated by the contact between West and East. It is very likely
that these ideas, and perhaps the Cynic movement itself, influenced the
rise of Christianity also.

In its beginning, Christianity, like the Cynic movement, was opposed
to the highbrow Platonizing Idealism and intellectualism of the 'scribes',
the learned men. ('Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent
and hast revealed them unto the babes.') I do not doubt that it was, in
part, a protest against what may be described as Jewish Platonism in the
wider sense—, the abstract worship of God and His Word. And it was
certainly a protest against Jewish tribalism, against its rigid and empty
tribal taboos, and against its tribal exclusiveness which expressed itself,
for example, in the doctrine of the chosen people, i.e. in an interpretation
of the deity as a tribal god. Such an emphasis upon tribal laws and tribal
unity appears to be characteristic not so much of a primitive tribal society
as of a desperate attempt to restore and arrest the old forms of tribal life;
and in the case of Jewry, it seems to have originated as a reaction to the

impact of the Babylonian conquest on Jewish tribal life. But side by side
with this movement towards greater rigidity we find another movement
which apparently originated at the same time, and which produced
humanitarian ideas that resembled the response of the Great Generation
to the dissolution of Greek tribalism. This process, it appears, repeated
itself when Jewish independence was ultimately destroyed by Rome. It
led to a new and deeper schism between these two possible solutions, the
return to the tribe, as represented by orthodox Jewry, and the
humanitarianism of the new sect of Christians, which embraced
barbarians (or gentiles) as well as slaves. We can see from the Acts— how
urgent these problems were, the social problem as well as the national
problem. And we can see this from the development of Jewry as well; for
its conservative part reacted to the same challenge by another movement
towards arresting and petrifying their tribal form of life, and by clinging
to their 'laws' with a tenacity which would have won the approval of
Plato. It can hardly be doubted that this development was, like that of
Plato's ideas, inspired by a strong antagonism to the new creed of the
open society; in this case, of Christianity.

But the parallelism between the creed of the Great Generation,
especially of Socrates, and that of early Christianity goes deeper. There is
little doubt that the strength of the early Christians lay in their moral
courage. It lay in the fact that they refused to accept Rome's claim 'that it
was entitled to compel its subjects to act against their conscience'—. The
Christian martyrs who rejected the claims of might to set the standards of
right suffered for the same cause for which Socrates had died.

It is clear that these matters changed very considerably when the
Christian faith itself became powerful in the Roman empire. The question
arises whether this official recognition of the Christian Church (and its
later organization after the model of Julian the Apostate's Neo-Platonic
Anti- Church— ) was not an ingenious political move on the part of the

ruling powers, designed to break the tremendous moral influence of an
equalitarian religion — a religion which they had in vain attempted to
combat by force as well as by accusations of atheism and impiety. In
other words, the question arises whether (especially after Julian) Rome
did not find it necessary to apply Pareto's advice, 'to take advantage of
sentiments, not wasting one's energies in futile efforts to destroy them'.
This question is hard to answer; but it certainly cannot be dismissed by
appealing (as Toynbee does—) to our 'historical sense that warns us
against attributing', to the period of Constantine and his followers, '...
motives that are anachronistically cynical', that is to say, motives that are
more in keeping with our own 'modern Western attitude to life'. For we
have seen that such motives are openly and 'cynically', or more
precisely, shamelessly, expressed as early as in the fifth century B.C., by
Critias, the leader of the Thirty Tyrants; and similar statements can be
found frequently during the history of Greek philosophy—. However this
may be, it can hardly be doubted that with Justinian's persecution of non-
Christians, heretics, and philosophers (a.d. 529), the dark ages began. The
Church followed in the wake of Platonic- Aristotelian totalitarianism, a
development that culminated in the Inquisition. The theory of the
Inquisition, more especially, can be described as purely Platonic. It is set
out in the last three books of the Laws, where Plato shows that it is the
duty of the shepherd rulers to protect their sheep at all costs by
preserving the rigidity of the laws and especially of religious practice and
theory, even if they have to kill the wolf, who may admittedly be an
honest and honourable man whose diseased conscience unfortunately
does not permit him to bow to the threats of the mighty.

It is one of the characteristic reactions to the strain of civilization in
our own time that the allegedly 'Christian' authoritarianism of the
Middle Ages has, in certain intellectualist circles, become one of the

latest fashions of the day—. This, no doubt, is due not only to the
idealization of an indeed more 'organic' and 'integrated' past, but also to
an understandable revulsion against modern agnosticism which has
increased this strain beyond measure. Men believed God to rule the
world. This belief limited their responsibility. The new belief that they
had to rule it themselves created for many a well-nigh intolerable burden
of responsibility. All this has to be admitted. But I do not doubt that the
Middle Ages were, even from the point of view of Christianity, not better
ruled than our Western democracies. For we can read in the Gospels that
the founder of Christianity was questioned by a certain 'doctor of the
law' about a criterion by which to distinguish between a true and a false
interpretation of His words. To this He replied by telling the parable of
the priest and the Levite who both, seeing a wounded man in great
distress, 'passed by on the other side', while the Samaritan bound up his
wounds, and looked after his material needs. This parable, I think, should
be remembered by those 'Christians' who long not only for a time when
the Church suppressed freedom and conscience, but also for a time in
which, under the eye and with the authority of the Church, untold
oppression drove the people to despair. As a moving comment upon the
suffering of the people in those days and, at the same time, upon the
'Christianity' of the now so fashionable romantic medievalism which
wants to bring these days back, a passage may be quoted here from H.
Zinsser's book. Rats, Lice, and History,— in which he speaks about
epidemics of dancing mania in the Middle Ages, known as 'St. John's
dance', 'St. Vitus' dance', etc. (I do not wish to invoke Zinsser as an
authority on the Middle Ages — there is no need to do so since the facts at
issue are hardly controversial. But his comments have the rare and
peculiar touch of the practical Samaritan — of a great and humane
physician.) 'These strange seizures, though not unheard of in earlier
times, became common during and immediately after the dreadful

miseries of the Black Death. For the most part, the dancing manias
present none of the characteristics which we associate with epidemic
infectious diseases of the nervous system. They seem, rather, like mass
hysterias, brought on by terror and despair, in populations oppressed,
famished, and wretched to a degree almost unimaginable to-day. To the
miseries of constant war, political and social disintegration, there was
added the dreadful affliction of inescapable, mysterious, and deadly
disease. Mankind stood helpless as though trapped in a world of terror
and peril against which there was no defence. God and the devil were
living conceptions to the men of those days who cowered under the
afflictions which they believed imposed by supernatural forces. For those
who broke down under the strain there was no road of escape except to
the inward refuge of mental derangement which, under the circumstances
of the times, took the direction of religious fanaticism.' Zinsser then goes
on to draw some parallels between these events and certain reactions of
our time in which, he says, 'economic and political hysterias are
substituted for the religious ones of the earlier times'; and after this, he
sums up his characterization of the people who lived in those days of
authoritarianism as 'a terror-stricken and wretched population, which had
broken down under the stress of almost incredible hardship and danger'.
Is it necessary to ask which attitude is more Christian, one that longs to
return to the 'unbroken harmony and unity' of the Middle Ages, or one
that wishes to use reason in order to free mankind from pestilence and
oppression?

But some part at least of the authoritarian Church of the Middle Ages
succeeded in branding such practical humanitarianism as 'worldly', as
characteristic of 'Epicureanism', and of men who desire only to 'fill their
bellies like the beasts'. The terms 'Epicureanism', 'materialism', and
'empiricism', that is to say, the philosophy of Democritus, one of the
greatest of the Great Generation, became in this way the synonyms of

wickedness, and the tribal Idealism of Plato and Aristotle was exalted as
a kind of Christianity before Christ. Indeed, this is the source of the
immense authority of Plato and Aristotle, even in our own day, that their
philosophy was adopted by medieval authoritarianism. But it must not be
forgotten that, outside the totalitarian camp, their fame has outlived their
practical influence upon our lives. And although the name of Democritus
is seldom remembered, his science as well as his morals still live with us.

Hegel and the New Tribalism

The philosophy of Hegel, then, was... a scrutiny of thought so profound that it was for the
most part unintelligible. . .

J. H. Stirling.

Hegel, the source of all contemporary historicism, was a direct follower
of Heraclitus, Plato, and Aristotle. Hegel achieved the most miraculous
things. A master logician, it was child's play for his powerful dialectical
methods to draw real physical rabbits out of purely metaphysical silk-
hats. Thus, starting from Plato's Timaeus and its number-mysticism,
Hegel succeeded in 'proving' by purely philosophical methods (114 years
after Newton's Principid) that the planets must move according to
Kepler's laws. He even accomplished- the deduction of the actual
position of the planets, thereby proving that no planet could be situated
between Mars and Jupiter (unfortunately, it had escaped his notice that
such a planet had been discovered a few months earlier). Similarly, he
proved that magnetizing iron means increasing its weight, that Newton's
theories of inertia and of gravity contradict each other (of course, he
could not foresee that Einstein would show the identity of inert and
gravitating mass), and many other things of this kind. That such a

surprisingly powerful philosophical method was taken seriously can be
only partially explained by the backwardness of German natural science
in those days. For the truth is, I think, that it was not at first taken really
seriously by serious men (such as Schopenhauer, or J. F. Fries), not at any
rate by those scientists who, like Democritus-, 'would rather find a single
causal law than be the king of Persia'. Hegel's fame was made by those
who prefer a quick initiation into the deeper secrets of this world to the
laborious technicalities of a science which, after all, may only disappoint
them by its lack of power to unveil all mysteries. For they soon found out
that nothing could be applied with such ease to any problem whatsoever,
and at the same time with such impressive (though only apparent)
difficulty, and with such quick and sure but imposing success, nothing
could be used as cheaply and with so little scientific training and
knowledge, and nothing would give such a spectacular scientific air, as
did Hegelian dialectics, the mystery method that replaced 'barren formal
logic'. Hegel's success was the beginning of the 'age of dishonesty' (as
Schopenhauer- described the period of German Idealism) and of the 'age
of irresponsibility' (as K. Heiden characterizes the age of modern
totalitarianism); first of intellectual, and later, as one of its consequences,
of moral irresponsibility; of a new age controlled by the magic of high-
sounding words, and by the power of jargon.

In order to discourage the reader beforehand from taking Hegel's
bombastic and mystifying cant too seriously, I shall quote some of the
amazing details which he discovered about sound, and especially about
the relations between sound and heat. I have tried hard to translate this
gibberish from Hegel's Philosophy of Nature- as faithfully as possible;
he writes: '§302. Sound is the change in the specific condition of
segregation of the material parts, and in the negation of this condition; —
merely an abstract or an ideal ideality, as it were, of that specification.
But this change, accordingly, is itself immediately the negation of the

material specific subsistence; which is, therefore, real ideality of specific
gravity and cohesion, i.e. — heat. The heating up of sounding bodies, just
as of beaten or rubbed ones, is the appearance of heat, originating
conceptually together with sound.' There are some who still believe in
Hegel's sincerity, or who still doubt whether his secret might not be
profundity, fullness of thought, rather than emptiness. I should like them
to read carefully the last sentence — the only intelligible one — of this
quotation, because in this sentence, Hegel gives himself away. For clearly
it means nothing but: 'The heating up of sounding bodies ... is heat ...
together with sound.' The question arises whether Hegel deceived
himself, hypnotized by his own inspiring jargon, or whether he boldly set
out to deceive and bewitch others. I am satisfied that the latter was the
case, especially in view of what Hegel wrote in one of his letters. In this
letter, dated a few years before the publication of his Philosophy oj
Nature, Hegel referred to another Philosophy of Nature, written by his
former friend Schelling: 'I have had too much to do ... with mathematics
... differential calculus, chemistry', Hegel boasts in this letter (but this is
just bluff), 'to let myself be taken in by the humbug of the Philosophy of
Nature, by this philosophizing without knowledge of fact . . . and by the
treatment of mere fancies, even imbecile fancies, as ideas.' This is a very
fair characterization of Schelling 's method, that is to say, of that
audacious way of bluffing which Hegel himself copied, or rather
aggravated, as soon as he realized that, if it reached its proper audience, it
meant success.

In spite of all this it seems improbable that Hegel would ever have
become the most influential figure in German philosophy without the
authority of the Prussian state behind him. As it happened, he became the
first official philosopher of Prussianism, appointed in the period of feudal
'restoration' after the Napoleonic wars. Later, the state also backed his
pupils (Germany had, and still has, only state-controlled Universities),

and they in their turn backed one another. And although Hegelianism was
officially renounced by most of them, Hegelianizing philosophers have
dominated philosophical teaching and thereby indirectly even the
secondary schools of Germany ever since. (Of German- speaking
Universities, those of Roman Catholic Austria remained fairly
unmolested, like islands in a flood.) Having thus become a tremendous
success on the continent, Hegelianism could hardly fail to obtain support
in Britain from those who, feeling that such a powerful movement must
after all have something to offer, began to search for what Stirling called
The Secret of Hegel. They were attracted, of course, by Hegel's 'higher'
idealism and by his claims to 'higher' morality, and they were also
somewhat afraid of being branded as immoral by the chorus of the
disciples; for even the more modest Hegelians claimed- of their doctrines
that 'they are acquisitions which must ... ever be reconquered in the face
of assault from the powers eternally hostile to spiritual and moral
values'. Some really brilliant men (I am thinking mainly of McTaggart)
made great efforts in constructive idealistic thought, well above the level
of Hegel; but they did not get very far beyond providing targets for
equally brilliant critics. And one can say that outside the continent of
Europe, especially in the last twenty years, the interest of philosophers in
Hegel has slowly been vanishing.

But if that is so, why worry any more about Hegel? The answer is that
Hegel's influence has remained a most powerful force, in spite of the fact
that scientists never took him seriously, and that (apart from the
'evolutionists'-) many philosophers are beginning to lose interest in him.
Hegel's influence, and especially that of his cant, is still very powerful in
moral and social philosophy and in the social and political sciences (with
the sole exception of economics). Especially the philosophers of history,
of politics, and of education are still to a very large extent under its sway.
In politics, this is shown most drastically by the fact that the Marxist

extreme left wing, as well as the conservative centre, and the fascist
extreme right, all base their political philosophies on Hegel; the left wing
replaces the war of nations which appears in Hegel's historicist scheme
by the war of classes, the extreme right replaces it by the war of races;
but both follow him more or less consciously. (The conservative centre is
as a rule less conscious of its indebtedness to Hegel.)

How can this immense influence be explained? My main intention is
not so much to explain this phenomenon as to combat it. But I may make
a few explanatory suggestions. For some reason, philosophers have kept
around themselves, even in our day, something of the atmosphere of the
magician. Philosophy is considered as a strange and abstruse kind of
thing, dealing with those mysteries with which religion deals, but not in a
way which can be 'revealed unto babes' or to common people; it is
considered to be too profound for that, and to be the religion and theology
of the intellectuals, of the learned and wise. Hegelianism fits these views
admirably; it is exactly what this kind of popular superstition supposes
philosophy to be. It knows all about everything. It has a ready answer to
every question. And indeed, who can be sure that the answer is not true?

But this is not the main reason for Hegel's success. His influence, and
the need to combat it, can perhaps be better understood if we briefly
consider the general historical situation.

Medieval authoritarianism began to dissolve with the Renaissance. But
on the Continent, its political counterpart, medieval feudalism, was not
seriously threatened before the French Revolution. (The Reformation had
only strengthened it.) The fight for the open society began again only
with the ideas of 1789; and the feudal monarchies soon experienced the
seriousness of this danger. When in 1815 the reactionary party began to
resume its power in Prussia, it found itself in dire need of an ideology.
Hegel was appointed to meet this demand, and he did so by reviving the
ideas of the first great enemies of the open society, Heraclitus, Plato, and

Aristotle. Just as the French Revolution rediscovered the perennial ideas
of the Great Generation and of Christianity, freedom, equality, and the
brotherhood of all men, so Hegel rediscovered the Platonic ideas which
lie behind the perennial revolt against freedom and reason. Hegelianism
is the renaissance of tribalism. The historical significance of Hegel may
be seen in the fact that he represents the 'missing link', as it were,
between Plato and the modern form of totalitarianism. Most of the
modern totalitarians are quite unaware that their ideas can be traced back
to Plato. But many know of their indebtedness to Hegel, and all of them
have been brought up in the close atmosphere of Hegelianism. They have
been taught to worship the state, history, and the nation. (My view of
Hegel presupposes, of course, that he interpreted Plato's teaching in the
same way as I did here, that is to say, as totalitarian, to use this modern
label; and indeed, it can be shown-, from his criticism of Plato in the
Philosophy of Law, that Hegel's interpretation agrees with ours.)

In order to give the reader an immediate glimpse of Hegel's
Platonizing worship of the state, I shall quote a few passages, even before
I begin the analysis of his historicist philosophy. These passages show
that Hegel's radical collectivism depends as much on Plato as it depends
on Frederick William III, king of Prussia in the critical period during and
after the French Revolution. Their doctrine is that the state is everything,
and the individual nothing; for he owes everything to the state, his
physical as well as his spiritual existence. This is the message of Plato, of
Frederick William's Prussianism, and of Hegel. 'The Universal is to be
found in the State', Hegel writes-. 'The State is the Divine Idea as it
exists on earth ... We must therefore worship the State as the
manifestation of the Divine on earth, and consider that, if it is difficult to
comprehend Nature, it is infinitely harder to grasp the Essence of the
State . . . The State is the march of God through the world . . . The State
must be comprehended as an organism ... To the complete State belongs.

essentially, consciousness and thought. The State knows what it wills . . .
The State is real; and ... true reality is necessary. What is real is eternally
necessary ... The State ... exists for its own sake ... The State is the
actually existing, realized moral life.' This selection of utterances may
suffice to show Hegel's Platonism and his insistence upon the absolute
moral authority of the state, which overrules all personal morality, all
conscience. It is, of course, a bombastic and hysterical Platonism, but this
only makes more obvious the fact that it links Platonism with modern
totalitarianism.

One could ask whether by these services and by his influence upon
history, Hegel has not proved his genius. I do not think this question very
important, since it is only part of our romanticism that we think so much
in terms of 'genius'; and apart from that, I do not believe that success
proves anything, or that history is our judge-; these tenets are rather part
of Hegelianism. But as far as Hegel is concerned, I do not even think that
he was talented. He is an indigestible writer. As even his most ardent
apologists must admit—, his style is 'unquestionably scandalous'. And as
far as the content of his writing is concerned, he is supreme only in his
outstanding lack of originality. There is nothing in Hegel's writing that
has not been said better before him. There is nothing in his apologetic
method that is not borrowed from his apologetic forerunners—. But he
devoted these borrowed thoughts and methods with singleness of purpose,
though without a trace of brilliancy, to one aim: to fight against the open
society, and thus to serve his employer, Frederick William of Prussia.
Hegel's confusion and debasement of reason is partly necessary as a
means to this end, partly a more accidental but very natural expression of
his state of mind. And the whole story of Hegel would indeed not be
worth relating, were it not for its more sinister consequences, which show
how easily a clown may be a 'maker of history'. The tragi-comedy of the
rise of 'German Idealism', in spite of the hideous crimes to which it has

led, resembles a comic opera much more than anything else; and these
beginnings may help to explain why it is so hard to decide of its latter-
day heroes whether they have escaped from the stage of Wagner's Grand
Teutonic Operas or from Offenbach's farces.

My assertion that Hegel's philosophy was inspired by ulterior motives,
namely, by his interest in the restoration of the Prussian government of
Frederick William III, and that it cannot therefore be taken seriously, is
not new. The story was well known to all who knew the political
situation, and it was freely told by the few who were independent enough
to do so. The best witness is Schopenhauer, himself a Platonic idealist
and a conservative if not a reactionary—, but a man of supreme integrity
who cherished truth beyond anything else. There can be no doubt that he
was as competent a judge in philosophical matters as could be found at
the time. Schopenhauer, who had the pleasure of knowing Hegel
personally and who suggested— the use of Shakespeare's words, 'such
stuff as madmen tongue and brain not', as the motto of Hegel's
philosophy, drew the following excellent picture of the master: 'Hegel,
installed from above, by the powers that be, as the certified Great
Philosopher, was a flat-headed, insipid, nauseating, illiterate charlatan,
who reached the pinnacle of audacity in scribbling together and dishing
up the craziest mystifying nonsense. This nonsense has been noisily
proclaimed as immortal wisdom by mercenary followers and readily
accepted as such by all fools, who thus joined into as perfect a chorus of
admiration as had ever been heard before. The extensive field of spiritual
influence with which Hegel was furnished by those in power has enabled
him to achieve the intellectual corruption of a whole generation.' And in
another place, Schopenhauer describes the political game of Hegelianism
as follows: 'Philosophy, brought afresh to repute by Kant ... had soon to
become a tool of interests; of state interests from above, of personal
interests from below ... The driving forces of this movement are.

contrary to all these solemn airs and assertions, not ideal; they are very
real purposes indeed, namely personal, official, clerical, political, in
short, material interests ... Party interests are vehemently agitating the
pens of so many pure lovers of wisdom . . . Truth is certainly the last thing
they have in mind . . . Philosophy is misused, from the side of the state as
a tool, from the other side as a means of gain . . . Who can really believe
that truth also will thereby come to light, just as a by-product? ...
Governments make of philosophy a means of serving their state interests,
and scholars make of it a trade Schopenhauer's view of Hegel's
status as the paid agent of the Prussian government is, to mention only
one example, corroborated by Schwegler, an admiring disciple— of
Hegel. Schwegler says of Hegel: 'The fullness of his fame and activity,
however, properly dates only from his call to Berlin in 1818. Here there
rose up around him a numerous, widely extended, and ... exceedingly
active school; here too, he acquired, from his connections with the
Prussian bureaucracy, political influence for himself as well as the
recognition of his system as the official philosophy; not always to the
advantage of the inner freedom of his philosophy, or of its moral worth.'
Schwegler's editor, J. H. Stirling—, the first British apostle of
Hegelianism, of course defends Hegel against Schwegler by warning his
readers not to take too literally 'the little hint of Schwegler's against ...
the philosophy of Hegel as a state-philosophy'. But a few pages later,
Stirling quite unintentionally confirms Schwegler's representation of the
facts as well as the view that Hegel himself was aware of the party-
political and apologetic function of his philosophy. (The evidence
quoted— by Stirling shows that Hegel expressed himself rather cynically
on this function of his philosophy.) And a little later, Stirling unwittingly
gives away the 'secret of Hegel' when he proceeds to the following poetic
as well as prophetic revelations—, alluding to the lightning attack made
by Prussia on Austria in 1866, the year before he wrote: 'Is it not indeed

to Hegel, and especially his philosophy of ethics and politics, that Prussia
owes that mighty life and organization she is now rapidly developing? Is
it not indeed the grim Hegel that is the centre of that organization which,
maturing counsel in an invisible brain, strikes, lightning-like, with a hand
that is weighted from the mass? But as regards the value of this
organization, it will be more palpable to many, should I say, that, while in
constitutional England, Preference-holders and Debenture-holders are
ruined by the prevailing commercial immorality, the ordinary owners of
Stock in Prussian Railways can depend on a safe average of 8.33 per cent.
This, surely, is saying something for Hegel at last!

'The fundamental outlines of Hegel must now, I think, be evident to
every reader. I have gained much from Hegel . . . ' Stirling continues his
eulogy. I too hope that Hegel's outlines are now evident, and I trust that
what Stirling had gained was saved from the menace of the commercial
immorality prevailing in an un-Hegelian and constitutional England.

(Who could resist mentioning in this context the fact that Marxist
philosophers, always ready to point out how an opponent's theory is
affected by his class interest, habitually fail to apply this method to
Hegel? Instead of denouncing him as an apologist for Prussian
absolutism, they regret— that the works of the originator of dialectics,
and especially his works on logic, are not more widely read in Britain — in
contrast to Russia, where the merits of Hegel's philosophy in general, and
of his logic in particular, are officially recognized.)

Returning to the problem of Hegel's political motives, we have, I
think, more than sufficient reason to suspect that his philosophy was
influenced by the interests of the Prussian government by which he was
employed. But under the absolutism of Frederick William III, such an
influence implied more than Schopenhauer or Schwegler could know; for
only in the last decades have the documents been published that show the
clarity and consistency with which this king insisted upon the complete

subordination of all learning to state interest. 'Abstract sciences', we read
in his educational programme—, 'that touch only the academic world, and
serve only to enlighten this group, are of course without value to the
welfare of the State; it would be foolish to restrict them entirely, but it is
healthy to keep them within proper limits.' Hegel's call to Berlin in 1818
came during the high tide of reaction, during the period which began with
the king's purging his government of the reformers and national liberals
who had contributed so much to his success in the 'War of Liberation'.
Considering this fact, we may ask whether Hegel's appointment was not a
move to 'keep philosophy within proper limits', so as to enable her to be
healthy and to serve 'the welfare of the State', that is to say, of Frederick
William and his absolute rule. The same question is suggested to us when
we read what a great admirer says— of Hegel: 'And in Berlin he remained
till his death in 1831, the acknowledged dictator of one of the most
powerful philosophic schools in the history of thought.' (I think we
should substitute 'lack of thought' for 'thought', because I cannot see
what a dictator could possibly have to do with the history of thought,
even if he were a dictator of philosophy. But otherwise, this revealing
passage is only too true. For example, the concerted efforts of this
powerful school succeeded, by a conspiracy of silence, in concealing
from the world for forty years the very fact of Schopenhauer's existence.)
We see that Hegel may indeed have had the power to 'keep philosophy
within proper limits', so that our question may be quite to the point.

In what follows, I shall try to show that Hegel's whole philosophy can
be interpreted as an emphatic answer to this question; an answer in the
affirmative, of course. And I shall try to show how much light is thrown
upon Hegelianism if we interpret it in this way, that is to say, as an
apology for Prussianism. My analysis will be divided into three parts, to
be treated in sections II, III, and IV of this chapter. Section II deals with
Hegel's historicism and moral positivism, together with the rather

abstruse theoretical background of these doctrines, his dialectic method
and his so-called philosophy of identity. Section III deals with the rise of
nationalism. In section IV, a few words will be said on Hegel's relation to
Burke. And section V deals with the dependence of modern
totalitarianism upon the doctrines of Hegel.

I begin my analysis of Hegel's philosophy with a general comparison
between Hegel's historicism and that of Plato.

Plato believed that the Ideas or essences exist prior to the things in
flux, and that the trend of all developments can be explained as a
movement away from the perfection of the Ideas, and therefore as a
descent, as a movement towards decay. The history of states, especially,
is one of degeneration; and ultimately this degeneration is due to the
racial degeneration of the ruling class. (We must here remember the close
relationship between the Platonic notions of 'race', 'soul', 'nature', and
'essence'—.) Hegel believes, with Aristotle, that the Ideas or essences are
in the things in flux; or more precisely (as far as we can treat a Hegel
with precision), Hegel teaches that they are identical with the things in
flux: 'Everything actual is an Idea', he says—. But this does not mean that
the gulf opened up by Plato between the essence of a thing and its
sensible appearance is closed; for Hegel writes: 'Any mention of Essence
implies that we distinguish it from the Being' (of the thing); ' . . . upon the
latter, as compared with Essence, we rather look as mere appearance or
semblance . . . Everything has an Essence, we have said; that is, things are
not what they immediately show themselves to be.' Also like Plato and
Aristotle, Hegel conceives the essences, at least those of organisms (and

therefore also those of states), as souls, or 'Spirits'.

But unlike Plato, Hegel does not teach that the trend of the
development of the world in flux is a descent, away from the Idea,
towards decay. Like Speusippus and Aristotle, Hegel teaches that the
general trend is rather towards the Idea; it is progress. Although he
says—, with Plato, that 'the perishable thing has its basis in Essence, and
originates from it', Hegel insists, in opposition to Plato, that even the
essences develop. In Hegel's world, as in Heraclitus', everything is in
flux; and the essences, originally introduced by Plato in order to obtain
something stable, are not exempted. But this flux is not decay. Hegel's
historicism is optimistic. His essences and Spirits are, like Plato's souls,
self-moving; they are self-developing, or, using more fashionable terms,
they are 'emerging' and 'self-creating'. And they propel themselves in
the direction of an Aristotelian 'final cause', or, as Hegel puts it—,
towards a 'self-realizing and self-realized final cause in itself. This final
cause or end of the development of the essences is what Hegel calls 'The
absolute Idea' or 'The Idea'. (This Idea is, Hegel tells us, rather complex:
it is, all in one, the Beautiful; Cognition and Practical Activity;
Comprehension; the Highest Good; and the Scientifically Contemplated
Universe. But we really need not worry about minor difficulties such as
these.) We can say that Hegel's world of flux is in a state of 'emergent'
or 'creative evolution'—; each of its stages contains the preceding ones,
from which it originates; and each stage supersedes all previous stages,
approaching nearer and nearer to perfection. The general law of
development is thus one of progress; but, as we shall see, not of a simple
and straightforward, but of a 'dialectic' progress.

As previous quotations have shown, the collectivist Hegel, like Plato,
visualizes the state as an organism; and following Rousseau who had
furnished it with a collective 'general will', Hegel furnishes it with a
conscious and thinking essence, its 'reason' or 'Spirit'. This Spirit, whose

'very essence is activity' (which shows its dependence on Rousseau), is at
the same time the collective Spirit of the Nation that forms the state.

To an essentialist, knowledge or understanding of the state must
clearly mean knowledge of its essence or Spirit. And as we have seen— in
the last chapter, we can know the essence and its 'potentialities' only
from its 'actual' history. Thus we arrive at the fundamental position of
historicist method, that the way of obtaining knowledge of social
institutions such as the state is to study its history, or the history of its
'Spirit'. And the other two historicist consequences developed in the last
chapter follow also. The Spirit of the nation determines its hidden
historical destiny; and every nation that wishes 'to emerge into existence'
must assert its individuality or soul by entering the 'Stage of History',
that is to say, by fighting the other nations; the object of the fight is world
domination. We can see from this that Hegel, like Heraclitus, believes
that war is the father and king of all things. And like Heraclitus, he
believes that war is just: 'The History of the World is the World's court
of justice', writes Hegel. And like Heraclitus, Hegel generalizes this
doctrine by extending it to the world of nature, interpreting the contrasts
and oppositions of things, the polarity of opposites, etc., as a kind of war,
and as a moving force of natural development. And like Heraclitus, Hegel
believes in the unity or identity of opposites; indeed, the unity of
opposites plays such an important part in the evolution, in the
'dialectical' progress, that we can describe these two Heraclitean ideas,
the war of opposites, and their unity or identity, as the main ideas of
Hegel's dialectics.

So far, this philosophy appears as a tolerably decent and honest
historicism, although one that is perhaps a little unoriginal—; and there
seems to be no reason to describe it, with Schopenhauer, as charlatanism.
But this appearance begins to change if we now turn to an analysis of
Hegel's dialectics. For he proffers this method with an eye to Kant, who.

in his attack upon metaphysics (the violence of these attacks may be
gauged from the motto to my 'Introduction'), had tried to show that all
speculations of this kind are untenable. Hegel never attempted to refute
Kant. He bowed, and twisted Kant's view into its opposite. This is how
Kant's 'dialectics', the attack upon metaphysics, was converted into
Hegelian 'dialectics', the main tool of metaphysics.

Kant, in his Critique of Pure Reason, asserted under the influence of
Hume that pure speculation or reason, whenever it ventures into a field in
which it cannot possibly be checked by experience, is liable to get
involved in contradictions or 'antinomies' and to produce what he
unambiguously described as 'mere fancies'; 'nonsense'; 'illusions'; 'a
sterile dogmatism'; and 'a superficial pretension to the knowledge of
everything'—. He tried to show that to every metaphysical assertion or
thesis, concerning for example the beginning of the world in time, or the
existence of God, there can be contrasted a counter-assertion or
antithesis', and both, he held, may proceed from the same assumptions,
and can be proved with an equal degree of 'evidence'. In other words,
when leaving the field of experience, our speculation can have no
scientific status, since to every argument there must be an equally valid
counter-argument. Kant's intention was to stop once and forever the
'accursed fertility' of the scribblers on metaphysics. But unfortunately,
the effect was very different. What Kant stopped was only the attempts of
the scribblers to use rational argument; they only gave up the attempt to
teach, but not the attempt to bewitch the public (as Schopenhauer puts
it—). For this development, Kant himself undoubtedly bears a very
considerable share of the blame; for the obscure style of his work (which
he wrote in a great hurry, although only after long years of meditation)
contributed considerably to a further lowering of the low standard of
clarity in German theoretical writing—.

None of the metaphysical scribblers who came after Kant made any

attempt to refute him—; and Hegel, more particularly, even had the
audacity to patronize Kant for 'reviving the name of Dialectics, which he
restored to their post of honour'. He taught that Kant was quite right in
pointing out the antinomies, but that he was wrong to worry about them.
It just lies in the nature of reason that it must contradict itself, Hegel
asserted; and it is not a weakness of our human faculties, but it is the very
essence of all rationality that it must work with contradictions and
antinomies; for this is just the way in which reason develops. Hegel
asserted that Kant had analysed reason as if it were something static; that
he forgot that mankind develops, and with it, our social heritage. But
what we are pleased to call our own reason is nothing but the product of
this social heritage, of the historical development of the social group in
which we live, the nation. This development proceeds dialectically, that
is to say, in a three-beat rhythm. First a thesis is proffered; but it will
produce criticism, it will be contradicted by opponents who assert its
opposite, an antithesis; and in the conflict of these views, a synthesis is
attained, that is to say, a kind of unity of the opposites, a compromise or a
reconciliation on a higher level. The synthesis absorbs, as it were, the two
original opposite positions, by superseding them; it reduces them to
components of itself, thereby negating, elevating, and preserving them.
And once the synthesis has been established, the whole process can repeat
itself on the higher level that has now been reached. This is, in brief, the
three-beat rhythm of progress which Hegel called the 'dialectic triad'.

I am quite prepared to admit that this is not a bad description of the
way in which a critical discussion, and therefore also scientific thought,
may sometimes progress. For all criticism consists in pointing out some
contradictions or discrepancies, and scientific progress consists largely in
the elimination of contradictions wherever we find them. This means,
however, that science proceeds on the assumption that contradictions are
impermissible and avoidable, so that the discovery of a contradiction

forces the scientist to make every attempt to eliminate it; and indeed,
once a contradiction is admitted, all science must collapse—. But Hegel
derives a very different lesson from his dialectic triad. Since
contradictions are the means by which science progresses, he concludes
that contradictions are not only permissible and unavoidable but also
highly desirable. This is a Hegelian doctrine which must destroy all
argument and all progress. For if contradictions are unavoidable and
desirable, there is no need to eliminate them, and so all progress must
come to an end.

But this doctrine is just one of the main tenets of Hegelianism. Hegel's
intention is to operate freely with all contradictions. 'All things are
contradictory in themselves', he insists—, in order to defend a position
which means the end not only of all science, but of all rational argument.
And the reason why he wishes to admit contradictions is that he wants to
stop rational argument, and with it scientific and intellectual progress. By
making argument and criticism impossible, he intends to make his own
philosophy proof against all criticism, so that it may establish itself as a
reinforced dogmatism , secure from every attack, and the unsurmountable
summit of all philosophical development. (We have here a first example
of a typical dialectical twist, the idea of progress, popular in a period
which leads to Darwin, but not in keeping with conservative interests, is
twisted into its opposite, that of a development which has arrived at an
end — an arrested development.)

So much for Hegel's dialectic triad, one of the two pillars on which his
philosophy rests. The significance of the theory will be seen when I
proceed to its application.

The other of the two pillars of Hegelianism is his so-called philosophy
of identity. It is, in its turn, an application of dialectics. I do not intend to
waste the reader's time by attempting to make sense of it, especially
since I have tried to do so elsewhere—; for in the main, the philosophy of

identity is nothing but shameless equivocation, and, to use Hegel's own
words, it consists of nothing but 'fancies, even imbecile fancies'. It is a
maze in which are caught the shadows and echoes of past philosophies, of
Heraclitus, Plato, and Aristotle, as well as of Rousseau and Kant, and in
which they now celebrate a kind of witches' sabbath, madly trying to
confuse and beguile the naive onlooker. The leading idea, and at the same
time the link between Hegel's dialectics and his philosophy of identity, is
Heraclitus' doctrine of the unity of opposites. 'The path that leads up and
the path that leads down are identical', Heraclitus had said, and Hegel
repeats this when he says: 'The way west and the way east are the same.'
This Heraclitean doctrine of the identity of opposites is applied to a host
of reminiscences from the old philosophies which are thereby 'reduced to
components' of Hegel's own system. Essence and Idea, the one and the
many, substance and accident, form and content, subject and object, being
and becoming, everything and nothing, change and rest, actuality and
potentiality, reality and appearance, matter and spirit, all these ghosts
from the past seem to haunt the brain of the Great Dictator while he
performs his dance with his balloon, with his puffed-up and fictitious
problems of God and the World. But there is method in this madness, and
even Prussian method. For behind the apparent confusion there lurk the
interests of the absolute monarchy of Frederick William. The philosophy
of identity serves to justify the existing order. Its main upshot is an
ethical and juridical positivism, the doctrine that what is, is good, since
there can be no standards but existing standards; it is the doctrine that
might is right.

How is this doctrine derived? Merely by a series of equivocations.
Plato, whose Forms or Ideas, as we have seen, are entirely different from
'ideas in the mind', had said that the Ideas alone are real, and that
perishable things are unreal. Hegel adopts from this doctrine the equation
Ideal =Real. Kant talked, in his dialectics, about the 'Ideas of pure

Reason', using the term 'Idea' in the sense of 'ideas in the mind'. Hegel
adopts from this the doctrine that the Ideas are something mental or
spiritual or rational, which can be expressed in the equation /Jea =
Reason. Combined, these two equations, or rather equivocations, yield
Real = Reason; and this allows Hegel to maintain that everything that is
reasonable must be real, and everything that is real must be reasonable,
and that the development of reality is the same as that of reason. And
since there can be no higher standard in existence than the latest
development of Reason and of the Idea, everything that is now real or
actual exists by necessity, and must be reasonable as well as good—.
(Particularly good, as we shall see, is the actually existing Prussian state.)

This is the philosophy of identity. Apart from ethical positivism a
theory of truth also comes to light, just as a byproduct (to use
Schopenhauer's words). And a very convenient theory it is. All that is
reasonable is real, we have seen. This means, of course, that all that is
reasonable must conform to reality, and therefore must be true. Truth
develops in the same way as reason develops, and everything that appeals
to reason in its latest stage of development must also be true for that
stage. In other words, everything that seems certain to those whose reason
is up to date, must be true. Self-evidence is the same as truth. Provided
you are up to date, all you need is to believe in a doctrine; this makes it,
by definition, true. In this way, the opposition between what Hegel calls
'the Subjective', i.e. belief, and 'the Objective', i.e. truth, is turned into
an identity; and this unity of opposites explains scientific knowledge
also. 'The Idea is the union of Subjective and Objective ... Science
presupposes that the separation between itself and Truth is already
cancelled.'—

So much on Hegel's philosophy of identity, the second pillar of
wisdom on which his historicism is built. With its erection, the somewhat
tiresome work of analysing Hegel's more abstract doctrines comes to an

end. The rest of this chapter will be confined to the practical political
applications made by Hegel of these abstract theories. And these practical
applications will show us more clearly the apologetic purpose of all his
labours.

Hegel's dialectics, I assert, are very largely designed to pervert the
ideas of 1789. Hegel was perfectly conscious of the fact that the dialectic
method can be used for twisting an idea into its opposite. 'Dialectics', he
writes—, 'are no novelty in philosophy. Socrates ... used to simulate the
wish for some clearer knowledge about the subject under discussion, and
after putting all sorts of questions with that intention, he brought those
with whom he conversed round to the opposite of what their first
impression had pronounced correct.' As a description of Socrates'
intentions, this statement of Hegel's is perhaps not very fair (considering
that Socrates' main aim was the exposure of cocksureness rather than the
conversion of people to the opposite of what they believed before); but as
a statement of Hegel's own intention, it is excellent, even though in
practice Hegel's method turns out to be more clumsy than his programme
indicates.

As a first example of this use of dialectics, I shall select the problem of
freedom of thought, of the independence of science, and of the standards
of objective truth, as treated by Hegel in \hQ Philosophy of Law (§ 270).
He begins with what can only be interpreted as a demand for freedom of
thought, and for its protection by the state: 'The state', he writes, 'has ...
thought as its essential principle. Thus freedom of thought, and science,
can originate only in the state; it was the Church that burnt Giordano
Bruno, and forced Galileo to recant ... Science, therefore, must seek
protection from the state, since ... the aim of science is knowledge of
objective truth.' After this promising start which we may take as
representing the 'first impressions' of his opponents, Hegel proceeds to
bring them 'to the opposite of what their first impressions pronounced

correct', covering his change of front by another sham attack on the
Church: 'But such knowledge does, of course, not always conform with
the standards of science, it may degenerate into mere opinion . . . ; and for
these opinions ... it' (i.e. science) 'may raise the same pretentious
demand as the Church — the demand to be free in its opinions and
convictions.' Thus the demand for freedom of thought, and of the claim
of science to judge for itself, is described as 'pretentious'; but this is
merely the first step in Hegel's twist. We next hear that, if faced with
subversive opinions, 'the state must protect objective truth'; which raises
the fundamental question: who is to judge what is, and what is not,
objective truth? Hegel replies: 'The state has, in general, ... to make up
its own mind concerning what is to be considered as objective truth.'
With this reply, freedom of thought, and the claims of science to set its
own standards, give way, finally, to their opposites.

As a second example of this use of dialectics, I select Hegel's
treatment of the demand for a political constitution, which he combines
with his treatment of equality and liberty. In order to appreciate the
problem of the constitution, it must be remembered that Prussian
absolutism knew no constitutional law (apart from such principles as the
full sovereignty of the king) and that the slogan of the campaign for
democratic reform in the various German principalities was that the
prince should 'grant the country a constitution'. But Frederick William
agreed with his councillor Ancillon in the conviction that he must never
give way to 'the hotheads, that very active and loud-voiced group of
persons who for some years have set themselves up as the nation and
have cried for a constitution'—. And although, under great pressure, the
king promised a constitution, he never fulfilled his word. (There is a story
that an innocent comment on the king's 'constitution' led to the dismissal
of his unfortunate court-physician.) Now how does Hegel treat this
ticklish problem? 'As a living mind', he writes, 'the state is an organized

whole, articulated into various agencies . . . The constitution is this
articulation or organization of state power . . . The constitution is existent
justice ... Liberty and equality are ... the final aims and results of the
constitution.' This, of course, is only the introduction. But before
proceeding to the dialectical transformation of the demand for a
constitution into one for an absolute monarchy, we must first show how
Hegel transforms the two 'aims and results', liberty and equality, into
their opposites.

Let us first see how Hegel twists equality into inequality: 'That the
citizens are equal before the law', Hegel admits—, 'contains a great truth.
But expressed in this way, it is only a tautology; it only states in general
that a legal status exists, that the laws rule. But to be more concrete, the
citizens . . . are equal before the law only in the points in which they are
equal outside the law also. Only that equality which they possess in
property, age, ... etc., can deserve equal treatment before the law ... The
laws themselves . . . presuppose unequal conditions ... It should be said
that it is just the great development and maturity of form in modern
states which produces the supreme concrete inequality of individuals in
actuality. '

In this outline of Hegel's twist of the 'great truth' of equalitarianism
into its opposite, I have radically abbreviated his argument; and I must
warn the reader that I shall have to do the same throughout the chapter;
for only in this way is it at all possible to present, in a readable manner,
his verbosity and the flight of his thoughts (which, I do not doubt, is
pathological—).

We may consider liberty next. 'As regards liberty', Hegel writes, 'in
former times, the legally defined rights, the private as well as public
rights of a city, etc., were called its "liberties". Really, every genuine law
is a liberty; for it contains a reasonable principle ...; which means, in
other words, that it embodies a liberty . . . ' Now this argument which tries

to show that 'liberty' is the same as 'a liberty' and therefore the same as
'law', from which it follows that the more laws, the more liberty, is
clearly nothing but a clumsy statement (clumsy because it relies on a
kind of pun) of the paradox of freedom, first discovered by Plato, and
briefly discussed above—; a paradox that can be expressed by saying that
unlimited freedom leads to its opposite, since without its protection and
restriction by law, freedom must lead to a tyranny of the strong over the
weak. This paradox, vaguely restated by Rousseau, was solved by Kant,
who demanded that the freedom of each man should be restricted, but not
beyond what is necessary to safeguard an equal degree of freedom for all.
Hegel of course knows Kant's solution, but he does not like it, and he
presents it, without mentioning its author, in the following disparaging
way: 'To-day, nothing is more familiar than the idea that each must
restrict his liberty in relation to the liberty of others; that the state is a
condition of such reciprocal restrictions; and that the laws are
restrictions. But', he goes on to criticize Kant's theory, 'this expresses
the kind of outlook that views freedom as casual good-pleasure and self-
will.' With this cryptic remark, Kant's equalitarian theory of justice is
dismissed.

But Hegel himself feels that the little jest by which he equates liberty
and law is not quite sufficient for his purpose; and somewhat hesitatingly
he turns back to his original problem, that of the constitution. 'The term
political liberty', he says—, 'is often used to mean a formal participation
in the public affairs of the state by ... those who otherwise find their
chief function in the particular aims and business of civil society' (in
other words, by the ordinary citizen). 'And it has ... become a custom to
give the title "constitution" only to that side of the state which establishes
such participation and to regard a state in which this is not formally
done as a state without a constitution.' Indeed, this has become a custom.
But how to get out of it? By a merely verbal trick — ^by a definition:

'About this use of the term, the only thing to say is that by a constitution
we must understand the determination of laws in general, that is to say, of
liberties . . . ' But again, Hegel himself feels the appalling poverty of the
argument, and in despair he dives into a collectivist mysticism (of
Rousseau's making) and into historicism— : 'The question "To whom ...
belongs the power of making a constitution?" is the same as "Who has to
make the Spirit of a Nation?". Separate your idea of a constitution',
Hegel exclaims, 'from that of a collective Spirit, as if the latter exists, or
has existed, without a constitution, and your fancy proves how
superficially you have apprehended the nexus' (namely, that between the
Spirit and the constitution). '... It is the indwelling Spirit and the history
of the Nation — ^which only is that Spirit's history — ^by which
constitutions have been and are made.' But this mysticism is still too
vague to justify absolutism. One must be more specific; and Hegel now
hastens to be so: 'The really living totality,' he writes, 'that which
preserves, and continually produces, the State and its constitution, is the
Government ... In the Government, regarded as an organic totality, the
Sovereign Power or Principate is ... the all- sustaining, all-decreeing Will
of the State, its highest Peak and all-pervasive Unity. In the perfect form
of the State in which each and every element . . . has reached its free
existence, this will is that of one actual decreeing Individual (not merely
of a majority in which the unity of the decreeing will has no actual
existence); it is monarchy. The monarchical constitution is therefore the
constitution of developed reason; and all other constitutions belong to
lower grades of the development and the self-realization of reason.' And
to be still more specific, Hegel explains in a parallel passage of his
Philosophy of Law — the foregoing quotations are all taken from his
Encyclopcedia — that 'ultimate decision . . . absolute self-determination
constitutes the power of the prince as such', and that 'the absolutely
decisive element in the whole ... is a single individual, the monarch.'

Now we have it. How can anybody be so stupid as to demand a
'constitution' for a country that is blessed with an absolute monarchy, the
highest possible grade of all constitutions anyway? Those who make such
demands obviously know not what they do and what they are talking
about, just as those who demand freedom are too blind to see that in the
Prussian absolute monarchy, 'each and every element has reached its free
existence'. In other words, we have here Hegel's absolute dialectical
proof that Prussia is the 'highest peak', and the very stronghold, of
freedom; that its absolutist constitution is the goal (not as some might
think, the gaol) towards which humanity moves; and that its government
preserves and keeps, as it were, the purest spirit of freedom — in
concentration.

Plato's philosophy, which once had claimed mastership in the state,
becomes with Hegel its most servile lackey.

These despicable services—, it is important to note, were rendered
voluntarily. There was no totalitarian intimidation in those happy days of
absolute monarchy; nor was the censorship very effective, as countless
liberal publications show. When Hegel published his Encyclopcedia he
was professor in Heidelberg. And immediately after the publication, he
was called to Berlin to become, as his admirers say, the 'acknowledged
dictator' of philosophy. But, some may contend, all this, even if it is true,
does not prove anything against the excellence of Hegel's dialectic
philosophy, or against his greatness as a philosopher. To this contention,
Schopenhauer's reply has already been given: 'Philosophy is misused,
from the side of the state as a tool, from the other side as a means of gain.
Who can really believe that truth also will thereby come to light, just as a
by-product?'

These passages give us a glimpse of the way in which Hegel's dialectic
method is applied in practice. I now proceed to the combined application
of dialectics and the philosophy of identity.

Hegel, we have seen, teaches that everything is in flux, even essences.
Essences and Ideas and Spirits develop; and their development is, of
course, self-moving and dialectical—. And the latest stage of every
development must be reasonable, and therefore good and true, for it is the
apex of all past developments, superseding all previous stages. (Thus
things can only get better and better.) Every real development, since it is
a real process, must, according to the philosophy of identity, be a rational
and reasonable process. It is clear that this must hold for history also.

Heraclitus had maintained that there is a hidden reason in history. For
Hegel, history becomes an open book. The book is pure apologetics. By
its appeal to the wisdom of Providence it offers an apology for the
excellence of Prussian monarchism; by its appeal to the excellence of
Prussian monarchism it offers an apology for the wisdom of Providence.

History is the development of something real. According to the
philosophy of identity, it must therefore be something rational. The
evolution of the real world, of which history is the most important part, is
taken by Hegel to be 'identical' with a kind of logical operation, or with a
process of reasoning. History, as he sees it, is the thought process of the
'Absolute Spirit' or 'World Spirit'. It is the manifestation of this Spirit. It
is a kind of huge dialectical syllogism—; reasoned out, as it were, by
Providence. The syllogism is the plan which Providence follows; and the
logical conclusion arrived at is the end which Providence pursues — the
perfection of the world. 'The only thought', Hegel writes in his
Philosophy of History, 'with which Philosophy approaches History, is the
simple conception of Reason; it is the doctrine that Reason is the
Sovereign of the World, and that the History of the World, therefore,
presents us with a rational process. This conviction and intuition is ... no
hypothesis in the domain of Philosophy. It is there proven . . . that Reason
. . . is Substance', as well as Infinite Power; . . . Infinite Matter . . .; Infinite
Form ...; Infinite Energy ... That this "Idea" or "Reason" is the True, the

Eternal, the absolutely Power/i// Essence; that it reveals itself in the
World, and that in that World nothing else is revealed but this and its
honour and glory — this is a thesis which, as we have said, has been
proved in Philosophy, and is here regarded as demonstrated.' This gush
does not carry us far. But if we look up the passage in 'Philosophy' (i.e.,
in his Encyclopcedid) to which Hegel refers, then we see a little more of
his apologetic purpose. For here we read: 'That History, and above all
Universal History, is founded on an essential and actual aim, which
actually is, and will be, realized in it — the Plan of Providence; that, in
short, there is Reason in History, must be decided on strictly
philosophical grounds, and thus shown to be essential and in fact
necessary.' Now since the aim of Providence 'actually is realized' in the
results of history, it might be suspected that this realization has taken
place in the actual Prussia. And so it has; we are even shown how this aim
i s reached, in three dialectical steps of the historical development of
reason, or, as Hegel says, of 'Spirit', whose 'life ... is a cycle of
progressive embodiments'—. The first of these steps is Oriental
despotism, the second is formed by the Greek and Roman democracies
and aristocracies, and the third, and highest, is the Germanic Monarchy,
which of course is an absolute monarchy. And Hegel makes it quite clear
that he does not mean a Utopian monarchy of the future: 'Spirit . . . has no
past, no future,' he writes, 'but is essentially now, this necessarily
implies that the present form of the Spirit contains and surpasses all
earlier steps.'

But Hegel can be even more outspoken than that. He subdivided the
third period of history, Germanic Monarchy, or 'the German World', into
three divisions too, of which he says—: 'First, we have to consider
Reformation in itself — the all-enlightening Sun, following on that blush
of dawn which we observed at the termination of the medieval period;
next, the unfolding of that state of things which succeeded the

Reformation; and lastly, Modern Times, dating from the end of the last
century', i.e. the period from 1800 down to 1830 (the last year in which
these lectures were delivered). And Hegel proves again that this present
Prussia is the pinnacle and the stronghold and the goal of freedom. 'On
the Stage of Universal History', Hegel writes 'on which we can observe
and grasp it. Spirit displays itself in its most concrete reality.' And the
essence of Spirit, Hegel teaches, is freedom. 'Freedom is the sole truth of
Spirit.' Accordingly, the development of Spirit must be the development
of freedom, and the highest freedom must have been achieved in those
thirty years of the Germanic Monarchy which represent the last
subdivision of historical development. And indeed, we read—: 'The
German Spirit is the Spirit of the new World. Its aim is the realization of
absolute Truth as the unlimited self-determination of Freedom.' And
after a eulogy of Prussia, the government of which, Hegel assures us,
'rests with the official world, whose apex is the personal decision of the
Monarch; for a final decision is, as shown above, an absolute necessity',
Hegel reaches the crowning conclusion of his work: 'This is the point', he
says, 'which consciousness has attained, and these are the principal
phases of that form in which Freedom has realized itself; for the History
of the World is nothing but the development of the Idea of Freedom . . .
That the History of the World ... is the realization of Spirit, this is the
true Theodicy, the justification of God in History . . . What has happened
and is happening ... is essentially His Work . . . '

I ask whether I was not justified when I said that Hegel presents us
with an apology for God and for Prussia at the same time, and whether it
is not clear that the state which Hegel commands us to worship as the
Divine Idea on earth is not simply Frederick William's Prussia from 1800
to 1830. And I ask whether it is possible to outdo this despicable
perversion of everything that is decent; a perversion not only of reason,
freedom, equality, and the other ideas of the open society, but also of a

sincere belief in God, and even of a sincere patriotism.

I have described how, starting from a point that appears to be
progressive and even revolutionary, and proceeding by that general
dialectical method of twisting things which by now will be familiar to the
reader, Hegel finally reaches a surprisingly conservative result. At the
same time, he connects his philosophy of history with his ethical and
juridical positivism, giving the latter a kind of historicist justification.
History is our judge. Since History and Providence have brought the
existing powers into being, their might must be right, even Divine right.

But this moral positivism does not fully satisfy Hegel. He wants more.
Just as he opposes liberty and equality, so he opposes the brotherhood of
man, humanitarianism, or, as he says, 'philanthropy'. Conscience must be
replaced by blind obedience and by a romantic Heraclitean ethics of fame
and fate, and the brotherhood of man by a totalitarian nationalism. How
this is done will be shown in section III and especially— in section IV of
this chapter.

Ill

I now proceed to a very brief sketch of a rather strange story — the story
of the rise of German nationalism. Undoubtedly the tendencies denoted
by this term have a strong affinity with the revolt against reason and the
open society. Nationalism appeals to our tribal instincts, to passion and to
prejudice, and to our nostalgic desire to be relieved from the strain of
individual responsibility which it attempts to replace by a collective or
group responsibility. It is in keeping with these tendencies that we find
that the oldest works on political theory, even that of the Old Oligarch,
but more markedly those of Plato and of Aristotle, express decidedly

nationalist views; for these works were written in an attempt to combat
the open society and the new ideas of imperialism, cosmopolitanism, and
equalitarianism— . But this early development of a nationalist political
theory stops short with Aristotle. With Alexander's empire, genuine
tribal nationalism disappears for ever from political practice, and for a
long time from political theory. From Alexander onward, all the civilized
states of Europe and Asia were empires, embracing populations of
infinitely mixed origin. European civilization and all the political units
belonging to it have remained international or, more precisely, inter-
tribal ever since. (It seems that about as long before Alexander as
Alexander was before us, the empire of ancient Sumer had created the
first international civilization.) And what holds good of political practice
holds good of political theory; until about a hundred years ago, the
Platonic-Aristotelian nationalism had practically disappeared from
political doctrines. (Of course, tribal and parochial feelings were always
strong.) When nationalism was revived a hundred years ago, it was in one
of the most mixed of all the thoroughly mixed regions of Europe, in
Germany, and especially in Prussia with its largely Slav population. (It is
not well known that barely a century ago, Prussia, with its then
predominantly Slav population, was not considered a German state at all;
though its kings, who as princes of Brandenburg were 'Electors' of the
German Empire, were considered German princes. At the Congress of
Vienna, Prussia was registered as a 'Slav kingdom'; and in 1830 Hegel
still spoke— even of Brandenburg and Mecklenburg as being populated
by 'Germanized Slavs'.)

Thus it is only a short time since the principle of the national state was
reintroduced into political theory. In spite of this fact, it is so widely
accepted in our day that it is usually taken for granted, and very often
unconsciously so. It now forms, as it were, an implicit assumption of
popular political thought. It is even considered by many to be the basic

postulate of political ethics, especially since Wilson's well-meant but
less well-considered principle of national self-determination. How
anybody who had the slightest knowledge of European history, of the
shifting and mixing of all kinds of tribes, of the countless waves of
peoples who had come forth from their original Asian habitat and split up
and mingled when reaching the maze of peninsulas called the European
continent, how anybody who knew this could ever have put forward such
an inapplicable principle, is hard to understand. The explanation is that
Wilson, who was a sincere democrat (and Masaryk also, one of the
greatest of all fighters for the open society—), fell a victim to a
movement that sprang from the most reactionary and servile political
philosophy that had ever been imposed upon meek and long-suffering
mankind. He fell a victim to his upbringing in the metaphysical political
theories of Plato and of Hegel, and to the nationalist movement based
upon them.

The principle of the national state, that is to say, the political demand
that the territory of every state should coincide with the territory
inhabited by one nation, is by no means so self-evident as it seems to
appear to many people to-day. Even if anyone knew what he meant when
he spoke of nationality, it would be not at all clear why nationality should
be accepted as a fundamental political category, more important for
instance than religion, or birth within a certain geographical region, or
loyalty to a dynasty, or a political creed like democracy (which forms,
one might say, the uniting factor of multi-lingual Switzerland). But while
religion, territory, or a political creed can be more or less clearly
determined, nobody has ever been able to explain what he means by a
nation, in a way that could be used as a basis for practical politics. (Of
course, if we say that a nation is a number of people who live or have
been born in a certain state, then everything is clear; but this would mean
giving up the principle of the national state which demands that the state

should be determined by the nation, and not the other way round.) None
of the theories which maintain that a nation is united by a common
origin, or a common language, or a common history, is acceptable, or
applicable in practice. The principle of the national state is not only
inapplicable but it has never been clearly conceived. It is a myth. It is an
irrational, a romantic and Utopian dream, a dream of naturalism and of
tribal collectivism.

In spite of its inherent reactionary and irrational tendencies, modern
nationalism, strangely enough, was in its short history before Hegel a
revolutionary and liberal creed. By something like an historical accident
— the invasion of German lands by the first national army, the French
army under Napoleon, and the reaction caused by this event — it had made
its way into the camp of freedom. It is not without interest to sketch the
history of this development, and of the way in which Hegel brought
nationalism back into the totalitarian camp where it had belonged from
the time when Plato first maintained that Greeks are related to barbarians
like masters to slaves.

Plato, it will be remembered—, unfortunately formulated his
fundamental political problem by asking: Who should rule? Whose will
should be law? Before Rousseau, the usual answer to this question was:
The prince. Rousseau gave a new and most revolutionary answer. Not the
prince, he maintained, but the people should rule; not the will of one man
but the will of all. In this way, he was led to invent the people's will, the
collective will, or the 'general will', as he called it; and the people, once
endowed with a will, had to be exalted into a super-personality; 'in
relation to what is external to it' (i.e. in relation to other peoples),
Rousseau says, 'it becomes one single being, one individual'. There was a
good deal of romantic collectivism in this invention, but no tendency
towards nationalism. But Rousseau's theories clearly contained the germ
of nationalism, whose most characteristic doctrine is that the various

nations must be conceived as personalities. And a great practical step in
the nationalist direction was made when the French Revolution
inaugurated a people's army, based on national conscription.

One of the next to contribute to the theory of nationalism was J. G.
Herder, a former pupil and at the time a personal friend of Kant. Herder
maintained that a good state should have natural borders, namely those
which coincide with the places inhabited by its 'nation'; a theory which
he first proffered in his Ideas towards a Philosophy of the History oj
Mankind (1785). 'The most natural state', he wrote—, 'is a state
composed of a single people with a single national character ... A people
is a natural growth like a family, only spread more widely ... As in all
human communities, ... so, in the case of the state, the natural order is
the best — that is to say, the order in which everyone fulfils that function
for which nature intended him.' This theory, which tries to give an
answer to the problem of the 'natural' borders of the state—, an answer
that only raises the new problem of the 'natural' borders of the nation,
did not at first exert much influence. It is interesting to see that Kant at
once realized the dangerous irrational romanticism in this work of
Herder's, of whom he made a sworn enemy by his outspoken criticism. I
shall quote a passage from this criticism, because it excellently sums up,
once and for all, not only Herder, but also the later oracular philosophers
like Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, together with all their modern followers: 'A
sagacity quick in picking up analogies', Kant wrote, 'and an imagination
audacious in the use it makes of them are combined with a capability for
enlisting emotions and passions in order to obtain interest for its object —
an object that is always veiled in mystery. These emotions are easily
mistaken for the efforts of powerful and profound thoughts, or at least of
deeply significant allusions; and they thus arouse higher expectations
than cool judgement would find justified . . . Synonyms are passed off as
explanations, and allegories are offered as truths.'

It was Fichte who provided German nationalism with its first theory.
The borders of a nation, he contended, are determined by language. (This
does not improve matters. Where do differences of dialect become
differences of language? How many different languages do the Slavs or
the Teutons speak, or are the differences merely dialects?)

Fichte's opinions had a most curious development, especially if we
consider that he was one of the founders of German nationalism. In 1793,
he defended Rousseau and the French Revolution, and in 1799 he still
declared—: 'It is plain that from now on the French Republic alone can be
the fatherland of the upright man, that he can devote his powers to this
country alone of all, since not only the dearest hopes of humanity but also
its very existence are bound up with the victory of France ... I dedicate
myself and all my abilities to the Republic' It may be noted that when
Fichte made these remarks he was negotiating for a university position in
Mainz, a place then controlled by the French. 'In 1804', E. N. Anderson
writes in his interesting study on nationalism, 'Fichte ... was eager to
leave Prussian service and to accept a call from Russia. The Prussian
government had not appreciated him to the desired financial extent and
he hoped for more recognition from Russia, writing to the Russian
negotiator that if the government would make him a member of the St.
Petersburg Academy of Science and pay him a salary of not less than four
hundred roubles, "I would be theirs until death" ... Two years later',
Anderson continues, 'the transformation of Fichte the cosmopolitan into
Fichte the nationalist was completed.'

When Berlin was occupied by the French, Fichte left, out of patriotism;
an act which, as Anderson says 'he did not allow ... to remain unnoticed
by the Prussian king and government'. When A. Mueller and W. von
Humboldt had been received by Napoleon, Fichte wrote indignantly to his
wife: 'I do not envy Mueller and Humboldt; I am glad that I did not
obtain that shameful honour ... It makes a difference to one's conscience

and apparently also to one s later success if . . . one has openly shown
devotion to the good cause.' On this, Anderson comments: 'As a matter
of fact, he did profit; undoubtedly his call to the University of Berlin
resulted from this episode. This does not detract from the patriotism of
his act, but merely places it in its proper light.' To all this we must add
that Fichte's career as a philosopher was from the beginning based on a
fraud. His first book was published anonymously, when Kant's
philosophy of religion was expected, under the title Critique of All
Revelation. It was an extremely dull book, which did not prevent it from
being a clever copy of Kant's style; and everything was set in motion,
including rumours, to make people believe that it was Kant's work. The
matter appears in its right light if we realize that Fichte only obtained a
publisher through the kindheartedness of Kant (who was never able to
read more than the first few pages of the book). When the press extolled
Fichte's work as one of Kant's, Kant was forced to make a public
statement that the work was Fichte's, and Fichte, upon whom fame had
suddenly descended, was made professor in Jena. But Kant was later
forced to make another declaration, in order to dissociate himself from
this man, a declaration in which occur the words—: 'May God protect us
from our friends. From our enemies, we can try to protect ourselves.'

These are a few episodes in the career of the man whose 'windbaggery'
has given rise to modern nationalism as well as to modern Idealist
philosophy, erected upon the perversion of Kant's teaching. (I follow
Schopenhauer in distinguishing between Fichte's 'windbaggery' and
Hegel's 'charlatanry', although I must admit that to insist on this
distinction is perhaps a little pedantic.) The whole story is interesting
mainly because of the light it throws upon the 'history of philosophy' and
upon 'history' in general. I mean not only the perhaps more humorous
than scandalous fact that such clowns are taken seriously, and that they
are made the objects of a kind of worship, of solemn although often

boring studies (and of examination papers to match). I mean not only the
appalling fact that the windbag Fichte and the charlatan Hegel are treated
on a level with men like Democritus, Pascal, Descartes, Spinoza, Locke,
Hume, Kant, J. S. Mill, and Bertrand Russell, and that their moral
teaching is taken seriously and perhaps even considered superior to that
of these other men. But I mean that many of these eulogist historians of
philosophy, unable to discriminate between thought and fancy, not to
mention good and bad, dare to pronounce that their history is our judge,
or that their history of philosophy is an implicit criticism of the different
'systems of thought'. For it is clear, I think, that their adulation can only
be an implicit criticism of their histories of philosophy, and of that
pomposity and conspiracy of noise by which the business of philosophy is
glorified. It seems to be a law of what these people are pleased to call
'human nature' that bumptiousness grows in direct proportion to
deficiency of thought and inversely to the amount of service rendered to
human welfare.

At the time when Fichte became the apostle of nationalism, an
instinctive and revolutionary nationalism was rising in Germany as a
reaction to the Napoleonic invasion. (It was one of those typical tribal
reactions against the expansion of a super-national empire.) The people
demanded democratic reforms which they understood in the sense of
Rousseau and of the French Revolution, but which they wanted without
their French conquerors. They turned against their own princes and
against the emperor at the same time. This early nationalism arose with
the force of a new religion, as a kind of cloak in which a humanitarian
desire for freedom and equality was clad. 'Nationalism', Anderson
writes—, 'grew as orthodox Christianity declined, replacing the latter
with belief in a mystical experience of its own.' It is the mystical
experience of community with the other members of the oppressed tribe,
an experience which replaced not only Christianity but especially the

feeling of trust and loyalty to the king which the abuses of absolutism had
destroyed. It is clear that such an untamed new and democratic religion
was a source of great irritation, and even of danger, to the ruling class,
and especially to the king of Prussia. How was this danger to be met?
After the wars of liberation, Frederick William met it first by dismissing
his nationalist advisers, and then by appointing Hegel. For the French
Revolution had proved the influence of philosophy, a point duly
emphasized by Hegel (since it is the basis of his own services): 'The
Spiritual', he says—, 'is now the essential basis of the potential fabric,
dind Philosophy has thereby become dominant. It has been said that the
French Revolution resulted from Philosophy, and it is not without reason
that Philosophy has been described as World Wisdom; Philosophy is not
only Truth in and for itself ... but also Truth as exhibited in worldly
matters. We should not, therefore, contradict the assertion that the
Revolution received its first impulse from Philosophy.' This is an
indication of Hegel's insight into his immediate task, to give a counter
impulse; an impulse, though not the first, by which philosophy might
strengthen the forces of reaction. Part of this task was the perversion of
the ideas of freedom, equality, etc. But perhaps an even more urgent task
was the taming of the revolutionary nationalist religion. Hegel fulfilled
this task in the spirit of Pareto's advice 'to take advantage of sentiments,
not wasting one's energies in futile efforts to destroy them'. He tamed
nationalism not by outspoken opposition but by transforming it into a
well-disciplined Prussian authoritarianism. And it so happened that he
brought back a powerful weapon into the camp of the closed society,
where it fundamentally belonged.

All this was done rather clumsily. Hegel, in his desire to please the
government, sometimes attacked the nationalists much too openly. 'Some
men', he wrote— in thQ Philosophy of Law, 'have recently begun to talk
of the "sovereignty of the people" in opposition to the sovereignty of the

monarch. But when it is contrasted with the sovereignty of the monarch,
then the phrase "sovereignty of the people" turns out to be merely one of
those confused notions which arise from a wild idea of the "people".
Without its monarch ... the people are just a formless multitude.' Earlier,
in the Encyclopcedia, he wrote: 'The aggregate of private persons is often
spoken of as the nation. But such an aggregate is a rabble, not a people;
and with regard to it, it is the one aim of the state that a nation should not
come into existence, to power and action, as such an aggregate. Such a
condition of a nation is a condition of lawlessness, demoralization,
brutishness. In it, the nation would only be a shapeless wild blind force,
like that of a stormy elemental sea, which however is not self-destructive,
as the nation — a spiritual element — would be. Yet one can often hear
such a condition described as pure freedom.' There is here an
unmistakable allusion to the liberal nationalists, whom the king hated
like the plague. And this is even clearer when we see Hegel's reference to
the early nationalists' dreams of rebuilding the German empire: 'The
fiction of an Empire', he says in his eulogy of the latest developments in
Prussia, 'has utterly vanished. It is broken into Sovereign States.' His
anti-liberal tendencies induced Hegel to refer to England as the most
characteristic example of a nation in the bad sense. 'Take the case of
England,' he writes, 'which, because private persons have a predominant
share in public affairs, has been regarded as having the freest of all
constitutions. Experience shows that that country, as compared with the
other civilized states of Europe, is the most backward in civil and
criminal legislation, in the law and liberty of property, and in
arrangements for the arts and sciences, and that objective freedom or
rational right is sacrificed to formal— right and particular private
interest: and that this happens even in the institutions and possessions
dedicated to religion.' An astonishing statement indeed, especially when
the 'arts and sciences' are considered, for nothing could have been more

backward than Prussia, where the University of Berlin had been founded
only under the influence of the Napoleonic wars, and with the idea, as the
king said—, that 'the state must replace with intellectual prowess what it
has lost in physical strength'. A few pages later, Hegel forgets what he
has said about the arts and sciences in England; for he speaks there of
'England, where the art of historical writing has undergone a process of
purification and arrived at a firmer and more mature character'.

We see that Hegel knew that his task was to combat the liberal and
even the imperialist leanings of nationalism. He did it by persuading the
nationalists that their coUectivist demands are automatically realized by
an almighty state, and that all they need do is to help to strengthen the
power of the state. 'The Nation State is Spirit in its substantive rationality
and immediate actuality', he writes—; 'it is therefore the absolute power
on earth . . . The state is the Spirit of the People itself. The actual State is
animated by this spirit, in all its particular affairs, its Wars, and its
Institutions ... The self-consciousness of one particular Nation is the
vehicle for the . . . development of the collective spirit; ... in it, the Spirit
of the Time invests its Will. Against this Will, the other national minds
have no rights: that Nation dominates the World.' It is thus the nation and
its spirit and its will that act on the stage of history. History is the contest
of the various national spirits for world domination. From this it follows
that the reforms advocated by the liberal nationalists are unnecessary,
since the nation and its spirit are the leading actors anyway; besides,
'every nation ... has the constitution which is appropriate to it and
belongs to it'. (Juridical positivism.) We see that Hegel replaces the
liberal elements in nationalism not only by a Platonic-Prussianist worship
of the state, but also by a worship of history, of historical success.
(Frederick William had been successful against Napoleon.) In this way,
Hegel not only began a new chapter in the history of nationalism, but he
also provided nationalism with a new theory. Fichte, we have seen, had

provided it with the theory that it was based on language. Hegel
introduced the historical theory of the nation. A nation, according to
Hegel, is united by a spirit that acts in history. It is united by the common
foe, and by the comradeship of the wars it has fought. (It has been said
that a race is a collection of men united not by their origin but by a
common error in regard to their origin. In a similar way, we could say
that a nation in Hegel's sense is a number of men united by a common
error in regard to their history.) It is clear how this theory is connected
with Hegel's historicist essentialism. The history of a nation is the
history of its essence or 'Spirit', asserting itself on the 'Stage of History'.

In concluding this sketch of the rise of nationalism, I may make a
remark on the events down to the foundation of Bismarck's German
empire. Hegel's policy had been to take advantage of nationalist
sentiments, instead of wasting energy in futile efforts to destroy them.
But sometimes this celebrated technique appears to have rather strange
consequences. The medieval conversion of Christianity into an
authoritarian creed could not fully suppress its humanitarian tendencies;
again and again, Christianity breaks through the authoritarian cloak (and
is persecuted as heresy). In this way, Pareto's advice not only serves to
neutralize tendencies that endanger the ruling class, but can also
unintentionally help to preserve these very tendencies. A similar thing
happened to nationalism. Hegel had tamed it, and had tried to replace
German nationalism by a Prussian nationalism. But by thus 'reducing
nationalism to a component' of his Prussianism (to use his own jargon)
Hegel 'preserved' it; and Prussia found itself forced to proceed on the
way of taking advantage of the sentiments of German nationalism. When
it fought Austria in 1866 it had to do so in the name of German
nationalism, and under the pretext of securing the leadership of
'Germany'. And it had to advertise the vastly enlarged Prussia of 1871 as
the new 'German Empire', a new 'German Nation' — welded by war into a

unit, in accordance with Hegel's historical theory of the nation.

In our own time, Hegel's hysterical historicism is still the fertilizer to
which modem totalitarianism owes its rapid growth. Its use has prepared
the ground, and has educated the intelligentsia to intellectual dishonesty,
as will be shown in section V of this chapter. We have to learn the lesson
that intellectual honesty is fundamental for everything we cherish.

But is this all? And is it just? Is there nothing in the claim that Hegel's
greatness lies in the fact that he was the creator of a new, of a historical
way of thinking — of a new historical sense?

Many of my friends have criticized me for my attitude towards Hegel,
and for my inability to see his greatness. They were, of course, quite
right, since I was indeed unable to see it. (I am so still.) In order to
remedy this fault, I made a fairly systematic inquiry into the question.
Wherein lies Hegel's greatness?

The result was disappointing. No doubt, Hegel's talk about the vastness
and greatness of the historical drama created an atmosphere of interest in
history. No doubt, his vast historicist generalizations, periodizations, and
interpretations fascinated some historians and challenged them to
produce valuable and detailed historical studies (which nearly invariably
showed the weakness of Hegel's findings as well as of his method). But
was this challenging influence the achievement of either a historian or a
philosopher? Was it not, rather, that of a propagandist? Historians, I
found, tend to value Hegel (if at all) as a philosopher, and philosophers
tend to believe that his contributions (if any) were to the understanding of
history. But historicism is not history, and to believe in it reveals neither

historical understanding nor historical sense. And if we wish to evaluate
Hegel's greatness, as a historian or as a philosopher, we should not ask
ourselves whether some people found his vision of history inspiring, but
whether there was much truth in this vision.

I found only one idea which was important and which might be
claimed to be implicit in Hegel's philosophy. It is the idea which leads
Hegel to attack abstract rationalism and intellectualism which does not
appreciate the indebtedness of reason to tradition. It is a certain
awareness of the fact (which, however, Hegel forgets in his Logic) that
men cannot start with a blank, creating a world of thought from nothing;
but that their thoughts are, largely, the product of an intellectual
inheritance.

I am ready to admit that this is an important point, and one which
might be found in Hegel if one is willing to search for it. But I deny that
it was Hegel's own contribution. It was the common property of the
Romantics. That all social entities are products of history; not inventions,
planned by reason, but formations emerging from the vagaries of
historical events, from the interplay of ideas and interests, from
sufferings and from passions, all this is older than Hegel. It goes back to
Edmund Burke, whose appreciation of the significance of tradition for the
functioning of all social institutions had immensely influenced the
political thought of the German Romantic Movement. The trace of his
influence can be found in Hegel, but only in the exaggerated and
untenable form of an historical and evolutionary relativism — in the form
of the dangerous doctrine that what is believed to-day is, in fact, true to-
day, and in the equally dangerous corollary that what was true yesterday
{true, and not merely 'believed') may be false to-morrow — a doctrine
which, surely, is not likely to encourage an appreciation of the
significance of tradition.

I now proceed to the last part of my treatment of Hegelianism, to the
analysis of the dependence of the new tribalism or totalitarianism upon
the doctrines of Hegel.

If it were my aim to write a history of the rise of totalitarianism, I
should have to deal with Marxism first; for fascism grew partly out of the
spiritual and political breakdown of Marxism. (And, as we shall see, a
similar statement may be made about the relationship between Leninism
and Marxism.) Since my main issue, however, is historicism, I propose to
deal with Marxism later, as the purest form of historicism that has so far
arisen, and to tackle fascism first.

Modern totalitarianism is only an episode within the perennial revolt
against freedom and reason. From older episodes it is distinguished not
so much by its ideology, as by the fact that its leaders succeeded in
realizing one of the boldest dreams of their predecessors; they made the
revolt against freedom a popular movement. (Its popularity, of course,
must not be overrated; the intelligentsia are only a part of the people.) It
was made possible only by the breakdown, in the countries concerned, of
another popular movement. Social Democracy or the democratic version
of Marxism, which in the minds of the working people stood for the ideas
of freedom and equality. When it became obvious that it was not just by
chance that this movement had failed in 1914 to make a determined stand
against war; when it became clear that it was helpless to cope with the
problems of peace, most of all with unemployment and economic
depression; and when, at last, this movement defended itself only half-
heartedly against fascist aggression, then the belief in the value of
freedom and in the possibility of equality was seriously threatened, and

the perennial revolt against freedom could by hook or by crook acquire a
more or less popular backing.

The fact that fascism had to take over part of the heritage of Marxism
accounts for the one 'original' feature of fascist ideology, for the one
point in which it deviates from the traditional make-up of the revolt
against freedom. The point I have in mind is that fascism has not much
use for an open appeal to the supernatural. Not that it is necessarily
atheistic or lacking in mystical or religious elements. But the spread of
agnosticism through Marxism led to a situation in which no political
creed aiming at popularity among the working class could bind itself to
any of the traditional religious forms. This is why fascism added to its
official ideology, in its early stages at least, some admixture of
nineteenth-century evolutionist materialism.

Thus the formula of the fascist brew is in all countries the same: Hegel
plus a dash of nineteenth-century materialism (especially Darwinism in
the somewhat crude form given to it by Haeckel— ). The 'scientific'
element in racialism can be traced back to Haeckel, who was responsible,
in 1900, for a prize-competition whose subject was: 'What can we learn
from the principles of Darwinism in respect of the internal and political
development of a state?' The first prize was allotted to a voluminous
racialist work by W. Schallmeyer, who thus became the grandfather of
racial biology. It is interesting to observe how strongly this materialist
racialism, despite its very different origin, resembles the naturalism of
Plato. In both cases, the basic idea is that degeneration, particularly of the
upper classes, is at the root of political decay (read: of the advance of the
open society). Moreover, the modern myth of Blood and Soil has its exact
counterpart in Plato's Myth of the Earthborn. Nevertheless, not 'Hegel +
Plato', but 'Hegel + Haeckel' is the formula of modern racialism. As we
shall see, Marx replaced Hegel's 'Spirit' by matter, and by material and
economic interests. In the same way, racialism substitutes for Hegel's

'Spirit' something material, the quasi-biological conception of Blood or
Race. Instead of 'Spirit', Blood is the self-developing essence; instead of
'Spirit', Blood is the Sovereign of the world, and displays itself on the
Stage of History; and instead of its 'Spirit', the Blood of a nation
determines its essential destiny.

The transubstantiation of Hegelianism into racialism or of Spirit into
Blood does not greatly alter the main tendency of Hegelianism. It only
gives it a tinge of biology and of modern evolutionism. The outcome is a
materialistic and at the same time mystical religion of a self-developing
biological essence, very closely reminiscent of the religion of creative
evolution (whose prophet was the Hegelian— Bergson), a religion which
G. B. Shaw, more prophetically than profoundly, once characterized as 'a
faith which complied with the first condition of all religions that have
ever taken hold of humanity: namely, that it must be ... a meta-biology\
And indeed, this new religion of racialism clearly shows a meta-
component and a Z?/o/ogy-component, as it were, or Hegelian mystical
metaphysics and Haeckelian materialist biology.

So much about the difference between modern totalitarianism and
Hegelianism. In spite of its significance from the point of view of
popularity, this difference is unimportant so far as their main political
tendencies are concerned. But if we now turn to the similarities, then we
get another picture. Nearly all the more important ideas of modern
totalitarianism are directly inherited from Hegel, who collected and
preserved what A. Zimmern calls— the 'armoury of weapons for
authoritarian movements'. Although most of these weapons were not
forged by Hegel himself, but discovered by him in the various ancient
war treasuries of the perennial revolt against freedom, it is undoubtedly
his effort which rediscovered them and placed them in the hands of his
modern followers. Here is a brief list of some of the most precious of
these ideas. (I omit Platonic totalitarianism and tribalism, which have

already been discussed, as well as the theory of master and slave.)

(a) Nationalism, in the form of the historicist idea that the state is the
incarnation of the Spirit (or now, of the Blood) of the state-creating
nation (or race); one chosen nation (now, the chosen race) is destined for
world domination, (b) The state as the natural enemy of all other states
must assert its existence in war. (c) The state is exempt from any kind of
moral obligation; history, that is, historical success, is the sole judge;
collective utility is the sole principle of personal conduct; propagandist
lying and distortion of the truth is permissible, (d) The 'ethical' idea of
war (total and collectivist), particularly of young nations against older
ones; war, fate and fame as most desirable goods, (e) The creative role of
the Great Man, the world-historical personality, the man of deep
knowledge and great passion (now, the principle of leadership). (/) The
ideal of the heroic life ('live dangerously') and of the 'heroic man' as
opposed to the petty bourgeois and his life of shallow mediocrity.

This list of spiritual treasures is neither systematic nor complete. All
of them are part and parcel of an old patrimony. And they were stored up,
and made ready for use, not only in the works of Hegel and his followers,
but also in the minds of an intelligentsia fed exclusively for three long
generations on such debased spiritual food, early recognized by
Schopenhauer— as an 'intelligence-destroying pseudo-philosophy' and as
a 'mischievous and criminal misuse of language'. I now proceed to a
more detailed examination of the various points in this list.

(a) According to modern totalitarian doctrines, the state as such is not
the highest end. This is, rather, the Blood, and the People, the Race. The
higher races possess the power to create states. The highest aim of a race
or nation is to form a mighty state which can serve as a powerful
instrument of its self-preservation. This teaching (but for the substitution
of Blood for Spirit) is due to Hegel, who wrote—: 'In the existence of a
Nation, the substantial aim is to be a State and preserve itself as such. A

Nation that has not formed itself into a State — a mere Nation — has
strictly speaking no history, like the Nations ... which existed in a
condition of savagery. What happens to a Nation ... has its essential
significance in relation to the State.' The state which is thus formed is to
be totalitarian, that is to say, its might must permeate and control the
whole life of the people in all its functions: 'The State is therefore the
basis and centre of all the concrete elements in the life of a people: of
Art, Law, Morals, Religion, and Science . . . The substance that . . . exists
in that concrete reality which is the state, is the Spirit of the People itself.
The actual State is animated by this Spirit in all its particular affairs, in
its Wars, Institutions, etc' Since the state must be powerful, it must
contest the powers of other states. It must assert itself on the 'Stage of
History', must prove its peculiar essence or Spirit and its 'strictly
defined' national character by its historical deeds, and must ultimately
aim at world domination. Here is an outline of this historicist
essentialism in Hegel's words: 'The very essence of Spirit is activity; it
actualizes its potentiality, and makes itself its own deed, its own work . . .
Thus it is with the Spirit of a Nation; it is a Spirit having strictly defined
characteristics which exist and persist ... in the events and transitions
that make up its history. That is its work — ^that is what this particular
Nation/^. Nations are what their deeds are ... A Nation is moral,
virtuous, vigorous, as long as it is engaged in realizing its grand objects
. . . The constitutions under which World-Historical Peoples have reached
their culminations are peculiar to them ... Therefore, from ... the
political institutions of the ancient World-Historical Peoples, nothing can
be learned . . . Each particular National Genius is to be treated as only One
Individual in the process of Universal History.' The Spirit or National
Genius must finally prove itself in World-Domination: 'The self-
consciousness of a particular Nation ... is the objective actuality in which
the Spirit of the Time invests its Will. Against this absolute Will the

other particular national minds have no rights: that Nation dominates the
World . . . '

But Hegel not only developed the historical and totalitarian theory of
nationalism, he also clearly foresaw the psychological possibilities of
nationalism. He saw that nationalism answers a need — the desire of men
to find and to know their definite place in the world, and to belong to a
powerful collective body. At the same time he exhibits that remarkable
characteristic of German nationalism, its strongly developed feelings of
inferiority (to use a more recent terminology), especially towards the
English. And he consciously appeals, with his nationalism or tribalism, to
those feelings which I have described (in chapter 10) as \hQ strain oj
civilization: 'Every Englishman', Hegel writes—, 'will say: We are the
men who navigate the ocean, and who have the commerce of the world; to
whom the East Indies belong and their riches ... The relation of the
individual man to that Spirit is . . . that it . . . enables him to have a definite
place in the world — to hQ something. For he finds in ... the people to
which he belongs an already established, firm world . . . with which he has
to incorporate himself. In this its work, and therefore its world, the Spirit
of the people enjoys its existence and finds satisfaction.'

(Z?) A theory common to both Hegel and his racialist followers is that
the state by its very essence can exist only through its contrast to other
individual states. H. Freyer, one of the leading sociologists of present-day
Germany, writes—: 'A being that draws itself round its own core creates,
even unintentionally, the boundary-line. And the frontier — even though it
be unintentionally — creates the enemy.' Similarly Hegel: 'Just as the
individual is not a real person unless related to other persons so the State
is no real individuality unless related to other States . . . The relation of
one particular State to another presents . . . the most shifting play of . . .
passions, interests, aims, talents, virtues, power, injustice, vice, and mere
external chance. It is a play in which even the Ethical Whole, the

Independence of the State, is exposed to accident.' Should we not,
therefore, attempt to regulate this unfortunate state of affairs by adopting
Kant's plans for the establishment of eternal peace by means of a federal
union? Certainly not, says Hegel, commenting on Kant's plan for peace:
'Kant proposed an alliance of princes', Hegel says rather inexactly (for
Kant proposed a federation of what we now call democratic states),
'which should settle the controversies of States; and the Holy Alliance
probably aspired to be an institution of this kind. The State, however, is
an individual; and in individuality, negation is essentially contained. A
number of States may constitute themselves into a family, but this
confederation, as an individuality, must create opposition and so beget an
enemy.' For in Hegel's dialectics, negation equals limitation, and
therefore means not only the boundary-line, the frontier, but also the
creation of an opposition, of an enemy: 'The fortunes and deeds of States
in their relation to one another reveal the dialectic of the finite nature of
these Spirits.' These quotations are taken from the Philosophy of Law, yet
in his QdixXiQx Encyclopcedia, Hegel's theory anticipates the modern
theories, for instance that of Freyer, even more closely: 'The final aspect
of the State is to appear in immediate actuality as a single nation ... As a
single individual it is exclusive of other like individuals. In their mutual
relations, waywardness and chance have a place . . . This independency . . .
reduces disputes between them to terms of mutual violence, to a state oj
war ... It is this state of war in which the omnipotence of the State
manifests itself ...' Thus the Prussian historian Treitschke only shows
how well he understands Hegelian dialectic essentialism when he repeats:
'War is not only a practical necessity, it is also a theoretical necessity, an
exigency of logic. The concept of the State implies the concept of war,
for the essence of the State is Power. The State is the People organized in
sovereign Power. '

Thus it cannot be subject to any other standard, and especially not to the
yardstick of civil morality. Its historical responsibilities are deeper. Its
only judge is the History of the World. The only possible standard of a
judgement upon the state is the world historical success of its actions.
And this success, the power and expansion of the state, must overrule all
other considerations in the private life of the citizens; right is what serves
the might of the state. This is the theory of Plato; it is the theory of
modern totalitarianism; and it is the theory of Hegel: it is the Platonic-
Prussian morality. 'The State', Hegel writes—, 'is the realization of the
ethical Idea. It is the ethical Spirit as revealed, self-conscious, substantial
Will.' Consequently, there can be no ethical idea above the state. 'When
the particular Wills of the States can come to no agreement, their
controversy can be decided only by war. What offence shall be regarded
as a breach of treaty, or as a violation of respect and honour, must remain
indefinite . . . The State may identify its infinitude and honour with every
one of its aspects.' For '... the relation among States fluctuates, and no
judge exists to adjust their differences.' In other words: 'Against the
State there is no power to decide what is . . . right . . . States . . . may enter
into mutual agreements, but they are, at the same time, superior to these
agreements' (i.e. they need not keep them)... 'Treaties between states ...
depend ultimately on the particular sovereign wills, and for that reason,
they must remain unreliable.'

Thus only one kind of 'judgement' can be passed on World-Historical
deeds and events: their result, their success. Hegel can therefore
identify— 'the essential destiny — the absolute aim, or, what amounts to
the same — the true result of the World's History'. To be successful, that
is, to emerge as the strongest from the dialectical struggle of the different
National Spirits for power, for world-domination, is thus the only and
ultimate aim and the only basis of judgement; or as Hegel puts it more
poetically: 'Out of this dialectic rises the universal Spirit, the unlimited

World-Spirit, pronouncing its judgement — and its judgement is the
highest — upon the finite Nations of the World's History; for the History
of the World is the World's court of justice.'

Freyer has very similar ideas, but he expresses them more frankly—:
'A manly, a bold tone prevails in history. He who has the grip has the
booty. He who makes a faulty move is done for ... he who wishes to hit
his mark must know how to shoot.' But all these ideas are, in the last
instance, only repetitions of Heraclitus: 'War ... proves some to be gods
and others to be mere men, by turning the latter into slaves and the
former into masters .... War is just.' According to these theories, there
can be no moral difference between a war in which we are attacked, and
one in which we attack our neighbours; the only possible difference is
success. F. Haiser, author of the book Slavery: Its Biological Foundation
and Moral Justification (1923), a prophet of a master race and of a
master morality, argues: 'If we are to defend ourselves, then there must
also be aggressors . . . ; if so, why then should we not be the aggressors
ourselves?' But even this doctrine (its predecessor is Clausewitz's
famous doctrine that an attack is always the most effective defence) is
Hegelian; for Hegel, when speaking about offences that lead to war, not
only shows the necessity for a 'war of defence' to turn into a 'war of
conquest', but he informs us that some states which have a strong
individuality 'will naturally be more inclined to irritability', in order to
find an occasion and a field for what he euphemistically calls 'intense
activity'.

With the establishment of historical success as the sole judge in
matters relating to states or nations, and with the attempt to break down
such moral distinctions as those between attack and defence, it becomes
necessary to argue against the morality of conscience. Hegel does it by
establishing what he calls 'true morality or rather social virtue' in
opposition to 'false morality'. Needless to say, this 'true morality' is the

Platonic totalitarian morality, combined with a dose of historicism, while
the 'false morality' which he also describes as 'mere formal rectitude' is
that of personal conscience. 'We may fairly', Hegel writes—, 'establish
the true principles of morality, or rather of social virtue, in opposition to
false morality; for the History of the World occupies a higher ground
than that morality which is personal in character — the conscience of
individuals, their particular will and mode of action . . . What the absolute
aim of Spirit requires and accomplishes, what Providence does,
transcends . . . the imputation of good and bad motives . . . Consequently it
is only formal rectitude, deserted by the living Spirit and by God, which
those who take their stand upon ancient right and order maintain. ' (That
is to say, the moralists who refer, for example, to the New Testament.)
'The deeds of Great Men, of the Personalities of World History, ... must
not be brought into collision with irrelevant moral claims. The Litany oj
private virtues, of modesty, humility, philanthropy, and forbearance, must
not be raised against them. The History of the World can, in principle,
entirely ignore the circle within which morality ... lies.' Here, at last, we
have the perversion of the third of the ideas of 1789, that of fraternity, or,
as Hegel says, of philanthropy, together with the ethics of conscience.
This Platonic-Hegelian historicist moral theory has been repeated over
and over again. The famous historian E. Meyer, for example, speaks of
the 'flat and moralizing evaluation, which judges great political
undertakings with the yardstick of civil morality, ignoring the deeper, the
truly moral factors of the State and of historical responsibilities'.

When such views are held, then all hesitation regarding propagandist
lying and distortion of the truth must disappear, particularly if it is
successful in furthering the power of the state. Hegel's approach to this
problem, however, is rather subtle: 'A great mind has publicly raised the
question', he writes—, 'whether it is permissible to deceive the People.
The answer is that the People will not permit themselves to be deceived

concerning their substantial basis' (F. Haiser, the master moralist, says:
'no error is possible where the racial soul dictates') 'but it deceives
itself , Hegel continues, 'about the way it knows this ... Public opinion
deserves therefore to be esteemed as much as to be despised . . . Thus to
be independent of public opinion is the first condition of achieving
anything great . . . And great achievements are certain to be subsequently
recognized and accepted by public opinion ...' In brief, it is always
success that counts. If the lie was successful, then it was no lie, since the
People were not deceived concerning their substantial basis.

{d) We have seen that the State, particularly in its relation to other
states, is exempt from morality — it is a-moral. We may therefore expect
to hear that war is not a moral evil, but morally neutral. However,
Hegel's theory defies this expectation; it implies that war is good in
itself. 'There is an ethical element in war', we read—. 'It is necessary to
recognize that the Finite, such as property and life, is accidental. This
necessity appears first under the form of a force of nature, for all things
finite are mortal and transient. In the ethical order, in the State, however,
. . . this necessity is exalted to a work of freedom, to an ethical law . . .
War ... now becomes an element ... of ... right ... War has the deep
meaning that by it the ethical health of a nation is preserved and their
finite aims uprooted ... War protects the people from the corruption
which an everlasting peace would bring upon it. History shows phases
which illustrate how successful wars have checked internal unrest ....
These Nations, torn by internal strife, win peace at home as a result of
war abroad.' This passage, taken from the Philosophy of Law, shows the
influence of Plato's and Aristotle's teaching on the 'dangers of
prosperity'; at the same time, the passage is a good instance of the
identification of the moral with the healthy, of ethics with political
hygiene, or of right with might; this leads directly, as will be seen, to the
identification of virtue and vigour, as the following passage from Hegel's

Philosophy of History shows. (It follows immediately after the passage
already mentioned, dealing with nationalism as a means of getting over
one's feelings of inferiority, and thereby suggests that even a war can be
an appropriate means to that noble end.) At the same time, the modern
theory of the virtuous aggressiveness of the young or have-not countries
against the wicked old possessor countries is clearly implied. 'A Nation',
Hegel writes, 'is moral, virtuous, vigorous while it is engaged in realizing
its grand objects ... But this having been attained, the activity displayed
by the Spirit of the People ... is no longer needed . . . The Nation can still
accomplish much in war and peace . . . but the living substantial soul itself
may be said to have ceased its activity . . . The Nation lives the same kind
of life as the individual when passing from maturity to old age . . . This
mere customary life (the watch wound up and going of itself) is that
which brings on natural death ... Thus perish individuals, thus perish
peoples by a natural death ... A people can only die a violent death when
it has become naturally dead in itself.' (The last remarks belong to the
decline-and-fall tradition.)

Hegel's ideas on war are surprisingly modern; he even visualizes the
moral consequences of mechanization; or rather, he sees in mechanical
warfare the consequences of the ethical Spirit of totalitarianism or
collectivism—: 'There are different kinds of bravery. The courage of the
animal, or the robber, the bravery that arises from a sense of honour,
chivalrous bravery, are not yet the true forms of bravery. In civilized
nations true bravery consists in the readiness to give oneself wholly to the
service of the State so that the individual counts but as one among many.'
(An allusion to universal conscription.) 'Not personal valour is
significant; the important aspect lies m self-subordination to the
universal. This higher form causes . . . bravery to appear more mechanical
... Hostility is directed not against separate individuals, but against a
hostile whole' (here we have an anticipation of the principle of total

war); personal valour appears as impersonal. This principle has
caused the invention of the gun; it is not a chance invention In a
similar vein, Hegel says of the invention of gunpowder: 'Humanity
needed it, and it made its appearance forthwith.' (How kind of
Providence!)

It is thus purest Hegelianism when the philosopher E. Kaufmann, in
1911, argues against the Kantian ideal of a community of free men: 'Not
a community of men of free will but a victorious war is the social ideal
... it is in war that the State displays its true nature'—; or when E. Banse,
the famous 'military scientist', writes in 1933: 'War means the highest
intensification ... of all spiritual energies of an age ... it means the
utmost effort of the people's Spiritual power ... Spirit and Action linked
together. Indeed, war provides the basis on which the human soul may
manifest itself at its fullest height . . . Nowhere else can the Will ... of the
Race ... rise into being thus integrally as in war.' And General
Ludendorff continues in 1935: 'During the years of the so-called peace,
politics ... have only a meaning inasmuch as they prepare for total war.'
He thus only formulates more precisely an idea voiced by the famous
essentialist philosopher Max Scheler in 1915: 'War means the State in its
most actual growth and rise: it means politics.' The same Hegelian
doctrine is reformulated by Freyer in 1935: 'The State, from the first
moment of its existence, takes its stand in the sphere of war . . . War is not
only the most perfect form of State activity, it is the very element in
which the State is embedded; war delayed, prevented, disguised, avoided,
must of course be included in the term.' But the boldest conclusion is
drawn by F. Lenz, who, in his book The Race as the Principle of Value,
tentatively raises the question: 'But if humanity were to be the goal of
morality, then have not we, after all, taken the wrong side?' and who, of
course, immediately dispels this absurd suggestion by replying: 'Far be it
from us to think that humanity should condemn war: nay, it is war that

condemns humanity.' This idea is linked up with historicism by E. Jung,
who remarks: 'Humanitarianism, or the idea of mankind ... is no
regulator of history.' But it was Hegel's predecessor, Fichte, called by
Schopenhauer the 'wind-bag', who must be credited with the original
anti-humanitarian argument. Speaking of the word 'humanity', Fichte
wrote: 'If one had presented, to the German, instead of the Roman word
"humaneness'' its proper translation, the word "manhood\ then ... he
would have said: "It is after all not so very much to be a man instead of a
wild beast!" This is how a German would have spoken — in a manner
which would have been impossible for a Roman. For in the German
language, "manhood" has remained a merely phenomenal notion; it has
never become a super-phenomenal idea, as it did among the Romans.
Whoever might attempt to smuggle, cunningly, this alien Roman symbol'
(viz., the word 'humaneness') 'into the language of the Germans, would
thereby manifestly debase their ethical standards ...' Fichte's doctrine is
repeated by Spengler, who writes: 'Manhood is either a zoological
expression or an empty word'; and also by Rosenberg, who writes:
'Man's inner life became debased when ... an alien motive was
impressed upon his mind: salvation, humanitarianism, and the culture of
humanity. '

Kolnai, to whose book I am deeply indebted for a great deal of material
to which I would otherwise have had no access, says— most strikingly:
'All of us ... who stand for ... rational, civilized methods of government
and social organization, agree that war is in itself an evil . . . ' Adding that
in the opinion of most of us (except the pacifists) it might become, under
certain circumstances, a necessary evil, he continues: 'The nationalist
attitude is different, though it need not imply a desire for perpetual or
frequent warfare. It sees in a war a good rather than an evil, even if it be a
dangerous good, like an exceedingly heady wine that is best reserved for
rare occasions of high festivity.' War is not a common and abundant evil

but a precious though rare good: — this sums up the views of Hegel and of
his followers.

One of Hegel's feats was the revival of the Heraclitean idea of fate;
and he insisted— that this glorious Greek idea of fate as expressive of the
essence of a person, or of a nation, is opposed to the nominalist Jewish
idea of universal laws, whether of nature, or of morals. The essentialist
doctrine of fate can be derived (as shown in the last chapter) from the
view that the essence of a nation can reveal itself only in its history. It is
not 'fatalistic' in the sense that it encourages inactivity; 'destiny' is not
to be identified with 'predestination'. The opposite is the case. Oneself,
one's real essence, one's innermost soul, the stuff one is made of (will
and passion rather than reason) are of decisive importance in the
formation of one's fate. Since Hegel's amplification of this theory, the
idea of fate or destiny has become a favourite obsession, as it were, of the
revolt against freedom. Kolnai rightly stresses the connection between
racialism (it is fate that makes one a member of one's race) and hostility
to freedom: 'The principle of Race', Kolnai says—, 'is meant to embody
and express the utter negation of human freedom, the denial of equal
rights, a challenge in the face of mankind.' And he rightly insists that
racialism tends 'to opposQ Liberty by Fate, individual consciousness by
the compelling urge of the Blood beyond control and argument'. Even
this tendency is expressed by Hegel, although as usual in a somewhat
obscure manner: 'What we call principle, aim, destiny, or the nature or
idea of Spirit', Hegel writes, 'is a hidden, undeveloped essence, which as
such — however true in itself — is not completely real ... The motive
power that ... gives them ... existence is the need, instinct, inclination
and passion of men.' The modern philosopher of total education, E.
Krieck, goes further in the direction of fatalism: 'All rational will and
activity of the individual is confined to his everyday life; beyond this
range he can only achieve a higher destiny and fulfilment in so far as he

is gripped by superior powers of fate.' It sounds like personal experience
when he continues: 'Not through his own rational scheming will he be
made a creative and relevant being, only through forces that work above
and beneath him, that do not originate in his own self but sweep and work
their way through his self . . . ' (But it is an unwarranted generalization of
the most intimate personal experiences when the same philosopher thinks
that not only 'the epoch of "objective" or "free" science is ended', but
also that of 'pure reason'.)

Together with the idea of fate, its counterpart, that of fame is also
revived by Hegel: 'Individuals ... slyq instruments ... What they
personally gain ... through the individual share they take in the
substantial business (prepared and appointed independently of them) is
... Fame, which is their reward.'— And Stapel, a propagator of the new
paganized Christianity, promptly repeats: 'All great deeds were done for
the sake of fame or glory.' But this 'Christian' moralist is even more
radical than Hegel: 'Metaphysical glory is the one true morality', he
teaches, and the 'Categorical Imperative' of this one true morality runs
accordingly: 'Do such deeds as spell glory!'

(e) Yet glory cannot be acquired by everybody; the religion of glory
implies anti-equalitarianism — it implies a religion of 'Great Men'.
Modern racialism accordingly 'knows no equality between souls, no
equality between men'— (Rosenberg). Thus there are no obstacles to
adopting the Leader Principle from the arsenal of the perennial revolt
against freedom, or as Hegel calls it, the idea of the World Historical
Personality. This Idea is one of Hegel's favourite themes. In discussing
the blasphemous 'question whether it is permissible to deceive a people'
(see above), he says: 'In public opinion all is false and true, but to
discover the truth in it is the business of the Great Man. The Great Man
of his time is he who expresses the will of his time; who tells his time
what it wills; and who carries it out. He acts according to the inner Spirit

and Essence of his time, which he realizes. And he who does not
understand how to despise public opinion, as it makes itself heard here
and there, will never accomplish anything great.' This excellent
description of the Leader — ^the Great Dictator — as a publicist is combined
with an elaborate myth of the Greatness of the Great Man, that consists in
his being the foremost instrument of the Spirit in history. In this
discussion of 'Historical Men — World Historical Individuals' Hegel
says: 'They were practical, political men. But at the same time they were
thinking men, who had an insight into the requirements of the time — into
what was ripe for development . . . World Historical Men — the Heroes of
an epoch — must therefore be recognized as its clear-sighted ones; their
dQQds, their words are the best of that time ... It was they who best
understood affairs; from whom others learned, and approved, or at least
acquiesced in — their policy. For the Spirit which has taken this fresh step
in History is the inmost soul of all individuals; but in a state of
unconsciousness which aroused the Great Men ... Their fellows,
therefore, follow those Soul-Leaders, for they feel the irresistible power
of their own inner Spirit thus embodied.' But the Great Man is not only
the man of greatest understanding and wisdom but also the Man of Great
Passions — foremost, of course, of political passions and ambitions. He is
thereby able to arouse passions in others. 'Great Men have formed
purposes to satisfy themselves, not others . . . They are Great Men because
they willed and accomplished something great ... Nothing Great in the
World has been accomplished without passion ... This may be called the
cunning of reason — that it sets the passions to work for itself . . . Passion,
it is true, is not quite the suitable word for what I wish to express. I mean
here nothing more than human activity as resulting from private interests
— particular, or if you will, self-seeking designs — with the qualification
that the whole energy of will and character is devoted to their attainment
... Passions, private aims, and the satisfaction of selfish desires are ...

most effective springs of action. Their power lies in the fact that they
respect none of the limitations which justice and morality would impose
on them; and that these natural impulses have a more direct influence
over their fellow-men than the artificial and tedious discipline that tends
to order and self-restraint, law and morality.' From Rousseau onwards,
the Romantic school of thought realized that man is not mainly rational.
But while the humanitarians cling to rationality as an aim, the revolt
against reason exploits this psychological insight into the irrationality of
man for its political aims. The fascist appeal to 'human nature' is to our
passions, to our coUectivist mystical needs, to 'man the unknown'.
Adopting Hegel's words just quoted, this appeal may be called the
cunning of the revolt against reason. But the height of this cunning is
reached by Hegel in this boldest dialectical twist of his. While paying lip-
service to rationalism, while talking more loudly about 'reason' than any
man before or after him, he ends up in irrationalism; in an apotheosis not
only of passion, but of brutal force: 'It is', Hegel writes, 'the absolute
interest of Reason that this Moral Whole' (i.e. the State) 'should exist;
and herein lies the justification and merit of heroes, the founders of
States — however cruel they may have been . . . Such men may treat other
great and even sacred interests inconsiderately . . . But so mighty a form
must trample down many an innocent flower; it must crush to pieces
many an object on its path.'

if) The conception of man as being not so much a rational as an heroic
animal was not invented by the revolt against reason; it is a typical
tribalist ideal. We have to distinguish between this ideal of the Heroic
Man and a more reasonable respect for heroism. Heroism is, and always
will be, admirable; but our admiration should depend, I think, very
largely on our appreciation of the cause to which the hero has devoted
himself. The heroic element in gangsterism, I think, deserves little
appreciation. But we should admire Captain Scott and his party, and if

possible even more, the heroes of X-ray or of Yellow Fever research; and
certainly those who defend freedom.

The tribal ideal of the Heroic Man, especially in its fascist form, is
based upon different views. It is a direct attack upon those things which
make heroism admirable to most of us — such things as the furthering of
civilization. For it is an attack on the idea of civil life itself; this is
denounced as shallow and materialistic, because of the idea of security
which it cherishes. Live dangerously! is its imperative; the cause for
which you undertake to follow this imperative is of secondary
importance; or as W. Best says—: 'Good fighting as such, not a "good
cause" ... is the thing that turns the scale ... It merely matters how, not
for what object we fight'. Again we find that this argument is an
elaboration of Hegelian ideas: 'In peace', Hegel writes, 'civil life
becomes more extended, every sphere is hedged in . . . and at last all men
stagnate . . . From the pulpits much is preached concerning the insecurity,
vanity, and instability of temporal things, and yet everyone . . . thinks that
he, at least, will manage to hold on to his possessions ... It is necessary to
recognize ... property and life as accidental ... Let insecurity finally
come in the form of Hussars with glistening sabres, and show its earnest
activity! ' In another place, Hegel paints a gloomy picture of what he calls
'mere customary life'; he seems to mean by it something like the normal
life of a civilized community: 'Custom is activity without opposition ...
in which fullness and zest is out of the question — a merely external and
sensuous' (i.e. what some people in our day like to call 'materialist')
'existence which has ceased to throw itself enthusiastically into its object
. . ., an existence without intellect or vitality.' Hegel, always faithful to his
historicism, bases his anti-utilitarian attitude (in distinction to Aristotle's
utilitarian comments upon the 'dangers of prosperity') on his
interpretation of history: 'The History of the World is no theatre of
happiness. Periods of happiness are blank pages in it, for they are periods

of harmony.' Thus, liberalism, freedom and reason are, as usual, objects
of Hegel's attacks. The hysterical cries: We want our history! We want
our destiny! We want our fight! We want our chains! resound through the
edifice of Hegelianism, through this stronghold of the closed society and
of the revolt against freedom.

In spite of Hegel's, as it were, official optimism, based on his theory
that what is rational is real, there are features in him to which one can
trace the pessimism which is so characteristic of the more intelligent
among the modern racial philosophers; not so much, perhaps, of the
earlier ones (as Lagarde, Treitschke, or Moeller van den Bruck) but of
those who came after Spengler, the famous historicist. Neither Spengler's
biological holism, intuitive understanding. Group- Spirit and Spirit of the
Age, nor even his Romanticism, helps this fortune-teller to escape a very
pessimistic outlook. An element of blank despair is unmistakable in the
'grim' activism that is left to those who foresee the future and feel
instrumental in its arrival. It is interesting to observe that this gloomy
view of affairs is equally shared by both wings of the racialists, the
'Atheist' as well as the 'Christian' wing.

Stapel, who belongs to the latter (but there are others, for example
Gogarten), writes—: 'Man is under the sway of original sin in his totality
... The Christian knows that it is strictly impossible for him to live
except in sin . . . Therefore he steers clear of the pettiness of moral hair-
splitting ... An ethicized Christianity is a counter-Christianity through
and through ... God has made this world perishable, it is doomed to
destruction. May it, then, go to the dogs according to destiny! Men who
imagine themselves capable of making it better, who want to create a
"higher" morality, are starting a ridiculous petty revolt against God . . .
The hope of Heaven does not mean the expectation of a happiness of the
blessed; it means obedience and War-Comradeship.' (The return to the
tribe.) 'If God orders His man to go to hell, then his sworn adherent ...

will accordingly go to hell ... If He allots to him eternal pain, this has to
be borne too . . . Faith is but another word for victory. It is victory that the
Lord demands . . . '

A very similar spirit lives in the work of the two leading philosophers
of contemporary Germany, the 'existentialists' Heidegger and Jaspers,
both originally followers of the essentialist philosophers Husserl and
Scheler. Heidegger has gained fame by reviving the Hegelian Philosophy
of Nothingness: Hegel had 'established' the theory— that 'Pure Being'
and 'Pure Nothingness' are identical; he had said that if you try to think
out the notion of a pure being, you must abstract from it all particular
'determinations of an object', and therefore, as Hegel puts it — 'nothing
remains'. (This Heraclitean method might be used for proving all kinds
of pretty identities, such as that of pure wealth and pure poverty, pure
mastership and pure servitude, pure Aryanism and pure Judaism.)
Heidegger ingeniously applies the Hegelian theory of Nothingness to a
practical Philosophy of Life, or of 'Existence'. Life, Existence, can be
understood only by understanding Nothingness. In his What is
Metaphysics? Heidegger says: 'The enquiry should be into the Existing or
else into — nothing; ... into the existing alone, and beyond it into —
Nothingness.' The enquiry into nothingness ('Where do we search for
Nothingness? Where can we find Nothingness?') is made possible by the
fact that 'we know Nothingness'; we know it through fear: 'Fear reveals
Nothingness.'

Fear; the fear of nothingness; the anguish of death; these are the basic
categories of Heidegger's Philosophy of Existence; of a life whose true
meaning it is— 'to be cast down into existence, directed towards death'.
Human existence is to be interpreted as a 'Thunderstorm of Steel'; the
'determined existence' of a man is 'to be a self, passionately free to die
...in full self-consciousness and anguish'. But these gloomy confessions
are not entirely without their comforting aspect. The reader need not be

quite overwhelmed by Heidegger's passion to die. For the will to power
and the will to live appear to be no less developed in him than in his
master, Hegel. 'The German University's Will to the Essence', Heidegger
writes in 1933, 'is a Will to Science; it is a Will to the historico-spiritual
mission of the German Nation, as a Nation experiencing itself in its State.
Science and German Destiny must attain Power, especially in the
essential Will.' This passage, though not a monument of originality or
clarity, is certainly one of loyalty to his masters; and those admirers of
Heidegger who in spite of all this continue to believe in the profundity of
his 'Philosophy of Existence' might be reminded of Schopenhauer's
words: 'Who can really believe that truth also will come to light, just as a
by-product?' And in view of the last of Heidegger's quotations, they
should ask themselves whether Schopenhauer's advice to a dishonest
guardian has not been successfully administered by many educationists to
many promising youths, inside and outside of Germany. I have in mind
the passage: 'Should you ever intend to dull the wits of a young man and
to incapacitate his brains for any kind of thought whatever, then you
cannot do better than give him Hegel to read. For these monstrous
accumulations of words that annul and contradict one another drive the
mind into tormenting itself with vain attempts to think anything whatever
in connection with them, until finally it collapses from sheer exhaustion.
Thus any ability to think is so thoroughly destroyed that the young man
will ultimately mistake empty and hollow verbiage for real thought. A
guardian fearing that his ward might become too intelligent for his
schemes might prevent this misfortune by innocently suggesting the
reading of Hegel.'

Jaspers declares— his nihilist tendencies more frankly even, if that is
possible, than Heidegger. Only when you are faced with Nothingness,
with annihilation, Jaspers teaches, will you be able to experience and
appreciate Existence. In order to live in the essential sense, one must live

in a crisis. In order to taste life one has not only to risk, but to lose! —
Jaspers carries the historicist idea of change and destiny recklessly to its
most gloomy extreme. All things must perish; everything ends in failure:
in this way does the historicist law of development present itself to his
disillusioned intellect. But face destruction — and you will get the thrill of
your life! Only in the 'marginal situations', on the edge between
existence and nothingness, do we really live. The bliss of life always
coincides with the end of its intelligibility, particularly with extreme
situations of the body, above all with bodily danger. You cannot taste life
without tasting failure. Enjoy yourself perishing!

This is the philosophy of the gambler — of the gangster. Needless to
say, this demoniac 'religion of Urge and Fear, of the Triumphant or else
the Hunted Beast' (Kolnai— ), this absolute nihilism in the fullest sense of
the word, is not a popular creed. It is a confession characteristic of an
esoteric group of intellectuals who have surrendered their reason, and
with it, their humanity.

There is another Germany, that of the ordinary people whose brains
have not been poisoned by a devastating system of higher education. But
this 'other' Germany is certainly not that of her thinkers. It is true,
Germany had also some 'other' thinkers (foremost among them, Kant);
however, the survey just finished is not encouraging, and I fully
sympathize with Kolnai's remark—: 'Perhaps it is not ... a paradox to
solace our despair at German culture with the consideration that, after all,
there is another Germany of Prussian Generals besides the Germany of
Prussian Thinkers.'

I have tried to show the identity of Hegelian historicism with the
philosophy of modern totalitarianism. This identity is seldom clearly
enough realized. Hegelian historicism has become the language of wide
circles of intellectuals, even of candid 'anti-fascists' and 'leftists'. It is so
much a part of their intellectual atmosphere that, for many, it is no more
noticeable, and its appalling dishonesty no more remarkable, than the air
they breathe. Yet some racial philosophers are fully conscious of their
indebtedness to Hegel. An example is H. O. Ziegler, who in his study. The
Modern Nation, rightly describes— the introduction of Hegel's (and A.
Mueller's) idea of 'collective Spirits conceived as Personalities', as the
'Copernican revolution in the Philosophy of the Nation'. Another
illustration of this awareness of the significance of Hegelianism, which
might specially interest British readers, can be found in the judgements
passed in a recent German history of British philosophy (by R. Metz,
1935). A man of the excellence of T. H. Green is here criticized, not of
course because he was influenced by Hegel, but because he 'fell back into
the typical individualism of the English ... He shrank from such radical
consequences as Hegel has drawn'. Hobhouse, who fought bravely against
Hegelianism, is contemptuously described as representing 'a typical form
of bourgeois liberalism, defending itself against the omnipotence of the
State because it feels its freedom threatened thereby' — a feeling which to
some people might appear well founded. Bosanquet of course is praised
for his genuine Hegelianism. But the significant fact is that this is all
taken perfectly seriously by most of the British reviewers.

I mention this fact mainly because I wish to show how difficult and, at
the same time, how urgent it is to continue Schopenhauer's fight against
this shallow cant (which Hegel himself accurately fathomed when
describing his own philosophy as of 'the most lofty depth'). At least the
new generation should be helped to free themselves from this intellectual
fraud, the greatest, perhaps, in the history of our civilization and its

quarrels with its enemies. Perhaps they will live up to the expectations of
Schopenhauer, who in 1840 prophesied— that 'this colossal mystification
will furnish posterity with an inexhaustible source of sarcasm'. (So far
the great pessimist has proved a wild optimist concerning posterity.) The
Hegelian farce has done enough harm. We must stop it. We must speak —
even at the price of soiling ourselves by touching this scandalous thing
which, unfortunately without success, was so clearly exposed a hundred
years ago. Too many philosophers have neglected Schopenhauer's
incessantly repeated warnings; they neglected them not so much at their
own peril (they did not fare badly) as at the peril of those whom they
taught, and at the peril of mankind.

It seems to me a fitting conclusion to this chapter if I leave the last
word to Schopenhauer, the anti-nationalist who said of Hegel a hundred
years ago: 'He exerted, not on philosophy alone but on all forms of
German literature, a devastating, or more strictly speaking, a stupefying,
one could also say, a pestiferous, influence. To combat this influence
forcefully and on every occasion is the duty of everybody who is able to
judge independently. For if we are silent, who will speak?'

Marx's Method

Marx's Sociological Determinism

The collectivists . . . have the zest for progress, the sympathy for the poor, the burning sense
of wrong, the impulse for great deeds, which have been lacking in latter-day liberalism. But
their science is founded on a profound misunderstanding and their actions, therefore, are
deeply destructive and reactionary. So men's hearts are torn, their minds divided, they are
offered impossible choices.

Walter Lippmann.

It has always been the strategy of the revolt against freedom 'to take
advantage of sentiments, not wasting one's energies in futile efforts to
destroy them'-. The most cherished ideas of the humanitarians were often
loudly acclaimed by their deadliest enemies, who in this way penetrated
into the humanitarian camp under the guise of allies, causing disunion
and thorough confusion. This strategy has often been highly successful,
as is shown by the fact that many genuine humanitarians still revere
Plato's idea of 'justice', the medieval idea of 'Christian'
authoritarianism, Rousseau's idea of the 'general will', or Fichte's and
Hegel's ideas of 'national freedom'.- Yet this method of penetrating
dividing and confusing the humanitarian camp and of building up a
largely unwitting and therefore doubly effective intellectual fifth column
achieved its greatest success only after Hegelianism had established itself
as the basis of a truly humanitarian movement: of Marxism, so far the
purest, the most developed and the most dangerous form of historicism.
It is tempting to dwell upon the similarities between Marxism, the

Hegelian left-wing, and its fascist counterpart. Yet it would be utterly
unfair to overlook the difference between them. Although their
intellectual origin is nearly identical, there can be no doubt of the
humanitarian impulse of Marxism. Moreover, in contrast to the Hegelians
of the right-wing, Marx made an honest attempt to apply rational
methods to the most urgent problems of social life. The value of this
attempt is unimpaired by the fact that it was, as I shall try to show,
largely unsuccessful. Science progresses through trial and error. Marx
tried, and although he erred in his main doctrines, he did not try in vain.
He opened and sharpened our eyes in many ways. A return to pre-
Marxian social science is inconceivable. All modern writers are indebted
to Marx, even if they do not know it. This is especially true of those who
disagree with his doctrines, as I do; and I readily admit that my
treatment, for example of Plato- and Hegel, bears the stamp of his
influence.

One cannot do justice to Marx without recognizing his sincerity. His
open-mindedness, his sense of facts, his distrust of verbiage, and
especially of moralizing verbiage, made him one of the world's most
influential fighters against hypocrisy and pharisaism. He had a burning
desire to help the oppressed, and was fully conscious of the need for
proving himself in deeds, and not only in words. His main talents being
theoretical, he devoted immense labour to forging what he believed to be
scientific weapons for the fight to improve the lot of the vast majority of
men. His sincerity in his search for truth and his intellectual honesty
distinguish him, I believe, from many of his followers (although
unfortunately he did not altogether escape the corrupting influence of an
upbringing in the atmosphere of Hegelian dialectics, described by
Schopenhauer as 'destructive of all intelligence'-). Marx's interest in
social science and social philosophy was fundamentally a practical
interest. He saw in knowledge a means of promoting the progress of

man-.

Why, then, attack Marx? In spite of his merits, Marx was, I believe, a
false prophet. He was a prophet of the course of history, and his
prophecies did not come true; but this is not my main accusation. It is
much more important that he misled scores of intelligent people into
believing that historical prophecy is the scientific way of approaching
social problems. Marx is responsible for the devastating influence of the
historicist method of thought within the ranks of those who wish to
advance the cause of the open society.

But is it true that Marxism is a pure brand of historicism? Are there not
some elements of social technology in Marxism? The fact that Russia is
making bold and often successful experiments in social engineering has
led many to infer that Marxism, as the science or creed which underlies
the Russian experiment, must be a kind of social technology, or at least
favourable to it. But nobody who knows anything about the history of
Marxism can make this mistake. Marxism is a purely historical theory, a
theory which aims at predicting the future course of economic and power-
political developments and especially of revolutions. As such, it certainly
did not furnish the basis of the policy of the Russian Communist Party
after its rise to political power. Since Marx had practically forbidden all
social technology, which he denounced as Utopian-, his Russian disciples
found themselves at first entirely unprepared for their great tasks in the
field of social engineering. As Lenin was quick to realize, Marxism was
unable to help in matters of practical economics. 'I do not know of any
socialist who has dealt with these problems', said Lenin-, after his rise to
power; 'there was nothing written about such matters in the Bolshevik
textbooks, or in those of the Mensheviks.' After a period of unsuccessful
experiment, the so-called 'period of war-communism', Lenin decided to
adopt measures which meant in fact a limited and temporary return to
private enterprise. This so-called NEP (New Economic Policy) and the

later experiments — five-year plans, etc. — have nothing whatever to do
with the theories of 'Scientific Socialism' once propounded by Marx and
Engels. Neither the peculiar situation in which Lenin found himself
before he introduced the NEP, nor his achievements, can be appreciated
without due consideration of this point. The vast economic researches of
Marx did not even touch the problems of a constructive economic policy,
for example, economic planning. As Lenin admits, there is hardly a word
on the economics of socialism to be found in Marx's work — apart from
such useless- slogans as 'from each according to his ability, to each
according to his needs'. The reason is that the economic research of Marx
is completely subservient to his historical prophecy. But we must say
even more. Marx strongly emphasized the opposition between his purely
historicist method and any attempt to make an economic analysis with a
view to rational planning. Such attempts he denounced as Utopian, and as
illegitimate. In consequence, Marxists did not even study what the so-
called 'bourgeois economists' attained in this field. They were by their
training even less prepared for constructive work than some of the
'bourgeois economists' themselves.

Marx saw his specific mission in the freeing of socialism from its
sentimental, moralist, and visionary background. Socialism was to be
developed from its Utopian stage to its scientific stage-; it was to be
based upon the scientific method of analysing cause and effect, and upon
scientific prediction. And since he assumed prediction in the field of
society to be the same as historical prophecy, scientific socialism was to
be based upon a study of historical causes and historical effects, and
finally upon the prophecy of its own advent.

Marxists, when they find their theories attacked, often withdraw to the
position that Marxism is primarily not so much a doctrine as a method.
They say that even if some particular part of the doctrines of Marx, or of
some of his followers, were superseded, his method would still remain

unassailable. I believe that it is quite correct to insist that Marxism is,
fundamentally, a method. But it is wrong to believe that, as a method, it
must be secure from attacks. The position is, simply, that whoever wishes
to judge Marxism has to probe it and to criticize it as a method, that is to
say, he must measure it by methodological standards. He must ask
whether it is a fruitful method or a poor one, i.e. whether or not it is
capable of furthering the task of science. The standards by which we must
judge the Marxist method are thus of a practical nature. By describing
Marxism as purest historicism, I have indicated that I hold the Marxist
method to be very poor indeed—.

Marx himself would have agreed with such a practical approach to the
criticism of his method, for he was one of the first philosophers to
develop the views which later were called 'pragmatism'. He was led to
this position, I believe, by his conviction that a scientific background was
urgently needed by the practical politician, which of course meant the
socialist politician. Science, he taught, should yield practical results.
Always look at the fruits, the practical consequences of a theory! They
tell something even of its scientific structure. A philosophy or a science
that does not yield practical results merely interprets the world we live
in; but it can and it should do more; it should change the world. 'The
philosophers', wrote Marx— early in his career, 'have only interpreted
the world in various ways; the point however is to change it.' It was
perhaps this pragmatic attitude that made him anticipate the important
methodological doctrine of the later pragmatists that the most
characteristic task of science is not to gain knowledge of past facts, but to
predict the future.

This stress on scientific prediction, in itself an important and
progressive methodological discovery, unfortunately led Marx astray. For
the plausible argument that science can predict the future only if the
future is predetermined — if, as it were, the future is present in the past.

telescoped in it — led him to adhere to the false belief that a rigidly
scientific method must be based on a rigid determinism. Marx's
'inexorable laws' of nature and of historical development show clearly
the influence of the Laplacean atmosphere and that of the French
Materialists. But the belief that the terms 'scientific' and 'determinist'
are, if not synonymous, at least inseparably connected, can now be said to
be one of the superstitions of a time that has not yet entirely passed
away—. Since I am interested mainly in questions of method, I am glad
that, when discussing its methodological aspect, it is quite unnecessary to
enter into a dispute concerning the metaphysical problem of determinism.
For whatever may be the outcome of such metaphysical controversies as,
for example, the bearing of the Quantum theory on 'free- will', one thing,
I should say, is settled. No kind of determinism, whether it be expressed
as the principle of the uniformity of nature or as the law of universal
causation, can be considered any longer a necessary assumption of
scientific method; for physics, the most advanced of all sciences, has
shown not only that it can do without such assumptions, but also that to
some extent it contradicts them. Determinism is not a necessary pre-
requisite of a science which can make predictions. Scientific method
cannot, therefore, be said to favour the adoption of strict determinism.
Science can be rigidly scientific without this assumption. Marx, of
course, cannot be blamed for having held the opposite view, since the
best scientists of his day did the same.

It must be noted that it is not so much the abstract, theoretical doctrine
of determinism which led Marx astray, but rather the practical influence
of this doctrine upon his view of scientific method, upon his view of the
aims and possibilities of a social science. The abstract idea of 'causes'
which 'determine' social developments is as such quite harmless as long
as it does not lead to historicism. And indeed, there is no reason whatever
why this idea should lead us to adopt a historicist attitude towards social

institutions, in strange contrast to the obviously technological attitude
taken up by everybody, and especially by determinists, towards
mechanical or electrical machinery. There is no reason why we should
believe that, of all sciences, social science is capable of realizing the age-
old dream of revealing what the future has in store for us. This belief in
scientific fortune-telling is not founded on determinism alone; its other
foundation is the confusion bQtwQQn scientific prediction, as we know it
from physics or astronomy, and large-scale historical prophecy, which
foretells in broad lines the main tendencies of the future development of
society. These two kinds of prediction are very different (as I have tried
to show elsewhere—), and the scientific character of the first is no
argument in favour of the scientific character of the second.

Marx's historicist view of the aims of social science greatly upset the
pragmatism which had originally led him to stress the predictive function
of science. It forced him to modify his earlier view that science should,
and that it could, change the world. For if there was to be a social science,
and accordingly, historical prophecy, the main course of history must be
predetermined, and neither good-will nor reason had power to alter it. All
that was left to us in the way of reasonable interference was to make sure,
by historical prophecy, of the impending course of development, and to
remove the worst obstacles in its path. 'When a society has discovered',
Marx writes in Capital—, 'the natural law that determines its own
movement, . . . even then it can neither overleap the natural phases of its
evolution, nor shuffle them out of the world by a stroke of the pen. But
this much it can do; it can shorten and lessen its birth-pangs.' These are
the views that led Marx to denounce as 'Utopianists' all who looked upon
social institutions with the eyes of the social engineer, holding them to be
amenable to human reason and will, and to be a possible field of rational
planning. These 'Utopianists' appeared to him to attempt with fragile
human hands to steer the colossal ship of society against the natural

currents and storms of history. All a scientist could do, he thought, was to
forecast the gusts and vortices ahead. The practical service he could
achieve would thus be confined to issuing a warning against the next
storm that threatened to take the ship off the right course (the right course
was of course the left!) or to advising the passengers as to the side of the
boat on which they had better assemble. Marx saw the real task of
scientific socialism in the annunciation of the impending socialist
millennium. Only by way of this annunciation, he holds, can scientific
socialist teaching contribute to bringing about a socialist world, whose
coming it can further by making men conscious of the impending change,
and of the parts allotted to them in the play of history. Thus scientific
socialism is not a social technology; it does not teach the ways and means
of constructing socialist institutions. Marx's views of the relation
between socialist theory and practice show the purity of his historicist
views.

Marx's thought was in many respects a product of his time, when the
remembrance of that great historical earthquake, the French Revolution,
was still fresh. (It was revived by the revolution of 1848.) Such a
revolution could not, he felt, be planned and staged by human reason. But
it could have been foreseen by a historicist social science; sufficient
insight into the social situation would have revealed its causes. That this
historicist attitude was rather typical of the period can be seen from the
close similarity between the historicism of Marx and that of J.S. Mill. (It
is analogous to the similarity between the historicist philosophies of their
predecessors, Hegel and Comte.) Marx did not think very highly of
'bourgeois economists such as ... J.S. Mill'— whom he viewed as a
typical representative of 'an insipid, brainless syncretism'. Although it is
true that in some places Marx shows a certain respect for the 'modern
tendencies' of the 'philanthropic economist' Mill, it seems to me that
there is ample circumstantial evidence against the conjecture that Marx

was directly influenced by Mill's (or rather by Comte's) views on the
methods of social science. The agreement between the views of Marx and
of Mill is therefore the more striking. Thus when Marx says in the
preface to Capital, 'It is the ultimate aim of this work to lay bare the ...
law of motion of modern society'—, he might be said to carry out Mill's
programme: 'The fundamental problem ... of the social science, is to find
the law according to which any state of society produces the state which
succeeds it and takes its place.' Mill distinguished fairly clearly the
possibility of what he called 'two kinds of sociological inquiry', the first
closely corresponding to what I call social technology, the second
corresponding to historicist prophecy, and he took sides with the latter,
characterizing it as the 'general Science of Society by which the
conclusions of the other and more special kind of inquiry must be limited
and controlled'. This general science of society is based upon the
principle of causality, in accordance with Mill's view of scientific
method; and he describes this causal analysis of society as the 'Historical
Method'. Mill's 'states of society'— with 'properties ... changeable ...
from age to age' correspond exactly to Marxist 'historical periods', and
Mill's optimistic belief in progress resembles Marx's, although it is of
course much more naive than its dialectical counterpart. (Mill thought
that the type of movement 'to which human affairs must conform ...
must be ... one or the other' of two possible astronomical movements,
viz., 'an orbit' or 'a trajectory'. Marxist dialectics is less certain of the
simplicity of the laws of historical development; it adopts a combination,
as it were, of Mill's two movements — something like a wave or a
corkscrew movement.)

There are more similarities between Marx and Mill; for example, both
were dissatisfied with laissez-faire liberalism, and both tried to provide
better foundations for carrying into practice the fundamental idea of
liberty. But in their views on the method of sociology, there is one very

important difference. Mill believed that the study of society, in the last
analysis, must be reducible to psychology; that the laws of historical
development must be explicable in terms of human nature, of the 'laws of
the mind', and in particular, of its progressiveness. 'The progressiveness
of the human race', says Mill, 'is the foundation on which a method of . . .
social science has been ... erected, far superior to ... the modes ...
previously . . . prevalent . . . '— The theory that sociology must in principle
be reducible to social psychology, difficult though the reduction may be
because of the complications arising from the interaction of countless
individuals, has been widely held by many thinkers; indeed, it is one of
the theories which are often simply taken for granted. I shall call this
approach to sociology (methodological) psychologism—. Mill, we can
now say, believed in psychologism. But Marx challenged it. 'Legal
relationships', he asserted—, 'and the various political structures cannot
... be explained by . . . what has been called the general "progressiveness
of the human mind".' To have questioned psychologism is perhaps the
greatest achievement of Marx as a sociologist. By doing so he opened the
way to the more penetrating conception of a specific realm of
sociological laws, and of a sociology which was at least partly
autonomous.

In the following chapters, I shall explain some points of Marx's
method, and I shall try always to emphasize especially such of his views
as I believe to be of lasting merit. Thus I shall deal next with Marx's
attack on psychologism, i.e. with his arguments in favour of an
autonomous social science, irreducible to psychology. And only later
shall I attempt to show the fatal weakness and the destructive
consequences of his historicism.

The Autonomy of Sociology

A concise formulation of Marx's opposition to psychologism-, i.e. to the
plausible doctrine that all laws of social life must be ultimately reducible
to the psychological laws of 'human nature', is his famous epigram: 'It is
not the consciousness of man that determines his existence — rather, it is
his social existence that determines his consciousness.'- The function of
the present chapter as well as of the two following ones is mainly to
elucidate this epigram. And I may state at once that in developing what I
believe to be Marx's anti-psychologism, I am developing a view to which
I subscribe myself.

As an elementary illustration, and a first step in our examination, we
may refer to the problem of the so-called rules of exogamy, i.e. the
problem of explaining the wide distribution, among the most diverse
cultures, of marriage laws apparently designed to prevent inbreeding.
Mill and his psychologistic school of sociology (it was joined later by
many psychoanalysts) would try to explain these rules by an appeal to
'human nature', for instance to some sort of instinctive aversion against
incest (developed perhaps through natural selection, or else through
'repression'); and something like this would also be the naive or popular
explanation. Adopting the point of view expressed in Marx's epigram,
however, one could ask whether it is not the other way round, that is to
say, whether the apparent instinct is not rather a product of education, the
effect rather than the cause of the social rules and traditions demanding

exogamy and forbidding incest-. It is clear that these two approaches
correspond exactly to the very ancient problem whether social laws are
'natural' or 'conventional' (dealt with at length in chapter 5). In a
question such as the one chosen here as an illustration, it would be
difficult to determine which of the two theories is the correct one, the
explanation of the traditional social rules by instinct or the explanation of
an apparent instinct by traditional social rules. The possibility of deciding
such questions by experiment has, however, been shown in a similar case,
that of the apparently instinctive aversion to snakes. This aversion has a
greater semblance of being instinctive or 'natural' in that it is exhibited
not only by men but also by all anthropoid apes and by most monkeys as
well. But experiments seem to indicate that this fear is conventional. It
appears to be a product of education, not only in the human race but also
for instance in chimpanzees, since- both young children and young
chimpanzees who have not been taught to fear snakes do not exhibit the
alleged instinct. This example should be taken as a warning. We are faced
here with an aversion which is apparently universal, even beyond the
human race. But although from the fact that a habit is not universal we
might perhaps argue against its being based on an instinct (but even this
argument is dangerous since there are social customs enforcing the
suppression of instincts), we see that the converse is certainly not true.
The universal occurrence of a certain behaviour is not a decisive
argument in favour of its instinctive character, or of its being rooted in
'human nature'.

Such considerations may show how naive it is to assume that all social
laws must be derivable, in principle, from the psychology of 'human
nature'. But this analysis is still rather crude. In order to proceed one step
further, we may try to analyse more directly the main thesis of
psychologism, the doctrine that, society being the product of interacting
minds, social laws must ultimately be reducible to psychological laws.

since the events of social life, including its conventions, must be the
outcome of motives springing from the minds of individual men.

Against this doctrine of psychologism, the defenders of an autonomous
sociology can advance institutionalist views-. They can point out, first of
all, that no action can ever be explained by motive alone; if motives (or
any other psychological or behaviourist concepts) are to be used in the
explanation, then they must be supplemented by a reference to the
general situation, and especially to the environment. In the case of human
actions, this environment is very largely of a social nature; thus our
actions cannot be explained without reference to our social environment,
to social institutions and to their manner of functioning. It is therefore
impossible, the institutionalist may contend, to reduce sociology to a
psychological or behaviouristic analysis of our actions; rather, every such
analysis presupposes sociology, which therefore cannot wholly depend on
psychological analysis. Sociology, or at least a very important part of it,
must be autonomous.

Against this view, the followers of psychologism may retort that they
are quite ready to admit the great importance of environmental factors,
whether natural or social; but the structure (they may prefer the
fashionable word 'pattern') of the social environment, as opposed to the
natural environment, is man-made; and therefore it must be explicable in
terms of human nature, in accordance with the doctrine of psychologism.
For instance, the characteristic institution which economists call 'the
market', and whose functioning is the main object of their studies, can be
derived in the last analysis from the psychology of 'economic man', or,
to use Mill's phraseology, from the psychological 'phenomena ... of the
pursuit of wealth'-. Moreover, the followers of psychologism insist that it
is because of the peculiar psychological structure of human nature that
institutions play such an important role in our society, and that, once
established, they show a tendency to become a traditional and a

comparatively fixed part of our environment. Finally — and this is their
decisive point — the origin as well as the development of traditions must
be explicable in terms of human nature. When tracing back traditions and
institutions to their origin, we must find that their introduction is
explicable in psychological terms, since they have been introduced by
man for some purpose or other, and under the influence of certain
motives. And even if these motives have been forgotten in the course of
time, then that forgetfulness, as well as our readiness to put up with
institutions whose purpose is obscure, is in its turn based on human
nature. Thus 'all phenomena of society are phenomena of human
nature'-, as Mill said; and 'the Laws of the phenomena of society are, and
can be, nothing but the laws of the actions and passions of human beings',
that is to say, 'the laws of individual human nature. Men are not, when
brought together, converted into another kind of substance . . . '-

This last remark of Mill's exhibits one of the most praiseworthy
aspects of psychologism, namely, its sane opposition to collectivism and
holism, its refusal to be impressed by Rousseau's or Hegel's romanticism
— by a general will or a national spirit, or perhaps, by a group mind.
Psychologism is, I believe, correct only in so far as it insists upon what
may be called 'methodological individualism' as opposed to
'methodological collectivism'; it rightly insists that the 'behaviour' and
the 'actions' of collectives, such as states or social groups, must be
reduced to the behaviour and to the actions of human individuals. But the
belief that the choice of such an individualistic method implies the choice
of a psychological method is mistaken (as will be shown below in this
chapter), even though it may appear very convincing at first sight. And
that psychologism as such moves on rather dangerous ground, apart from
its commendable individualistic method, can be seen from some further
passages of Mill's argument. For they show that psychologism is forced
to adopt historicist methods. The attempt to reduce the facts of our social

environment to psychological facts forces us into speculations about
origins and developments. When analysing Plato's sociology, we had an
opportunity of gauging the dubious merits of such an approach to social
science (compare chapter 5). In criticizing Mill, we shall now try to deal
it a decisive blow.

It is undoubtedly Mill's psychologism which forces him to adopt a
historicist method; and he is even vaguely aware of the barrenness or
poverty of historicism, since he tries to account for this barrenness by
pointing out the difficulties arising from the tremendous complexity of
the interaction of so many individual minds. 'While it is ... imperative',
he says, never to introduce any generalization ... into the social
sciences until sufficient grounds can be pointed out in human nature, I do
not think any one will contend that it would have been possible, setting
out from the principle of human nature and from the general
circumstances of the position of our species, to determine a priori the
order in which human development must take place, and to predict,
consequently, the general facts of history up to the present time.'- The
reason he gives is that 'after the first few terms of the series, the
influence exercised over each generation by the generations which
preceded it becomes ... more and more preponderant over all other
influences'. (In other words, the social environment becomes a dominant
influence.) 'So long a series of actions and reactions ... could not
possibly be computed by human faculties . . . '

This argument, and especially Mill's remark on 'the first few terms of
the series', are a striking revelation of the weakness of the psychologistic
version of historicism. If all regularities in social life, the laws of our
social environment, of all institutions, etc., are ultimately to be explained
by, and reduced to, the 'actions and passions of human beings', then such
an approach forces upon us not only the idea of historico-causal
development, but also the idea of the first steps of such a development.

For the stress on the psychological origin of social rules or institutions
can only mean that they can be traced back to a state when their
introduction was dependent solely upon psychological factors, or more
precisely, when it was independent of any established social institutions.
Psychologism is thus forced, whether it likes it or not, to operate with the
idea of a beginning of society, and with the idea of a human nature and a
human psychology as they existed prior to society. In other words. Mill's
remark concerning the 'first few terms of the series' of social
development is not an accidental slip, as one might perhaps believe, but
the appropriate expression of the desperate position forced upon him. It is
a desperate position because this theory of a pre-social human nature
which explains the foundation of society — a psychologistic version of the
'social contract' — is not only an historical myth, but also, as it were, a
methodological myth. It can hardly be seriously discussed, for we have
every reason to believe that man or rather his ancestor was social prior to
being human (considering, for example, that language presupposes
society). But this implies that social institutions, and with them, typical
social regularities or sociological laws—, must have existed prior to what
some people are pleased to call 'human nature', and to human
psychology. If a reduction is to be attempted at all, it would therefore be
more hopeful to attempt a reduction or interpretation of psychology in
terms of sociology than the other way round.

This brings us back to Marx's epigram at the beginning of this chapter.
Men — i.e. human minds, the needs, the hopes, fears, and expectations, the
motives and aspirations of human individuals — are, if anything, the
product of life in society rather than its creators. It must be admitted that
the structure of our social environment is man-made in a certain sense;
that its institutions and traditions are neither the work of God nor of
nature, but the results of human actions and decisions, and alterable by
human actions and decisions. But this does not mean that they are all

consciously designed, and explicable in terms of needs, hopes, or
motives. On the contrary, even those which arise as the result of
conscious and intentional human actions are, as a rule, the indirect, the
unintended and often the unwanted by-products of such actions. 'Only a
minority of social institutions are consciously designed, while the vast
majority have just "grown", as the undesigned results of human actions',
as I have said before—; and we can add that even most of the few
institutions which were consciously and successfully designed (say, a
newly founded University, or a trade union) do not turn out according to
plan — again because of the unintended social repercussions resulting
from their intentional creation. For their creation affects not only many
other social institutions but also 'human nature' — hopes, fears, and
ambitions, first of those more immediately involved, and later often of all
members of the society. One of the consequences of this is that the moral
values of a society — the demands and proposals recognized by all, or by
very nearly all, of its members — are closely bound up with its institutions
and traditions, and that they cannot survive the destruction of the
institutions and traditions of a society (as indicated in chapter 9 when we
discussed the 'canvas-cleaning' of the radical revolutionary).

All this holds most emphatically for the more ancient periods of social
development, i.e. for the closed society, in which the conscious design of
institutions is a most exceptional event, if it happens at all. To-day,
things may begin to be different, owing to our slowly increasing
knowledge of society, i.e. owing to the study of the unintended
repercussions of our plans and actions; and one day, men may even
become the conscious creators of an open society, and thereby of a
greater part of their own fate. (Marx entertained this hope, as will be
shown in the next chapter.) But all this is partly a matter of degree, and
although we may learn to foresee many of the unintended consequences
of our actions (the main aim of all social technology), there will always

be many which we did not foresee.

The fact that psychologism is forced to operate with the idea of a
psychological origin of society constitutes in my opinion a decisive
argument against it. But it is not the only one. Perhaps the most important
criticism of psychologism is that it fails to understand the main task of
the explanatory social sciences.

This task is not, as the historicist believes, the prophecy of the future
course of history. It is, rather, the discovery and explanation of the less
obvious dependences within the social sphere. It is the discovery of the
difficulties which stand in the way of social action — the study, as it were,
of the unwieldiness, the resilience or the brittleness of the social stuff, of
its resistance to our attempts to mould it and to work with it.

In order to make my point clear, I shall briefly describe a theory which
is widely held but which assumes what I consider the very opposite of the
true aim of the social sciences; I call it the 'conspiracy theory of society'.
It is the view that an explanation of a social phenomenon consists in the
discovery of the men or groups who are interested in the occurrence of
this phenomenon (sometimes it is a hidden interest which has first to be
revealed), and who have planned and conspired to bring it about.

This view of the aims of the social sciences arises, of course, from the
mistaken theory that, whatever happens in society — especially
happenings such as war, unemployment, poverty, shortages, which people
as a rule dislike — is the result of direct design by some powerful
individuals and groups. This theory is widely held; it is older even than
historicism (which, as shown by its primitive theistic form, is a
derivative of the conspiracy theory). In its modern forms it is, like
modem historicism, and a certain modem attitude towards 'natural laws',
a typical result of the secularization of a religious superstition. The belief
in the Homeric gods whose conspiracies explain the history of the Trojan
War is gone. The gods are abandoned. But their place is filled by

powerful men or groups — sinister pressure groups whose wickedness is
responsible for all the evils we suffer from — such as the Learned Elders
of Zion, or the monopolists, or the capitalists, or the imperialists.

I do not wish to imply that conspiracies never happen. On the contrary,
they are typical social phenomena. They become important, for example,
whenever people who believe in the conspiracy theory get into power.
And people who sincerely believe that they know how to make heaven on
earth are most likely to adopt the conspiracy theory, and to get involved
in a counter-conspiracy against non-existing conspirators. For the only
explanation of their failure to produce their heaven is the evil intention of
the Devil, who has a vested interest in hell.

Conspiracies occur, it must be admitted. But the striking fact which, in
spite of their occurrence, disproves the conspiracy theory is that few of
these conspiracies are ultimately successful. Conspirators rarely
consummate their conspiracy.

Why is this so? Why do achievements differ so widely from
aspirations? Because this is usually the case in social life, conspiracy or
no conspiracy. Social life is not only a trial of strength between opposing
groups: it is action within a more or less resilient or brittle framework of
institutions and traditions, and it creates — apart from any conscious
counter- act ion — many unforeseen reactions in this framework, some of
them perhaps even unforeseeable.

To try to analyse these reactions and to foresee them as far as possible
is, I believe, the main task of the social sciences. It is the task of
analysing the unintended social repercussions of intentional human
actions — those repercussions whose significance is neglected both by the
conspiracy theory and by psychologism, as already indicated. An action
which proceeds precisely according to intention does not create a
problem for social science (except that there may be a need to explain
why in this particular case no unintended repercussions occurred). One of

the most primitive economic actions may serve as an example in order to
make the idea of unintended consequences of our actions quite clear. If a
man wishes urgently to buy a house, we can safely assume that he does
not wish to raise the market price of houses. But the very fact that he
appears on the market as a buyer will tend to raise market prices. And
analogous remarks hold for the seller. Or to take an example from a very
different field, if a man decides to insure his life, he is unlikely to have
the intention of encouraging some people to invest their money in
insurance shares. But he will do so nevertheless. We see here clearly that
not all consequences of our actions are intended consequences; and
accordingly, that the conspiracy theory of society cannot be true because
it amounts to the assertion that all results, even those which at first sight
do not seem to be intended by anybody, are the intended results of the
actions of people who are interested in these results.

The examples given do not refute psychologism as easily as they refute
the conspiracy theory, for one can argue that it is the sellers' knowledge
of a buyer's presence in the market, and their hope of getting a higher
price — in other words, psychological factors — ^which explain the
repercussions described. This, of course, is quite true; but we must not
forget that this knowledge and this hope are not ultimate data of human
nature, and that they are, in their turn, explicable in terms of the social
situation — ^the market situation.

This social situation is hardly reducible to motives and to the general
laws of 'human nature'. Indeed, the interference of certain 'traits of
human nature', such as our susceptibility to propaganda, may sometimes
lead to deviations from the economic behaviour just mentioned.
Furthermore, if the social situation is different from the one envisaged,
then it is possible that the consumer, by the action of buying, may
indirectly contribute to a cheapening of the article; for instance, by
making its mass-production more profitable. And although this effect

happens to further his interest as a consumer, it may have been caused
just as involuntarily as the opposite effect, and altogether under precisely
similar psychological conditions. It seems clear that the social situations
which may lead to such widely different unwanted or unintended
repercussions must be studied by a social science which is not bound to
the prejudice that 'it is imperative never to introduce any generalization
into the social sciences until sufficient grounds can be pointed out in
human nature', as Mill said—. They must be studied by an autonomous
social science.

Continuing this argument against psychologism we may say that our
actions are to a very large extent explicable in terms of the situation in
which they occur. Of course, they are never fully explicable in terms of
the situation alone; an explanation of the way in which a man, when
crossing a street, dodges the cars which move on it may go beyond the
situation, and may refer his motives, to an 'instinct' of self-preservation,
or to his wish to avoid pain, etc. But this 'psychological' part of the
explanation is very often trivial, as compared with the detailed
determination of his action by what we may call the logic of the situation',
and besides, it is impossible to include all psychological factors in the
description of the situation. The analysis of situations, the situational
logic, plays a very important part in social life as well as in the social
sciences. It is, in fact, the method of economic analysis. As to an example
outside economics, I refer to the 'logic of power'—, which we may use in
order to explain the moves of power politics as well as the working of
certain political institutions. The method of applying a situational logic
to the social sciences is not based on any psychological assumption
concerning the rationality (or otherwise) of 'human nature'. On the
contrary: when we speak of 'rational behaviour' or of 'irrational
behaviour' then we mean behaviour which is, or which is not, in
accordance with the logic of that situation. In fact, the psychological

analysis of an action in terms of its (rational or irrational) motives
presupposes — as has been pointed out by Max Weber — that we have
previously developed some standard of what is to be considered as
rational in the situation in question.

My arguments against psychologism should not be misunderstood—.
They are not, of course, intended to show that psychological studies and
discoveries are of little importance for the social scientist. They mean,
rather, that psychology — the psychology of the individual — is one of the
social sciences, even though it is not the basis of all social science.
Nobody would deny the importance for political science of psychological
facts such as the craving for power, and the various neurotic phenomena
connected with it. But 'craving for power' is undoubtedly a social notion
as well as a psychological one: we must not forget that, if we study, for
example, the first appearance in childhood of this craving, then we study
it in the setting of a certain social institution, for example, that of our
modern family. (The Eskimo family may give rise to rather different
phenomena.) Another psychological fact which is significant for
sociology, and which raises grave political and institutional problems, is
that to live in the haven of a tribe, or of a 'community' approaching a
tribe, is for many men an emotional necessity (especially for young
people who, perhaps in accordance with a parallelism between
ontogenetic and phylogenetic development, seem to have to pass through
a tribal or 'American-Indian' stage). That my attack on psychologism is
not intended as an attack on all psychological considerations may be seen
from the use I have made (in chapter 10) of such a concept as the 'strain
of civilization' which is partly the result of this unsatisfied emotional
need. This concept refers to certain feelings of uneasiness, and is
therefore a psychological concept. But at the same time, it is a
sociological concept also; for it characterizes these feelings not only as
unpleasant and unsettling, etc., but relates them to a certain social

situation, and to the contrast between an open and a closed society.
(Many psychological concepts such as ambition or love have an
analogous status.) Also, we must not overlook the great merits which
psychologism has acquired by advocating a methodological
individualism and by opposing a methodological collectivism; for it
lends support to the important doctrine that all social phenomena, and
especially the functioning of all social institutions, should always be
understood as resulting from the decisions, actions, attitudes, etc., of
human individuals, and that we should never be satisfied by an
explanation in terms of so-called 'collectives' (states, nations, races,
etc.). The mistake of psychologism is its presumption that this
methodological individualism in the field of social science implies the
programme of reducing all social phenomena and all social regularities to
psychological phenomena and psychological laws. The danger of this
presumption is its inclination towards historicism, as we have seen. That
it is unwarranted is shown by the need for a theory of the unintended
social repercussions of our actions, and by the need for what I have
described as the logic of social situations.

In defending and developing Marx's view that the problems of society
are irreducible to those of 'human nature', I have permitted myself to go
beyond the arguments actually propounded by Marx. Marx did not speak
of 'psychologism', nor did he criticize it systematically; nor was it Mill
whom he had in mind in the epigram quoted at the beginning of this
chapter. The force of this epigram is directed, rather, against 'idealism',
in its Hegelian form. Yet so far as the problem of the psychological
nature of society is concerned. Mill's psychologism can be said to
coincide with the idealist theory combated by Marx—. As it happened,
however, it was just the influence of another element in Hegelianism,
namely Hegel's Platonizing collectivism, his theory that the state and the
nation is more 'real' than the individual who owes everything to them.

that led Marx to the view expounded in this chapter. (An instance of the
fact that one can sometimes extract a valuable suggestion even from an
absurd philosophical theory.) Thus, historically, Marx developed certain
of Hegel's views concerning the superiority of society over the
individual, and used them as arguments against other views of Hegel. Yet
since I consider Mill a worthier opponent than Hegel, I have not kept to
the history of Marx's ideas, but have tried to develop them in the form of
an argument against Mill.

Economic Historicism

To see Marx presented in this way, that is to say, as an opponent of any
psychological theory of society, may possibly surprise some Marxists as
well as some anti-Marxists. For there seem to be many who believe in a
very different story. Marx, they think, taught the all-pervading influence
of the economic motive in the life of men; he succeeded in explaining its
overpowering strength by showing that 'man's overmastering need was to
get the means of living'-; he thus demonstrated the fundamental
importance of such categories as the profit motive or the motive of class
interest for the actions not only of individuals but also of social groups;
and he showed how to use these categories for explaining the course of
history. Indeed, they think that the very essence of Marxism is the
doctrine that economic motives and especially class interest are the
driving forces of history, and that it is precisely this doctrine to which the
name 'materialistic interpretation of history' or 'historical materialism'
alludes, a name by which Marx and Engels tried to characterize the
essence of their teaching.

Such opinions are very common; but I have no doubt that they
misinterpret Marx. Those who admire him for having held them, I may
call Vulgar Marxists (alluding to the name 'Vulgar Economist' given by
Marx to certain of his opponents-). The average Vulgar Marxist believes
that Marxism lays bare the sinister secrets of social life by revealing the
hidden motives of greed and lust for material gain which actuate the

powers behind the scenes of history; powers that cunningly and
consciously create war, depression, unemployment, hunger in the midst
of plenty, and all the other forms of social misery, in order to gratify their
vile desires for profit. (And the Vulgar Marxist is sometimes seriously
concerned with the problem of reconciling the claims of Marx with those
of Freud and Adler; and if he does not choose the one or the other of
them, he may perhaps decide that hunger, love and lust for power- are the
Three Great Hidden Motives of Human Nature brought to light by Marx,
Freud, and Adler, the Three Great Makers of the modern man's
philosophy. ...)

Whether or not such views are tenable and attractive, they certainly
seem to have very little to do with the doctrine which Marx called
'historical materialism'. It must be admitted that he sometimes speaks of
such psychological phenomena as greed and the profit motive, etc., but
never in order to explain history. He interpreted them, rather, as
symptoms of the corrupting influence of the social system, i.e. of a
system of institutions developed during the course of history; as effects
rather than causes of corruption; as repercussions rather than moving
forces of history. Rightly or wrongly, he saw in such phenomena as war,
depression, unemployment, and hunger in the midst of plenty, not the
result of a cunning conspiracy on the part of 'big business' or of
'imperialist war-mongers', but the unwanted social consequences of
actions, directed towards different results, by agents who are caught in
the network of the social system. He looked upon the human actors on the
stage of history, including the 'big' ones, as mere puppets, irresistibly
pulled by economic wires — by historical forces over which they have no
control. The stage of history, he taught, is set in a social system which
binds us all; it is set in the 'kingdom of necessity'. (But one day the
puppets will destroy this system and attain the 'kingdom of freedom'.)

This doctrine of Marx's has been abandoned by most of his followers

— perhaps for propagandist reasons, perhaps because they did not
understand him — and a Vulgar Marxist Conspiracy Theory has very
largely replaced the ingenious and highly original Marxian doctrine. It is
a sad intellectual come-down, this come-down from the level of Capital
to that of The Myth of the 20th Century.

Yet such was Marx's own philosophy of history, usually called
'historical materialism'. It will be the main theme of these chapters. In
the present chapter, I shall explain in broad outlines its 'materialist' or
economic emphasis; after that, I shall discuss in more detail the role of
class war and class interest and the Marxist conception of a 'social
system'.

The exposition of Marx's economic historicism- can be conveniently
linked up with our comparison between Marx and Mill. Marx agrees with
Mill in the belief that social phenomena must be explained historically,
and that we must try to understand any historical period as a historical
product of previous developments. The point where he departs from Mill
is, as we have seen. Mill's psychologism (corresponding to Hegel's
idealism). This is replaced in Marx's teaching by what he calls
materialism.

Much has been said about Marx's materialism that is quite untenable.
The often repeated claim that Marx does not recognize anything beyond
the 'lower' or 'material' aspects of human life is an especially ridiculous
distortion. (It is another repetition of that most ancient of all reactionary
libels against the defenders of freedom, Heraclitus' slogan that 'they fill
their bellies like the beasts'-.) But in this sense, Marx cannot be called a

materialist at all, even though he was strongly influenced by the
eighteenth- century French Materialists, and even though he used to call
himself a materialist, which is well in keeping with a good number of his
doctrines. For there are some important passages which can hardly be
interpreted as materialistic. The truth is, I think, that he was not much
concerned with purely philosophical issues — less than Engels or Lenin,
for instance — and that it was mainly the sociological and methodological
side of the problem in which he was interested.

There is a well-known passage in Capital-, where Marx says that 'in
Hegel's writing, dialectics stands on its head; one must turn it the right
way up again Its tendency is clear. Marx wished to show that the
'head', i.e. human thought, is not itself the basis of human life but rather
a kind of superstructure, on a physical basis. A similar tendency is
expressed in the passage: 'The ideal is nothing other than the material
when it has been transposed and translated inside the human head. ' But it
has not, perhaps, been sufficiently recognized that these passages do not
exhibit a radical form of materialism; rather, they indicate a certain
leaning towards a dualism of body and mind. It is, so to speak, a practical
dualism. Although, theoretically, mind was to Marx apparently only
another form (or another aspect, or perhaps an epi-phenomenon) of
matter, in practice it is different from matter, since it is another form of
it. The passages quoted indicate that although our feet have to be kept, as
it were, on the firm ground of the material world, our heads — and Marx
thought highly of human heads — are concerned with thoughts or ideas. In
my opinion, Marxism and its influence cannot be appreciated unless we
recognize this dualism.

Marx loved freedom, real freedom (not Hegel's 'real freedom'). And
as far as I am able to see he followed Hegel's famous equation of
freedom with spirit, in so far as he believed that we can be free only as
spiritual beings. At the same time he recognized in practice (as a

practical dualist) that we are spirit and flesh, and, realistically enough,
that the flesh is the fundamental one of these two. This is why he turned
against Hegel, and why he said that Hegel puts things upside down. But
although he recognized that the material world and its necessities are
fundamental, he did not feel any love for the 'kingdom of necessity', as
he called a society which is in bondage to its material needs. He
cherished the spiritual world, the 'kingdom of freedom', and the spiritual
side of 'human nature', as much as any Christian dualist; and in his
writings there are even traces of hatred and contempt for the material.
What follows may show that this interpretation of Marx's views can be
supported by his own text.

In a passage of the third volume of Capital-, Marx very aptly describes
the material side of social life, and especially its economic side, that of
production and consumption, as an extension of human metabolism, i.e.
of man's exchange of matter with nature. He clearly states that our
freedom must always be limited by the necessities of this metabolism.
All that can be achieved in the direction of making us more free, he says,
is 'to conduct this metabolism rationally, . . . with a minimum expenditure
of energy and under conditions most dignified and adequate to human
nature. Yet it will still remain the kingdom of necessity. Only outside and
beyond it can that development of human faculties begin which
constitutes an end in itself — the true kingdom of freedom. But this can
flourish only on the ground occupied by the kingdom of necessity, which
remains its basis ...' Immediately before this, Marx says: 'The kingdom
of freedom actually begins only where drudgery, enforced by hardship
and by external purposes, ends; it thus lies, quite naturally, beyond the
sphere of proper material production. ' And he ends the whole passage by
drawing a practical conclusion which clearly shows that it was his sole
aim to open the way into that non-materialist kingdom of freedom for all
men alike: 'The shortening of the labour day is the fundamental pre-

requisite.'

In my opinion this passage leaves no doubt regarding what I have
called the dualism of Marx's practical view of life. With Hegel he thinks
that freedom is the aim of historical development. With Hegel he
identifies the realm of freedom with that of man's mental life. But he
recognizes that we are not purely spiritual beings; that we are not fully
free, nor capable of ever achieving full freedom, unable as we shall
always be to emancipate ourselves entirely from the necessities of our
metabolism, and thus from productive toil. All we can achieve is to
improve upon the exhausting and undignified conditions of labour, to
make them more worthy of man, to equalize them, and to reduce
drudgery to such an extent that all of us can be free for some part of our
lives. This, I believe, is the central idea of Marx's 'view of life'; central
also in so far as it seems to me to be the most influential of his doctrines.

With this view, we must now combine the methodological determinism
which has been discussed above (in chapter 13). According to this
doctrine, the scientific treatment of society, and scientific historical
prediction, are possible only in so far as society is determined by its past.
But this implies that science can deal only with the kingdom of necessity.
If it were possible for men ever to become perfectly free, then historical
prophecy, and with it, social science, would come to an end. 'Free'
spiritual activity as such, if it existed, would lie beyond the reach of
science, which must always ask for causes, for determinants. It can
therefore deal with our mental life only in so far as our thoughts and
ideas are caused or determined or necessitated by the 'kingdom of
necessity', by the material, and especially by the economic conditions of
our life, by our metabolism. Thoughts and ideas can be treated
scientifically only by considering, on the one hand, the material
conditions under which they originated, i.e. the economic conditions of
the life of the men who originated them, and on the other hand, the

material conditions under which they were assimilated, i.e. the economic
conditions of the men who adopted them. Hence from the scientific or
causal point of view, thoughts and ideas must be treated as 'ideological
superstructures on the basis of economic conditions'. Marx, in opposition
to Hegel, contended that the clue to history, even to the history of ideas,
is to be found in the development of the relations between man and his
natural environment, the material world; that is to say, in his economic
life, and not in his spiritual life. This is why we may describe Marx's
brand of historicism as economism, as opposed to Hegel's idealism or to
Mill's psychologism. But it signifies a complete misunderstanding if we
identify Marx's economism with that kind of materialism which implies
a depreciatory attitude towards man's mental life. Marx's vision of the
'kingdom of freedom', i.e. of a partial but equitable liberation of men
from the bondage of their material nature, might rather be described as
idealistic.

Considered in this way, the Marxist view of life appears to be
consistent enough; and I believe that such apparent contradictions and
difficulties as have been found in its partly determinist and partly
libertarian view of human activities disappear.

The bearing of what I have called Marx's dualism and his scientific
determinism on his view of history is plain. Scientific history, which to
him is identical with social science as a whole, must explore the laws
according to which man's exchange of matter with nature develops. Its
central task must be the explanation of the development of the conditions
of production. Social relationships have historical and scientific

significance only in proportion to the degree in which they are bound up
with the productive process — affecting it, or perhaps affected by it. 'Just
as the savage must wrestle with nature in order to satisfy his needs, to
keep alive, and to reproduce, so must the civilized man; and he must
continue to do so in all forms of society and under all possible forms of
production. This kingdom of necessity expands with its development, and
so does the range of human needs. Yet at the same time, there is an
expansion of the productive forces which satisfy these needs.'- This, in
brief, is Marx's view of man's history.

Similar views are expressed by Engels. The expansion of modern
means of production, according to Engels, has created 'for the first time
... the possibility of securing for every member of society ... an
existence not only . . . sufficient from a material point of view, but also . . .
warranting the . . . development and exercise of his physical and mental
faculties'-. With this, freedom becomes possible, i.e. the emancipation
from the flesh. 'At this point ... man finally cuts himself off from the
animal world, leaves ... animal existence behind him and enters
conditions which are really human.' Man is in fetters exactly in so far as
he is dominated by economics; when 'the domination of the product over
producers disappears man ... becomes, for the first time, the
conscious and real master of nature, by becoming master of his own
social environment ... Not until then will man himself, in full
consciousness, make his own history ... It is humanity's leap from the
realm of necessity into the realm of freedom.'

If now again we compare Marx's version of historicism with that of
Mill, then we find that Marx's economism can easily solve the difficulty
which I have shown to be fatal to Mill's psychologism. I have in mind the
rather monstrous doctrine of a beginning of society which can be
explained in psychological terms — a doctrine which I have described as
the psychologistic version of the social contract. This idea has no parallel

in Marx's theory. To replace the priority of psychology by the priority of
economics creates no analogous difficulty, since 'economics' covers
man's metabolism, the exchange of matter between man and nature.
Whether this metabolism has always been socially organized, even in
pre-human times, or whether it was once dependent solely on the
individual, can be left an open question. No more is assumed than that the
science of society must coincide with the history of the development of
the economic conditions of society, usually called by Marx 'the
conditions of production' .

It may be noted, in parentheses, that the Marxist term 'production' was
certainly intended to be used in a wide sense, covering the whole
economic process, including distribution and consumption. But these
latter never received much attention from Marx and the Marxists. Their
prevailing interest remained production in the narrow sense of the word.
This is just another example of the naive historico-genetic attitude, of the
belief that science must only ask for causes, so that, even in the realm of
man-made things, it must ask 'Who has made it?' and 'What is it made
of?' rather than 'Who is going to use it?' and 'What is it made for?'

Ill

If we now proceed to a criticism as well as to an appreciation of Marx's
'historical materialism', or of so much of it as has been presented so far,
then we may distinguish two different aspects. The first is historicism,
the claim that the realm of social sciences coincides with that of the
historical or evolutionary method, and especially with historical
prophecy. This claim, I think, must be dismissed. The second is
economism (or 'materialism'), i.e. the claim that the economic

organization of society, the organization of our exchange of matter with
nature, is fundamental for all social institutions and especially for their
historical development. This claim, I believe, is perfectly sound, so long
as we take the term 'fundamental' in an ordinary vague sense, not laying
too much stress upon it. In other words, there can be no doubt that
practically all social studies, whether institutional or historical, may
profit if they are carried out with an eye to the 'economic conditions' of
society. Even the history of an abstract science such as mathematics is no
exception—. In this sense, Marx's economism can be said to represent an
extremely valuable advance in the methods of social science.

But, as I said before, we must not take the term 'fundamental' too
seriously. Marx himself undoubtedly did so. Owing to his Hegelian
upbringing, he was influenced by the ancient distinction between 'reality'
and 'appearance', and by the corresponding distinction between what is
'essential' and what is 'accidental'. His own improvement upon Hegel
(and Kant) he was inclined to see in the identification of 'reality' with the
material world— (including man's metabolism), and of 'appearance' with
the world of thoughts or ideas. Thus all thoughts and ideas would have to
be explained by reducing them to the underlying essential reality, i.e. to
economic conditions. This philosophical view is certainly not much
better— than any other form of essentialism. And its repercussions in the
field of method must result in an over-emphasis upon economism. For
although the general importance of Marx's economism can hardly be
overrated, it is very easy to overrate the importance of the economic
conditions in any particular case. Some knowledge of economic
conditions may contribute considerably, for example, to a history of the
problems of mathematics, but a knowledge of the problems of
mathematics themselves is much more important for that purpose; and it
is even possible to write a very good history of mathematical problems
without referring at all to their 'economic background'. (In my opinion.

the 'economic conditions' or the 'social relations' of science are themes
which can easily be overdone, and which are liable to degenerate into
platitude.)

This, however, is only a minor example of the danger of over- stressing
economism. Often it is sweepingly interpreted as the doctrine that all
social development depends upon that of economic conditions, and
especially upon the development of the physical means of production.
But such a doctrine is palpably false. There is an interaction between
economic conditions and ideas, and not simply a unilateral dependence of
the latter on the former. If anything, we might even assert that certain
'ideas', those which constitute our knowledge, are more fundamental than
the more complex material means of production, as may be seen from the
following consideration. Imagine that our economic system, including all
machinery and all social organizations, was destroyed one day, but that
technical and scientific knowledge was preserved. In such a case it might
conceivably not take very long before it was reconstructed (on a smaller
scale, and after many had starved). But imagine all knowledge of these
matters to disappear, while the material things were preserved. This
would be tantamount to what would happen if a savage tribe occupied a
highly industrialized but deserted country. It would soon lead to the
complete disappearance of all the material relics of civilization.

It is ironical that the history of Marxism itself furnishes an example
that clearly falsifies this exaggerated economism. Marx's idea 'Workers
of all countries, unite!' was of the greatest significance down to the eve
of the Russian Revolution, and it had its influence upon economic
conditions. But with the revolution, the situation became very difficult,
simply because, as Lenin himself admitted, there were no further
constructive ideas. (See chapter 13 .) Then Lenin had some new ideas
which may be briefly summarized in the slogan: 'Socialism is the
dictatorship of the proletariat, plus the widest introduction of the most

modern electrical machinery.' It was this new idea that became the basis
of a development which changed the whole economic and material
background of one- sixth of the world. In a fight against tremendous odds,
uncounted material difficulties were overcome, uncounted material
sacrifices were made, in order to alter, or rather, to build up from
nothing, the conditions of production. And the driving power of this
development was the enthusiasm for an idea. This example shows that in
certain circumstances, ideas may revolutionize the economic conditions
of a country, instead of being moulded by these conditions. Using Marx's
terminology, we could say that he had underrated the power of the
kingdom of freedom and its chances of conquering the kingdom of
necessity.

The glaring contrast between the development of the Russian
Revolution and Marx's metaphysical theory of an economic reality and
its ideological appearance can best be seen from the following passages:
'In considering such revolutions', Marx writes, 'it is necessary always to
distinguish between the material revolution in the economic conditions of
production, which fall within the scope of exact scientific determination,
and the juridical, political, religious, aesthetic, or philosophic — in a word,
ideological forms of appearance . . .'— In Marx's view, it is vain to expect
that any important change can be achieved by the use of legal or political
means; a political revolution can only lead to one set of rulers giving way
to another set — a mere exchange of the persons who act as rulers. Only
the evolution of the underlying essence, the economic reality, can
produce any essential or real change — a social revolution. And only when
such a social revolution has become a reality, only then can a political
revolution be of any significance. But even in this case, the political
revolution is only the outward expression of the essential or real change
that has occurred before. In accordance with this theory, Marx asserts that
every social revolution develops in the following way. The material

conditions of production grow and mature until they begin to conflict
with the social and legal relations, outgrowing them like clothes, until
they burst. 'Then an epoch of social revolution opens', Marx writes.
'With the change in the economic foundation, the whole vast super-
structure is more or less rapidly transformed ... New, more highly
productive relationships' (within the superstructure) 'never come into
being before the material conditions for their existence have been brought
to maturity within the womb of the old society itself.' In view of this
statement, it is, I believe, impossible to identify the Russian Revolution
with the social revolution prophesied by Marx; it has, in fact, no
similarity with it whatever—.

It may be noted in this connection that Marx's friend, the poet H.
Heine, thought very differently about these matters. 'Mark this, ye proud
men of action', he writes; 'ye are nothing but unconscious instruments of
the men of thought who, often in humblest seclusion, have appointed you
to your inevitable task. Maximilian Robespierre was merely the hand of
Jean- Jacques Rousseau ...'— (Something like this might perhaps be said
of the relationship between Lenin and Marx.) We see that Heine was, in
Marx's terminology, an idealist, and that he applied his idealistic
interpretation of history to the French Revolution, which was one of the
most important instances used by Marx in favour of his economism, and
which indeed seemed to fit this doctrine not so badly — especially if we
compare it now with the Russian Revolution. Yet in spite of this heresy,
Heine remained Marx's friend—; for in those happy days,
excommunication for heresy was still rather uncommon among those who
fought for the open society, and tolerance was still tolerated.

My criticism of Marx's 'historical materialism' must certainly not be
interpreted as expressing any preference for Hegelian 'idealism' over
Marx's 'materialism'; I hope I have made it clear that in this conflict
between idealism and materialism my sympathies are with Marx. What I

wish to show is that Marx's 'materialist interpretation of history',
valuable as it may be, must not be taken too seriously; that we must
regard it as nothing more than a most valuable suggestion to us to
consider things in their relation to their economic background.

The Classes

An important place among the various formulations of Marx's 'historical
materialism' is occupied by his (and Engels') statement: 'The history of
all hitherto existing society is a history of class struggle.'- The tendency
of this statement is clear. It implies that history is propelled and the fate
of man determined by the war of classes and not by the war of nations (as
opposed to the views of Hegel and of the majority of historians). In the
causal explanation of historical developments, including national wars,
class interest must take the place of that allegedly national interest which,
in reality, is only the interest of a nation's ruling class. But over and
above this, class struggle and class interest are capable of explaining
phenomena which traditional history may in general not even attempt to
explain. An example of such a phenomenon which is of great significance
for Marxist theory is the historical trend towards increasing productivity.
Even though it may perhaps record such a trend, traditional history, with
its fundamental category of military power, is quite unable to explain this
phenomenon. Class interest and class war, however, can explain it fully,
according to Marx; indeed, a considerable part of Capital is devoted to
the analysis of the mechanism by which, within the period called by Marx
'capitalism', an increase in productivity is brought about by these forces.

How is the doctrine of class war related to the institutionalist doctrine
of the autonomy of sociology discussed above-? At first sight it may
seem that these two doctrines are in open conflict, for in the doctrine of

class war, a fundamental part is played by class interest, which apparently
is a kind of motive. But I do not think that there is any serious
inconsistency in this part of Marx's theory. And I should even say that
nobody has understood Marx, and particularly that major achievement of
his, anti-psychologism, who does not see how it can be reconciled with
the theory of class struggle. We need not assume, as Vulgar Marxists do,
that class interest must be interpreted psychologically. There may be a
few passages in Marx's own writings that savour a little of this Vulgar
Marxism, but wherever he makes serious use of anything like class
interest, he always means a thing within the realm of autonomous
sociology, and not a psychological category. He means a thing, a
situation, and not a state of mind, a thought, or a feeling of being
interested in a thing. It is simply that thing or that social institution or
situation which is advantageous to a class. The interest of a class is
simply everything that furthers its power or its prosperity.

According to Marx, class interest in this institutional, or, if we may say
so, 'objective', sense exerts a decisive influence on human minds. Using
Hegelian jargon, we might say that the objective interest of a class
becomes conscious in the subjective minds of its members; it makes
them class-interested and class-conscious, and it makes them act
accordingly. Class interest as an institutional or objective social situation,
and its influence upon human minds, is described by Marx in the epigram
which I have quoted (at the beginning of chapter 14): 'It is not the
consciousness of man that determines his existence — ^rather, it is his
social existence that determines his consciousness.' To this epigram we
need add only the remark that it is, more precisely, the place where man
stands in society, his class situation, by which, according to Marxism, his
consciousness is determined.

Marx gives some indication of how this process of determination
works. As we learned from him in the last chapter, we can be free only in

so far as we emancipate ourselves from the productive process. But now
we shall learn that, in any hitherto existing society, we were not free even
to that extent. For how could we, he asks, emancipate ourselves from the
productive process? Only by making others do the dirty work for us. We
are thus forced to use them as means for our ends; we must degrade them.
We can buy a greater degree of freedom only at the cost of enslaving
other men, by splitting mankind into classes', the ruling class gains
freedom at the cost of the ruled class, the slaves. But this fact has the
consequence that the members of the ruling class must pay for their
freedom by a new kind of bondage. They are bound to oppress and to
fight the ruled, if they wish to preserve their own freedom and their own
status; they are compelled to do this, since he who does not do so ceases
to belong to the ruling class. Thus the rulers are determined by their class
situation; they cannot escape from their social relation to the ruled; they
are bound to them, since they are bound to the social metabolism. Thus
all, rulers as well as ruled, are caught in the net, and forced to fight one
another. According to Marx, it is this bondage, this determination, which
brings their struggle within the reach of scientific method, and of
scientific historical prophecy; which makes it possible to treat the history
of society scientifically, as the history of class struggle. This social net in
which the classes are caught, and forced to struggle against one another,
is what Marxism calls the economic structure of society, or the social
system.

According to this theory, social systems or class systems change with
the conditions of production, since on these conditions depends the way
in which the rulers can exploit and fight the ruled. To every particular
period of economic development corresponds a particular social system,
and a historical period is best characterized by its social system of
classes; this is why we speak of 'feudalism', 'capitalism', etc. 'The hand-
mill', Marx writes-, 'gives you a society with the feudal lord; the steam-

mill gives you a society with the industrial capitalist.' The class relations
that characterize the social system are independent of the individual
man's will. The social system thus resembles a vast machine in which the
individuals are caught and crushed. 'In the social production of their
means of existence', Marx writes-, 'men enter into definite and
unavoidable relations which are independent of their will. These
productive relationships correspond to the particular stage in the
development of their material productive forces. The system of all these
productive relationships constitutes the economic structure of society',
i.e. the social system.

Although it has a kind of logic of its own, this social system works
blindly, not reasonably. Those who are caught in its machinery are, in
general, blind too — or nearly so. They cannot even foresee some of the
most important repercussions of their actions. One man may make it
impossible for many to procure an article which is available in large
quantities; he may buy just a trifle and thereby prevent a slight decrease
of price at a critical moment. Another may in the goodness of his heart
distribute his riches, but by thus contributing to a lessening of the class
struggle, he may cause a delay in the liberation of the oppressed. Since it
is quite impossible to foresee the more remote social repercussions of our
actions, since we are one and all caught in the network, we cannot
seriously attempt to cope with it. We obviously cannot influence it from
outside; but blind as we are, we cannot even make any plan for its
improvement from within. Social engineering is impossible, and a social
technology therefore useless. We cannot impose our interests upon the
social system; instead, the system forces upon us what we are led to
believe to be our interests. It does so by forcing us to act in accordance
with our class interest. It is vain to lay on the individual, even on the
individual 'capitalist' or 'bourgeois', the blame for the injustice, for the
immorality of social conditions, since it is this very system of conditions

that forces the capitalist to act as he does. And it is also vain to hope that
circumstances may be improved by improving men; rather, men will be
better if the system in which they live is better. 'Only in so far', Marx
writes in Capital-, 'as the capitalist is personified capital does he play a
historical role ... But exactly to that extent, his motive is not to obtain
and to enjoy useful commodities, but to increase the production of
commodities for exchange' (his real historical task). 'Fanatically bent
upon the expansion of value, he ruthlessly drives human beings to
produce for production's sake . . . With the miser, he shares the passion
for wealth. But what is a kind of mania in the miser is in the capitalist the
effect of the social mechanism in which he is only a driving-wheel ...
Capitalism subjects any individual capitalist to the immanent laws of
capitalist production, laws which are external and coercive. Without
respite, competition forces him to extend his capital for the sake of
maintaining it.'

This is the way in which, according to Marx, the social system
determines the actions of the individual; the ruler as well as the ruled;
capitalist or bourgeois as well as proletarian. It is an illustration of what
has been called above the 'logic of a social situation'. To a considerable
degree, all the actions of a capitalist are 'a mere function of the capital
which, through his instrumentality, is endowed with will and
consciousness', as Marx puts it-, in his Hegelian style. But this means
that the social system determines their thoughts too; for thoughts, or
ideas, are partly instruments of actions, and partly — that is, if they are
publicly expressed — an important kind of social action; for in this case,
they are immediately aimed at influencing the actions of other members
of the society. By thus determining human thoughts, the social system,
and especially the 'objective interest' of a class, becomes conscious in
the subjective minds of its members (as we said before in Hegelian
jargon-). Class struggle, as well as competition between the members of

the same class, are the means by which this is achieved.

We have seen why, according to Marx, social engineering, and
consequently, a social technology, are impossible; it is because the causal
chain of dependence binds us to the social system, and not vice versa. But
although we cannot alter the social system at will-, capitalists as well as
workers are bound to contribute to its transformation, and to our ultimate
liberation from its fetters. By driving 'human beings to produce for
production's sake'-, the capitalist coerces them 'to develop the forces of
social productivity, and to create those material conditions of production
which alone can form the material bases of a higher type of society whose
fundamental principle is the full and free development of every human
individual.' In this way, even the members of the capitalist class must
play their role on the stage of history and further the ultimate coming of
socialism.

In view of subsequent arguments, a linguistic remark may be added
here on the Marxist terms usually translated by the words 'class-
conscious' and 'class consciousness'. These terms indicate, first of all,
the result of the process analysed above, by which the objective class
situation (class interest as well as class struggle) gains consciousness in
the minds of its members, or, to express the same thought in a language
less dependent on Hegel, by which members of a class become conscious
of their class situation. Being class-conscious, they know not only their
place but their true class interest as well. But over and above this, the
original German word used by Marx suggests something which is usually
lost in the translation. The term is derived from, and alludes to, a
common German word which became part of Hegel's jargon. Though its
literal translation would be 'self-conscious', this word has even in
common use rather the meaning of being conscious of one s worth and
powers, i.e. of being proud and fully assured of oneself, and even self-
satisfied. Accordingly, the term translated as 'class-conscious' means in

German not simply this, but rather, 'assured or proud of one's class', and
bound to it by the consciousness of the need for solidarity. This is why
Marx and the Marxists apply it nearly exclusively to the workers, and
hardly ever to the 'bourgeoisie'. The class-conscious proletarian — ^this is
the worker who is not only aware of his class situation, but who is also
class-proud, fully assured of the historical mission of his class, and
believing that its unflinching fight will bring about a better world.

How does he know that this will happen? Because being class-
conscious, he must be a Marxist. The Marxist theory itself and its
scientific prophecy of the advent of socialism are part and parcel of the
historical process by which the class situation 'emerges into
consciousness', establishing itself in the minds of the workers.

My criticism of Marx's theory of the classes, as far as its historicist
emphasis goes, follows the lines taken up in the last chapter. The formula
'all history is a history of class struggle' is very valuable as a suggestion
that we should look into the important part played by class struggle in
power politics as well as in other developments; this suggestion is the
more valuable since Plato's brilliant analysis of the part played by class
struggle in the history of Greek city states was only rarely taken up in
later times. But again, we must not, of course, take Marx's word 'all' too
seriously. Not even the history of class issues is always a history of class
struggle in the Marxian sense, considering the important part played by
dissension within the classes themselves. Indeed, the divergence of
interests within both the ruling and the ruled classes goes so far that
Marx's theory of classes must be considered as a dangerous over-

simplification, even if we admit that the issue between the rich and the
poor is always of fundamental importance. One of the great themes of
medieval history, the fight between popes and emperors, is an example of
dissension within the ruling class. It would be palpably false to interpret
this quarrel as one between exploiter and exploited. (Of course, one can
widen Marx's concept 'class' so as to cover this and similar cases, and
narrow the concept 'history', until ultimately Marx's doctrine becomes
trivially true — a mere tautology; but this would rob it of any
significance.)

One of the dangers of Marx's formula is that if taken too seriously, it
misleads Marxists into interpreting all political conflicts as struggles
between exploiters and exploited (or else as attempts to cover up the 'real
issue', the underlying class conflict). As a consequence there were
Marxists, especially in Germany, who interpreted a war such as the First
World War as one between the revolutionary or 'have-not' Central
Powers and an alliance of conservative or 'have' countries — a kind of
interpretation which might be used to excuse any aggression. This is only
one example of the danger inherent in Marx's sweeping historicist
generalization.

On the other hand, his attempt to use what may be called the 'logic of
the class situation' to explain the working of the institutions of the
industrial system seems to me admirable, in spite of certain
exaggerations and the neglect of some important aspects of the situation;
admirable, at least, as a sociological analysis of that stage of the
industrial system which Marx has mainly in mind: the system of
'unrestrained capitalism' (as I shall call it—) of one hundred years ago.

The Legal and the Social System

We are now ready to approach what is probably the most crucial point in
our analysis as well as in our criticism of Marxism; it is Marx's theory of
the state and — ^paradoxical as it may sound to some — of the impotence of
all politics.

Marx's theory of the state can be presented by combining the results of
the last two chapters. The legal or juridico-political system — the system
of legal institutions enforced by the state — has to be understood,
according to Marx, as one of the superstructures erected upon, and giving
expression to, the actual productive forces of the economic system; Marx
speaks- in this connection of 'juridical and political superstructures'. It is
not, of course, the only way in which the economic or material reality and
the relations between the classes which correspond to it make their
appearance in the world of ideologies and ideas. Another example of such
a superstructure would be, according to Marxist views, the prevailing
moral system. This, as opposed to the legal system, is not enforced by
state power, but sanctioned by an ideology created and controlled by the
ruling class. The difference is, roughly, one between persuasion and force

(as Plato- would have said); and it is the state, the legal or political
system, which uses force. It is, as Engels- puts it, 'a special repressive
force' for the coercion of the ruled by the rulers. 'Political power,
properly so called,' says the Manifesto-, 'is merely the organized power
of one class for oppressing the other.' A similar description is given by
Lenin-: 'According to Marx, the state is an organ of class domination, din
organ for the oppression of one class by another; its aim is the creation of
an "order" which legalizes and perpetuates this oppression . . . ' The state,
in brief, is just part of the machinery by which the ruling class carries on
its struggle.

Before proceeding to develop the consequences of this view of the
state, it may be pointed out that it is partly an institutional and partly an
essentialist theory. It is institutional in so far as Marx tries to ascertain
what practical functions legal institutions have in social life. But it is
essentialist in so far as Marx neither inquires into the variety of ends
which these institutions may possibly serve (or be made to serve), nor
suggests what institutional reforms are necessary in order to make the
state serve those ends which he himself might deem desirable. Instead of
making his demands or proposals concerning the functions which he
wants the state, the legal institutions or the government to perform, he
asks, 'What is the state?'; that is to say, he tries to discover the essential
function of legal institutions. It has been shown before- that such a
typically essentialist question cannot be answered in a satisfactory way;
yet this question, undoubtedly, is in keeping with Marx's essentialist and
metaphysical approach which interprets the field of ideas and norms as
the appearance of an economic reality.

What are the consequences of this theory of the state? The most
important consequence is that all politics, all legal and political
institutions as well as all political struggles, can never be of primary
importance. Politics are impotent. They can never alter decisively the

economic reality. The main if not the only task of any enlightened
political activity is to see that the alternations in the juridico-political
cloak keep pace with the changes in the social reality, that is to say, in the
means of production and in the relations between the classes; in this way,
such difficulties as must arise if politics lag behind these developments
can be avoided. Or in other words, political developments are either
superficial, unconditioned by the deeper reality of the social system, in
which case they are doomed to be unimportant, and can never be of real
help to the suppressed and exploited; or else they give expression to a
change in the economic background and the class situation, in which case
they are of the character of volcanic eruptions, of complete revolutions
which can perhaps be foreseen, as they arise from the social system, and
whose ferocity might then be mitigated by non-resistance to the eruptive
forces, but which can be neither caused nor suppressed by political
action.

These consequences show again the unity of Marx's historicist system
of thought. Yet considering that few movements have done as much as
Marxism to stimulate interest in political action, the theory of the
fundamental impotence of politics appears somewhat paradoxical.
(Marxists might, of course, meet this remark with either of two
arguments. The one is that in the theory expounded, political action has
its function; for even though the workers' party cannot, by its actions,
improve the lot of the exploited masses, its fight awakens class
consciousness and thereby prepares for the revolution. This would be the
argument of the radical wing. The other argument, used by the moderate
wing, asserts that there may exist historical periods in which political
action can be directly helpful; the periods, namely, in which the forces of
the two opposing classes are approximately in equilibrium. In such
periods, political effort and energy may be decisive in achieving very
significant improvements for the workers. — It is clear that this second

argument sacrifices some of the fundamental positions of the theory, but
without realizing this, and consequently without going to the root of the
matter.)

It is worth noting that according to Marxist theory, the workers' party
can hardly make political mistakes of any importance, as long as the
party continues to play its assigned role, and to press the claims of the
workers energetically. For political mistakes cannot materially affect the
actual class situation, and even less the economic reality on which
everything else ultimately depends.

Another important consequence of the theory is that, in principle, all
government, even democratic government, is a dictatorship of the ruling
class over the ruled. 'The executive of the modern state', says the
Manifesto-, 'is merely a committee for managing the economic affairs of
the whole bourgeoisie . . .' What we call a democracy is, according to this
theory, nothing but that form of class dictatorship which happens to be
most convenient in a certain historical situation. (This doctrine does not
agree very well with the class equilibrium theory of the moderate wing
mentioned above.) And just as the state, under capitalism, is a
dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, so, after the social revolution, it will at
first be a dictatorship of the proletariat. But this proletarian state must
lose its function as soon as the resistance of the old bourgeoisie has
broken down. For the proletarian revolution leads to a one-class society,
and therefore to a classless society in which there can be no class-
dictatorship. Thus the state, deprived of any function, must disappear. 'It
withers away\ as Engels said-.

I am very far from defending Marx's theory of the state. His theory of the
impotence of all politics, more particularly, and his view of democracy,
appear to me to be not only mistakes, but fatal mistakes. But it must be
admitted that behind these grim as well as ingenious theories, there stood
a grim and depressing experience. And although Marx, in my opinion,
failed to understand the future which he so keenly wished to foresee, it
seems to me that even his mistaken theories are proof of his keen
sociological insight into the conditions of his own time, and of his
invincible humanitarianism and sense of justice.

Marx's theory of the state, in spite of its abstract and philosophical
character, undoubtedly furnishes an enlightening interpretation of his
own historical period. It is at least a tenable view that the so-called
'industrial revolution' developed at first mainly as a revolution of the
'material means of production', i.e. of machinery; that this led, next, to a
transformation of the class structure of society, and thus to a new social
system; and that political revolutions and other transformations of the
legal system came only as a third step. Even though this Marxist
interpretation of the 'rise of capitalism' has been challenged by historians
who were able to lay bare some of its deep-lying ideological foundations
(which were perhaps not quite unsuspected by Marx-, although
destructive to his theory), there can be little doubt about the value of the
Marxist interpretation as a first approximation, and about the service
rendered to his successors in this field. And even though some of the
developments studied by Marx were deliberately fostered by legislative
measures, and indeed made possible only by legislation (as Marx himself
says—), it was he who first discussed the influence of economic
developments and economic interests upon legislation, and the function
of legislative measures as weapons in the class struggle, and especially as
means for the creation of a 'surplus population', and with it, of the
industrial proletariat.

It is clear from many of Marx's passages that these observations
confirmed him in his belief that the juridico-political system is a mere
'superstructure'— on the social, i.e. the economic, system; a theory
which, although undoubtedly refuted by subsequent experience—, not
only remains interesting, but also, I suggest, contains a grain of truth.

But it was not only Marx's general views of the relations between the
economic and the political system that were in this way influenced by his
historical experience; his views on liberalism and democracy, more
particularly, which he considered to be nothing but veils for the
dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, furnished an interpretation of the social
situation of his time which appeared to fit only too well, corroborated as
it was by sad experience. For Marx lived, especially in his younger years,
in a period of the most shameless and cruel exploitation. And this
shameless exploitation was cynically defended by hypocritical apologists
who appealed to the principle of human freedom, to the right of man to
determinate his own fate, and to enter freely into any contract he
considers favourable to his interests.

Using the slogan 'equal and free competition for all', the unrestrained
capitalism of this period resisted successfully all labour legislation until
the year 1833, and its practical execution for many years more—. The
consequence was a life of desolation and misery which can hardly be
imagined in our day. Especially the exploitation of women and children
led to incredible suffering. Here are two examples, quoted from Marx's
Capital: 'William Wood, 9 years old, was 7 years and 10 months when he
began to work ... He came to work every day in the week at 6 a.m., and
left off about 9 p.m ...' 'Fifteen hours of labour for a child 7 years old!'
exclaims an official report— of the Children's Employment Commission
of 1863. Other children were forced to start work at 4 a.m., or to work
throughout the night until 6 a.m., and it was not unusual for children of
only six years to be forced to a daily toil of 15 hours. — 'Mary Anne

Walkley had worked without pause 26V2 hours, together with sixty other
girls, thirty of them in one room ... A doctor, Mr. Keys, called in too late,
testified before the coroner's jury that "Mary Anne Walkley had died
from long hours of work in an overcrowded workroom ..." Wishing to
give this gentleman a lecture in good manners, the coroner's jury brought
in a verdict to the effect that "the deceased had died of apoplexy, but
there is reason to fear that her death had been accelerated by overwork in
an overcrowded workroom".'— Such were the conditions of the working
class even in 1863, when Marx was writing Capital', his burning protest
against these crimes, which were then tolerated, and sometimes even
defended, not only by professional economists but also by churchmen,
will secure him forever a place among the liberators of mankind.

In view of such experiences, we need not wonder that Marx did not
think very highly of liberalism, and that he saw in parliamentary
democracy nothing but a veiled dictatorship of the bourgeoisie. And it
was easy for him to interpret these facts as supporting his analysis of the
relationship between the legal and the social system. According to the
legal system, equality and freedom were established, at least
approximately. But what did this mean in reality! Indeed, we must not
blame Marx for insisting that the economic facts alone are 'real' and that
the legal system may be a mere superstructure, a cloak for this reality,
and an instrument of class domination.

The opposition between the legal and the social system is most clearly
developed in Capital. In one of its theoretical parts (treated more fully in
chapter 20), Marx approaches the analysis of the capitalist economic
system by using the simplifying and idealizing assumption that the legal
system is perfect in every respect. Freedom, equality before the law,
justice, are all assumed to be guaranteed to everybody. There are no
privileged classes before the law. Over and above that, he assumes that
not even in the economic realm is there any kind of 'robbery'; he

assumes that a 'just price' is paid for all commodities, including the
labour power which the worker sells to the capitalist on the labour
market. The price for all these commodities is 'just', in the sense that all
commodities are bought and sold in proportion to the average amount of
labour needed for their reproduction (or using Marx's terminology, they
are bought and sold according to their true 'value'—). Of course, Marx
knows that all this is an over- simplification, for it is his opinion that the
workers are hardly ever treated as fairly as that; in other words, that they
are usually cheated. But arguing from these idealized premises, he
attempts to show that even under so excellent a legal system, the
economic system would function in such a way that the workers would
not be able to enjoy their freedom. In spite of all this 'justice', they
would not be very much better off than slaves—. For if they are poor, they
can only sell themselves, their wives and their children on the labour
market, for as much as is necessary for the reproduction of their labour
power. That is to say, for the whole of their labour power, they will not
get more than the barest means of existence. This shows that exploitation
is not merely robbery. It cannot be eliminated by merely legal means.
(And Proudhon's criticism that 'property is theft' is much too
superficial—.)

In consequence of this, Marx was led to hold that the workers cannot
hope much from the improvement of a legal system which as everybody
knows grants to rich and poor alike the freedom of sleeping on park
benches, and which threatens them alike with punishment for the attempt
to live 'without visible means of support'. In this way Marx arrived at
what may be termed (in Hegelian language) the distinction between
formal and material freedom. Formal— or legal freedom, although Marx
does not rate it low, turns out to be quite insufficient for securing to us
that freedom which he considered to be the aim of the historical

development of mankind. What matters is real, i.e. economic or material,
freedom. This can be achieved only by an equal emancipation from
drudgery. For this emancipation, 'the shortening of the labour day is the
fundamental prerequisite'.

Ill

What have we to say to Marx's analysis? Are we to believe that politics,
or the framework of legal institutions, are intrinsically impotent to
remedy such a situation, and that only a complete social revolution, a
complete change of the 'social system', can help? Or are we to believe
the defenders of an unrestrained 'capitalist' system who emphasize
(rightly, I think) the tremendous benefit to be derived from the
mechanism of free markets, and who conclude from this that a truly free
labour market would be of the greatest benefit to all concerned?

I believe that the injustice and inhumanity of the unrestrained
'capitalist system' described by Marx cannot be questioned; but it can be
interpreted in terms of what we called, in a previous chapter—, the
paradox of freedom. Freedom, we have seen, defeats itself, if it is
unlimited. Unlimited freedom means that a strong man is free to bully
one who is weak and to rob him of his freedom. This is why we demand
that the state should limit freedom to a certain extent, so that everyone's
freedom is protected by law. Nobody should be at the mercy of others, but
all should have a right to be protected by the state.

Now I believe that these considerations, originally meant to apply to
the realm of brute-force, of physical intimidation, must be applied to the
economic realm also. Even if the state protects its citizens from being
bullied by physical violence (as it does, in principle, under the system of

unrestrained capitalism), it may defeat our ends by its failure to protect
them from the misuse of economic power. In such a state, the
economically strong is still free to bully one who is economically weak,
and to rob him of his freedom. Under these circumstances, unlimited
economic freedom can be just as self-defeating as unlimited physical
freedom, and economic power may be nearly as dangerous as physical
violence; for those who possess a surplus of food can force those who are
starving into a 'freely' accepted servitude, without using violence. And
assuming that the state limits its activities to the suppression of violence
(and to the protection of property), a minority which is economically
strong may in this way exploit the majority of those who are
economically weak.

If this analysis is correct—, then the nature of the remedy is clear. It
must be a political remedy — a remedy similar to the one which we use
against physical violence. We must construct social institutions, enforced
by the power of the state, for the protection of the economically weak
from the economically strong. The state must see to it that nobody need
enter into an inequitable arrangement out of fear of starvation, or
economic ruin.

This, of course, means that the principle of non-intervention, of an
unrestrained economic system, has to be given up; if we wish freedom to
be safeguarded, then we must demand that the policy of unlimited
economic freedom be replaced by the planned economic intervention of
the state. We must demand that unrestrained capitalism give way to an
economic interventionism—. And this is precisely what has happened. The
economic system described and criticized by Marx has everywhere
ceased to exist. It has been replaced, not by a system in which the state
begins to lose its functions and consequently 'shows signs of withering
away', but by various interventionist systems, in which the functions of
the state in the economic realm are extended far beyond the protection of

property and of 'free contracts'. (This development will be discussed in
the next chapters.)

I should like to characterize the point here reached as the most central
point in our analysis. It is only here that we can begin to realize the
significance of the clash between historicism and social engineering, and
its effect upon the policy of the friends of the open society.

Marxism claims to be more than a science. It does more than make a
historical prophecy. It claims to be the basis for practical political action.
It criticizes existing society, and it asserts that it can lead the way to a
better world. But according to Marx's own theory, we cannot at will alter
the economic reality by, for example, legal reforms. Politics can do no
more than 'shorten and lessen the birth-pangs'.— This, I think, is an
extremely poor political programme, and its poverty is a consequence of
the third-rate place which it attributes to political power in the hierarchy
of powers. For according to Marx, the real power lies in the evolution of
machinery; next in importance is the system of economic class-
relationships; and the least important influence is that of politics.

A directly opposite view is implied in the position we have reached in
our analysis. It considers political power as fundamental. Political power,
from this point of view, can control economic power. This means an
immense extension of the field of political activities. We can ask what we
wish to achieve and how to achieve it. We can, for instance, develop a
rational political programme for the protection of the economically weak.
We can make laws to limit exploitation. We can limit the working day;
but we can do much more. By law, we can insure the workers (or better

still, all citizens) against disability, unemployment, and old age. In this
way we can make impossible such forms of exploitation as are based
upon the helpless economic position of a worker who must yield to
anything in order not to starve. And when we are able by law to guarantee
a livelihood to everybody willing to work, and there is no reason why we
should not achieve that, then the protection of the freedom of the citizen
from economic fear and economic intimidation will approach
completeness. From this point of view, political power is the key to
economic protection. Political power and its control is everything.
Economic power must not be permitted to dominate political power; if
necessary, it must be fought and brought under control by political power.

From the point of view reached, we can say that Marx's disparaging
attitude towards political power not only means that he neglects to
develop a theory of the most important potential means of bettering the
lot of the economically weak, but also that he neglected the greatest
potential danger to human freedom. His naive view that, in a classless
society, state power would lose its function and 'wither away' shows very
clearly that he never grasped the paradox of freedom, and that he never
understood the function which state power could and should perform, in
the service of freedom and humanity. (Yet this view of Marx stands
witness to the fact that he was, ultimately, an individualist, in spite of his
coUectivist appeal to class consciousness.) In this way, the Marxian view
is analogous to the liberal belief that all we need is 'equality of
opportunity'. We certainly need this. But it is not enough. It does not
protect those who are less gifted, or less ruthless, or less lucky, from
becoming objects of exploitation for those who are more gifted, or
ruthless, or lucky.

Moreover, from the point of view we have reached, what Marxists
describe disparagingly as 'mere formal freedom' becomes the basis of
everything else. This 'mere formal freedom', i.e. democracy, the right of

the people to judge and to dismiss their government, is the only known
device by which we can try to protect ourselves against the misuse of
political power—; it is the control of the rulers by the ruled. And since
political power can control economic power, political democracy is also
the only means for the control of economic power by the ruled. Without
democratic control, there can be no earthly reason why any government
should not use its political and economic power for purposes very
different from the protection of the freedom of its citizens.

It is the fundamental role of 'formal freedom' which is overlooked by
Marxists who think that formal democracy is not enough and wish to
supplement it by what they usually call 'economic democracy'; a vague
and utterly superficial phrase which obscures the fact that 'merely formal
freedom' is the only guarantee of a democratic economic policy.

Marx discovered the significance of economic power; and it is
understandable that he exaggerated its status. He and the Marxists see
economic power everywhere. Their argument runs: he who has the money
has the power; for if necessary, he can buy guns and even gangsters. But
this is a roundabout argument. In fact, it contains an admission that the
man who has the gun has the power. And if he who has the gun becomes
aware of this, then it may not be long until he has both the gun and the
money. But under an unrestrained capitalism, Marx's argument applies,
to some extent; for a rule which develops institutions for the control of
guns and gangsters but not of the power of money is liable to come under
the influence of this power. In such a state, an uncontrolled gangsterism
of wealth may rule. But Marx himself, I think, would have been the first

to admit that this is not true of all states; that there have been times in
history when, for example, all exploitation was looting, directly based
upon the power of the mailed fist. And to-day there will be few to support
the na'ive view that the 'progress of history' has once and for all put an
end to these more direct ways of exploiting men, and that, once formal
freedom has been achieved, it is impossible for us to fall again under the
sway of such primitive forms of exploitation.

These considerations would be sufficient for refuting the dogmatic
doctrine that economic power is more fundamental than physical power,
or the power of the state. But there are other considerations as well. As
has been rightly emphasized by various writers (among them Bertrand
Russell and Walter Lippmann— ), it is only the active intervention of the
state — the protection of property by laws backed by physical sanctions —
which makes of wealth a potential source of power; for without this
intervention, a man would soon be without his wealth. Economic power is
therefore entirely dependent on political and physical power. Russell
gives historical examples which illustrate this dependence, and
sometimes even helplessness, of wealth: 'Economic power within the
state,' he writes—, 'although ultimately derived from law and public
opinion, easily acquires a certain independence. It can influence law by
corruption and public opinion by propaganda. It can put politicians under
obligations which interfere with their freedom. It can threaten to cause a
financial crisis. But there are very definite limits to what it can achieve.
Caesar was helped to power by his creditors, who saw no hope of
repayment except through his success; but when he had succeeded he was
powerful enough to defy them. Charles V borrowed from the Fuggers the
money required to buy the position of Emperor, but when he had become
Emperor he snapped his fingers at them and they lost what they had lent.'

The dogma that economic power is at the root of all evil must be
discarded. Its place must be taken by an understanding of the dangers of

any form of uncontrolled power. Money as such is not particularly
dangerous. It becomes dangerous only if it can buy power, either directly,
or by enslaving the economically weak who must sell themselves in order
to live.

We must think in these matters in even more materialist terms, as it
were, than Marx did. We must realize that the control of physical power
and of physical exploitation remains the central political problem. In
order to establish this control, we must establish 'merely formal
freedom'. Once we have achieved this, and have learned how to use it for
the control of political power, everything rests with us. We must not
blame anybody else any longer, nor cry out against the sinister economic
demons behind the scenes. For in a democracy, we hold the keys to the
control of the demons. We can tame them. We must realize this and use
the keys; we must construct institutions for the democratic control of
economic power, and for our protection from economic exploitation.

Much has been made by Marxists of the possibility of buying votes,
either directly or by buying propaganda. But closer consideration shows
that we have here a good example of the power-political situation
analysed above. Once we have achieved formal freedom, we can control
vote-buying in every form. There are laws to limit the expenditure on
electioneering, and it rests entirely with us to see that much more
stringent laws of this kind are introduced—. The legal system can be
made a powerful instrument for its own protection. In addition, we can
influence public opinion, and insist upon a much more rigid moral code
in political matters. All this we can do; but we must first realize that
social engineering of this kind is our task, that it is in our power, and that
we must not wait for economic earthquakes miraculously to produce a
new economic world for us, so that all we shall have to do will be to
unveil it, to remove the old political cloak.

Of course, in practice Marxists never fully relied on the doctrine of the
impotence of political power. So far as they had an opportunity to act, or
to plan action, they usually assumed, like everybody else, that political
power can be used for the control of economic power. But their plans and
actions were never based on a clear refutation of their original theory, nor
upon any well-considered view of that most fundamental problem of all
politics: the control of the controller, of the dangerous accumulation of
power represented in the state. They never realized the full significance
of democracy as the only known means to achieve this control.

As a consequence they never realized the danger inherent in a policy of
increasing the power of the state. Although they abandoned more or less
unconsciously the doctrine of the impotence of politics, they retained the
view that state power presents no important problem, and that it is bad
only if it is in the hands of the bourgeoisie. They did not realize that all
power, and political power at least as much as economic power, is
dangerous. Thus they retained their formula of the dictatorship of the
proletariat. They did not understand the principle (cp. chapter 8) that all
large-scale politics must be institutional, not personal; and when
clamouring for the extension of state powers (in contrast to Marx's view
of the state) they never considered that the wrong persons might one day
get hold of these extended powers. This is part of the reason why, as far
as they proceeded to consider state-intervention, they planned to give the
state practically limitless powers in the economic realm. They retained
Marx's holistic and Utopian belief that only a brand-new 'social system'
can improve matters.

I have criticized this Utopian and Romantic approach to social

engineering in a previous chapter ( chapter 9 ). But I wish to add here that
economic intervention, even the piecemeal methods advocated here, will
tend to increase the power of the state. Interventionism is therefore
extremely dangerous. This is not a decisive argument against it; state
power must always remain a dangerous though necessary evil. But it
should be a warning that if we relax our watchfulness, and if we do not
strengthen our democratic institutions while giving more power to the
state by interventionist 'planning', then we may lose our freedom. And if
freedom is lost, everything is lost, including 'planning'. For why should
plans for the welfare of the people be carried out if the people have no
power to enforce them? Only freedom can make security secure.

We thus see that there is not only a paradox of freedom but also a
paradox of state planning. If we plan too much, if we give too much
power to the state, then freedom will be lost, and that will be the end of
planning.

Such considerations lead us back to our plea for piecemeal, and against
Utopian or holistic, methods of social engineering. And they lead us back
to our demand that measures should be planned to fight concrete evils
rather than to establish some ideal good. State intervention should be
limited to what is really necessary for the protection of freedom.

But it is not enough to say that our solution should be a minimum
solution; that we should be watchful; and that we should not give more
power to the state than is necessary for the protection of freedom. These
remarks may raise problems, but they do not show a way to a solution. It
is even conceivable that there is no solution; that the acquisition of new
economic powers by a state — whose powers, as compared to those of its
citizens, are always dangerously great — will make it irresistible. So far,
we have shown neither that freedom can be preserved, nor how it can be
preserved.

Under these circumstances it may be useful to remember our

considerations of chapter 7 concerning the question of the control of
political power and the paradox of freedom.

VII

The important distinction which we made there was that between persons
and institutions. We pointed out that, while the political question of the
day may demand a personal solution, all long-term policy — and
especially all democratic long-term policy — must be conceived in terms
of impersonal institutions. And we pointed out that, more especially, the
problem of controlling the rulers, and of checking their powers, was in
the main an institutional problem — the problem, in short, of designing
institutions for preventing even bad rulers from doing too much damage.

Analogous considerations will apply to the problem of the control of
the economic power of the state. What we shall have to guard against is
an increase in the power of the rulers. We must guard against persons and
against their arbitrariness. Some types of institution may confer arbitrary
powers upon a person; but other types will deny them to that person.

If we look upon our labour legislation from this point of view, then we
shall find both types of institution. Many of these laws add very little
power to the executive organs of the state. It is conceivable, to be sure,
that the laws against child labour, for example, may be misused, by a
civil servant, to intimidate, and to dominate over, an innocent citizen. But
dangers of this kind are hardly serious if compared with those which are
inherent in a legislation that confers upon the rulers discretionary powers,
such as the power of directing labour—. Similarly, a law establishing that
a citizen's misuse of his property should be punished by its forfeiture will
be incomparably less dangerous than one which gives the rulers, or the

servants of the state, discretionary powers of requisitioning a citizen's
property.

We thus arrive at a distinction between two entirely different
methods— by which the economic intervention of the state may proceed.
The first is that of designing a 'legal framework' of protective
institutions (laws restricting the powers of the owner of an animal, or of a
landowner, are an example). The second is that of empowering organs of
the state to act — within certain limits — as they consider necessary for
achieving the ends laid down by the rulers for the time being. We may
describe the first procedure as 'institutional' or 'indirect' intervention,
and the second as 'personal' or 'direct' intervention. (Of course,
intermediate cases exist.)

There can be no doubt, from the point of view of democratic control,
which of these methods is preferable. The obvious policy for all
democratic intervention is to make use of the first method wherever this
is possible, and to restrict the use of the second method to cases for which
the first method is inadequate. (Such cases exist. The classical example is
the Budget — this expression of the Chancellor's discretion and sense of
what is equitable and just. And it is conceivable although highly
undesirable that a counter-cycle measure may have to be of a similar
character.)

From the point of view of piecemeal social engineering, the difference
between the two methods is highly important. Only the first, the
institutional method, makes it possible to make adjustments in the light
of discussion and experience. It alone makes it possible to apply the
method of trial and error to our political actions. It is long-term; yet the
permanent legal framework can be slowly changed, in order to make
allowances for unforeseen and undesired consequences, for changes in
other parts of the framework, etc. It alone allows us to find out, by
experience and analysis, what we actually were doing when we intervened

with a certain aim in mind. Discretionary decisions of the rulers or civil
servants are outside these rational methods. They are short-term
decisions, transitory, changing from day to day, or at best, from year to
year. As a rule (the Budget is the great exception) they cannot even be
publicly discussed, both because necessary information is lacking, and
because the principles on which the decision is taken are obscure. If they
exist at all, they are usually not institutionalized, but part of an internal
departmental tradition.

But it is not only in this sense that the first method can be described as
rational and the second as irrational. It is also in an entirely different and
highly important sense. The legal framework can be known and
understood by the individual citizen; and it should be designed to be so
understandable. Its functioning is predictable. It introduces a factor of
certainty and security into social life. When it is altered, allowances can
be made, during a transitional period, for those individuals who have laid
their plans in the expectation of its constancy.

As opposed to this, the method of personal intervention must introduce
an ever-growing element of unpredictability into social life, and with it
will develop the feeling that social life is irrational and insecure. The use
of discretionary powers is liable to grow quickly, once it has become an
accepted method, since adjustments will be necessary, and adjustments to
discretionary short-term decisions can hardly be carried out by
institutional means. This tendency must greatly increase the irrationality
of the system, creating in many the impression that there are hidden
powers behind the scenes, and making them susceptible to the conspiracy
theory of society with all its consequences — heresy hunts, national,
social, and class hostility.

In spite of all this, the obvious policy of preferring where possible the
institutional method is far from being generally accepted. The failure to
accept it is, I suppose, due to different reasons. One is that it needs a

certain detachment to embark on the long-term task of re-designing the
'legal framework'. But governments live from hand to mouth, and
discretionary powers belong to this style of living — quite apart from the
fact that rulers are inclined to love those powers for their own sake. But
the most important reason is, undoubtedly, that the significance of the
distinction between the two methods is not understood. The way to its
understanding is blocked to the followers of Plato, Hegel, and Marx. They
will never see that the old question 'Who shall be the rulers?' must be
superseded by the more real one 'How can we tame them?'

VIII

If we now look back at Marx's theory of the impotence of politics and of
the power of historical forces, then we must admit that it is an imposing
edifice. It is the direct result of his sociological method; of his economic
historicism, of the doctrine that the development of the economic system,
or of man's metabolism, determines his social and political development.
The experience of his time, his humanitarian indignation, and the need of
bringing to the oppressed the consolation of a prophecy, the hope, or even
the certainty, of their victory, all this is united in one grandiose
philosophic system, comparable or even superior to the holistic systems
of Plato and Hegel. It is only due to the accident that he was not a
reactionary that the history of philosophy takes so little notice of him and
assumes that he was mainly a propagandist. The reviewer of Capital who
wrote: 'At the first glance ... we come to the conclusion that the author is
one of the greatest among the idealist philosophers, in the German, that is
to say, the bad sense of the word "idealist". But in actual fact, he is
enormously more realistic than any of his predecessors ...'—, this

reviewer hit the nail on the head. Marx was the last of the great holistic
system builders. We should take care to leave it at that, and not to replace
his by another Great System. What we need is not holism. It is piecemeal
social engineering.

With this, I conclude my critical analysis of Marx's philosophy of the
method of social science, of his economic determinism as well as of his
prophetic historicism. The final test of a method, however, must be its
practical results. I therefore proceed now to a more detailed examination
of the main result of his method, the prophecy of the impending advent of
a classless society.

Marx's Prophecy

The Coming of Socialism

Economic historicism is the method applied by Marx to an analysis of the
impending changes in our society. According to Marx, every particular
social system must destroy itself, simply because it must create the
forces which produce the next historical period. A sufficiently
penetrating analysis of the feudal system, undertaken shortly before the
industrial revolution, might have led to the detection of the forces which
were about to destroy feudalism, and to the prediction of the most
important characteristics of the coming period, capitalism. Similarly, an
analysis of the development of capitalism might enable us to detect the
forces which work for its destruction, and to predict the most important
characteristics of the new historical period which lies ahead of us. For
there is surely no reason to believe that capitalism, of all social systems,
will last for ever. On the contrary, the material conditions of production,
and with them, the ways of human life, have never changed so quickly as
they have done under capitalism. By changing its own foundations in this
way, capitalism is bound to transform itself, and to produce a new period
in the history of mankind.

According to Marx's method, the principles of which have been
discussed above, the fundamental or essential- forces which will destroy

or transform capitalism must be searched for in the evolution of the
material means of production. Once these fundamental forces have been
discovered, it is possible to trace their influence upon the social
relationships between classes as well as upon the juridical and political
systems.

The analysis of the fundamental economic forces and the suicidal
historical tendencies of the period which he called 'capitalism' was
undertaken by Marx in Capital, the great work of his life. The historical
period and the economic system he dealt with was that of western Europe
and especially England, from about the middle of the eighteenth century
to 1867 (the year of the first publication of Capital). The 'ultimate aim of
this work', as Marx explained in his preface-, was 'to lay bare the
economic law of motion of modern society', in order to prophesy its fate.
A secondary aim- was the refutation of the apologists of capitalism, of
the economists who presented the laws of the capitalist mode of
production as if they were inexorable laws of nature, declaring with
Burke: 'The laws of commerce are the laws of nature, and therefore the
laws of God. ' Marx contrasted these allegedly inexorable laws with those
which he maintained to be the only inexorable laws of society, namely,
its laws of development; and he tried to show that what the economists
declared to be eternal and immutable laws were in fact merely temporary
regularities, doomed to be destroyed together with capitalism itself.

Marx's historical prophecy can be described as a closely knit
argument. But Capital elaborates only what I shall call the 'first step' of
this argument, the analysis of the fundamental economic forces of
capitalism and their influence upon the relations between the classes. The
'second step', which leads to the conclusion that a social revolution is
inevitable, and the 'third step', which leads to the prediction of the
emergence of a classless, i.e. socialist, society, are only sketched. In this
chapter, I shall first explain more clearly what I call the three steps of the

Marxist argument, and then discuss the third of these steps in detail. In
the two following chapters, I shall discuss the second and the first steps.
To reverse the order of the steps in this way turns out to be best for a
detailed critical discussion; the advantage lies in the fact that it is then
easier to assume without prejudice the truth of the premises of each step
in the argument, and to concentrate entirely upon the question whether
the conclusion reached in this particular step follows from its premises.
Here are the three steps.

In the first step of his argument, Marx analyses the method of
capitalist production. He finds that there is a tendency towards an
increase in the productivity of work, connected with technical
improvements as well as with what he calls the increasing accumulation
of the means of production. Starting from here, the argument leads him to
the conclusion that in the realm of the social relations between the classes
this tendency must lead to the accumulation of more and more wealth in
fewer and fewer hands; that is to say, the conclusion is reached that there
will be a tendency towards an increase of wealth and misery; of wealth in
the ruling class, the bourgeoisie, and of misery in the ruled class, the
workers. This first step will be treated in chapter 20 ('Capitalism and its

Fate').

In the second step of the argument, the result of the first step is taken
for granted. From it, two conclusions are drawn; first, that all classes
except a small ruling bourgeoisie and a large exploited working class are
bound to disappear, or to become insignificant; secondly, that the
increasing tension between these two classes must lead to social
revolution. This step will be analysed in chapter 19 ('The Social
Revolution').

In the third step of the argument, the conclusions of the second step are
taken for granted in their turn; and the final conclusion reached is that,
after the victory of the workers over the bourgeoisie, there will be a

society consisting of one class only, and, therefore, a classless society, a
society without exploitation; that is to say, socialism.

I now proceed to the discussion of the third step, of the final prophecy of
the coming of socialism.

The main premises of this step, to be criticized in the next chapter but
here to be taken for granted, are these: the development of capitalism has
led to the elimination of all classes but two, a small bourgeoisie and a
huge proletariat; and the increase of misery has forced the latter to revolt
against its exploiters. The conclusions are, first, that the workers must
win the struggle, secondly that, by eliminating the bourgeoisie, they must
establish a classless society, since only one class remains.

Now I am prepared to grant that the first conclusion follows from the
premises (in conjunction with a few premises of minor importance which
we need not question). Not only is the number of the bourgeoisie small,
but their physical existence, their 'metabolism', depends upon the
proletariat. The exploiter, the drone, starves without the exploited; in any
case, if he destroys the exploited then he ends his own career as a drone.
Thus he cannot win; he can, at the best, put up a prolonged struggle. The
worker, on the other hand, does not depend for his material subsistence
on his exploiter; once the worker revolts, once he has decided to
challenge the existing order, the exploiter has no essential social function
any longer. The worker can destroy his class enemy without endangering
his own existence. Accordingly, there is only one outcome possible. The
bourgeoisie will disappear.

But does the second conclusion follow? Is it true that the workers'

victory must lead to a classless society? I do not think so. From the fact
that of two classes only one remains, it does not follow that there will be
a classless society. Classes are not like individuals , even if we admit that
they behave nearly like individuals so long as there are two classes who
are joined in battle. The unity or solidarity of a class, according to Marx's
own analysis, is part of their class consciousness-, which in turn is very
largely a product of the class struggle. There is no earthly reason why the
individuals who form the proletariat should retain their class unity once
the pressure of the struggle against the common class enemy has ceased.
Any latent conflict of interests is now likely to divide the formerly united
proletariat into new classes, and to develop into a new class struggle.
(The principles of dialectics would suggest that a new antithesis, a new
class antagonism, must soon develop. Yet, of course, dialectics is
sufficiently vague and adaptable to explain anything at all, and therefore
a classless society also, as a dialectically necessary synthesis of an
antithetical development-.)

The most likely development is, of course, that those actually in power
at the moment of victory — those of the revolutionary leaders who have
survived the struggle for power and the various purges, together with
their staff — will form a New Class: the new ruling class of the new
society, a kind of new aristocracy or bureaucracy-; and it is most likely
that they will attempt to hide this fact. This they can do, most
conveniently, by retaining as much as possible of the revolutionary
ideology, taking advantage of these sentiments instead of wasting their
time in efforts to destroy them (in accordance with Pareto's advice to all
rulers). And it seems likely enough that they will be able to make fullest
use of the revolutionary ideology if at the same time they exploit the fear
of counter-revolutionary developments. In this way, the revolutionary
ideology will serve them for apologetic purposes: it will serve them both
as a vindication of the use they make of their power, and as a means of

stabilizing it; in short, as a new 'opium for the people'.

Something of this kind are the events which, on Marx's own premises,
are likely to happen. Yet it is not my task here to make historical
prophecies (or to interpret the past history of many revolutions). I merely
wish to show that Marx's conclusion, the prophecy of the coming of a
classless society, does not follow from the premises. The third step of
Marx's argument must be pronounced to be inconclusive.

More than this I do not maintain. I do not think, more particularly, that
it is possible to prophesy that socialism will not come, or to say that the
premises of the argument make the introduction of socialism very
unlikely. It is, for instance, possible that the prolonged struggle and the
enthusiasm of victory may contribute to a feeling of solidarity strong
enough to continue until laws preventing exploitation and the misuse of
power are established. (The establishment of institutions for the
democratic control of the rulers is the only guarantee for the elimination
of exploitation.) The chances of founding such a society will depend, in
my opinion, very largely upon the devotion of the workers to the ideas of
socialism and freedom, as opposed to the immediate interests of their
class. These are matters which cannot be easily foreseen; all that can
certainly be said is that class struggle as such does not always produce
lasting solidarity among the oppressed. There are examples of such
solidarity and great devotion to the common cause; but there are also
examples of groups of workers who pursue their particular group interest
even where it is in open conflict with the interest of the other workers,
and with the idea of the solidarity of the oppressed. Exploitation need not
disappear with the bourgeoisie, since it is quite possible that groups of
workers may obtain privileges which amount to an exploitation of less
fortunate groups-.

We see that a whole host of possible historical developments may
follow upon a victorious proletarian revolution. There are certainly too

many possibilities for the application of the method of historical
prophecy. And in particular it must be emphasized that it would be most
unscientific to close our eyes to some possibilities because we do not like
them. Wishful thinking is apparently a thing that cannot be avoided. But
it should not be mistaken for scientific thinking. And we should also
recognize that the allegedly scientific prophecy provides, for a great
number of people, a form of escape. It provides an escape from our
present responsibilities into a future paradise; and it provides the fitting
complement of this paradise by overstressing the helplessness of the
individual in face of what it describes as the overwhelming and
demoniacal economic forces of the present moment.

Ill

If we now look a little more closely at these forces, and at our own
present economic system, then we can see that our theoretical criticism is
borne out by experience. But we must be on our guard against
misinterpreting experience in the light of the Marxist prejudice that
'socialism' or 'communism' is the only alternative and the only possible
successor to 'capitalism'. Neither Marx nor anybody else has ever shown
that socialism, in the sense of a classless society, of 'an association in
which the free development of each is the warrant for the free
development of all'-, is the only possible alternative to the ruthless
exploitation of that economic system which he first described a century
ago (in 1845), and to which he gave the name 'capitalism'-. And indeed,
if anybody were attempting to prove that socialism is the only possible
successor to Marx's unrestrained 'capitalism', then we could simply
refute him by pointing to historical facts. For laissez-faire has

disappeared from the face of the earth, but it has not been replaced by a
socialist or communist system as Marx understood it. Only in the Russian
sixth of the earth do we find an economic system where, in accordance
with Marx's prophecy, the means of production are owned by the state,
whose political might however shows, in opposition to Marx's prophecy,
no inclination to wither away. But all over the earth, organized political
power has begun to perform far-reaching economic functions.
Unrestrained capitalism has given way to a new historical period, to our
own period of political interventionism, of the economic interference of
the state. Interventionism has assumed various forms. There is the
Russian variety; there is the fascist form of totalitarianism; and there is
the democratic interventionism of England, of the United States, and of
the 'Smaller Democracies', led by Sweden—, where the technology of
democratic intervention has reached its highest level so far. The
development which led to this intervention started in Marx's own day,
with British factory legislation. It made its first decisive advances with
the introduction of the 48-hour week, and later with the introduction of
unemployment insurance and other forms of social insurance. How
utterly absurd it is to identify the economic system of the modern
democracies with the system Marx called 'capitalism' can be seen at a
glance, by comparing it with his 10-point programme for the communist
revolution. If we omit the rather insignificant points of this programme
(for instance, '4. Confiscation of the property of all emigrants and
rebels'), then we can say that in the democracies most of these points
have been put into practice, either completely, or to a considerable
degree; and with them, many more important steps, which Marx had
never thought of, have been made in the direction of social security. I
mention only the following points in his programme: 2. A heavy
progressive or graduated income tax. (Carried out.) 3. Abolition of all
right of inheritance. (Largely realized by heavy death duties. Whether

more would be desirable is at least doubtful.) 6. Central control by the
state of the means of communication and transport. (For military reasons
this was carried out in Central Europe before the war of 1914, without
very beneficial results. It has also been achieved by most of the Smaller
Democracies.) 7. Increase in the number and size of factories and
instruments of production owned by the state . . . (Realized in the Smaller
Democracies; whether this is always very beneficial is at least doubtful.)
10. Free education for all children in public (i.e. state) schools. Abolition
of children's factory labour in its present form ... (The first demand is
fulfilled in the Smaller Democracies, and to some extent practically
everywhere; the second has been exceeded.)

A number of points in Marx's programme— (for instance: '1. Abolition
of all property in land') have not been realized in the democratic
countries. This is why Marxists rightly claim that these countries have
not established 'socialism'. But if they infer from this that these
countries are still 'capitalist' in Marx's sense, then they only demonstrate
the dogmatic character of their presupposition that there is no further
alternative. This shows how it is possible to be blinded by the glare of a
preconceived system. Not only is Marxism a bad guide to the future, but
it also renders its followers incapable of seeing what is happening before
their own eyes, in their own historical period, and sometimes even with
their own co-operation.

But it could be asked whether this criticism speaks in any way against the
method of large-scale historical prophecy as such. Could we not, in
principle, so strengthen the premises of the prophetic argument as to

obtain a valid conclusion? Of course we could do this. It is always
possible to obtain any conclusion we like if only we make our premises
sufficiently strong. But the situation is such that, for nearly every large-
scale historical prophecy, we would have to make such assumptions
concerning moral and other factors of the kind called by Marx
'ideological' as are beyond our ability to reduce to economic factors. But
Marx would have been the first to admit that this would be a highly
unscientific proceeding. His whole method of prophecy depends on the
assumption that ideological influences need not be treated as independent
and unpredictable elements, but that they are reducible to, and dependent
on, observable economic conditions, and therefore predictable.

It is sometimes admitted even by certain unorthodox Marxists that the
coming of socialism is not merely a matter of historical development;
Marx's statement that 'we can shorten and lessen the birth-pangs' of the
coming of socialism is sufficiently vague to be interpreted as stating that
a mistaken policy might delay the advent of socialism even for centuries,
as compared with the proper policy which would shorten the time of the
development to a minimum. This interpretation makes it possible even
for Marxists to admit that it will depend largely upon ourselves whether
or not the outcome of a revolution will be a socialist society; that is to
say, it will depend upon our aims, upon our devotion and sincerity, and
upon our intelligence, in other words, upon moral or 'ideological' factors.
Marx's prophecy, they may add, is a great source of moral
encouragement, and it is therefore likely to further the development of
socialism. What Marx really tries to show is that there are only two
possibilities: that a terrible world should continue forever, or that a better
world should eventually emerge; and it is hardly worth our while to
contemplate the first alternative seriously. Therefore Marx's prophecy is
fully justified. For the more clearly men realize that they can achieve the
second alternative, the more surely will they make a decisive leap from

capitalism to socialism; but a more definite prophecy cannot be made.

This is an argument which admits the influence of irreducible moral
and ideological factors upon the course of history, and with it, the
inapplicability of the Marxist method. Concerning that part of the
argument which tries to defend Marxism, we must repeat that nobody has
ever shown that there are only two possibilities, 'capitalism' and
'socialism'. With the view that we should not waste our time in
contemplating the eternal continuation of a very unsatisfactory world, I
quite agree. But the alternative need not be to contemplate the prophesied
advent of a better world, or to assist its birth by propaganda and other
irrational means, perhaps even by violence. It can be, for instance, the
development of a technology for the immediate improvement of the
world we live in, the development of a method for piecemeal engineering,
for democratic intervention—. Marxists would of course contend that this
kind of intervention is impossible since history cannot be made according
to rational plans for improving the world. But this theory has very strange
consequences. For if things cannot be improved by the use of reason, then
it would be indeed an historical or political miracle if the irrational
powers of history by themselves were to produce a better and more
rational world—.

Thus we are thrown back to the position that moral and other
ideological factors which do not fall within the scope of scientific
prophecy exert a far-reaching influence upon the course of history. One
of these unpredictable factors is just the influence of social technology
and of political intervention in economic matters. The social technologist
and the piecemeal engineer may plan the construction of new institutions,
or the transformation of old ones; they may even plan the ways and
means of bringing these changes about; but 'history' does not become
more predictable by their doing so. For they do not plan for the whole of
society, nor can they know whether their plans will be carried out; in fact.

they will hardly ever be carried out without great modification, partly
because our experience grows during construction, partly because we
must compromise—. Thus Marx was quite right when he insisted that
'history' cannot be planned on paper. But institutions can be planned; and
they are being planned. Only by planning—, step by step, for institutions
to safeguard freedom, especially freedom from exploitation, can we hope
to achieve a better world.

In order to show the practical political significance of Marx's historicist
theory, I intend to illustrate each of the three chapters dealing with the
three steps of his prophetic argument by a few remarks on the effects of
his historical prophecy upon recent European history. For these effects
have been far-reaching, because of the influence exercised, in Central and
Eastern Europe, by the two great Marxist parties, the Communists and the
Social Democrats.

Both these parties were entirely unprepared for such a task as the
transformation of society. The Russian Communists, who found
themselves first within reach of power, went ahead, entirely unaware of
the grave problems and the immensity of sacrifice as well as of suffering
which lay ahead. The Social Democrats of Central Europe, whose chance
came a little later, shrank for many years from the responsibilities which
the Communists had so readily taken upon themselves. They doubted,
probably rightly, whether any people but that of Russia, which had been
most savagely oppressed by Tsarism, would have stood up to the
sufferings and sacrifices demanded from them by revolution, civil war,
and a long period of at first often unsuccessful experiments. Moreover,

during the critical years from 1918 to 1926, the outcome of the Russian
experiment appeared to them most uncertain. And, indeed, there was
surely no basis for judging its prospects. One can say that the split
between the Central European Communists and Social Democrats was
one between those Marxists who had a kind of irrational faith in the final
success of the Russian experiment, and those who were, more reasonably,
sceptical of it. When I say 'irrational' and 'more reasonably', I judge
them by their own standard, by Marxism; for according to Marxism, the
proletarian revolution should have been the final outcome of
industrialization, and not vice versa—; and it should have come first in
the highly industrialized countries, and only much later in Russia—.

This remark is not, however, intended as a defence of the Social
Democratic leaders— whose policy was fully determined by the Marxist
prophecy, by their implicit belief that socialism must come. But this
belief was often combined, in the leaders, with a hopeless scepticism
concerning their own immediate functions and tasks, and what lay
immediately ahead—. They had learned from Marxism to organize the
workers, and to inspire them with a truly wonderful faith in their task, the
liberation of mankind—. But they were unable to prepare for the
realization of their promises. They had learned their textbooks well, they
knew all about 'scientific socialism', and they knew that the preparation
of recipes for the future was unscientific Utopianism. Had not Marx
himself ridiculed a follower of Comte who had criticized him in the
Revue Positiviste for his neglect of practical programmes? 'ThQ Revue
Positiviste accuses me', Marx had said— scornfully, 'of a metaphysical
treatment of economics, and further — ^you would hardly guess it — of
confining myself to a merely critical analysis of actual facts, instead of
prescribing recipes (Comtist ones, perhaps?) for the kitchen in which the
future is cooked.' Thus the Marxist leaders knew better than to waste
their time on such matters as technology. 'Workers of all countries.

unite!' — that exhausted their practical programme. When the workers of
their countries were united, when there was an opportunity of assuming
the responsibility of government and laying the foundations for a better
world, when their hour had struck, they left the workers high and dry. The
leaders did not know what to do. They waited for the promised suicide of
capitalism. After the inevitable capitalist collapse, when things had gone
thoroughly wrong, when everything was in dissolution and the risk of
discredit and disgrace to themselves considerably diminished, then they
hoped to become the saviours of mankind. (And, indeed, we should keep
in mind the fact that the success of the Communists in Russia was
undoubtedly made possible, in part, by the terrible things that had
happened before their rise to power.) But when the great depression,
which they first welcomed as the promised collapse, was running its
course, they began to realize that the workers were growing tired of being
fed and put off with interpretations of history—; that it was not enough to
tell them that according to the infallible scientific socialism of Marx
fascism was definitely the last stand of capitalism before its impending
collapse. The suffering masses needed more than that. Slowly the leaders
began to realize the terrible consequences of a policy of waiting and
hoping for the great political miracle. But it was too late. Their
opportunity was gone.

These remarks are very sketchy. But they give some indication of the
practical consequences of Marx's prophecy of the coming of socialism.

The Social Revolution

The second step of Marx's prophetic argument has as its most relevant
premise the assumption that capitalism must lead to an increase of wealth
and misery; of wealth in the numerically declining bourgeoisie, and of
misery in the numerically increasing working class. This assumption will
be criticized in the next chapter but is here taken for granted. The
conclusions drawn from it can be divided into two parts. The first part is
a prophecy concerning the development of the class structure of
capitalism. It affirms that all classes apart from the bourgeoisie and the
proletariat, and especially the so-called middle classes, are bound to
disappear, and that, in consequence of the increasing tension between the
bourgeoisie and the proletariat, the latter will become increasingly class-
conscious and united. The second part is the prophecy that this tension
cannot possibly be removed, and that it will lead to a proletarian social
revolution.

I believe that neither of the two conclusions follows from the premise.
My criticism will be, in the main, similar to that propounded in the last
chapter; that is to say, I shall try to show that Marx's argument neglects a
great number of possible developments.

Let us consider at once the first conclusion, i.e. the prophecy that all
classes are bound to disappear, or to become insignificant, except the
bourgeoisie and the proletariat whose class consciousness and solidarity
must increase. It must be admitted that the premise, Marx's theory of
increasing wealth and misery, provides indeed for the disappearance of a
certain middle class, that of the weaker capitalists and the petty
bourgeoisie. 'Each capitalist lays many of his fellows low', as Marx puts
it-; and these fellow capitalists may indeed be reduced to the position of
wage-earners, which for Marx is the same as proletarians. This movement
is part of the increase of wealth, the accumulation of more and more
capital, and its concentration and centralization in fewer and fewer hands.
An analogous fate is meted out to 'the lower strata of the middle class',
as Marx says-. 'The small tradespeople, shopkeepers, and retired
tradesmen generally, the handicraftsmen and the peasants, all these sink
gradually into the proletariat; partly because their small capital,
insufficient as it is for the scale on which modern industry is conducted,
is overwhelmed in the competition with the bigger capitalists; partly
because their specialized skill is rendered worthless by new means of
production. Thus the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the
population.' This description is certainly fairly accurate, especially so far
as handicrafts are concerned; and it is also true that many proletarians
come from peasant stock.

But admirable as Marx's observations are, the picture is defective. The
movement he investigated is an industrial movement; his 'capitalist' is
the industrial capitalist, his 'proletarian' the industrial worker. And in
spite of the fact that many industrial workers come from peasant stock,
this does not mean that the farmers and peasants, for instance, are all
gradually reduced to the position of industrial workers. Even the
agricultural labourers are not necessarily united with the industrial
workers by a common feeling of solidarity and class consciousness. 'The

dispersion of the rural workers over large areas', Marx admits-, 'breaks
down their power of resistance at the very time when the concentration of
capital in a few hands increases the power of resistance of the urban
workers.' This hardly suggests unification in one class-conscious whole.
It shows, rather, that there is at least a possibility of division, and that the
agricultural worker might sometimes be too dependent upon his master,
the farmer or peasant, to make common cause with the industrial
proletariat. But that farmers or peasants may easily choose to support the
bourgeoisie rather than the workers was mentioned by Marx himself-;
and a workers' programme such as the one of the Manifesto-, whose first
demand is the 'abolition of all property in land', is hardly designed to
counteract this tendency.

This shows that it is at least possible that the rural middle classes may
not disappear, and that the rural proletariat may not merge with the
industrial proletariat. But this is not all. Marx's own analysis shows that
it is vitally important for the bourgeoisie to foment division among the
wage-earners; and as Marx himself has seen, this might be achieved in at
least two ways. One way is the creation of a new middle class, of a
privileged group of wage-earners who would feel superior to the manual
worker- and at the same time dependent upon the rulers' mercy. The
other way is the utilization of that lowest stratum of society which Marx
christened the 'rabble-proletariat'. This is, as pointed out by Marx, the
recruiting ground for criminals who may be ready to sell themselves to
the class enemy. Increasing misery must tend, as he admits, to swell the
numbers of this class; a development which will hardly contribute to the
solidarity of all the oppressed.

But even the solidarity of the class of industrial workers is not a
necessary consequence of increasing misery. Admittedly, increasing
misery must produce resistance, and it is even likely to produce
rebellious outbreaks. But the assumption of our argument is that the

misery cannot be alleviated until victory has been won in the social
revolution. This implies that the resisting workers will be beaten again
and again in their fruitless attempts to better their lot. But such a
development need not make the workers class-conscious in the Marxist
sense-, i.e. proud of their class and assured of their mission; it may make
them, rather, class-conscious in the sense of being conscious of the fact
that they belong to a beaten army. And it probably will do so, if the
workers do not find strength in the realization that their numbers as well
as their potential economic powers continue to grow. This might be the
case if, as Marx prophesied, all classes, apart from their own and that of
the capitalists, were to show a tendency to disappear. But since, as we
have seen, this prophecy need not come true, it is possible that the
solidarity of even the industrial workers may be undermined by
defeatism.

Thus, as opposed to Marx's prophecy which insists that there must
develop a neat division between two classes, we find that on his own
assumptions, the following class structure may possibly develop: (1)
bourgeoisie, (2) big landed proprietors, (3) other landowners, (4) rural
workers, (5) new middle class, (6) industrial workers, (7) rabble
proletariat. (Any other combination of these classes may, of course,
develop too.) And we find, furthermore, that such a development may
possibly undermine the unity of (6).

We can say, therefore, that the first conclusion of the second step in
Marx's argument does not follow. But as in my criticism of the third step,
here also I must say that I do not intend to replace Marx's prophecy by
another one. I do not assert that the prophecy cannot come true, or that
the alternative developments I have described will come to pass. I only
assert that they may come to pass. (And, indeed, this possibility can
hardly be denied by members of the radical Marxist wings who use the
accusation of treachery, bribery, and insufficient class solidarity as

favourite devices for explaining away developments which do not
conform to the prophetic schedule.) That such things may happen should
be clear to anybody who has observed the development which has led to
fascism, in which all the possibilities I have mentioned played a part. But
the mere possibility is sufficient to destroy the first conclusion reached in
the second step of Marx's argument.

This of course affects the second conclusion, the prophecy of the
coming social revolution. But before I can enter into a criticism of the
way in which this prophecy is arrived at, it is necessary to discuss at
some length the role played by it within the whole argument, as well as
Marx's use of the term 'social revolution'.

What Marx meant when he spoke of the social revolution seems at first
sight clear enough. His 'social revolution of the proletariat' is a historical
concept. It denotes the more or less rapid transition from the historical
period of capitalism to that of socialism. In other words, it is the name of
a transitional period of class struggle between the two main classes, down
to the ultimate victory of the workers. When asked whether the term
'social revolution' implied a violent civil war between the two classes,
Marx answered- that this was not necessarily implied, adding, however,
that the prospects of avoiding civil war were, unfortunately, not very
bright. And he might have added further that, from the point of view of
historical prophecy, the question appears to be perhaps not quite
irrelevant, but at any rate of secondary importance. Social life is violent,
Marxism insists, and the class war claims its victims every day-. What
really matters is the result, socialism. To achieve this result is the

essential characteristic of the 'social revolution'.

Now if we could take it as established, or as intuitively certain, that
capitalism will be followed by socialism, then this explanation of the
term 'social revolution' might be quite satisfactory. But since we must
make use of the doctrine of social revolution as a part of that scientific
argument by which we try to establish the coming of socialism, the
explanation is very unsatisfactory indeed. If in such an argument we try
to characterize the social revolution as the transition to socialism, then
the argument becomes as circular as that of the doctor who was asked to
justify his prediction of the death of a patient, and had to confess that he
knew neither the symptoms nor anything else of the malady — only that it
would turn into a 'fatal malady'. (If the patient did not die, then it was
not yet the 'fatal malady'; and if a revolution does not lead to socialism,
then it is not yet the 'social revolution'.) We can also give to this
criticism the simple form that in none of the three steps of the prophetic
argument must we assume anything whatever that is deduced only in a
later step.

These considerations show that, for a proper reconstruction of Marx's
argument, we must find such a characterization of the social revolution as
does not refer to socialism, and as permits the social revolution to play its
part in this argument as well as possible. A characterization which fulfils
these conditions appears to be this. The social revolution is an attempt of
a largely united proletariat to conquer complete political power,
undertaken with the firm resolution not to shrink from violence, should
violence be necessary for achieving this aim, and to resist any effort of its
opponents to regain political influence. This characterization is free from
the difficulties just mentioned; it fits the third step of the argument in so
far as this third step is valid, giving it that degree of plausibility which
the step undoubtedly possesses; and it is, as will be shown, in agreement
with Marxism, and especially with its historicist tendency to avoid a

definite— statement about whether or not violence will actually be used
in this phase of history.

But although if regarded as an historical prophecy the proposed
characterization is indefinite about the use of violence, it is important to
realize that it is not so from a moral or legal point of view. Considered
from such a point of view, the characterization of the social revolution
here proposed undoubtedly makes of it a violent uprising', for the
question whether or not violence is actually used is less significant than
the intention; and we have assumed a firm resolution not to shrink from
violence should it be necessary for achieving the aims of the movement.
To say that the resolution not to shrink from violence is decisive for the
character of the social revolution as a violent uprising is in agreement not
only with the moral or legal point of view, but also with the ordinary
view of the matter. For if a man is determined to use violence in order to
achieve his aims, then we may say that to all intents and purposes he
adopts a violent attitude, whether or not violence is actually used in a
particular case. Admittedly, in trying to predict a future action of this
man, we should have to be just as indefinite as Marxism, stating that we
do not know whether or not he will actually resort to force. (Thus our
characterization agrees in this point with the Marxist view.) But this lack
of definiteness clearly disappears if we do not attempt historical
prophecy, but try to characterize his attitude in the ordinary way.

Now I wish to make it quite clear that it is this prophecy of a possibly
violent revolution which I consider, from the point of view of practical
politics, by far the most harmful element in Marxism; and I think it will
be better if I briefly explain the reason for my opinion before I proceed
with my analysis.

I am not in all cases and under all circumstances against a violent
revolution. I believe with some medieval and Renaissance Christian
thinkers who taught the admissibility of tyrannicide that there may

indeed, under a tyranny, be no other possibility, and that a violent
revolution may be justified. But I also believe that any such revolution
should have as its only aim the establishment of a democracy; and by a
democracy I do not mean something as vague as 'the rule of the people'
or 'the rule of the majority', but a set of institutions (among them
especially general elections, i.e. the right of the people to dismiss their
government) which permit public control of the rulers and their dismissal
by the ruled, and which make it possible for the ruled to obtain reforms
without using violence, even against the will of the rulers. In other words,
the use of violence is justified only under a tyranny which makes reforms
without violence impossible, and it should have only one aim, that is, to
bring about a state of affairs which makes reforms without violence
possible.

I do not believe that we should ever attempt to achieve more than that
by violent means. For I believe that such an attempt would involve the
risk of destroying all prospects of reasonable reform. The prolonged use
of violence may lead in the end to the loss of freedom, since it is liable to
bring about not a dispassionate rule of reason, but the rule of the strong
man. A violent revolution which tries to attempt more than the
destruction of tyranny is at least as likely to bring about another tyranny
as it is likely to achieve its real aims.

There is only one further use of violence in political quarrels which I
should consider justified. I mean the resistance, once democracy has been
attained, to any attack (whether from within or without the state) against
the democratic constitution and the use of democratic methods. Any such
attack, especially if it comes from the government in power, or if it is
tolerated by it, should be resisted by all loyal citizens, even to the use of
violence. In fact, the working of democracy rests largely upon the
understanding that a government which attempts to misuse its powers and
to establish itself as a tyranny (or which tolerates the establishment of a

tyranny by anybody else) outlaws itself, and that the citizens have not
only a right but also a duty to consider the action of such a government as
a crime, and its members as a dangerous gang of criminals. But I hold
that such violent resistance to attempts to overthrow democracy should
be unambiguously defensive. No shadow of doubt must be left that the
only aim of the resistance is to save democracy. A threat of making use
of the situation for the establishment of a counter-tyranny is just as
criminal as the original attempt to introduce a tyranny; the use of such a
threat, even if made with the candid intention of saving democracy by
deterring its enemies, would therefore be a very bad method of defending
democracy; indeed, such a threat would confuse the ranks of its defenders
in an hour of peril, and would therefore be likely to help the enemy.

These remarks indicate that a successful democratic policy demands
from the defenders the observance of certain rules. A few such rules will
be listed later in this chapter; here I only wish to make it clear why I
consider the Marxist attitude towards violence one of the most important
points to be dealt with in any analysis of Marx.

Ill

According to their interpretation of the social revolution, we may
distinguish between two main groups of Marxists, a radical wing and a
moderate wing (corresponding roughly, but not precisely—, to the
Communist and the Social Democratic parties).

Marxists often decline to discuss the question whether or not a violent
revolution would be 'justified'; they say that they are not moralists, but
scientists, and that they do not deal with speculations about what ought to
be, but with the facts of what is or will be. In other words, they are

historical prophets who confine themselves to the question of what will
happen. But let us assume that we have succeeded in persuading them to
discuss the justification of the social revolution. In this case, I believe
that we should find all Marxists agreeing, in principle, with the old view
that violent revolutions are justified only if they are directed against a
tyranny. From here on, the opinions of the two wings differ.

The radical wing insists that, according to Marx, all class rule is
necessarily a dictatorship, i.e. a tyranny—. A real democracy can
therefore be attained only by the establishment of a classless society, by
overthrowing, if necessary violently, the capitalist dictatorship. The
moderate wing does not agree with this view, but insists that democracy
can to some extent be realized even under capitalism, and that it is
therefore possible to conduct the social revolution by peaceful and
gradual reforms. But even this moderate wing insists that such a peaceful
development is uncertain; it points out that it is the bourgeoisie which is
likely to resort to force, if faced with the prospect of being defeated by
the workers on the democratic battlefield; and it contends that in this case
the workers would be justified in retaliating, and in establishing their rule
by violent means—. Both wings claim to represent the true Marxism of
Marx, and in a way, both are right. For, as mentioned above, Marx's
views in this matter were somewhat ambiguous, because of his historicist
approach; over and above this, he seems to have changed his views during
the course of his life, starting as a radical and later adopting a more
moderate position—.

I shall examine the radical position first, since it appears to me the
only one which fits in with Capital and the whole trend of Marx's
prophetic argument. For it is the main doctrine of Capital that the
antagonism between capitalist and worker must necessarily increase, and
that there is no compromise possible, so that capitalism can only be
destroyed, not improved. It will be best to quote the fundamental passage

o f Capital in which Marx finally sums up the 'historical tendency of
capitalist accumulation'. He writes—: 'Along with the steady decrease in
the number of capitalist magnates who usurp and monopolize all the
advantages of this development, there grows the extent of misery,
oppression, servitude, degradation, and exploitation; but at the same time,
there rises the rebellious indignation of the working class which is
steadily growing in number, and which is being disciplined, unified, and
organized by the very mechanism of the capitalist method of production.
Ultimately, the monopoly of capital becomes a fetter upon the mode of
production which has flourished with it, and under it. Both the
centralization in a few hands of the means of production, and the social
organization of labour, reach a point where their capitalist cloak becomes
a strait-jacket. It bursts asunder. The hour of capitalist private property
has struck. The expropriators are expropriated. '

In view of this fundamental passage, there can be little doubt that the
core of Marx's teaching in Capital was the impossibility of reforming
capitalism, and the prophecy of its violent overthrow; a doctrine
corresponding to that of the radical wing. And this doctrine fits into our
prophetic argument as well as can be. For if we grant not only the
premise of the second step but the first conclusion as well, then the
prophecy of the social revolution would indeed follow, in accordance
with the passage we have quoted from Capital. (And the victory of the
workers would follow too, as pointed out in the last chapter.) Indeed, it
seems hard to envisage a fully united and class-conscious working class
which would not in the end, if their misery cannot be mitigated by any
other means, make a determined attempt to overthrow the social order.
But this does not, of course, save the second conclusion. For we have
already shown that the first conclusion is invalid; and from the premise
alone, from the theory of increasing wealth and misery, the inevitability
of the social revolution cannot be derived. As pointed out in our analysis

of the first conclusion, all we can say is that rebellious outbreaks may be
unavoidable; but since we can be sure neither of class unity nor of a
developed class consciousness among the workers, we cannot identify
such outbreaks with the social revolution. (They need not be victorious
either, so that the assumption that they represent the social revolution
would not fit in with the third step.)

As opposed to the radical position which at least fits quite well into the
prophetic argument, the moderate position destroys it completely. But as
was said before, it too has the support of Marx's authority. Marx lived
long enough to see reforms carried out which, according to his theory,
should have been impossible. But it never occurred to him that these
improvements in the workers' lot were at the same time refutations of his
theory. His ambiguous historicist view of the social revolution permitted
him to interpret these reforms as its prelude— or even as its beginning.
As Engels tells us—, Marx reached the conclusion that in England, at any
rate, 'the inevitable social revolution might be effected entirely by
peaceful and legal means. He certainly never forgot to add that he hardly
expected the English ruling class to submit, without a "pro-slavery
rebellion", to this peaceful and legal revolution' . This report agrees with
a letter— in which Marx wrote, only three years before his death: 'My
party . . . considers an English revolution not necessary but — according to
historic precedents — possible.' It should be noted that in the first at least
of these statements, the theory of the 'moderate wing' is clearly
expressed; the theory, namely, that should the ruling class not submit,
violence would be unavoidable.

These moderate theories seem to me to destroy the whole prophetic
argument—. They imply the possibility of a compromise, of a gradual
reform of capitalism, and therefore, of a decreasing class-antagonism.
But the sole basis of the prophetic argument is the assumption of an
increasing class-antagonism. There is no logical necessity why a gradual

reform, achieved by compromise, should lead to the complete destruction
of the capitalist system; why the workers, who have learned by
experience that they can improve their lot by gradual reform, should not
prefer to stick to this method, even if it does not yield 'complete victory',
i.e. the submission of the ruling class; why they should not compromise
with the bourgeoisie and leave it in possession of the means of production
rather than risk all their gains by making demands liable to lead to
violent clashes. Only if we assume that 'the proletarians have nothing to
lose but their fetters'—, only if we assume that the law of increasing
misery is valid, or that it at least makes improvements impossible, only
then can we prophesy that the workers will be forced to make an attempt
to overthrow the whole system. An evolutionary interpretation of the
'social revolution' thus destroys the whole Marxist argument, from the
first step to the last; all that is left of Marxism would be the historicist
approach. If an historical prophecy is still attempted, then it must be
based upon an entirely new argument.

If we try to construct such a modified argument in accordance with
Marx's later views and with those of the moderate wing, preserving as
much of the original theory as possible, then we arrive at an argument
based entirely upon the claim that the working class represents now, or
will one day represent, the majority of the people. The argument would
run like this. Capitalism will be transformed by a 'social revolution', by
which we now mean nothing but the advance of the class struggle
between capitalists and workers. This revolution may either proceed by
gradual and democratic methods, or it may be violent, or it may be
gradual and violent in alternate stages. All this will depend upon the
resistance of the bourgeoisie. But in any case, and particularly if the
development is a peaceful one, it must end with the workers assuming
'the position of the ruling class'—, as the Manifesto says; they must 'win
the battle of democracy'; for 'the proletarian movement is the self-

conscious independent movement of the immense majority, in the
interest of the immense majority'.

It is important to realize that even in this moderate and modified form,
the prediction is untenable. The reason is this. The theory of increasing
misery must be given up if the possibility of gradual reform is admitted;
but with it, even the semblance of a justification for the assertion that the
industrial w^orkers must one day form the 'immense majority' disappears.
I do not wish to imply that this assertion would really follow from the
Marxist theory of increasing misery, since this theory has never taken
sufficient heed of the farmers and peasants. But if the law of increasing
misery, supposed to reduce the middle class to the level of the proletariat,
is invalid, then we must be prepared to find that a very considerable
middle class continues to exist (or that a new middle class has arisen) and
that it may co-operate with the other non-proletarian classes against a bid
for power by the workers; and nobody can say for certain what the
outcome of such a contest would be. Indeed, statistics no longer show any
tendency for the number of industrial workers to increase in relation to
the other classes of the population. There is, rather, the opposite
tendency, in spite of the fact that the accumulation of instruments of
production continues. This fact alone refutes the validity of the modified
prophetic argument. All that remains of it is the important observation
(which is, however, not up to the pretentious standards of a historicist
prophecy) that social reforms are carried out largely— under the pressure
of the oppressed, or (if this term is preferred) under the pressure of class
struggle; that is to say, that the emancipation of the oppressed will be
largely the achievement of the oppressed themselves—.

The prophetic argument is untenable, and irreparable, in all its
interpretations, whether radical or moderate. But for a full understanding
of this situation, it is not enough to refute the modified prophecy; it is
also necessary to examine the ambiguous attitude towards the problem of
violence which we can observe in both the radical and the moderate
Marxist parties. This attitude has, I assert, a considerable influence upon
the question whether or not the 'battle of democracy' will be won; for
wherever the moderate Marxist wing has won a general election, or come
close to it, one of the reasons seems to have been that they attracted large
sections of the middle class. This was due to their humanitarianism, to
their stand for freedom and against oppression. But the systematic
ambiguity of their attitude towards violence not only tends to neutralize
this attraction, but it also directly furthers the interest of the anti-
democrats, the anti-humanitarians, the fascists.

There are two closely connected ambiguities in the Marxist doctrine,
and both are important from this point of view. The one is an ambiguous
attitude towards violence, founded upon the historicist approach. The
other is the ambiguous way in which Marxists speak about 'the conquest
of political power by the proletariat', as Wyq Manifesto puts it—. What
does this mean? It may mean, and it is sometimes so interpreted, that the
workers' party has the harmless and obvious aim of every democratic
party, that of obtaining a majority, and of forming a government. But it
may mean, and it is often hinted by Marxists that it does mean, that the
party, once in power, intends to entrench itself in this position; that is to
say, that it will use its majority vote in such a way as to make it very
difficult for others ever to regain power by ordinary democratic means.
The difference between these two interpretations is most important. If a
party which is at a certain time in the minority plans to suppress the other
party, whether by violence or by means of a majority vote, then it
recognizes by implication the right of the present majority party to do the

same. It loses any moral right to complain about oppression; and, indeed,
it plays into the hands of those groups within the present ruling party who
wish to suppress the opposition by force.

I may call these two ambiguities briefly the ambiguity of violence and
the ambiguity of power-conquest. Both are rooted not only in the
vagueness of the historicist approach, but also in the Marxist theory of
the state. If the state is, essentially, a class tyranny, then, on the one hand,
violence is permissible, and on the other, all that can be done is to replace
the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie by that of the proletariat. To worry
much about formal democracy merely shows lack of historical sense;
after all 'democracy is ... only one of the stages in the course of the
historical development', as Lenin says—.

The two ambiguities play their role in the tactical doctrines of both the
radical and the moderate wings. This is understandable, since the
systematic use of the ambiguity enables them to extend the realm from
which prospective followers may be recruited. This is a tactical
advantage which may, however, easily lead to a disadvantage at the most
critical moment; it may lead to a split whenever the most radical
members think that the hour has struck for taking violent action. The way
in which the radical wing may make a systematic use of the ambiguity of
violence may be illustrated by the following extracts taken from Parkes'
recent critical dissection of Marxism—. 'Since the Communist Party of
the United States now declares not only that it does not now advocate
revolution, but also that it never did advocate revolution, it may be
advisable to quote a few sentences from the program of the Communist
International (drafted in 1928).' Parkes then quotes among others the
following passages from this programme: 'The Conquest of power by the
proletariat does not mean peacefully "capturing" the ready-made
bourgeois state by means of parliamentary majority ... The conquest of
power ... is the violent overthrow of bourgeois power, the destruction of

the capitalist state apparatus . . . The Party ... is confronted with the task
of leading the masses to a direct attack upon the bourgeois state. This is
done by ... propaganda ... and ... mass action ... This mass action
includes ... finally, the general strike conjointly with armed insurrection
... The latter form ... which is the supreme form, must be conducted
according to the rules of war One sees, from these quotations, that
this part of the programme is quite unambiguous; but this does not
prevent the party from making a systematic use of the ambiguity of
violence, withdrawing, if the tactical situation— demands it, towards a
non- violent interpretation of the term 'social revolution'; and this in spite
of the concluding paragraph of the Manifesto— (which is retained by the
programme of 1928): 'The Communists disdain to conceal their views
and aims. They openly declare that their aims can be attained only by the
forcible overthrow of all the existing social conditions . . . '

But the way in which the moderate wing has systematically used the
ambiguity of violence as well as that of power-conquest is even more
important. It has been developed especially by Engels, on the basis of
Marx's more moderate views quoted above, and it has become a tactical
doctrine which has greatly influenced later developments. The doctrine I
have in mind might be presented as follows—: We Marxists much prefer
a peaceful and democratic development towards socialism, if we can have
it. But as political realists we foresee the probability that the bourgeoisie
will not quietly stand by when we are within reach of attaining the
majority. They will rather attempt to destroy democracy. In this case, we
must not flinch, but fight back, and conquer political power. And since
this development is a probable one, we must prepare the workers for it;
otherwise we should betray our cause. Here is one of Engels' passages—
on the matter: 'For the moment ... legality ... is working so well in our
favour that we should be mad to abandon it as long as it lasts. It remains
to be seen whether it will not be the bourgeoisie . . . which will abandon it

first in order to crush us with violence. Take the first shot, gentlemen of
the bourgeoisie! Never doubt it, they will be the first to fire. One fine day
the . . . bourgeoisie will grow tired of . . . watching the rapidly increasing
strength of socialism, and will have recourse to illegality and violence.'
What will happen then is left systematically ambiguous. And this
ambiguity is used as a threat; for in later passages, Engels addresses the
'gentlemen of the bourgeoisie' in the following way: 'If . . . you break the
constitution ... then the Social Democratic Party is free to act, or to
refrain from acting, against you — whatever it likes best. What it is going
to do, however, it will hardly give away to you to-day! '

It is interesting to see how widely this doctrine differs from the
original conception of Marxism which predicted that the revolution
would come as the result of the increasing pressure of capitalism upon
the workers, and not as the result of the increasing pressure of a
successful working-class movement upon capitalists. This most
remarkable change of front— shows the influence of the actual social
development which turned out to be one of decreasing misery. But
Engels' new doctrine, which leaves the revolutionary, or more precisely,
the counter-revolutionary, initiative to the ruling class, is tactically
absurd, and doomed to failure. The original Marxist theory taught that the
workers' revolution will break out at the depth of a depression, i.e. at a
moment when the political system is weakened by the breakdown of the
economic system, a situation which would contribute greatly to the
victory of the workers. But if the 'gentlemen of the bourgeoisie' are
invited to take the first shot, is it conceivable that they will be stupid
enough not to choose their moment wisely? Will they not make proper
preparations for the war they are going to wage? And since, according to
the theory, they hold the power, will such a preparation not mean the
mobilization of forces against which the workers can have no slightest
chance of victory? Such criticism cannot be met by amending the theory

so that the workers should not wait until the other side strikes but try to
anticipate them, since, on its own assumption, it must always be easy for
those in power to be ahead in their preparations — to prepare rifles, if the
workers prepare sticks, guns if they prepare rifles, dive bombers if they
prepare guns, etc.

But this criticism, practical as it is, and corroborated by experience, is
only superficial. The main defects of the doctrine lie deeper. The
criticism I now wish to offer attempts to show that both the
presupposition of the doctrine and its tactical consequences are such that
they are likely to produce exactly that anti-democratic reaction of the
bourgeoisie which the theory predicts, yet claims (with ambiguity) to
abhor: the strengthening of the anti-democratic element in the
bourgeoisie, and, in consequence, civil war. And we know that this may
lead to defeat, and to fascism.

The criticism I have in mind is, briefly, that Engels' tactical doctrine,
and, more generally, the ambiguities of violence and of power-conquest,
make the working of democracy impossible, once they are adopted by an
important political party. I base this criticism on the contention that
democracy can work only if the main parties adhere to a view of its
functions which may be summarized in some rules such as these (cp. also
section II of chapter 7):

1. Democracy cannot be fully characterized as the rule of the
majority, although the institution of general elections is most
important. For a majority might rule in a tyrannical way. (The

majority of those who are less than 6 ft. high may decide that the
minority of those over 6ft. shall pay all taxes.) In a democracy,
the powers of the rulers must be limited; and the criterion of a
democracy is this: In a democracy, the rulers — that is to say, the
government — can be dismissed by the ruled without bloodshed.
Thus if the men in power do not safeguard those institutions
which secure to the minority the possibility of working for a
peaceful change, then their rule is a tyranny.

2. We need only distinguish between two forms of government, viz.
such as possess institutions of this kind, and all others; i.e.
democracies and tyrannies.

3. A consistent democratic constitution should exclude only one
type of change in the legal system, namely a change which would
endanger its democratic character.

4. In a democracy, the full protection of minorities should not
extend to those who violate the law, and especially not to those
who incite others to the violent overthrow of the democracy—.

5. A policy of framing institutions to safeguard democracy must
always proceed on the assumption that there may be anti-
democratic tendencies latent among the ruled as well as among
the rulers.

6. If democracy is destroyed, all rights are destroyed. Even if
certain economic advantages enjoyed by the ruled should persist,
they would persist only on sufferance—.

7. Democracy provides an invaluable battle-ground for any
reasonable reform, since it permits reform without violence. But
if the preservation of democracy is not made the first
consideration in any particular battle fought out on this battle-
ground, then the latent anti-democratic tendencies which are
always present (and which appeal to those who suffer under the

strain of civilization, as we called it in chapter 10) may bring
about a breakdown of democracy. If an understanding of these
principles is not yet developed, its development must be fought
for. The opposite policy may prove fatal; it may bring about the
loss of the most important battle, the battle for democracy itself.

As opposed to such a policy, that of Marxist parties can be
characterized as one of making the workers suspicious of democracy. 'In
reality the state is nothing more', says Engels— , 'than a machine for the
oppression of one class by another, and this holds for a democratic
republic no less than for a monarchy.' But such views must produce:

(a) A policy of blaming democracy for all the evils which it does not
prevent, instead of recognizing that the democrats are to be
blamed, and the opposition usually no less than the majority.
(Every opposition has the majority it deserves.)

(Z?) A policy of educating the ruled to consider the state not as theirs,
but as belonging to the rulers.

(c) A policy of telling them that there is only one way to improve
things, that of the complete conquest of power. But this neglects
the one really important thing about democracy, that it checks and
balances power.

Such a policy amounts to doing the work of the enemies of the open
society; it provides them with an unwitting fifth column. And against the
Manifesto which says— ambiguously: 'The first step in the revolution of
the working class is to raise the proletariat to the position of the ruling
class — to win the battle of democracy', I assert that if this is accepted as
the first step, then the battle of democracy will be lost.

These are the general consequences of Engels' tactical doctrines, and

of the ambiguities grounded in the theory of the social revolution.
Ultimately, they are merely the last consequences of Plato's way of
posing the problem of politics by asking 'who should rule the state?' (cp.
chapter 7). It is high time for us to learn that the question 'who is to wield
the power in the state?' matters only little as compared with the question
'how is the power wielded?' and ' how much power is wielded?' We must
learn that in the long run, all political problems are institutional
problems, problems of the legal framework rather than of persons, and
that progress towards more equality can be safeguarded only by the
institutional control of power.

As in the previous chapter, I shall now illustrate the second step by
showing something of the way in which the prophecy has influenced
recent historical developments. All political parties have some sort of
'vested interest' in their opponent's unpopular moves. They live by them
and are therefore liable to dwell upon, to emphasize, and even to look
forward to them. They may even encourage the political mistakes of their
opponents as long as they can do so without becoming involved in the
responsibility for them. This, together with Engels' theory, has led some
Marxist parties to look forward to the political moves made by their
opponents against democracy. Instead of fighting such moves tooth and
nail, they were pleased to tell their followers: 'See what these people do.
That is what they call democracy. That is what they call freedom and
equality! Remember it when the day of reckoning comes.' (An ambiguous
phrase which may refer to election day or to the day of revolution.) This
policy of letting one's opponents expose themselves must, if extended to

moves against democracy, lead to disaster. It is a policy of talking big
and doing nothing in the face of real and increasing danger to democratic
institutions. It is a policy of talking war and acting peace; and it taught
the fascists the invaluable method of talking peace and acting war.

There is no doubt about the way in which the ambiguity just mentioned
played into the hands of those fascist groups who wanted to destroy
democracy. For we must reckon with the possibility that there will be
such groups, and that their influence within the so-called bourgeoisie will
depend largely on the policy adopted by the workers' parties.

For instance, let us consider more closely the use made in the political
struggle of the threat of revolution or even of political strikes (as opposed
to wage disputes, etc.). As explained above, the decisive question here
would be whether such means are used as offensive weapons or solely for
the defence of democracy. Within a democracy, they would be justified
as a purely defensive weapon, and when resolutely applied in connection
with a defensive and unambiguous demand they have been successfully
used in this way. (Remember the quick breakdown of Kapp's putsch.) But
if used as an offensive weapon they must lead to a strengthening of the
anti-democratic tendencies in the opponent's camp, since they clearly
make democracy unworkable. Furthermore, such use must make the
weapon ineffective for defence. If you use the whip even when the dog is
good, then it won't work if you need it to deter him from being bad. The
defence of democracy must consist in making anti-democratic
experiments too costly for those who try them; much more costly than a
democratic compromise . . . The use by the workers of any kind of non-
democratic pressure is likely to lead to a similar, or even to an anti-
democratic, counterpressure — ^to provoke a move against democracy.
Such an anti-democratic move on the part of the rulers is, of course, a
much more serious and dangerous thing than a similar move on the part
of the ruled. It would be the task of the workers to fight this dangerous

move resolutely, to stop it in its inconspicuous beginnings. But how can
they now fight in the name of democracy? Their own anti- democratic
action must provide their enemies, and those of democracy, with an
opportunity.

The facts of the development described can, if one wishes, be
interpreted differently; they may lead to the conclusion that democracy is
'no good'. This is indeed a conclusion which many Marxists have drawn.
After having been defeated in what they believed to be the democratic
struggle (which they had lost in the moment they formulated their tactical
doctrine), they said: 'We have been too lenient, too humane — next time
we will make a really bloody revolution! ' It is as if a man who loses a
boxing match should conclude: boxing is no good — I should have used a
club . . . The fact is that the Marxists taught the theory of class war to the
workers, but the practice of it to the reactionary diehards of the
bourgeoisie. Marx talked war. His opponents listened attentively; then
they began to talk peace and accuse the workers of belligerency; this
charge the Marxists could not deny, since class war was their slogan. And
the fascists acted.

So far, the analysis mainly covers certain more 'radical' Social
Democratic parties who based their policy entirely upon Engels'
ambiguous tactical doctrine. The disastrous effects of Engels' tactics
were increased in their case by the lack of a practical programme
discussed in the last chapter. But the Communists too adopted the tactics
here criticized in certain countries and at certain periods, especially
where the other workers' parties, for instance the Social Democrats or the
Labour Party, observed the democratic rules.

But the position was different with the Communists in so far as they
had a programme. It was: 'Copy Russia!' This made them more definite
in their revolutionary doctrines as well as in their assertion that
democracy merely means the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie—.

According to this assertion, not much could be lost and something would
be gained if that hidden dictatorship became an open one, apparent to all;
for this could only bring the revolution nearer—. They even hoped that a
totalitarian dictatorship in Central Europe would speed up matters. After
all, since the revolution was bound to come, fascism could only be one of
the means of bringing it about; and this was more particularly so since
the revolution was clearly long overdue. Russia had already had it in spite
of its backward economic conditions. Only the vain hopes created by
democracy— were holding it back in the more advanced countries. Thus
the destruction of democracy through the fascists could only promote the
revolution by achieving the ultimate disillusionment of the workers in
regard to democratic methods. With this, the radical wing of Marxism-
felt that it had discovered the 'essence' and the 'true historical role' of
fascism. Fascism was, essentially, the last stand of the bourgeoisie.
Accordingly, the Communists did not fight when the fascists seized
power. (Nobody expected the Social Democrats to fight.) For the
Communists were sure that the proletarian revolution was overdue and
that the fascist interlude, necessary for its speeding up—, could not last
longer than a few months. Thus no action was required from the
Communists. They were harmless. There was never a 'communist
danger' to the fascist conquest of power. As Einstein once emphasized, of
all organized groups of the community, it was only the Church, or rather
a section of the Church, which seriously offered resistance.

Capitalism and its Fate

According to Marxist doctrine, capitalism is labouring under inner
contradictions that threaten to bring about its downfall. A minute analysis
of these contradictions and of the historical movement which they force
upon society constitutes the first step of Marx's prophetic argument. This
step is not only the most important of his whole theory, it is also the one
on which he spent most of his labour, since practically the whole of the
three volumes of Capital (over 2,200 pages in the original edition-) is
devoted to its elaboration. It is also the least abstract step of the argument
since it is based upon a descriptive analysis, supported by statistics, of
the economic system of his time — that of unrestrained capitalism-. As
Lenin puts it: 'Marx deduces the inevitability of the transformation of
capitalist society into socialism wholly and exclusively from the
economic law of the movement of contemporary society.'

Before proceeding to explain in some detail the first step of Marx's
prophetic argument, I shall try to describe its main ideas in the form of a
very brief outline.

Marx believes that capitalist competition forces the capitalist's hand. It
forces the capitalist to accumulate capital. By doing so, he works against
his own long-term economic interests (since the accumulation of capital
is liable to bring about a fall of his profits). But although working against
his own personal interest, he works in the interest of the historical
development; he works, unwittingly, for economic progress, and for

socialism. This is due to the fact that accumulation of capital means (a)
increased productivity; increase of wealth; and concentration of wealth in
a few hands; (b) increase of pauperism and misery; the workers are kept
on subsistence or starvation wages, mainly by the fact that the surplus of
workers, called the 'industrial reserve army', keeps the wages on the
lowest possible level. The trade cycle prevents, for any length of time, the
absorption of the surplus of workers by the growing industry. This cannot
be altered by the capitalists, even if they wish to do so; for the falling rate
of their profits makes their own economic position much too precarious
for any effective action. In this way, capitalist accumulation turns out to
be a suicidal and self-contradictory process, even though it fosters the
technical, economic, and historical progress towards socialism.

The premises of the first step are the laws of capitalist competition, and
of the accumulation of the means of production. The conclusion is the
law of increasing wealth and misery. I begin my discussion with an
explanation of these premises and conclusions.

Under capitalism, competition between the capitalists plays an
important role. 'The battle of competition', as analysed by Marx in
Capital-, is carried out by selling the commodities produced, if possible
at a lower price than the competitor could afford to accept. 'But the
cheapness of a commodity', Marx explains, 'depends in its turn, other
things being equal, upon the productivity of labour; and this, again,
depends on the scale of production.' For production on a very large scale
is in general capable of employing more specialized machinery, and a
greater quantity of it; this increases the productivity of the workers, and

permits the capitalist to produce, and to sell, at a lower price. 'Large
capitalists, therefore, get the better of small ones . . . Competition always
ends with the downfall of many lesser capitalists and with the transition
of their capital into the hands of the conqueror.' (This movement is, as
Marx points out, much accelerated by the credit system.)

According to Marx's analysis, the process described, accumulation due
to competition, has two different aspects. One of them is that the
capitalist is forced to accumulate or concentrate more and more capital,
in order to survive; this means in practice investing more and more
capital in more and more as well as newer and newer machinery, thus
continually increasing the productivity of his workers. The other aspect of
the accumulation of capital is the concentration of more and more wealth
in the hands of the various capitalists, and of the capitalist class; and
along with it goes the reduction in the number of capitalists, a movement
called by Marx the centralization- of capital (in contradistinction to mere
accumulation or concentration).

Now three of these terms, competition, accumulation, and increasing
productivity, indicate the fundamental tendencies of all capitalist
production , according to Marx; they are the tendencies to which I alluded
when I described the premise of the first step as 'the laws of capitalist
competition and of accumulation'. The fourth and the fifth terms,
however, concentration and centralization, indicate a tendency which
forms one part of the conclusion of the first step; for they describe a
tendency towards a continuous increase of wealth, and its centralization
in fewer and fewer hands. The other part of the conclusion, however, the
law of increasing misery, is only reached by a much more complicated
argument. But before beginning an explanation of this argument, I must
first explain this second conclusion itself.

The term 'increasing misery' may mean, as used by Marx, two
different things. It may be used in order to describe the extent of misery.

indicating that it is spread over an increasing number of people; or it may
be used in order to indicate an increase in the intensity of the suffering of
the people. Marx undoubtedly believed that misery was growing both in
extent and in intensity. This, however, is more than he needed in order to
carry his point. For the purpose of the prophetic argument, a wider
interpretation of the term 'increasing misery' would do just as well (if
not better-); an interpretation, namely, according to which the extent of
misery increases, while its intensity may or may not increase, but at any
rate does not show any marked decrease.

But there is a further and much more important comment to be made.
Increasing misery, to Marx, involves fundamentally an increasing
exploitation of the employed workers; not only in numbers but also in
intensity. It must be admitted that in addition it involves an increase in
the suffering as well as in the numbers of the unemployed, called- by
Marx the (relative) 'surplus population' or the 'industrial reserve army'.
But the function of the unemployed, in this process, is to exert pressure
upon the employed workers, thus assisting the capitalists in their efforts
to make profit out of the employed workers, to exploit them. 'The
industrial reserve army', Marx writes-, 'belongs to capitalism just as if
its members had been reared by the capitalists at their own cost. For its
own varying needs, capital creates an ever-ready supply of exploitable
human material . . . During periods of depression and of semi-prosperity,
the industrial reserve army keeps up its pressure upon the ranks of the
employed workers; and during periods of excessive production and boom,
it serves to bridle their aspirations.' Increasing misery, according to
Marx, is essentially the increasing exploitation of labour power; and
since labour power of the unemployed is not exploited, they can serve in
this process only as unpaid assistants of the capitalists in the exploitation
of the employed workers. The point is important since later Marxists
have often referred to unemployment as one of the empirical facts that

verify the prophecy that misery tends to increase; but unemployment can
be claimed to corroborate Marx's theory only if it occurs together with
increased exploitation of the employed workers, i.e. with long hours of
work and with low real wages.

This may suffice to explain the term 'increasing misery'. But it is still
necessary to explain the law of increasing misery which Marx claimed to
have discovered. By this I mean the doctrine of Marx on which the whole
prophetic argument hinges; namely, the doctrine that capitalism cannot
possibly afford to decrease the misery of the workers, since the
mechanism of capitalist accumulation keeps the capitalist under a strong
economic pressure which he is forced to pass on to the workers if he is
not to succumb. This is why the capitalists cannot compromise, why they
cannot meet any important demand of the workers, even if they wished to
do so; this is why 'capitalism cannot be reformed but can only be
destroyed'-. It is clear that this law is the decisive conclusion of the first
step. The other conclusion, the law of increasing wealth, would be a
harmless matter, if only it were possible for the increase of wealth to be
shared by the workers. Marx's contention that this is impossible will
therefore be the main subject of our critical analysis. But before
proceeding to a presentation and criticism of Marx's arguments in favour
of this contention, I may briefly comment on the first part of the
conclusion, the theory of increasing wealth.

The tendency towards the accumulation and concentration of wealth,
which Marx observed, can hardly be questioned. His theory of increasing
productivity is also, in the main, unexceptionable. Although there may be
limits to the beneficial effects exerted by the growth of an enterprise
upon its productivity, there are hardly any limits to the beneficial effects
of the improvement and accumulation of machinery. But in regard to the
tendency towards the centralization of capital in fewer and fewer hands,
matters are not quite so simple. Undoubtedly, there is a tendency in that

direction, and we may grant that under an unrestrained capitalist system
there are few counteracting forces. Not much can be said against this part
of Marx's analysis as a description of an unrestrained capitalism. But
considered as a prophecy, it is less tenable. For we know that now there
are many means by which legislation can intervene. Taxation and death
duties can be used most effectively to counteract centralization, and they
have been so used. And anti-trust legislation can also be used, although
perhaps with less effect. To evaluate the force of Marx's prophetic
argument we must consider the possibility of great improvements in this
direction; and as in previous chapters, I must declare that the argument
on which Marx bases this prophecy of centralization or of a decrease in
the number of capitalists is inconclusive.

Having explained the main premises and conclusions of the first step,
and having disposed of the first conclusion, we can now concentrate our
attention entirely upon Marx's derivation of the other conclusion, the
prophetic law of increasing misery. Three different trends of thought may
be distinguished in his attempts to establish this prophecy. They will be
dealt with in the next four sections of this chapter under the headings: II:
the theory of value; III: the effect of the surplus population upon wages;
IV: the trade cycle; V: the effects of the falling rate of profit.

Marx's theory of value, usually considered by Marxists as well as by anti-
Marxists as a corner-stone of the Marxist creed, is in my opinion one of
its rather unimportant parts; indeed, the sole reason why I am going to
treat of it, instead of proceeding at once to the next section, is that it is
generally held to be important, and that I cannot defend my reasons for

differing from this opinion without discussing the theory. But I wish to
make it clear at once that in holding that the theory of value is a
redundant part of Marxism, I am defending Marx rather than attacking
him. For there is little doubt that the many critics who have shown that
the theory of value is very weak in itself are in the main perfectly right.
But even if they were wrong, it would only strengthen the position of
Marxism if it could be established that its decisive historico-political
doctrines can be developed entirely independently of such a controversial
theory.

The idea of the so-called labour theory of value-, adapted by Marx for
his purposes from suggestions he found in his predecessors (he refers
especially to Adam Smith and David Ricardo), is simple enough. If you
need a carpenter, you must pay him by the hour. If you ask him why a
certain job is more expensive than another one, he will point out that
there is more work in it. In addition to the labour, you must pay of course
for the timber. But if you go into this a little more closely, then you find
that you are, indirectly, paying for the labour involved in foresting,
felling, transporting, sawing, etc. This consideration suggests the general
theory that you have to pay for the job, or for any commodity you may
buy, roughly in proportion to the amount of work in it, i.e. to the number
of labour hours necessary for its production.

I say 'roughly' because the actual prices fluctuate. But there is, or so at
least it appears, always something more stable behind these prices, a kind
of average price about which the actual prices oscillate—, christened the
'exchange- value' or, briefly, the 'value' of the thing. Using this general
idea, Marx defined the value of a commodity as the average number of
labour hours necessary for its production (or for its reproduction).

The next idea, that of the theory of surplus value, is nearly as simple. It
too was adapted by Marx from his predecessors. (Engels asserts^^- —
perhaps mistakenly, but I shall follow his presentation of the matter —

that Marx's main source was Ricardo.) The theory of surplus value is an
attempt, within the limits of the labour theory of value, to answer the
question: 'How does the capitalist make his profit?' If we assume that the
commodities produced in his factory are sold on the market at their true
value, i.e. according to the number of labour hours necessary for their
production, then the only way in which the capitalist can make a profit is
by paying his workers less than the full value of their product. Thus the
wages received by the worker represent a value which is not equal to the
number of hours he has worked. And we can accordingly divide his
working day into two parts, the hours he has spent in producing value
equivalent to his wages and the hours he has spent in producing value for
the capitalist—. And correspondingly, we can divide the whole value
produced by the worker into two parts, the value equal to his wages, and
the rest, which is called surplus value. This surplus value is appropriated
by the capitalist and is the sole basis for his profit.

So far, the story is simple enough. But now there arises a theoretical
difficulty. The whole value theory has been introduced in order to explain
the actual prices at which all commodities are exchanged; and it is still
assumed that the capitalist is able to obtain on the market the full value
of his product, i.e. a price that corresponds to the total number of hours
spent on it. But it looks as if the worker does not get the full price of the
commodity which he sells to the capitalist on the labour market. It looks
as if he is cheated, or robbed; at any rate, as if he is not paid according to
the general law assumed by the value theory, namely, that all actual
prices paid are, at least in a first approximation, determined by the value
of the commodity. (Engels says that the problem was realized by the
economists who belonged to what Marx called 'the school of Ricardo';
and he asserts— that their inability to solve it led to the breakdown of this
school.) There appeared what seemed a rather obvious solution of the
difficulty. The capitalist possesses a monopoly of the means of

production, and this superior economic power can be used for bullying
the worker into an agreement which violates the law of value. But this
solution (which I consider quite a plausible description of the situation)
utterly destroys the labour theory of value. For it now turns out that
certain prices, namely, wages, do not correspond to their values, not even
in a first approximation. And this opens up the possibility that this may
be true of other prices for similar reasons.

Such was the situation when Marx entered the scene in order to save
the labour theory of value from destruction. With the help of another
simple but brilliant idea he succeeded in showing that the theory of
surplus value was not only compatible with the labour theory of value but
that it could also be rigidly deduced from the latter. In order to achieve
this deduction, we have only to ask ourselves: what is, precisely, the
commodity which the worker sells to the capitalist? Marx's reply is: not
his labour hours, but his whole labour power. What the capitalist buys or
hires on the labour market is the labour power of the worker. Let us
assume, tentatively, that this commodity is sold at its true value. What is
its value? According to the definition of value, the value of labour power
is the average number of labour hours necessary for its production or
reproduction. But this is, clearly, nothing but the number of hours
necessary for producing the worker's (and his family's) means oj
subsistence.

Marx thus arrived at the following result. The true value of the
worker's whole labour power is equal to the labour hours needed for
producing the means of his subsistence. Labour power is sold for this
price to the capitalist. If the worker is able to work longer than that, then
his surplus labour belongs to the buyer or hirer of his power. The greater
the productivity of labour, that is to say, the more a worker can produce
per hour, the fewer hours will be needed for the production of his
subsistence, and the more hours remain for his exploitation. This shows

that the basis of capitalist exploitation is a high productivity of labour. If
the worker could produce in a day no more than his own daily needs, then
exploitation would be impossible without violating the law of value; it
would be possible only by means of cheating, robbery, or murder. But
once the productivity of labour has, by the introduction of machinery,
risen so high that one man can produce much more than he needs,
capitalist exploitation becomes possible. It is possible even in a capitalist
society which is 'ideal' in the sense that every commodity, including
labour power, is bought and sold at its true value. In such a society, the
injustice of exploitation does not lie in the fact that the worker is not paid
a 'just price' for his labour power, but rather in the fact that he is so poor
that he is forced to sell his labour power, while the capitalist is rich
enough to buy labour power in great quantities, and to make profit out of
it.

By this derivation— of the theory of surplus value, Marx saved the
labour theory of value from destruction for the time being; and in spite of
the fact that I regard the whole 'value problem' (in the sense of an
'objective' true value round which the prices oscillate) as irrelevant, I am
very ready to admit that this was a theoretical success of the first order.
But Marx had done more than save a theory originally advanced by
'bourgeois economists'. With one stroke, he gave a theory of exploitation
and a theory explaining why the workers' wages tend to oscillate about
the subsistence (or starvation) level. But the greatest success was that he
could now give an explanation, one in keeping with his economic theory
of the legal system, of the fact that the capitalist mode of production
tended to adopt the legal cloak of liberalism. For the new theory led him
to the conclusion that once the introduction of new machinery had
multiplied the productivity of labour, there arose the possibility of a new
form of exploitation which used a free market instead of brutal force, and
which was based on the 'formal' observance of justice, equality before

the law, and freedom. The capitalist system, he asserted, was not only a
system of 'free competition', but it was also 'maintained by the
exploitation of the labour of others, but of labour which, in a formal
sense, is free'—.

It is impossible for me to enter here into a detailed account of the
really astonishing number of further applications made by Marx of his
value theory. But it is also unnecessary, since my criticism of the theory
will show the way in which the value theory can be eliminated from all
these investigations. I am now going to develop this criticism; its three
main points are {a) that Marx's value theory does not suffice to explain
exploitation, {b) that the additional assumptions which are necessary for
such an explanation turn out to be sufficient, so that the theory of value
turns out to be redundant, (c) that Marx's theory of value is an
essentialist or metaphysical one.

{a) The fundamental law of the theory of value is the law that the
prices of practically all commodities, including wages, are determined by
their values, or more precisely, that they are at least in a first
approximation proportional to the labour hours necessary for their
production. Now this 'law of value', as I may call it, at once raises a
problem. Why does it hold? Obviously, neither the buyer nor the seller of
the commodity can see, at a glance, how many hours are necessary for its
production; and even if they could, it would not explain the law of value.
For it is clear that the buyer simply buys as cheaply as he can, and that
the seller charges as much as he can get. This, it appears, must be one of
the fundamental assumptions of any theory of market prices. In order to
explain the law of value, it would be our task to show why the buyer is
unlikely to succeed in buying below, and the seller in selling above, the
'value' of a commodity. This problem was seen more or less clearly by
those who believed in the labour theory of value, and their reply was this.
For the purpose of simplification, and in order to obtain a first

approximation, let us assume perfectly free competition, and for the same
reason let us consider only such commodities as can be manufactured in
practically unlimited quantities (if only the labour were available). Now
let us assume that the price of such a commodity is above its value; this
would mean that excessive profits can be made in this particular branch
of production. It would encourage various manufacturers to produce this
commodity, and competition would lower the price. The opposite process
would lead to an increase in the price of a commodity which is sold
below its value. Thus there will be oscillations of price, and these will
tend to centre about the values of commodities. In other words, it is a
mechanism of supply and demand which, under free competition, tends to
give force— to the law of value.

Such considerations as these can be found frequently in Marx, for
instance, in the third volume of Capital—, where he tries to explain why
there is a tendency for all profits in the various branches of manufacture
to approximate, and adjust themselves, to a certain average profit. And
they are also used in the first volume, especially in order to show why
wages are kept low, near subsistence level, or, what amounts to the same,
just above starvation level. It is clear that with wages below this level, the
workers would actually starve, and the supply of labour power on the
labour market would disappear. But as long as men live, they will
reproduce; and Marx attempts to show in detail (as we shall see in section
IV), why the mechanism of capitalist accumulation must create a surplus
population, an industrial reserve army. Thus as long as wages are just
above starvation level there will always be not only a sufficient but even
an excessive supply of labour power on the labour market; and it is this
excessive supply which, according to Marx, prevents the rise of wages—:
'The industrial reserve army keeps up its pressure upon the ranks of the
employed workers; ... thus surplus population is the background in front
of which there operates the law of supply and demand of labour. Surplus

population restricts the range within which this law is permitted to
operate to such limits as best suit the capitalist greed for exploitation and
domination. '

(b) Now this passage shows that Marx himself realized the necessity of
backing up the law of value by a more concrete theory; a theory which
shows, in any particular case, how the laws of supply and demand bring
about the effect which has to be explained; for instance, starvation wages.
But if these laws are sufficient to explain these effects, then we do not
need the labour theory of value at all, whether or not it may be tenable as
a first approximation (which I do not think it is). Furthermore, as Marx
realized, the laws of supply and demand are necessary for explaining all
those cases in which there is no free competition, and in which his law of
value is therefore clearly out of operation; for instance, where a
monopoly can be used to keep prices constantly above their 'values'.
Marx considered such cases as exceptions, which is hardly the right view;
but however this may be, the case of monopolies shows not only that the
laws of supply and demand are necessary to supplement his law of value,
but also that they are more generally applicable.

On the other hand, it is clear that the laws of supply and demand are
not only necessary but also sufficient to explain all the phenomena of
'exploitation' which Marx observed — the phenomena, more precisely, of
the misery of the workers side by side with the wealth of the
entrepreneurs — if we assume, as Marx did, a free labour market as well
as a chronically excessive supply of labour. (Marx's theory of this
excessive supply will be discussed more fully in section IV below.) As
Marx shows, it is clear enough that the workers will be forced, under such
circumstances, to work long hours at low wages, in other words, to permit
the capitalist to 'appropriate the best part of the fruits of their labour'.
And in this trivial argument, which is part of Marx's own, there is no
need even to mention 'value'.

Thus the value theory turns out to be a completely redundant part of
Marx's theory of exploitation; and this holds independently of the
question whether or not the value theory is true. But the part of Marx's
theory of exploitation which remains after the value theory is eliminated
is undoubtedly correct, provided we accept the doctrine of surplus
population. It is unquestionably true that (in the absence of a
redistribution of wealth through the state) the existence of a surplus
population must lead to starvation wages, and to provocative differences
in the standard of living.

(What is not so clear, and not explained by Marx either, is why the
supply of labour should continue to exceed the demand. For if it is so
profitable to 'exploit' labour, how is it, then, that the capitalists are not
forced, by competition, to try to raise their profits by employing more
labour? In other words, why do they not compete against each other on
the labour market, thereby raising the wages to the point where they
begin to become no longer sufficiently profitable, so that it is no longer
possible to speak of exploitation? Marx would have answered — see
section V, below — 'Because competition forces them to invest more and
more capital in machinery, so that they cannot increase that part of their
capital which they use for wages'. But this answer is unsatisfactory since
even if they spend their capital on machinery, they can do so only by
buying labour to build machinery, or by causing others to buy such
labour, thus increasing the demand for labour. It appears, for such
reasons, that the phenomena of 'exploitation' which Marx observed were
due, not, as he believed, to the mechanism of a perfectly competitive
market, but to other factors — especially to a mixture of low productivity
and imperfectly competitive markets. But a detailed and satisfactory
explanation— of the phenomena appears still to be missing.)

(c) Before leaving this discussion of the value theory and the part
played by it in Marx's analysis, I wish to comment briefly upon another

of its aspects. The whole idea — which was not Marx's invention — that
there is something behind the prices, an objective or real or true value of
which prices are only a 'form of appearance'—, shows clearly enough the
influence of Platonic Idealism with its distinction between a hidden
essential or true reality, and an accidental or delusive appearance. Marx,
it must be said, made a great effort— to destroy this mystical character of
objective 'value', but he did not succeed. He tried to be realistic, to
accept only something observable and important — labour hours — as the
reality which appears in the form of price; and it cannot be questioned
that the number of labour hours necessary for producing a commodity,
i.e. its Marxian 'value', is an important thing. And in a way, it surely is a
purely verbal problem whether or not we should call these labour hours
the 'value' of the commodity. But such a terminology may become most
misleading and strangely unrealistic, especially if we assume with Marx
that the productivity of labour increases. For it has been pointed out by
Marx himself— that, with increasing productivity, the value of all
commodities decreases, and that an increase is therefore possible in real
wages as well as real profits, i.e. in the commodities consumed by
workers and by capitalists respectively, together with a decrease in the
'value' of wages and of profits, i.e. in the hours spent on them. Thus
wherever we find real progress, such as shorter working hours and a
greatly improved standard of living of the workers (quite apart from a
higher income in money—, even if calculated in gold), then the workers
could at the same time bitterly complain that the Marxian 'value', the
real essence or substance of their income, is dwindling away, since the
labour hours necessary for its production have been reduced. (An
analogous complaint might be made by the capitalists.) All this is
admitted by Marx himself; and it shows how misleading the value
terminology must be, and how little it represents the real social
experience of the workers. In the labour theory of value, the Platonic

'essence' has become entirely divorced from experience— ...

Ill

After eliminating Marx's labour theory of value and his theory of surplus
value, we can, of course, still retain his analysis (see the end of (a) in
section II) of the pressure exerted by the surplus population upon the
wages of the employed workers. It cannot be denied that, if there is a free
labour market and a surplus population, i.e. widespread and chronic
unemployment (and there can be no doubt that unemployment played its
role in Marx's time and ever since), then wages cannot rise above
starvation wages; and under the same assumption, together with the
doctrine of accumulation developed above, Marx, although not justified
in proclaiming a law of increasing misery, was right in asserting that, in a
world of high profits and increasing wealth, starvation wages and a life of
misery might be the permanent lot of the workers.

I think that, even if Marx's analysis was defective, his effort to explain
the phenomenon of 'exploitation' deserves the greatest respect. (As
mentioned at the end of (b) in the foregoing section, no really satisfactory
theory seems to exist even now.) It must be said, of course, that Marx was
wrong when he prophesied that the conditions which he observed were to
be permanent if not changed by a revolution, and even more when he
prophesied that they would get worse. The facts have refuted these
prophecies. Moreover, even if we could admit the validity of his analysis
for an unrestrained, a noninterventionist system, even then would his
prophetic argument be inconclusive. For the tendency towards increasing
misery operates, according to Marx's own analysis, only under a system
in which the labour market is free — in a perfectly unrestrained

capitalism. But once we admit the possibility of trade unions, of
collective bargaining, of strikes, then the assumptions of the analysis are
no longer applicable, and the whole prophetic argument breaks down.
According to Marx's own analysis, we should have to expect that such a
development would either be suppressed, or that it would be equivalent to
a social revolution. For collective bargaining can oppose capital by
establishing a kind of monopoly of labour; it can prevent the capitalist
from using the industrial reserve army for the purpose of keeping wages
down; and in this way it can force the capitalists to content themselves
with lower profits. We see here why the cry 'Workers, unite! ' was, from a
Marxian point of view, indeed the only possible reply to an unrestrained
capitalism.

But we see, too, why this cry must open up the whole problem of state
interference, and why it is likely to lead to the end of the unrestrained
system, and to a new system, interventionism—, which may develop in
very different directions. For it is almost inevitable that the capitalists
will contest the workers' right to unite, maintaining that unions must
endanger the freedom of competition on the labour market. Non-
interventionism thus faces the problem (it is part of the paradox of
freedom—): Which freedom should the state protect? The freedom of the
labour market, or the freedom of the poor to unite? Whichever decision is
taken, it leads to state intervention, to the use of organized political
power, of the state as well as of unions, in the field of economic
conditions. It leads, under all circumstances, to an extension of the
economic responsibility of the state, whether or not this responsibility is
consciously accepted. And this means that the assumptions on which
Marx's analysis is based must disappear.

The derivation of the historical law of increasing misery is thus
invalid. All that remains is a moving description of the misery of the
workers which prevailed a hundred years ago, and a valiant attempt to

explain it with the help of what we may call, with Lenin—, Marx's
'economic law of the movement of contemporary society' (that is, of the
unrestrained capitalism of a hundred years ago). But in so far as it is
meant as an historical prophecy, and in so far as it is used to deduce the
'inevitability' of certain historical developments, the derivation is
invalid.

The significance of Marx's analysis rests very largely upon the fact that a
surplus population actually existed at his time, and down to our own day
(a fact which has hardly received a really satisfactory explanation yet, as
I said before). So far, however, we have not yet discussed Marx's
argument in support of his contention that it is the mechanism of
capitalist production itself that always produces the surplus population
which it needs for keeping down the wages of the employed workers. But
this theory is not only ingenious and interesting in itself; it contains at the
same time Marx's theory of the trade cycle and of general depressions, a
theory which clearly bears upon the prophecy of the crash of the capitalist
system because of the intolerable misery which it must produce. In order
to make as strong a case for Marx's theory as I can, I have altered it
slightly— (namely, by introducing a distinction between two kinds of
machinery, the one for the mere extension, and the other for the
intensification, of production). But this alteration need not arouse the
suspicion of Marxist readers; for I am not going to criticize the theory at
all.

The amended theory of surplus population and of the trade cycle may
be outlined as follows. The accumulation of capital means that the

capitalist spends part of his profits on new machinery; this may also be
expressed by saying that only a part of his real profits consists in goods
for consumption, while part of it consists in machines. These machines,
in turn, may be intended either for the expansion of industry, for new
factories, etc., or they may be intended for intensifying production by
increasing the productivity of labour in the existing industries. The
former kind of machinery makes possible an increase of employment, the
latter kind has the effect of making workers superfluous, of 'setting the
workers at liberty' as this process was called in Marx's day. (Nowadays it
is sometimes called 'technological unemployment'.) Now the mechanism
of capitalist production, as envisaged by the amended Marxist theory of
the trade cycle, works roughly like this. If we assume, to start with, that
for some reason or other there is a general expansion of industry, then a
part of the industrial reserve army will be absorbed, the pressure upon the
labour market will be relieved, and wages will show a tendency to rise. A
period of prosperity begins. But the moment wages rise, certain
mechanical improvements which intensify production and which were
previously unprofitable because of the low wages may become profitable
(even though the cost of such machinery will begin to rise). Thus more
machinery will be produced of the kind that 'sets the workers at liberty'.
As long as these machines are only in the process of being produced,
prosperity continues, or increases. But once the new machines are
themselves beginning to produce, the picture changes. (This change is,
according to Marx, accentuated by a fall in the rate of profit, to be
discussed under (V), below.) Workers will be 'set at liberty', i.e.
condemned to starvation. But the disappearance of many consumers must
lead to a collapse of the home market. In consequence, great numbers of
machines in the expanded factories become idle (the less efficient
machinery first), and this leads to a further increase of unemployment
and a further collapse of the market. The fact that much machinery now

lies idle means that much capital has become worthless, that many
capitalists cannot fulfil their obligations; thus a financial crisis develops,
leading to complete stagnation in the production of capital goods, etc. But
while the depression (or, as Marx calls it, the 'crisis') takes its course, the
conditions are ripening for a recovery. These conditions mainly consist in
the growth of the industrial reserve army and the consequent readiness of
the workers to accept starvation wages. At very low wages, production
becomes profitable even at the low prices of a depressed market; and
once production starts, the capitalist begins again to accumulate, to buy
machinery. Since wages are very low, he will find that it is not yet
profitable to use new machinery (perhaps invented in the meanwhile) of
the type which sets the workers at liberty. At first he will rather buy
machinery with the plan of extending production. This leads slowly to an
extension of employment and to a recovery of the home market.
Prosperity is coming once again. Thus we are back at our starting point.
The cycle is closed, and the process can start once more.

This is the amended Marxist theory of unemployment and of the trade
cycle. As I have promised, I am not going to criticize it. The theory of
trade cycles is a very difficult affair, and we certainly do not yet know
enough about it (at least I don't). It is very likely that the theory outlined
is incomplete , and, especially, that such aspects as the existence of a
monetary system based partly upon credit creation, and the effects of
hoarding, are not sufficiently taken into account. But however this may
be, the trade cycle is a fact which cannot easily be argued away, and it is
one of the greatest of Marx's merits to have emphasized its significance
as a social problem. But although all this must be admitted, we may
criticize the prophecy which Marx attempts to base upon his theory of the
trade cycle. First of all, he asserts that depressions will become
increasingly worse, not only in their scope but also in the intensity of the
workers' suffering. But he gives no argument to support this (apart.

perhaps, from the theory of the fall in the rate of profit, which will be
discussed presently). And if we look at actual developments, then we
must say that terrible as are the effects and especially the psychological
effects of unemployment even in those countries where the workers are
now insured against it, there is no doubt that the workers' sufferings were
incomparably worse in Marx's day. But this is not my main point.

In Marx's day, nobody ever thought of that technique of state
intervention which is now called 'counter cycle policy'; and, indeed, such
a thought must be utterly foreign to an unrestrained capitalist system.
(But even before Marx's time, we find the beginning of doubts about, and
even of investigations into, the wisdom of the credit policy of the Bank of
England during a depression—.) Unemployment insurance, however,
means intervention, and therefore an increase in the responsibility of the
state, and it is likely to lead to experiments in counter cycle policy. I do
not maintain that these experiments must necessarily be successful
(although I do believe that the problem may in the end prove not so very
difficult, and that Sweden—, in particular, has already shown what can be
done in this field). But I wish to assert most emphatically that the belief
that it is impossible to abolish unemployment by piecemeal measures is
on the same plane of dogmatism as the numerous physical proofs
(proffered by men who lived even later than Marx) that the problems of
aviation would always remain insoluble. When the Marxists say, as they
sometimes do, that Marx has proved the uselessness of a counter cycle
policy and of similar piecemeal measures, then they simply do not speak
the truth; Marx investigated an unrestrained capitalism, and he never
dreamt of interventionism. He therefore never investigated the possibility
of a systematic interference with the trade cycle, much less did he offer a
proof of its impossibility. It is strange to find that the same people who
complain of the irresponsibility of the capitalists in the face of human
suffering are irresponsible enough to oppose, with dogmatic assertions of

this kind, experiments from which we may learn how to relieve human
suffering (how to become masters of our social environment, as Marx
would have said), and how to control some of the unwanted social
repercussions of our actions. But the apologists of Marxism are quite
unaware of the fact that in the name of their own vested interests they are
fighting against progress; they do not see that it is the danger of any
movement like Marxism that it soon comes to represent all kinds of
vested interests, and that there are intellectual investments, as well as
material ones.

Another point must be stated here. Marx, as we have seen, believed
that unemployment was fundamentally a gadget of the capitalist
mechanism with the function of keeping wages low, and of making the
exploitation of the employed workers easier; increasing misery always
involved for him increasing misery of the employed workers too; and this
is just the whole point of the plot. But even if we assume that this view
was justified in his day, as a prophecy it has been definitely refuted by
later experience. The standard of living of employed workers has risen
everywhere since Marx's day; and (as Parkes— has emphasized in his
criticism of Marx) the real wages of employed workers tend even to
increase during a depression (they did so, for example, during the last
great depression), owing to a more rapid fall in prices than in wages. This
is a glaring refutation of Marx, especially since it proves that the main
burden of unemployment insurance was borne not by the workers, but by
the entrepreneurs, who therefore lost directly through unemployment,
instead of profiting indirectly, as in Marx's scheme.

None of the Marxist theories so far discussed do even seriously attempt
to prove the point which is the most decisive one within the first step;
namely, that accumulation keeps the capitalist under a strong economic
pressure which he is forced, on pain of his own destruction, to pass on to
the workers; so that capitalism can only be destroyed, but not reformed.
An attempt to prove this point is contained in that theory of Marx's which
aims at establishing the law that the rate of profit tends to fall.

What Marx calls the rate of profit corresponds to the rate of interest; it
is the percentage of the yearly average of capitalist profit over the whole
invested capital. This rate, Marx says, tends to fall owing to the rapid
growth of capital investments; for these must accumulate more quickly
than profits can rise.

The argument by which Marx attempts to prove this is again rather
ingenious. Capitalist competition, as we have seen, forces the capitalists
to make investments that increase the productivity of labour. Marx even
admitted that by this increase in productivity they render a great service
to mankind—: 'It is one of the civilizing aspects of capitalism that it
exacts surplus value in a manner and under circumstances which are more
favourable than previous forms (such as slavery, serfdom, etc.) to the
development of the productive powers, as well as to the social conditions
for a reconstruction of society on a higher plane. For this, it even creates
the elements; ... for the quantity of useful commodities produced in any
given span of time depends upon the productivity of labour.' But this
service to mankind is not only rendered without any intention by the
capitalists; the action to which they are forced by competition also runs
counter to their own interests, for the following reason.

The capital of any industrialist can be divided into two parts. One is
invested in land, machinery, raw materials, etc. The other is used for
wages. Marx calls the first part 'constant capital' and the second
'variable capital'; but since I consider this terminology rather

misleading, I shall call the two parts 'immobilized capital' and 'wage
capital'. The capitalist, according to Marx, can profit only by exploiting
the workers; in other words, by using his wage capital. Immobilized
capital is a kind of a dead weight which he is forced by competition to
carry on with, and even to increase continually. This increase is not,
however, accompanied by a corresponding increase in his profits; only an
extension of the wage capital could have this wholesome effect. But the
general tendency towards an increase in productivity means that the
material part of capital increases relatively to its wage part. Therefore,
the total capital increases also, and without a compensating increase in
profits; that is to say, the rate of profit must fall.

Now this argument has been often questioned; indeed, it was attacked,
by implication, long before Marx—. In spite of these attacks, I believe
that there may be something in Marx's argument; especially if we take it
together with his theory of the trade cycle. (I shall return to this point
briefly in the next chapter.) But what I wish to question here is the
bearing of this argument upon the theory of increasing misery.

Marx sees this connection as follows. If the rate of profit tends to fall,
then the capitalist is faced with destruction. All he can do is to attempt to
'take it out of the workers', i.e. to increase exploitation. This he can do by
extending working hours; speeding up work; lowering wages; raising the
workers' cost of living (inflation); exploiting more women and children.
The inner contradictions of capitalism, based on the fact that competition
and profit-making are in conflict, develop here into a climax. First, they
force the capitalist to accumulate and to increase productivity, and so
reduce the rate of profit. Next, they force him to increase exploitation to
an intolerable degree, and with it the tension between the classes. Thus
compromise is impossible. The contradictions cannot be removed. They
must finally seal the fate of capitalism.

This is the main argument. But can it be conclusive? We must

remember that increased productivity is the very basis of capitalist
exploitation; only if the worker can produce much more than he needs for
himself and his family can the capitalist appropriate surplus labour.
Increased productivity, in Marx's terminology, means increased surplus
labour; it means both an increased number of hours available to the
capitalist, and on top of this, an increased number of commodities
produced per hour. It means, in other words, a greatly increased profit.
This is admitted by Marx—. He does not hold that profits are dwindling;
he only holds that the total capital increases much more quickly than the
profits, so that the rate of profit falls.

But if this is so, there is no reason why the capitalist should labour
under an economic pressure which he is forced to pass on to the workers,
whether he likes it or not. It is true, probably, that he does not like to see
a fall in his rate of profit. But as long as his income does not fall, but, on
the contrary, rises, there is no real danger. The situation for a successful
average capitalist will be this: he sees his income rise quickly, and his
capital still more quickly; that is to say, his savings rise more quickly
than the part of his income which he consumes. I do not think that this is
a situation which must force him to desperate measures, or which makes
a compromise with the workers impossible. On the contrary, it seems to
me quite tolerable.

It is true, of course, that the situation contains an element of danger.
Those capitalists who speculate on the assumption of a constant or of a
rising rate of profit may get into trouble; and things such as these may
indeed contribute to the trade cycle, accentuating the depression. But this
has little to do with the sweeping consequences which Marx prophesied.

This concludes my analysis of the third and last argument, propounded
by Marx in order to prove the law of increasing misery.

In order to show how completely wrong Marx was in his prophecies, and
at the same time how justified he was in his glowing protest against the
hell of an unrestrained capitalism as well as in his demand, 'Workers,
unite!', I shall quote a few passages from the chapter of Capital in which
he discusses the 'General Law of Capitalist Accumulation'—. 'In
factories . . . young male workers are used up in masses before they reach
the age of manhood; after that, only a very small proportion remains
useful for industry, so that they are constantly dismissed in large
numbers. They then form part of the floating surplus population which
grows with the growth of industry . . . Labour power is so quickly used up
by capital that the middle-aged worker is usually a worn-out man . . . Dr.
Lee, medical officer of health, declared not long ago "that the average
age at death of the Manchester upper middle class was 38, while the
average age at death of the labouring class was 17; while at Liverpool
those figures were represented as 35 against 15 ..." ... The exploitation
of working-class children puts a premium upon their production . . . The
higher the productivity of labour ... the more precarious become the
worker's conditions of existence . . . Within the capitalist system, all the
methods for raising the social productivity of labour . . . are transformed
into means of domination and of exploitation; they mutilate the worker
into a fragment of a human being, they degrade him to a mere cog in the
machine, they make work a torture, ... and drag his wife and children
beneath the wheels of the capitalist Juggernaut ...It follows that to the
degree in which capital accumulates, the worker's condition must
deteriorate, whatever his payment may be ... the greater the social
wealth, the amount of capital at work, the extent and energy of its growth,
... the larger is the surplus population ... The size of the industrial

reserve army grows as the power of wealth grows. But ... the larger the
industrial reserve army, the larger are the masses of the workers whose
misery is relieved only by an increase in the agony of toil; and ... the
larger is the number of those who are officially recognized as paupers.
This is the absolute and general law of capitalist accumulation ... The
accumulation of wealth at the one pole of society involves at the same
time an accumulation of misery, of the agony of toil, of slavery,
ignorance, brutalization, and of moral degradation, at the opposite pole

Marx's terrible picture of the economy of his time is only too true. But
his law that misery must increase together with accumulation does not
hold. Means of production have accumulated and the productivity of
labour has increased since his day to an extent which even he would
hardly have thought possible. But child labour, working hours, the agony
of toil, and the precariousness of the worker's existence, have not
increased; they have declined. I do not say that this process must
continue. There is no law of progress, and everything will depend on
ourselves. But the actual situation is briefly and fairly summed up by
Parkes— in one sentence: 'Low wages, long hours, and child labour have
been characteristic of capitalism not, as Marx predicted, in its old age,
but in its infancy. '

Unrestrained capitalism is gone. Since the day of Marx, democratic
interventionism has made immense advances, and the improved
productivity of labour — a consequence of the accumulation of capital —
has made it possible virtually to stamp out misery. This shows that much
has been achieved, in spite of undoubtedly grave mistakes, and it should
encourage us to believe that more can be done. For much remains to be
done and to be undone. Democratic interventionism can only make it
possible. It rests with us to do it.

I have no illusions concerning the force of my arguments. Experience

shows that Marx's prophecies were false. But experience can always be
explained away. And, indeed, Marx himself, and Engels, began with the
elaboration of an auxiliary hypothesis designed to explain why the law of
increasing misery does not work as they expected it to do. According to
this hypothesis, the tendency towards a falling rate of profit, and with it,
increasing misery, is counteracted by the effects of colonial exploitation,
or, as it is usually called, by 'modern imperialism'. Colonial exploitation,
according to this theory, is a method of passing on economic pressure to
the colonial proletariat, a group which, economically as well as
politically, is weaker still than the industrial proletariat at home. 'Capital
invested in colonies', Marx writes—, 'may yield a higher rate of profit for
the simple reason that the rate of profit is higher there where capitalist
development is still in a backward stage, and for the added reason that
slaves, coolies, etc., permit a better exploitation of labour. I can see no
reason why these higher rates of profit . . . , when sent home, should not
enter there as elements into the average rate of profit, and, in proportion,
contribute to keeping it up.' (It is worth mentioning that the main idea
behind this theory of 'modern' imperialism can be traced back for more
than 160 years, to Adam Smith, who said of colonial trade that it 'has
necessarily contributed to keep up the rate of profit'.) Engels went one
step further than Marx in his development of the theory. Forced to admit
that in Britain the prevailing tendency was not towards an increase in
misery but rather towards a considerable improvement, he hints that this
may be due to the fact that Britain 'is exploiting the whole world'; and he
scornfully assails 'the British working class' which, instead of suffering
as he expected them to do, 'is actually becoming more and more
bourgeois'. And he continues—: 'It seems that this most bourgeois of all
nations wants to bring matters to such a pass as to have a bourgeois
aristocracy and a bourgeois proletariat side by side with the bourgeoisie.'
Now this change of front on Engels' part is at least as remarkable as that

other one of his which I mentioned in the last chapter—; and like that, it
was made under the influence of a social development which turned out
to be one of decreasing misery. Marx blamed capitalism for
'proletarianizing the middle class and the lower bourgeoisie', and for
reducing the workers to pauperism. Engels now blames the system — it is
still blamed — for making bourgeois out of workers. But the nicest touch
in Engels' complaint is the indignation that makes him call the British
who behave so inconsiderately as to falsify Marxist prophecies 'this most
bourgeois of all nations'. According to Marxist doctrine, we should
expect from the 'most bourgeois of all nations' a development of misery
and class tension to an intolerable degree; instead, we hear that the
opposite takes place. But the good Marxist's hair rises when he hears of
the incredible wickedness of a capitalist system that transforms good
proletarians into bad bourgeois; quite forgetting that Marx showed that
the wickedness of the system consisted solely in the fact that it was
working the other way round. Thus we read in Lenin's analysis— of the
evil causes and dreadful effects of modern British imperialism: 'Causes:
(1) exploitation of the whole world by this country; (2) its monopolistic
position in the world market; (3) its colonial monopoly. Effects: (1)
bourgeois ification of a part of the British proletariat \ (2) a part of the
proletariat permits itself to be led by people who are bought by the
bourgeoisie, or who are at least paid by it.' Having given such a pretty
Marxist name, 'the bourgeoisification of the proletariat', to a hateful
tendency — hateful mainly because it did not fit in with the way the world
should go according to Marx — Lenin apparently believes that it has
become a Marxist tendency. Marx himself held that the more quickly the
whole world could go through the necessary historical period of capitalist
industrialization, the better, and he was therefore inclined to support-
imperialist developments. But Lenin came to a very different conclusion.
Since Britain's possession of colonies was the reason why the workers at

home followed 'leaders bought by the bourgeoisie' instead of the
Communists, he saw in the colonial empire a potential trigger or fuse. A
revolution there would make the law of increasing misery operative at
home, and a revolution at home would follow. Thus the colonies were the
place from which the fire would spread . . .

I do not believe that the auxiliary hypothesis whose history I have
sketched can save the law of increasing misery; for this hypothesis is
itself refuted by experience. There are countries, for instance the
Scandinavian democracies, Czechoslovakia, Canada, Australia, New
Zealand, to say nothing of the United States, in which a democratic
interventionism secured to the workers a high standard of living, in spite
of the fact that colonial exploitation had no influence there, or was at any
rate far too unimportant to support the hypothesis. Furthermore, if we
compare certain countries that 'exploit' colonies, like Holland and
Belgium, with Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Czechoslovakia which do
not 'exploit' colonies, we do not find that the industrial workers profited
from the possession of colonies, for the situation of the working classes
in all those countries was strikingly similar. Furthermore, although the
misery imposed upon the natives through colonization is one of the
darkest chapters in the history of civilization, it cannot be asserted that
their misery has tended to increase since the days of Marx. The exact
opposite is the case; things have greatly improved. And yet, increasing
misery would have to be very noticeable there if the auxiliary hypothesis
and the original theory were both correct.

VII

As I did with the second and third steps in the previous chapters, I shall

now illustrate the first step of Marx's prophetic argument by showing
something of its practical influence upon the tactics of Marxist parties.

The Social Democrats, under the pressure of obvious facts, tacitly
dropped the theory that the intensity of misery increases; but their whole
tactics remained based upon the assumption that the law of the increasing
extent of misery was valid, that is to say, that the numerical strength of
the industrial proletariat must continue to increase. This is why they
based their policy exclusively upon representing the interests of the
industrial workers, at the same time firmly believing that they were
representing, or would very soon represent, 'the great majority of the
population'—. They never doubted the assertion of the Manifesto that 'All
previous historical movements were movements of minorities ... The
proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of
the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority.' They
waited confidently, therefore, for the day when the class consciousness
and class assuredness of the industrial workers would win them the
majority in the elections. 'There can be no doubt as to who will be
victorious in the end — the few exploiters, or the immense majority, the
workers.' They did not see that the industrial workers nowhere formed a
majority, much less an 'immense majority', and that statistics no longer
showed any tendency towards an increase in their numbers. They did not
understand that the existence of a democratic workers' party was fully
justified only as long as such a party was prepared to compromise or even
to co-operate with other parties, for instance with some party
representing the peasants, or the middle classes. And they did not see
that, if they wanted to rule the state solely as the representatives of the
majority of the population, they would have to change their whole policy
and cease to represent mainly or exclusively the industrial workers. Of
course, it is no substitute for this change of policy to assert naively that
the proletarian policy as such may simply bring (as Marx said—) 'the

rural producers under the intellectual leadership of the central towns of
their districts, there securing to them, in the industrial worker, the natural
trustee of their interests . . . '

The position of the Communist parties was different. They strictly
adhered to the theory of increasing misery, believing in an increase not
only of its extent but also of its intensity, once the causes of the
temporary bourgeoisification of the workers were removed. This belief
contributed considerably to what Marx would have called 'the inner
contradictions' of their policy.

The tactical situation seems simple enough. Thanks to Marx's
prophecy, the Communists knew for certain that misery must soon
increase. They also knew that the party could not win the confidence of
the workers without fighting for them, and with them, for an
improvement of their lot. These two fundamental assumptions clearly
determined the principles of their general tactics. Make the workers
demand their share, back them up in every particular episode in their
unceasing fight for bread and shelter. Fight with them tenaciously for the
fulfilment of their practical demands, whether economic or political.
Thus you will win their confidence. At the same time, the workers will
learn that it is impossible for them to better their lot by these petty fights,
and that nothing short of a wholesale revolution can bring about an
improvement. For all these petty fights are bound to be unsuccessful; we
know from Marx that the capitalists simply cannot continue to
compromise and that, ultimately, misery must increase. Accordingly, the
only result — ^but a valuable one — of the workers' daily fight against their
oppressors is an increase in their class consciousness; it is that feeling of
unity which can be won only in battle, together with a desperate
knowledge that only revolution can help them in their misery. When this
stage is reached, then the hour has struck for the final show-down.

This is the theory and the Communists acted accordingly. At first they

support the workers in their fight to improve their lot. But, contrary to all
expectations and prophecies, the fight is successful. The demands are
granted. Obviously, the reason is that they had been too modest.
Therefore one must demand more. But the demands are granted again—.
And as misery decreases, the workers become less embittered, more
ready to bargain for wages than to plot for revolution.

Now the Communists find that their policy must be reversed.
Something must be done to bring the law of increasing misery into
operation. For instance, colonial unrest must be stirred up (even where
there is no chance of a successful revolution), and with the general
purpose of counteracting the bourgeoisification of the workers, a policy
fomenting catastrophes of all sorts must be adopted. But this new policy
destroys the confidence of the workers. The Communists lose their
members, with the exception of those who are inexperienced in real
political fights. They lose exactly those whom they describe as the
'vanguard of the working class'; their tacitly implied principle: 'The
worse things are, the better they are, since misery must precipitate
revolution', makes the workers suspicious — the better the application of
this principle, the worse are the suspicions entertained by the workers.
For they are realists; to obtain their confidence, one must work to
improve their lot.

Thus the policy must be reversed again: one is forced to fight for the
immediate betterment of the workers' lot and to hope at the same time
for the opposite.

With this, the 'inner contradictions' of the theory produce the last
stage of confusion. It is the stage when it is hard to know who is the
traitor, since treachery may be faithfulness and faithfulness treachery. It
is the stage when those who followed the party not simply because it
appeared to them (rightly, I am afraid) as the only vigorous movement
with humanitarian ends, but especially because it was a movement based

on a scientific theory, must either leave it, or sacrifice their intellectual
integrity; for they must now learn to believe blindly in some authority.
Ultimately, they must become mystics — hostile to reasonable argument.

It seems that it is not only capitalism which is labouring under inner
contradictions that threaten to bring about its downfall . . .

An Evaluation of the Prophecy

The arguments underlying Marx's historical prophecy are invalid. His
ingenious attempt to draw prophetic conclusions from observations of
contemporary economic tendencies failed. The reason for this failure
does not lie in any insufficiency of the empirical basis of the argument.
Marx's sociological and economic analyses of contemporary society may
have been somewhat one-sided, but in spite of their bias, they were
excellent in so far as they were descriptive. The reason for his failure as a
prophet lies entirely in the poverty of historicism as such, in the simple
fact that even if we observe to-day what appears to be a historical
tendency or trend, we cannot know whether it will have the same
appearance to-morrow.

We must admit that Marx saw many things in the right light. If we
consider only his prophecy that the system of unrestrained capitalism, as
he knew it, was not going to last much longer, and that its apologists who
thought it would last forever were wrong, then we must say that he was
right. He was right, too, in holding that it was largely the 'class struggle',
i.e. the association of the workers, that was going to bring about its
transformation into a new economic system. But we must not go so far as
to say that Marx predicted that new system, interventionism-, under
another name, socialism. The truth is that he had no inkling of what was
lying ahead. What he called 'socialism' was very dissimilar from any
form of interventionism, even from the Russian form; for he strongly

believed that the impending development would diminish the influence,
political as well as economic, of the state, while interventionism has
increased it everywhere.

Since I am criticizing Marx and, to some extent, praising democratic
piecemeal interventionism (especially of the institutional kind explained
in section VII to chapter 17), I wish to make it clear that I feel much
sympathy with Marx's hope for a decrease in state influence. It is
undoubtedly the greatest danger of interventionism — especially of any
direct intervention — that it leads to an increase in state power and in
bureaucracy. Most interventionists do not mind this, or they close their
eyes to it, which increases the danger. But I believe that once the danger
is faced squarely, it should be possible to master it. For this is again
merely a problem of social technology and of social piecemeal
engineering. But it is important to tackle it early, for it constitutes a
danger to democracy. We must plan for freedom, and not only for
security, if for no other reason than that only freedom can make security
secure.

But let us return to Marx's prophecy. One of the historical tendencies
which he claimed to have discovered seems to be of a more persistent
character than the others; I mean the tendency towards the accumulation
of the means of production, and especially towards increasing the
productivity of labour. It seems indeed that this tendency will continue
for some time, provided, of course, that we continue to keep civilization
going. But Marx did not merely recognize this tendency and its
'civilizing aspects', he also saw its inherent dangers. More especially, he
was one of the first (although he had some predecessors, for instance,
Fourier-) to emphasize the connection between 'the development of the
productive forces' in which he saw- 'the historical mission and
justification of capital', and that most destructive phenomenon of the
credit system — a system which seems to have encouraged the rapid rise

of industrialism — the trade cycle.

Marx's own theory of the trade cycle (discussed in section IV of the
last chapter) may perhaps be paraphrased as follows: even if it is true that
the inherent laws of the free market produce a tendency towards full
employment, it is also true that every single approach towards full
employment, i.e. towards a shortage of labour, stimulates inventors and
investors to create and to introduce new labour-saving machinery,
thereby giving rise (first to a short boom and then) to a new wave of
unemployment and depression. Whether there is any truth in this theory,
and how much, I do not know. As I said in the last chapter, the theory of
the trade cycle is a rather difficult subject, and one upon which I do not
intend to embark. But since Marx's contention that the increase of
productivity is one of the factors contributing to the trade cycle seems to
me important, I may be permitted to develop some rather obvious
considerations in its support.

The following list of possible developments is, of course, quite
incomplete; but it is constructed in such a way that whenever the
productivity of labour increases, then at least one of the following
developments, and possibly many at a time, must commence and must
proceed in a degree sufficient to balance the increase in productivity.

(A) Investments increase, that is to say, such capital goods are
produced as strengthen the power for producing other goods.
(Since this leads to a further increase of productivity, it cannot
alone balance its effects for any length of time.)

(B) Consumption increases — the standard of living rises:

{a) that of the whole population;

(Z?) that of certain parts of it (for instance, of a certain class).

(a) the daily labour hours are reduced;

(b) the number of people who are not industrial workers
increases, and especially

(b\) the number of scientists, physicians, artists,
businessmen, etc., increases.

(bi) the number of unemployed workers increases.
(D) The quantity of goods produced but not consumed increases:

(a) consumption goods are destroyed;

(b) capital goods are not used (factories are idle);

(d) labour is used to destroy capital goods (and thereby to
reduce productivity).

I have listed these developments — the list could, of course, be
elaborated — in such a way that down to the dotted line, i.e. down to (C,
Z?i), the developments as such are generally recognized as desirable,
whilst from (C, bi) onward come those which are generally taken to be
undesirable; they indicate depression, the manufacture of armaments, and
war.

Now it is clear that since (A) alone cannot restore the balance for good,
although it may be a very important factor, one or several of the other
developments must set in. It seems, further, reasonable to assume that if
no institutions exist which guarantee that the desirable developments
proceed in a degree sufficient to balance the increased productivity, some
of the undesirable developments will begin. But all of these, with the

possible exception of armament production, are of such a character that
they are likely to lead to a sharp reduction of (A), which must severely
aggravate the situation.

I do not think that such considerations as the above are able to
'explain' armament or war in any sense of the word, although they may
explain the success of totalitarian states in fighting unemployment. Nor
do I think that they are able to 'explain' the trade cycle, although they
may perhaps contribute something to such an explanation, in which
problems of credit and money are likely to play a very important part; for
the reduction of (A), for instance, may be equivalent to the hoarding of
such savings as would otherwise probably be invested — a much-discussed
and important factor-. And it is not quite impossible that the Marxist law
of the falling rate of profit (if this law is at all tenable-) may also give a
hint for the explanation of hoarding; for assuming that a period of quick
accumulation may lead to such a fall, this might discourage investments
and encourage hoarding, and reduce (A).

But all this would not be a theory of the trade cycle. Such a theory
would have a different task. Its main task would be to explain why the
institution of the free market, as such a very efficient instrument for
equalizing supply and demand, does not suffice to prevent depressions-,
i.e. overproduction or underconsumption. In other words, we should have
to show that the buying and selling on the market produces, as one of the
unwanted social repercussions- of our actions, the trade cycle. The
Marxist theory of the trade cycle has precisely this aim in view; and the
considerations sketched here regarding the effects of a general tendency
towards increasing productivity can at the best only supplement this
theory.

I am not going to pronounce judgement on the merits of all these
speculations upon the trade cycle. But it seems to me quite clear that they
are most valuable even if in the light of modern theories they should by

now be entirely superseded. The mere fact that Marx treated this problem
extensively is greatly to his credit. This much at least of his prophecy has
come true, for the time being; the tendency towards an increase of
productivity continues: the trade cycle also continues, and its
continuation is likely to lead to interventionist counter-measures and
therefore to a further restriction of the free market system; a development
which conforms to Marx's prophecy that the trade cycle would be one of
the factors that must bring about the downfall of the unrestrained system
of capitalism. And to this, we must add that other piece of successful
prophecy, namely, that the association of the workers would be another
important factor in this process.

In view of this list of important and largely successful prophecies, is it
justifiable to speak of the poverty of historicism? If Marx's historical
prophecies have been even partially successful, then we should certainly
not dismiss his method lightly. But a closer view of Marx's successes
shows that it was nowhere his historicist method which led him to
success, but always the methods of institutional analysis. Thus it is not an
historicist but a typical institutional analysis which leads to the
conclusion that the capitalist is forced by competition to increase
productivity. It is an institutional analysis on which Marx bases his
theory of the trade cycle and of surplus population. And even the theory
of class struggle is institutional; it is part of the mechanism by which the
distribution of wealth as well as of power is controlled, a mechanism
which makes possible collective bargaining in the widest sense. Nowhere
in these analyses do the typical historicist 'laws of historical
development', or stages, or periods, or tendencies, play any part
whatever. On the other hand, none of Marx's more ambitious historicist
conclusions, none of his 'inexorable laws of development' and his 'stages
of history which cannot be leaped over', has ever turned out to be a
successful prediction. Marx was successful only in so far as he was

analysing institutions and their functions. And the opposite is true also:
none of his more ambitious and sweeping historical prophecies falls
within the scope of institutional analysis. Wherever the attempt is made
to back them up by such an analysis, the derivation is invalid. Indeed,
compared with Marx's own high standards, the more sweeping
prophecies are on a rather low intellectual level. They contain not only a
lot of wishful thinking, they are also lacking in political imagination.
Roughly speaking, Marx shared the belief of the progressive industrialist,
of the 'bourgeois' of his time: the belief in a law of progress. But this
naive historicist optimism, of Hegel and Comte, of Marx and Mill, is no
less superstitious than a pessimistic historicism like that of Plato and
Spengler. And it is a very bad outfit for a prophet, since it must bridle
historical imagination. Indeed, it is necessary to recognize as one of the
principles of any unprejudiced view of politics that everything is possible
in human affairs; and more particularly that no conceivable development
can be excluded on the grounds that it may violate the so-called tendency
of human progress, or any other of the alleged laws of 'human nature'.
'The fact of progress', writes- H. A. L. Fisher, 'is written plain and large
on the page of history; but progress is not a law of nature. The ground
gained by one generation may be lost by the next.'

In accordance with the principle that everything is possible it may be
worth while to point out that Marx's prophecies might well have come
true. A faith like the progressivist optimism of the nineteenth century can
be a powerful political force; it can help to bring about what it has
predicted. Thus even a correct prediction must not be accepted too readily
as a corroboration of a theory, and of its scientific character. It may
rather be a consequence of its religious character and a proof of the force
of the religious faith which it has been able to inspire in men. And in
Marxism more particularly the religious element is unmistakable. In the
hour of their deepest misery and degradation, Marx's prophecy gave the

workers an inspiring belief in their mission, and in the great future which
their movement was to prepare for the whole of mankind. Looking back
at the course of events from 1864 to 1930, I think that but for the
somewhat accidental fact that Marx discouraged research in social
technology, European affairs might possibly have developed, under the
influence of this prophetic religion, towards a socialism of a non-
collectivist type. A thorough preparation for social engineering, for
planning for freedom, on the part of the Russian Marxists as well as those
in Central Europe, might possibly have led to an unmistakable success,
convincing to all friends of the open society. But this would not have
been a corroboration of a scientific prophecy. It would have been the
result of a religious movement — the result of the faith in
humanitarianism, combined with a critical use of our reason for the
purpose of changing the world.

But things developed differently. The prophetic element in Marx's
creed was dominant in the minds of his followers. It swept everything
else aside, banishing the power of cool and critical judgement and
destroying the belief that by the use of reason we may change the world.
All that remained of Marx's teaching was the oracular philosophy of
Hegel, which in its Marxist trappings threatens to paralyse the struggle
for the open society.

Marx's Ethics

The Moral Theory of Historicism

The task which Marx set himself in Capital was to discover inexorable
laws of social development. It was not the discovery of economic laws
which would be useful to the social technologist. It was neither the
analysis of the economic conditions which would permit the realization
of such socialist aims as just prices, equal distribution of wealth, security,
reasonable planning of production and, above all, freedom, nor was it an
attempt to analyse and to clarify these aims.

But although Marx was strongly opposed to Utopian technology as well
as to any attempt at a moral justification of socialist aims, his writings
contained, by implication, an ethical theory. This he expressed mainly by
moral evaluations of social institutions. After all, Marx's condemnation
of capitalism is fundamentally a moral condemnation. ThQ system is
condemned, for the cruel injustice inherent in it which is combined with
full 'formal' justice and righteousness. The system is condemned,
because by forcing the exploiter to enslave the exploited it robs both of
their freedom. Marx did not combat wealth, nor did he praise poverty. He
hated capitalism, not for its accumulation of wealth, but for its
oligarchical character; he hated it because in this system wealth means
political power in the sense of power over other men. Labour power is
made a commodity; that means that men must sell themselves on the
market. Marx hated the system because it resembled slavery.

By laying such stress on the moral aspect of social institutions, Marx

emphasized our responsibility for the more remote social repercussions
of our actions; for instance, of such actions as may help to prolong the
life of socially unjust institutions.

But although Capital is, in fact, largely a treatise on social ethics, these
ethical ideas are never represented as such. They are expressed only by
implication, but not the less forcibly on that account, since the
implications are very obvious. Marx, I believe, avoided an explicit moral
theory, because he hated preaching. Deeply distrustful of the moralist,
who usually preaches water and drinks wine, Marx was reluctant to
formulate his ethical convictions explicitly. The principles of humanity
and decency were for him matters that needed no discussion, matters to
be taken for granted. (In this field, too, he was an optimist.) He attacked
the moralists because he saw them as the sycophantic apologists of a
social order which he felt to be immoral; he attacked the eulogists of
liberalism because of their self-satisfaction, because of their
identification of freedom with the formal liberty then existing within a
social system which destroyed freedom. Thus, by implication, he
admitted his love for freedom; and in spite of his bias, as a philosopher,
for holism, he was certainly not a collectivist, for he hoped that the state
would 'wither away'. Marx's faith, I believe, was fundamentally a faith
in the open society.

Marx's attitude towards Christianity is closely connected with these
convictions, and with the fact that a hypocritical defence of capitalist
exploitation was in his day characteristic of official Christianity. (His
attitude was not unlike that of his contemporary Kierkegaard, the great
reformer of Christian ethics, who exposed- the official Christian morality
of his day as anti-Christian and anti-humanitarian hypocrisy.) A typical
representative of this kind of Christianity was the High Church priest J.
Townsend, author of A Dissertation on the Poor Laws, by a Wellwisher of
Mankind, din extremely crude apologist for exploitation whom Marx

exposed. 'Hunger', Townsend begins his eulogy-, 'is not only a
peaceable, silent, unremitted pressure but, as the most natural motive of
industry and labour, it calls forth the most powerful exertions.' In
Townsend's 'Christian' world order, everything depends (as Marx
observes) upon making hunger permanent among the working class; and
Townsend believes that this is indeed the divine purpose of the principle
of the growth of population; for he goes on: 'It seems to be a law of
nature that the poor should be to a certain degree improvident, so that
there may always be some to fulfil the most servile, the most sordid, the
most ignoble offices in the community. The stock of human happiness is
thereby much increased, whilst the more delicate ... are left at liberty
without interruption to pursue those callings which are suited to their
various dispositions.' And the 'delicate priestly sycophant', as Marx
called him for this remark, adds that the Poor Law, by helping the hungry,
'tends to destroy the harmony and beauty, the symmetry and order, of
that system which God and nature have established in the world.'

If this kind of 'Christianity' has disappeared to-day from the face of
the better part of our globe, it is in no small degree due to the moral
reformation brought about by Marx. I do not suggest that the reform of
the Church's attitude towards the poor in England did not commence long
before Marx had any influence in England; but he influenced this
development especially on the Continent, and the rise of socialism had
the effect of strengthening it in England also. His influence on
Christianity may be perhaps compared with Luther's influence on the
Roman Church. Both were a challenge, both led to a counter-reformation
in the camps of their enemies, to a revision and re-valuation of their
ethical standards. Christianity owes not a little to Marx's influence if it is
to-day on a different path from the one it was pursuing only thirty years
ago. It is even partly due to Marx's influence that the Church has listened
to the voice of Kierkegaard, who, in his Book of the Judge, described his

own activity as follows-: 'He whose task it is to produce a corrective
idea, has only to study, precisely and deeply, the rotten parts of the
existing order — and then, in the most partial way possible, to stress the
opposite of it.' ('Since that is so', he adds, 'an apparently clever man will
easily raise the objection of partiality against the corrective idea — and he
will make the public believe that this was the whole truth about it.') In
this sense one might say that the early Marxism, with its ethical rigour,
its emphasis on deeds instead of mere words, was perhaps the most
important corrective idea of our time-. This explains its tremendous
moral influence.

The demand that men should prove themselves in deeds is especially
marked in some of Marx's earlier writings. This attitude, which might be
described as his activism, is most clearly formulated in the last of his
Theses on Feuerbach-: 'The philosophers have only interpreted the world
in various ways; the point however is to change it.' But there are many
other passages which show the same 'activist' tendency; especially those
in which Marx speaks of socialism as the 'kingdom of freedom', a
kingdom in which man would become the 'master of his own social
environment'. Marx conceived of socialism as a period in which we are
largely free from the irrational forces that now determine our life, and in
which human reason can actively control human affairs. Judging by all
this, and by Marx's general moral and emotional attitude, I cannot doubt
that, if faced with the alternative 'are we to be the makers of our fate, or
shall we be content to be its prophets?' he would have decided to be a
maker and not merely a prophet.

But as we already know, these strong 'activist' tendencies of Marx's
are counteracted by his historicism. Under its influence, he became
mainly a prophet. He decided that, at least under capitalism, we must
submit to 'inexorable laws' and to the fact that all we can do is 'to
shorten and lessen the birth-pangs' of the 'natural phases of its

evolution'-. There is a wide gulf between Marx's activism and his
historicism, and this gulf is further widened by his doctrine that we must
submit to the purely irrational forces of history. For since he denounced
as Utopian any attempt to make use of our reason in order to plan for the
future, reason can have no part in bringing about a more reasonable
world. I believe that such a view cannot be defended, and must lead to
mysticism. But I must admit that there seems to be a theoretical
possibility of bridging this gulf, although I do not consider the bridge to
be sound. This bridge, of which there are only rough plans to be found in
the writings of Marx and Engels, I call their historicist moral theory-.

Unwilling to admit that their own ethical ideas were in any sense
ultimate and self-justifying, Marx and Engels preferred to look upon their
humanitarian aims in the light of a theory which explains them as the
product, or the reflection, of social circumstances. Their theory can be
described as follows. If a social reformer, or a revolutionary, believes
that he is inspired by a hatred of 'injustice', and by a love for 'justice',
then he is largely a victim of illusion (like anybody else, for instance the
apologists of the old order). Or, to put it more precisely, his moral ideas
of 'justice' and 'injustice' are by-products of the social and historical,
development. But they are by-products of an important kind, since they
are part of the mechanism by which the development propels itself. To
illustrate this point, there are always at least two ideas of 'justice' (or of
'freedom' or of 'equality'), and these two ideas differ very widely indeed.
The one is the idea of 'justice' as the ruling class understands it, the
other, the same idea as the oppressed class understands it. These ideas
are, of course, products of the class situation, but at the same time they
play an important part in the class struggle — they have to provide both
sides with that good conscience which they need in order to carry on their
fight.

This theory of morality may be characterized as historicist because it

holds that all moral categories are dependent on the historical situation; it
is usually described as historical relativism in the field of ethics. From
this point of view, it is an incomplete question to ask: Is it right to act in
this way? The complete question would run like this: Is it right, in the
sense of fifteenth-century feudal morality, to act in this way? Or perhaps:
Is it right, in the sense of nineteenth- century proletarian morality, to act
in this way? This historical relativism was formulated by Engels as
follows-: 'What morality is preached to us to-day? There is first
Christian-feudal morality, inherited from past centuries; and this again
has two main subdivisions, Roman Catholic and Protestant moralities,
each of which in turn has no lack of further subdivisions, from the Jesuit-
Catholic and Orthodox- Protestant to loose "advanced" moralities.
Alongside of these, we find the modern bourgeois morality, and with it,
too, the proletarian morality of the future . . . '

But this so-called 'historical relativism' by no means exhausts the
historicist character of the Marxist theory of morals. Let us imagine we
could ask those who hold such a theory, for instance Marx himself: Why
do you act in the way you do? Why would you consider it distasteful and
repulsive, for instance, to accept a bribe from the bourgeoisie for
stopping your revolutionary activities? I do not think that Marx would
have liked to answer such a question; he would probably have tried to
evade it, asserting perhaps that he just acted as he pleased, or as he felt
compelled to. But all this does not touch our problem. It is certain that in
the practical decisions of his life Marx followed a very rigorous moral
code; it is also certain that he demanded from his collaborators a high
moral standard. Whatever the terminology applied to these things may
be, the problem which faces us is how to find a reply which he might
have possibly made to the question: Why do you act in such a way? Why
do you try, for instance, to help the oppressed? (Marx did not himself
belong to this class, either by birth or by upbringing or by his way of

living.)

If pressed in this way, Marx would, I think, have formulated his moral
belief in the following terms, which form the core of what I call his
historicist moral theory. As a social scientist (he might have said) I know
that our moral ideas are weapons in the class struggle. As a scientist, I
can consider them without adopting them. But as a scientist I find also
that I cannot avoid taking sides in this struggle; that any attitude, even
aloofness, means taking sides in some way or other. My problem thus
assumes the form: Which side shall I take? When I have chosen a certain
side, then I have, of course, also decided upon my morality. I shall have
to adopt the moral system necessarily bound up with the interests of the
class which I have decided to support. But before making this
fundamental decision, I have not adopted any moral system at all,
provided I can free myself from the moral tradition of my class; but this,
of course, is a necessary prerequisite for making any conscious and
rational decision regarding the competing moral systems. Now since a
decision is 'moral' only in relation to some previously accepted moral
code, my fundamental decision can be no 'moral' decision at all. But it
can be a scientific decision. For as a social scientist, I am able to see what
is going to happen. I am able to see that the bourgeoisie, and with it its
system of morals, is bound to disappear, and that the proletariat, and with
it a new system of morals, is bound to win. I see that this development is
inevitable. It would be madness to attempt to resist it, just as it would be
madness to attempt to resist the law of gravity. This is why my
fundamental decision is in favour of the proletariat and of its morality.
And this decision is based only on scientific foresight, on scientific
historical prophecy. Although itself not a moral decision, since it is not
based on any system of morality, it leads to the adoption of a certain
system of morality. To sum up, my fundamental decision is not (as you
suspected) the sentimental decision to help the oppressed, but the

scientific and rational decision not to offer vain resistance to the
developmental laws of society. Only after I have made this decision am I
prepared to accept, and to make full use of, those moral sentiments which
are necessary weapons in the fight for what is bound to come in any case.
In this way, I adopt the facts of the coming period as the standards of my
morality. And in this way, I solve the apparent paradox that a more
reasonable world will come without being planned by reason; for
according to my moral standards now adopted, the future world must be
better, and therefore more reasonable. And I also bridge the gap between
my activism and my historicism. For it is clear that even though I have
discovered the natural law that determines the movement of society, I
cannot shuffle the natural phases of its evolution out of the world by a
stroke of the pen. But this much I can do. I can actively assist in
shortening and lessening its birth-pangs.

This, I think, would have been Marx's reply, and it is this reply which
to me represents the most important form of what I have called
'historicist moral theory'. It is this theory to which Engels alludes when
he writes-: 'Certainly, that morality which contains the greatest number
of elements that are going to last is the one which, within the present
time, represents the overthrow of the present time; it is the one which
represents the future; it is the proletarian morality . . . According to this
conception, the ultimate causes of all social changes and political
revolutions are not increasing insight into justice; they are to be sought
not in the philosophy but in the economics of the epoch concerned. The
growing realization that existing social institutions are irrational and
unjust is only a symptom . . . ' It is the theory of which a modern Marxist
says: 'In founding socialist aspirations on a rational economic law of
social development, instead of justifying them on moral grounds, Marx
and Engels proclaimed socialism a historical necessity.'— It is a theory
which is very widely held; but it has rarely been formulated clearly and

explicitly. Its criticism is therefore more important than might be
realized at first sight.

First, it is clear enough that the theory depends largely on the
possibility of correct historical prophecy. If this is questioned — and it
certainly must be questioned — then the theory loses most of its force. But
for the purpose of analysing it, I shall assume at first that historical
foreknowledge is an established fact; and I shall merely stipulate that this
historical foreknowledge is limited; I shall stipulate that we have
foreknowledge for, say, the next 500 years, a stipulation which should not
restrict even the boldest claims of Marxist historicism.

Now let us first examine the claim of historicist moral theory that the
fundamental decision in favour of, or against, one of the moral systems in
question is itself not a moral decision; that it is not based on any moral
consideration or sentiment, but on a scientific historical prediction. This
claim is, I think, untenable. In order to make this quite clear, it will
suffice to make explicit the imperative, or principle of conduct, implied
in this fundamental decision. It is the following principle: Adopt the
moral system of the future! or: Adopt the moral system held by those
whose actions are most useful for bringing about the future! Now it
seems clear to me that even on the assumption that we know exactly what
the next 500 years will be like, it is not at all necessary for us to adopt
such a principle. It is, to give an example, at least conceivable that some
humanitarian pupil of Voltaire who foresaw in 1764 the development of
France down to, say, 1 864 might have disliked the prospect; it is at least
conceivable that he would have decided that this development was rather
distasteful and that he was not going to adopt the moral standards of
Napoleon III as his own. I shall be faithful to my humanitarian standards,
he might have said, I shall teach them to my pupils; perhaps they will
survive this period, perhaps some day they will be victorious. It is
likewise at least conceivable (I do not assert more, at present) that a man

who to-day foresees with certainty that we are heading for a period of
slavery, that we are going to return to the cage of the arrested society, or
even that we are about to return to the beasts, may nevertheless decide
not to adopt the moral standards of this impending period but to
contribute as well as he can to the survival of his humanitarian ideals,
hoping perhaps for a resurrection of his morality in some dim future.

All that is, at least, conceivable. It may perhaps not be the 'wisest'
decision to make. But the fact that such a decision is excluded neither by
foreknowledge nor by any sociological or psychological law shows that
the first claim of historicist moral theory is untenable. Whether we
should accept the morality of the future just because it is the morality of
the future, this in itself is just a moral problem. The fundamental decision
cannot be derived from any knowledge of the future.

In previous chapters I have mentioned moral positivism (especially that
of Hegel), the theory that there is no moral standard but the one which
exists; that what is, is reasonable and good; and therefore, that might is
right. The practical aspect of this theory is this. A moral criticism of the
existing state of affairs is impossible, since this state itself determines
the moral standard of things. Now the historicist moral theory we are
considering is nothing but another form of moral positivism. For it holds
that coming might is right. The future is here substituted for the present —
that is all. And the practical aspect of the theory is this. Amoral criticism
of the coming state of affairs is impossible, since this state determines
the moral standard of things. The difference between 'the present' and
'the future' is here, of course, only a matter of degree. One can say that
the future starts to-morrow, or in 500 years, or in 100. In their theoretical
structure there is no difference between moral conservatism, moral
modernism, and moral futurism. Nor is there much to choose between
them in regard to moral sentiments. If the moral futurist criticizes the
cowardice of the moral conservative who takes sides with the powers that

be, then the moral conservative can return the charge; he can say that the
moral futurist is a coward since he takes sides with the powers that will
be, with the rulers of to-morrow.

I feel sure that, had he considered these implications, Marx would have
repudiated historicist moral theory. Numerous remarks and numerous
actions prove that it was not a scientific judgement but a moral impulse,
the wish to help the oppressed, the wish to free the shamelessly exploited
and miserable workers, which led him to socialism. I do not doubt that it
is this moral appeal that is the secret of the influence of his teaching. And
the force of this appeal was tremendously strengthened by the fact that he
did not preach morality in the abstract. He did not pretend to have any
right to do so. Who, he seems to have asked himself, lives up to his own
standard, provided it is not a very low one? It was this feeling which led
him to rely, in ethical matters, on under- statements, and which led him to
the attempt to find in prophetic social science an authority in matters of
morals more reliable than he felt himself to be.

Surely, in Marx's practical ethics such categories as freedom and
equality played the major role. He was, after all, one of those who took
the ideals of 1789 seriously. And he had seen how shamelessly a concept
like 'freedom' could be twisted. This is why he did not preach freedom in
words — why he preached it in action. He wanted to improve society and
improvement meant to him more freedom, more equality, more justice,
more security, higher standards of living, and especially that shortening
of the working day which at once gives the workers some freedom. It was
his hatred of hypocrisy, his reluctance to speak about these 'high ideals',
together with his amazing optimism, his trust that all this would be
realized in the near future, which led him to veil his moral beliefs behind
historicist formulations.

Marx, I assert, would not seriously have defended moral positivism in
the form of moral futurism if he had seen that it implies the recognition

of future might as right. But there are others who do not possess his
passionate love of humanity, who are moral futurists just because of these
implications, i.e. opportunists wishing to be on the winning side. Moral
futurism is widespread to-day. Its deeper, non- opportunist basis is
probably the belief that goodness must 'ultimately' triumph over
wickedness. But moral futurists forget that we are not going to live to
witness the 'ultimate' outcome of present events. 'History will be our
judge!' What does this mean? That success will judge. The worship of
success and of future might is the highest standard of many who would
never admit that present might is right. (They quite forget that the present
is the future of the past.) The basis of all this is a halfhearted compromise
between a moral optimism and a moral scepticism. It seems to be hard to
believe in one's conscience. And it seems to be hard to resist the impulse
to be on the winning side.

All these critical remarks are consistent with the assumption that we
can predict the future for the next, say, 500 years. But if we drop this
entirely fictitious assumption, then historicist moral theory loses all its
plausibility. And we must drop it. For there is no prophetic sociology to
help us in selecting a moral system. We cannot shift our responsibility
for such a selection on to anybody, not even on to 'the future'.

Marx's historicist moral theory is, of course, only the result of his view
concerning the method of social science, of his sociological determinism,
a view which has become rather fashionable in our day. All our opinions,
it is said, including our moral standards, depend upon society and its
historical state. They are the products of society or of a certain class
situation. Education is defined as a special process by which the
community attempts to 'pass on' to its members 'its culture including the
standards by which it would have them to live'—, and the 'relativity of
educational theory and practice to a prevailing order' is emphasized.
Science, too, is said to depend on the social stratum of the scientific

worker, etc.

A theory of this kind which emphasizes the sociological dependence of
our opinions is sometimes cdiWQd sociologism; if the historical
dependence is emphasized, it is called historism. (Historism must not, of
course, be mixed up with historicism.) Both sociologism and historism,
in so far as they maintain the determination of scientific knowledge by
society or history, will be discussed in the next two chapters. In so far as
sociologism bears upon moral theory, a few remarks may be added here.
But before going into any detail, I wish to make quite clear my opinion
concerning these Hegelianizing theories. I believe that they chatter
trivialities clad in the jargon of oracular philosophy.

Let us examine this moral 'sociologism'. That man, and his aims, are
in a certain sense a product of society is true enough. But it is also true
that society is a product of man and of his aims and that it may become
increasingly so. The main question is: Which of these two aspects of the
relations between men and society is more important? Which is to be
stressed?

We shall understand sociologism better if we compare it with the
analogous 'naturalistic' view that man and his aims are a product of
heredity and environment. Again we must admit that this is true enough.
But it is also quite certain that man's environment is to an increasing
extent a product of him and his aims (to a limited extent, the same might
be said even of his heredity). Again we must ask: which of the two
aspects is more important, more fertile? The answer may be easier if we
give the question the following more practical form. We, the generation
now living, and our minds, our opinions, are largely the product of our
parents, and of the way they have brought us up. But the next generation
will be, to a similar extent, a product of ourselves, of our actions and of
the way in which we bring them up. Which of the two aspects is the more
important one for us to-day?

If we consider this question seriously, then we find that the decisive
point is that our minds, our opinions, though largely dependent on our
upbringing are not totally so. If they were totally dependent on our
upbringing, if we were incapable of self-criticism, of learning from our
own way of seeing things, from our experience, then, of course, the way
we have been brought up by the last generation would determine the way
in which we bring up the next. But it is quite certain that this is not so.
Accordingly, we can concentrate our critical faculties on the difficult
problem of bringing up the next generation in a way which we consider
better than the way in which we have been brought up ourselves.

The situation stressed so much by sociologism can be dealt with in an
exactly analogous way. That our minds, our views, are in a way a product
of 'society' is trivially true. The most important part of our environment
is its social part; thought, in particular, is very largely dependent on
social intercourse; language, the medium of thought, is a social
phenomenon. But it simply cannot be denied that we can examine
thoughts, that we can criticize them, improve them, and further that we
can change and improve our physical environment according to our
changed, improved thoughts. And the same is true of our social
environment.

All these considerations are entirely independent of the metaphysical
'problem of free will'. Even the indeterminist admits a certain amount of
dependence on heredity and on environmental, especially social,
influence. On the other hand, the determinist must agree that our views
and actions are not fully and solely determined by heredity, education,
and social influences. He has to admit that there are other factors, for
instance, the more 'accidental' experiences accumulated during one's
life, and that these also exert their influence. Determinism or
indeterminism, as long as they remain within their metaphysical
boundaries, do not affect our problem. But the point is that they may

trespass beyond these boundaries; that metaphysical determinism, for
instance, may encourage sociological determinism or 'sociologism'. But
in this form, the theory can be confronted with experience. And
experience shows that it is certainly false.

Beethoven, to take an instance from the field of aesthetics, which has a
certain similarity to that of ethics, is surely to some extent a product of
musical education and tradition, and many who take an interest in him
will be impressed by this aspect of his work. The more important aspect,
however, is that he is also a producer of music, and thereby of musical
tradition and education. I do not wish to quarrel with the metaphysical
determinist who would insist that every bar Beethoven wrote was
determined by some combination of hereditary and environmental
influences. Such an assertion is empirically entirely insignificant, since
no one could actually 'explain' a single bar of his writing in this way. The
important thing is that everyone admits that what he wrote can be
explained neither by the musical works of his predecessors, nor by the
social environment in which he lived, nor by his deafness, nor by the food
which his housekeeper cooked for him; not, in other words, by any
definite set of environmental influences or circumstances open to
empirical investigation, or by anything we could possibly know of his
heredity.

I do not deny that there are certain interesting sociological aspects of
Beethoven's work. It is well known, for instance, that the transition from
a small to a large symphony orchestra is connected, in some way, with a
socio-political development. Orchestras cease to be the private hobbies of
princes, and are at least partly supported by a middle class whose interest
in music greatly increases. I am willing to appreciate any sociological
'explanation' of this sort, and I admit that such aspects may be worthy of
scientific study. (After all, I myself have attempted similar things in this
book, for instance, in my treatment of Plato.)

What then, more precisely, is the object of my attack? It is the
exaggeration and generalization of any aspect of this kind. If we 'explain'
Beethoven's symphony orchestra in the way hinted above, we have
explained very little. If we describe Beethoven as representing the
bourgeoisie in the process of emancipating itself, we say very little, even
if it is true. Such a function could most certainly be combined with the
production of bad music (as we see from Wagner). We cannot attempt to
explain Beethoven's genius in this way, or in any way at all.

I think that Marx's own views could likewise be used for an empirical
refutation of sociological determinism. For if we consider in the light of
this doctrine the two theories, activism and historicism, and their struggle
for supremacy in Marx's system, then we will have to say that
historicism would be a view more fitting for a conservative apologist
than for a revolutionary or even a reformer. And, indeed, historicism was
used by Hegel with that tendency. The fact that Marx not only took it
over from Hegel, but in the end permitted it to oust his own activism,
may thus show that the side a man takes in the social struggle need not
always determine his intellectual decisions. These may be determined, as
in Marx's case, not so much by the true interest of the class he supported
as by accidental factors, such as the influence of a predecessor, or
perhaps by shortsightedness. Thus in this case, sociologism may further
our understanding of Hegel, but the example of Marx himself exposes it
as an unjustified generalization. A similar case is Marx's underrating of
the significance of his own moral ideas; for it cannot be doubted that the
secret of his religious influence was in its moral appeal, that his criticism
of capitalism was effective mainly as a moral criticism. Marx showed
that a social system can as such be unjust; that if the system is bad, then
all the righteousness of the individuals who profit from it is a mere sham
righteousness, is mere hypocrisy. For our responsibility extends to the
system, to the institutions which we allow to persist.

It is this moral radicalism of Marx which explains his influence; and
that is a hopeful fact in itself. This moral radicalism is still alive. It is our
task to keep it alive, to prevent it from going the way which his political
radicalism will have to go. 'Scientific' Marxism is dead. Its feeling of
social responsibility and its love for freedom must survive.

The Aftermath

The Sociology of Knowledge

Rationality, in the sense of an appeal to a universal and impersonal standard of truth, is of
supreme importance not only in ages in which it easily prevails, but also, and even more,
in those less fortunate times in which it is despised and rejected as the vain dream of men
who lack the virility to kill where they cannot agree.

Bertrand Russell.

It can hardly be doubted that Hegel's and Marx's historicist philosophies
are characteristic products of their time — a time of social change. Like
the philosophies of Heraclitus and Plato, and like those of Comte and
Mill, Lamarck and Darwin, they are philosophies of change, and they
witness to the tremendous and undoubtedly somewhat terrifying
impression made by a changing social environment on the minds of those
who live in this environment. Plato reacted to this situation by attempting
to arrest all change. The more modern social philosophers appear to react
very differently, since they accept, and even welcome, change; yet this
love of change seems to me a little ambivalent. For even though they
have given up any hope of arresting change, as historicists they try to
predict it, and thus to bring it under rational control; and this certainly
looks like an attempt to tame it. Thus it seems that, to the historicist,
change has not entirely lost its terrors.

In our own time of still more rapid change, we even find the desire not
only to predict change, but to control it by centralized large-scale
planning. These holistic views (which I have criticized in The Poverty oj

Historicism) represent a compromise, as it were, between Platonic and
Marxian theories. Plato's will to arrest change, combined with Marx's
doctrine of its inevitability, yield, as a kind of Hegelian 'synthesis', the
demand that since it cannot be entirely arrested, change should at least be
'planned', and controlled by the state whose power is to be vastly
extended.

An attitude like this may seem, at first sight, to be a kind of
rationalism; it is closely related to Marx's dream of the 'realm of
freedom' in which man is for the first time master of his own fate. But as
a matter of fact, it occurs in closest alliance with a doctrine which is
definitely opposed to rationalism (and especially to the doctrine of the
rational unity of mankind; see chapter 24 ). one which is well in keeping
with the irrationalist and mystical tendencies of our time. I have in mind
the Marxist doctrine that our opinions, including our moral and scientific
opinions, are determined by class interest, and more generally by the
social and historical situation of our time. Under the name of 'sociology
of knowledge' or 'sociologism', this doctrine has been developed
recently (especially by M. Scheler and K. Mannheim-) as a theory of the
social determination of scientific knowledge.

The sociology of knowledge argues that scientific thought, and
especially thought on social and political matters, does not proceed in a
vacuum, but in a socially conditioned atmosphere. It is influenced largely
by unconscious or subconscious elements. These elements remain hidden
from the thinker's observing eye because they form, as it were, the very
place which he inhabits, his social habitat. The social habitat of the
thinker determines a whole system of opinions and theories which appear
to him as unquestionably true or self-evident. They appear to him as if
they were logically and trivially true, such as, for example, the sentence
'all tables are tables'. This is why he is not even aware of having made
any assumptions at all. But that he has made assumptions can be seen if

we compare him with a thinker who lives in a very different social
habitat; for he too will proceed from a system of apparently
unquestionable assumptions, but from a very different one; and it may be
so different that no intellectual bridge may exist and no compromise be
possible between these two systems. Each of these different socially
determined systems of assumptions is called by the sociologists of
knowledge a total ideology.

The sociology of knowledge can be considered as a Hegelian version of
Kant's theory of knowledge. For it continues on the lines of Kant's
criticism of what we may term the 'passivist' theory of knowledge. I
mean by this the theory of the empiricists down to and including Hume, a
theory which may be described, roughly, as holding that knowledge
streams into us through our senses, and that error is due to our
interference with the sense-given material, or to the associations which
have developed within it; the best way of avoiding error is to remain
entirely passive and receptive. Against this receptacle theory of
knowledge (I usually call it the 'bucket theory of the mind'), Kant-
argued that knowledge is not a collection of gifts received by our senses
and stored in the mind as if it were a museum, but that it is very largely
the result of our own mental activity; that we must most actively engage
ourselves in searching, comparing, unifying, generalizing, if we wish to
attain knowledge. We may call this theory the 'activist' theory of
knowledge. In connection with it, Kant gave up the untenable ideal of a
science which is free from any kind of presuppositions. (That this ideal is
even self-contradictory will be shown in the next chapter.) He made it
quite clear that we cannot start from nothing, and that we have to
approach our task equipped with a system of presuppositions which we
hold without having tested them by the empirical methods of science;
such a system may be called a 'categorial apparatus'-. Kant believed that
it was possible to discover the one true and unchanging categorial

apparatus, which represents as it were the necessarily unchanging
framework of our intellectual outfit, i.e. human 'reason'. This part of
Kant's theory was given up by Hegel, who, as opposed to Kant, did not
believe in the unity of mankind. He taught that man's intellectual outfit
was constantly changing, and that it was part of his social heritage;
accordingly the development of man's reason must coincide with the
historical development of his society, i.e. of the nation to which he
belongs. This theory of Hegel's, and especially his doctrine that all
knowledge and all truth is 'relative' in the sense of being determined by
history, is sometimes called 'historism' (in contradistinction to
'historicism', as mentioned in the last chapter). The sociology of
knowledge or 'sociologism' is obviously very closely related to or nearly
identical with it, the only difference being that, under the influence of
Marx, it emphasizes that the historical development does not produce one
uniform 'national spirit', as Hegel held, but rather several and sometimes
opposed 'total ideologies' within one nation, according to the class, the
social stratum, or the social habitat, of those who hold them.

But the likeness to Hegel goes further. I have said above that according
to the sociology of knowledge, no intellectual bridge or compromise
between different total ideologies is possible. But this radical scepticism
is not really meant quite as seriously as it sounds. There is a way out of it,
and the way is analogous to the Hegelian method of superseding the
conflicts which preceded him in the history of philosophy. Hegel, a spirit
freely poised above the whirlpool of the dissenting philosophies, reduced
them all to mere components of the highest of syntheses, of his own
system. Similarly, the sociologists of knowledge hold that the 'freely
poised intelligence' of an intelligentsia which is only loosely anchored in
social traditions may be able to avoid the pitfalls of the total ideologies;
that it may even be able to see through, and to unveil, the various total
ideologies and the hidden motives and other determinants which inspire

them. Thus the sociology of knowledge believes that the highest degree
of objectivity can be reached by the freely poised intelligence analysing
the various hidden ideologies and their anchorage in the unconscious. The
way to true knowledge appears to be the unveiling of unconscious
assumptions, a kind of psycho-therapy, as it were, or if I may say so, a
socio- therapy. Only he who has been socio-analysed or who has socio-
analysed himself, and who is freed from this social complex, i.e. from his
social ideology, can attain to the highest synthesis of objective
knowledge.

In a previous chapter, when dealing with 'Vulgar Marxism' I
mentioned a tendency which can be observed in a group of modern
philosophies, the tendency to unveil the hidden motives behind our
actions. The sociology of knowledge belongs to this group, together with
psycho-analysis and certain philosophies which unveil the
'meaninglessness' of the tenets of their opponents-. The popularity of
these views lies, I believe, in the ease with which they can be applied, and
in the satisfaction which they confer on those who see through things, and
through the follies of the unenlightened. This pleasure would be
harmless, were it not that all these ideas are liable to destroy the
intellectual basis of any discussion, by establishing what I have called- a
'reinforced dogmatism'. (Indeed, this is something rather similar to a
'total ideology'.) Hegelianism does it by declaring the admissibility and
even fertility of contradictions. But if contradictions need not be avoided,
then any criticism and any discussion becomes impossible since criticism
always consists in pointing out contradictions either within the theory to
be criticized, or between it and some facts of experience. The situation
with psycho-analysis is similar: the psycho-analyst can always explain
away any objections by showing that they are due to the repressions of
the critic. And the philosophers of meaning, again, need only point out
that what their opponents hold is meaningless, which will always be true.

since 'meaninglessness' can be so defined that any discussion about it is
by definition without meaning-. Marxists, in a like manner, are
accustomed to explain the disagreement of an opponent by his class bias,
and the sociologists of knowledge by his total ideology. Such methods are
both easy to handle and good fun for those who handle them. But they
clearly destroy the basis of rational discussion, and they must lead,
ultimately, to anti-rationalism and mysticism.

In spite of these dangers, I do not see why I should entirely forgo the
fun of handling these methods. For just like the psycho-analysts, the
people to whom psycho-analysis applies best,- the socio-analysts invite
the application of their own methods to themselves with an almost
irresistible hospitality. For is not their description of an intelligentsia
which is only loosely anchored in tradition a very neat description of
their own social group? And is it not also clear that, assuming the theory
of total ideologies to be correct, it would be part of every total ideology
to believe that one's own group was free from bias, and was indeed that
body of the elect which alone was capable of objectivity? Is it not,
therefore, to be expected, always assuming the truth of this theory, that
those who hold it will unconsciously deceive themselves by producing an
amendment to the theory in order to establish the objectivity of their own
views? Can we, then, take seriously their claim that by their sociological
self-analysis they have reached a higher degree of objectivity; and their
claim that socio-analysis can cast out a total ideology? But we could even
ask whether the whole theory is not simply the expression of the class
interest of this particular group; of an intelligentsia only loosely anchored
in tradition, though just firmly enough to speak Hegelian as their mother
tongue.

How little the sociologists of knowledge have succeeded in socio-
therapy, that is to say, in eradicating their own total ideology, will be
particularly obvious if we consider their relation to Hegel. For they have

no idea that they are just repeating him; on the contrary, they believe not
only that they have outgrown him, but also that they have successfully
seen through him, socio-analysed him; and that they can now look at him,
not from any particular social habitat, but objectively, from a superior
elevation. This palpable failure in self-analysis tells us enough.

But, all joking apart, there are more serious objections. The sociology
of knowledge is not only self-destructive, not only a rather gratifying
object of socio-analysis, it also shows an astounding failure to understand
precisely its main subject, thQ social aspects of knowledge, or rather, of
scientific method. It looks upon science or knowledge as a process in the
mind or 'consciousness' of the individual scientist, or perhaps as the
product of such a process. If considered in this way, what we call
scientific objectivity must indeed become completely ununderstandable,
or even impossible; and not only in the social or political sciences, where
class interests and similar hidden motives may play a part, but just as
much in the natural sciences. Everyone who has an inkling of the history
of the natural sciences is aware of the passionate tenacity which
characterizes many of its quarrels. No amount of political partiality can
influence political theories more strongly than the partiality shown by
some natural scientists in favour of their intellectual offspring. If
scientific objectivity were founded, as the sociologistic theory of
knowledge naively assumes, upon the individual scientist's impartiality
or objectivity, then we should have to say good-bye to it. Indeed, we must
be in a way more radically sceptical than the sociology of knowledge; for
there is no doubt that we are all suffering under our own system of
prejudices (or 'total ideologies', if this term is preferred); that we all take
many things as self-evident, that we accept them uncritically and even
with the naive and cocksure belief that criticism is quite unnecessary; and
scientists are no exception to this rule, even though they may have
superficially purged themselves from some of their prejudices in their

particular field. But they have not purged themselves by socio-analysis or
any similar method; they have not attempted to climb to a higher plane
from which they can understand, socio-analyse, and expurgate their
ideological follies. For by making their minds more 'objective' they
could not possibly attain to what we call 'scientific objectivity'. No, what
we usually mean by this term rests on different grounds-. It is a matter of
scientific method. And, ironically enough, objectivity is closely bound up
with the social aspect of scientific method, with the fact that science and
scientific objectivity do not (and cannot) result from the attempts of an
individual scientist to be 'objective', but from the friendly-hostile co-
operation of many scientists. Scientific objectivity can be described as
the inter- subjectivity of scientific method. But this social aspect of
science is almost entirely neglected by those who call themselves
sociologists of knowledge.

Two aspects of the method of the natural sciences are of importance in
this connection. Together they constitute what I may term the 'public
character of scientific method'. First, there is something approaching /ree
criticism. A scientist may offer his theory with the full conviction that it
is unassailable. But this will not impress his fellow-scientists and
competitors; rather it challenges them: they know that the scientific
attitude means criticizing everything, and they are little deterred even by
authorities. Secondly, scientists try to avoid talking at cross-purposes. (I
may remind the reader that I am speaking of the natural sciences, but a
part of modern economics may be included.) They try very seriously to
speak one and the same language, even if they use different mother
tongues. In the natural sciences this is achieved by recognizing
experience as the impartial arbiter of their controversies. When speaking
of 'experience' I have in mind experience of a 'public' character, like
observations, and experiments, as opposed to experience in the sense of
more 'private' aesthetic or religious experience; and an experience is

'public' if everybody who takes the trouble can repeat it. In order to
avoid speaking at cross-purposes, scientists try to express their theories
in such a form that they can be tested, i.e. refuted (or else corroborated)
by such experience.

This is what constitutes scientific objectivity. Everyone who has
learned the technique of understanding and testing scientific theories can
repeat the experiment and judge for himself. In spite of this, there will
always be some who come to judgements which are partial, or even
cranky. This cannot be helped, and it does not seriously disturb the
working of the various social institutions which have been designed to
further scientific objectivity and criticism; for instance the laboratories,
the scientific periodicals, the congresses. This aspect of scientific method
shows what can be achieved by institutions designed to make public
control possible, and by the open expression of public opinion, even if
this is limited to a circle of specialists. Only political power, when it is
used to suppress free criticism, or when it fails to protect it, can impair
the functioning of these institutions, on which all progress, scientific,
technological, and political, ultimately depends.

In order to elucidate further still this sadly neglected aspect of
scientific method, we may consider the idea that it is advisable to
characterize science by its methods rather than by its results.

Let us first assume that a clairvoyant produces a book by dreaming it,
or perhaps by automatic writing. Let us assume, further, that years later
as a result of recent and revolutionary scientific discoveries, a great
scientist (who has never seen that book) produces one precisely the same.
Or to put it differently, we assume that the clairvoyant 'saw' a scientific
book which could not then have been produced by a scientist owing to the
fact that many relevant discoveries were still unknown at that date. We
now ask: is it advisable to say that the clairvoyant produced a scientific
book? We may assume that, if submitted at the time to the judgement of

competent scientists, it would have been described as partly
ununderstandable, and partly fantastic; thus we shall have to say that the
clairvoyant's book was not when written a scientific work, since it was
not the result of scientific method. I shall call such a result, which,
though in agreement with some scientific results, is not the product of
scientific method, a piece of 'revealed science'.

In order to apply these considerations to the problem of the publicity of
scientific method, let us assume that Robinson Crusoe succeeded in
building on his island physical and chemical laboratories, astronomical
observatories, etc., and in writing a great number of papers, based
throughout on observation and experiment. Let us even assume that he
had unlimited time at his disposal, and that he succeeded in constructing
and in describing scientific systems which actually coincide with the
results accepted at present by our own scientists. Considering the
character of this Crusonian science, some people will be inclined, at first
sight, to assert that it is real science and not 'revealed science'. And, no
doubt, it is very much more like science than the scientific book which
was revealed to the clairvoyant, for Robinson Crusoe applied a good deal
of scientific method. And yet, I assert that this Crusonian science is still
of the 'revealed' kind; that there is an element of scientific method
missing, and consequently, that the fact that Crusoe arrived at our results
is nearly as accidental and miraculous as it was in the case of the
clairvoyant. For there is nobody but himself to check his results; nobody
but himself to correct those prejudices which are the unavoidable
consequence of his peculiar mental history; nobody to help him to get rid
of that strange blindness concerning the inherent possibilities of our own
results which is a consequence of the fact that most of them are reached
through comparatively irrelevant approaches. And concerning his
scientific papers, it is only in attempts to explain his work to somebody
who has not done it that he can acquire the discipline of clear and

reasoned communication which too is part of scientific method. In one
point — a comparatively unimportant one — is the 'revealed' character of
the Crusonian science particularly obvious; I mean Crusoe's discovery of
his 'personal equation' (for we must assume that he made this discovery),
of the characteristic personal reaction-time affecting his astronomical
observations. Of course it is conceivable that he discovered, say, changes
in his reaction-time, and that he was led, in this way, to make allowances
for it. But if we compare this way of finding out about reaction-time, with
the way in which it was discovered in 'public' science — through the
contradiction between the results of various observers — then the
'revealed' character of Robinson Crusoe's science becomes manifest.

To sum up these considerations, it may be said that what we call
'scientific objectivity' is not a product of the individual scientist's
impartiality, but a product of the social or public character of scientific
method; and the individual scientist's impartiality is, so far as it exists,
not the source but rather the result of this socially or institutionally
organized objectivity of science.

Both- Kantians and Hegelians make the same mistake of assuming that
our presuppositions (since they are, to start with, undoubtedly
indispensable instruments which we need in our active 'making' of
experiences) can neither be changed by decision nor refuted by
experience; that they are above and beyond the scientific methods of
testing theories, constituting as they do the basic presuppositions of all
thought. But this is an exaggeration, based on a misunderstanding of the
relations between theory and experience in science. It was one of the
greatest achievements of our time when Einstein showed that, in the light
of experience, we may question and revise our pre-suppositions regarding
even space and time, ideas which had been held to be necessary
presuppositions of all science, and to belong to its 'categorial apparatus'.
Thus the sceptical attack upon science launched by the sociology of

knowledge breaks down in the light of scientific method. The empirical
method has proved to be quite capable of taking care of itself.

But it does so not by eradicating our prejudices all at once; it can
eliminate them only one by one. The classical case in point is again
Einstein's discovery of our prejudices regarding time. Einstein did not set
out to discover prejudices; he did not even set out to criticize our
conceptions of space and time. His problem was a concrete problem of
physics, the re-drafting of a theory that had broken down because of
various experiments which in the light of the theory seemed to contradict
one another. Einstein together with most physicists realized that this
meant that the theory was false. And he found that if we alter it in a point
which had so far been held by everybody to be self-evident and which had
therefore escaped notice, then the difficulty could be removed. In other
words, he just applied the methods of scientific criticism and of the
invention and elimination of theories, of trial and error. But this method
does not lead to the abandonment of all our prejudices; rather, we can
discover the fact that we had a prejudice only after having got rid of it.

But it certainly has to be admitted that, at any given moment, our
scientific theories will depend not only on the experiments, etc., made up
to that moment, but also upon prejudices which are taken for granted, so
that we have not become aware of them (although the application of
certain logical methods may help us to detect them). At any rate, we can
say in regard to this incrustation that science is capable of learning, of
breaking down some of its crusts. The process may never be perfected,
but there is no fixed barrier before which it must stop short. Any
assumption can, in principle, be criticized. And that anybody may
criticize constitutes scientific objectivity.

Scientific results are 'relative' (if this term is to be used at all) only in
so far as they are the results of a certain stage of scientific development
and liable to be superseded in the course of scientific progress. But this

does not mean that truth is 'relative'. If an assertion is true, it is true for
ever—. It only means that most scientific results have the character of
hypotheses, i.e. statements for which the evidence is inconclusive, and
which are therefore liable to revision at any time. These considerations
(with which I have dealt more fully elsewhere—), though not necessary
for a criticism of the sociologists, may perhaps help to further the
understanding of their theories. They also throw some light, to come back
to my main criticism, on the important role which co-operation,
intersubjectivity, and the publicity of method play in scientific criticism
and scientific progress.

It is true that the social sciences have not yet fully attained this
publicity of method. This is due partly to the intelligence-destroying
influence of Aristotle and Hegel, partly perhaps also to their failure to
make use of the social instruments of scientific objectivity. Thus they are
really 'total ideologies', or putting it differently, some social scientists
are unable, and even unwilling, to speak a common language. But the
reason is not class interest, and the cure is not a Hegelian dialectical
synthesis, nor self-analysis. The only course open to the social sciences is
to forget all about the verbal fire-works and to tackle the practical
problems of our time with the help of the theoretical methods which are
fundamentally the same in all sciences. I mean the methods of trial and
error, of inventing hypotheses which can be practically tested, and of
submitting them to practical tests. A social technology is needed whose
results can be tested by piecemeal social engineering.

The cure here suggested for the social sciences is diametrically
opposed to the one suggested by the sociology of knowledge.
Sociologism believes that it is not their unpractical character, but rather
the fact that practical and theoretical problems are too much intertwined
in the field of social and political knowledge, that creates the
methodological difficulties of these sciences. Thus we can read in a

leading work on the sociology of knowledge—: 'The peculiarity of
political knowledge, as opposed to "exact" knowledge, lies in the fact that
knowledge and will, or the rational element and the range of the
irrational, are inseparably and essentially intertwined.' To this we can
reply that 'knowledge' and 'will' are, in a certain sense, always
inseparable; and that this fact need not lead to any dangerous
entanglement. No scientist can know without making an effort, without
taking an interest; and in his effort there is usually even a certain amount
of self-interest involved. The engineer studies things mainly from a
practical point of view. So does the farmer. Practice is not the enemy of
theoretical knowledge but the most valuable incentive to it. Though a
certain amount of aloofness may be becoming to the scientist, there are
many examples to show that it is not always important for a scientist to
be thus disinterested. But it is important for him to remain in touch with
reality, with practice, for those who overlook it have to pay by lapsing
into scholasticism. Practical application of our findings is thus the means
by which we may eliminate irrationalism from social science, and not any
attempt to separate knowledge from 'will'.

As opposed to this, the sociology of knowledge hopes to reform the
social sciences by making the social scientists aware of the social forces
and ideologies which unconsciously beset them. But the main trouble
about prejudices is that there is no such direct way of getting rid of them.
For how shall we ever know that we have made any progress in our
attempt to rid ourselves from prejudice? Is it not a common experience
that those who are most convinced of having got rid of their prejudices
are most prejudiced? The idea that a sociological or a psychological or an
anthropological or any other study of prejudices may help us to rid
ourselves of them is quite mistaken; for many who pursue these studies
are full of prejudice; and not only does self-analysis not help us to
overcome the unconscious determination of our views, it often leads to

even more subtle self-deception. Thus we can read in the same work on
the sociology of knowledge— the following references to its own
activities: 'There is an increasing tendency towards making conscious the
factors by which we have so far been unconsciously ruled . . . Those who
fear that our increasing knowledge of determining factors may paralyse
our decisions and threaten "freedom" should put their minds at rest. For
only he is truly determined who does not know the most essential
determining factors but acts immediately under the pressure of
determinants unknown to him.' Now this is clearly just a repetition of a
pet idea of Hegel's which Engels naively repeated when he said—:
'Freedom is the appreciation of necessity.' And it is a reactionary
prejudice. For are those who act under the pressure of well-known
determinants, for example, of a political tyranny, made free by their
knowledge? Only Hegel could tell us such tales. But that the sociology of
knowledge preserves this particular prejudice shows clearly enough that
there is no possible short-cut to rid us of our ideologies. (Once a
Hegelian, always a Hegelian.) Self-analysis is no substitute for those
practical actions which are necessary for establishing the democratic
institutions which alone can guarantee the freedom of critical thought,
and the progress of science.

Oracular Philosophy and the Revolt
Against Reason

Marx was a rationalist. With Socrates, and with Kant, he believed in
human reason as the basis of the unity of mankind. But his doctrine that
our opinions are determined by class interest hastened the decline of this
belief. Like Hegel's doctrine that our ideas are determined by national
interests and traditions, Marx's doctrine tended to undermine the
rationalist belief in reason. Thus threatened both from the right and from
the left, a rationalist attitude to social and economic questions could
hardly resist when historicist prophecy and oracular irrationalism made a
frontal attack on it. This is why the conflict between rationalism and
irrationalism has become the most important intellectual, and perhaps
even moral, issue of our time.

Since the terms 'reason' and 'rationalism' are vague, it will be necessary
to explain roughly the way in which they are used here. First, they are
used in a wide sense-; they are used to cover not only intellectual activity
but also observation and experiment. It is necessary to keep this remark

in mind, since 'reason' and 'rationalism' are often used in a different and
more narrow sense, in opposition not to 'irrationalism' but to
'empiricism'; if used in this way, rationalism extols intelligence above
observation and experiment, and might therefore be better described as
'intellectualism'. But when I speak here of 'rationalism', I use the word
always in a sense which includes 'empiricism' as well as
'intellectualism'; just as science makes use of experiments as well as of
thought. Secondly, I use the word 'rationalism' in order to indicate,
roughly, an attitude that seeks to solve as many problems as possible by
an appeal to reason, i.e. to clear thought and experience, rather than by an
appeal to emotions and passions. This explanation, of course, is not very
satisfactory, since all terms such as 'reason' or 'passion' are vague; we
do not possess 'reason' or 'passions' in the sense in which we possess
certain physical organs, for example, brains or a heart, or in the sense in
which we possess certain 'faculties', for example, the power of speaking,
or of gnashing our teeth. In order therefore to be a little more precise, it
may be better to explain rationalism in terms of practical attitudes or
behaviour. We could then say that rationalism is an attitude of readiness
to listen to critical arguments and to learn from experience. It is
fundamentally an attitude of admitting that '/ may be wrong and you may
be right, and by an effort, we may get nearer to the truth'. It is an attitude
which does not lightly give up hope that by such means as argument and
careful observation, people may reach some kind of agreement on many
problems of importance; and that, even where their demands and their
interests clash, it is often possible to argue about the various demands
and proposals, and to reach — ^perhaps by arbitration — a compromise
which, because of its equity, is acceptable to most, if not to all. In short,
the rationalist attitude, or, as I may perhaps label it, the 'attitude of
reasonableness', is very similar to the scientific attitude, to the belief that
in the search for truth we need co-operation, and that, with the help of

argument, we can in time attain something like objectivity.

It is of some interest to analyse this resemblance between this attitude
of reasonableness and that of science more fully. In the last chapter, I
tried to explain the social aspect of scientific method with the help of the
fiction of a scientific Robinson Crusoe. An exactly analogous
consideration can show the social character of reasonableness, as opposed
to intellectual gifts, or cleverness. Reason, like language, can be said to
be a product of social life. A Robinson Crusoe (marooned in early
childhood) might be clever enough to master many difficult situations;
but he would invent neither language nor the art of argumentation.
Admittedly, we often argue with ourselves; but we are accustomed to do
so only because we have learned to argue with others, and because we
have learned in this way that the argument counts, rather than the person
arguing. (This last consideration cannot, of course, tip the scales when we
argue with ourselves.) Thus we can say that we owe our reason, like our
language, to intercourse with other men.

The fact that the rationalist attitude considers the argument rather than
the person arguing is of far-reaching importance. It leads to the view that
we must recognize everybody with whom we communicate as a potential
source of argument and of reasonable information; it thus establishes
what may be described as the 'rational unity of mankind'.

In a way, our analysis of 'reason' may be said to resemble slightly that
of Hegel and the Hegelians, who consider reason as a social product and
indeed as a kind of department of the soul or the spirit of society (for
example, of the nation, or the class) and who emphasize, under the
influence of Burke, our indebtedness to our social heritage, and our
nearly complete dependence on it. Admittedly, there is some similarity.
But there are very considerable differences also. Hegel and the Hegelians
are coUectivists. They argue that, since we owe our reason to 'society' —
or to a certain society such as a nation — 'society' is everything and the

individual nothing; or that whatever value the individual possesses is
derived from the collective, the real carrier of all values. As opposed to
this, the position presented here does not assume the existence of
collectives; if I say, for example, that we owe our reason to 'society',
then I always mean that we owe it to certain concrete individuals —
though perhaps to a considerable number of anonymous individuals — and
to our intellectual intercourse with them. Therefore, in speaking of a
'social' theory of reason (or of scientific method), I mean more precisely
that the theory is an inter-personal one, and never that it is a collectivist
theory. Certainly we owe a great deal to tradition, and tradition is very
important, but the term 'tradition' also has to be analysed into concrete
personal relations-. And if we do this, then we can get rid of that attitude
which considers every tradition as sacrosanct, or as valuable in itself,
replacing this by an attitude which considers traditions as valuable or
pernicious, as the case may be, according to their influence upon
individuals. We thus may realize that each of us (by way of example and
criticism) may contribute to the growth or the suppression of such
traditions.

The position here adopted is very different from the popular, originally
Platonic, view of reason as a kind of 'faculty', which may be possessed
and developed by different men in vastly different degrees. Admittedly,
intellectual gifts may be different in this way, and they may contribute to
reasonableness; but they need not. Clever men may be very unreasonable;
they may cling to their prejudices and may not expect to hear anything
worth while from others. According to our view, however, we not only
owe our reason to others, but we can never excel others in our
reasonableness in a way that would establish a claim to authority;
authoritarianism and rationalism in our sense cannot be reconciled, since
argument, which includes criticism, and the art of listening to criticism,
is the basis of reasonableness. Thus rationalism in our sense is

diametrically opposed to all those modern Platonic dreams of brave new
worlds in which the growth of reason would be controlled or 'planned' by
some superior reason. Reason, like science, grows by way of mutual
criticism; the only possible way of 'planning' its growth is to develop
those institutions that safeguard the freedom of this criticism, that is to
say, the freedom of thought. It may be remarked that Plato, even though
his theory is authoritarian, and demands the strict control of the growth of
human reason in his guardians (as has been shown especially in chapter
8), pays tribute, by his manner of writing, to our inter-personal theory of
reason; for most of his earlier dialogues describe arguments conducted in
a very reasonable spirit.

My way of using the term 'rationalism' may become a little clearer,
perhaps, if we distinguish between a true rationalism and a false or a
pseudo-rationalism. What I shall call the 'true rationalism' is the
rationalism of Socrates. It is the awareness of one's limitations, the
intellectual modesty of those who know how often they err, and how
much they depend on others even for this knowledge. It is the realization
that we must not expect too much from reason; that argument rarely
settles a question, although it is the only means for learning — not to see
clearly, but to see more clearly than before.

What I shall call 'pseudo-rationalism' is the intellectual intuitionism
of Plato. It is the immodest belief in one's superior intellectual gifts, the
claim to be initiated, to know with certainty, and with authority.
According to Plato, opinion — even 'true opinion', as we can read in the
Timaeus- — 'is shared by all men; but reason' (or 'intellectual intuition')
'is shared only by the gods, and by very few men'. This authoritarian
intellectualism, this belief in the possession of an infallible instrument of
discovery, or an infallible method, this failure to distinguish between a
man's intellectual powers and his indebtedness to others for all he can
possibly know or understand, this pseudo-rationalism is often called

'rationalism', but it is diametrically opposed to what we call by this
name.

My analysis of the rationalist attitude is undoubtedly very incomplete,
and, I readily admit, a little vague; but it will suffice for our purpose. In a
similar way I shall now describe irrationalism, indicating at the same
time how an irrationalist is likely to defend it.

The irrationalist attitude may be developed along the following lines.
Though perhaps recognizing reason and scientific argument as tools that
may do well enough if we wish to scratch the surface of things, or as
means to serve some irrational end, the irrationalist will insist that
'human nature' is in the main not rational. Man, he holds, is more than a
rational animal, and also less. In order to see that he is less, we need only
consider how small is the number of men who are capable of argument;
this is why, according to the irrationalist, the majority of men will always
have to be tackled by an appeal to their emotions and passions rather than
by an appeal to their reason. But man is also more than just a rational
animal, since all that really matters in his life goes beyond reason. Even
the few scientists who take reason and science seriously are bound to
their rationalist attitude merely because they love it. Thus even in these
rare cases, it is the emotional make-up of man and not his reason that
determines his attitude. Moreover, it is his intuition, his mystical insight
into the nature of things, rather than his reasoning which makes a great
scientist. Thus rationalism cannot offer an adequate interpretation even of
the apparently rational activity of the scientist. But since the scientific
field is exceptionally favourable to a rationalist interpretation, we must
expect that rationalism will fail even more conspicuously when it tries to
deal with other fields of human activity. And this expectation, so the
irrationalist will continue his argument, proves to be quite accurate.
Leaving aside the lower aspects of human nature, we may look to one of
its highest, to the fact that man can be creative. It is the small creative

minority of men who really matter; the men who create works of art or of
thought, the founders of religions, and the great statesmen. These few
exceptional individuals allow us to glimpse the real greatness of man. But
although these leaders of mankind know how to make use of reason for
their purposes, they are never men of reason. Their roots lie deeper —
deep in their instincts and impulses, and in those of the society of which
they are parts. Creativeness is an entirely irrational, a mystical faculty . . .

The issue between rationalism and irrationalism is of long standing.
Although Greek philosophy undoubtedly started off as a rationalist
undertaking, there were streaks of mysticism even in its first beginnings.
It is (as hinted in chapter 10) the yearning for the lost unity and shelter of
tribalism which expresses itself in these mystical elements within a
fundamentally rational approach-. An open conflict between rationalism
and irrationalism broke out for the first time in the Middle Ages, as the
opposition between scholasticism and mysticism. (It is perhaps not
without interest that rationalism flourished in the former Roman
provinces, while men from the 'barbarian' countries were prominent
among the mystics.) In the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth
centuries, when the tide of rationalism, of intellectualism, and of
'materialism' was rising, irrationalists had to pay some attention to it, to
argue against it; and by exhibiting its limitations, and exposing the
immodest claims and dangers of pseudo-rationalism (which they did not
distinguish from rationalism in our sense), some of these critics, notably
Burke, have earned the gratitude of all true rationalists. But the tide has
now turned, and 'profoundly significant allusions ... and allegories' (as

Kant puts it) have become the fashion of the day. An oracular
irrationalism has established (especially with Bergson and the majority of
German philosophers and intellectuals) the habit of ignoring or at best
deploring the existence of such an inferior being as a rationalist. To them
the rationalists — or the 'materialists', as they often say — and especially,
the rationalist scientist, are the poor in spirit, pursuing soulless and
largely mechanical activities-, and completely unaware of the deeper
problems of human destiny and of its philosophy. And the rationalists
usually reciprocate by dismissing irrationalism as sheer nonsense. Never
before has the break been so complete. And the break in the diplomatic
relations of the philosophers proved its significance when it was followed
by a break in the diplomatic relations of the states.

In this issue, I am entirely on the side of rationalism. This is so much
the case that even where I feel that rationalism has gone too far I still
sympathize with it, holding as I do that an excess in this direction (as
long as we exclude the intellectual immodesty of Plato's pseudo-
rationalism) is harmless indeed as compared with an excess in the other.
In my opinion, the only way in which excessive rationalism is likely to
prove harmful is that it tends to undermine its own position and thus to
further an irrationalist reaction. It is only this danger which induces me to
examine the claims of an excessive rationalism more closely and to
advocate a modest and self-critical rationalism which recognizes certain
limitations. Accordingly, I shall distinguish in what follows between two
rationalist positions, which I label 'critical rationalism' and 'uncritical
rationalism' or 'comprehensive rationalism'. (This distinction is
independent of the previous one between a 'true' and a 'false'
rationalism, even though a 'true' rationalism in my sense will hardly be
other than critical.)

Uncritical or comprehensive rationalism can be described as the
attitude of the person who says 'I am not prepared to accept anything that

cannot be defended by means of argument or experience'. We can express
this also in the form of the principle that any assumption which cannot be
supported either by argument or by experience is to be discarded-. Now it
is easy to see that this principle of an uncritical rationalism is
inconsistent; for since it cannot, in its turn, be supported by argument or
by experience, it implies that it should itself be discarded. (It is
analogous to the paradox of the liar-, i.e. to a sentence which asserts its
own falsity.) Uncritical rationalism is therefore logically untenable; and
since a purely logical argument can show this, uncritical rationalism can
be defeated by its own chosen weapon, argument.

This criticism may be generalized. Since all argument must proceed
from assumptions, it is plainly impossible to demand that all assumptions
should be based on argument. The demand raised by many philosophers
that we should start with no assumption whatever and never assume
anything about 'sufficient reason', and even the weaker demand that we
should start with a very small set of assumptions ('categories'), are both
in this form inconsistent. For they themselves rest upon the truly colossal
assumption that it is possible to start without, or with only a few
assumptions, and still to obtain results that are worth while. (Indeed, this
principle of avoiding all presuppositions is not, as some may think, a
counsel of perfection, but a form of the paradox of the liar-.)

Now all this is a little abstract, but it may be restated in connection
with the problem of rationalism in a less formal way. The rationalist
attitude is characterized by the importance it attaches to argument and
experience. But neither logical argument nor experience can establish the
rationalist attitude; for only those who are ready to consider argument or
experience, and who have therefore adopted this attitude already, will be
impressed by them. That is to say, a rationalist attitude must be first
adopted if any argument or experience is to be effective, and it cannot
therefore be based upon argument or experience. (And this consideration

is quite independent of the question whether or not there exist any
convincing rational arguments which favour the adoption of the
rationalist attitude.) We have to conclude from this that no rational
argument will have a rational effect on a man who does not want to adopt
a rational attitude. Thus a comprehensive rationalism is untenable.

But this means that whoever adopts the rationalist attitude does so
because he has adopted, consciously or unconsciously, some proposal, or
decision, or belief, or behaviour; an adoption which may be called
'irrational'. Whether this adoption is tentative or leads to a settled habit,
we may describe it as an irrational faith in reason. So rationalism is
necessarily far from comprehensive or self-contained. This has frequently
been overlooked by rationalists who thus exposed themselves to a beating
in their own field and by their own favourite weapon whenever an
irrationalist took the trouble to turn it against them. And indeed it did not
escape the attention of some enemies of rationalism that one can always
refuse to accept arguments, either all arguments or those of a certain
kind; and that such an attitude can be carried through without becoming
logically inconsistent. This led them to see that the uncritical rationalist
who believes that rationalism is self-contained and can be established by
argument must be wrong. Irrationalism is logically superior to uncritical
rationalism.

Then why not adopt irrationalism? Many who started as rationalists but
were disillusioned by the discovery that a too comprehensive rationalism
defeats itself have indeed practically capitulated to irrationalism. (This is
what has happened to Whitehead-, if I am not quite mistaken.) But such
panic action is entirely uncalled for. Although an uncritical and
comprehensive rationalism is logically untenable, and although a
comprehensive irrationalism is logically tenable, this is no reason why
we should adopt the latter. For there are other tenable attitudes, notably
that of critical rationalism which recognizes the fact that the fundamental

rationalist attitude results from an (at least tentative) act of faith — from
faith in reason. Accordingly, our choice is open. We may choose some
form of irrationalism, even some radical or comprehensive form. But we
are also free to choose a critical form of rationalism, one which frankly
admits its origin in an irrational decision (and which, to that extent,
admits a certain priority of irrationalism).

Ill

The choice before us is not simply an intellectual affair, or a matter of
taste. It is a moral decision— (in the sense of chapter 5). For the question
whether we adopt some more or less radical form of irrationalism, or
whether we adopt that minimum concession to irrationalism which I have
termed 'critical rationalism', will deeply affect our whole attitude
towards other men, and towards the problems of social life. It has already
been said that rationalism is closely connected with the belief in the unity
of mankind. Irrationalism, which is not bound by any rules of
consistency, may be combined with any kind of belief, including a belief
in the brotherhood of man; but the fact that it may easily be combined
with a very different belief, and especially the fact that it lends itself
easily to the support of a romantic belief in the existence of an elect
body, in the division of men into leaders and led, into natural masters and
natural slaves, shows clearly that a moral decision is involved in the
choice between it and a critical rationalism.

As we have seen before (in chapter 5), and now again in our analysis of
the uncritical version of rationalism, arguments cannot determine such a
fundamental moral decision. But this does not imply that our choice
cannot be helped by any kind of argument whatever. On the contrary.

whenever we are faced with a moral decision of a more abstract kind, it is
most helpful to analyse carefully the consequences which are likely to
result from the alternatives between which we have to choose. For only if
we can visualize these consequences in a concrete and practical way, do
we really know what our decision is about; otherwise we decide blindly.
In order to illustrate this point, I may quote a passage from Shaw's Saint
Joan. The speaker is the Chaplain; he has stubbornly demanded Joan's
death; but when he sees her at the stake, he breaks down: 'I meant no
harm. I did not know what it would be like ... I did not know what I was
doing ... If I had known, I would have torn her from their hands. You
don't know. You haven't seen: it is so easy to talk when you don't know.
You madden yourself with words . . . But when it is brought home to you;
when you see the thing you have done; when it is blinding your eyes,
stifling your nostrils, tearing your heart, then — then — O God, take away
this sight from me!' There were, of course, other figures in Shaw's play
who knew exactly what they were doing, and yet decided to do it; and
who did not regret it afterwards. Some people dislike seeing their fellow
men burning at the stake, and others do not. This point (which was
neglected by many Victorian optimists) is important, for it shows that a
rational analysis of the consequences of a decision does not make the
decision rational; the consequences do not determine our decision; it is
always we who decide. But an analysis of the concrete consequences, and
their clear realization in what we call our 'imagination', makes the
difference between a blind decision and a decision made with open eyes;
and since we use our imagination very little—, we only too often decide
blindly. This is especially so if we are intoxicated by an oracular
philosophy, one of the most powerful means of maddening ourselves with
words — to use Shaw's expression.

The rational and imaginative analysis of the consequences of a moral
theory has a certain analogy in scientific method. For in science, too, we

do not accept an abstract theory because it is convincing in itself; we
rather decide to accept or reject it after we have investigated those
concrete and practical consequences which can be more directly tested by
experiment. But there is a fundamental difference. In the case of a
scientific theory, our decision depends upon the results of experiments. If
these confirm the theory, we may accept it until we find a better one. If
they contradict the theory, we reject it. But in the case of a moral theory,
we can only confront its consequences with our conscience. And while
the verdict of experiments does not depend upon ourselves, the verdict of
our conscience does.

I hope I have made it clear in which sense the analysis of consequences
may influence our decision without determining it. And in presenting the
consequences of the two alternatives between which we must decide,
rationalism and irrationalism, I warn the reader that I shall be partial. So
far, in presenting the two alternatives of the moral decision before us — it
is, in many senses, the most fundamental decision in the ethical field — I
have tried to be impartial, although I have not hidden my sympathies. But
now I am going to present those considerations of the consequences of
the two alternatives which appear to me most telling, and by which I
myself have been influenced in rejecting irrationalism and accepting the
faith in reason.

Let us examine the consequences of irrationalism first. The
irrationalist insists that emotions and passions rather than reason are the
mainsprings of human action. To the rationalist's reply that, though this
may be so, we should do what we can to remedy it, and should try to
make reason play as large a part as it possibly can, the irrationalist would
rejoin (if he condescends to a discussion) that this attitude is hopelessly
unrealistic. For it does not consider the weakness of 'human nature', the
feeble intellectual endowment of most and their obvious dependence
upon emotions and passions.

It is my firm conviction that this irrational emphasis upon emotion and
passion leads ultimately to what I can only describe as crime. One reason
for this opinion is that this attitude, which is at best one of resignation
towards the irrational nature of human beings, at worst one of scorn for
human reason, must lead to an appeal to violence and brutal force as the
ultimate arbiter in any dispute. For if a dispute arises, then this means
that those more constructive emotions and passions which might in
principle help to get over it, reverence, love, devotion to a common
cause, etc., have shown themselves incapable of solving the problem. But
if that is so, then what is left to the irrationalist except the appeal to other
and less constructive emotions and passions, to fear, hatred, envy, and
ultimately, to violence? This tendency is very much strengthened by
another and perhaps even more important attitude which also is in my
opinion inherent in irrationalism, namely, the stress on the inequality of
men.

It cannot, of course, be denied that human individuals are, like all other
things in our world, in very many respects very unequal. Nor can it be
doubted that this inequality is of great importance and even in many
respects highly desirable—. (The fear that the development of mass
production and collectivization may react upon men by destroying their
inequality or individuality is one of the nightmares— of our times.) But
all this simply has no bearing upon the question whether or not we should
decide to treat men, especially in political issues, as equals, or as much
like equals as is possible; that is to say, as possessing equal rights, and
equal claims to equal treatment; and it has no bearing upon the question
whether we ought to construct political institutions accordingly. 'Equality
before the law' is not a fact but a political demand— based upon a moral
decision', and it is quite independent of the theory — ^which is probably
false — that 'all men are born equal'. Now I do not intend to say that the
adoption of this humanitarian attitude of impartiality is a direct

consequence of a decision in favour of rationalism. But a tendency
towards impartiality is closely related to rationalism, and can hardly be
excluded from the rationalist creed. Again, I do not intend to say that an
irrationalist could not consistently adopt an equalitarian or impartial
attitude; and even if he could not do so consistently, he is not bound to be
consistent. But I do wish to stress the fact that the irrationalist attitude
can hardly avoid becoming entangled with the attitude that is opposed to
equalitarianism. This fact is connected with its emphasis upon emotions
and passions; for we cannot feel the same emotions towards everybody.
Emotionally, we all divide men into those who are near to us, and those
who are far from us. The division of mankind into friend and foe is a
most obvious emotional division; and this division is even recognized in
the Christian commandment, 'Love thy enemies!' Even the best Christian
who really lives up to this commandment (there are not many, as is
shown by the attitude of the average good Christian towards
'materialists' and 'atheists'), even he cannot feel equal love for all men.
We cannot really love 'in the abstract'; we can love only those whom we
know. Thus the appeal even to our best emotions, love and compassion,
can only tend to divide mankind into different categories. And this will
be more true if the appeal is made to lesser emotions and passions. Our
'natural' reaction will be to divide mankind into friend and foe; into
those who belong to our tribe, to our emotional community, and those
who stand outside it; into believers and unbelievers; into compatriots and
aliens; into class comrades and class enemies; and into leaders and led.

I have mentioned before that the theory that our thoughts and opinions
are dependent upon our class situation, or upon our national interests,
must lead to irrationalism. I now wish to emphasize the fact that the
opposite is also true. The abandonment of the rationalist attitude, of the
respect for reason and argument and the other fellow's point of view, the
stress upon the 'deeper' layers of human nature, all this must lead to the

view that thought is merely a somewhat superficial manifestation of what
lies within these irrational depths. It must nearly always, I believe,
produce an attitude which considers the person of the thinker instead of
his thought. It must produce the belief that 'we think with our blood', or
'with our national heritage', or 'with our class'. This view may be
presented in a materialist form or in a highly spiritual fashion; the idea
that we 'think with our race' may perhaps be replaced by the idea of elect
or inspired souls who 'think by God's grace'. I refuse, on moral grounds,
to be impressed by these differences; for the decisive similarity between
all these intellectually immodest views is that they do not judge a thought
on its own merits. By thus abandoning reason, they split mankind into
friends and foes; into the few who share in reason with the gods, and the
many who don't (as Plato says); into the few who stand near and the
many who stand far; into those who speak the untranslatable language of
our own emotions and passions and those whose tongue is not our tongue.
Once we have done this, political equalitarianism becomes practically
impossible.

Now the adoption of an anti-equalitarian attitude in political life, i.e. in
the field of problems concerned with the power of man over man, is just
what I should call criminal. For it offers a justification of the attitude that
different categories of people have different rights; that the master has
the right to enslave the slave; that some men have the right to use others
as their tools. Ultimately, it will be used, as in Plato—, to justify murder.

I do not overlook the fact that there are irrationalists who love
mankind, and that not all forms of irrationalism engender criminality.
But I hold that he who teaches that not reason but love should rule opens
the way for those who rule by hate. (Socrates, I believe, saw something of
this when he suggested— that mistrust or hatred of argument is related to
mistrust or hatred of man.) Those who do not see this connection at once,
who believe in a direct rule of emotional love, should consider that love

as such certainly does not promote impartiality. And it cannot do away
with conflict either. That love as such may be unable to settle a conflict
can be shown by considering a harmless test case, which may pass as
representative of more serious ones. Tom likes the theatre and Dick likes
dancing. Tom lovingly insists on going to a dance while Dick wants for
Tom's sake to go to the theatre. This conflict cannot be settled by love;
rather, the greater the love, the stronger will be the conflict. There are
only two solutions; one is the use of emotion, and ultimately of violence,
and the other is the use of reason, of impartiality, of reasonable
compromise. All this is not intended to indicate that I do not appreciate
the difference between love and hate, or that I think that life would be
worth living without love. (And I am quite prepared to admit that the
Christian idea of love is not meant in a purely emotional way.) But I
insist that no emotion, not even love, can replace the rule of institutions
controlled by reason.

This, of course, is not the only argument against the idea of a rule of
love. Loving a person means wishing to make him happy. (This, by the
way, was Thomas Aquinas' definition of love.) But of all political ideals,
that of making the people happy is perhaps the most dangerous one. It
leads invariably to the attempt to impose our scale of 'higher' values
upon others, in order to make them realize what seems to us of greatest
importance for their happiness; in order, as it were, to save their souls. It
leads to Utopianism and Romanticism. We all feel certain that everybody
would be happy in the beautiful, the perfect community of our dreams.
And no doubt, there would be heaven on earth if we could all love one
another. But, as I have said before (in chapter 9), the attempt to make
heaven on earth invariably produces hell. It leads to intolerance. It leads
to religious wars, and to the saving of souls through the inquisition. And
it is, I believe, based on a complete misunderstanding of our moral
duties. It is our duty to help those who need our help; but it cannot be our

duty to make others happy, since this does not depend on us, and since it
would only too often mean intruding on the privacy of those towards
whom we have such amiable intentions. The political demand for
piecemeal (as opposed to Utopian) methods corresponds to the decision
that the fight against suffering must be considered a duty, while the right
to care for the happiness of others must be considered a privilege
confined to the close circle of their friends. In their case, we may perhaps
have a certain right to try to impose our scale of values — our preferences
regarding music, for example. (And we may even feel it our duty to open
to them a world of values which, we trust, can so much contribute to their
happiness.) This right of ours exists only if, and because, they can get rid
of us; because friendships can be ended. But the use of political means
for imposing our scale of values upon others is a very different matter.
Pain, suffering, injustice, and their prevention, these are the eternal
problems of public morals, the 'agenda' of public policy (as Bentham
would have said). The 'higher' values should very largely be considered
as 'non-agenda', and should be left to the realm of laissez-faire. Thus we
might say: help your enemies; assist those in distress, even if they hate
you; but love only your friends.

This is only part of the case against irrationalism, and of the
consequences which induce me to adopt the opposite attitude, that is, a
critical rationalism. This latter attitude with its emphasis upon argument
and experience, with its device 'I may be wrong and you may be right,
and by an effort we may get nearer to the truth', is, as mentioned before,
closely akin to the scientific attitude. It is bound up with the idea that
everybody is liable to make mistakes, which may be found out by
himself, or by others, or by himself with the assistance of the criticism of
others. It therefore suggests the idea that nobody should be his own judge,
and it suggests the idea of impartiality. (This is closely related to the idea
of 'scientific objectivity' as analysed in the previous chapter.) Its faith in

reason is not only a faith in our own reason, but also — and even more — in
that of others. Thus a rationalist, even if he believes himself to be
intellectually superior to others, will reject all claims to authority— since
he is aware that, if his intelligence is superior to that of others (which is
hard for him to judge), it is so only in so far as he is capable of learning
from criticism as well as from his own and other people's mistakes, and
that one can learn in this sense only if one takes others and their
arguments seriously. Rationalism is therefore bound up with the idea that
the other fellow has a right to be heard, and to defend his arguments. It
thus implies the recognition of the claim to tolerance, at least— of all
those who are not intolerant themselves. One does not kill a man when
one adopts the attitude of first listening to his arguments. (Kant was right
when he based the 'Golden Rule' on the idea of reason. To be sure, it is
impossible to prove the rightness of any ethical principle, or even to
argue in its favour in just the manner in which we argue in favour of a
scientific statement. Ethics is not a science. But although there is no
'rational scientific basis' of ethics, there is an ethical basis of science,
and of rationalism.) Also the idea of impartiality leads to that of
responsibility; we have not only to listen to arguments, but we have a
duty to respond, to answer, where our actions affect others. Ultimately, in
this way, rationalism is linked up with the recognition of the necessity of
social institutions to protect freedom of criticism, freedom of thought,
and thus the freedom of men. And it establishes something like a moral
obligation towards the support of these institutions. This is why
rationalism is closely linked up with the political demand for practical
social engineering — ^piecemeal engineering, of course — in the
humanitarian sense, with the demand for the rationalization of society—,
for planning for freedom, and for its control by reason; not by 'science',
not by a Platonic, a pseudo-rational authority, but by that Socratic reason
which is aware of its limitations, and which therefore respects the other

man and does not aspire to coerce him — not even into happiness. The
adoption of rationalism implies, moreover, that there is a common
medium of communication, a common language of reason; it establishes
something like a moral obligation towards that language, the obligation
to keep up its standards of clarity— and to use it in such a way that it can
retain its function as the vehicle of argument. That is to say, to use it
plainly; to use it as an instrument of rational communication, of
significant information, rather than as a means of 'self-expression', as the
vicious romantic jargon of most of our educationists has it. (It is
characteristic of the modern romantic hysteria that it combines a
Hegelian collectivism concerning 'reason' with an excessive
individualism concerning 'emotions': thus the emphasis on language as a
means of self-expression instead of a means of communication. Both
attitudes, of course, are parts of the revolt against reason.) And it implies
the recognition that mankind is united by the fact that our different
mother tongues, in so far as they are rational, can be translated into one
another. It recognizes the unity of human reason.

A few remarks may be added concerning the relation of the rationalist
attitude to the attitude of readiness to use what is usually called
'imagination'. It is frequently assumed that imagination has a close
affinity with emotion and therefore with irrationalism, and that
rationalism rather tends towards an unimaginative dry scholasticism. I do
not know whether such a view may have some psychological basis, and I
rather doubt it. But my interests are institutional rather than
psychological, and from an institutional point of view (as well as from
that of method) it appears that rationalism must encourage the use of
imagination because it needs it, while irrationalism must tend to
discourage it. The very fact that rationalism is critical, whilst
irrationalism must tend towards dogmatism (where there is no argument,
nothing is left but full acceptance or flat denial), leads in this direction.

Criticism always demands a certain degree of imagination, whilst
dogmatism suppresses it. Similarly, scientific research and technical
construction and invention are inconceivable without a very considerable
use of imagination; one must offer something new in these fields (as
opposed to the field of oracular philosophy where an endless repetition of
impressive words seems to do the trick). At least as important is the part
played by imagination in the practical application of equalitarianism and
of impartiality. The basic attitude of the rationalist, 'I may be wrong and
you may be right', demands, when put into practice, and especially when
human conflicts are involved, a real effort of our imagination. I admit
that the emotions of love and compassion may sometimes lead to a
similar effort. But I hold that it is humanly impossible for us to love, or
to suffer with, a great number of people; nor does it appear to me very
desirable that we should, since it would ultimately destroy either our
ability to help or the intensity of these very emotions. But reason,
supported by imagination, enables us to understand that men who are far
away, whom we shall never see, are like ourselves, and that their relations
to one another are like our relations to those we love. A direct emotional
attitude towards the abstract whole of mankind seems to me hardly
possible. We can love mankind only in certain concrete individuals. But
by the use of thought and imagination, we may become ready to help all
who need our help.

All these considerations show, I believe, that the link between
rationalism and humanitarianism is very close, and certainly much closer
than the corresponding entanglement of irrationalism with the anti-
equalitarian and anti-humanitarian attitude. I believe that as far as
possible this result is corroborated by experience. A rationalist attitude
seems to be usually combined with a basically equalitarian and
humanitarian outlook; irrationalism, on the other hand, exhibits in most
cases at least some of the anti-equalitarian tendencies described, even

though it may often be associated with humanitarianism also. My point is
that the latter connection is anything but well founded.

I have tried to analyse those consequences of rationalism and
irrationalism which induce me to decide as I do. I wish to repeat that the
decision is largely a moral decision. It is the decision to try to take
argument seriously. This is the difference between the two views; for
irrationalism will use reason too, but without any feeling of obligation; it
will use it or discard it as it pleases. But I believe that the only attitude
which I can consider to be morally right is one which recognizes that we
owe it to other men to treat them and ourselves as rational.

Considered in this way, my counter-attack upon irrationalism is a
moral attack. The intellectualist who finds our rationalism much too
commonplace for his taste, and who looks out for the latest esoteric
intellectual fashion, which he discovers in the admiration of medieval
mysticism, is not, one fears, doing his duty by his fellow men. He may
think himself and his subtle taste superior to our 'scientific age', to an
'age of industrialization' which carries its brainless division of labour
and its 'mechanization' and 'materialization' even into the field of
human thought—. But he only shows that he is incapable of appreciating
the moral forces inherent in modern science. The attitude I am attacking
can perhaps be illustrated by the following passage which I take from A.
Keller^: a passage that seems to me a typical expression of this romantic
hostility towards science: 'We seem to be entering upon a new era where
the human soul is regaining its mystical and religious faculties, and
protesting, by inventing new myths, against the materialization and

mechanization of life. The mind suffered when it had to serve humanity
as technician, as chauffeur; it is reawakening again as poet and prophet,
obeying the command and leadership of dreams which seem to be quite
as wise and reliable as, but more inspiring and stimulating than,
intellectual wisdom and scientific programmes. The myth of revolution is
a reaction against the unimaginative banality and conceited self-
sufficiency of bourgeois society and of an old tired culture. It is the
adventure of men who have lost all security and are embarking on dreams
instead of concrete facts.' In analysing this passage I wish first, but only
in passing, to draw attention to its typical historicist character and to its
moral futurism— ('entering a new era', 'old and tired culture', etc.). But
more important even than to realize the technique of the word-magic
which the passage uses is to ask whether what it says is true. Is it true that
our soul protests against the materialization and mechanization of our
life, that it protests against the progress we have made in the fight against
the untold suffering through hunger and pestilence which characterized
the Middle Ages? Is it true that the mind suffered when it had to serve
humanity as a technician, and was it happier to serve as a serf or a slave?
I do not intend to belittle the very serious problem of purely mechanical
work, of a drudgery which is felt to be meaningless, and which destroys
the creative power of the workers; but the only practical hope lies, not in
a return to slavery and serfdom, but in an attempt to make machinery take
over this mechanical drudgery. Marx was right in insisting that increased
productivity is the only reasonable hope of humanizing labour, and of
further shortening the labour day. (Besides, I do not think that the mind
always suffers when it has to serve humanity as a technician; I suspect
that often enough, the 'technicians', including the great inventors and the
great scientists, rather enjoyed it, and that they were just as adventurous
as the mystics.) And who believes that the 'command and leadership of
dreams', as dreamt by our contemporary prophets, dreamers, and leaders.

are really 'quite as wise and reliable as intellectual wisdom and scientific
programmes'? But we need only turn to the 'myth of revolution', etc., in
order to see more clearly what we are facing here. It is a typical
expression of the romantic hysteria and the radicalism produced by the
dissolution of the tribe and by the strain of civilization (as I have
described it in chapter 10). This kind of 'Christianity' which recommends
the creation of myth as a substitute for Christian responsibility is a tribal
Christianity. It is a Christianity that refuses to carry the cross of being
human. Beware of these false prophets! What they are after, without
being aware of it, is the lost unity of tribalism. And the return to the
closed society which they advocate is the return to the cage, and to the
beasts—.

It may be useful to consider how the adherents of this kind of
romanticism are likely to react to such criticism. Arguments will hardly
be offered; since it is impossible to discuss such profundities with a
rationalist, the most likely reaction will be a high-handed withdrawal,
combined with the assertion that there is no language common to those
whose souls have not yet 'regained their mystical faculties', and those
whose souls possess such faculties. Now this reaction is analogous to that
of the psycho-analyst (mentioned in the last chapter) who defeats his
opponents not by replying to their arguments but by pointing out that
their repressions prevent them from accepting psycho-analysis. It is
analogous also to that of the socio-analyst who points out that the total
ideologies of his opponents prevent them from accepting the sociology of
knowledge. This method, as I admitted before, is good fun for those who
practise it. But we can see here more clearly that it must lead to the
irrational division of men into those who are near to us and those who are
far from us. This division is present in every religion, but it is
comparatively harmless in Mohammedanism, Christianity, or the
rationalist faith, which all see in every man a potential convert, and the

same may be said of psycho-analysis, which sees in every man a potential
object of treatment (only that in the last case the fee for conversion
constitutes a serious obstacle). But the division is getting less harmless
when we proceed to the sociology of knowledge. The socio-analyst
claims that only certain intellectuals can get rid of their total ideology,
can be freed from 'thinking with their class'; he thus gives up the idea of
a potential rational unity of man, and delivers himself body and soul to
irrationalism. And this situation gets very much worse when we proceed
to the biological or naturalist version of this theory, to the racial doctrine
that we 'think with our blood' or that we 'think with our race'. But at
least as dangerous, since more subtle, is the same idea when it appears in
the cloak of a religious mysticism; not in the mysticism of the poet or
musician, but in that of the Hegelianizing intellectualist who persuades
himself and his followers that their thoughts are endowed, because of
special grace, with 'mystical and religious faculties' not possessed by
others, and who thus claim that they 'think by God's grace'. This claim
with its gentle allusion to those who do not possess God's grace, this
attack upon the potential spiritual unity of mankind, is, in my opinion, as
pretentious, blasphemous and anti-Christian, as it believes itself to be
humble, pious, and Christian.

As opposed to the intellectual irresponsibility of a mysticism which
escapes into dreams and of an oracular philosophy which escapes into
verbiage, modern science enforces upon our intellect the discipline of
practical tests. Scientific theories can be tested by their practical
consequences. The scientist, in his own field, is responsible for what he
says; you can know him by his fruits, and thus distinguish him from the
false prophets—. One of the few who have appreciated this aspect of
science is the Christian philosopher J. Macmurray (with whose views on
historical prophecy I widely disagree, as will be seen in the next chapter):
'Science itself, he says—, 'in its own specific fields of research, employs

a method of understanding which restores the broken integrity of theory
and practice.' This, I believe, is why science is such an offence in the
eyes of mysticism, which evades practice by creating myths instead.
'Science, in its own field,' says Macmurray in another place, 'is the
product of Christianity, and its most adequate expression so far; ... its
capacity for co-operative progress, which knows no frontiers of race or
nationality or sex, its ability to predict, and its ability to control, are the
fullest manifestations of Christianity that Europe has yet seen.' I fully
agree with this, for I too believe that our Western civilization owes its
rationalism, its faith in the rational unity of man and in the open society,
and especially its scientific outlook, to the ancient Socratic and Christian
belief in the brotherhood of all men, and in intellectual honesty and
responsibility. (A frequent argument against the morality of science is
that many of its fruits have been used for bad purposes, for instance, in
war. But this argument hardly deserves serious consideration. There is
nothing under the sun which cannot be misused, and which has not been
misused. Even love can be made an instrument of murder; and pacifism
can be made one of the weapons of an aggressive war. On the other hand,
it is only too obvious that it is irrationalism and not rationalism that has
the responsibility for all national hostility and aggression. There have
been only too many aggressive religious wars, both before and after the
Crusades, but I do not know of any war waged for a 'scientific' aim, and
inspired by scientists.)

It will have been observed that in the passages quoted, Macmurray
emphasizes that what he appreciates is science 'in its own specific fields
of research'. I think that this emphasis is particularly valuable. For
nowadays one often hears, usually in connection with the mysticism of
Eddington and Jeans, that modern science, as opposed to that of the
nineteenth century, has become more humble, in that it now recognizes
the mysteries of this world. But this opinion, I believe, is entirely on the

wrong track. Darwin and Faraday, for instance, sought for truth as
humbly as anybody, and I do not doubt that they were much more humble
than the two great contemporary astronomers mentioned. For great as
these are 'in their own specific fields of research', they do not, I believe,
prove their humility by extending their activities to the field of
philosophical mysticism—. Speaking more generally, however, it may
indeed be the case that scientists are becoming more humble, since the
progress of science is largely by way of the discovery of errors, and since,
in general, the more we know, the more clearly we realize what we do not
know. (The spirit of science is that of Socrates—.)

Although I am mainly concerned with the moral aspect of the conflict
between rationalism and irrationalism, I feel that I should briefly touch
upon a more 'philosophical' aspect of the problem; but I wish to make it
clear that I consider this aspect as of minor importance here. What I have
in mind is the fact that the critical rationalist can turn the tables upon the
irrationalist in another way as well. He may contend that the irrationalist
who prides himself on his respect for the more profound mysteries of the
world and his understanding of them (as opposed to the scientist who just
scratches its surface) in fact neither respects nor understands its
mysteries, but satisfies himself with cheap rationalizations. For what is a
myth if not an attempt to rationalize the irrational? And who shows
greater reverence for mystery, the scientist who devotes himself to
discovering it step by step, always ready to submit to facts, and always
aware that even his boldest achievement will never be more than a
stepping-stone for those who come after him, or the mystic who is free to
maintain anything because he need not fear any test? But in spite of this
dubious freedom, the mystics endlessly repeat the same thing. (It is
always the myth of the lost tribal paradise, the hysterical refusal to carry
the cross of civilization—.) All mystics, as F. Kafka, the mystical poet,
wrote— in despair, 'set out to say ... that the incomprehensible is

incomprehensible, and that we knew before'. And the irrationalist not
only tries to rationalize what cannot be rationalized, but he also gets hold
of the wrong end of the stick altogether. For it is the particular, the
unique and concrete individual, which cannot be approached by rational
methods, and not the abstract universal. Science can describe general
types of landscape, for example, or of man, but it can never exhaust one
single individual landscape, or one single individual man. The universal,
the typical, is not only the domain of reason, but it is also largely the
product of reason, in so far as it is the product of scientific abstraction.
But the unique individual and his unique actions and experiences and
relations to other individuals can never be fully rationalized—. And it
appears to be just this irrational realm of unique individuality which
makes human relations important. Most people would feel, for example,
that what makes their lives worth living would largely be destroyed if
they themselves, and their lives, were in no sense unique but in all and
every respect typical of a class of people, so that they repeated exactly all
the actions and experiences of all other men who belong to this class. It is
the uniqueness of our experiences which, in this sense, makes our lives
worth living, the unique experience of a landscape, of a sunset, of the
expression of a human face. But since the day of Plato, it has been a
characteristic of all mysticism that it transfers this feeling of the
irrationality of the unique individual, and of our unique relations to
individuals, to a different field, namely, to the field of abstract
universals, a field which properly belongs to the province of science. That
it is this feeling which the mystic tries to transfer can hardly be doubted.
It is well known that the terminology of mysticism, the mystical union,
the mystical intuition of beauty, the mystical love, have in all times been
borrowed from the realm of relations between individual men, and
especially from the experience of sexual love. Nor can it be doubted that
this feeling is transferred by mysticism to the abstract universals, to the

essences, to the Forms or Ideas. It is again the lost unity of the tribe, the
wish to return into the shelter of a patriarchal home and to make its limits
the limits of our world, which stands behind this mystical attitude. 'The
feeling of the world as a limited whole is the mystical feeling', says-
Wittgenstein. But this holistic and universalistic irrationalism is
misplaced. The 'world' and the 'whole' and 'nature', all these are
abstractions and products of our reason. (This makes the difference
between the mystical philosopher and the artist who does not rationalize,
who does not use abstractions, but who creates, in his imagination,
concrete individuals and unique experiences.) To sum up, mysticism
attempts to rationalize the irrational, and at the same time it seeks the
mystery in the wrong place; and it does so because it dreams of the
collective—, and the union of the elect, since it dares not face the hard
and practical tasks which those must face who realize that every
individual is an end in himself.

The nineteenth-century conflict between science and religion appears
to me to be superseded—. Since an 'uncritical' rationalism is
inconsistent, the problem cannot be the choice between knowledge and
faith, but only between two kinds of faith. The new problem is: which is
the right faith and which is the wrong faith? What I have tried to show is
that the choice with which we are confronted is between a faith in reason
and in human individuals and a faith in the mystical faculties of man by
which he is united to a collective; and that this choice is at the same time
a choice between an attitude that recognizes the unity of mankind and an
attitude that divides men into friends and foes, into masters and slaves.

Enough has been said, for the present purpose, to explain the terms
'rationalism' and 'irrationalism', as well as my motives in deciding in
favour of rationalism, and the reason why I see in the irrational and
mystical intellectualism which is at present so fashionable the subtle
intellectual disease of our time. It is a disease which need not be taken

too seriously, and it is not more than skin-deep. (Scientists, with very few
exceptions, are particularly free from it.) But in spite of its superficiality,
it is a dangerous disease, because of its influence in the field of social and
political thought.

In order to illustrate the danger, I shall briefly criticize two of the most
influential irrationalist authorities of our time. The first of them is A. N.
Whitehead, famous for his work in mathematics, and for his collaboration
with the greatest contemporary rationalist philosopher, Bertrand
Russell—. Whitehead considers himself a rationalist philosopher too; but
so did Hegel, to whom Whitehead owes a great deal; indeed, he is one of
the few Neo-Hegelians who know how much they owe to Hegel— (as well
as to Aristotle). Undoubtedly, he owes it to Hegel that he has the courage,
in spite of Kant's burning protest, to build up grandiose metaphysical
systems with a royal contempt for argument.

Let us consider first one of the few rational arguments offered by
Whitehead in his Process and Reality, the argument by which he defends
his speculative philosophical method (a method which he calls
'rationalism'). 'It has been an objection to speculative philosophy', he
writes—, 'that it is over- ambitious. Rationalism, it is admitted, is the
method by which advance is made within the limits of particular
sciences. It is, however, held that this limited success must not encourage
attempts to frame ambitious schemes expressive of the general nature of
things. One alleged justification of this criticism is ill-success; European
thought is represented as littered with metaphysical problems, abandoned
and unreconciled ... [But] the same criterion would fasten ill-success

upon science. We no more retain the physics of the seventeenth century
than we do the Cartesian philosophy of the century . . . The proper test is
not that of finality, but of progress.' Now this is in itself certainly a
perfectly reasonable and even plausible argument; but is it valid? The
obvious objection against it is that while physics progresses, metaphysics
does not. In physics, there is a 'proper test of progress', namely the test
of experiment, of practice. We can say why modern physics is better than
the physics of the seventeenth century. Modern physics stands up to a
great number of practical tests which utterly defeat the older systems.
And the obvious objection against speculative metaphysical systems is
that the progress they claim seems to be just as imaginary as anything
else about them. This objection is very old; it dates back to Bacon, Hume,
and Kant. We read, for example, in Kant's Prolegomena—, the following
remarks concerning the alleged progress of metaphysics: 'Undoubtedly
there are many who, like myself, have been unable to find that this
science has progressed by so much as a finger-breadth in spite of so many
beautiful things which have long been published on this subject.
Admittedly, we may find an attempt to sharpen a definition, or to supply
a lame proof with new crutches, and thus to patch up the crazy quilt of
metaphysics, or to give it a new pattern; but this is not what the world
needs. We are sick of metaphysical assertions. We want to have definite
criteria by which we may distinguish dialectical fancies ... from truth.'
Whitehead is probably aware of this classical and obvious objection; and
it looks as if he remembers it when in the sentence following the one
quoted last he writes: 'But the main objection dating from the sixteenth
century and receiving final expression from Francis Bacon, is the
uselessness of philosophic speculation.' Since it was the experimental
and practical uselessness of philosophy to which Bacon objected, it looks
as if Whitehead here had our point in mind. But he does not follow it up.
He does not reply to the obvious objection that this practical uselessness

destroys his point that speculative philosophy, like science, is justified by
the progress it makes. Instead, he contents himself with switching over to
an entirely different problem, namely, the well-known problem 'that
there are no brute, self-contained matters of fact', and that all science
must make use of thought, since it must generalize, and interpret, the
facts. On this consideration he bases his defence of metaphysical
systems: 'Thus the understanding of the immediate brute fact requires its
metaphysical interpretation . . . ' Now this may be so, or it may not be so.
But it is certainly an entirely different argument from the one he began
with. 'The proper test is ... progress', in science as well as in philosophy:
this is what we originally heard from Whitehead. But no answer to Kant's
obvious objection is forthcoming. Instead, Whitehead's argument, once
on the track of the problem of universality and generality, wanders off to
such questions as the (Platonic) collectivist theory of morality—:
'Morality of outlook is inseparably conjoined with generality of outlook.
The antithesis between the general good and the individual interest can be
abolished only when the individual is such that its interest is the general
good . . . '

Now this was a sample of rational argument. But rational arguments
are rare indeed. Whitehead has learned from Hegel how to avoid Kant's
criticism that speculative philosophy only supplies new crutches for lame
proofs. This Hegelian method is simple enough. We can easily avoid
crutches as long as we avoid proofs and arguments altogether. Hegelian
philosophy does not argue; it decrees. It must be admitted that, as
opposed to Hegel, Whitehead does not pretend to offer the final truth. He
is not a dogmatic philosopher in the sense that he presents his philosophy
as an indisputable dogma; he even emphasizes its imperfections. But like
all Neo-Hegelians, he adopts the dogmatic method of laying down his
philosophy without argument. We can take it or leave it. But we cannot
discuss it. (We are indeed faced with 'brute facts'; not with Baconian

brute facts of experience, but with the brute facts of a man's
metaphysical inspiration.) In order to illustrate this 'method of take it or
leave it', I shall quote just one passage from Process and Reality, but I
must warn my readers that, although I have tried to select the passage
fairly, they should not form an opinion without reading the book itself.

Its last part, entitled 'Final Interpretations', consists of two chapters,
'The Ideal Opposites' (where, for instance, 'Permanence and Flux'
occurs, a well-known patch from Plato's system; we have dealt with it
under the name 'Change and Rest'), and 'God and the World'. I quote
from this latter chapter. The passage is introduced by the two sentences:
'The final summary can only be expressed in terms of a group of
antitheses, whose apparent self-contradiction depends on neglect of the
diverse categories of existence. In each antithesis there is a shift of
meaning which converts the opposition into a contrast.' This is the
introduction. It prepares us for an 'apparent contradiction', and tells us
that this 'depends' on some neglect. This seems to indicate that by
avoiding that neglect we may avoid the contradiction. But how this is to
be achieved, or what is, more precisely, in the author's mind, we are not
told. We have just to take it or leave it. Now I quote the first two of the
announced 'antitheses' or 'apparent self-contradictions' which are also
stated without a shadow of argument: 'It is as true to say that God is
permanent and the World fluent as that the World is permanent and God
fluent. — It is as true to say that God is one and the World many, as that
the World is one and God many.' — Now I am not going to criticize these
echoes of Greek philosophical fancies; we may indeed take it for granted
that the one is just 'as true' as the other. But we have been promised an
'apparent self-contradiction'; and I should like to know where a self-
contradiction appears here. For to me not even the appearance of a
contradiction is apparent. A self-contradiction would be, for instance, the
sentence: 'Plato is happy and Plato is not happy', and all the sentences of

the same 'logical form' (that is to say, all sentences obtained from the
foregoing by substituting a proper name for Tlato' and a property word
for 'happy'). But the following sentence is clearly not a contradiction: 'It
is as true to say that Plato is happy to-day as it is to say that he is
unhappy to-day' (for since Plato is dead, the one is indeed 'as true' as the
other); and no other sentence of the same or a similar form can be called
self-contradictory, even if it happens to be false. This is only to indicate
why I am at a loss as to this purely logical aspect of the matter, the
'apparent self-contradictions'. And I feel that way about the whole book.
I just do not understand what its author wished it to convey. Very likely,
this is my fault and not his. I do not belong to the number of the elect,
and I fear that many others are in the same position. This is just why I
claim that the method of the book is irrational. It divides mankind into
two parts, a small number of the elect, and the large number of the lost.
But lost as I am, I can only say that, as I see it, Neo-Hegelianism no
longer looks like that old crazy quilt with a few new patches, so vividly
described by Kant; rather it looks now like a bundle of a few old patches
which have been torn from it.

I leave it to the careful student of Whitehead's book to decide whether
it has stood up to its own 'proper test', whether it shows progress as
compared with the metaphysical systems of whose stagnation Kant
complained; provided he can find the criteria by which to judge such
progress. And I will leave it to the same student to judge the
appropriateness of concluding these remarks with another of Kant's
comments upon metaphysics—: 'Concerning metaphysics in general, and
the views I have expressed on their value, I admit that my formulations
may here or there have been insufficiently conditional and cautious. Yet I
do not wish to hide the fact that I can only look with repugnance and even
with something like hate upon the puffed-up pretentiousness of all these
volumes filled with wisdom, such as are fashionable nowadays. For I am

fully satisfied that the wrong way has been chosen; that the accepted
methods must endlessly increase these follies and blunders; and that even
the complete annihilation of all these fanciful achievements could not
possibly be as harmful as this fictitious science with its accursed
fertility.'

The second example of contemporary irrationalism with which I intend
to deal here is A. J. Toynbee's A Study of History. I wish to make it clear
that I consider this a most remarkable and interesting book, and that I
have chosen it because of its superiority to all other contemporary
irrationalist and historicist works I know of. I am not competent to judge
Toynbee's merits as a historian. But as opposed to other contemporary
historicist and irrationalist philosophers, he has much to say that is most
stimulating and challenging; I at least have found him so, and I owe to
him many valuable suggestions. I do not accuse him of irrationalism in
his own field of historical research. For where it is a question of
comparing evidence in favour of or against a certain historical
interpretation, he uses unhesitatingly a fundamentally rational method of
argument. I have in mind, for instance, his comparative study of the
authenticity of the Gospels as historical records, with its negative
results—; although I am not able to judge his evidence, the rationality of
the method is beyond question, and this is the more admirable as
Toynbee's general sympathies with Christian orthodoxy might have made
it hard for him to defend a view which, to say the least, is unorthodox—. I
also agree with many of the political tendencies expressed in his work,
and most emphatically with his attack upon modern nationalism, and the
tribalist and 'archaist', i.e. culturally reactionary tendencies, which are
connected with it.

The reason why, in spite of all this, I single out Toynbee's monumental
historicist work in order to charge it with irrationality, is that only when
we see the effects of this poison in a work of such merit do we fully

appreciate its danger.

What I must describe as Toynbee's irrationalism expresses itself in
various ways. One of them is that he yields to a widespread and
dangerous fashion of our time. I mean the fashion of not taking
arguments seriously, and at their face value, at least tentatively, but of
seeing in them nothing but a way in which deeper irrational motives and
tendencies express themselves. It is the attitude of socio-analysis,
criticized in the last chapter; the attitude of looking at once for the
unconscious motives and determinants in the social habitat of the thinker,
instead of first examining the validity of the argument itself.

This attitude may be justified to a certain extent, as I have tried to
show in the two previous chapters; and this is especially so in the case of
an author who does not offer any arguments, or whose arguments are
obviously not worth looking into. But if no attempt is made to take
serious arguments seriously, then I believe that we are justified in making
the charge of irrationalism; and we are even justified in retaliating, by
adopting the same attitude towards the procedure. Thus I think that we
have every right to make the socio-analytical diagnosis that Toynbee's
neglect to take serious arguments seriously is representative of a
twentieth- century intellectualism which expresses its disillusionment, or
even despair, of reason, and of a rational solution of our social problems,
by an escape into a religious mysticism—.

As an example of the refusal to take serious arguments seriously, I
select Toynbee's treatment of Marx. My reasons for this selection are the
following. First, it is a topic which is familiar to myself as well as to the
reader of this book. Secondly, it is a topic on which I agree with Toynbee
in most of its practical aspects. His main judgements on Marx's political
and historical influence are very similar to results at which I have arrived
by more pedestrian methods; and it is indeed one of the topics whose
treatment shows his great historical intuition. Thus I shall hardly be

suspected of being an apologist for Marx if I defend Marx's rationality
against Toynbee. For this is the point on which I disagree: Toynbee treats
Marx (as he treats everybody) not as a rational being, a man who offers
arguments for what he teaches. Indeed, the treatment of Marx, and of his
theories, only exemplifies the general impression conveyed by Toynbee's
work that arguments are an unimportant mode of speech, and that the
history of mankind is a history of emotions, passions, religions, irrational
philosophies, and perhaps of art and poetry; but that it has nothing
whatever to do with the history of human reason or of human science.
(Names like Galileo and Newton, Harvey and Pasteur, do not play any
part in the first six volumes— of Toynbee's historicist study of the life-
cycle of civilizations.)

Regarding the points of similarity between Toynbee's and my general
views of Marx, I may remind the reader of my allusions, in chapter 1, to
the analogy between the chosen people and the chosen class; and in
various other places, I have commented critically upon Marx's doctrines
of historical necessity, and especially of the inevitability of the social
revolution. These ideas are linked together by Toynbee with his usual
brilliance: 'The distinctively Jewish ... inspiration of Marxism', he
writes—, 'is the apocalyptic vision of a violent revolution which is
inevitable because it is the decree ... of God himself, and which is to
invert the present roles of Proletariat and Dominant Minority in ... a
reversal of roles which is to carry the Chosen People, at one bound, from
the lowest to the highest place in the Kingdom of This World. Marx has
taken the Goddess "Historical Necessity" in place of Yahweh for his
omnipotent deity, and the internal proletariat of the modern Western
World in place of Jewry; and his Messianic Kingdom is conceived as a
Dictatorship of the Proletariat. But the salient features of the traditional
Jewish apocalypse protrude through this threadbare disguise, and it is
actually the pre-Rabbinical Maccabaean Judaism that our philosopher-

impresario is presenting in modern Western costume Now there is
certainly not much in this brilliantly phrased passage with which I do not
agree, as long as it is intended as nothing more than an interesting
analogy. But if it is intended as a serious analysis (or part of it) of
Marxism, then I must protest; Marx, after all, wrote Capital, studied
laissez-faire capitalism, and made serious and most important
contributions to social science, even if much of them has been
superseded. And, indeed, Toynbee's passage is intended as a serious
analysis; he believes that his analogies and allegories contribute to a
serious appreciation of Marx; for in an Annex to this passage (from
which I have quoted only an important part) he treats, under the title—
'Marxism, Socialism, and Christianity', what he considers to be likely
objections of a Marxist to this 'account of the Marxian Philosophy'. This
Annex itself is also undoubtedly intended as a serious discussion of
Marxism, as can be seen by the fact that its first paragraph commences
with the words 'The advocates of Marxism will perhaps protest that ...'
and the second with the words: 'In attempting to reply to a Marxian
protest on such lines as these . . . ' But if we look more closely into this
discussion, then we find that none of the rational arguments or claims of
Marxism is even mentioned, let alone examined. Of Marx's theories and
of the question whether they are true or false we do not hear a word. The
one additional problem raised in the Annex is again one of historical
origin; for the Marxist opponent envisaged by Toynbee does not protest,
as any Marxist in his senses would, that it is Marx's claim to have based
an old idea, socialism, upon a new, namely a rational and scientific,
basis; instead, he 'protests' (I am quoting Toynbee) 'that in a rather
summary account of Marxian Philosophy ... we have made a show of
analysing this into a Hegelian and a Jewish and a Christian constituent
element without having said a word about the most characteristic . . . part
of Marx's message . . . Socialism, the Marxian will tell us, is the essence

of the Marxian way of life; it is an original element in the Marxian
system which cannot be traced to a Hegelian or a Christian or a Jewish
or any other pre-Marxian source'. This is the protest put by Toynbee into
the mouth of a Marxist, although any Marxist, even if he has read nothing
but WvQ Manifesto, must know that Marx himself as early as in 1847
distinguished about seven or eight different 'pre-Marxian sources' of
socialism, and among them also those which he labelled 'Clerical' or
'Christian' socialism, and that he never dreamt of having discovered
socialism, but only claimed that he had made it rational; or, as Engels
expresses it, that he had developed socialism from a Utopian idea into a
science—. But Toynbee neglects all that. 'In attempting', he writes, 'to
reply to a Marxian protest on such lines as these, we shall readily admit
the humaneness and constructiveness of the ideal for which socialism
stands, as well as the importance of the part which this ideal plays in the
Marxian "ideology"; but we shall find ourselves unable to accept the
Marxian contention that Socialism is Marx's original discovery. We shall
have to point out, on our part, that there is a Christian socialism which
was practised as well as preached before the Marxian Socialism was ever
heard of; and, when our turn comes for taking the offensive, we shall . . .
maintain that the Marxian Socialism is derived from the Christian
tradition . . . ' Now I would certainly never deny this derivation, and it is
quite clear that every Marxist could admit it without sacrificing the
tiniest bit of his creed; for the Marxist creed is not that Marx was the
inventor of a humane and constructive ideal but that he was the scientist
who by purely rational means showed that socialism will come, and in
what way it will come.

How, I ask, can it be explained that Toynbee discusses Marxism on
lines which have nothing whatever to do with its rational claims? The
only explanation I can see is that the Marxist claim to rationality has no
meaning whatever for Toynbee. He is interested only in the question of

how it originated as a religion. Now I should be the last to deny its
religious character. But the method of treating philosophies or religions
entirely from the point of view of their historical origin and environment,
an attitude described in the previous chapters as historism (and to be
distinguished from historicism), is, to say the least, very one-sided; and
how much this method is liable to produce irrationalism can be seen from
Toynbee's neglect of, if not contempt for, that important realm of human
life which we have here described as rational.

In an assessment of Marx's influence, Toynbee arrives at the
conclusion— that 'the verdict of History may turn out to be that a re-
awakening of the Christian social conscience has been the one great
positive achievement of Karl Marx'. Against this assessment, I have
certainly not much to say; perhaps the reader will remember that I too
have emphasized— Marx's moral influence upon Christianity. I do not
think that, as a final appraisal, Toynbee takes sufficiently into account the
great moral idea that the exploited should emancipate themselves, instead
of waiting for acts of charity on the part of the exploiters; but this, of
course, is just a difference of opinion, and I would not dream of
contesting Toynbee's right to his own opinion, which I consider very fair.
But I should like to draw attention to the phrase 'the verdict of history
may turn out', with its implied historicist moral theory, and even moral
futurism—. For I hold that we cannot and must not evade deciding in such
matters for ourselves; and that if we are not able to pass a verdict, neither
will history.

So much about Toynbee's treatment of Marx. Concerning the more
general problem of his historism or historical relativism, it may be said
that he is well aware of it, although he does not formulate it as a general
principle of the historical determination of all thought, but only as a
restricted principle applicable to historical thought; for he explains— that
he takes 'as the starting point ... the axiom that all historical thought is

inevitably relative to the particular circumstances of the thinker's own
time and place. This is a law of Human Nature from which no human
genius can be exempt.' The analogy of this historism with the sociology
of knowledge is rather obvious; for 'the thinker's own time and place' is
clearly nothing but the description of what may be called his 'historical
habitat', by analogy with the 'social habitat' described by the sociology
of knowledge. The difference, if any, is that Toynbee confines his 'law of
Human Nature' to historical thought, which seems to me a slightly
strange and perhaps even unintentional restriction; for it is somewhat
improbable that there should be a 'law of Human Nature from which no
human genius can be exempt' holding not for thought in general but only
for historical thought.

With the undeniable but rather trivial kernel of truth contained in such
a historism or sociologism I have dealt in the last two chapters, and I
need not repeat what I have said there. But as regards criticism, it may be
worth while to point out that Toynbee 's sentence, if freed from its
restriction to historical thought, could hardly be considered an 'axiom'
since it would be paradoxical. (It would be another— form of the paradox
of the liar; for if no genius is exempt from expressing the fashions of his
social habitat then this contention itself may be merely an expression of
the fashion of its author's social habitat, i.e. of the relativistic fashion of
our own day.) This remark has not only a formal-logical significance. For
it indicates that historism or historio-analysis can be applied to historism
itself, and this is indeed a permissible way of dealing with an idea after it
has been criticized by way of rational argument. Since historism has been
so criticized, I may now risk a historio-analytical diagnosis, and say that
historism is a typical though slightly obsolescent product of our time; or
more precisely, of the typical backwardness of the social sciences of our
time. It is the typical reaction to interventionism and to a period of
rationalization and industrial co-operation; a period which, perhaps more

than any other in history, demands the practical application of rational
methods to social problems. A social science which cannot quite meet
these demands is therefore inclined to defend itself by producing
elaborate attacks upon the applicability of science to such problems.
Summing up my historio-analytical diagnosis, I venture to suggest that
Toynbee's historism is an apologetic anti-rationalism, born out of despair
of reason, and trying to escape into the past, as well as into prophecy of
the future—. If anything then historism must be understood as an
historical product.

This diagnosis is corroborated by many features of Toynbee's work.
An example is his stress upon the superiority of other-worldliness over
action which will influence the course of this world. So he speaks, for
instance, of Mohammed's 'tragic worldly success', saying that the
opportunity which offered itself to the prophet of taking action in this
world was 'a challenge to which his spirit failed to rise. In accepting ...
he was renouncing the sublime role of the nobly-honoured prophet and
contenting himself with the commonplace role of the magnificently
successful statesman.' (In other words, Mohammed succumbed to a
temptation which Jesus resisted.) Ignatius Loyola, accordingly, wins
Toynbee's approval for turning from a soldier into a saint—. One may
ask, however, whether this saint did not become a successful statesman
too? (But if it is a question of Jesuitism, then, it seems, all is different:
this form of statesmanship is sufficiently otherworldly.) In order to avoid
misunderstandings, I wish to make it clear that I myself would rate many
saints higher than most, or very nearly all, statesmen I know of, for I am
generally not impressed by political success. I quote this passage only as
a corroboration of my historio-analytical diagnosis: that this historism of
a modern historical prophet is a philosophy of escape.

Toynbee's anti-rationalism is prominent in many other places. For
instance, in an attack upon the rationalistic conception of tolerance he

uses categories like 'nobleness' as opposed to 'lowness' instead of
arguments. The passage deals with the opposition between the merely
'negative' avoidance of violence, on rational grounds, and the true non-
violence of other-worldliness, hinting that these two are instances of
'meanings ... which are ... positively antithetical to one another'—. Here
is the passage I have in mind: 'At its lowest the practice of Non- Violence
may express nothing more noble and more constructive than a cynical
disillusionment with . . . violence . . . previously practised ad nauseam . . .
A notorious example of Non- Violence of this unedifying kind is the
religious tolerance in the Western World from the seventeenth century . . .
down to our day.' It is difficult to resist the temptation to retaliate by
asking — ^using Toynbee's own terminology — ^whether this edifying attack
upon Western democratic religious tolerance expresses anything more
noble or more constructive than a cynical disillusionment with reason;
whether it is not a notorious example of that anti-rationalism which has
been, and unfortunately still is, fashionable in our Western World, and
which has been practised ad nauseam, especially from the time of Hegel,
down to our day?

Of course, my historio-analysis of Toynbee is not a serious criticism. It
is only an unkind way of retaliating, of paying historism back in its own
coin. My fundamental criticism is on very different lines, and I should
certainly be sorry if by dabbling in historism I were to become
responsible for making this cheap method more fashionable than it is
already.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. I feel no hostility towards religious
mysticism (only towards a militant anti-rationalist intellectualism) and I
should be the first to fight any attempt to oppress it. It is not I who
advocate religious intolerance. But I claim that faith in reason, or
rationalism, or humanitarianism, or humanism, has the same right as any
other creed to contribute to an improvement of human affairs, and

especially to the control of international crime and the establishment of
peace. 'The humanist', Toynbee writes—, 'purposely concentrates all his
attention and effort upon . . . bringing human affairs under human control.
Yet ... the unity of mankind can never be established in fact except
within a framework of the unity of the superhuman whole of which
Humanity is a part . . .; and our Modern Western school of humanists have
been peculiar, as well as perverse, in planning to reach Heaven by raising
a titanic Tower of Babel on terrestrial foundations Toynbee's
contention, if I understand him rightly, is that there is no chance for the
humanist to bring international affairs under the control of human reason.
Appealing to the authority of Bergson— , he claims that only allegiance to
a superhuman whole can save us, and that there is no way for human
reason, no 'terrestrial road', as he puts it, by which tribal nationalism can
be superseded. Now I do not mind the characterization of the humanist's
faith in reason as 'terrestrial', since I believe that it is indeed a principle
of rationalist politics that we cannot make heaven on earth—. But
humanism is, after all, a faith which has proved itself in deeds, and which
has proved itself as well, perhaps, as any other creed. And although I
think, with most humanists, that Christianity, by teaching the fatherhood
of God, may make a great contribution to establishing the brotherhood of
man, I also think that those who undermine man's faith in reason are
unlikely to contribute much to this end.

Conclusion

Has History any Meaning?

In approaching the end of this book, I wish again to remind the reader
that these chapters were not intended as anything like a full history of
historicism; they are merely scattered marginal notes to such a history,
and rather personal notes to boot. That they form, besides, a kind of
critical introduction to the philosophy of society and of politics, is
closely connected with this character of theirs, for historicism is a social
and political and moral (or, shall I say, immoral) philosophy, and it has
been as such most influential since the beginning of our civilization. It is
therefore hardly possible to comment on its history without discussing
the fundamental problems of society, of politics, and of morals. But such
a discussion, whether it admits it or not, must always contain a strong
personal element. This does not mean that much in this book is purely a
matter of opinion; in the few cases where I am explaining my personal
proposals or decisions in moral and political matters, I have always made
the personal character of the proposal or decision clear. It rather means
that the selection of the subject matter treated is a matter of personal
choice to a much greater extent than it would be, say, in a scientific
treatise.

In a way, however, this difference is a matter of degree. Even a science

is not merely a 'body of facts'. It is, at the very least, a collection, and as
such it is dependent upon the collector's interests, upon a point of view.
In science, this point of view is usually determined by a scientific theory;
that is to say, we select from the infinite variety of facts, and from the
infinite variety of aspects of facts, those facts and those aspects which are
interesting because they are connected with some more or less
preconceived scientific theory. A certain school of philosophers of
scientific method- have concluded from considerations such as these that
science always argues in a circle, and 'that we find ourselves chasing our
own tails', as Eddington puts it, since we can only get out of our factual
experience what we have ourselves put into it, in the form of our theories.
But this is not a tenable argument. Although it is, in general, quite true
that we select only facts which have a bearing upon some preconceived
theory, it is not true that we select only such facts as confirm the theory
and, as it were, repeat it; the method of science is rather to look out for
facts which may refute the theory. This is what we call testing a theory —
to see whether we cannot find a flaw in it. But although the facts are
collected with an eye upon the theory, and will confirm it as long as the
theory stands up to these tests, they are more than merely a kind of empty
repetition of a preconceived theory. They confirm the theory only if they
are the results of unsuccessful attempts to overthrow its predictions, and
therefore a telling testimony in its favour. So it is, I hold, the possibility
of overthrowing it, or its falsif lability, that constitutes the possibility of
testing it, and therefore the scientific character of a theory; and the fact
that all tests of a theory are attempted falsifications of predictions
derived with its help, furnishes the clue to scientific method-. This view
of scientific method is corroborated by the history of science, which
shows that scientific theories are often overthrown by experiments, and
that the overthrow of theories is indeed the vehicle of scientific progress.
The contention that science is circular cannot be upheld.

But one element of this contention remains true; namely, that all
scientific descriptions of facts are highly selective, that they always
depend upon theories. The situation can be best described by comparison
with a searchlight (the 'searchlight theory of science', as I usually call it
in contradistinction to the 'bucket theory of the mind'-). What the
searchlight makes visible will depend upon its position, upon our way of
directing it, and upon its intensity, colour, etc.; although it will, of course,
also depend very largely upon the things illuminated by it. Similarly, a
scientific description will depend, largely, upon our point of view, our
interests, which are as a rule connected with the theory or hypothesis we
wish to test; although it will also depend upon the facts described. Indeed,
the theory or hypothesis could be described as the crystallization of a
point of view. For if we attempt to formulate our point of view, then this
formulation will, as a rule, be what one sometimes calls a working
hypothesis; that is to say, a provisional assumption whose function is to
help us to select, and to order, the facts. But we should be clear that there
cannot be any theory or hypothesis which is not, in this sense, a working
hypothesis, and does not remain one. For no theory is final, and every
theory helps us to select and order facts. This selective character of all
description makes it in a certain sense 'relative'; but only in the sense
that we would offer not this but another description, if our point of view
were different. It may also affect our belief m the truth of the description;
but it does not affect the question of the truth or falsity of the description;
truth is not 'relative' in this sense-.

The reason why all description is selective is, roughly speaking, the
infinite wealth and variety of the possible aspects of the facts of our
world. In order to describe this infinite wealth, we have at our disposal
only a finite number of finite series of words. Thus we may describe as
long as we like: our description will always be incomplete, a mere
selection, and a small one at that, of the facts which present themselves

for description. This shows that it is not only impossible to avoid a
selective point of view, but also wholly undesirable to attempt to do so;
for if we could do so, we should get not a more 'objective' description,
but only a mere heap of entirely unconnected statements. But, of course, a
point of view is inevitable; and the naive attempt to avoid it can only lead
to self-deception, and to the uncritical application of an unconscious
point of view-. All this is true, most emphatically, in the case of
historical description, with its 'infinite subject matter', as Schopenhauer-
calls it. Thus in history no less than in science, we cannot avoid a point of
view; and the belief that we can must lead to self-deception and to lack of
critical care. This does not mean, of course, that we are permitted to
falsify anything, or to take matters of truth lightly. Any particular
historical description of facts will be simply true or false, however
difficult it may be to decide upon its truth or falsity.

So far, the position of history is analogous to that of the natural
sciences, for example, that of physics. But if we compare the part played
by a 'point of view' in history with that played by a 'point of view' in
physics, then we find a great difference. In physics, as we have seen, the
'point of view' is usually presented by a physical theory which can be
tested by searching for new facts. In history, the matter is not quite so
simple.

Let us first consider a little more closely the role of the theories in a
natural science such as physics. Here, theories have several connected
tasks. They help to unify science, and they help to explain as well as to
predict events. Regarding explanation and prediction, I may perhaps

quote from one of my own publications-: 'To give a causal explanation
of a certain event means to derive deductively a statement (it will be
called a prognosis) which describes that event, using as premises of the
deduction some universal laws together with certain singular or specific
sentences which we may call initial conditions. For example, we can say
that we have given a causal explanation of the breaking of a certain
thread if we find that this thread was capable of carrying one pound only,
and that a weight of two pounds was put on it. If we analyse this causal
explanation, then we find that two different constituents are involved in
it. (1) We assume some hypotheses of the character of universal laws of
nature; in our case, perhaps: "Whenever a certain thread undergoes a
tension exceeding a certain maximum tension which is characteristic for
that particular thread, then it will break." (2) We assume some specific
statements (the initial conditions) pertaining to the particular event in
question; in our case, we may have the two statements: "For this thread,
the characteristic maximum tension at which it is liable to break is equal
to a one-pound weight" and "The weight put on this thread was a two-
pound weight." Thus we have two different kinds of statements which
together yield a complete causal explanation, viz.: (1) universal
statements of the character of natural laws, and (2) specific statements
pertaining to the special case in question, the initial conditions. Now
from the universal laws (1), we can deduce with the help of the initial
conditions (2) the following specific statement (3): "This thread will
break." This conclusion (3) we may also call a specific prognosis. — The
initial conditions (or more precisely, the situation described by them) are
usually spoken of as the cause of the event in question, and the prognosis
(or rather, the event described by the prognosis) as the effect: for
example, we say that the putting of a weight of two pounds on a thread
capable of carrying one pound only was the cause of the breaking of the
thread. '

From this analysis of causal explanation, we can see several things.
One is that we can never speak of cause and effect in an absolute way, but
that an event is a cause of another event, which is its effect, relative to
some universal law. However, these universal laws are very often so
trivial (as in our own example) that as a rule we take them for granted,
instead of making conscious use of them. A second point is that the use of
a theory for the purpose of predicting some specific event is just another
aspect of its use for the purpose of explaining such an event. And since
we test a theory by comparing the events predicted with those actually
observed, our analysis also shows how theories can be tested. Whether we
use a theory for the purpose of explanation, or prediction, or of testing,
depends on our interest, and on what propositions we take as given or
assumed.

Thus in the case of the so-called theoretical or generalizing sciences
(such as physics, biology, sociology, etc.) we are predominantly
interested in the universal laws or hypotheses. We wish to know whether
they are true, and since we can never directly make sure of their truth, we
adopt the method of eliminating the false ones. Our interest in the
specific events, for example in experiments which are described by the
initial conditions and prognoses, is somewhat limited; we are interested
in them mainly as means to certain ends, means by which we can test the
universal laws, which latter are considered as interesting in themselves,
and as unifying our knowledge.

In the case of applied sciences, our interest is different. The engineer
who uses physics in order to build a bridge is predominantly interested in
a prognosis: whether or not a bridge of a certain kind described (by the
initial conditions) will carry a certain load. For him, the universal laws
are means to an end and taken for granted.

Accordingly, pure and applied generalizing sciences are respectively
interested in testing universal hypotheses, and in predicting specific

events. But there is a further interest, that in explaining a specific or
particular event. If we wish to explain such an event, for example, a
certain road accident, then we usually tacitly assume a host of rather
trivial universal laws (such as that a bone breaks under a certain strain, or
that any motor-car colliding in a certain way with any human body will
exert a strain sufficient to break a bone, etc.), and are interested,
predominantly, in the initial conditions or in the cause which, together
with these trivial universal laws, would explain the event in question. We
then usually assume certain initial conditions hypothetically, and attempt
to find some further evidence in order to find out whether or not these
hypothetically assumed initial conditions are true; that is to say, we test
these specific hypotheses by deriving from them (with the help of some
other and usually equally trivial universal laws) new predictions which
can be confronted with observable facts.

Very rarely do we find ourselves in the position of having to worry
about the universal laws involved in such an explanation. It happens only
when we observe some new or strange kind of event, such as an
unexpected chemical reaction. If such an event gives rise to the framing
and testing of new hypotheses, then it is interesting mainly from the point
of view of some generalizing science. But as a rule, if we are interested in
specific events and their explanation, we take for granted all the many
universal laws which we need.

Now the sciences which have this interest in specific events and in
their explanation may, in contradistinction to the generalizing sciences,
be called the historical sciences.

This view of history makes it clear why so many students of history
and its method insist that it is the particular event that interests them, and
not any so-called universal historical laws. For from our point of view,
there can be no historical laws. Generalization belongs simply to a
different line of interest, sharply to be distinguished from that interest in

specific events and their causal explanation which is the business of
history. Those who are interested in laws must turn to the generalizing
sciences (for example, to sociology). Our view also makes it clear why
history has so often been described as 'the events of the past as they
actually did happen'. This description brings out quite well the specific
interest of the student of history, as opposed to a student of a generalizing
science, even though we shall have to raise certain objections against it.
And our view explains why, in history, we are confronted, much more
than in the generalizing sciences, with the problems of its 'infinite
subject matter'. For the theories or universal laws of generalizing science
introduce unity as well as a 'point of view'; they create, for every
generalizing science, its problems, and its centres of interest as well as of
research, of logical construction, and of presentation. But in history we
have no such unifying theories; or, rather, the host of trivial universal
laws we use are taken for granted; they are practically without interest,
and totally unable to bring order into the subject matter. If we explain, for
example, the first division of Poland in 1772 by pointing out that it could
not possibly resist the combined power of Russia, Prussia, and Austria,
then we are tacitly using some trivial universal law such as: 'If of two
armies which are about equally well armed and led, one has a tremendous
superiority in men, then the other never wins.' (Whether we say here
'never' or 'hardly ever' does not make, for our purposes, as much
difference as it does for the Captain of H.M.S. Pinafore.) Such a law
might be described as a law of the sociology of military power; but it is
too trivial ever to raise a serious problem for the students of sociology, or
to arouse their attention. Or if we explain Caesar's decision to cross the
Rubicon by his ambition and energy, say, then we are using some very
trivial psychological generalizations which would hardly ever arouse the
attention of a psychologist. (As a matter of fact, most historical
explanation makes tacit use, not so much of trivial sociological and

psychological laws, but of what I have called, in chapter 14, the logic oj
the situation', that is to say, besides the initial conditions describing
personal interests, aims, and other situational factors, such as the
information available to the person concerned, it tacitly assumes, as a
kind of first approximation, the trivial general law that sane persons as a
rule act more or less rationally.)

Ill

We see, therefore, that those universal laws which historical explanation
uses provide no selective and unifying principle, no 'point of view' for
history. In a very limited sense such a point of view may be provided by
confining history to a history of something; examples are the history of
power politics, or of economic relations, or of technology, or of
mathematics. But as a rule, we need further selective principles, points of
view which are at the same time centres of interest. Some of these are
provided by preconceived ideas which in some way resemble universal
laws, such as the idea that what is important for history is the character of
the 'Great Men', or the 'national character', or moral ideas, or economic
conditions, etc. Now it is important to see that many 'historical theories'
(they might perhaps be better described as 'quasi-theories') are in their
character vastly different from scientific theories. For in history
(including the historical natural sciences such as historical geology) the
facts at our disposal are often severely limited and cannot be repeated or
implemented at our will. And they have been collected in accordance
with a preconceived point of view; the so-called 'sources' of history
record only such facts as appeared sufficiently interesting to record, so
that the sources will often contain only such facts as fit in with

preconceived theory. And if no further facts are available, it will often
not be possible to test this theory or any other subsequent theory. Such
untestable historical theories can then rightly be charged with being
circular in the sense in which this charge has been unjustly brought
against scientific theories. I shall call such historical theories, in
contradistinction to scientific theories, 'general interpretations'.

Interpretations are important since they represent a point of view. But
we have seen that a point of view is always inevitable, and that, in
history, a theory which can be tested and which is therefore of scientific
character can only rarely be obtained. Thus we must not think that a
general interpretation can be confirmed by its agreement even with all
our records; for we must remember its circularity, as well as the fact that
there will always be a number of other (and perhaps incompatible)
interpretations that agree with the same records, and that we can rarely
obtain new data able to serve as do crucial experiments in physics-.
Historians often do not see any other interpretation which fits the facts as
well as their own does; but if we consider that even in the field of
physics, with its larger and more reliable stock of facts, new crucial
experiments are needed again and again because the old ones are all in
keeping with both of two competing and incompatible theories (consider
the eclipse-experiment which is needed for deciding between Newton's
and Einstein's theories of gravitation), then we shall give up the naifve
belief that any definite set of historical records can ever be interpreted in
one way only.

But this does not mean, of course, that all interpretations are of equal
merit. First, there are always interpretations which are not really in
keeping with the accepted records; secondly, there are some which need a
number of more or less plausible auxiliary hypotheses if they are to
escape falsification by the records; next, there are some that are unable to
connect a number of facts which another interpretation can connect, and

in so far 'explain'. There may accordingly be a considerable amount of
progress even within the field of historical interpretation. Furthermore,
there may be all kinds of intermediate stages between more or less
universal 'points of view' and those specific or singular historical
hypotheses mentioned above, which in the explanation of historical
events play the role of hypothetical initial conditions rather than of
universal laws. Often enough, these can be tested fairly well and are
therefore comparable to scientific theories. But some of these specific
hypotheses closely resemble those universal quasi-theories which I have
called interpretations, and may accordingly be classed with these, as
'specific interpretations'. For the evidence in favour of such a specific
interpretation is often enough just as circular in character as the evidence
in favour of some universal 'point of view'. For example, our only
authority may give us just that information regarding certain events
which fits with his own specific interpretation. Most specific
interpretations of these facts we may attempt will then be circular in the
sense that they must fit in with that interpretation which was used in the
original selection of facts. If, however, we can give to such material an
interpretation which radically deviates from that adopted by our authority
(and this is certainly so, for example, in our interpretation of Plato's
work), then the character of our interpretation may perhaps take on some
semblance to that of a scientific hypothesis. But fundamentally, it is
necessary to keep in mind the fact that it is a very dubious argument in
favour of a certain interpretation that it can be easily applied, and that it
explains all we know; for only if we can look out for counter examples
can we test a theory. (This point is nearly always overlooked by the
admirers of the various 'unveiling philosophies', especially by the
psycho-, socio-, and historio-analysts; they are often seduced by the ease
with which their theories can be applied everywhere.)

I said before that interpretations may be incompatible; but as long as

we consider them merely as crystallizations of points of view, then they
are not. For example, the interpretation that man steadily progresses
(towards the open society or some other aim) is incompatible with the
interpretation that he steadily slips back or retrogresses. But the 'point of
view' of one who looks on human history as a history of progress is not
necessarily incompatible with that of one who looks on it as a history of
retrogression; that is to say, we could write a history of human progress
towards freedom (containing, for example, the story of the fight against
slavery) and another history of human retrogression and oppression
(containing perhaps such things as the impact of the white race upon the
coloured races); and these two histories need not be in conflict; rather,
they may be complementary to each other, as would be two views of the
same landscape seen from two different points. This consideration is of
considerable importance. For since each generation has its own troubles
and problems, and therefore its own interests and its own point of view, it
follows that each generation has a right to look upon and re-interpret
history in its own way, which is complementary to that of previous
generations. After all, we study history because we are interested in it-,
and perhaps because we wish to learn something about our own problems.
But history can serve neither of these two purposes if, under the influence
of an inapplicable idea of objectivity, we hesitate to present historical
problems from our point of view. And we should not think that our point
of view, if consciously and critically applied to the problem, will be
inferior to that of a writer who naively believes that he does not interpret,
and that he has reached a level of objectivity permitting him to present
'the events of the past as they actually did happen'. (This is why I believe
that even such admittedly personal comments as can be found in this
book are justified, since they are in keeping with historical method.) The
main thing is to be conscious of one's point of view, and critical, that is
to say, to avoid, as far as this is possible, unconscious and therefore

uncritical bias in the presentation of the facts. In every other respect, the
interpretation must speak for itself; and its merits will be its fertility, its
ability to elucidate the facts of history, as well as its topical interest, its
ability to elucidate the problems of the day.

To sum up, there can be no history of 'the past as it actually did
happen'; there can only be historical interpretations, and none of them
final; and every generation has a right to frame its own. But not only has
it a right to frame its own interpretations, it also has a kind of obligation
to do so; for there is indeed a pressing need to be answered. We want to
know how our troubles are related to the past, and we want to see the line
along which we may progress towards the solution of what we feel, and
what we choose, to be our main tasks. It is this need which, if not
answered by rational and fair means, produces historicist interpretations.
Under its pressure the historicist substitutes for a rational question:
'What are we to choose as our most urgent problems, how did they arise,
and along what roads may we proceed to solve them?' the irrational and
apparently factual question: 'Which way are we going? What, in essence,
is the part that history has destined us to play?'

But am I justified in refusing to the historicist the right to interpret
history in his own way? Have I not just proclaimed that anybody has such
a right? My answer to this question is that historicist interpretations are
of a peculiar kind. Those interpretations which are needed, and justified,
and one or other of which we are bound to adopt, can, I have said, be
compared to a searchlight. We let it play upon our past, and we hope to
illuminate the present by its reflection. As opposed to this, the historicist
interpretation may be compared to a searchlight which we direct upon
ourselves. It makes it diflicult if not impossible to see anything of our
surroundings, and it paralyses our actions. To translate this metaphor, the
historicist does not recognize that it is we who select and order the facts
of history, but he believes that 'history itself, or the 'history of

mankind', determines, by its inherent laws, ourselves, our problems, our
future, and even our point of view. Instead of recognizing that historical
interpretation should answer a need arising out of the practical problems
and decisions which face us, the historicist believes that in our desire for
historical interpretation, there expresses itself the profound intuition that
by contemplating history we may discover the secret, the essence of
human destiny. Historicism is out to find The Path on which mankind is
destined to walk; it is out to discover The Clue to History (as J.
Macmurray calls it), or The Meaning of History.

But is there such a clue? Is there a meaning in history?

I do not wish to enter here into the problem of the meaning of
'meaning'; I take it for granted that most people know with sufficient
clarity what they mean when they speak of the 'meaning of history' or of
the 'meaning or purpose of life'—. And in this sense, in the sense in
which the question of the meaning of history is asked, I answer: History
has no meaning.

In order to give reasons for this opinion, I must first say something
about that 'history' which people have in mind when they ask whether it
has meaning. So far, I have myself spoken about 'history' as if it did not
need any explanation. That is no longer possible; for I wish to make it
clear that 'history' in the sense in which most people speak of it simply
does not exist, and this is at least one reason why I say that it has no
meaning.

How do most people come to use the term 'history'? (I mean 'history'
in the sense in which we say of a book that it is about the history of

Europe — not in the sense in which we say that it is a history of Europe.)
They learn about it in school and at the University. They read books about
it. They see what is treated in the books under the name 'history of the
world' or 'the history of mankind', and they get used to looking upon it
as a more or less definite series of facts. And these facts constitute, they
believe, the history of mankind.

But we have already seen that the realm of facts is infinitely rich, and
that there must be selection. According to our interests, we could, for
instance, write about the history of art; or of language; or of feeding
habits; or of typhus fever (see Zinsser's Rats, Lice, and History).
Certainly, none of these is the history of mankind (nor all of them taken
together). What people have in mind when they speak of the history of
mankind is, rather, the history of the Egyptian, Babylonian, Persian,
Macedonian, and Roman empires, and so on, down to our own day. In
other words: They speak about the history of mankind, but what they
mean, and what they have learned about in school, is the history oj
political power.

There is no history of mankind, there is only an indefinite number of
histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the
history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world.
But this, I hold, is an offence against every decent conception of
mankind. It is hardly better than to treat the history of embezzlement or
of robbery or of poisoning as the history of mankind. For the history oj
power politics is nothing but the history of international crime and mass
murder (including, it is true, some of the attempts to suppress them). This
history is taught in schools, and some of the greatest criminals are
extolled as its heroes.

But is there really no such thing as a universal history in the sense of a
concrete history of mankind? There can be none. This must be the reply
of every humanitarian, I believe, and especially that of every Christian. A

concrete history of mankind, if there were any, would have to be the
history of all men. It would have to be the history of all human hopes,
struggles, and sufferings. For there is no one man more important than
any other. Clearly, this concrete history cannot be written. We must make
abstractions, we must neglect, select. But with this we arrive at the many
histories; and among them, at that history of international crime and mass
murder which has been advertised as the history of mankind.

But why has just the history of power been selected, and not, for
example, that of religion, or of poetry? There are several reasons. One is
that power affects us all, and poetry only a few. Another is that men are
inclined to worship power. But there can be no doubt that the worship of
power is one of the worst kinds of human idolatries, a relic of the time of
the cage, of human servitude. The worship of power is bom of fear, an
emotion which is rightly despised. A third reason why power politics has
been made the core of 'history' is that those in power wanted to be
worshipped and could enforce their wishes. Many historians wrote under
the supervision of the emperors, the generals and the dictators.

I know that these views will meet with the strongest opposition from
many sides, including some apologists for Christianity; for although there
is hardly anything in the New Testament to support this doctrine, it is
often considered a part of the Christian dogma that God reveals Himself
in history; that history has meaning; and that its meaning is the purpose
of God. Historicism is thus held to be a necessary element of religion.
But I do not admit this. I contend that this view is pure idolatry and
superstition, not only from the point of view of a rationalist or humanist
but from the Christian point of view itself.

What is behind this theistic historicism? With Hegel, it looks upon
history — ^political history — as a stage, or rather, as a kind of lengthy
Shakespearian play; and the audience conceive either the 'great historical
personalities', or mankind in the abstract, as the heroes of the play. Then

they ask, 'Who has written this play?' And they think that they give a
pious answer when they reply, 'God'. But they are mistaken. Their
answer is pure blasphemy, for the play was (and they know it) written not
by God, but, under the supervision of generals and dictators, by the
professors of history.

I do not deny that it is as justifiable to interpret history from a
Christian point of view as it is to interpret it from any other point of
view; and it should certainly be emphasized, for example, how much of
our Western aims and ends, humanitarianism, freedom, equality, we owe
to the influence of Christianity. But at the same time, the only rational as
well as the only Christian attitude even towards the history of freedom is
that we are ourselves responsible for it, in the same sense in which we are
responsible for what we make of our lives, and that only our conscience
can judge us and not our worldly success. The theory that God reveals
Himself and His judgement in history is indistinguishable from the
theory that worldly success is the ultimate judge and justification of our
actions; it comes to the same thing as the doctrine that history will judge,
that is to say, that future might is right; it is the same as what I have
called 'moral futurism'—. To maintain that God reveals Himself in what
is usually called 'history', in the history of international crime and of
mass murder, is indeed blasphemy; for what really happens within the
realm of human lives is hardly ever touched upon by this cruel and at the
same time childish affair. The life of the forgotten, of the unknown
individual man; his sorrows and his joys, his suffering and death, this is
the real content of human experience down the ages. If that could be told
by history, then I should certainly not say that it is blasphemy to see the
finger of God in it. But such a history does not and cannot exist; and all
the history which exists, our history of the Great and the Powerful, is at
best a shallow comedy; it is the opera buffa played by the powers behind
reality (comparable to Homer's opera buffa of the Olympian powers

behind the scene of human struggles). It is what one of our worst
instincts, the idolatrous worship of power, of success, has led us to
believe to be real. And in this not even man-made, but man-faked
'history', some Christians dare to see the hand of God! They dare to
understand and to know what He wills when they impute to Him their
petty historical interpretations! 'On the contrary', says K. Barth, the
theologian, in his Credo, 'we have to begin with the admission . . . that all
that we think we know when we say "God" does not reach or comprehend
Him but always one of our self-conceived and self-made idols,
whether it is "spirit" or "nature", "fate" or "idea" . . . '— (It is in keeping
with this attitude that Barth characterizes the 'Neo-Protestant doctrine of
the revelation of God in history' as 'inadmissible' and as an
encroachment upon 'the kingly office of Christ'.) But it is, from the
Christian point of view, not only arrogance that underlies such attempts;
it is, more specifically, an anti- Christian attitude. For Christianity
teaches, if anything, that worldly success is not decisive. Christ 'suffered
under Pontius Pilate'. I am quoting Barth again: 'How does Pontius Pilate
get into the Credo? The simple answer can at once be given: it is a matter
of date.' Thus the man who was successful, who represented the historical
power of that time, plays here the purely technical role of indicating
when these events happened. And what were these events? They had
nothing to do with power-political success, with 'history'. They were not
even the story of an unsuccessful non-violent nationalist revolution {d la
Gandhi) of the Jewish people against the Roman conquerors. The events
were nothing but the sufferings of a man. Barth insists that the word
'suffers' refers to the whole of the life of Christ and not only to His
death; he says—: 'Jesus suffers. Therefore He does not conquer. He does
not triumph. He has no success ... He achieved nothing except ... His
crucifixion. The same could be said of His relationship to His people and
to His disciples.' My intention in quoting Barth is to show that it is not

only my 'rationalist' or 'humanist' point of view from which the worship
of historical success appears as incompatible with the spirit of
Christianity. What matters to Christianity is not the historical deeds of
the powerful Roman conquerers but (to use a phrase of Kierkegaard's—)
'what a few fishermen have given the world'. And yet all theistic
interpretation of history attempts to see in history as it is recorded, i.e. in
the history of power, and in historical success, the manifestation of God's
will.

To this attack upon the 'doctrine of the revelation of God in history', it
will probably be replied that it is success. His success after His death, by
which Christ's unsuccessful life on earth was finally revealed to mankind
as the greatest spiritual victory; that it was the success, the fruits of His
teaching which proved it and justified it, and by which the prophecy 'The
last shall be first and the first last' has been verified. In other words, that
it was the historical success of the Christian Church through which the
will of God manifested itself. But this is a most dangerous line of
defence. Its implication that the worldly success of the Church is an
argument in favour of Christianity clearly reveals lack of faith. The early
Christians had no worldly encouragement of this kind. (They believed
that conscience must judge power—, and not the other way round.) Those
who hold that the history of the success of Christian teaching reveals the
will of God should ask themselves whether this success was really a
success of the spirit of Christianity; and whether this spirit did not
triumph at the time when the Church was persecuted, rather than at the
time when the Church was triumphant. Which Church incorporated this
spirit more purely, that of the martyrs, or the victorious Church of the
Inquisition?

There seem to be many who would admit much of this, insisting as
they do that the message of Christianity is to the meek, but who still
believe that this message is one of historicism. An outstanding

representative of this view is J. Macmurray, who, in The Clue to History,
finds the essence of Christian teaching in historical prophecy, and who
sees in its founder the discoverer of a dialectical law of 'human nature'.
Macmurray holds— that, according to this law, political history must
inevitably bring forth 'the socialist commonwealth of the world. The
fundamental law of human nature cannot be broken ... It is the meek who
will inherit the earth.' But this historicism, with its substitution of
certainty for hope, must lead to a moral futurism. 'The \di^ cannot be
broken.' So we can be sure, on psychological grounds, that whatever we
do will lead to the same result; that even fascism must, in the end, lead to
that commonwealth; so that the final outcome does not depend upon our
moral decision, and that there is no need to worry over our
responsibilities. If we are told that we can be certain, on scientific
grounds, that 'the last will be first and the first last', what else is this but
the substitution of historical prophecy for conscience? Does not this
theory come dangerously close (certainly against the intentions of its
author) to the admonition: 'Be wise, and take to heart what the founder of
Christianity tells you, for he was a great psychologist of human nature
and a great prophet of history. Climb in time upon the band-waggon of
the meek; for according to the inexorable scientific laws of human nature,
this is the surest way to come out on top!' Such a clue to history implies
the worship of success; it implies that the meek will be justified because
they will be on the winning side. It translates Marxism, and especially
what I have described as Marx's historicist moral theory, into the
language of a psychology of human nature, and of religious prophecy. It
is an interpretation which, by implication, sees the greatest achievement
of Christianity in the fact that its founder was a forerunner of Hegel — a
superior one, admittedly.

My insistence that success should not be worshipped, that it cannot be
our judge, and that we should not be dazzled by it, and in particular, my

attempts to show that in this attitude I concur with what I believe to be
the true teaching of Christianity, should not be misunderstood. They are
not intended to support the attitude of ' other- worldliness' which I have
criticized in the last chapter—. Whether Christianity is other-worldly, I
do not know, but it certainly teaches that the only way to prove one's
faith is by rendering practical (and worldly) help to those who need it.
And it is certainly possible to combine an attitude of the utmost reserve
and even of contempt towards worldly success in the sense of power,
glory, and wealth, with the attempt to do one's best in this world, and to
further the ends one has decided to adopt with the clear purpose of
making them succeed; not for the sake of success or of one's justification
by history, but for their own sake.

A forceful support of some of these views, and especially of the
incompatibility of historicism and Christianity, can be found in
Kierkegaard's criticism of Hegel. Although Kierkegaard never freed
himself entirely from the Hegelian tradition in which he was educated—,
there was hardly anybody who recognized more clearly what Hegelian
historicism meant. 'There were', Kierkegaard wrote—, 'philosophers who
tried, before Hegel, to explain ... history. And providence could only
smile when it saw these attempts. But providence did not laugh outright,
for there was a human, honest sincerity about them. But Hegel — ! Here I
need Homer's language. How did the gods roar with laughter! Such a
horrid little professor who has simply seen through the necessity of
anything and everything there is, and who now plays the whole affair on
his barrel-organ: listen, ye gods of Olympus!' And Kierkegaard
continues, referring to the attack— by the atheist Schopenhauer upon the
Christian apologist Hegel: 'Reading Schopenhauer has given me more
pleasure than I can express. What he says is perfectly true; and then — it
serves the Germans right — he is as rude as only a German can be.' But
Kierkegaard's own expressions are nearly as blunt as Schopenhauer's; for

Kierkegaard goes on to say that Hegelianism, which he calls 'this
brilliant spirit of putridity', is the 'most repugnant of all forms of
looseness'; and he speaks of its 'mildew of pomposity', its 'intellectual
voluptuousness', and its 'infamous splendour of corruption'.

And, indeed, our intellectual as well as our ethical education is corrupt.
It is perverted by the admiration of brilliance, of the way things are said,
which takes the place of a critical appreciation of the things that are said
(and the things that are done). It is perverted by the romantic idea of the
splendour of the stage of History on which we are the actors. We are
educated to act with an eye to the gallery.

The whole problem of educating man to a sane appreciation of his own
importance relative to that of other individuals is thoroughly muddled by
these ethics of fame and fate, by a morality which perpetuates an
educational system that is still based upon the classics with their
romantic view of the history of power and their romantic tribal morality
which goes back to Heraclitus; a system whose ultimate basis is the
worship of power. Instead of a sober combination of individualism and
altruism (to use these labels again—) — that is to say, instead of a position
like 'What really matters are human individuals, but I do not take this to
mean that it is I who matter very much' — a romantic combination of
egoism and collectivism is taken for granted. That is to say, the
importance of the self, of its emotional life and its 'self-expression', is
romantically exaggerated; and with it, the tension between the
'personality' and the group, the collective. This takes the place of the
other individuals, the other men, but does not admit of reasonable
personal relations. 'Dominate or submit' is, by implication, the device of
this attitude; either be a Great Man, a Hero wrestling with fate and
earning fame ('the greater the fall, the greater the fame', says Heraclitus),
or belong to 'the masses' and submit yourself to leadership and sacrifice
yourself to the higher cause of your collective. There is a neurotic, an

hysterical element in this exaggerated stress on the importance of the
tension between the self and the collective, and I do not doubt that this
hysteria, this reaction to the strain of civilization, is the secret of the
strong emotional appeal of the ethics of hero-worship, of the ethics of
domination and submission—.

At the bottom of all this there is a real difficulty. While it is fairly
clear (as we have seen in chapters 9 and 24) that the politician should
limit himself to fighting against evils, instead of fighting for 'positive' or
'higher' values, such as happiness, etc., the teacher, in principle, is in a
different position. Although he should not impose his scale of 'higher'
values upon his pupils, he certainly should try to stimulate their interest
in these values. He should care for the souls of his pupils. (When Socrates
told his friends to care for their souls, he cared for them.) Thus there is
certainly something like a romantic or aesthetic element in education,
such as should not enter politics. But though this is true in principle, it is
hardly applicable to our educational system. For it presupposes a relation
of friendship between teacher and pupil, a relation which, as emphasized
in chapter 24, each party must be free to end. (Socrates chose his
companions, and they him.) The very number of pupils makes all this
impossible in our schools. Accordingly, attempts to impose higher values
not only become unsuccessful, but it must be insisted that they lead to
harm — to something much more concrete and public than the ideals
aimed at. And the principle that those who are entrusted to us must,
before anything else, not be harmed, should be recognized to be just as
fundamental for education as it is for medicine. 'Do no harm' (and,
therefore, 'give the young what they most urgently need, in order to
become independent of us, and to be able to choose for themselves')
would be a very worthy aim for our educational system, and one whose
realization is somewhat remote, even though it sounds modest. Instead,
'higher' aims are the fashion, aims which are typically romantic and

indeed nonsensical, such as 'the full development of the personality'.

It is under the influence of such romantic ideas that individualism is
still identified with egoism, as it was by Plato, and altruism with
collectivism (i.e. with the substitution of group egoism for the
individualist egoism). But this bars the way even to a clear formulation of
the main problem, the problem of how to obtain a sane appreciation of
one's own importance in relation to other individuals. Since it is felt, and
rightly so, that we have to aim at something beyond our own selves,
something to which we can devote ourselves, and for which we may make
sacrifices, it is concluded that this must be the collective, with its
'historical mission'. Thus we are told to make sacrifices, and, at the same
time, assured that we shall make an excellent bargain by doing so. We
shall make sacrifices, it is said, but we shall thereby obtain honour and
fame. We shall become 'leading actors', heroes on the Stage of History;
for a small risk we shall gain great rewards. This is the dubious morality
of a period in which only a tiny minority counted, and in which nobody
cared for the common people. It is the morality of those who, being
political or intellectual aristocrats, have a chance of getting into the
textbooks of history. It cannot possibly be the morality of those who
favour justice and equalitarianism; for historical fame cannot be just, and
it can be attained only by a very few. The countless number of men who
are just as worthy, or worthier, will always be forgotten.

It should perhaps be admitted that the Heraclitean ethics, the doctrine
that the higher reward is that which only posterity can offer, may in some
way perhaps be slightly superior to an ethical doctrine which teaches us
to look out for reward now. But it is not what we need. We need an ethics
which defies success and reward. And such an ethics need not be
invented. It is not new. It has been taught by Christianity, at least in its
beginnings. It is, again, taught by the industrial as well as by the
scientific co-operation of our own day. The romantic historicist morality

of fame, fortunately, seems to be on the decline. The Unknown Soldier
shows it. We are beginning to realize that sacrifice may mean just as
much, or even more, when it is made anonymously. Our ethical education
must follow suit. We must be taught to do our work; to make our
sacrifice for the sake of this work, and not for praise or the avoidance of
blame. (The fact that we all need some encouragement, hope, praise, and
even blame, is another matter altogether.) We must find our justification
in our work, in what we are doing ourselves, and not in a fictitious
'meaning of history'.

History has no meaning, I contend. But this contention does not imply
that all we can do about it is to look aghast at the history of political
power, or that we must look on it as a cruel joke. For we can interpret it,
with an eye to those problems of power politics whose solution we choose
to attempt in our time. We can interpret the history of power politics
from the point of view of our fight for the open society, for a rule of
reason, for justice, freedom, equality, and for the control of international
crime. Although history has no ends, we can impose these ends of ours
upon it; and although history has no meaning, we can give it a meaning.

It is the problem of nature and convention which we meet here again—.
Neither nature nor history can tell us what we ought to do. Facts, whether
those of nature or those of history, cannot make the decision for us, they
cannot determine the ends we are going to choose. It is we who introduce
purpose and meaning into nature and into history. Men are not equal; but
we can decide to fight for equal rights. Human institutions such as the
state are not rational, but we can decide to fight to make them more
rational. We ourselves and our ordinary language are, on the whole,
emotional rather than rational; but we can try to become a little more
rational, and we can train ourselves to use our language as an instrument
not of self-expression (as our romantic educationists would say) but of
rational communication—. History itself — I mean the history of power

politics, of course, not the nonexistent story of the development of
mankind — has no end nor meaning, but we can decide to give it both. We
can make it our fight for the open society and against its enemies (who,
when in a corner, always protest their humanitarian sentiments, in
accordance with Pareto's advice); and we can interpret it accordingly.
Ultimately, we may say the same about the 'meaning of life'. It is up to
us to decide what shall be our purpose in life, to determine our ends—.

This dualism of facts and decisions— is, I believe, fundamental. Facts
as such have no meaning; they can gain it only through our decisions.
Historicism is only one of many attempts to get over this dualism; it is
born of fear, for it shrinks from realizing that we bear the ultimate
responsibility even for the standards we choose. But such an attempt
seems to me to represent precisely what is usually described as
superstition. For it assumes that we can reap where we have not sown; it
tries to persuade us that if we merely fall into step with history
everything will and must go right, and that no fundamental decision on
our part is required; it tries to shift our responsibility on to history, and
thereby on to the play of demoniac powers beyond ourselves; it tries to
base our actions upon the hidden intentions of these powers, which can be
revealed to us only in mystical inspirations and intuitions; and it thus
puts our actions and ourselves on the moral level of a man who, inspired
by horoscopes and dreams, chooses his lucky number in a lottery—. Like
gambling, historicism is born of our despair in the rationality and
responsibility of our actions. It is a debased hope and a debased faith, an
attempt to replace the hope and the faith that springs from our moral
enthusiasm and the contempt for success by a certainty that springs from
a pseudo-science; a pseudoscience of the stars, or of 'human nature', or
of historical destiny.

Historicism, I assert, is not only rationally untenable, it is also in
conflict with any religion that teaches the importance of conscience. For

such a religion must agree with the rationalist attitude towards history in
its emphasis on our supreme responsibility for our actions, and for their
repercussions upon the course of history. True, we need hope; to act, to
live without hope goes beyond our strength. But we do not need more,
and we must not be given more. We do not need certainty. Religion, in
particular, should not be a substitute for dreams and wish-fulfilment; it
should resemble neither the holding of a ticket in a lottery, nor the
holding of a policy in an insurance company. The historicist element in
religion is an element of idolatry, of superstition.

This emphasis upon the dualism of facts and decisions determines also
our attitude towards such ideas as 'progress'. If we think that history
progresses, or that we are bound to progress, then we commit the same
mistake as those who believe that history has a meaning that can be
discovered in it and need not be given to it. For to progress is to move
towards some kind of end, towards an end which exists for us as human
beings. 'History' cannot do that; only we, the human individuals, can do
it; we can do it by defending and strengthening those democratic
institutions upon which freedom, and with it progress, depends. And we
shall do it much better as we become more fully aware of the fact that
progress rests with us, with our watchfulness, with our efforts, with the
clarity of our conception of our ends, and with the realism— of their
choice.

Instead of posing as prophets we must become the makers of our fate.
We must learn to do things as well as we can, and to look out for our
mistakes. And when we have dropped the idea that the history of power
will be our judge, when we have given up worrying whether or not history
will justify us, then one day perhaps we may succeed in getting power
under control. In this way we may even justify history, in our turn. It
badly needs a justification.

Addenda

Facts, Standards, and Truth: A Further Criticism
of Relativism (1961)

The main philosophical malady of our time is an intellectual and moral
relativism, the latter being at least in part based upon the former. By
relativism — or, if you like, scepticism — I mean here, briefly, the theory
that the choice between competing theories is arbitrary; since either,
there is no such thing as objective truth; or, if there is, no such thing as a
theory which is true or at any rate (though perhaps not true) nearer to the
truth than another theory; or, if there are two or more theories, no ways or
means of deciding whether one of them is better than another.

In this addendum- I shall first suggest that a dose of Tarski's theory of
truth (see also the references to A. Tarski in the Index of this book),
stiffened perhaps by my own theory of getting nearer to the truth, may go
a long way towards curing this malady, though I admit that some other
remedies might also be required, such as the non- authoritarian theory of
knowledge which I have developed elsewhere.- 1 shall also try to show (in
sections 12 ff. below) that the situation in the realm of standards —
especially in the moral and political field — is somewhat analogous to that
obtaining in the realm of facts.

1. Truth

Certain arguments in support of relativism arise from the question, asked
in the tone of the assured sceptic who knows for certain that there is no
answer: 'What is truth?' But Pilate's question can be answered in a
simple and reasonable way — ^though hardly in a way that would have
satisfied him — as follows: an assertion, proposition, statement, or belief,
is true if, and only if, it corresponds to the facts.

Yet what do we mean by saying that a statement corresponds to the
facts? Though to our sceptic or relativist this second question may seem
just as unanswerable as the first, it actually can be equally readily
answered. The answer is not difficult — as one might expect if one
reflects upon the fact that every judge assumes that the witness knows
what truth (in the sense of correspondence with the facts) means. Indeed,
the answer turns out to be almost trivial.

In a way it is trivial — that is, once we have learnt from Tarski that the
problem is one in which we refer to or speak about statements and facts
and some relationship of correspondence holding between statement and
facts; and that, therefore, the solution must also be one that refers to or
speaks about statements and facts, and some relation between them.
Consider the following:

The statement 'Smith entered the pawnshop shortly after 10.15'
corresponds to the facts if and only if Smith entered the pawnshop
shortly after 10.15.

When we read this italicized paragraph, what is likely to strike us first
is its triviality. But never mind its triviality: if we look at it again, and
more carefully, we see (1) that it refers to a statement, and (2) to some
facts; and (3) that it can therefore state the very obvious conditions which
we should expect to hold whenever we wish to say that the statement
referred to corresponds to the facts referred to.

Those who think that this italicized paragraph is too trivial or too
simple to contain anything interesting should be reminded of the fact,
already referred to, that since everybody knows what truth, or
correspondence with the facts, means (as long as he does not allow
himself to speculate about it) this must be, in a sense, a trivial matter.

That the idea formulated in the italicized paragraph is correct, may be
brought out by the following second italicized paragraph.

The assertion made by the witness, 'Smith entered the pawnshop
shortly after 10.15' is true if and only if Smith entered the pawnshop
shortly after 10.15.

It is clear that this second italicized paragraph is again very trivial.
Nevertheless, it states in full the conditions for applying the predicate 'is
true' to any statement made by a witness.

Some people might think that a better way to formulate the paragraph
would be the following:

The assertion made by the witness 7 saw that Smith entered the
pawnshop shortly after 10.15' is true if and only if the witness saw that
Smith entered the pawnshop shortly after 10.15.

Comparing this third italicized paragraph with the second we see that
while the second gives the conditions for the truth of a statement about
Smith and what he did, the third gives the conditions for the truth of a
statement about the witness and what he did (or saw). But this is the only
difference between the two paragraphs: both state the full conditions for
the truth of the two different statements which are quoted in them.

It is a rule of giving evidence that eye-witnesses should confine
themselves to stating what they actually saw. Compliance with this rule
may sometimes make it easier for the judge to distinguish between true
evidence and false evidence. Thus the third italicized paragraph may
perhaps be said to have some advantages over the second, if regarded
from the point of view of truth-^^^A:z>2^ and tmth-finding.

But it is essential for our present purpose not to mix up questions of
actual truth-seeking or truth-finding (i.e. epistemological or
methodological questions) with the question of what we mean, or what
we intend to say, when we speak of truth, or of correspondence with the
facts (the logical or ontological question of truth). Now from the latter
point of view, the third italicized paragraph has no advantage whatever
over the second. Each of them states to the full the conditions for the
truth of the statement to which it refers.

Each, therefore, answers the question — 'What is truth?' in precisely
the same way; though each does it only indirectly, by giving the
conditions for the truth for a certain statementMand each for a different
statement.

2. Criteria

It is decisive to realize that knowing what truth means, or under what
conditions a statement is called true, is not the same as, and must be
clearly distinguished from, possessing a means of deciding — a criterion
for deciding — whether a given statement is true or false.

The distinction I am referring to is a very general one, and it is of
considerable importance for an assessment of relativism, as we shall see.

We may know, for example, what we mean by 'good meat' and by
'meat gone bad'; but we may not know how to tell the one from the other,
at least in some cases: it is this we have in mind when we say that we
have no criterion of the 'goodness' of good meat. Similarly, every doctor
knows, more or less, what he means by 'tuberculosis'; but he may not
always recognize it. And even though there may be (by now) batteries of
tests which amount almost to a decision method, — that is to say, to a
criterionMsixty years ago there certainly were no such batteries of tests

at the disposal of doctors, and no criterion. But doctors knew then very
well what they meant — a lung infection due to a certain kind of microbe.

Admittedly, a criterion — a definite method of decision — if we could
obtain one, might make everything clearer and more definite and more
precise. It is therefore understandable that some people, hankering after
precision, demand criteria. And if we can get them, the demand may be
reasonable.

But it would be a mistake to believe that, before we have a criterion for
deciding whether or not a man is suffering from tuberculosis, the phrase
'Xis suffering from tuberculosis' is meaningless; or that, before we have
a criterion of the goodness or badness of meat, there is no point in
considering whether or not a piece of meat has gone bad; or that, before
we have a reliable lie-detector, we do not know what we mean when we
say that X is deliberately lying, and should therefore not even consider
this 'possibility', since it is no possibility at all, but meaningless; or that,
before we have a criterion of truth, we do not know what we mean when
we say of a statement that it is true.

Thus those who insist that, without a criterion — a reliable test — for
tuberculosis, or lying, or truth, we cannot mean anything by the words
'tuberculosis' or 'lying' or 'true', are certainly mistaken. In fact,
construction of a battery of tests for tuberculosis, or for lying, comes
after we have established — perhaps only roughly — ^what we mean by
'tuberculosis' or by 'lying'.

It is clear that in the course of developing tests for tuberculosis, we
may learn a lot more about this illness; so much, perhaps, that we may
say that the very meaning of the term 'tuberculosis' has changed under
the influence of our new knowledge, and that after the establishment of
the criterion the meaning of the term is no longer the same as before.
Some, perhaps, may even say that 'tuberculosis' can now be defined in
terms of the criterion. But this does not alter the fact that we meant

something before — though we may, of course, have known less about the
thing. Nor does it alter the fact that there are few diseases (if any) for
which we have either a criterion or a clear definition, and that few criteria
(if any) are reliable. (But if they are not reliable, we had better not call
them 'criteria'.)

There may be no criterion which helps us to establish whether a pound
note is, or is not, genuine. But should we find two pound notes with the
same serial number, we should have good reasons to assert, even in the
absence of a criterion, that one of them at least is a forgery; and this
assertion would clearly not be made meaningless by the absence of a
criterion of genuineness.

To sum up, the theory that in order to determine what a word means we
must establish a criterion for its correct use, or for its correct application,
is mistaken: we practically never have such a criterion.

3. Criterion philosophies

The view just rejected — ^the view that we must have criteria in order to
know what we are talking about, whether it is tuberculosis, lying, or
existence, or meaning, or truth — is the overt or implicit basis of many
philosophies. A philosophy of this kind may be called a 'criterion
philosophy'.

Since the basic demand of a criterion philosophy cannot as a rule be
met, it is clear that the adoption of a criterion-philosophy will, in many
cases, lead to disappointment, and to relativism or scepticism.

I believe that it is the demand for a criterion of truth which has made
so many people feel that the question 'What is truth?' is unanswerable.
But the absence of a criterion of truth does not render the notion of truth
non- significant any more than the absence of a criterion of health renders

the notion of health non-significant. A sick man may seek health even
though he has no criterion for it. An erring man may seek truth even
though he has no criterion for it.

And both may simply seek health, or truth, without much bothering
about the meanings of these terms which they (and others) understand
well enough for their purposes.

One immediate result of Tarski's work on truth is the following
theorem of logic: there can be no general criterion of truth (except with
respect to certain artificial language systems of a somewhat
impoverished kind).

This result can be exactly established; and its establishment makes use
of the notion of truth as correspondence with the facts.

We have here an interesting and philosophically very important result
(important especially in connection with the problem of an authoritarian
theory of knowledge-). But this result has been established with the help
of a notion — in this case the notion of truth — for which we have no
criterion. The unreasonable demand of the criterion-philosophies that we
should not take a notion seriously before a criterion has been established
would therefore, if adhered to in this case, have for ever prevented us
from attaining a logical result of great philosophical interest.

Incidentally, the result that there can be no general criterion of truth is
a direct consequence of the still more important result (which Tarski
obtained by combining Godel's undecidability theorem with his own
theory of truth) that there can be no general criterion of truth even for the
comparatively narrow field of number theory, or for any science which
makes full use of arithmetic. It applies a fortiori to truth in any extra-
mathematical field in which unrestricted use is made of arithmetic.

4. Fallibilism

All this shows not only that some still fashionable forms of scepticism
and relativism are mistaken, but also that they are obsolete; that they are
based on a logical confusion — between the meaning of a term and the
criterion of its proper application — although the means for clearing up
this confusion have been readily available for some thirty years.

It must be admitted, however, that there is a kernel of truth in both
scepticism and relativism. The kernel of truth is just that there exists no
general criterion of truth. But this does not warrant the conclusion that
the choice between competing theories is arbitrary. It merely means,
quite simply, that we can always err in our choice — that we can always
miss the truth, or fall short of the truth; that certainty is not for us (nor
even knowledge that is highly probable, as I have shown in various
places, for example in chapter 10 of Conjectures and Refutations)', that
we are fallible.

This, for all we know, is no more than the plain truth. There are few
fields of human endeavour, if any, which seem to be exempt from human
fallibility. What we once thought to be well-established, or even certain,
may later turn out to be not quite correct (but this means false), and in
need of correction.

A particularly impressive example of this is the discovery of heavy
water, and of heavy hydrogen {deuterium, first separated by Harold C.
Urey in 1931). Prior to this discovery, nothing more certain and more
settled could be imagined in the field of chemistry than our knowledge of
water (H2 O) and of the chemical elements of which it is composed.
Water was even used for the 'operational' definition of the gramme, the
unit standard of mass of the 'absolute' metric system; it thus formed one
of the basic units of experimental physical measurements. This illustrates
the fact that our knowledge of water was believed to be so well
established that it could be used as the firm basis of all other physical
measurements. But after the discovery of heavy water, it was realized that

what had been believed to be a chemically pure compound was actually a
mixture of chemically indistinguishable but physically very different
compounds, with very different densities, boiling points, and freezing
points — ^though for the definitions of all these points, 'water' had been
used as a standard base.

This historical incident is typical; and we may learn from it that we
cannot foresee which parts of our scientific knowledge may come to grief
one day. Thus the belief in scientific certainty and in the authority of
science is just wishful thinking: science is fallible, because science is
human.

But the fallibility of our knowledge — or the thesis that all knowledge is
guesswork, though some consists of guesses which have been most
severely tested — ^must not be cited in support of scepticism or relativism.
From the fact that we can err, and that a criterion of truth which might
save us from error does not exist, it does not follow that the choice
between theories is arbitrary, or non-rational: that we cannot learn, or get
nearer to the truth: that our knowledge cannot grow.

5. Fallibilism and the growth of knowledge

By 'fallibilism' I mean here the view, or the acceptance of the fact, that
we may err, and that the quest for certainty (or even the quest for high
probability) is a mistaken quest. But this does not imply that the quest for
truth is mistaken. On the contrary, the idea of error implies that of truth
as the standard of which we may fall short. It implies that, though we
may seek for truth, and though we may even find truth (as I believe we do
in very many cases), we can never be quite certain that we have found it.
There is always a possibility of error; though in the case of some logical
and mathematical proofs, this possibility may be considered slight.

But fallibilism need in no way give rise to any sceptical or relativist
conclusions. This will become clear if we consider that all the known
historical examples of human fallibility — including all the known
examples of miscarriage of justice — are examples of the advance of our
knowledge. Every discovery of a mistake constitutes a real advance in our
knowledge. As Roger Martin du Gard says mJean Barois, 'it is
something if we know where truth is not to be found'.

For example, although the discovery of heavy water showed that we
were badly mistaken, this was not only an advance in our knowledge, but
it was in its turn connected with other advances, and it produced many
further advances. Thus we can learn from our mistakes.

This fundamental insight is, indeed, the basis of all epistemology and
methodology; for it gives us a hint how to learn more systematically, how
to advance more quickly (not necessarily in the interests of technology:
for each individual seeker after truth, the problem of how to hasten one's
advance is most urgent). This hint, very simply, is that we must search for
our mistakesdAor in other words, that we must try to criticize our theories.

Criticism, it seems, is the only way we have of detecting our mistakes,
and of learning from them in a systematic way.

6. Getting nearer to the truth

In all this, the idea of the growth of knowledge — of getting nearer to the
truth — is decisive. Intuitively, this idea is as clear as the idea of truth
itself. A statement is true if it corresponds to the facts. It is nearer to the
truth than another statement if it corresponds to the facts more closely
than the other statement.

But though this idea is intuitively clear enough, and its legitimacy is
hardly questioned by ordinary people or by scientists, it has, like the idea

of truth, been attacked as illegitimate by some philosophers (for example
quite recently by W. V. Quine -). It may therefore be mentioned here that,
combining two analyses of Tarski, I have recently been able to give a
'definition' of the idea of approaching truth in the purely logical terms of
Tarski 's theory. (I simply combined the ideas of truth and of content,
obtaining the idea of the truth-content of a statement a, i.e. the class of all
true statements following from a, and its falsity content, which can be
defined, roughly, as its content minus its truth content. We can then say
that a statement a gets nearer to the truth than a statement b if and only if
its truth content has increased without an increase in its falsity content;
see chapter 10 of my Conjectures and Refutations .) There is therefore no
reason whatever to be sceptical about the notion of getting nearer to the
truth, or of the advancement of knowledge. And though we may always
err, we have in many cases (especially in cases of crucial tests deciding
between two theories) a fair idea of whether or not we have in fact got
nearer to the truth.

It should be very clearly understood that the idea of one statement a
getting nearer to the truth than another statement b in no way interferes
with the idea that every statement is either true or false, and that there is
no third possibility. It only takes account of the fact that there may be a
lot of truth in a false statement. If I say 'It is half past three — too late to
catch the 3.35' then my statement might be false because it was not too
late for the 3.35 (since the 3.35 happened to be four minutes late). But
there was still a lot of truth — of true information — in my statement; and
though I might have added 'unless indeed the 3.35 is late (which it rarely
is)', and thereby added to its truth-content, this additional remark might
well have been taken as understood. (My statement might also have been
false because it was only 3.28 not 3.30, when I made it. But even then
there was a lot of truth in it.)

A theory like Kepler's which describes the track of the planets with

remarkable accuracy may be said to contain a lot of true information,
even though it is a false theory because deviations from Kepler's ellipses
do occur. And Newton's theory (even though we may assume here that it
is false) contains, for all we know, a staggering amount of true
information — much more than Kepler's theory. Thus Newton's theory is
a better approximation than Kepler's — it gets nearer to the truth. But this
does not make it true: it can be nearer to the truth and it can, at the same
time, be a false theory.

7. Absolutism

The idea of a philosophical absolutism is rightly repugnant to many
people since it is, as a rule, combined with a dogmatic and authoritarian
claim to possess the truth, or a criterion of truth.

But there is another form of absolutism — a fallibilistic absolutism —
which indeed rejects all this: it merely asserts that our mistakes, at least,
are absolute mistakes, in the sense that if a theory deviates from the truth,
it is simply false, even if the mistake made was less glaring than that in
another theory. Thus the notions of truth, and of falling short of the truth,
can represent absolute standards for the fallibilist. This kind of
absolutism is completely free from any taint of authoritarianism. And it
is a great help in serious critical discussions. Of course, it can be
criticized in its turn, in accordance with the principle that nothing is
exempt from criticism. But at least at the moment it seems to me unlikely
that criticism of the (logical) theory of truth and the theory of getting
nearer to the truth will succeed.

8. Sources of knowledge

The principle that everything is open to criticism (from which this
principle itself is not exempt) leads to a simple solution of the problem of
the sources of knowledge, as I have tried to show elsewhere (see the
Introduction to my Conjectures and Refutations). It is this: every
'source' — tradition, reason, imagination, observation, or what not — is
admissible and may be used, but none has any authority.

This denial of authority to the sources of knowledge attributes to them
a role very different from that which they were supposed to play in past
and present epistemologies. But it is part of our critical and fallibilist
approach: every source is welcome, but no statement is immune from
criticism, whatever its 'source' may be. Tradition, more especially, which
both the intellectualists (Descartes) and the empiricists (Bacon) tended to
reject, can be admitted by us as one of the most important 'sources',
since almost all that we learn (from our elders, in school, from books)
stems from it. I therefore hold that anti-traditionalism must be rejected as
futile. Yet traditionalism — which stresses the authority of traditions —
must be rejected too; not as futile, but as mistaken — just as mistaken as
any other epistemology which accepts some source of knowledge
(intellectual intuition, say, or sense intuition) as an authority, or a
guarantee, or a criterion, of truth.

9. Is a critical method possible?

But if we really reject any claim to authority, of any particular source of
knowledge, how can we then criticize any theory? Does not all criticism
proceed from some assumptions? Does not the validity of any criticism,
therefore, depend upon the truth of these assumptions? And what is the
good of criticizing a theory if the criticism should turn out to be invalid?
Yet in order to show that it is valid, must we not establish, or justify, its

assumptions? And is not the establishment or the justification of any
assumption just the thing which everybody attempts (though often in
vain) and which I here declare to be impossible? But if it is impossible, is
not then (valid) criticism impossible too?

I believe that it is this series of questions or objections which has
largely barred the way to a (tentative) acceptance of the point of view
here advocated: as these questions show, one may easily be led to believe
that the critical method is, logically considered, in the same boat with all
other methods: since it cannot work without making assumptions, it
would have to establish or justify those assumptions; yet the whole point
of our argument was that we cannot establish or justify anything as
certain, or even as probable, but have to content ourselves with theories
which withstand criticism.

Obviously, these objections are very serious. They bring out the
importance of our principle that nothing is exempt from criticism, or
should be held to be exempt from criticism — ^not even this principle of
the critical method itself.

Thus these objections constitute an interesting and important criticism
of my position. But this criticism can in its turn be criticized; and it can
be refuted.

First of all, even if we were to admit that all criticism starts from
certain assumptions, this would not necessarily mean that, for it to be
valid criticism, these assumptions must be established and justified. For
the assumptions may, for example, be part of the theory against which the
criticism is directed. (In this case we speak of 'immanent criticism'.) Or
they may be assumptions which would be generally found acceptable,
even though they do not form part of the theory criticized. In this case the
criticism would amount to pointing out that the theory criticized
contradicts (unknown to its defenders) some generally accepted views.
This kind of criticism may be very valuable even when it is unsuccessful;

for it may lead the defenders of the criticized theory to question those
generally accepted views, and this may lead to important discoveries. (An
interesting example is the history of Dirac's theory of anti-particles.)

Or they may be assumptions which are of the nature of a competing
theory (in which case the criticism may be called 'transcendent
criticism', in contradistinction to 'immanent criticism'): the assumptions
may be, for example, hypotheses, or guesses, which can be independently
criticized and tested. In this case the criticism offered would amount to a
challenge to carry out certain crucial tests in order to decide between two
competing theories.

These examples show that the important objections raised here against
my theory of criticism are based upon the untenable dogma that criticism,
in order to be 'valid', must proceed from assumptions which are
established or justified.

Moreover, criticism may be important, enlightening, and even fruitful,
without being valid: the arguments used in order to reject some invalid
criticism may throw a lot of new light upon a theory, and can be used as a
(tentative) argument in its favour; and of a theory which can thus defend
itself against criticism we may well say that it is supported by critical
arguments.

Quite generally, we may say that valid criticism of a theory consists in
pointing out that a theory does not succeed in solving the problems which
it was supposed to solve; and if we look at criticism in this light then it
certainly need not be dependent on any particular set of assumptions (that
is, it can be 'immanent'), even though it may well be that some
assumptions which were foreign to the theory under discussion (that is,
some 'transcendent' assumptions) inspired it to start with.

10. Decisions

From the point of view here developed, theories are not, in general,
capable of being established or justified; and although they may be
supported by critical arguments, this support is never conclusive.
Accordingly, we shall frequently have to make up our minds whether or
not these critical arguments are strong enough to justify the tentative
acceptance of the theory — or in other words, whether the theory seems
preferable, in the light of the critical discussion, to the competing
theories.

In this sense, decisions enter into the critical method. But it is always a
tentative decision, and a decision subject to criticism.

As such it should be contrasted with what has been called 'decision' or
'leap in the dark' by some irrationalist or anti-rationalist or existentialist
philosophers. These philosophers, probably under the impact of the
argument (rejected in the preceding section) of the impossibility of
criticism without presuppositions, developed the theory that all our tenets
must be based on some fundamental decision — on some leap in the dark.
It must be a decision, a leap, which we take with closed eyes, as it were;
for as we cannot 'know' without assumptions, without already having
taken up a fundamental position, this fundamental position cannot be
taken up on the basis of knowledge. It is, rather, a choice — ^but a kind of
fateful and almost irrevocable choice, one which we take blindly, or by
instinct, or by chance, or by the grace of God.

Our rejection of the objections presented in the preceding section
shows that the irrationalist view of decisions is an exaggeration as well as
an over-dramatization. Admittedly, we must decide. But unless we decide
against listening to argument and reason, against learning from our
mistakes, and against listening to others who may have objections to our
views, our decisions need not be final; not even the decision to consider
criticism. (It is only in its decision not to take an irrevocable leap into the
darkness of irrationality that rationalism may be said not to be self-

contained, in the sense of chapter 24.)

I believe that the critical theory of knowledge here sketched throws
some light upon the great problems of all theories of knowledge: how it is
that we know so much and so little; and how it is that we can lift
ourselves slowly out of the swamp of ignorance — by our own bootstraps,
as it were. We do so by working with guesses, and by improving upon our
guesses, through criticism.

11. Social and political problems

The theory of knowledge sketched in the preceding sections of this
addendum seems to me to have important consequences for the
evaluation of the social situation of our time, a situation influenced to a
large extent by the decline of authoritarian religion. This decline has led
to a widespread relativism and nihilism: to the decline of all beliefs, even
the belief in human reason, and thus in ourselves.

But the argument here developed shows that there are no grounds
whatever for drawing such desperate conclusions. The relativistic and the
nihilistic (and even the 'existentialistic') arguments are all based on
faulty reasoning. In this they show, incidentally, that these philosophies
actually do accept reason, but are unable to use it properly; in their own
terminology we might say that they fail to understand 'the human
situation', and especially man's ability to grow, intellectually and
morally.

As a striking illustration of this misunderstanding — of desperate
consequences drawn from an insufficient understanding of the
epistemological situation — I will quote a passage from one of
Nietzsche's Tracts Against the Times (from section 3 of his essay on
Schopenhauer).

This was the first danger in whose shadow Schopenhauer grew up: isolation. The second
was: despair of finding the truth. This latter danger is the constant companion of every
thinker who sets out from Kant's philosophy; that is if he is a real man, a living human
being, able to suffer and yearn, and not a mere rattling automaton, a mere thinking and
calculating machine ... Though I am reading everywhere that [owing to Kant] ... a
revolution has started in all fields of thought, I cannot believe that this is so as yet . . . But
should Kant one day begin to exert a more general influence, then we shall find that this will
take the form of a creeping and destructive scepticism and relativism; and only the most
active and the most noble of minds . . . will instead experience that deep emotional shock,
and that despair of truth, which was felt for example by Heinrich von Kleist ... 'Recently',
he wrote, in his moving way, 'I have become acquainted with the philosophy of Kant; and I
must tell you of a thought of which I need not be afraid that it will shake you as deeply and
as painfully as it shook me: — ^It is impossible for us to decide whether that to which we
appeal as truth is in truth the truth, or whether it merely seems to us so. If it is the latter, then
all that truth to which we may attain here will be as nothing after our death, and all our
efforts to produce and acquire something that might survive us must be in vain. — ^If the
sharp point of this thought does not pierce your heart, do not smile at one who feels
wounded by it in the holiest depth of his soul. My highest, my only aim has fallen to the
ground, and I have none left.'

I agree with Nietzsche that Kleist's words are moving; and I agree that
Kleist 's reading of Kant's doctrine that it is impossible to attain any
knowledge of things in themselves is straightforward enough, even
though it conflicts with Kant's own intentions; for Kant believed in the
possibility of science, and of finding the truth. (It was only the need to
explain the paradox of the existence of ma priori science of nature
which led him to adopt that subjectivism which Kleist rightly found
shocking.) Moreover, Kleist's despair is at least partly the result of
disappointment — of seeing the downfall of an over-optimistic belief in a
simple criterion of truth (such as self-evidence). Yet whatever may be the
history of this philosophic despair, it is not called for. Though truth is not
self-revealing (as Cartesians and Baconians thought), though certainty
may be unattainable, the human situation with respect to knowledge is far
from desperate. On the contrary, it is exhilarating: here we are, with the
immensely difficult task before us of getting to know the beautiful world

we live in, and ourselves; and fallible though we are we nevertheless find
that our powers of understanding, surprisingly, are almost adequate for
the task — more so than we ever dreamt in our wildest dreams. We really
do learn from our mistakes, by trial and error. And at the same time we
learn how little we know — as when, in climbing a mountain; every step
upwards opens some new vista into the unknown, and new worlds unfold
themselves of whose existence we knew nothing when we began our
climb.

Thus we can learn, we can grow in knowledge, even if we can never
knowdA that is, know for certain. Since we can learn, there is no reason
for despair of reason; and since we can never know, there are no grounds
here for smugness, or for conceit over the growth of our knowledge.

It may be said that this new way of knowing is too abstract and too
sophisticated to replace the loss of authoritarian religion. This may be
true. But we must not underrate the power of the intellect and the
intellectuals. It was the intellectuals — ^the 'second-hand dealers in ideas',
as F. A. Hayek calls them — ^who spread relativism, nihilism, and
intellectual despair. There is no reason why some intellectuals — some
more enlightened intellectuals — should not eventually succeed in
spreading the good news that the nihilist ado was indeed about nothing.

12. Dualism of facts and standards

In the body of this book I spoke about the dualism of facts and decisions,
and I pointed out, following L. J. Russell (see note 5 (3) to chapter 5, vol.
i, p. 234), that this dualism may be described as one of propositions and
proposals. The latter terminology has the advantage of reminding us that
both propositions, which state facts, and proposals, which propose
policies, including principles or standards of policy, are open to rational

discussion. Moreover, a decision — one, say, concerning the adoption of a
principle of conduct — ^reached after the discussion of a proposal, may
well be tentative, and it may be in many respects very similar to a
decision to adopt (also tentatively), as the best available hypothesis, a
proposition which states a fact.

There is, however, an important difference here. For the proposal to
adopt a policy or a standard, its discussion, and the decision to adopt it,
may be said to create this policy or this standard. On the other hand, the
proposal of a hypothesis, its discussion, and the decision to adopt it — or
to accept a proposition — does not, in the same sense, create a fact. This, I
suppose, was the reason why I thought that the term 'decision' would be
able to express the contrast between the acceptance of policies or
standards, and the acceptance of facts. Yet there is no doubt that it would
have been clearer had I spoken of a dualism of facts and policies, or of a
dualism of facts and standards, rather than of a dualism of facts and
decisions.

Terminology apart, the important thing is the irreducible dualism
itself: whatever the facts may be, and whatever the standards may be (for
example, the principles of our policies), the first thing is to distinguish
the two, and to see clearly why standards cannot be reduced to facts.

13. Proposals and propositions

There is, then, a decisive asymmetry between standards and facts:
through the decision to accept a proposal (at least tentatively) we create
the corresponding standard (at least tentatively); yet through the decision
to accept a proposition we do not create the corresponding fact.

Another asymmetry is that standards always pertain to facts, and that
facts are evaluated by standards; these are relations which cannot be

simply turned round.

Whenever we are faced with a fact — and more especially, with a fact
which we may be able to change — we can ask whether or not it complies
with certain standards. It is important to realize that this is very far from
being the same as asking whether we like it; for although we may often
adopt standards which correspond to our likes or dislikes, and although
our likes and dislikes may play an important role in inducing us to adopt
or reject some proposed standard, there will as a rule be many other
possible standards which we have not adopted; and it will be possible to
judge, or evaluate, the facts by any of them. This shows that the
relationship of evaluation (of some questionable fact by some adopted or
rejected standard) is, logically considered, totally different from a
person's psychological relation (which is not a standard but a fact), of
like or dislike, to the fact in question, or to the standard in question.
Moreover, our likes and dislikes are facts which can be evaluated like any
other facts.

Similarly, the fact that a certain standard has been adopted or rejected
by some person or by some society must, as a fact, be distinguished from
any standard, including the adopted or rejected standard. And since it is a
fact (and an alterable fact) it may be judged or evaluated by some (other)
standards.

These are a few reasons why standards and facts, and therefore
proposals and propositions, should be clearly and decisively
distinguished. Yet once they have been distinguished, we may look not
only at the dissimilarities of facts and standards but also at their
similarities.

First, both proposals and propositions are alike in that we can discuss
them, criticize them, and come to some decision about them. Secondly,
there is some kind of regulative idea about both. In the realm of facts it is
the idea of correspondence between a statement or a proposition and a

fact; that is to say, the idea of truth. In the realm of standards, or of
proposals, the regulative idea may be described in many ways, and called
by many terms, for example, by the terms 'right' or 'good'. We may say
of a proposal that it is right (or wrong) or perhaps good (or bad); and by
this we may mean, perhaps, that it corresponds (or does not correspond)
to certain standards which we have decided to adopt. But we may also say
of a standard that it is right or wrong, or good or bad, or valid or invalid,
or high or low; and by this we may mean, perhaps, that the corresponding
proposal should or should not be accepted. It must therefore be admitted
that the logical situation of the regulative ideas, of 'right', say, or 'good',
is far less clear than that of the idea of correspondence to the facts.

As pointed out in the book, this difficulty is a logical one and cannot be
got over by the introduction of a religious system of standards. The fact
that God, or any other authority, commands me to do a certain thing is no
guarantee that the command is right. It is I who must decide whether to
accept the standards of any authority as (morally) good or bad. God is
good only if His commandments are good; it would be a grave mistake —
in fact an immoral adoption of authoritarianism — ^to say that His
commandments are good simply because they are His, unless we have
first decided (at our own risk) that He can only demand good or right
things of us.

This is Kant's idea of autonomy, as opposed to heteronomy.

Thus no appeal to authority, not even to religious authority, can get us
out of the difficulty that the regulative idea of absolute 'rightness' or
'goodness' differs in its logical status from that of absolute truth; and we
have to admit the difference. This difference is responsible for the fact,
alluded to above, that in a sense we create our standards by proposing,
discussing, and adopting them.

All this must be admitted; nevertheless we may take the idea of
absolute truth — of correspondence to the facts — as a kind of model for

the realm of standards, in order to make it clear to ourselves that, just as
we may seek for absolutely true propositions in the realm of facts or at
least for propositions which come nearer to the truth, so we may seek for
absolutely right or valid proposals in the realm of standards — or at least
for better, or more valid, proposals.

However, it would be a mistake, in my opinion, to extend this attitude
beyond the seeking to the finding. For though we should seek for
absolutely right or valid proposals, we should never persuade ourselves
that we have definitely found them; for clearly, there cannot be a
criterion of absolute rightnessMQYQn less than a criterion of absolute
truth. The maximization of happiness may have been intended as a
criterion. On the other hand I certainly never recommended that we adopt
the minimization of misery as a criterion, though I think that it is an
improvement on some of the ideas of utilitarianism. I also suggested that
the reduction of avoidable misery belongs to the agenda of public policy
(which does not mean that any question of public policy is to be decided
by a calculus of minimizing misery) while the maximization of one's
happiness should be left to one's private endeavour. (I quite agree with
those critics of mine who have shown that if used as a criterion, the
minimum misery principle would have absurd consequences; and I expect
that the same may be said about any other moral criterion.)

But although we have no criterion of absolute rightness, we certainly
can make progress in this realm. As in the realm of facts, we can make
discoveries. That cruelty is always 'bad'; that it should always be avoided
where possible; that the golden rule is a good standard which can perhaps
even be improved by doing unto others, wherever possible, as they want
to be done by: these are elementary and extremely important examples of
discoveries in the realm of standards.

These discoveries create standards, we might say, out of nothing: as in
the field of factual discovery, we have to lift ourselves by our own

bootstraps. This is the incredible fact: that we can learn; by our mistakes,
and by criticism; and that we can learn in the realm of standards just as
well as in the realm of facts.

14. Two wrongs do not make two rights

Once we have accepted the absolute theory of truth it is possible to
answer an old and serious yet deceptive argument in favour of relativism,
of both the intellectual and the evaluative kind, by making use of the
analogy between true facts and valid standards. The deceptive argument I
have in mind appeals to the discovery that other people have ideas and
beliefs which differ widely from ours. Who are we to insist that ours are
the right ones? Already Xenophanes sang, 2500 years ago (Diels-Kranz,
B, 16, 15):

The Ethiops say that their gods are flat-nosed and black,

While the Thracians say that theirs have blue eyes and red hair.

Yet if cattle or horses or lions had hands and could draw,

And could sculpture like men, then the horses would draw their gods

Like horses, and cattle like cattle; and each they would shape

Bodies of gods in the likeness, each kind, of their own.

So each of us sees his gods, and his world, from his own point of view,
according to his tradition and his upbringing; and none of us is exempt
from this subjective bias.

This argument has been developed in various ways; and it has been
argued that our race, or our nationality, or our historical background, or
our historical period, or our class interest, or our social habitat, or our
language, or our personal background knowledge, is an insurmountable,
or an almost insurmountable, barrier to objectivity.

The facts on which this argument is based must be admitted; and

indeed, we can never rid ourselves of bias. There is, however, no need to
accept the argument itself, or its relativistic conclusions. For first of all,
we can, in stages, get rid of some of this bias, by means of critical
thinking and especially of listening to criticism. For example,
Xenophanes doubtless was helped, by his own discovery, to see things in
a less biased way. Secondly, it is a fact that people with the most
divergent cultural backgrounds can enter into fruitful discussion,
provided they are interested in getting nearer to the truth, and are ready to
listen to each other, and to learn from each other. This shows that, though
there are cultural and linguistic barriers, they are not insurmountable.

Thus it is of the utmost importance to profit from Xenophanes'
discovery in every field; to give up cocksureness, and become open to
criticism. Yet it is also of the greatest importance not to mistake this
discovery, this step towards criticism, for a step towards relativism. If
two parties disagree, this may mean that one is wrong, or the other, or
both: this is the view of the criticist. It does not mean, as the relativist
will have it, that both may be equally right. They may be equally wrong,
no doubt, though they need not be. But anybody who says that to be
equally wrong means to be equally right is merely playing with words, or
with metaphors.

It is a great step forward to learn to be self-critical; to learn to think
that the other fellow may be right — ^more right than we ourselves. But
there is a great danger involved in this: we may think that both, the other
fellow and we ourselves, may be right. But this attitude, modest and self-
critical as it may appear to us, is neither as modest nor as self-critical as
we may be inclined to think; for it is more likely that both, we ourselves
and the other fellow, are wrong. Thus self-criticism should not be an
excuse for laziness and for the adoption of relativism. And as two wrongs
do not make a right, two wrong parties to a dispute do not make two right
parties.

15. 'Experience^ and 'intuition ^ as sources of knowledge

The fact that we can learn from our mistakes, and through criticism, in
the realm of standards as well as in the realm of facts, is of fundamental
importance. But is the appeal to criticism sufficient? Do we not have to
appeal to the authority of experience or (especially in the realm of
standards) of intuition?

In the realm of facts, we do not merely criticize our theories, we
criticize them by an appeal to experimental and observational experience.
It is a serious mistake, however, to believe that we can appeal to anything
like an authority of experience, though philosophers, particularly
empiricist philosophers, have depicted sense perception, and especially
sight, as a source of knowledge which furnishes us with definite 'data'
out of which our experience is composed. I believe that this picture is
totally mistaken. For even our experimental and observational experience
does not consist of 'data'. Rather, it consists of a web of guesses — of
conjectures, expectations, hypotheses, with which there are interwoven
accepted, traditional, scientific, and unscientific, lore and prejudice.
There simply is no such thing as pure experimental and observational
experience — experience untainted by expectation and theory. There are
no pure 'data', no empirically given 'sources of knowledge' to which we
can appeal, in our criticism. 'Experience', whether ordinary or scientific
experience, is much more like what Oscar Wilde had in mind in Lady
Windermere 's Fan, Act iii:

Dumby: Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.

Cecil Graham: One shouldn't commit any.

Dumby: Life would be very dull without them.

Learning from our mistakes — without which life would indeed be dull

— is also the meaning of 'experience' which is implied in Dr. Johnson's
famous joke about 'the triumph of hope over experience'; or in C. C.
King's remark (in his Story of the British Army, 1897, p. 112): 'But the
British leaders were to learn ... in the "only school fools learn in, that of
experience".'

It seems, then, that at least some of the ordinary uses of 'experience'
agree much more closely with what I believe to be the character of both
'scientific experience' and 'ordinary empirical knowledge' than with the
traditional analyses of the philosophers of the empiricist schools. And all
this seems to agree also with the original meaning of 'empeiria' (from
'peirao' — ^to try, to test, to examine) and thus of ' experientia' and
' experimentum\ Yet it must not be held to constitute an argument;
neither one from ordinary usage nor one from origin. It is intended only
to illustrate my logical analysis of the structure of experience. According
to this analysis, experience, and more especially scientific experience, is
the result of usually mistaken guesses, of testing them, and of learning
from our mistakes. Experience (in this sense) is not a 'source of
knowledge'; nor does it carry any authority.

Thus criticism which appeals to experience is not of an authoritative
character. It does not consist in contrasting dubious results with
established ones, or with 'the evidence of our senses' (or with 'the
given'). It consists, rather, in comparing some dubious results with
others, often equally dubious, which may, however, be taken as
unproblematic for the moment, although they may at any time be
challenged as new doubts arise, or else because of some inkling or
conjecture; an inkling or a conjecture, for example, that a certain
experiment may lead to a new discovery.

Now the situation in acquiring knowledge about standards seems to me
altogether analogous.

Here, too, philosophers have looked for the authoritative ^owrc^^ of

this knowledge, and they found, in the main, two: feelings of pleasure and
pain, or a moral sense or a moral intuition for what is right or wrong
(analogous to perception in the epistemology of factual knowledge), or,
alternatively, a source called 'practical reason' (analogous to 'pure
reason', or to a faculty of 'intellectual intuition', in the epistemology of
factual knowledge). And quarrels continually raged over the question
whether all, or only some, of these authoritative sources of moral
knowledge existed.

I think that this problem is a pseudo-problem. The main point is not the
question of the 'existence' of any of these faculties — a very vague and
dubious psychological question — ^but whether these may be authoritative
'sources of knowledge' providing us with 'data' or other definite starting-
points for our constructions or, at least, with a definite frame of reference
for our criticism. I deny that we have any authoritative sources of this
kind, either in the epistemology of factual knowledge or in the
epistemology of the knowledge of standards. And I deny that we need any
such definite frame of reference for our criticism.

How do we learn about standards? How, in this realm, do we learn
from our mistakes? First we learn to imitate others (incidentally, we do
so by trial and error), and so learn to look upon standards of behaviour as
if they consisted of fixed, 'given' rules. Later we find (also by trial and
error) that we are making mistakes — for example, that we may hurt
people. We may thus learn the golden rule; but soon we find that we may
misjudge a man's attitude, his background knowledge, his aims, his
standards; and we may learn from our mistakes to take care even beyond
the golden rule.

Admittedly, such things as sympathy and imagination may play an
important role in this development; but they are not authoritative sources
of knowledge — ^no more than any of our sources in the realm of the
knowledge of facts. And though something like an intuition of what is

right and what is wrong may also play an important role in this
development, it is, again, not an authoritative source of knowledge. For
we may see to-day very clearly that we are right, and yet learn to-morrow
that we made a mistake.

'Intuitionism' is the name of a philosophical school which teaches that
we have some faculty or capacity of intellectual intuition allowing us to
'see' the truth; so that what we have seen to be true must indeed be true.
It is thus a theory of some authoritative source of knowledge. Anti-
intuitionists have usually denied the existence of this source of
knowledge while asserting, as a rule, the existence of some other source
such as sense-perception. My view is that both parties are mistaken, for
two reasons. First, I assert that there exists something like an intellectual
intuition which makes us feel, most convincingly, that we see the truth (a
point denied by the opponents of intuitionism). Secondly, I assert that
this intellectual intuition, though in a way indispensable, often leads us
astray in the most dangerous manner. Thus we do not, in general, see the
truth when we are most convinced that we see it; and we have to learn,
through mistakes, to distrust these intuitions.

What, then, are we to trust? What are we to accept? The answer is:
whatever we accept we should trust only tentatively, always remembering
that we are in possession, at best, of partial truth (or rightness), and that
we are bound to make at least some mistake or misjudgement somewhere
— not only with respect to facts but also with respect to the adopted
standards; secondly, we should trust (even tentatively) our intuition only
if it has been arrived at as the result of many attempts to use our
imagination; of many mistakes, of many tests, of many doubts, and of
searching criticism.

It will be seen that this form of anti-intuitionism (or some may say,
perhaps, of intuitionism) is radically different from the older forms of
anti-intuitionism. And it will be seen that there is one essential ingredient

in this theory: the idea that we may fall short — ^perhaps always — of some
standard of absolute truth, or of absolute rightness, in our opinions as
well as in our actions.

It may be objected to all this that, whether or not my views on the nature
of ethical knowledge and ethical experience are acceptable, they are still
'relativist' or 'subjectivist'. For they do not establish any absolute moral
standards: at best they show that the idea of an absolute standard is a
regulative idea, of use to those who are already converted — ^who are
already eager to learn about, and search for, true or valid or good moral
standards. My reply is that even the 'establishment' — say, by means of
pure logic — of an absolute standard, or a system of ethical norms, would
make no difference in this respect. For assuming we have succeeded in
logically proving the validity of an absolute standard, or a system of
ethical norms, so that we could logically prove to somebody how he
ought to act: even then he might take no notice; or else he might reply: 'I
am not in the least interested in your "ought", or in your moral rules — no
more so than in your logical proofs, or, say, in your higher mathematics.'
Thus even a logical proof cannot alter the fundamental situation that only
he who is prepared to take these things seriously and to learn about them
will be impressed by ethical (or any other) arguments. You cannot force
anybody by arguments to take arguments seriously, or to respect his own
reason.

16. The dualism of facts and standards and the idea of
liberalism

The dualism of facts and standards is, I contend, one of the bases of the
liberal tradition. For an essential part of this tradition is the recognition

of the injustice that does exist in this world, and the resolve to try to help
those who are its victims. This means that there is, or that there may be, a
conflict, or at least a gap, between facts and standards: facts may fall
short of right (or valid or true) standards — especially those social or
political facts which consist in the actual acceptance and enforcement of
some code of justice.

To put it in another way, liberalism is based upon the dualism of facts
and standards in the sense that it believes in searching for ever better
standards, especially in the field of politics and of legislation.

But this dualism of facts and standards has been rejected by some
relativists who have opposed it with arguments like the following:

(1) The acceptance of a proposal — and thus of a standard — is a social
or political or historical fact.

(2) If an accepted standard is judged by another, not yet accepted
standard, and found wanting, then this judgement (whoever may have
made it) is also a social or political or historical fact.

(3) If a judgement of this kind becomes the basis of a social or political
movement, then this is also a historical fact.

(4) If this movement is successful, and if in consequence the old
standards are reformed or replaced by new standards, then this is also a
historical fact.

(5) Thus — so argues the relativist or moral positivist — ^we never have
to transcend the realm of facts, if only we include in it social or political
or historical facts: there is no dualism of facts and standards.

/ consider this conclusion (5) to be mistaken. It does not follow from
the premises (1) to (4) whose truth I admit. The reason for rejecting (5) is
very simple: we can always ask whether a development as here described
— a social movement based upon the acceptance of a programme for the
reform of certain standards — ^was 'good' or 'bad'. In raising this
question, we re-open the gulf between standards and facts which the

monistic argument (1) to (5) attempts to close.

From what I have just said, it may be rightly inferred that the monistic
position — the philosophy of the identity of facts and standardsdAi^
dangerous; for even where it does not identify standards with existing
facts — even where it does not identify present might and right — it leads
necessarily to the identification of future might and right. Since the
question whether a certain movement for reform is right or wrong (or
good or bad) cannot be raised, according to the monist, except in terms of
another movement with opposite tendencies, nothing can be asked except
the question which of these opposite movements succeeded, in the end, in
establishing its standards as a matter of social or political or historical
fact.

In other words, the philosophy here described — the attempt to
'transcend' the dualism of facts and standards and to erect a monistic
system, a world of facts only — leads to the identification of standards
either with established might or with future might: it leads to a moral
positivism, or to a moral historicism, as described and discussed in
chapter 22 of this book.

1 7. Hegel again

My chapter on Hegel has been much criticized. Most of the criticism I
cannot accept, because it fails to answer my main objections against
Hegel — that his philosophy exemplifies, if compared with that of Kant (I
still find it almost sacrilegious to put these two names side by side), a
terrible decline in intellectual sincerity and intellectual honesty; that his
philosophical arguments are not to be taken seriously; and that his
philosophy was a major factor in bringing about the 'age of intellectual
dishonesty', as Konrad Heiden called it, and in preparing for that

contemporary trahison des clercs (I am alluding to Julien Benda's great
book) which has helped to produce two world wars so far.

It should not be forgotten that I looked upon my book as my war effort:
believing as I did in the responsibility of Hegel and the Hegelians for
much of what happened in Germany, I felt that it was my task, as a
philosopher, to show that this philosophy was a pseudo-philosophy.

The time at which the book was written may perhaps also explain my
optimistic assumption (which I could attribute to Schopenhauer) that the
stark realities of the war would show up the playthings of the
intellectuals, such as relativism, as what they were, and that this verbal
spook would disappear.

I certainly was too optimistic. Indeed, it seems that most of my critics
took some form of relativism so much for granted that they were quite
unable to believe that I was really in earnest in rejecting it.

I admit that I made some factual mistakes: Mr. H. N. Rodman, of
Harvard University, has told me that I was mistaken in writing 'two
years' in the third line from the bottom of p. 266, and that I ought to have
written 'four years'. He also told me that there are, in his opinion, a
number of more serious — if less clear-cut — historical errors in the
chapter, and that some of my attributions of ulterior motives to Hegel are,
in his opinion, historically unjustified.

Such things are very much to be regretted, although they have
happened to better historians than I. But the question of real importance
is this: do these mistakes affect my assessment of Hegel's philosophy,
and of its disastrous influence?

My own answer to the question is: 'No.' It is his philosophy which has
led me to look upon Hegel as I do, not his biography. In fact, I am still
surprised that serious philosophers were offended by my admittedly
partly playful attack upon a philosophy which I am still unable to take
seriously. I tried to express this by the scherzo-style of my Hegel chapter.

hoping to expose the ridiculous in this philosophy which I can only
regard with a mixture of contempt and horror.

All this was clearly indicated in my book; also the fact that I neither
could- nor wished to spend unlimited time upon deep researches into the
history of a philosopher whose work I abhor. As it was, I wrote about
Hegel in a manner which assumed that few would take him seriously.
And although this manner was lost upon my Hegelian critics, who were
decidedly not amused, I still hope that some of my readers got the joke.

But all this is comparatively unimportant. What may be important is
the question whether my attitude towards Hegel's philosophy was
justified. It is a contribution towards an answer to this question which I
wish to make here.

I think most Hegelians will admit that one of the fundamental motives
and intentions of Hegel's philosophy is precisely to replace and
'transcend' the dualistic view of facts and standards which had been
presented by Kant, and which was the philosophical basis of the idea of
liberalism and of social reform.

To transcend this dualism of facts and standards is the decisive aim of
Hegel's philosophy of identitydi4thQ identity of the ideal and the real, of
right and might. All standards are historical: they are historical facts,
stages in the development of reason, which is the same as the
development of the ideal and of the real. There is nothing but fact; and
some of the social or historical facts are, at the same time, standards.

Now Hegel's argument was, fundamentally, the one I stated (and
criticized) here in the preceding section — although Hegel presented it in a
surpassingly vague, unclear, and specious form. Moreover, I contend that
this identity philosophy (despite some 'progressivist' suggestions, and
some mild expressions of sympathy with various 'progressive'
movements which it contained) played a major role in the downfall of the

liberal movement in Germany; a movement which, under the influence of
Kant's philosophy, had produced such important liberal thinkers as
Schiller and Wilhelm von Humboldt, and such important works as
Humboldt's Essay towards the Determination of the Limits of the Powers
of the State.

This is my first and fundamental accusation. My second accusation,
closely connected with the first, is that Hegel's identity philosophy, by
contributing to historicism and to an identification of might and right,
encouraged totalitarian modes of thought.

My third accusation is that Hegel's argument (which admittedly
required of him a certain degree of subtlety, though not more than a great
philosopher might be expected to possess) was full of logical mistakes
and of tricks, presented with pretentious impressiveness. This
undermined and eventually lowered the traditional standards of
intellectual responsibility and honesty. It also contributed to the rise of
totalitarian philosophizing and, even more serious, to the lack of any
determined intellectual resistance to it.

These are my principal objections to Hegel stated, I believe, fairly
clearly in chapter 12. But I certainly did not analyse the fundamental
issue — ^the philosophy of identity of facts and standards — quite as clearly
as I ought to have done. So I hope I have made amends in this addendum
— ^not to Hegel, but to those who may have been harmed by him.

18. Conclusion

In ending my book once again, I am as conscious as ever of its
imperfections. In part, these imperfections are a consequence of its scope,
which transcends what I should consider as my more professional
interests. In part they are simply a consequence of my personal fallibility:

it is not for nothing that I am a fallibilist.

But though I am very conscious of my personal fallibility, even as it
affects what I am going to say now, I do believe that a fallibilist approach
has much to offer to the social philosopher. By recognizing the
essentially critical and therefore revolutionary character of all human
thought — of the fact that we learn from our mistakes, rather than by the
accumulation of data — and by recognizing on the other hand that almost
all the problems as well as the (non-authoritative) sources of our thought
are rooted in traditions, and that it is almost always traditions which we
criticize, a critical (and progressive) fallibilism may provide us with a
much-needed perspective for the evaluation of both, tradition and
revolutionary thought. Even more important, it can show us that the role
of thought is to carry out revolutions by means of critical debates rather
than by means of violence and of warfare; that it is the great tradition of
Western rationalism to fight our battles with words rather than with
swords. This is why our Western civilization is an essentially pluralistic
one, and why monolithic social ends would mean the death of freedom: of
the freedom of thought, of the free search for truth, and with it, of the
rationality and the dignity of man.

Note on Schwarzschild's Book on Marx (1965)

Some years after I wrote this book, Leopold Schwarzschild's book on
Marx, The Red Prussian (translated by Margaret Wing: London 1948)
became known to me. There is no doubt in my mind that Schwarzschild
looks at Marx with unsympathetic and even hostile eyes, and that he often
paints him in the darkest possible colours. But even though the book may
be not always fair, it contains documentary evidence, especially from the
Marx-Engels correspondence, which shows that Marx was less of a
humanitarian, and less of a lover of freedom, than he is made to appear in
my book. Schwarzschild describes him as a man who saw in 'the
proletariat' mainly an instrument for his own personal ambition. Though
this may put the matter more harshly than the evidence warrants, it must
be admitted that the evidence itself is shattering.

Notes

1 I am deeply indebted to Dr. William W. Bartley's incisive criticism which not only helped
me to improve chapter 24 of this book (especially page 231) but also induced me to make
important changes in the present addendum.

2 See for example 'On the Sources of Knowledge and of Ignorance', now the Introduction to
my Conjectures and Refutations and, more especially. Chapter 10 of that book; also, of
course, my The Logic of Scientific Discovery.

3 For a description and criticism of authoritarian (or non-fallibilist) theories of knowledge see
especially sections v, vi, and x. ff.. of the Introduction to my Conjectures and Refutations.

4 See W. V. Quine, Word and Object, 1959, p. 23.

5 See my Introduction and my Preface to the Second Edition.

Notes

General Remarks. The text of the book is self-contained and may be read
without these Notes. However, a considerable amount of material which
is likely to interest all readers of the book will be found here, as well as
some references and controversies which may not be of general interest.
Readers who wish to consult the Notes for the sake of this material may
find it convenient first to read without interruption through the text of a
chapter, and then to turn to the Notes.

I wish to apologize for the perhaps excessive number of cross-
references which have been included for the benefit of those readers who
take a special interest in one or other of the side issues touched upon
(such as Plato's preoccupation with racialism, or the Socratic Problem).
Knowing that war conditions would make it impossible for me to read the
proofs, I decided to refer not to pages but to note numbers. Accordingly,
references to the text have been indicated by notes such as: 'cp. text to
note 24 to chapter 3', etc. War conditions also restricted library facilities,
making it impossible for me to obtain a number of books, some recent
and some not, which would have been consulted in normal circumstances.

* Notes which make use of material which was not available to me
when writing the manuscript for the first edition of this book (and other
notes which I wish to characterize as having been added to the book since
1943) are enclosed by asterisks; not all new additions to the notes have,
however, been so marked.*

Note to Introduction

For Kant's motto, see note 41 to chapter 24, and text.

The terms 'open society' and 'closed society' were first used, to my
knowledge, by Henri Bergson, in Two Sources of Morality and Religion
(Engl, ed., 1935). In spite of a considerable difference (due to a
fundamentally different approach to nearly every problem of philosophy)
between Bergson's way of using these terms and mine, there is a certain
similarity also, which I wish to acknowledge. (Cp. Bergson's
characterization of the closed society, op. cit., p. 229, as 'human society
fresh from the hands of nature'.) The main difference, however, is this.
My terms indicate, as it were, a rationalist distinction; the closed society
is characterized by the belief in magical taboos, while the open society is
one in which men have learned to be to some extent critical of taboos,
and to base decisions on the authority of their own intelligence (after
discussion). Bergson, on the other hand, has a kind of religious
distinction in mind. This explains why he can look upon his open society
as the product of a mystical intuition, while I suggest (in chapters 10 and
24) that mysticism may be interpreted as an expression of the longing for
the lost unity of the closed society, and therefore as a reaction against the
rationalism of the open society. From the way my term 'The Open
Society' is used in chapter 10, it may be seen that there is some
resemblance to Graham Wallas' term 'The Great Society'; but my term
may cover a 'small society' too, as it were, like that of Periclean Athens,
while it is perhaps conceivable that a 'Great Society' may be arrested and
thereby closed. There is also, perhaps, a similarity between my 'open
society' and the term used by Walter Lippmann as the title of his most
admirable book. The Good Society (1937). See also note 59 (2) to chapter
10 and notes 29, 32, and 58 to chapter 24, and text.

Notes to Volume I

Notes to Chapter One

For Pericles' motto, see note 31 to chapter 10, and text. Plato's motto is
discussed in some detail in notes 33 and 34 to chapter 6, and text.

1. I use the term 'collectivism' only for a doctrine which emphasizes the significance of some
collective or group, for instance, 'the state' (or a certain state; or a nation; or a class) as
against that of the individual. The problem of collectivism versus individualism is explained
more fully in chapter 6, below; see especially notes 26 to 28 to that chapter, and text. —
Concerning 'tribalism', cp. chapter 10, and especially note 38 to that chapter (list of
Pythagorean tribal taboos).

2. This means that the interpretation does not convey any empirical information, as shown in
my The Logic of Scientific Discovery.

3. One of the features which the doctrines of the chosen people, the chosen race, and the
chosen class have in common is that they originated, and became important, as reactions
against some kind of oppression. The doctrine of the chosen people became important at the
time of the foundation of the Jewish church, i.e. during the Babylonian captivity; Count
Gobineau's theory of the Aryan master race was a reaction of the aristocratic emigrant to the
claim that the French Revolution had successfully expelled the Teutonic masters. Marx's
prophecy of the victory of the proletariat is his reply to one of the most sinister periods of
oppression and exploitation in modern history. Compare with these matters chapter 10,
especially note 39, and chapter 17, especially notes 13-15, and text.

* One of the briefest and best summaries of the historicist creed can be found in the radically
historicist pamphlet which is quoted more fully at the end of note 12 to chapter 9, entitled
Christians in the Class Struggle, by Gilbert Cope, Foreword by the Bishop of Bradford.
('Magnificat' Publication No. 1, Published by the Council of Clergy and Ministers for
Common Ownership, 1942, 28, Maypole Lane, Birmingham 14.) Here we read, on pp. 5-6:
'Common to all these views is a certain quality of "inevitability plus freedom". Biological
evolution, the class conflict succession, the action of the Holy Spirit — all three are
characterized by a definite motion towards an end. That motion may be hindered or

deflected for a time by deliberate human action, but its gathering momentum cannot be
dissipated, and though the final stage is but dimly apprehended, it is 'possible to know
enough about the process to help forward or to delay the inevitable flow. In other words, the
natural laws of what we observe to be "progress" are sufficiently . . . understood by men so
that they can ... either ... make efforts to arrest or divert the main stream — efforts which
may seem to be successful for a time, but which are in fact foredoomed to failure.'*

4. Hegel said that, in his Logic, he had preserved the whole of Heraclitus' teaching. He also
said that he owed everything to Plato. *It may be worth mentioning that Ferdinand von
Lassalle, one of the founders of the German social democratic movement (and, like Marx, a
Hegelian), wrote two volumes on Heraclitus.*

Notes to Chapter Two

1. The question 'What is the world made of?' is more or less generally accepted as the
fundamental problem of the early Ionian philosophers. If we assume that they viewed the
world as an edifice, the question of the ground-plan of the world would be complementary
to that of its building material. And indeed, we hear that Thales was not only interested in
the stuff the world is made of, but also in descriptive astronomy and geography, and that
Anaximander was the first to draw up a ground-plan, i.e. a map of the earth. Some further
remarks on the Ionian school (and especially on Anaximander as predecessor of Heraclitus)
will be found in chapter 10; cp. notes 38-40 to that chapter, especially note 39.

* According to R. Eisler, Weltenmantel und Himmelszelt , p. 693, Homer's feeling of destiny
('moira') can be traced back to oriental astral mysticism which deifies time, space, and fate.
According to the same author {Revue de Synthese Historique, 41, app., p. 16 f), Hesiod's
father was a native of Asia Minor, and the sources of his idea of the Golden Age, and the
metals in man, are oriental. (Cp. on this question Eisler 's forthcoming posthumous study of
Plato, Oxford 1950.) Eisler also shows {Jesus Basileus, vol. II, 618 f) that the idea of the
world as a totality of things ('cosmos') goes back to Babylonian political theory. The idea of
the world as an edifice (a house or tent) is treated in his Weltenmantel.'^

2. See Diels, Z)/e Vorsokratiker, 5th edition, 1934 (abbreviated here as 'D5'), fragment 124;
cp. also D5, vol. II, p. 423, lines 21 f (The interpolated negation seems to me
methodologically as unsound as the attempt of certain authors to discredit the fragment
altogether; apart from this, I follow Riistow's emendation.) For the two other quotations in
this paragraph, see Plato, Cratylus, 40 Id, 402a/b.

My interpretation of the teaching of Heraclitus is perhaps different from that commonly
assumed at present, for instance from that of Burnet. Those who may feel doubtful whether
it is at all tenable are referred to my notes, especially the present note and notes 6, 7, and 11,
in which I am dealing with Heraclitus' natural philosophy, having confined my text to a
presentation of the historicist aspect of Heraclitus' teaching and to his social philosophy. I
further refer them to the evidence of chapters 4 to 9, and especially of chapter 10, in whose

light Heraclitus' philosophy, as I see it, appears as a somewhat typical reaction to the social
revolution which he witnessed. Cp. also the notes 39 and 59 to that chapter (and text), and
the general criticism of Burnet's and Taylor's methods in note 56.

As indicated in the text, I hold (with many others, for instance, with Zeller and Grote) that
the doctrine of universal flux is the central doctrine of Heraclitus. As opposed to this, Burnet
holds that this 'is hardly the central point in the system' of Heraclitus (cp. Early Greek
Philosophy, 2nd ed., 163). But a close inspection of his arguments (158 f) leaves me quite
unconvinced that Heraclitus' fundamental discovery was the abstract metaphysical doctrine
'that wisdom is not the knowledge of many things, but the perception of the underlying
unity of warring opposites', as Burnet puts it. The unity of opposites is certainly an
important part of Heraclitus' teaching, but it can be derived (as far as such things can be
derived; cp. note 11 to this chapter, and the corresponding text) from the more concrete and
intuitively understandable theory of flux; and the same can be said of Heraclitus' doctrine of
the fire (cp. note 7 to this chapter).

Those who suggest, with Burnet, that the doctrine of universal flux was not new, but
anticipated by the earlier lonians, are, I feel, unconscious witnesses to Heraclitus' originality;
for they fail now, after 2,400 years, to grasp his main point. They do not see the difference
between a flux or circulation within a vessel or an edifice or a cosmic framework, i.e. within
a totality of things (part of the Heraclitean theory can indeed be understood in this way, but
only that part of it which is not very original; see below), and a universal flux which
embraces everything, even the vessel, the framework itself (cp. Lucian in D5 I, p. 190) and
which is described by Heraclitus' denial of the existence of any fixed thing whatever. (In a
way, Anaximander had made a beginning by dissolving the fi*amework, but there was still a
long way fi"om this to the theory of universal flux. Cp. also note 15 (4) to chapter 3.)
The doctrine of universal flux forces Heraclitus to attempt an explanation of the apparent
stability of the things in this world, and of other typical regularities. This attempt leads him
to the development of subsidiary theories, especially to his doctrine of fire (cp. note 7 to this
chapter) and of natural laws (cp. note 6). It is in this explanation of the apparent stability of
the world that he makes much use of the theories of his predecessors by developing their
theory of rarefaction and condensation, together with their doctrine of the revolution of the

heavens, into a general theory of the circulation of matter, and of periodicity. But this part of
his teaching, I hold, is not central to it, but subsidiary. It is, so to speak, apologetic, for it
attempts to reconcile the new and revolutionary doctrine of flux with common experience as
well as with the teaching of his predecessors. I believe, therefore, that he is not a mechanical
materiahst who teaches something like the conservation and circulation of matter and of
energy; this view seems to me to be excluded by his magical attitude towards laws as well as
by his theory of the unity of opposites which emphasizes his mysticism.
My contention that the universal flux is the central theory of Heraclitus is, I believe,
corroborated by Plato. The overwhelming majority of his explicit references to Heraclitus
{Crat, 401d, 402a/b, 411, 437ff , 440; Theaet, 153c/d, 160d, 177c, 179d f , 182a ff , 183a
ff., cp. dlso Symp., 207d, Phil., 43a; cp. also Aristotle's Metaphysics, 987a33, 1010al3,
1078b 13) witness to the tremendous impression made by this central doctrine upon the
thinkers of that period. These straightforward and clear testimonies are much stronger than
the admittedly interesting passage which does not mention Heraclitus' name (Soph., 242d f.,
quoted already, in connection with Heraclitus, by Ueberweg and Zeller), on which Burnet
attempts to base his interpretation. (His other witness, Philo Judaeus, cannot count much as
against the evidence of Plato and Aristotle.) But even this passage agrees completely with
our interpretation. (With regard to Burnet's somewhat wavering judgement concerning the
value of this passage, cp. note 56(7) to chapter 10.) Heraclitus' discovery that the world is
not the totality of things but of events or facts is not at all trivial; this can be perhaps gauged
by the fact that Wittgenstein has found it necessary to reaffirm it quite recently: 'The world is
the totality of fsLCts, not of things.' (Cp. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1921/22, sentence
1.1; italics mine.)

To sum up. I consider the doctrine of universal flux as fundamental, and as emerging from
the realm of Heraclitus' social experiences. All other doctrines of his are in a way subsidiary
to it. The doctrine of fire (cp. Aristotle's Metaphysics, 984a7, 1067a2; also 989a2, 996a9,
5; Physics, 205a3) I consider to be his central doctrine in the field of natural
philosophy; it is an attempt to reconcile the doctrine of flux with our experience of stable
things, a link with the older theories of circulation, and it leads to a theory of laws. And the
doctrine of the unity of opposites I consider as something less central and more abstract, as a

forerunner of a kind of logical or methodological theory (as such it inspired Aristotle to
formulate his law of contradiction), and as linked to his mysticism.

3. W. Nestle, Die Vorsokratiker (1905), 35.

4. In order to facilitate the identification of the fragments quoted, I give the numbers of
Bywater's edition (adopted, in his English translation of the fragments, by Burnet, Early
Greek Philosophy), and also the numbers of Diels' 5th edition.

Of the eight passages quoted in the present paragraph, (1) and (2) are from the fragments B
114 (= Bywater, and Burnet), D5 121 (= Diels, 5th edition). The others are from the
fragments: (3) B 111, D5 29; cp. Plato's Republic, 586a/b ... (4): B 111, D5 104 ... (5): B
112, D5 39 (cp. D5, vol. I, p. 65, Bias, 1) ... (6): B 5, D5 17 ... (7): B 110, D5 33 ... (8): B
100, D5 44.

5. The three passages quoted in this paragraph are from the fragments: (1) and (2): cp. B 41,
D5 91; for (1) cp. also note 2 to this chapter; (3): D5 74.

6. The two passages are B 21, D5 31; and B 22, D5 90.

7. For Heraclitus' 'measures' (or laws, or periods), see B 20, 21, 23, 29; D5 30, 31, 94. (D 31
brings 'measure' and 'law' {logos) together.)

The five passages quoted later in this paragraph are from the fragments: (1): D5, vol. I, p.
141, line 10. (Cp. Diog. Laert., IX, 7.) ... (2): B 29, D5 94 (cp. note 2 to chapter 5) ... (3): B
34, D5 100 ... (4): B 20, D5 30 ... (5): B 26, D5 66.

(1) The idea of law is correlative to that of change or flux, since only laws or regularities
within the flux can explain the apparent stability of the world. The most typical regularities
within the changing world known to man are the natural periods: the day, the moon-month,
and the year (the seasons). Heraclitus' theory of law is, I believe, logically intermediate
between the comparatively modem views of 'causal laws' (held by Leucippus and especially
by Democritus) and Anaximander's dark powers of fate. Heraclitus' laws are still 'magical',
i.e. he has not yet distinguished between abstract causal regularities and laws enforced, like
taboos, by sanctions (with this, cp. chapter 5, note 2). It appears that his theory of fate was
connected with a theory of a 'Great Year' or 'Great Cycle' of 18,000 or 36,000 ordinary
years. (Cp. for instance J. Adam's edition of The Republic of Plato, vol. II, 303.) I certainly

do not think that this theory is an indication that Heraclitus did not really believe in a
universal flux, but only in various circulations which always re-established the stability of
the framework; but I think it possible that he had difficulties in conceiving a law of change,
and even of fate, other than one involving a certain amount of periodicity. (Cp. also note 6
to chapter 3.)

(2) Fire plays a central role in Heraclitus' philosophy of nature. (There may be some Persian
influence here.) The flame is the obvious symbol of a flux or process which appears in
many respects as a thing. It thus explains the experience of stable things, and reconciles this
experience with the doctrine of flux. This idea can easily be extended to living bodies which
are like flames, only burning more slowly. Heraclitus teaches that all things are in flux, all
are like fire; their flux has only different 'measures' or laws of motion. The 'bowl' or
'trough' in which the fire burns will be in a much slower flux than the fire, but it will be in
flux nevertheless. It changes, it has its fate and its laws, it must be burned into by the fire,
and consumed, even if it takes a longer time before its fate is fulfilled. Thus, 'in its advance,
the fire will judge and convict everything' (B 26, D5 66).

Accordingly, the fire is the symbol and the explanation of the apparent rest of things in spite
of their real state of flux. But it is also a symbol of the transmutation of matter from one
stage (fuel) into another. It thus provides the link between Heraclitus' intuitive theory of
nature and the theories of rarefaction and condensation, etc., of his predecessors. But its
flaring up and dying down, in accordance with the measure of fuel provided, is also an
instance of a law. If this is combined with some form of periodicity, then it can be used to
explain the regularities of natural periods, such as days or years. (This trend of thought
renders it unlikely that Burnet is right in disbelieving the traditional reports of Heraclitus'
belief in a periodical conflagration, which was probably connected with his Great Year; cp.
Aristotle, Physics, 205a3 with D5 66.)

8. The thirteen passages quoted in this paragraph are from the fragments. (1): B 10, D5 123 ...
(2): B 11, D5 93 ... (3): B 16, D5 40 ... (4): B 94, D5 73 ... (5): B 95, D5 89 ... with (4) and
(5), cp. Plato's Republic, 476c f , and 520c ... (6): B 6, D5 19 ... (7): B 3, D5 34 ... (8): B
19, D5 41 ... (9): B 92, D5 2 ... (10): B 91a, D5 113 ... (11): B 59, D5 10 ... (12): B 65, D5

32 ... (13):B28, D5 64.

9. More consistent than most moral historicists, Heraclitus is also an ethical and juridical
positivist (for this term, cp. chapter 5): 'All things are, to the gods, fair and good and right;
men, however, have taken up some things as wrong, and some as right' (D5 102, B 61; see
passage (8) in note 11.) That he was the first juridical positivist is attested by Plato {Theaet,
177c/d). On moral and juridical positivism in general, cp. chapter 5 (text to notes 14-18)
and chapter 22.

10 . The two passages quoted in this paragraph are: (1): B 44, D5 53 ... (2): B 62, D5 80.

11 . The nine passages quoted in this paragraph are: (1): B 39, D5 126 ... (2): B 104, D5 111 ...
(3): B 78, D5 88 ... (4): B 45, D5 51 ... (5): D5 8 ... (6): B 69, D5 60 ... (7): B 50, D5 59 ...
(8): B 61, D5 102 (cp. note 9) ... (9): B 57, D5 58. (Cp. Aristotle, Physics, 185b20.)

Flux or change must be the transition from one stage or property or position to another. In so
far as flux presupposes something that changes, this something must remain identically the
same, even though it assumes an opposite stage or property or position. This links the theory
of flux to that of the unity of opposites (cp. Aristotle, Metaphysics, 1005b25, 1024a24 and
34, 1062a32, 1063a25) as well as the doctrine of the oneness of all things; they are all only
different phases or appearances of the one changing something (of fire).
Whether 'the path that leads up' and 'the path that leads down' were originally conceived as
an ordinary path leading first up a mountain, and later down again (or perhaps: leading up
from the point of view of the man who is down, and down from that of the man who is up),
and whether this metaphor was only later applied to the processes of circulation, to the path
that leads up from earth through water (perhaps Hquid fuel in a bowl?) to the fire, and down
again from the fire through the water (rain?) to earth; or whether Heraclitus' path up and
down was originally applied by him to this process of circulation of matter; all this can of
course not be decided. (But I think that the first alternative is more likely in view of the great
number of similar ideas in Heraclitus' fragments: cp. the text.)

12 . The four passages are: (1): B 102, D5 24 ... (2): B 101, D5 25 (a closer version which more
or less preserves Heraclitus' pun is: 'Greater death wins greater destiny.' Cp. also Plato's
Laws, 903 d/e; contrast With. Rep. 617 d/e) ... (3): B 111, D5 29 (part of the continuation is

quoted above; see passage (3) in note 4) ... (4): B 113, D5 49.

13 . It seems very probable (cp. Meyer's Gesch. d. Altertums, esp. vol. I) that such characteristic
teachings as that of the chosen people originated in this period, which produced several
other religions of salvation besides the Jewish.

14 . Comte, who in France developed a historicist philosophy not very dissimilar from Hegel's
Prussian version, tried, like Hegel, to stem the revolutionary tide. (Cp. F. A. von Hayek, The
Counter-Revo lution of Science, Economica, N.S. vol. VIII, 1941, pp. 119 ff., 281 ff.) For
Lassalle's interest in Heraclitus, see note 4 to chapter 1. — It is interesting to note, in this
connection, the parallelism between the history of historicist and of evolutionary ideas. They
originated in Greece with the semi-Heraclitean Empedocles (for Plato's version, see note 1 to
chapter 11), and they were revived, in England as well as in France, in the time of the
French Revolution.

Notes to Chapter Three

1. With this explanation of the term oligarchy, cp. also the end of notes 44 and 57 to chapter 8.

2. Cp. especially note 48 to chapter 10.

3. Cp. the end of chapter 7, esp. note 25, and chapter 10, esp. note 69.

4. Cp. Diogenes Laert., Ill, 1. — Concerning Plato's family connections, and especially the
alleged descent of his father's family from Codrus, 'and even from the God Poseidon', see
G. Grote, Plato and other Companions of Socrates (edn 1875), vol. I, 114. (See, however,
the similar remark on Critias' family, i.e. on that of Plato's mother, in E. Meyer, Geschichte
des Altertums, vol. V, 1922, p. 66.) Plato says of Codrus in the Symposium (208d): 'Do you
suppose that Alcestis, ... or Achilles, ... or that your own Codrus would have sought death
— in order to save the kingship for his childrenMhad they not expected to win that
immortal memory of their virtue in which indeed we keep them?' Plato praises Critias' (i.e.
his mother's) family in the early Charmides (157e ff.) and in the late Timaeus (20e), where
the family is traced back to the Athenian ruler (archon-) Dropides, the friend of Solon.

5. The two autobiographical quotations which follow in this paragraph are from the Seventh
Letter (325). Plato's authorship of the Letters has been questioned by some eminent scholars
(perhaps without sufficient foundation; I think Field's treatment of this problem very
convincing; cp. note 57 to chapter 10; on the other hand, even the Seventh Letter looks to
me a little suspicious — it repeats too much what we know from the Apology, and says too
much what the occasion requires). I have therefore taken care to base my interpretation of
Platonism mainly on some of the most famous dialogues; it is, however, in general
agreement with \hQ Letters. For the reader's convenience, a Hst of those Platonic dialogues
which are frequently mentioned in the text may be given here, in what is their probable
historical order; cp. note 56 (8) to chapter 10. Crito — Apology — Euthyphro; Protagoras —
Meno — Gorgias; Cratylus — Menexenus — Phaedo; Republic; Parmenides — Theaetetus;
Sophist — Statesman (or Politicus) — Philebus; Timaeus — Critias; Laws.

6. (1) That historical developments may have a cyclic character is nowhere very clearly stated

by Plato. It is, however, alluded to in at least four dialogues, namely in the Phaedo, in the
Republic, in the Statesman {or Politicus), and in the Laws. In all these places, Plato's theory
may possibly allude to Heraclitus' Great Year (cp. note 6 to chapter 2). It may be, however,
that the allusion is not to Heraclitus directly, but rather to Empedocles, whose theory (cp.
also Aristotle, Met, 1000a25 f.) Plato considered as merely a 'milder' version of the
Heraclitean theory of the unity of all flux. He expresses this in a famous passage of the
Sophist (242e f.). According to this passage, and to Aristotle {De Gen. Corn , B, 6., 334a6),
there is a historical cycle embracing a period in which love rules, and a period in which
Heraclitus' strife rules; and Aristotle tells us that, according to Empedocles, the present
period is 'now a period of the reign of Strife, as it was formerly one of Love'. This insistence
that the flux of our own cosmic period is a kind of strife, and therefore bad, is in close
accordance both with Plato's theories and with his experiences.

The length of the Great Year is, probably, the period of time after which all heavenly bodies
return to the same positions relative to each other as were held by them at the moment from
which the period is reckoned. (This would make it the smallest common multiple of the
periods of the 'seven planets'.)

(2) The passage in the Phaedo mentioned under (1) alludes first to the Heraclitean theory of
change leading from one state to its opposite state, or from one opposite to the other: 'that
which becomes less must once have been greater ...' (70e/71a). It then proceeds to indicate
a cyclic law of development: 'Are there not two processes which are ever going on, from
one extreme to its opposite, and back again ...?' {loc. cit.). And a little later (72a/b) the
argument is put like this: 'If the development were in a straight line only, and there were no
compensation or cycle in nature, ... then, in the end, all things would take on the same
properties ... and there would be no further development' It appears that the general
tendency of the Phaedo is more optimistic (and shows more faith in man and in human
reason) than that of the later dialogues, but there are no direct references to human historical
development.

(3) Such references are, however, made in the Republic where, in Books VIII and IX, we
find an elaborate description of historical decay treated here in chapter 4. This description is
introduced by Plato's Story of the Fall of Man and of the Number, which will here be

discussed more fully in chapters 5 and 8. J. Adam, in his edition of The Republic of Plato
(1902, 1921), rightly calls this story 'the setting in which Plato's "Philosophy of History" is
framed' (vol. II, 210). This story does not contain any explicit statement on the cyclic
character of history, but it contains a few rather mysterious hints which, according to
Aristotle's (and Adam's) interesting but uncertain interpretation, are possibly allusions to the
Heraclitean Great Year, i.e. to the cyclic development. (Cp. note 6 to chapter 2, and Adam,
op. cit, vol. II, 303; the remark on Empedocles made there, 303f., needs correction; see (1)
in this note, above.)

(4) There is, furthermore, the myth in the Statesman (268e-274c). According to this myth,
God himself steers the world for half a cycle of the great world period. When he lets go, then
the world, which so far has moved forward, begins to roll back again. Thus we have two
half-periods or half-cycles in the full cycle, a forward movement led by God constituting the
good period without war or strife, and a backward movement when God abandons the
world, which is a period of increasing disorganization and strife. It is, of course, the period
in which we live. Ultimately, things will become so bad that God will take the wheel again,
and reverse the motion, in order to save the world from utter destruction.
This myth shows great resemblances to Empedocles' myth mentioned in (1) above, and
probably also to Heraclitus' Great Year. — ^Adam ( op. cit., vol. II, 296 f.) also points out the
similarities with Hesiod's story. *One of the points which allude to Hesiod is the reference to
a Golden Age of Cronos; and it is important to note that the men of this age are earth-bom.
This estabhshes a point of contact with the Myth of the Earth-bom, and of the metals in man,
which plays a role in the Republic (414b ff. and 546e f); this role is discussed below in
chapter 8. The Myth of the Earth-bom is also alluded to in the Symposium (191b); possibly
the allusion is to the popular claim that the Athenians are 'like grasshoppers' —
autochthonous (cp. notes 32 (l)e to chapter 4 and 1 1 (2) to chapter 8).*
When, however, later in the Statesman (302b ff.) the six forms of imperfect government are
ordered according to their degree of imperfection, there is no indication any longer to be
found of a cyclic theory of history. Rather, the six forms, which are all degenerate copies of
the perfect or best state (Statesman, 293d/e; 297c; 303b), appear all as steps in the process of
degeneration; i.e. both here and in the Republic Plato confines himself, when it comes to

more concrete historical problems, to that part of the cycle which leads to decay.

* (5) Analogous remarks hold for the Laws. Something like a cyclic theory is sketched in
Book III, 676b/c-677b, where Plato turns to a more detailed analysis of the beginning of
one of the cycles; and in 67 8e and 679c, this beginning turns out to be a Golden Age, so
that the further story again becomes one of deterioration. — It may be mentioned that Plato's
doctrine, that the planets are gods, together with the doctrine that the gods influence human
lives (and with his belief that cosmic forces are at work in history), played an important part
in the astrological speculations of the neo-Platonists. All three doctrines can be found in the
Laws (see, for example, 821b-d and 899b; 899d-905d; 677a ff.). Astrology, it should be
realized, shares with historicism the belief in a determinate destiny which can be predicted;
and it shares with some important versions of historicism (especially with Platonism and
Marxism) the behef that, notwithstanding the possibility of predicting the future, we have
some influence upon it, especially if we actually know what is coming.*

(6) Apart from these scanty allusions, there is hardly anything to indicate that Plato took the
upward or forward part of the cycle seriously. But there are many remarks, apart from the
elaborate description in the Republic and that quoted in (5), which show that he believed
very seriously in the downward movement, in the decay of history. We must consider,
especially, the Timaeus, and the Laws.

(7) In the Timaeus (42b f, 90e ff., and especially 9 Id f; cp. also the Ph a edrus, 248d f),
Plato describes what may be called the origin of species by degeneration (cp. text to note 4
to chapter 4, and note 11 to chapter 11): men degenerate into women, and later into lower
animals.

(8) In Book III of the Laws (cp. also Book IV, 713a ff.; see however the short allusion to a
cycle mentioned above) we have a rather elaborate theory of historical decay, largely
analogous to that in the Republic. See also the next chapter, especially notes 3, 6, 7, 27, 31,
and 44.

7. A similar opinion of Plato's political aims is expressed by G. C. Field, Plato and His
Contemporaries (1930), p. 91: 'The chief aim of Plato's philosophy may be regarded as the
attempt to re-establish standards of thought and conduct for a civilization that seemed on the

verge of dissolution.' See also note 3 to chapter 6, and text.

8. I follow the majority of the older and a good number of contemporary authorities (e.g. G. C.
Field, F. M. Cornford, A. K. Rogers) in believing, against John Burnet and A. E. Taylor, that
the theory of Forms or Ideas is nearly entirely Plato's, and not Socrates', in spite of the fact
that Plato puts it into the mouth of Socrates as his main speaker. Though Plato's dialogues
are our only first-rate source for Socrates' teaching, it is, I believe, possible to distinguish in
them between 'Socratic', i.e. historically true, and 'Platonic' features of Plato's speaker
'Socrates'. The so-called Socratic Problem is discussed in chapters 6, 7, 8, and 10; cp.
especially note 56 to chapter 10.

9. The term 'social engineering' seems to have been used first by Roscoe Pound, in his
Introduction to the Philosophy of Law (1922, p. 99; *Bryan Magee tells me now that the
Webbs used it almost certainly before 1922.*) He uses the term in the 'piecemeal' sense. In
another sense it is used by M. Eastman, Mxrxwm; Is it Science? (1940). I read Eastman's
book after the text of my own book was written; my term 'social engineering' is,
accordingly, used without any intention of alluding to Eastman's terminology. As far as I
can see, he advocates the approach which I criticize in chapter 9 under the name 'Utopian
social engineering'; cp. note 1 to that chapter. — See also note 18 (3) to chapter 5. As the first
social engineer one might describe the town-planner Hippodamus of Miletus. (Cp.
Aristotle's Politics 1276b22, and R. Eisler, Jesus Basileus, II, p. 754.)

The term 'social technology' has been suggested to me by C. G. F. Simkin. — I wish to make
it clear that in discussing problems of method, my main emphasis is upon gaining practical
institutional experience. Cp. chapter 9, especially text to note 8 to that chapter. For a more
detailed analysis of the problems of method connected with social engineering and social
technology, see my The Poverty of Historicism (2nd edition, 1960), part III.

10 . The quoted passage is from my The Poverty of Historicism, p. 65. The 'undesigned results
of human actions' are more fully discussed below, in chapter 14, see especially note 11 and
text.

11 . I believe in a dualism of facts and decisions or demands (or of 'is' and 'ought'); in other
words, I believe in the impossibility of reducing decisions or demands to facts, although

they can, of course, be treated as facts. More on this point will be said in chapters 5 (text to
notes 4-5), 22, and 24.

12 Evidence in support of this interpretation of Plato's theory of the best state will be supplied
in the next three chapters; I may refer, in the meanwhile, to Statesman, 293 d/e; 297c; Laws,
713b/c; 739d/e; Timaeus, 22d ff., especially 25e and 26d.

13 . Cp. Aristotle's famous report, partly quoted later in this chapter (see especially note 25 to
this chapter, and the text).

14 . This is shown in Grote's Plato, vol. Ill, note u on pp. 267 f

15 . The quotations are from the Timaeus, 50c/d and 51e-52b. The simile which describes the
Forms or Ideas as the fathers, and Space as the mother, of the sensible things, is important
and has far-reaching connections. Cp. also notes 17 and 19 to this chapter, and note 59 to
chapter 10.

(1) It resembles Hesiod's myth of chaos, the yawning gap (space; receptacle) which
corresponds to the mother, and the God Eros, who corresponds to the father or to the Ideas.
Chaos is the origin, and the question of the causal explanation (chaos = cause) remains for a
long time one of origin (arche-) or birth or generation.

(2) The mother or Space corresponds to the indefinite or boundless of Anaximander and of
the Pythagoreans. The Idea, which is male, must therefore correspond to the definite (or
limited) of the Pythagoreans. For the definite, as opposed to the boundless, the male, as
opposed to the female, the light, as opposed to the dark, and the good, as opposed to the
bad, all belong to the same side in \hQ Pythagorean table of opposites. (Cp. Aristotle's
Metaphysics, 986a22 f ) We also can therefore expect to see the Ideas associated with light
and goodness. (Cp. end of note 32 to chapter 8.)

(3) The Ideas are boundaries or limits, they are definite, as opposed to indefinite Space, and
impress or imprint (cp. note 17 (2) to this chapter) themselves like rubber-stamps, or better,
like moulds, upon Space (which is not only space but at the same time Anaximander 's
unformed matter — stuff without property), thus generating sensible things. *J. D. Mabbott
has kindly drawn my attention to the fact that the Forms or Ideas, according to Plato, do not
impress themselves upon Space but are, rather, impressed or imprinted upon it by the

Demiurge. Traces of the theory that the Forms are 'causes both of being and of generation
(or becoming)' can be found aheady in the Phaedo (lOOd), as Aristotle points out (in
Metaphysics 1080a2).*

(4) In consequence of the act of generation, Space, i.e. the receptacle, begins to labour, so
that all things are set in motion, in a Heraclitean or Empedoclean flux which is really
universal in so far as the movement or flux extends even to the framework, i.e. (boundless)
space itself. (For the late Heraclitean idea of the receptacle, cp. the Cratylus, 41 2d.)

(5) This description is also reminiscent of Parmenides' 'Way of Delusive Opinion', in which
the world of experience and of flux is created by the mingling of two opposites, the light (or
hot or fire) and the dark (or cold or earth). It is clear that Plato's Forms or Ideas would
correspond to the former, and Space or what is boundless to the latter; especially if we
consider that Plato's pure space is closely akin to indeterminate matter.

(6) The opposition between the determinate and indeterminate seems also to correspond,
especially after the all-important discovery of the irrationality of the square root of two, to
the opposition between the rational and the irrational. But since Parmenides identifies the
rational with being, this would lead to an interpretation of Space or the irrational as non-
being. In other words, the Pythagorean table of opposites is to be extended to cover
rationality, as opposed to irrationality, and being, as opposed to non-being. (This agrees with
Metaphysics, 1004b27, where Aristotle says that 'all the contraries are reducible to being
and non-being'; 1072a31, where one side of the table — that of being — ^is described as the
object of (rational) thought; and 1093b 13, where the powers of certain numbers —
presumably in opposition to their roots — are added to this side. This would further explain
Aristotle's remark in Metaphysics, 986b27; and it would perhaps not be necessary to
assume, as F. M. Comford does in his excellent article 'Parmenides' Two Ways', Class.
Quart, XVII, 1933, p. 108, that Parmenides, fir. 8, 53/54, 'has been misinterpreted by
Aristotle and Theophrastus' for if we expand the table of opposites in this way, Cornford's
most convincing interpretation of the crucial passage of fir. 8 becomes compatible with
Aristotle's remark.)

(7) Comford has explained {op. cit, 100) that there are three 'ways' in Parmenides, the way
of Truth, the way of Not-being, and the way of Seeming (or, if I may call it so, of delusive

opinion). He shows (101) that they correspond to three regions discussed in the Republic,
the perfectly real and rational world of the Ideas, the perfectly unreal, and the world of
opinion (based on the perception of things in flux). He has also shown (102) that in the
Sophist, Plato modifies his position. To this, some comments may be added from the point
of view of the passages in the Timaeus to which this note is appended.

(8) The main difference between the Forms or Ideas of the Republic and those of the
Timaeus is that in the former, the Forms (and also God; cp. Rep., 380d) are petri-fied, so to
speak, while in the latter, they are deified. In the former, they bear a much closer
resemblance to the Parmenidean One (cp. Adam's note to Rep., 380d28, 31), than in the
latter. This development leads to the Laws, where the Ideas are largely replaced by souls.
The decisive difference is that the Ideas become more and more the starting points of motion
and causes of generation, or as the Timaeus puts it, fathers of the moving things. The
greatest contrast is perhaps between the Phaedo, 79e: 'The soul is infinitely more like the
unchangeable; even the most stupid person would not deny that' (cp. also Rep., 585c, 609b
f ), and the Laws, 895e/896a (cp. Phaedrus, 245c ff.): 'What is the definition of that which is
named "soul"? Can we imagine any other definition than ... "The motion that moves
itself'?' The transition between these two positions is, perhaps, provided by the Sophist
(which introduces the Form or Idea of motion itself) and by the Timaeus, 35a, which
describes the 'divine and unchanging' Forms and the changing and corruptible bodies. This
seems to explain why, in the Laws (cp. 894d/e), the motion of the soul is said to be 'first in
origin and power' and why the soul is described (966e) as 'the most ancient and divine of
all things whose motion is an ever-flowing source of real existence'. (Since, according to
Plato, all living things have souls, it may be claimed that he admitted the presence of an at
least partly formal principle in things; a point of view which is very close to Aristotelianism,
especially in the presence of the primitive and widespread belief that all things are alive.)
(Cp. also note 7 to chapter 4.)

(9) In this development of Plato's thought, a development whose driving force is to explain
the world of flux with the help of the Ideas, i.e. to make the break between the world of
reason and the world of opinion at least understandable, even though it cannot be bridged,
the Sophist seems to play a decisive role. Apart fi"om making room, as Comford mentions

{op. cit, 102), for the plurality of Ideas, it presents them, in an argument against Plato's own
earlier position (248a ff.): (a) as active causes, which may interact, for example, with mind;
(b) as unchanging in spite of that, although there is now an Idea of motion in which all
moving things participate and which is not at rest; (c) as capable of mingling with one
another. It further introduces 'Not-being', identified in the Timaeus with Space (cp.
Cornford, Plato's Theory of Knowledge , 1935, note to 247), and thus makes it possible for
the Ideas to mingle with it (cp. also Philolaus, fr. 2, 3, 5, Diels^), and to produce the world
of flux with its characteristic intermediate position between the being of Ideas and the not-
being of Space or matter.

(10) Ultimately, I wish to defend my contention in the text that the Ideas are not only outside
space, but also outside time, though they are in contact with the world at the beginning of
time. This, I believe, makes it easier to understand how they act without being in motion; for
all motion or flux is in space and time. Plato, I believe, assumes that time has a beginning. I
think that this is the most direct interpretation of Laws, 721c: 'the race of man is twin-bom
with all time', considering the many indications that Plato believed man to be created as one
of the first creatures. (In this point, I disagree slightly with Covnfovd, Plato's Cosmology ,
1937, p. 145, and pp. 26 ff.)

(11) To sum up, the Ideas are earlier and better than their changing and decaying copies,
and are themselves not in flux. (See also note 3 to chapter 4.)

16 . Cp. note 4 to this chapter.

17 . (1) The role of the gods in the Timaeus is similar to the one described in the text. Just as the
Ideas stamp out things, so the gods form the bodies of men. Only the human soul is created
by the Demiurge himself who also creates the world and the gods. (For another hint that the
gods are patriarchs, see Laws, 713c/d.) Men, the weak, degenerate children of gods, are then
liable to further degeneration; cp. note 6(7) to this chapter, and 37-41 to chapter 5.

(2) In an interesting passage of the Laws (681b; cp. also note 32 (1, a) to chapter 4) we find
another allusion to the parallelism between the relation Idea — things and the relation parent
— children. In this passage, the origin of law is explained by the influence of tradition, and
more especially, by the transmission of a rigid order from the parents to the children; and the

following remark is made: 'And they (the parents) would be sure to stamp upon their
children, and upon their children's children, their own cast of mind.'

18 . Cp. note 49, especially (3), to chapter 8.

19. Cp. Timaeus, 31a. The term which I have freely translated by 'superior thing which is their
prototype' is a term frequently used by Aristotle with the meaning 'universal' or 'generic
term'. It means a 'thing which is general' or 'surpassing' or 'embracing' and I suspect that it
originally means 'embracing' or 'covering' in the sense in which a mould embraces or
covers what it moulds.

20 . Cp. Republic, 597c. See also 596a (and Adam's second note to 596a5): 'For we are in the
habit, you will remember, of postulating a Form or Idea — one for each group of many
particular things to which we apply the same name.'

21 . There are innumerable passages in Plato; I mention only the Phaedo (e.g. 79a), the
Republic, 544a, the Theaetetus (152d/e, 179d/e), the Timaeus (28b/c, 29c/d, 51d f).
Aristotle mentions it in Metaphysics, 987a32; 999a25-999bl0; 1010a6-15; 1078b 15; see
also notes 23 and 25 to this chapter.

22. Parmenides taught, as Burnet puts it (Early Greek Philosophy 2, 208), that 'what is ... is
finite, spherical, motionless, corporeal', i.e. that the world is a full globe, a whole without
any parts, and that 'there is nothing beyond it'. I am quoting Burnet because (a) his
description is excellent and (b) it destroys his own interpretation {E.G. P., 208-11) of what
Parmenides calls the 'Opinion of the Mortals' (or the Way of Delusive Opinion). For Burnet
dismisses there all the interpretations of Aristotle, Theophrastus, Simplicius, Gomperz, and
Meyer, as 'anachronisms' or 'palpable anachronisms', etc. Now the interpretation dismissed
by Burnet is practically the same as the one here proposed in the text; namely, that
Parmenides believed in a world of reality behind this world of appearance. Such a duahsm,
which would allow Parmenides' description of the world of appearance to claim at least
some kind of adequacy, is dismissed by Burnet as hopelessly anachronistic. I suggest,
however, that if Parmenides had believed solely in his unmoving world, and not at all in the
changing world, then he would have been really mad (as Empedocles hints). But in fact
there is an indication of a similar dualism already in Xenophanes, fragm. 23-6, if confronted

with fragm. 34 (esp. 'But all may have their fancy opinions'), so that we can hardly speak of
an anachronism. — ^As indicated in note 15 (6-7), I follow Cornford's interpretation of
Parmenides. (See also note 41 to chapter 10.)

23 . Cp. Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1078b23; the next quotation is: op. cil, 1078bl9.

24 . This valuable comparison is due to G. C. Field, Plato and His Contemporaries, 211.

25 . The preceding quotation is from Aristotle, Metaphysics, 1078bl5; the next from cit.,
987b7.

26 . In Aristotle's analysis (in Metaphysics, 987a30-bl8) of the arguments which led to the
theory of Ideas (cp. also note 56 (6) to chapter 10), we can distinguish the following steps:
(a) Heraclitus' flux, (b) the impossibility of true knowledge of things in flux, (c) the
influence of Socrates' ethical essences, (d) the Ideas as objects of true knowledge, (e) the
influence of the Pythagoreans, (/) the 'mathematicals' as intermediate objects. — ((e) and (f) I
have not mentioned in the text, where I have mentioned instead (g) the Parmenidean
influence.)

It may be worth while to show how these steps can be identified in Plato's own work, where
he expounds his theory; especially in the Phaedo and in the Republic, in the Theaetetus and
in the Sophist, and in the Timaeus.

(1) In the Phaedo, we fmd indications of all the points up to and including (e). In 65a-66a,
the steps (d) and (c) are prominent, with an allusion to (b). In 70e step (a), Heraclitus' theory
appears, combined with an element of Pythagoreanism (e). This leads to 74a ff., and to a
statement of step (d). 99-100 is an approach to (d) through (c), etc. For (a) to (d), cp. also
the Cratylus, 439c ff.

In \hQ Republic, it is of course especially Book VI that corresponds closely to Aristotle's
report, (a) In the beginning of Book VI, 485a/b (cp. 527a/b), the Heraclitean flux is referred
to (and contrasted with the unchanging world of Forms). Plato there speaks of 'a reality
which exists for ever and is exempt from generation and degeneration '. (Cp. notes 2 (2) and
3 to chapter 4 and note 33 to chapter 8, and text.) The steps (b), (d) and especially if) play a
rather obvious role in the famous Simile of the Line (Rep., 509c-511e; cp. Adam's notes,
and his appendix I to Book VII); Socrates' ethical influence, i.e. step (c), is of course alluded

to throughout the Republic. It plays an important role within the Simile of the Line and
especially immediately before, i.e. in 508b ff, where the role of the good is emphasized; see
in particular 508b/c: 'This is what I maintain regarding the offspring of the good. What the
good has begotten in its own likeness is, in the intelhgible world, related to reason (and its
objects) in the same way as, in the visible world', that which is the offspring of the sun, 'is
related to sight (and its objects).' Step {e) is implied in (/), but more fully developed in Book
VII, in the famous Curriculum (cp. especially 523a-527c), which is largely based on the
Simile of the Line in Book VI.

(2) In the Theaetetus, (a) and (b) are treated extensively; (c) is mentioned in 174b and 175c.
In the Sophist, all the steps, including (g), are mentioned, only (e) and (J) being left out; see
especially 247a (step (c)); 249c (step (b)); 253d/e (step (d)). In the Philebus, we find
indications of all steps except perhaps (/); steps (a) to (d) are especially emphasized in 59a-
c.

(3) In the Timaeus, all the steps mentioned by Aristotle are indicated, with the possible
exception of (c), which is alluded to only indirectly in the introductory recapitulation of the
contents of the Republic, and in 29d. Step (e) is, as it were, alluded to throughout, since
'Timaeus' is a 'western' philosopher and strongly influenced by Pythagoreanism. The other
steps occur twice in a form almost completely parallel to Aristotle's account; first briefly in
28a-29d, and later, with more elaboration, in 48e-55c. Immediately after (a), i.e. a
Heraclitean description (49a ff.; cp. Comford, Plato's Cosmology, 178) of the world in flux,
the argument (b) is raised (51c-e) that if we are right in distinguishing between reason (or
true knowledge) and mere opinion, we must admit the existence of the unchangeable Forms;
these are (in 51e f) introduced next in accordance with step (d). The Heraclitean flux then
comes again (as labouring space), but this time it is explained, as a consequence of the act of
generation. And as a next step (f) appears, in 53c. (I suppose that the 'lines and planes and
solids' mentioned by Aristotle in Metaphysics, 992b 13, refer to 53c ff.)

(4) It seems that this parallelism between the Timaeus and Aristotle's report has not been
sufficiently emphasized so far; at least, it is not used by G. C. Field in his excellent and
convincing analysis of Aristotle's report (Plato and His Contemporaries, 202 ff.). But it
would have strengthened Field's arguments (arguments, however, which hardly need

strengthening, since they are practically conclusive) against Burnet's and Taylor's views that
the Theory of Ideas is Socratic (cp. note 56 to chapter 10). For in the Timaeus, Plato does not
put this theory into the mouth of Socrates, a fact which according to Burnet's and Taylor's
principles should prove that it was not Socrates' theory. (They avoid this inference by
claiming that 'Timaeus' is a Pythagorean, and that he develops not Plato's philosophy but
his own. But Aristotle knew Plato personally for twenty years and should have been able to
judge these matters; and he wrote his Metaphysics at a time when members of the Academy
could have contradicted his presentation of Platonism.)

(5) Burnet writes, in Greek Philosophy, 1, 155 (cp. also p. xliv of his edition of the Phaedo,
1911): 'the theory of forms in the sense in which it is maintained in the Phaedo and
Republic is wholly absent from what we may fairly regard the most distinctively Platonic of
the dialogues, those, namely, in which Socrates is no longer the chief speaker. In that sense
it is never even mentioned in any dialogue later than the Parmenides ... with the single
exception of the Timaeus (51c), where the speaker is a Pythagorean.' But if it is maintained
in the Timaeus in the sense in which it is maintained in the Republic, then it is certainly so
maintained in the Sophist, 257d/e; and in the Statesman, 269c/d; 286a; 297b/c, and c/d;
301a and e; 302e; and 303b; and in the Philebus, 15a f , and 59a-d; and in the Laws, 713b,
739d/e, 962c f, 963c ff., and, most important, 965c {c^. Philebus, 16d), 965d, and 966a;
see also the next note. (Burnet believes in the genuineness of the Letters, especially the
Seventh; but the theory of Ideas is maintained there in 342a ff.; see also note 56 (5, d) to
chapter 10.)

27 . Cp. Laws, 895d-e. I do not agree with England's note (in his edition of the Laws, vol. II,
472) that 'the word "essence" will not help us'. True, if we meant by 'essence' some
important sensible part of the sensible thing (which might perhaps be purified and produced
by some distillation), then 'essence' would be misleading. But the word 'essential' is widely
used in a way which corresponds very well indeed with what we wish to express here;
something opposed to the accidental or unimportant or changing empirical aspect of the
thing, whether it is conceived as dwelling in that thing, or in a metaphysical world of Ideas.
I am using the term 'essentialism' in opposition to 'nominalism', in order to avoid, and to
replace, the misleading traditional term 'realism', wherever it is opposed (not to 'idealism'

but) to 'nominalism'. (See also note 26 ff. to chapter 11, and text, and especially note 38.)
On Plato's application of his essentialist method, for instance, as mentioned in the text, to the
theory of the soul, sqqLuws, 895e f, quoted in note 15 (8) to this chapter, and chapter 5,
especially note 23. See also, for instance, Meno, 86d/e, and Symposium, 199c/d.

28 . On the theory of causal explanation, cp. my The Logic of Scientific Discovery, especially
section 12, pp. 59 ff. See also note 6 to chapter 25, below.

29 . The theory of language here indicated is that of Semantics, as developed especially by A.
Tarski and R. Carnap. Cp. Carnap, Introduction to Semantics, 1942, and note 23 to chapter
8.

30 . The theory that while the physical sciences are based on a methodological nominalism, the
social sciences must adopt essentiahst ('reahstic') methods, has been made clear to me by K.
Polanyi (in 1925); he pointed out, at that time, that a reform of the methodology of the social
sciences might conceivably be achieved by abandoning this theory. — The theory is held, to
some extent, by most sociologists, especially by J. S. Mill (for instance. Logic, VI, ch. VI, 2;
see also his historicist formulations, e.g. in VI, ch. X, 2, last paragraph: 'The fundamental
problem ... of the social science is to find the laws according to which any state of society
produces the state which succeeds it ...'), K. Marx (see below); M. Weber (cp., for example,
his definitions in the beginning of Methodische Grundlagen der Soziologie, in Wirtschaft
und Gesellschaft, I, and in Ges. Aufsaetze zur Wissenschaftslehre), G. Simmel, A. Vierkandt,
R. M. Maclver, and many more. — The philosophical expression of all these tendencies is E.
Husserl's 'Phaenomenology', a systematic revival of the methodological essentialism of
Plato and Aristotle. (See also chapter 1 1 . especially note 44.)

The opposite, the nominalist attitude in sociology, can be developed, I think, only as a
technological theory of social institutions.

In this context, I may mention how I came to trace historicism back to Plato and Heraclitus.
In analysing historicism, I found that it needs what I call now methodological essentialism;
i.e. I saw that the typical arguments in favour of essentialism are bound up with historicism
(cp. my The Poverty of Historicism). This led me to consider the history of essentialism. I
was struck by the parallelism between Aristotle's report and the analysis which I had carried

out originally without any reference to Platonism. In this way, I was reminded of the roles of
both Heraclitus and Plato in this development.

31 . R. H. S. Grossman's Plato To-day (1937) was the first book (apart from G. Grote's Plato) I
have found to contain a political interpretation of Plato which is partly similar to my own.
See also notes 2-3 to chapter 6, and text. * Since then I have found that similar views of
Plato have been expressed by various authors. C. M. Bowra {Ancient Greek Literature,
1933) is perhaps the first; his brief but thorough criticism of Plato (pp. 186-90) is as fair as it
is penetrating. The others are W. Fite ( The Platonic Legend, 1934); B. Farrington {Science
and Politics in the Ancient World, 1939); A. D. Winspear {The Genesis of Plato's Thought,
1940); and H. Kelsen {Platonic Justice, 1933; now in What is Justice!, 1957, and Platonic
Love, in The American Imago, vol. 3, 1942).*

Notes to Chapter Four

1. Cp. Republic, 608e. See also note 2 (2) to this chapter.

2. In the Laws, the soul — 'the most ancient and divine of all things in motion' (966e) — is
described as the 'starting point of all motion' (895b). (1) With the Platonic theory, Aristotle
contrasts his own, according to which the 'good' thing is not the starting point, but rather the
end or aim of change since 'good' means a thing aimed at — the final cause of change. Thus
he says of the Platonists, i.e. of 'those who believe in Forms', that they agree with
Empedocles (they speak 'in the same way' as Empedocles) in so far as they 'do not speak as
if anything came to pass for the sake of these' (i.e. of things which are 'good') 'but as if all
movement started from them'. And he points out that 'good' means therefore to the
Platonists not 'a cause qua good', i.e. an aim, but that 'it is only incidentally a good'. Cp.
Metaphysics, 988a35 and b8 ff. and 1075a, 34/35. This criticism sounds as if Aristotle had
sometimes held views similar to those of Speusippus, which is indeed Zeller's opinion; see
note 1 1 to chapter 1 1 .

(2) Concerning the movement towards corruption, mentioned in the text in this paragraph,
and its general significance in the Platonic philosophy, we must keep in mind the general
opposition between the world of unchanging things or Ideas, and the world of sensible
things in flux. Plato often expresses this opposition as one between the world of unchanging
things and the world of corruptible things, or between things that are ungenerated, and
those that are generated and are doomed to degenerate, etc.; see, for instance. Republic,
485a/b, quoted in note 26(1) to chapter 3 and in text to note 33 to chapter Republic,
508d-e; 527a/b; and Republic, 546a, quoted in text to note 37 to chapter 5: 'All things that
have been generated must degenerate' (or decay). That this problem of the generation and
corruption of the world of things in flux was an important part of the Platonic School
tradition is indicated by the fact that Aristotle devoted a separate treatise to this problem.
Another interesting indication is the way in which Aristotle talked about these matters in the
introduction to his Politics, contained in the concluding sentences of the Nicomachean
Ethics (11 8 lb/1 5): 'We shall try to ... find what it is that preserves or corrupts the cities ...'

This passage is significant not only as a general formulation of what Aristotle considered the
main problem of his Politics, but also because of its striking similarity to an important
passage in the Laws, viz. 676a, and 676b/c quoted below in text to notes 6 and 25 to this
chapter. (See also notes 1,3, and 24/25 to this chapter; see note 32 to chapter 8, and the
passage from the Laws quoted in note 59 to chapter 8.)

3. This quotation is from the Statesman, 269d. (See also note 23 to this chapter.) For the
hierarchy of motions, SQQLaws, 893c-895b. For the theory that perfect things (divine
'natures'; cp. the next chapter) can only become less perfect when they change, see
QS^Qc'mWy Republic, 380e-381c — in many ways (note the examples in 380e) a parallel
passage to Laws, 1916.. The quotations from Aristotle are from the Metaphysics, 988b3, and
fxomDe Gen. et Corn , 335bl4. The last four quotations in this paragraph are from Plato's
Laws, 904c f , and 797d. See also note 24 to this chapter, and text. (It is possible to interpret
the remark about the evil objects as another allusion to a cyclic development, as discussed in
note 6 to chapter 2, i.e. as an allusion to the belief that the trend of the development must
reverse, and that things must begin to improve, once the world has reached the lowest depth
of evilness.

* Since my interpretation of the Platonic theory of change and of the passages from the Laws
has been challenged, I wish to add some further comments, especially on the two passages
(1) Laws, 904c, f, and (2) 797d.

(1) The passage Laws, 904c, 'the less significant is the beginning decline in their level of
rank' may be translated more literally 'the less significant is the beginning movement down
in the level of rank'. It seems to me certain, from the context, that 'down the level of rank' is
meant rather than 'as to level of rank', which clearly is also a possible translation. (My
reason is not only the whole dramatic context, down from 904a, but also more especially the
series 'kata ... kata ... kato-' which, in a passage of gathering momentum, must colour the
meaning of at least the second 'kata\ — Concerning the word I translate by 'level', this may,
admittedly, mean not only 'plane' but also 'surface'; and the word I translate by 'rank' may
mean 'space'; yet Bury's translation: 'the smaller the change of character, the less is the
movement over surface in space' does not seem to me to yield much meaning in this

context.)

(2) The continuation of this passage (Laws, 798) is most characteristic. It demands that 'the
lawgiver must contrive, by whatever means at his disposal ['by hook or by crook', as Bury
well translates], a method which ensures for his state that the whole soul of every one of its
citizens will, from reverence and fear, resist any change of any of the things that are
established of old'. (Plato includes, explicitly, things which other lawgivers consider 'mere
matters of play' — such, as, for example, changes in the games of children.)

(3) In general, the main evidence for my interpretation of Plato's theory of change — apart
from a great number of minor passages referred to in the various notes in this chapter and
the preceding one — is of course found in the historical or evolutionary passages of all the
dialogues which contain such passages, especially the Republic (the decline and fall of the
state from its near-perfect or Golden Age in Books VIII and IX), the Statesman (the theory
of the Golden Age and its decline), the Laws (the story of the primitive patriarchy and of the
Dorian conquest, and the story of the decline and fall of the Persian Empire), the Timaeus
(the story of evolution by degeneration, which occurs twice, and the story of the Golden
Age of Athens, which is continued in the Critias).

To this evidence Plato's frequent references to Hesiod must be added, and the undoubted
fact that Plato's synthetic mind was not less keen than that of Empedocles (whose period of
strife is the one ruling now; cp. Aristotle, De Gen. et Corn , 334a, b) in conceiving human
affairs in a cosmic setting {Statesman, Timaeus).

(4) Ultimately, I may perhaps refer to general psychological considerations. On the one hand
the fear of innovation (illustrated by many passages in the Laws, e.g. 758c/d) and, on the
other hand, the idealization of the past (such as found in Hesiod or in the story of the lost
paradise) are frequent and striking phenomena. It is perhaps not too far-fetched to connect
the latter, or even both, with the idealization of one's childhood — one's home, one's parents,
and with the nostalgic wish to return to these early stages of one's life, to one's origin. There
are many passages in Plato in which he takes it for granted that the original state of affairs,
or original nature, is a state of blessedness. I refer only to the speech of Aristophanes in the
Symposium; here it is taken for granted that the urge and the suffering of passionate love is
sufficiently explained if it is shown that it derives from this nostalgia, and similarly, that the

feelings of sexual gratification can be explained as those of a gratified nostalgia. Thus Plato
says of Eros {Symposium, 193d): 'He will restore us to our original nature (see also 191d)
and heal us and make us happy and blessed.' The same thought underlies many remarks
such as the following from the Philebus (16c): 'The men of old ... were better than we are
now, and . . . lived nearer to the gods . . . ' All this indicates the view that our unhappy and
unblessed state is a consequence of the development which makes us different from our
original nature — our Idea; and it further indicates that the development is one from a state of
goodness and blessedness to a state where goodness and blessedness are being lost; but this
means that the development is one of increasing corruption. Plato's theory of
anamnesisMthQ theory that all knowledge is re-cognition or re-collection of the knowledge
we had in our pre-natal past is part of the same view: in the past there resides not only the
good, the noble, and the beautiful, but also all wisdom. Even the ancient change or motion is
better than secondary motion; for in the Laws the soul is said to be (895b) 'the starting point
of all motions the first to arise in things at rest ... the most ancient and potent motion', and
(966c) 'the most ancient and divine of all things'. (Cp. note 15 (8) to chapter 3.)
As pointed out before (cp. especially note 6 to chapter 3), the doctrine of an historical and
cosmic tendency towards decay appears to be combined, in Plato, with a doctrine of an
historical and cosmic cycle. (The period of decay, probably, is a part of this cycle.)*

4. Cp. Timaeus, 91d-92b/c. See also note 6 (7) to chapter 3 and note 1 1 to chapter 11.

5. See the beginning of chapter 2 above, and note 6 (1) to chapter 3. It is not a mere accident
that Plato mentions Hesiod's story of 'metals' when discussing his own theory of historical
decay (Rep., 546e/547a, esp. notes 39 and 40 to chapter 5); he clearly wishes to indicate
how well his theory fits in with, and explains, that of Hesiod.

6. The historical part of the Laws is in Books Three and Four (see note 6(5) and (8) to chapter
3). The two quotations in the text are from the beginning of this part, i.e. Laws, 676a. For the
parallel passages mentioned, sqq Republic, 369b, f. ('The birth of a city ...') and 545d
('How will our city be changed ...').

It is often said that the Laws (and the Statesman) are less hostile towards democracy than the
Republic, and it must be admitted that Plato's general tone is in fact less hostile (this is

perhaps due to the increasing inner strength of democracy; see chapter 10 and the beginning
of chapter 11). But the only practical concession made to democracy in the Laws is that
political officers are to be elected, by the members of the ruling (i.e. the military) class; and
since all important changes in the laws of the state are forbidden anyway (cp., for instance,
the quotations in note 3 of this chapter), this does not mean very much. The fundamental
tendency remains pro-Spartan, and this tendency was, as can be seen from Aristotle's
Politics, 11, 6, 17 (1265b), compatible with a so-called 'mixed' constitution. In fact, Plato in
the Laws is, if anything, more hostile towards the spirit of democracy, i.e. towards the idea
of the freedom of the individual, than he is in the Republic; cp. especially the text to notes
32 and 33 to chapter 6 (i.e. Laws, 739c, ff., and 942a, f ) and to notes 19-22 to chapter 8
(i.e. Laws, 903c-909a). — See also next note.

7. It seems likely that it was largely this difficulty of explaining the first change (or the Fall of
Man) that led Plato to transform his theory of Ideas, as mentioned in note 15 (8) to chapter 3;
viz., to transform the Ideas into causes and active powers, capable of mingling with some of
the other Ideas (cp. Sophist, 252e, ff.), and of rejecting the remaining ones {Sophist, lllic),
and thus to transform them into something like gods, as opposed to the Republic which (cp.
380d) petrifies even the gods into unmoving and unmoved Parmenidean beings. An
important turning point is, apparently, the Sophist, 248e-249c (note especially that here the
Idea of motion is not at rest). The transformation seems to solve at the same time the
difficulty of the so-called 'third man'; for if the Forms are, as in the Timaeus, fathers, then
there is no 'third man' necessary to explain their similarity to their offspring.
Regarding the relation of the Republic to the Statesman and to the Laws, I think that Plato's
attempt in the two latter dialogues to trace the origin of human society further and further
back is likewise connected with the difficulties inherent in the problem of the first change.
That it is difficult to conceive of a change overtaking a perfect city is clearly stated in
Republic, 546a; Plato's attempt in the Republic to solve it will be discussed in the next
chapter (cp. text to notes 37-40 to chapter 5). In the Statesman, Plato adopts the theory of a
cosmic catastrophe which leads to the change from the (Empedoclean) half-circle of love to
the present period, the half-circle of strife. This idea seems to have been dropped in the
Timaeus, in order to be replaced by a theory (retained in the Laws) of more limited

catastrophes, such as floods, which may destroy civilizations, but apparently do not affect
the course of the universe. (It is possible that this solution of the problem was suggested to
Plato by the fact that in 373-372 B.C., the ancient city of Helice was destroyed by
earthquake and flood.) The earliest form of society, removed in the Republic only by one
single step from the still existing Spartan state, is thrust back to a more and more distant past.
Although Plato continues to believe that the first settlement must be the best city, he now
discusses societies prior to the first settlement, i.e. nomad societies, 'hill shepherds'. (Cp.
especially note 32 to this chapter.)

8. The quotation is from Marx-Engels, The Communist Manifesto; cp. A Handbook of Marxism
(edited by E. Burns, 1935), 22.

9. The quotation is from Adam's comments on Book VIII of the Republic; see his edition, vol.
II, 198, noteto 544a3.

10. Cp. Republic, 544c.

1 1 . (1) As opposed to my contention that Plato, like many modern sociologists since Comte,
tries to outline the typical stages of social development, most critics take Plato's story merely
as a somewhat dramatic presentation of a purely logical classification of constitutions. But
this not only contradicts what Plato says (cp. Adam's note to Rep., 544c 19, op. cit, vol. II,
199), but it is also against the whole spirit of Plato's logic, according to which the essence of
a thing is to be understood by its original nature, i.e. by its historical origin. And we must
not forget that he uses the same word, 'genus', to mean a class in the logical sense and a
race in the biological sense. The logical 'genus' is still identical with the 'race', in the sense
of 'offspring of the same parent'. (With this, cp. notes 15-20 to chapter 3, and text, as well
as notes 23-24 to chapter 5, and text, where the Qqwdiiion nature = origin =race is
discussed.) Accordingly, there is every reason for taking what Plato says at its face value; for
even if Adam were right when he says {loc. cit.) that Plato intends to give a 'logical order',
this order would for him be at the same time that of a typical historical development. Adam's
remark {loc. cit.) that the order 'is primarily determined by psychological and not by
historical considerations' turns, I believe, against him. For he himself points out (for
instance, op. cit, vol. II, 195, note to 543a, ff.) that Plato 'retains throughout ... the analogy

between the Soul and the City'. According to Plato's political theory of the soul (which will
be discussed in the next chapter), the psychological history must run parallel to the social
history, and the alleged opposition between psychological and historical considerations
disappears, turning into another argument in favour of our interpretation.

(2) Exactly the same reply could be made if somebody should argue that Plato's order of the
constitution is, fundamentally, not a logical but an ethical one; for the ethical order (and the
aesthetic order as well) is, in Plato's philosophy, indistinguishable from the historical order.
In this connection, it may be remarked that this historicist view provides Plato with a
theoretical background for Socrates' eudemonism, i.e. for the theory that goodness and
happiness are identical. This theory is developed, in the Republic (cp. especially 580b), in
the form of the doctrine that goodness and happiness, or badness and unhappiness, are
proportional; and so they must be, if the degree of the goodness as well as of the happiness
of a man is to be measured by the degree in which he resembles our original blessed nature
— the perfect Idea of man. (The fact that Plato's theory leads, in this point, to a theoretical
justification of an apparently paradoxical Socratic doctrine may well have helped Plato to
convince himself that he was only expounding the true Socratic creed; see text to notes
56/57 to chapter 10.)

(3) Rousseau took over Plato's classification of institutions {Social Contract, Book II, ch.
VII, Book III, ch. Ill ff., cp. also ch. X). It seems however that he was not directly
influenced by Plato when he revived the Platonic Idea of a primitive society (cp., however,
notes 1 to chapter 6 and 14 to chapter 9); but a direct product of the Platonic Renaissance in
Italy was Sanazzaro's most miiuQntidiX Arcadia, with its revival of Plato's idea of a blessed
primitive society of Greek (Dorian) hill shepherds. (For this idea of Plato's, cp. text to note
32 to this chapter.) Thus Romanticism (cp. also chapter 9) is historically indeed an offspring
of Platonism.

(4) How far the modem historicism of Comte and Mill, and of Hegel and Marx, is influenced
by the theistic historicism of Giambattista Vico's New Science (1725) is very hard to say:
Vico himself was undoubtedly influenced by Plato, as well as by St. Augustine's De Civitate
Dei and Machiavelh's Discourses on Livy. Like Plato (cp. ch. 5), Vico identified the 'nature'
of a thing with its 'origin' (cp. Opere, Ferrari's second edn, 1852-4, vol. V, p. 99); and he

believed that all nations must pass through the same course of development, according to
one universal law. His 'nations' (like Hegel's) may thus be said to be one of the links
between Plato's 'Cities' and Toynbee's 'Civilizations'.

12 . Cp. Republic, 549c/d; the next quotations are op. cit., 550d-e, and later, op. cit., 551a/b.

13 . Cp. op. cit., 556e. (This passage should be compared with Thucydides, III, 82-4, quoted in
chapter 10, text to note 12.) The next quotation is op. cit., 557a.

14 . For Pericles' democratic programme, see text to note 31, chapter 10, note 17 to chapter 6,
and note 34 to chapter 10.

15 . Adam, in his edition of The Republic of Plato, vol. II, 240, note to 559d22. (The italics in
the second quotation are mine.) Adam admits that 'the picture is doubtless somewhat
exaggerated'; but he leaves little doubt that he thinks it is, fundamentally, true 'for all time'.

16 . Adam, loc. cit.

17 . This quotation is from Republic, 560d (for this and the next quotation, cp. Lindsay's
translation); the next two quotations are from the same work, 563 a-b, and d. (See also
Adam's note to 563d25.) It is significant that Plato appeals here to the institution of private
property, severely attacked in other parts of the Republic, as if it were an unchallenged
principle of justice. It seems that when the property bought is a slave, an appeal to the lawful
right of the buyer is adequate.

Another attack upon democracy is that 'it tramples under foot' the educational principle that
'no one can grow up to be a good man unless his earliest years were given to noble games'.
{Rep., 558b; see Lindsay's translation; cp. note 68 to chapter 10.) See also the attacks upon
equalitarianism quoted in note 14 to chapter 6.

* For Socrates' attitude towards his young companions see most of the earlier dialogues, but
also the Phaedo, where Socrates' 'pleasant, kind, and respectful manner in which he listened
to the young man's criticism' is described. For Plato's contrasting attitude, see text to notes
19-21 to chapter 7; see also the excellent lectures by H. Cherniss, The Riddle of the Early
Academy (1945), especially pp. 70 and 79 (on the Parmenides 135c-d), and cp. notes 18-
21 to chapter 7, and text.

18 . Slavery (see the preceding note) and the Athenian movement against it will be further
discussed in chapters 5 (notes 13 and text), 10, and 11; see also note 29 to the present
chapter. Like Plato, Aristotle (e.g. in Pol, 1313bll, 1319b20; and in his Constitution oj
Athens, 59, 5) testifies to Athens' liberality towards slaves; and so does the Pseudo-
Xenophon (cp. his Const, of Athens, I, 10 f.)

19. Cp. Republic, 577a, f.; see Adam's notes to 577a5 and bl2 {op. cit., vol. II, 332 f.). See
now also the Addendum III (Reply to a Critic), especially pp. 330 f.

20. Republic, 566e; cp. note 63 to chapter 10.

21 . Cp. Statesman {Politicus), 301c/d. Although Plato distinguishes six types of debased states,
he does not introduce any new terms; the names 'monarchy' (or 'kingship') and
'aristocracy' are used in the Republic (445d) of the best state itself, and not of the relatively
best forms of debased states, as in the Statesman.

22. Cp. Republic, 544d.

23 . Cp. Statesman, 297c/d: 'If the government I have mentioned is the only true original, then
the others' (which are 'only copies of this'; cp. 297b/c) 'must use its laws, and write them
down; this is the only way in which they can be preserved'. (Cp. note 3 to this chapter, and
note 18 to chapter 7.) 'And any violation of the laws should be punished with death, and the
most severe punishments; and this is very just and good, although, of course, only the
second best thing.' (For the origin of the laws, cp. note 32 (1, a) to this chapter, and note 17
(2) to chapter 3.) And in 300e/301a, f , we read: 'The nearest approach of these lower forms
of government to the true government ... is to follow these written laws and customs ...
When the rich rule and imitate the true Form, then the government is called aristocracy; and
when they do not heed the (ancient) laws oligarchy,' etc. It is important to note that not
lawfulness or lawlessness in the abstract, but the preservation of the ancient institutions of
the original or perfect state is the criterion of the classification. (This is in contrast to
Aristotle's Politics, 1292a, where the main distinction is whether or not 'the law is supreme',
or, for instance, the mob.)

24 . The passage. Laws, 709e-714a, contains several allusions to Statesman; for instance.

710d-e, which introduces, following Herodotus III, 80-82, the number of rulers as the
principle of classification; the enumerations of the forms of government in 712c and d; and
713b, ff., i.e. the myth of the perfect state in the day of Cronos, 'of which the best of our
present states are imitations'. In view of these allusions, I little doubt that Plato intended his
theory of the fitness of tyranny for Utopian experiments to be understood as a kind of
continuation of the story of the Statesman (and thus also of the Republic). — The quotations
in this paragraph are from the Laws, 709e, and 710c/d; the 'remark from the Laws quoted
above' is 797d, quoted in the text to note 3, in this chapter. (I agree with E. B. England's
note to this passage, in his edition of The Laws of Plato, 1921, vol. II, 258, that it is Plato's
principle that 'change is detrimental to the power ... of anything', and therefore also to the
power of evil; but I do not agree with him 'that change from bad', viz., to good, is too self-
evident to be mentioned as an exception; it is not self-evident from the point of view of
Plato's doctrine of the evil nature of change. See also next note.)

25 . Cp. Laws, 676b/c (cp. 676a quoted in the text to note 6). In spite of Plato's doctrine that
'change is detrimental' (cp. the end of the last note), E. B. England interprets these passages
on change and revolution by giving them an optimistic or progressive meaning. He suggests
that the object of Plato's search is what 'we might call "the secret of political vitality'". (Cp.
op. cit., vol. I, 344.) And he interprets this passage on the search for the true cause of
(detrimental) change as dealing with a search for 'the cause and nature of the true
development of a state, i.e. of its progress towards perfection '. (Italics his; cp. vol. I, 345.)
This interpretation cannot be correct, for the passage in question is an introduction to a story
of political decline; but it shows how much the tendency to idealize Plato and to represent
him as a progressivist blinds even such an excellent critic to his own finding, namely, that
Plato believed change to be detrimental.

26 . Cp. Republic, 545d (see also the parallel passage 465b). The next quotation is from the
Laws, 683e. (Adam in his edition of the Republic, vol. II, 203, note to 545d21, refers to this
passage in th^Laws.) England, in his edition of t\\QLaws, vol. I, 360 f, note to 683e5,
mentions Republic, 609a, but neither 545d nor 465b, and supposes that the reference is 'to a
previous discussion, or one recorded in a lost dialogue'. I do not see why Plato should not

be alluding to the Republic, by using the fiction that some of its topics have been discussed
by the present interlocutors. As Cornford says, in Plato's last group of dialogues there is 'no
motive to keep up the illusion that the conversations had really taken place'; and he is also
right when he says that Plato 'was not the slave of his own fictions'. (Cp. Cornford, Plato 's
Cosmology, pp. 5 and 4.) Plato's law of revolutions was rediscovered, without reference to
Plato, by V. Pareto; cp. his Treatise on General Sociology, §§ 2054, 2057, 2058. (At the end
of § 2055, there is also a theory of arresting history.) Rousseau also rediscovered the law.
{Social Contract, Book III, ch. X.)

27 . (1) It may be worth noting that the intentionally non-historical traits of the best state,
especially the rule of the philosophers, are not mentioned by Plato in the summary at the
beginning of the Timaeus, and that in Book VIII of the Republic he assumes that the rulers
of the best state are not versed in Pythagorean number-mysticism; cp. Republic, 546c/d,
where the rulers are said to be ignorant of these matters. (Cp. also the remark, i^ep. ,
543d/544a, according to which the best state of Book VIII can still be surpassed, namely, as
Adam says, by the city of Books V-VII — the ideal city in heaven.)

In his book, Plato 's Cosmology, pp. 6 ff, Cornford reconstructs the outlines and contents of
Plato's unfinished trilogy, Timaeus — Critias — Hermocrates, and shows how they are related
to the historical parts of the Laws (Book III). This reconstruction is, I think, a valuable
corroboration of my theory that Plato's view of the world was fundamentally historical, and
that his interest in 'how it generated' (and how it decays) is linked with his theory of Ideas,
and indeed based on it. But if that is so, then there is no reason why we should assume that
the later books of the Republic 'started from the question how it' (i.e. the city) 'might be
realized in the future and sketched its possible decline through lower forms of politics'
(Cornford, op. cit, 6; italics mine); instead we should look upon the Books VIII and IX of
thQ Republic, in view of their close parallelism with the Third Book of \hQ Laws, as a
simplified historical sketch of the actual decline of the ideal city of the past, and as an
explanation of the origin of the existing states, analogous to the greater task set by Plato for
himself in the Timaeus, in the unfinished trilogy, and in the Laws.

(2) In connection with my remark, later in the paragraph, that Plato 'certainly knew that he
did not possess the necessary data', see for instance Z^m, 683d, and England's note to

683d2.

(3) To my remark, further down in the paragraph, that Plato recognized the Cretan and
Spartan societies as petrified or arrested forms (and to the remark in the next paragraph that
Plato's best state is not only a class state but a caste state) the following may be added. (Cp.
also note 20 to this chapter, and 24 to chapter 10.)

InLaws, 797d (in the introduction to the 'important pronouncement', as England calls it,
quoted in the text to note 3 to this chapter), Plato makes it perfectly clear that his Cretan and
Spartan interlocutors are aware of the 'arrested' character of their social institutions; Clenias,
the Cretan interlocutor, emphasizes that he is anxious to listen to any defence of the archaic
character of a state. A little later (799a), and in the same context, a direct reference is made
to the Egyptian method of arresting the development of institutions; surely a clear indication
that Plato recognized a tendency in Crete and Sparta parallel to that of Egypt, namely, to
arrest all social change.

In this context, a passage in the Timaeus (see especially 24a-b) seems important. In this
passage, Plato tries to show {a) that a class division very similar to that of the Republic was
established in Athens at a very ancient period of its pre-historical development, and {b) that
these institutions were closely akin to the caste system of Egypt (whose arrested caste
institutions he assumes to have derived from his ancient Athenian state). Thus Plato himself
acknowledges by implication that the ideal ancient and perfect state of the Republic is a
caste state. It is interesting that Crantor, first commentator on the Timaeus, reports, only two
generations after Plato, that Plato had been accused of deserting the Athenian tradition, and
of becoming a disciple of the Egyptians. (Cp. Gomperz, Greek Thinkers, Germ, ed., II, 476.)
Crantor alludes perhaps to Isocrates' Busiris, 8, quoted in note 3 to chapter 13.
For the problem of the castes in the Republic, see furthermore notes 3 1 and 32 (I, d) to this
chapter, note 40 to chapter 6, and notes 11-14 to chapter 8. A. E. Taylor, Plato: The Man
and His Work, p. 269 f , forcefully denounces the view that Plato favoured a caste state.

28. Cp. Republic, 416a. The problem is considered more fully in this chapter, text to note 35.
(For the problem of caste, mentioned in the next paragraph, see notes 27 (3) and 31 to this
chapter.)

29. For Plato's advice against legislating for the common people with their 'vulgar market
quarrels', etc., see Republic, 425b-427a/b; especially 425d-e and 427a. These passages, of
course, attack Athenian democracy, and all 'piecemeal' legislation in the sense of chapter 9.
*That this is so is also seen by Cornford, The Republic of Plato (1941); for he writes, in a
note to a passage in which Plato recommends Utopian engineering (it is Republic 500d, f.,
the recommendation of 'canvas-cleaning' and of a romantic radicalism; cp. note 12 to
chapter 9, and text): 'Contrast the piecemeal tinkering at reform satirized at 425e ...'.
Cornford does not seem to like piecemeal reforms, and he seems to prefer Plato's methods;
but his and my interpretation of Plato's intentions seem to coincide.*

The four quotations further down in this paragraph are from \hQ Republic, 371d/e; 463a-b
('supporters' and 'employers'); 549a; and 471b/c. Adam comments {op. cit., vol. I, 97, note
to 371e32): 'Plato does not admit slave labour in his city, unless perhaps in the persons of
barbarians.' I agree that Plato opposes in the Republic (469b-470c) the enslavement of
Greek prisoners of war; but he goes on (in 471b-c) to encourage that of barbarians by
Greeks, and especially by the citizens of his best city. (This appears to be also the opinion of
Tarn; cp. note 13(2) to chapter 15.) And Plato violently attacked the Athenian movement
against slavery, and insisted on the legal rights of property when the property was a slave
(cp. text to notes 17 and 18 to this chapter). As is shown also by the third quotation (from
Rep., 548e/549a) in the paragraph to which this note is appended, he did not aboHsh slavery
in his best city. (See also Rep., 590c/d, where he defends the demand that the coarse and
vulgar should be the slaves of the best man.) A. E. Taylor is therefore wrong when he twice
asserts (in his Plato, 1908 and 1914, pp. 197 and 118) that Plato implies 'that there is no
class of slaves in the community'. For similar views in Taylor's Plato: The Man and His
Work (1926), cp. end of note 27 to this chapter.

Plato's treatment of slavery in the Statesman throws, I think, much light on his attitude in the
Republic. For here, too, he does not speak much about slaves, although he clearly assumes
that there are slaves in his state. (See his characteristic remark, 289b/c, that 'all property in
tame animals, except slaves' has been already dealt with; and a similarly characteristic
remark, 309a, that true kingscraft 'makes slaves of those who wallow in ignorance and
abject humility'. The reason why Plato does not say very much about the slaves is quite

clear from 289c, ff., especially 289d/e. He does not see a major distinction between 'slaves
and other servants', such as labourers, tradesmen, merchants (i.e. all 'banausic' persons who
earn money; cp. note 4 to chapter 11); slaves are distinguished from the others merely as
'servants acquired by purchase'. In other words, he is so high above the baseborn that it is
hardly worth his while to bother about subtle differences. All this is very similar to the
Republic, only a little more explicit. (See also note 57 (2) to chapter 8.)
For Plato's treatment of slavery in the Laws, see especially G. R. Morrow, 'Plato and Greek
Slavery' {Mind, N.S., vol. 48, 186-201; see also p. 402), an article which gives an excellent
and critical survey of the subject, and reaches a very just conclusion, although the author is,
in my opinion, still a little biased in favour of Plato. (The article does not perhaps sufficiently
stress the fact that in Plato's day an anti-slavery movement was well on the way; cp. note 13
to chapter 5.)

30 . The quotation is from Plato's summary of the Republic in the Timaeus (18c/d). — With the
remark concerning the lack of novelty of the suggested community of women and children,
compare Adam's edition of The Republic of Plato, vol. I, p. 292 (note to 457b, ff.) and p.
308 (note to 463c 17), as well as pp. 345-55, esp. 354; with the Pythagorean element in
Plato's communism, cp. op. cit., p. 199, note to 416d22. (For the precious metals, see note
24 to chapter 10. For the common meals, see note 34 to chapter 6; and for the communist
principle in Plato and his successors, note 29 (2) to chapter 5, and the passages mentioned
there.)

31 . The passage quoted is from Republic, 434b/c. In demanding a caste state, Plato hesitates for
a long time. This is quite apart from the 'lengthy preface' to the passage in question (which
will be discussed in chapter 6; cp. notes 24 and 40 to that chapter); for when first speaking
about these matters, in 415a, ff, he speaks as though a rise from the lower to the upper
classes were permissible, provided that in the lower classes 'children were bom with an
admixture of gold and silver' (415c), i.e. of upper class blood and virtue. But in 434b-d,
and, even more clearly, in 547a, this permission is, in effect, withdrawn; and in 547a any
admixture of the metals is declared an impurity which must be fatal to the state. See also text
to notes 1 1-14 to chapter 8 (and note 27 (3) to the present chapter).

32 . Cp. the Statesman, 27 le. The passages in the Laws about the primitive nomadic shepherds
and their patriarchs are 677e-680e. The passage quoted is Laws, 680e. The passage quoted
next is from the Myth of the Earthbom, Republic, 415d/e. The concluding quotation of the
paragraph is from Republic, 440d. — It may be necessary to add some comments on certain
remarks in the paragraph to which this note is appended.

(1) It is stated in the text that it is not very clearly explained how the 'settlement' came
about. Both in the Laws and in the Republic we first hear (see {a) and (c), below) of a kind
of agreement or social contract (for the social contract, cp. note 29 to chapter 5 and notes
43-54 to chapter 6, and text), and later (see {b) and (c), below) of a forceful subjugation.
{a) In the Laws, the various tribes of hill shepherds settle in the plains after having joined
together to form larger war bands whose laws are arrived at by an agreement or contract,
made by arbiters vested with royal powers (681b and c/d; for the origin of the laws
described in 681b, cp. note 17 (2) to chapter 3). But now Plato becomes evasive. Instead of
describing how these bands settle in Greece, and how the Greek cities were founded, Plato
switches over to Homer's story of the foundation of Troy, and to the Trojan war. From there,
Plato says, the Achaeans returned under the name of Dorians, and 'the rest of the story ... is
part of Lacedaemonian history' (682e) 'for we have reached the settlement of Lacedaemon'
(682e/683a). So far we have heard nothing about the manner of this settlement, and there
follows at once a further digression (Plato himself speaks about the 'roundabout track of the
argument') until we get ultimately (in 683 c/d) the 'hint' mentioned in the text; see {b).

(b) The statement in the text that we get a hint that the Dorian 'settlement' in the
Peloponnese was in fact a violent subjugation, refers to the Laws (6 8 3 c/d), where Plato
introduces what are actually his first historical remarks on Sparta. He says that he begins at
the time when the whole of the Peloponnese was 'practically subjugated' by the Dorians. In
the Menexenus (whose genuineness can hardly be doubted; cp. note 35 to chapter 10) there
is in 245c an allusion to the fact that the Peloponnesians were 'immigrants from abroad' (as
Grote puts it: cp. his Plato, III, p. 5).

(c) In the Republic (369b) the city is founded by workers with a view to the advantages of a
division of labour and of co-operation, in accordance with the contract theory.

{d) But later {mRep., 415d/e; see the quotation in the text, to this paragraph) we get a

description of the triumphant invasion of a warrior class of somewhat mysterious origin — the
'earthbom'. The decisive passage of this description states that the earthbom must look
round to find for their camp the most suitable spot (literally) 'for keeping down those
within', i.e. for keeping down those already living in the city, i.e. for keeping down the
inhabitants.

{e) In the Statesman (271a, f.) these 'earthbom' are identified with the very early nomad hill
shepherds of the pre-settlement period. Cp. also the allusion to the autochthonous
grasshoppers in the Symposium, 191b; cp. note 6 (4) to chapter 3, and 1 1 (2) to chapter 8.
(/) To sum up, it seems that Plato had a fairly clear idea of the Dorian conquest, which he
preferred, for obvious reasons, to veil in mystery. It also seems that there was a tradition that
the conquering war hordes were of nomad descent.

(2) With the remark later in the text in this paragraph regarding Plato's 'continuous
emphasis' on the fact that ruling is shepherding, cp., for instance, the following passages:
Republic, 343b, where the idea is introduced; 345c, f , where, in the form of the simile of the
good shepherd, it becomes one of the central topics of the investigation; 375a-376b, 404a,
440d, 451b-e, 459a-460c, and 466c-d (quoted in note 30 to chapter 5), where the
auxiliaries are likened to sheep-dogs and where their breeding and education are discussed
accordingly; 416a, ff., where the problem of the wolves without and within the state is
introduced; cp. furthermore the Statesman, where the idea is continued over many pages,
especially 261d-276d. With regard to the Laws, I may refer to the passage (694e), where
Plato says of Cyrus that he had acquired for his sons 'cattle and sheep and many herds of
men and other animals'. (Cp. also Laws, 735, and Theaet, 174d.)

(3) With all this, cp. also A. J. Toynbee, A Study of History, esp. vol. Ill, pp. 32 (n. 1), where
A. H. Lybyer, The Government of the Ottoman Empire, etc., is quoted, 33 (n. 2), 50-100;
see more especially his remark on the conquering nomads (p. 22) who 'deal with ... men',
and on Plato's 'human watchdogs' (p. 94, n. 2). I have been much stimulated by Toynbee's
brilliant ideas and much encouraged by many of his remarks which I take as corroborating
my interpretations, and which I can value the more highly the more Toynbee's and my
fundamental assumptions seem to disagree. I also owe to Toynbee a number of terms used
in my text, especially 'human cattle', 'human herd' and 'human watch-dog'.

Toynbee's Study of History is, from my point of view, a model of what I call historicism; I
need not say much more to express my fundamental disagreement with it; and a number of
special points of disagreement will be discussed at various places (cp. notes 43 and 45 (2) to
this chapter, notes 7 and 8 to chapter 10, and chapter 24; also, my criticism of Toynbee in
chapter 24, and in The Poverty of Historicism, p. 110 ff.). But it contains a wealth of
interesting and stimulating ideas. Regarding Plato, Toynbee emphasizes a number of points
in which I can follow him, especially that Plato's best state is inspired by his experience of
social revolutions and by his wish to arrest all change, and that it is a kind of arrested Sparta
(which itself was also arrested). In spite of these points of agreement, there is even in the
interpretation of Plato a fundamental disagreement between Toynbee's views and my own.
Toynbee regards Plato's best state as a typical (reactionary) Utopia, while I interpret its
major part, in connection with what I consider as Plato's general theory of change, as an
attempt to reconstruct a primitive form of society. Nor do I think that Toynbee would agree
with my interpretation of Plato's story of the period prior to the settlement, and of the
settlement itself, outlined in this note and the text; for Toynbee says {op. cit., vol. Ill, 80)
that 'the Spartan society was not of nomadic origin'. Toynbee strongly emphasizes {op. cit,
III, 50 ff.) the pecuhar character of the Spartan society, which, he says, was arrested in its
development owing to a superhuman effort to keep down their 'human cattle'. But I think
that this emphasis on the pecuhar situation of Sparta makes it difficult to understand the
similarities between the institutions of Sparta and Crete which Plato found so striking {Rep.,
544c; Laws, 683a). These, I believe, can be explained only as arrested forms of very ancient
tribal institutions, which must be considerably older than the effort of the Spartans in the
second Messenian war (about 650-620 B.C.; cp. Toynbee, op. cit.. Ill, 53). Since the
conditions of the survival of these institutions were so very different in the two localities,
their similarity is a strong argument in favour of their being primitive and against an
explanation by a factor which affects only one of them.

For problems of the Dorian Settlement, see also R. Eisler m Caucasia, vol. V, 1928,
especially p. 113, note 84, where the term 'Hellenes' is translated as the 'settlers', and
'Greeks' as the 'graziers' — i.e. the cattle-breeders or nomads. The same author has shown
{Orphisch-Dionisische Mysteriengedanken, 1925, p. 58, note 2) that the idea of the God-

Shepherd is of Orphic origin. At the same place, the sheep-dogs of God {Domini Canes) are
mentioned.*

33 . The fact that education is in Plato's state a class prerogative has been overlooked by some
enthusiastic educationists who credit Plato with the idea of making education independent of
financial means; they do not see that the evil is the class prerogative as such, and that it is
comparatively unimportant whether this prerogative is based upon the possession of money
or upon any other criterion by which membership of the ruling class is determined. Cp.
notes 12 and 13 to chapter 7, and text. Concerning the carrying of arms, see Laws,
753b.

34 . Cp. Republic, 460c. (See also note 31 to this chapter.) Regarding Plato's recommendation
of infanticide, see Adam, op. cit, vol. I, p. 299, note to 460c 18, and pp. 357 ff. Although
Adam rightly insists that Plato was in favour of infanticide, and although he rejects as
'irrelevant' all attempts 'to acquit Plato of sanctioning' such a dreadful practice, he tries to
excuse Plato by pointing out 'that the practice was widely prevalent in ancient Greece'. But
it was not so in Athens. Plato chooses throughout to prefer the ancient Spartan barbarism
and racialism to the enlightenment of Pericles' Athens; and for this choice he must be held
responsible. For a hypothesis explaining the Spartan practice, see note 7 to chapter 10 (and
text); see also the cross-references given there.

The later quotations in this paragraph which favour applying the principles of animal
breeding to man are from Republic, 459b (cp. note 39 to chapter 8, and text); those on the
analogy between dogs and warriors, etc., from the Republic, 404a; 375a; 376a/b; and 376b.
See also note 40 (2) to chapter 5, and the next note here.

35 . The two quotations before the note number are both from Republic, 375b. The next
following quotation is from 416a (cp. note 28 to this chapter); the remaining ones are from
375c-e. The problem of blending opposite 'natures' (or even Forms; cp. notes 18-20 and 40
(2) to chapter 5, and text and note 39 to chapter 8) is one of Plato's favourite topics. (In the
Statesman, 283e, f , and later in Aristotle, it merges into the doctrine of the mean.)

36. The quotations are from Republic, 410c; 410d; 410e; 411e/412a and 412b.

37 . In the Laws (680b, ff.) Plato himself treats Crete with some irony because of its barbarous
ignorance of literature. This ignorance extends even to Homer, whom the Cretan interlocutor
does not know, and of whom he says: 'foreign poets are very little read by Cretans'. ('But
they are read in Sparta', rejoins the Spartan interlocutor.) For Plato's preference for Spartan
customs, see also note 34 to chapter 6, and the text to note 30 to the present chapter.

38 . For Plato's view on Sparta's treatment of the human cattle, see note 29 to this chapter.
Republic, 548e/549a, where the timocratic man is compared with Plato's brother Glaucon:
'He would be harder' (than Glaucon) 'and less musical'; the continuation of this passage is
quoted in the text to note 29. — Thucydides reports (IV, 80) the treacherous murder of the
2,000 helots; the best of the helots were selected for death by a promise of freedom. It is
almost certain that Plato knew Thucydides well, and we can be sure that he had in addition
more direct sources of information.

For Plato's views on Athens' slack treatment of slaves, see note 18 to this chapter.

39 . Considering the decidedly anti-Athenian and therefore anti-literary tendency of the
Republic, it is a little difficult to explain why so many educationists are so enthusiastic about
Plato's educational theories. I can see only three likely explanations. Either they do not
understand the Republic, in spite of its most outspoken hostility towards the then existing
Athenian literary education; or they are simply flattered by Plato's rhetorical emphasis upon
the political power of education, just as so many philosophers are, and even some musicians
(see text to note 41); or both.

It is also difficult to see how lovers of Greek art and literature can find encouragement in
Plato, who, especially in the Tenth Book of the Republic, launched a most violent attack
against all poets and tragedians, and especially against Homer (and even Hesiod). See
Republic, 600a, where Homer is put below the level of a good technician or mechanic (who
would be generally despised by Plato as banausic and depraved; cp. Rep., 495e and 590c,
and note 4 to chapter 11); Republic, 600c, where Homer is put below the level of the
Sophists Protagoras and Prodicus (see also Gomperz, Greek Thinkers, German edn, II, 401);
and Republic, 605a/b, where poets are bluntly forbidden to enter into any well-governed
city.

These clear expressions of Plato's attitude, however, are usually passed over by the
commentators, who dwell, on the other hand, on remarks like the one made by Plato in
preparing his attack on Homer ('... though love and admiration for Homer hardly allow me
to say what I have to say'; Rep., 595b). Adam comments on this (note to 595bll) by saying
that 'Plato speaks with real feeling'; but I think that Plato's remark only illustrates a method
fairly generally adopted in the Republic, namely, that of making some concession to the
reader's sentiments (cp. chapter 10, especially text to note 65) before the main attack upon
humanitarian ideas is launched.

40 . For the rigid censorship aimed at class discipline, sqq Republic, IIIq, ff., and especially
378c: 'Those who are to be the guardians of our city ought to consider it the most pernicious
crime to quarrel easily with one another.' It is interesting that Plato does not state this
political principle at once, when introducing his theory of censorship in 376e, ff., but that he
speaks first only of truth, beauty, etc. The censorship is further tightened up in 595a, ff.,
especially 605a/b (see the foregoing note, and notes 18-22 to chapter 7, and text). For the
role of censorship in the Laws, see 801c/d. — See also the next note.

For Plato's forgetfulness of his principle {Rep., 410c-412b, see note 36 to this chapter) that
music has to strengthen the gentle element in man as opposed to the fierce, see especially
399a, f , where modes of music are demanded which do not make men soft, but are 'fit for
men who are warriors'. Cp. also the next note, (2). — It must be made clear that Plato has not
'forgotten' a previously announced principle, but only that principle to which his discussion
is going to lead up.

41 . (1) For Plato's attitude towards music, especially music proper, see, for instance. Republic,
397b, ff.; 398e, ff; 400a, ff; 410b, 424b, f, 546d. Laws, 657e, ff; 673a, 700b, ff, 798d,
ff, 801d, ff, 802b, ff, 816c. His attitude is, fundamentally, that one must 'beware of
changing to a new mode of music; this endangers everything' since 'any change in the style
of music always leads to a change in the most important institutions of the whole state. So
says Damon, and I believe him.' {Rep., 424c.) Plato, as usual, follows the Spartan example.
Adam {op. cit, vol. I, p. 216, note to 424c20; italics mine; cp. also his references) says that
'the connection between musical and political changes ... was recognized universally

throughout Greece, and particularly at Sparta, where . . . Timotheus had his lyre confiscated
for adding to it four new strings'. That Sparta's procedure inspired Plato cannot be doubted;
its universal recognition throughout Greece, and especially in Periclean Athens, is most
improbable. (Cp. (2) of this note.)

(2) In the text I have called Plato's attitude towards music (cp. especially Rep., 398e, ff.)
superstitious and backward if compared with 'a more enlightened contemporary criticism'.
The criticism I have in mind is that of the anonymous writer, probably a musician of the fifth
(or the early fourth) century, the author of an address (possibly an Olympian oration) which
is now known as the thirteenth piece of Grenfell and Hunt, The Hibeh Papyri, 1906, pp. 45
ff. It seems possible that the writer is one of 'the various musicians who criticize Socrates'
(i.e. the 'Socrates' of Plato's Republic), mentioned by Aristotle (in the equally superstitious
passage of his Politics, 1342b, where he repeats most of Plato's arguments); but the criticism
of the anonymous author goes much further than Aristotle indicates. Plato (and Aristotle)
believed that certain musical modes, for instance, the 'slack' Ionian and Lydian modes,
made people soft and effeminate, while others, especially the Dorian mode, made them
brave. This view is attacked by the anonymous author. 'They say', he writes, 'that some
modes produce temperate and others just men; others, again, heroes, and others cowards.'
He brilliantly exposes the silliness of this view by pointing out that some of the most war-
like of the Greek tribes use modes reputed to produce cowards, while certain professional
(opera) singers habitually sing in the 'heroic' mode without ever showing signs of becoming
heroes. This criticism might have been directed against the Athenian musician Damon, often
quoted by Plato as an authority, a friend of Pericles (who was liberal enough to tolerate a
pro-Spartan attitude in the field of artistic criticism). But it might easily have been directed
against Plato himself. For Damon, see Diels^; for a hypothesis concerning the anonymous
author, see ibid., vol. II, p. 334, note.

(3) In view of the fact that I am attacking a 'reactionary' attitude towards music, I may
perhaps remark that my attack is in no way inspired by a personal sympathy for 'progress'
in music. In fact, I happen to like old music (the older the better) and to dislike modem
music intensely (especially most works written since the day when Wagner began to write
music). I am altogether against 'fiiturism', whether in the field of art or of morals (cp.

chapter 22, and note 19 to chapter 25). But I am also against imposing one's likes and
dislikes upon others, and against censorship in such matters. We can love and hate,
especially in art, without favouring legal measures for suppressing what we hate, or for
canonizing what we love.

42. Cp. Republic, 537a; and 466e-467e.

The characterization of modern totalitarian education is due to A. Kolnai, The War against
the West{m%\^. 318.

43. Plato's remarkable theory that the state, i.e. centralized and organized political power,
originates through a conquest (the subjugation of a sedentary agricultural population by
nomads or hunters) was, as far as I know, first re-discovered (if we discount some remarks
by Machiavelli) by Hume in his criticism of the historical version of the contract theory (cp.
his Essays, Moral, Political, and Literary, vol. II, 1752, Essay XII, Q/" the Original
Contract): — 'Almost all the governments', Hume writes, 'which exist at present, or of which
there remains any record in story, have been founded originally, either on usurpation or
conquest, or both ...'And he points out that for 'an artful and bold man it is often easy

by employing sometimes violence, sometimes false pretences, to establish his dominion
over a people a hundred times more numerous than his partizans ... By such arts as these,
many governments have been established; and this is all the original contract, which they
have to boast of The theory was next revived by Renan, in What is a Nation? (1882), and
by Nietzsche in his Genealogy of Morals (1887); see the third German edition of 1894, p.
98. The latter writes of the origin of the 'state' (without reference to Hume): 'Some horde of
blonde beasts, a conquering master race with a war-like organization . . . lay their terrifying
paws heavily upon a population which is perhaps immensely superior in — numbers . . . This
is the way in which the "state" originates upon earth; I think that the sentimentality which
lets it originate with a "contract", is dead.' This theory appeals to Nietzsche because he likes
these blonde beasts. But it has also been proffered more recently by F. Oppenheimer {The
State, transl. Gitterman, 1914, p. 68); by a Marxist, K. Kautsky (in his book on The
Materialist Interpretation of History); and by W. C. Macleod {The Origin and History oj
Politics, 1931). I think it very likely that something of the kind described by Plato, Hume,

and Nietzsche has happened in many, if not in all, cases. I am speaking only about 'states'
in the sense of organized and even centralized political power.

I may mention that Toynbee has a very different theory. But before discussing it, I wish first
to make it clear that from the anti-historicist point of view, the question is of no great
importance. It is perhaps interesting in itself to consider how 'states' originated, but it has no
bearing whatever upon the sociology of states, as I understand it, i.e. upon political
technology (see chapters 3 . 9, and 25 ).

Toynbee 's theory does not confine itself to 'states' in the sense of organized and centralized
political power. He discusses, rather, the 'origin of civilizations'. But here begins the
difficulty; for some of his 'civilizations' are states (as here described), some are groups or
sequences of states, and some are societies like that of the Eskimos, which are not states; and
if it is questionable whether 'states' originate according to one single scheme, then it must be
even more doubtful when we consider a class of such diverse social phenomena as the early
Egyptian and Mesopotamian states and their institutions and technique on the one side, and
the Eskimo way of living on the other.

But we may concentrate on Toynbee's description (A Study of History, vol. I, pp. 305 ff.) of
the origin of the Egyptian and Mesopotamian 'civilizations'. His theory is that the challenge
of a difficult jungle environment rouses a response from ingenious and enterprising leaders;
they lead their followers into the valleys which they begin to cultivate, and found states. This
(Hegelian and Bergsonian) theory of the creative genius as a cultural and political leader
appears to me most romantic. If we take Egypt, then we must look, first of all, for the origin
of the caste system. This, I believe, is most likely the result of conquests, just as in India
where every new wave of conquerors imposed a new caste upon the old ones. But there are
other arguments. Toynbee himself favours a theory which is probably correct, namely, that
animal breeding and especially animal training is a later, a more advanced and a more diffi-
cult stage of development than mere agriculture, and that this advanced step is taken by the
nomads of the steppe. But in Egypt we find both agriculture and animal breeding, and the
same holds for most of the early 'states' (though not for all the American ones, I gather).
This seems to be a sign that these states contain a nomadic element; and it seems only
natural to venture the hypothesis that this element is due to nomad invaders imposing their

rule, a caste rule, upon the original agricultural population. This theory disagrees with
Toynbee's contention {op. cit. III, 23 f.) that nomad-built states usually wither away very
quickly. But the fact that many of the early caste states go in for the breeding of animals has
to be explained somehow.

The idea that nomads or even hunters constituted the original upper class is corroborated by
the age-old and still surviving upper-class tradition according to which war, hunting, and
horses are the symbols of the leisured classes; a tradition which formed the basis of
Aristotle's ethics and politics, and which is still alive, as Veblen ( The Theory of the Leisure
Class) and Toynbee have shown; and to this evidence we can perhaps add the animal
breeder's belief in racialism, and especially in the racial superiority of the upper class. The
latter belief which is so pronounced in caste states and in Plato and in Aristotle is held by
Toynbee to be 'one of the ... sins of our ... modem age' and 'something alien from the
Hellenic genius' {op. cit.. Ill, 93). But although many Greeks may have developed beyond
racialism, it seems likely that Plato's and Aristotle's theories are based on old traditions;
especially in view of the fact that racial ideas played such a role in Sparta.

44. Cp. Laws, 694a-698a.

45 . (1) Spengler's i)ec/me of the West is not in my opinion to be taken seriously. But it is a
symptom; it is the theory of one who believes in an upper class which is facing defeat. Like
Plato, Spengler tries to show that 'the world' is to be blamed, with its general law of decline
and death. And like Plato, he demands (in his sequel, Prussianism and Socialism) a new
order, a desperate experiment to stem the forces of history, a regeneration of the Prussian
ruling class by the adoption of a 'socialism' or communism, and of economic abstinence. —
Concerning Spengler, I largely agree with L. Nelson, who pubHshed his criticism under a
long ironical title whose beginning may be translated: 'Witchcraft: Being an Initiation into
the Secrets of Oswald Spengler 's Art of Fortune Telling, and a Most Evident Proof of the
Irrefutable Truth of His Soothsaying', etc. I think that this is a just characterization of
Spengler. Nelson, I may add, was one of the first to oppose what I call historicism (following
here Kant in his criticism of Herder; cp. chapter 12, note 56).

(2) My remark that Spengler's is not the Decline and Fall is meant especially as an

allusion to Toynbee. Toynbee's work is so superior to Spengler's that I hesitate to mention it
in the same context; but the superiority is due mainly to Toynbee's wealth of ideas and to his
superior knowledge (which manifests itself in the fact that he does not, as Spengler does,
deal with everything under the sun at the same time). But the aim and method of the
investigation is similar. It is most decidedly historicist. (Cp. my criticism of Toynbee in The
Poverty ofHistoricism, pp. 110 ff.) And it is, fundamentally, Hegelian (although I do not see
that Toynbee is aware of this fact). His 'criterion of the growth of civilizations' which is
'progress towards self-determination' shows this clearly enough; for Hegel's law of progress
towards 'self-consciousness' and 'freedom' can be only too easily recognized. (Toynbee's
Hegelianism seems to come somehow through Bradley, as may be seen, for instance, by his
remarks on relations, op. cit. III, 223: 'The very concept of "relations" between "things" or
"beings" involves' a 'logical contradiction ... How is this contradiction to be transcended?'
(I cannot enter here into a discussion of the problem of relations. But I may state
dogmatically that all problems concerning relations can be reduced, by certain simple
methods of modem logic, to problems concerning properties, or classes; in other words,
peculiar philosophical difficulties concerning relations do not exist. The method mentioned
is due to N. Wiener and K. Kuratowski; see Quine, A System of Logistic, 1934, pp. 16 ff.).
Now I do not believe that to classify a work as belonging to a certain school is to dismiss it;
but in the case of Hegelian historicism I think that it is so, for reasons to be discussed in the
second volume of this book.

Concerning Toynbee's historicism, I wish to make it especially clear that I doubt very much
indeed whether civilizations are bom, grow, break down, and die. I am obliged to stress this
point because I myself use some of the terms used by Toynbee, in so far as I speak of the
'breakdown' and of the 'arresting' of societies. But I wish to make it clear that my term
'breakdown' refers not to all kinds of civilizations but to one particular kind of phenomenon
— ^to the feeling of bewilderment connected with the dissolution of the magical or tribal
'closed society'. Accordingly, I do not believe, as Toynbee does, that Greek society suffered
'its breakdown' in the period of the Peloponnesian war; and I find the symptoms of the
breakdown which Toynbee describes much earlier. (Cp. with this notes 6 and 8 to chapter
10, and text.) Regarding 'arrested' societies, I apply this term exclusively, either to a society

that clings to its magical forms through closing itself up, by force, against the influence of an
open society, or to a society that attempts to return to the tribal cage.

Also I do not think that our Western civilization is just one member of a species. I think that
there are many closed societies who may suffer all kinds of fates; but an 'open society' can,
I suppose, only go on, or be arrested and forced back into the cage, i.e. to the beasts. (Cp.
also chapter 10, especially the last note.)

(3) Regarding the Decline and Fall stories, I may mention that nearly all of them stand under
the influence of Heraclitus' remark: 'They fill their bellies like the beasts', and of Plato's
theory of the low animal instincts. I mean to say that they all try to show that the decline is
due to an adoption (by the ruling class) of these 'lower' standards which are allegedly
natural to the working classes. In other words, and putting the matter crudely but bluntly, the
theory is that civilizations, like the Persian and the Roman empires, decline owing to
overfeeding. (Cp. note 19 to chapter 10.)

Notes to Chapter Five

1. The 'charmed circle' is a quotation from Burnet, Greek Philosophy , I, 106, where similar
problems are treated. I do not, however, agree with Burnet that 'in early days the regularity
of human life had been far more clearly apprehended than the even course of nature'. This
presupposes the establishment of a differentiation which, I believe, is characteristic of a later
period, i.e. the period of the dissolution of the 'charmed circle of law and custom'.
Moreover, natural periods (the seasons, etc.; cp. note 6 to chapter 2, and Plato (?), Epinomis,
97 8d, ff.) must have been apprehended in very early days. — For the distinction between
natural and normative laws, see esp. note 18 (4) to this chapter.

2. *Cp. R. Eisler, The Royal Art of Astrology . Eisler says that the peculiarities of the movement
of the planets were interpreted, by the Babylonian 'tablet writers who produced the Library
of Assurbanipal' {op. cit, 288), as 'dictated by the "laws" or "decisions" ruling "heaven and
earth" {pirishte- shame- u irsiti), pronounced by the creator god at the beginning' {ibid.,
232 f ). And he points out {ibid., 288) that the idea of 'universal laws' (of nature) originates
with this 'mythological ... concept of ... "decrees of heaven and earth" ...'*

For the passage from Heraclitus, cp. D5, B 29, and note 7 (2) to chapter 2; also note 6 to that
chapter, and text. See also Burnet, loc. cit., who gives a different interpretation; he thinks
that 'when the regular course of nature began to be observed, no better name could be found
for it than Right or Justice ... which properly meant the unchanging custom that guided
human life.' I do not believe that the term meant first something social and was then
extended, but I think that both social and natural regularities ('order') were originally
undifferentiated, and interpreted as magical.

3. The opposition is expressed sometimes as one between 'nature' and 'law' (or 'norm' or
'convention'), sometimes as one between 'nature' and the 'positing' or 'laying down' (viz.,
of normative laws), and sometimes as one between 'nature' and 'art', or 'natural' and
'artificial'.

The antithesis between nature and convention is often said (on the authority of Diogenes
Laertius, II, 16 and 4; Doxogr., 564b) to have been introduced by Archelaus, who is said to

have been the teacher of Socrates. But I think that, in the Laws, 690b, Plato makes it clear
enough that he considers 'the Theban poet Pindar' to be the originator of the antithesis (cp.
notes 10 and 28 to this chapter). Apart from Pindar's fragments (quoted by Plato; see also
Herodotus, III, 38), and some remarks by Herodotus {loc. cit), one of the earliest original
sources preserved is the Sophist An tiphon's fragments On Truth (see notes 11 and 12 to this
chapter). According to Plato's Protagoras, the Sophist Hippias seems to have been a pioneer
of similar views (see note 13 to this chapter). But the most influential early treatment of the
problem seems to have been that of Protagoras himself, although he may possibly have used
a different terminology. (It may be mentioned that Democritus dealt with the antithesis
which he applied also to such social 'institutions' as language; and Plato did the same in the
Cratylus, e.g. 384e.)

4. A very similar point of view can be found in Russell's 'A Free Man's Worship' (in
Mysticism and Logic); and in the last chapter of Sherrington's Man on His Nature.

5. (1) Positivists will reply, of course, that the reason why norms cannot be derived from
factual propositions is that norms are meaningless; but this shows only that (with
Wittgenstein's Tractatus) they define 'meaning' arbitrarily in such a way that only factual
propositions are 'meaningful'. (See also my The Logic of Scientific Discovery, pp. 35 ff. and
51 f ) The followers of 'psychologism', on the other hand, will try to explain imperatives as
expressions of emotions, norms as habits, and standards as points of view. But although the
habit of not stealing certainly is a fact, it is necessary, as explained in the text, to distinguish
this fact from the corresponding norm. — On the question of the logic of norms, I fully agree
with most of the views expressed by K. Menger in his book. Moral, Wille und
Weltgestaltung, 1935. He is one of the first, I believe, to develop the foundations of a logic
of norms. I may perhaps express here my opinion that the reluctance to admit that norms are
something important and irreducible is one of the main sources of the intellectual and other
weaknesses of the more 'progressive' circles in our present time.

(2) Concerning my contention that it is impossible to derive a sentence stating a norm or
decision from a sentence stating a fact, the following may be added. In analysing the
relations between sentences and facts, we are moving in that field of logical inquiry which

A. Tarski has called Semantics (cp. note 29 to chapter 3 and note 23 to chapter 8). One of
the fundamental concepts of semantics is the concept of truth. As shown by Tarski, it is
possible (within what Camap calls a semantical system) to derive a descriptive statement like
'Napoleon died on St. Helena' from the statement 'Mr. A said that Napoleon died on St.
Helena', in conjunction with the further statement that what Mr. A said was true. (And if we
use the term 'fact' in such a wide sense that we not only speak about the fact described by a
sentence but also about the fact that this sentence is true, then we could even say that it is
possible to derive 'Napoleon died on St. Helena' from the two 'facts' that Mr. A said it, and
that he spoke the truth.) Now there is no reason why we should not proceed in an exactly
analogous fashion in the realm of norms. We might then introduce, in correspondence to the
concept of truth, the concept of the validity or rightness of a norm. This would mean that a
certain norm N could be derived (in a kind of semantic of norms) from a sentence stating
that TV is valid or right; or in other words, the norm or commandment 'Thou shalt not steal'
would be considered as equivalent to the assertion 'The norm "Thou shalt not steal" is valid
or right'. (And again, if we use the term 'fact' in such a wide sense that we speak about the
fact that a norm is valid or right, then we could even derive norms from facts. This,
however, does not impair the correctness of our considerations in the text which are
concerned solely with the impossibility of deriving norms from psychological or
sociological or similar, i.e. non-semantic, facts.)

(3) In my first discussion of these problems, I spoke of norms or decisions but never of
proposals. The proposal to speak, instead, of 'proposals' is due to L. J. Russell; see his
paper 'Propositions and Proposals', in the Library of the Tenth International Congress of
Philosophy (Amsterdam, August 11-18, 1948), vol. I, Proceedings of the Congress . In this
important paper, statements of fact or 'propositions' are distinguished from suggestions for
the adoption of a line of conduct (of a certain policy, or of certain norms, or of certain aims
or ends), and the latter are called 'proposals'. The great advantage of this terminology is
that, as everybody knows, one can discuss a proposal, while it is not so clear whether, and in
which sense, one can discuss a decision or a norm; thus by talking of 'norms' or 'decisions',
one is liable to support those who say that these things are beyond discussion (either above
it, as some dogmatic theologians or metaphysicians may say, or — as nonsensical — ^below it.

as some positivists may say).

Adopting Russell's terminology, we could say that a proposition may be asserted or stated
(or a hypothesis accepted) while a proposal is adopted; and we shall distinguish the fact oj
its adoption from the proposal which has been adopted.

Our dualistic thesis then becomes the thesis that proposals are not reducible to facts (or to
statements of facts, or to propositions) even though they pertain to facts. ^

6. Cp. also the last note (71) to chapter 10.

Although my own position is, I believe, clearly enough implied in the text, I may perhaps
briefly formulate what seem to me the most important principles of humanitarian and
equalitarian ethics.

(1) Tolerance towards all who are not intolerant and who do not propagate intolerance. (For
this exception, cp. what is said in notes 4 and 6 to chapter 7.) This implies, especially, that
the moral decisions of others should be treated with respect, as long as such decisions do not
conflict with the principle of tolerance.

(2) The recognition that all moral urgency has its basis in the urgency of suffering or pain. I
suggest, for this reason, to replace the utilitarian formula 'Aim at the greatest amount of
happiness for the greatest number', or briefly, 'Maximize happiness', by the formula 'The
least amount of avoidable suffering for all', or briefly, 'Minimize suffering'. Such a simple
formula can, I believe, be made one of the fundamental principles (admittedly not the only
one) of public policy. (The principle 'Maximize happiness', in contrast, seems to be apt to
produce a benevolent dictatorship.) We should realize that from the moral point of view
suffering and happiness must not be treated as symmetrical; that is to say, the promotion of
happiness is in any case much less urgent than the rendering of help to those who suffer,
and the attempt to prevent suffering. (The latter task has little to do with 'matters of taste',
the former much.) Cp. also note 2 to chapter 9.

(3) The fight against tyranny; or in other words, the attempt to safeguard the other principles
by the institutional means of a legislation rather than by the benevolence of persons in
power. (Cp. section 1 1 of chapter 7.)

7. Cp. Burnet, Greek Philosophy, I, 117. — Protagoras' doctrine referred to in this paragraph is

to be found in Plato's dialogue Protagoras, 322a, ff.; cp. also the Theaetetus, esp. 172b (see
also note 27 to this chapter).

The difference between Platonism and Protagoreanism can perhaps be briefly expressed as
follows:

(Platonism.) There is an inherent 'natural' order of justice in the world, i.e. the original or
first order in which nature was created. Thus the past is good, and any development leading
to new norms is bad.

(Protagoreanism.) Man is the moral being in this world. Nature is neither moral nor immoral.
Thus it is possible for man also to improve things. — It is not unlikely that Protagoras was
influenced by Xenophanes, one of the first to express the attitude of the open society, and to
criticize Hesiod's historical pessimism: 'In the beginning, the Gods did not show to man all
he was wanting; but in the course of time, he may search for the better, and find it.' (Cp.
Diels^ 18.) It seems that Plato's nephew and successor Speusippus returned to this
progressive view (cp. Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b30 and note 11 to chapter 11) and that
the Academy adopted with him a more liberal attitude in the field of politics also.
Concerning the relation of the doctrine of Protagoras to the tenets of religion, it may be
remarked that he believed God to work through man. I do not see how this position can
contradict that of Christianity. Compare with it for instance K. Earth's statement {Credo,
1936, p. 188): 'The Bible is a human document' (i.e. man is God's instrument).

8. Socrates' advocacy of the autonomy of ethics (closely related to his insistence that problems
of nature do not matter) is expressed especially in his doctrine of the self-sufficiency or
autarky of the 'virtuous' individual. That this theory contrasts strongly with Plato's views of
the individual will be seen later; cp. especially notes 25 to this chapter and 36 to the next,
and text. (Cp. also note 56 to chapter 10.)

9. We cannot, for instance, construct institutions which work independently of how they are
being 'manned'. With these problems, cp. chapter 7 (text to notes 7-8, 22-23), and
especially chapter 9.

10 . For Plato's discussion of Pindar's naturalism, see esp. Gorgias, 484b; 488b; Z^m, 690b
(quoted below in this chapter; cp. note 28); 714e/715a; cp. also 890a/b. (See also Adam's

note to Rep., 359c20.)

1 1 ■ Antiphon uses the term which, in connection with Parmenides and Plato, I have translated
above by 'delusive opinion' (cp. note 15 to chapter 3); and he likewise opposes it to 'truth'.
Cp. also Barker's translation m Greek Political Theory, I — Plato and His Predecessors
(1918), 83.

12 . See Antiphon, On Truth; cp. Barker, op. cit., 83-5. See also next note, (2).

13. Hippias is quoted in VXdXo's Protagoras, 337e. For the next four quotations, cp. (1)
Euripides /(9«, 854 ff.; and (2) his Phoenissae, 538; cp. also GompQYz, Greek Thinkers
(German edn, I, 325); and Barker, op. cit., 75; cp. also Plato's violent attack upon Euripides
in Republic, 568a-d. Furthermore (3) Alcidamas in Schol. to Aristotle's Rhet. , I, 13,
1373bl8. (4) Lycophron in Aristotle's Fragm., 91 (Rose); (cp. also the Pseudo-Plutarch, De
Nobil, 18.2). For the Athenian movement against slavery, cp. text to note 18 to chapter 4,
and note 29 (with further references) to the same chapter; also note 18 to chapter 10 and
Addendum ///(Reply to a Critic), especially pp. 330 f.

(1) It is worth nothing that most Platonists show little sympathy with this equalitarian
movement. Barker, for instance, discusses it under the heading 'General Iconoclasm'; cp.
op. cit., 75. (See also the second quotation from Field's Plato quoted in text to note 3,
chapter 6.) This lack of sympathy is due, undoubtedly, to Plato's influence.

(2) For Plato's and Aristotle's anti-equalitarianism mentioned in the text, next paragraph, cp.
also especially note 49 (and text) to chapter 8, and notes 3-4 (and text) to chapter 11.

This anti-equalitarianism and its devastating effects has been clearly described by W. W.
Tarn in his excellent paper 'Alexander the Great and the Unity of Mankind' {Proc. of the
British Acad. , XIX, 1933, pp. 123 ff.). Tarn recognizes that in the fifth century, there may
have been a movement towards 'something better than the hard-and-fast division of Greeks
and barbarians; but', he says, 'this had no importance for history, because anything of the
sort was strangled by the idealist philosophies . Plato and Aristotle left no doubt about their
views. Plato said that all barbarians were enemies by nature; it was proper to wage war upon
them, even to the point of enslaving . . . them. Aristotle said that all barbarians were slaves by
nature ...'(p. 124, italics mine). I fully agree with Tarn's appraisal of the pernicious anti-

humanitarian influence of the idealist philosophers, i.e. of Plato and Aristotle. I also agree
with Tarn's emphasis upon the immense significance of equalitarianism, of the idea of the
unity of mankind (cp. op. cit, p. 147). The main point in which 1 cannot fully agree is
Tarn's estimate of the fifth-century equalitarian movement, and of the early cynics. He may
or may not be right in holding that the historical influence of these movements was small in
comparison with that of Alexander. But I believe that he would have rated these movements
more highly if he had only followed up the parallelism between the cosmopolitan and the
anti-slavery movement. The parallelism between the relations Greeks: barbarians and free
men: slaves is clearly enough shown by Tarn in the passage here quoted; and if we consider
the unquestionable strength of the movement against slavery (see esp. note 18 to chapter 4)
then the scattered remarks against the distinction between Greeks and barbarians gain much
in significance. Cp. also Aristotle, Politics, III, 5, 7 (1278a); IV (VI), 4, 16 (1319b); and III,
2, 2 (1275b). See also note 48 to chapter 8, and the reference to E. Badian at the end of that
note.

14 . For the theme 'return to the beasts', cp. chapter 10, note 71, and text.

15 . For Socrates' doctrine of the soul, see text to note 44 to chapter 10.

16 . The term 'natural right' in an equalitarian sense came to Rome through the Stoics (there is
the influence of Antisthenes to be considered; cp. note 48 to chapter 8) and was popularized
by Roman Law (cp. Institutiones, II, 1, 2; I, 2, 2). It is used by Thomas Aquinas also
(Summa, II, 91, 2). The confusing use of the term 'natural law' instead of 'natural right' by
modern Thomists is to be regretted, as well as the small emphasis they put upon
equalitarianism.

17 . The monistic tendency which first led to the attempt to interpret norms as natural has
recently led to the opposite attempt, namely, to interpret natural laws as conventional. This
(physical) type of conventionalism has been based, by Poincare, on the recognition of the
conventional or verbal character of definitions. Poincare, and more recently Eddington,
point out that we define natural entities by the laws they obey. From this the conclusion is
drawn that these laws, i.e. the laws of nature, are definitions, i.e. verbal conventions. Cp.
Eddington's letter in Nature, 148 (1941), 141: 'The elements' (of physical theory) '... can

only be defined ... by the laws they obey; so that we find ourselves chasing our own tails in
a purely formal system. ' — An analysis and a criticism of this form of conventionalism can
be found in my The Logic of Scientific Discovery, especially pp. 78 ff.

18 . (1) The hope of getting some argument or theory to share our responsibilities is, I believe,
one of the basic motives of 'scientific' ethics. 'Scientific' ethics is in its absolute barrenness
one of the most amazing of social phenomena. What does it aim at? At telling us what we
ought to do, i.e. at constructing a code of norms upon a scientific basis, so that we need only
look up the index of the code if we are faced with a difficult moral decision? This clearly
would be absurd; quite apart from the fact that if it could be achieved, it would destroy all
personal responsibility and therefore all ethics. Or would it give scientific criteria of the truth
and falsity of moral judgements, i.e. of judgements involving such terms as 'good' or 'bad'?
But it is clear that moral judgements are absolutely irrelevant. Only a scandal-monger is
interested in judging people or their actions; 'judge not' appears to some of us one of the
fundamental and much too little appreciated laws of humanitarian ethics. (We may have to
disarm and to imprison a criminal in order to prevent him from repeating his crimes, but too
much of moral judgement and especially of moral indignation is always a sign of hypocrisy
and Pharisaism.) Thus an ethics of moral judgements would be not only irrelevant but
indeed an immoral affair. The all-importance of moral problems rests, of course, on the fact
that we can act with intelligent foresight, and that we can ask ourselves what our aims ought
to be, i.e. how we ought to act.

Nearly all moral philosophers who have dealt with the problem of how we ought to act (with
the possible exception of Kant) have tried to answer it either by reference to 'human nature'
(as did even Kant, when he referred to human reason) or to the nature of 'the good'. The
first of these ways leads nowhere, since all actions possible to us are founded upon 'human
nature', so that the problem of ethics could also be put by asking which elements in human
nature I ought to approve and to develop, and which sides I ought to suppress or to control.
But the second of these ways also leads nowhere; for given an analysis of 'the good' in form
of a sentence like: 'The good is such and such' (or 'such and such is good'), we would
always have to ask: What about it? Why should this concern me? Only if the word 'good' is
used in an ethical sense, i.e. only if it is used to mean 'that which I ought to do', could I

derive from the information 'x is good' the conclusion that I ought to do x. In other words, if
the word 'good' is to have any ethical significance at all, it must be defined as 'that which I
(or we) ought to do (or to promote)'. But if it is so defined, then its whole meaning is
exhausted by the defining phrase, and it can in every context be replaced by this phrase, i.e.
the introduction of the term 'good' cannot materially contribute to our problem. (Cp. also
note 49 (3) to chapter 11.)

All the discussions about the definition of the good, or about the possibility of defining it,
are therefore quite useless. They only show how far 'scientific' ethics is removed fi-om the
urgent problems of moral life. And they thus indicate that 'scientific' ethics is a form of
escape, and escape from the realities of moral life, i.e. from our moral responsibilities. (In
view of these considerations, it is not surprising to find that the beginning of 'scientific'
ethics, in the form of ethical naturahsm, coincides in time with what may be called the
discovery of personal responsibility. Cp. what is said in chapter 10, text to notes 27-38 and
55-7, on the open society and the Great Generation.)

(2) It may be fitting in this connection to refer to a particular form of the escape from
responsibility discussed here, as exhibited especially by the juridical positivism of the
Hegehan school, as well as by a closely allied spiritual naturalism. That the problem is still
significant may be seen from the fact that an author of the excellence of Catlin remains on
this important point (as on a number of others) dependent upon Hegel; and my analysis will
take the form of a criticism of Catlin's arguments in favour of spiritual naturahsm, and
against the distinction between laws of nature and normative laws (cp. G. E. G. Catlin,^
Study of the Principles of Politics, 1930, pp. 96-99).

Catlin begins by making a clear distinction between the laws of nature and 'laws ... which
human legislators make'; and he admits that, at first sight the phrase 'natural law', if applied
to norms, 'appears to be patently unscientific, since it seems to fail to make a distinction
between that human law which requires enforcement and the physical laws which are
incapable of breach'. But he tries to show that it only appears to be so, and that 'our
criticism' of this way of using the term 'natural law' was 'too hasty'. And he proceeds to a
clear statement of spiritual naturalism, i.e. to a distinction between 'sound law' which is
'according to nature', and other law: 'Sound law, then, involves a formulation of human

tendencies, or, in brief, is a copy of the "natural" law to be "found" by political science.
Sound law is in this sense emphatically found and not made. It is a copy of natural social
law' (i.e. of what I called 'sociological laws'; cp. text to note 8 to this chapter). And he
concludes by insisting that in so far as the legal system becomes more rational, its rules
'cease to assume the character of arbitrary commands and become mere deductions drawn
from the primary social laws' (i.e. from what I should call 'sociological laws').

(3) This is a very strong statement of spiritual naturahsm. Its criticism is the more important
as Catlin combines his doctrine with a theory of 'social engineering' which may perhaps at
first sight appear similar to the one advocated here (cp. text to note 9 to chapter 3 and text to
notes 1-3 and 8-11 to chapter 9). Before discussing it, I wish to explain why I consider
Catlin's view to be dependent on Hegel's positivism. Such an explanation is necessary,
because Catlin uses his naturalism in order to distinguish between 'sound' and other law; in
other words, he uses it in order to distinguish between 'just' and 'unjust' law; and this
distinction certainly does not look like positivism, i.e. the recognition of the existing law as
the sole standard of justice. In spite of all that, I believe that Catlin's views are very close to
positivism; my reason being that he believes that only 'sound' law can be effective, and in
so far 'existent' in precisely Hegel's sense. For Catlin says that when our legal code is not
'sound', i.e. not in accordance with the laws of human nature, then 'our statute remains
paper'. This statement is purest positivism; for it allows us to deduce from the fact that a
certain code is not only 'paper' but successfully enforced, that it is 'sound'; or in other
words, that all legislation which does not turn out to be merely paper is a copy of human
nature and therefore just.

(4) I now proceed to a brief criticism of the argument proffered by Catlin against the
distinction between (a) laws of nature which cannot be broken, and (b) normative laws,
which are man-made, i.e. enforced by sanctions; a distinction which he himself makes so
very clearly at first. Catlin's argument is a twofold one. He shows (a^) that laws of nature
also are man-made, in a certain sense, and that they can, in a sense, be broken; and (b^) that
in a certain sense normative laws cannot be broken. I begin with (a^). 'The natural laws of
the physicist', writes Catlin, 'are not brute facts, they are rationalizations of the physical
world, whether superimposed by man or justified because the world is inherently rational

and orderly. ' And he proceeds to show that natural laws 'can be nullified' when 'fresh facts'
compel us to recast the law. My reply to this argument is this. A statement intended as a
formulation of a law of nature is certainly man-made. We make the hypothesis that there is a
certain invariable regularity, i.e. we describe the supposed regularity with the help of a
statement, the natural law. But, as scientists, we are prepared to learn from nature that we
have been wrong; we are prepared to recast the law if fresh facts which contradict our
hypothesis show thatowr supposed law was no law, since it has been broken. In other
words, by accepting nature's nullification, the scientist shows that he accepts a hypothesis
only as long as it has not been falsified; which is the same as to say that he regards a law of
nature as a rule which cannot be broken, since he accepts the breaking of his rule as proof
that his rule did not formulate a law of nature. Furthermore: although the hypothesis is man-
made, we may be unable to prevent its falsification. This shows that, by creating the
hypothesis, we have not created the regularity which it is intended to describe (although we
did create a new set of problems, and may have suggested new observations and
interpretations), (b^) 'It is not true', says Catlin, 'that the criminal "breaks" the law when he
does the forbidden act ... the statute does not say: "Thou canst nof ; it says, "Thou shalt not,
or this punishment will be inflicted." As command', Catlin continues, 'it may be broken, but
as law, in a very real sense, it is only broken when the punishment is not inflicted ... So far
as the law is perfected and its sanctions executed, ... it approximates to physical law.' The
reply to this is simple. In whichever sense we speak of 'breaking' the law, the juridical law
can be broken; no verbal adjustment can alter that. Let us accept Catlin 's view that a
criminal cannot 'break' the law, and that it is only 'broken' if the criminal does not receive
the punishment prescribed by the law. But even fi"om this point of view, the law can be
broken; for instance, by officers of the state who refuse to punish the criminal. And even in
a state where all sanctions are, in fact, executed, the officers could, if they chose, prevent
such execution, and so 'break' the law in Catlin 's sense. (That they would thereby 'break'
the law in the ordinary sense, also, i.e. that they would become criminals, and that they
might ultimately perhaps be punished is quite another question.) In other words: A
normative law is always enforced by men and by their sanctions, and it is therefore
fundamentally different fi-om a hypothesis. Legally, we can enforce the suppression of

murder, or of acts of kindness; of falsity, or of truth; of justice, or of injustice. But we cannot
force the sun to alter its course. No amount of argument can bridge this gap.

19 . The 'nature of happiness and misery' is referred to in the Theaetetus, 175c. For the close
relationship between 'nature' and 'Form' or 'Idea', cp. especially Republic, 597a-d, where
Plato first discusses the Form or Idea of a bed, and then refers to it as 'the bed which exists
by nature, and which was made by God' (597b). In the same place, he proffers the
corresponding distinction between the 'artificial' (or the 'fabricated' thing, which is an
'imitation') and 'truth'. Cp. also Adam's note to Republic, 597b 10 (with the quotation from
Burnet given there), and the notes to 476b 13, 501b9, 525c 15; furthermore Theaetetus, 174b
(and Cornford's note 1 to p. 85 in his Plato's Theory of Knowledge). See also Aristotle's
Metaphysics, 1015al4.

20 . For Plato's attack upon art, see the last book of the Republic, and especially the passages
Republic, 600a-605b, mentioned in note 39 to chapter 4.

21 . Cp. notes 11, 12 and 13 to this chapter, and text. My contention that Plato agrees at least
partly with Antiphon's naturalist theories (although he does not, of course, agree with
Antiphon's equalitarianism) will appear strange to many, especially to the readers of Barker,
op. cit. And it may surprise them even more to hear the opinion that the main disagreement
was not so much a theoretical one, but rather one of moral practice, and that Antiphon and
not Plato was morally in the right, as far as the practical issue of equalitarianism is
concerned. (For Plato's agreement with Antiphon's principle that nature is true and right, see
also text to notes 23 and 28, and note 30 to this chapter.)

22 . These quotations are from Sophist, 266b and 265e. But the passage also contains (265c) a
criticism (similar to Laws, quoted in text to notes 23 and 30 in this chapter) of what may be
described as a materialist interpretation of naturalism such as was held, perhaps, by
Antiphon; I mean 'the belief ... that nature ... generates without intelligence'.

23. Cp. Laws, 892a and c. For the doctrine of the affinity of the soul to the Ideas, see also note
15 (8) to chapter 3. For the affinity of 'natures' and 'souls', see Aristotle's Metaphysics,
1015al4, with the passages of ihQLaws quoted, and with 896d/e: 'the soul dwells in all
things that move . . . '

Compare further especially the following passages in which 'natures' and 'souls' are used in
a way that is obviously synonymous: Republic, 485a/b, 485e/486a and d, 486b ('nature');
486b and d ('soul'), 490e/491a (both), 491b (both), and many other places (cp. also Adam's
note to 370a7). The affinity is directly stated in 490b(10). For the affinity between 'nature'
and 'soul' and 'race', cp. 50 le where the phrase 'philosophic natures' or 'souls' found in
analogous passages is replaced by 'race of philosophers'.

There is also an affinity between 'soul' or 'nature' and the social class or caste; see for
msidLncQ Republic, 435b. The connection between caste and race is fundamental, for from
the beginning (415a), caste is identified with race.

'Nature' is used in the sense of 'talent' or 'condition of the soul' in Laws, 648d, 650b, 655e,
710b, 766a, 875c. The priority and superiority of nature over art is stated in Laws, 889a, ff.
For 'natural' in the sense of 'right', or 'true', see Laws, 686d and 818e, respectively.

24 . Cp. the passages quoted in note 32 (1), {a) and (c), to chapter 4.

25 . The Socratic doctrine of autarky is mentioned m Republic, 387d/e {q.y>- Apology , 41c, ff.,
and Adam's note to Rep., 387d25). This is only one of the few scattered passages
reminiscent of Socratic teaching; but it is in direct contradiction to the main doctrine of the
Republic, as it is expounded in the text (see also note 36 to chapter 6, and text); this may be
seen by contrasting the quoted passage with 369c, ff., and very many similar passages.

26 . Cp. for instance the passage quoted in the text to note 29 to chapter 4. For the 'rare and
uncommon natures', cp. Republic, 491a/b, and many other passages, for instance Timaeus,
51e: 'reason is shared by the gods with very few men'. For the 'social habitat', see 49 Id (cp.
also chapter 23).

While Plato (and Aristotle; cp. especially note 4 to chapter 11, and text) insisted that manual
work is degrading, Socrates seems to have adopted a very different attitude. (Cp. Xenophon,
Memorabilia, II, 7; 7-10; Xenophon's story is, to some extent, corroborated by Antisthenes'
and Diogenes' attitude towards manual work; cp. also note 56 to chapter 10.)

27 . See especially Theaetetus, 172b (cp. also Comford's comments on this passage in Plato's
Theory of Knowledge). See also note 7 to this chapter. The elements of conventionalism in
Plato's teaching may perhaps explain why the Republic was said, by some who still

possessed Protagoras' writings, to resemble these. (Cp. Diogenes Laertius, III, 37.) For
Lycophron's contract theory, see notes 43-54 to chapter 6 (especially note 46), and text.

28 . Cp. Laws, 690b/c; see note 10 to this chapter. Plato mentions Pindar's naturalism also in
Gorgias, 484b, A^^h; Laws, 714c, 890a. For the opposition between 'external compulsion'
on the one hand, and {a) 'free action', {b) 'nature', on the other, cp. also Republic, 603c,
and Timaeus, 64d. (Cp. also Rep., 466c-d, quoted in note 30 to this chapter.)

29 . Cp. Republic, 369b-c. This is part of the contract theory. The next quotation, which is the
first statement of the naturalist principle in the perfect state, is 370a/b-c. (Naturalism is in
the Republic first mentioned by Glaucon in 358e, ff.; but this is, of course, not Plato's own
doctrine of naturahsm.)

(1) For the further development of the naturalistic principle of the division of labour and the
part played by this principle in Plato's theory of justice, cp. especially text to notes 6, 23 and
40 to chapter 6.

(2) For a modern radical version of the naturalistic principle, see Marx's formula of the
communist society (adopted from Louis Blanc): 'From each according to his ability: to each
according to his needs!' (Cp. for instance A Handbook of Marxism, E. Burns, 1935, p. 752;
and note 8 to chapter 13; see also note 3 to chapter 13, and note 48 to chapter 24, and text.)
For the historical roots of this 'principle of communism', see Plato's maxim 'Friends have in
common all things they possess' (see note 36 to chapter 6, and text; for Plato's communism
see also notes 34 to chapter 6 and 30 to chapter 4, and text), and compare these passages
with the Acts: 'And all that believed were together, and had all things in common; . . . and
parted them to all men, as every man had need' (2, 44-45). — 'Neither was there any among
them that lacked: for ... distribution was made unto every man according as he had need' (4,
34-35).

30 . See note 23, and text. The quotations in the present paragraph are all from the Laws: (1)
889, a-d (cp. the very similar passage in the Theaetetus, 172b); (2) 896c-e; (3) 890e/891a.
For the next paragraph in the text (i.e. for my contention that Plato's naturalism is incapable
of solving practical problems) the following may serve as an illustration. Many naturalists
have contended that men and women are 'by nature' different, both physically and

spiritually, and that they should therefore fulfil different functions in social Hfe. Plato,
however, uses the same naturahstic argument to prove the opposite; for, he argues, are not
dogs of both sexes useful for watching as well as hunting? 'Do you agree', he writes {Rep.,
466c-d), 'that women ... must participate with men in guarding as well as in hunting, as it is
with dogs; . . . and that in so doing, they will be acting in the most desirable manner, since
this will be not contrary to nature, but in accordance with the natural relations of the sexes?'
(See also text to note 28 to this chapter; for the dog as ideal guardian, cp. chapter 4,
especially note 32 (2), and text.)

3 1 . For a brief criticism of the biological theory of the state, see note 7 to chapter 10, and text.
*For the oriental origin of the theory, see R. Eisler, Revue de Synthese Historique, vol. 41, p.
15.*

32 . For some applications of Plato's political theory of the soul, and for the inferences drawn
from it, see notes 58-9 to chapter 10, and text. For the fundamental methodological analogy
between city and individual, see QS^Qc'mWy Republic, 368e, 445c, 577c. For Alcmaeon's
political theory of the human individual, or of human physiology, cp. note 13 to chapter 6.

33 . Cp. Republic, 423, b and d.

34 . This quotation as well as the next is from G. Grote, Plato and the Other Companions oj
Socrates (1875), vol. Ill, 124. — The main passages of the Republic are 439c, f. (the story of
Leontius); 571c, f. (the bestial part versus the reasoning part); 588c (the Apocalyptic
Monster; cp. the 'Beast' which possesses a Platonic Number, in the Revelation 13, 17 and
18); 603d and 604b (man at war with himself). See dXso Laws, 689a-b, and notes 58-9 to
chapter 10.

35 . Cp. Republic, 519e, f. (cp. also note 10 to chapter 8); the next two quotations are both from
the Laws, 903c. (I have reversed their order.) It may be mentioned that the 'whole' referred
to in these two passages {'pan' and 'holon') is not the state but the world; yet there is no
doubt that the underlying tendency of this cosmological holism is a political holism; cp.
Laws, 903d-e (where the physician and craftsman is associated with the statesman), and the
fact that Plato often uses 'holon' (especially the plural of it) to mean 'state' as well as
'world'. Furthermore, the first of these two passages (in my order of quoting) is a shorter

version of Republic, 420b-421c; the second of Republic, 520b, ff. ('We have created you
for the sake of the state, as well as for your own sake.') VurihQX passages on holism or
collectivism arQ: Republic, 424a, 449e, 462a, f.,Laws, 715b, 739c, 875a, f, 903b, 923b,
942a, f (See also notes 31/32 to chapter 6.) For the remark in this paragraph that Plato spoke
of the state as an organism, cp. Republic, 462c, and Laws, 964e, where the state is even
compared with the human body.

36 . Cp. Adam in his edition of the Republic, vol. II, 303; see also note 3 to chapter 4, and text.

37 . This point is emphasized by Adam, op. cit., note 546a, b7, and pp. 288 and 307. The next
quotation in this paragraph is Republic, 546a; cp. Republic, 485a/b, quoted in note 26 (1) to
chapter 3 and in text to note 33 to chapter 8.

38 . This is the main point in which I must deviate from Adam's interpretation. I believe Plato to
indicate that the philosopher king of Books VI- VII, whose main interest is in the things that
are not generated and do not decay {Rep., 485b; see the last note and the passages there
referred to), obtains with his mathematical and dialectical training the knowledge of the
Platonic Number and with it the means of arresting social degeneration and thereby the
decay of the state. See especially the text to note 39.

The quotations that follow in this paragraph are: 'keeping pure the race of the guardians';
cp. Republic, 460c, and text to note 34 to chapter 4. 'A city thus constituted, etc.': 546a.
The reference to Plato's distinction, in the field of mathematics, acoustics, and astronomy,
between rational knowledge and delusive opinion based upon experience or perception is to
Republic, 523a, ff, 525d, ff. (where 'calculation' is discussed; see especially 526a); 527d,
ff , 529b, f , 531a, ff (down to 534a and 537d); see also 509d-51 le.

39 . * I have been blamed for 'adding' the words (which I never placed in quotation marks)
'lacking a purely rational method'; but in view of Rep., 523a to 537d, it seems to me clear
that Plato's reference to 'perception' implies just this contrast.* The quotations in this
paragraph are from Rep., 546b, ff. Note that, throughout this passage, it is 'The Muses' who
speak through the mouth of 'Socrates'.

In my interpretation of the Story of the Fall and the Number, I have carefully avoided the
difficult, undecided, and perhaps undecidable problem of the computation of the Number

itself. (It may be undecidable since Plato may not have revealed his secret in full.) I confine
my interpretation entirely to the passages immediately before and after the one that describes
the Number itself; these passages are, I believe, clear enough. In spite of that, my
interpretation deviates, as far as I know, from previous attempts.

(1) The crucial statement on which I base my interpretation is (A) that the guardians work by
'calculation aided by perception'. Next to this, I am using the statements (B) that they will
not 'accidentally hit upon (the correct way of) obtaining good offspring'; (Q that they will
'blunder, and beget children in the wrong way'; (Z)) that they are 'ignorant' of such matters
(that is, such matters as the Number).

Regarding (A), it should be clear to every careful reader of Plato that such a reference to
perception is intended to express a criticism of the method in question. This view of the
passage under consideration (546a, f ) is supported by the fact that it comes so soon after the
passages 523a-537d (see the end of the last note), in which the opposition between pure
rational knowledge and opinion based on perception is one of the main themes, and in
which, more especially, the term 'calculation' is used in a context emphasizing the
opposition between rational knowledge and experience, while the term 'perception' (see also
511c/d) is given a definite technical and deprecatory sense. (Cp. also, for instance,
Plutarch's wording in his discussion of this opposition: in his Life ofMarcellus, 306.) I am
therefore of the opinion, and this opinion is enforced by the context, especially by {B), (Q,
{D), that Plato's remark {A) implies {a) that 'calculation based upon perception' is a poor
method, and {b) that there are better methods, namely the methods of mathematics and
dialectics, which yield pure rational knowledge. The point I am trying to elaborate is,
indeed, so plain, that I should not have troubled so much about it were it not for the fact that
even Adam has missed it. In his note to 546a, hi, he interprets 'calculation' as a reference to
the rulers' task of determining the number of marriages they should permit, and 'perception'
as the means by which they 'decide what couples should be joined, what children be reared,
etc.'. That is to say, Adam takes Plato's remark to be a simple description and not as a
polemic against the weakness of the empirical method. Accordingly, he relates neither the
statement (Q that the rulers will 'blunder' nor the remark {D) that they are 'ignorant' to the
fact that they use empirical methods. (The remark {B) that they will not 'hit' upon the right

method 'by accident' would simply be left untranslated, if we follow Adam's suggestion.)
In interpreting our passage we must keep it in mind that in Book VIII, immediately before
the passage in question, Plato returns to the question of the first city of Books II to IV. (See
Adam's notes to 449a, ff., and 543a, ff.) But the guardians of this city are neither
mathematicians nor dialecticians. Thus they have no idea of the purely rational methods
emphasized so much in Book VII, 525-534. In this connection, the import of the remarks on
perception, i.e. on the poverty of empirical methods, and on the resulting ignorance of the
guardians, is unmistakable.

The statement (B) that the rulers will not 'hit accidentally upon' (the correct way of)
'obtaining good offspring, or none at all', is perfectly clear in my interpretation. Since the
rulers have merely empirical methods at their disposal, it would be only a lucky accident if
they did hit upon a method whose determination needs mathematical or other rational
methods. Adam suggests (note to 546a, b7) the translation: 'none the more will they by
calculation together with perception obtain good offspring'; and only in brackets, he adds:
'lit. hit the obtaining of. I think that his failure to make any sense of the 'hit' is a
consequence of his failure to see the implications of (A).

The interpretation here suggested makes (Q and (D) perfectly understandable; and Plato's
remark that his Number is 'master over better or worse birth', fits in perfectly. It may be
remarked that Adam does not comment on (D), i.e. the ignorance, although such a comment
would be most necessary in view of his theory (note to 546d22) that 'the number is not a
nuptial ... number', and that it has no technical eugenic meaning.

That the meaning of the Number is indeed technical and eugenic is, I think, clear, if we
consider that the passage containing the Number is enclosed in passages containing
references to eugenic knowledge, or rather, lack of eugenic knowledge. Immediately before
the Number, (A), {B), (Q, occur, and immediately afterwards, {D), as well as the story of the
bride and bridegroom and their degenerate offspring. Besides, (Q before the Number and
(D) after the Number refer to each other; for (Q, the 'blunder', is connected with a reference
to 'begetting in the wrong way', and (Z)), the 'ignorance', is connected with an exactly
analogous reference, viz., 'uniting bride and bridegroom in the wrong manner'. (See also
next note.)

The last point in which I must defend my interpretation is my contention that those who
know the Number thereby obtain the power to influence 'better or worse births'. This does
not of course follow from Plato's statement that the Number itself has such power; for if
Adam's interpretation is right, then the Number regulates the births because it determines an
unalterable period after which degeneration is bound to set in. But I assert that Plato's
references to 'perception', to 'blunder' and to 'ignorance' as the immediate cause of the
eugenic mistakes would be pointless if he did not mean that, had they possessed an adequate
knowledge of the appropriate mathematical and purely rational methods, the guardians
would not have blundered. But this makes the inference inevitable that the Number has a
technical eugenic meaning, and that its knowledge is the key to the power of arresting
degeneration. (This inference also seems to me the only one compatible with all we know
about this type of superstition; all astrology, for instance, involves the apparently somewhat
contradictory conception that the knowledge of our fate may help us to influence this fate.)
I think that the rejection of the explanation of the Number as a secret breeding taboo arises
from a reluctance to credit Plato with such crude ideas, however clearly he may express
them. In other words, they arise from the tendency to idealize Plato.

(2) In this connection, I must refer to an article by A. E. Taylor, 'The Decline and Fall of The
State in Republic, VIIF (Mind, N.S. 48, 1939, pp. 23 ff.). In this article, Taylor attacks Adam
(in my opinion not justly), and argues against him: 'It is true, of course, that the decay of the
ideal State is expressly said in 546b to begin when the ruling class "beget children out of
due season" ... But this need not mean, and in my opinion does not mean, that Plato is
concerning himself here with problems of the hygiene of reproduction. The main thought is
the simple one that if, like everything of man's making, the State carries the seeds of its own
dissolution within it, this must, of course, mean that sooner or later the persons wielding
supreme power will be inferior to those who preceded them' (pp. 25 ff.). Now this
interpretation seems to me not only untenable, in view of Plato's fairly definite statements,
but also a typical example of the attempt to eliminate from Plato's writing such embarrassing
elements as racialism or superstition. Adam began by denying that the Number has technical
eugenic importance, and by asserting that it is not a 'nuptial number', but merely a
cosmological period. Taylor now continues by denying that Plato is here at all interested in

'problems of the hygiene of the reproduction'. But Plato's passage is thronged with allusions
to these problems, and Taylor himself admits two pages before (p. 23) that it is 'nowhere
suggested' that the Number 'is a determinant of anything but the "better and worse births'".
Besides, not only the passage in question but the whole of the Republic (and similarly the
Statesman, especially 310b, 310e) is simply full of emphasis upon the 'problems of the
hygiene of reproduction'. Taylor's theory that Plato, when speaking of the 'human creature'
(or, as Taylor puts it, of a 'thing of human generation'), means the state, and that Plato
wishes to allude to the fact that the state is the creation of a human lawgiver, is, I think,
without support in Plato's text. The whole passage begins with a reference to the things of
the sensible world in flux, to the things that are generated and that decay (see notes 37 and
38 to this chapter), and more especially, to living things, plants as well as animals, and to
their racial problems. Besides, a thing 'of man's making' would, if emphasized by Plato in
such a context, mean an 'artificial' thing which is inferior because it is 'twice removed' from
reality. (Cp. text to notes 20-23 to this chapter, and the whole Tenth Book of the Republic
down to the end of 608b.) Plato would never expect anybody to interpret the phrase 'a thing
of man's making' as meaning the perfect, the 'natural' state; rather he would expect them to
think of something very inferior (like poetry; cp. note 39 to chapter 4). The phrase which
Taylor translates 'thing of human generation' is usually simply translated by 'human
creature', and this removes all difficulties.

(3) Assuming that my interpretation of the passage in question is correct, a suggestion may
be made with the intention of connecting Plato's behef in the significance of racial
degeneration with his repeated advice that the number of the members of the ruling class
should be kept constant (advice that shows that the sociologist Plato understood the
unsettling effect of population increase). Plato's way of thinking, described at the end of the
present chapter (cp. text to note 45; and note 37 to chapter 8), especially the way he opposes
The One monarch. The Few timocrats, to The Many who are nothing but a mob, may have
suggested to him the belief that an increase in numbers is equivalent to a decline in quality.
(Something on these lines is indeed suggested in i\\QLaws, 710d.) If this hypothesis is
correct, then he may easily have concluded that population increase is interdependent with,
or perhaps even caused by, racial degeneration. Since population increase was in fact the

main cause of the instability and dissolution of the early Greek tribal societies (cp. notes 6,
7, and 63 to chapter 10, and text), this hypothesis would explain why Plato believed that the
'real' cause was racial degeneration (in keeping with his general theories of 'nature', and of
'change').

40 . (1) Or 'at the wrong time'. Adam insists (note to 546d22) that we must not translate 'at the
wrong time' but 'inopportunely'. I may remark that my interpretation is quite independent of
this question; it is fully compatible with 'inopportunely' or 'wrongly' or 'at the wrong time'
or 'out of due season'. (The phrase in question means, originally, something like 'contrary
to the proper measure'; usually it means 'at the wrong time'.)

* (2) Concerning Plato's remarks about 'mingling' and 'mixture', it may be observed that
Plato seems to have held a primitive but popular theory of heredity (apparently still held by
race-horse breeders) according to which the offspring is an even mixture or blend of the
characters or 'natures' of his two parents, and that their characters, or natures, or 'virtues'
(stamina, speed, etc., or, according to the Republic, the Statesman, and the Laws, gentleness,
fierceness, boldness, self-restraint, etc.) are mixed in him in proportion to the number of
ancestors (grandparents, great-grandparents, etc.) who possessed these characters.
Accordingly, the art of breeding is one of a judicious and scientific — mathematical or
harmonious — blending or mixing of natures. See especially the Statesman, where the royal
craft of statesman- ship or herdsmanship is likened to that of weaving, and where the kingly
weaver must blend boldness with self-restraint. (See also Republic, 375c-e, and 410c, ff.;
Laws, 731b; and notes 34 f. to chapter 4; 13 and 39 f. to chapter 8; and text.)*

41 . For Plato's law of social revolutions, see especially note 26 to chapter 4, and text.

42 . The term 'meta-biology' is used by G. B. Shaw in this sense, i.e. as denoting a kind of
religion. (Cp. the preface to Back to Methuselah; see also note 66 to chapter 12.)

43 . Cp. Adam's note to Republic, 547a 3.

44 . For a criticism of what I call 'psychologism' in the method of sociology, cp. text to note 19
to chapter 13 and chapter 14, where Mill's still popular methodological psychologism is
discussed.

45 . It has often been said that Plato's thought must not be squeezed into a 'system';
accordingly, my attempts in this paragraph (and not only in this paragraph) to show the
systematic unity of Plato's thought, which is obviously based on the Pythagorean table of
opposites, will probably arouse criticism. But I believe that such a systematization is a
necessary test of any interpretation. Those who believe that they do not need an
interpretation, and that they can 'know' a philosopher or his work, and take him just 'as he
was', or his work just 'as it was', are mistaken. They cannot but interpret both the man and
his work; but since they are not aware of the fact that they interpret (that their view is
coloured by tradition, temperament, etc.), their interpretation must necessarily be naive and
uncritical. (Cp. also chapter 10 (notes 1-5 and 56), and chapter 25.) A critical interpretation,
however, must take the form of a rational reconstruction, and must be systematic; it must try
to reconstruct the philosopher's thought as a consistent edifice. Cp. also what A. C. Ewing
says of Kant (A Short Commentary on Kant's Critique of Pure Reason , 1938, p. 4): '... we
ought to start with the assumption that a great philosopher is not likely to be always
contradicting himself, and consequently, wherever there are two interpretations, one of
which will make Kant consistent and the other inconsistent, prefer the former to the latter, if
reasonably possible.' This surely applies also to Plato, and even to interpretation in general.

Notes to Chapter Six

1. Cp. note 3 to chapter 4 and text, especially the end of that paragraph. Furthermore, note 2
(2) to that chapter. Concerning the formula Back to Nature, I wish to draw attention to the
fact that Rousseau was greatly influenced by Plato. Indeed, a glance at the Social Contract
will reveal a wealth of analogies especially with those Platonic passages on naturalism which
have been commented upon in the last chapter. Cp. especially note 14 to chapter 9. There is
also an interesting similarity hQtwQQn Republic, 591a, ff. (and Gorgias, 472e, ff., where a
similar idea occurs in an individualist context), and Rousseau's (and Hegel's) famous theory
of punishment. (Barker, Greek Political Theory, I, 388 ff., rightly emphasizes Plato's
influence upon Rousseau. But he does not see the strong element of romanticism in Plato;
and it is not generally appreciated that the rural romanticism which influenced both France
and Shakespeare's England through the medium of Sanazzaro's Arcadia, has its origin in
Plato's Dorian shepherds; cp. notes 11 (3), 26, and 32 to chapter 4, and note 14 to chapter
9.)

2. Cp. R. H. S. Crossman, P/flto To-Day (1937), 132; the next quotation is from p. 111. This
interesting book (like the works of Grote and T. Gomperz) has greatly encouraged me to
develop my rather unorthodox views on Plato, and to follow them up to their rather
unpleasant conclusions. For the quotations from C. E. M. Joad, cp. his Guide to the
Philosophy of Morals and Politics (1938), 661, and 660. I may also refer here to the very
interesting remarks on Plato's views on justice by C. L. Stevenson, in his article 'Persuasive
Definitions' {Mind, N.S., vol. 47, 1938, pp. 331 ff ).

3. Cp. Crossman, op. cit, 132 f The next two quotations are: Field, Plato, etc., 91; cp. similar
remarks in Barker, Greek Political Theory, etc. (see note 13 to chapter 5).

The idealization of Plato has played a considerable part in the debates on the genuineness of
the various works transmitted under his name. Many of them have been rejected by some of
the critics simply because they contained passages which did not fit in with their idealized
view of Plato. A rather naive as well as typical expression of this attitude can be found in
Davies' and Vaughan's 'Introductory Notice' (cp. the Golden Treasury edition of the

Republic, p. vi): 'Mr. Grote, in his zeal to take Plato down from his super-human pedestal,
may be somewhat too ready to attribute to him the compositions which have been judged
unworthy of so divine a philosopher.' It does not seem to occur to the writers that their
judgement of Plato should depend on what he wrote, and not vice versa; and that, if these
compositions are genuine and unworthy, Plato was not quite so divine a philosopher. (For
Plato's divinity, see also Simplicius mArist. de coelo, 32b44, 319al5, etc.)

4. The formulation of {a) emulates one of Kant's, who describes a just constitution as 'a
constitution that achieves the greatest possible freedom of human individuals by framing the
laws in such a way that the freedom of each can co-exist with that of all others' {Critique oj
Pure Reason'^, 373); see also his Theory of Right, where he says: 'Right (or justice) is the
sum total of the conditions which are necessary for everybody's free choice to co-exist with
that of everybody else, in accordance with a general law of liberty.' Kant believed that this
was the aim pursued by Plato in the Republic; from which we may see that Kant was one of
the many philosophers who either were deceived by Plato or who idealized him by imputing
to him their own humanitarian ideas. I may remark, in this connection, that Kant's ardent
liberalism is very little appreciated in English and American writings on political philosophy
(in spite of Hastie's Principles of Politics). He is only too often claimed to be a
forerunner of Hegel; but in view of the fact that he recognized in the romanticism of both
Herder and Fichte a doctrine diametrically opposed to his own, this claim is grossly unjust to
Kant, and there can be no doubt that he would have strongly resented it. It is the tremendous
influence of Hegelianism that led to a wide acceptance of this, I believe, completely
untenable claim.

5. Cp. text to notes 32/33 to chapter 5.

6. Cp. text to notes 25-29, chapter 5. The quotations in the present paragraph are: (1)
Republic, 433a; (2) Republic, 434a^; (3) Republic, 44 Id. With Plato's statement, in the first
quotation, 'we have repeated over and again', cp. also esp. Republic, 397e, where the theory
of justice is carefully prepared, and, of course. Republic, 369b-c, quoted in text to note 29,
chapter 5. See also notes 23 and 40 to the present chapter.

7. As pointed out in chapter 4 (note 18 and text, and note 29), Plato does not say much about

slaves in the Republic, although what he says is significant enough; but he dispels all doubts
about his attitude in the Laws (cp. especially G. R. Morrow's article in Mind, referred to in
note 29 to chapter 4).

8. The quotations are from Barker, Greek Political Theory, I, p. 180. Barker states (pp. 176 f)
that 'Platonic Justice' is 'social justice', and correctly emphasizes its holistic nature. He
mentions (178 f.) the possible criticism that this formula does 'not ... touch the essence of
what men generally mean by justice', i.e. 'a principle for dealing with the clash of wills', i.e.
justice as pertaining to individuals. But he thinks that 'such an objection is beside the point',
and that Plato's idea is 'not a matter of law' but 'a conception of social morality' (179); and
he goes on to assert that this treatment of justice corresponded, in a way, to the current
Greek ideas of justice: 'Nor was Plato, in conceiving justice in this sense, very far removed
from the current ideas in Greece.' He does not even mention that there exists some evidence
to the contrary, as here discussed in the next notes, and text.

9. Cp. Gorgias, 488e, ff.; the passage is more fully quoted and discussed in section VIII below
(see note 48 to this chapter, and text). For Aristotle's theory of slavery, see note 3 to chapter
II and text. The quotations from Aristotle in this paragraph are: (1) and (2) Nicom. Ethics, V,
4, 7, and 8; (3) Politics, III, 12, 1 (1282b; see also notes 20 and 30 to this chapter. The
passage contains a reference to the Nicom. Eth.); {A) Nicom. Ethics, V, 4, 9; (5) Politics, IV
(VI), 2, 1 (1317b).— In thQ Nicom. Ethics, V, 3, 7 (cp. also Pol, III, 9, 1; 1280a), Aristotle
also mentions that the meaning of 'justice' varies in democratic, oligarchic, and aristocratic
states, according to their different ideas of 'merit'. *(What follows here was first added in the
American edition of 1950.)

For Plato's views, in the Laws, on political justice and equality, see especially the passage
on the two kinds of equality {Laws, 757b-d) quoted below under (1). For the fact,
mentioned here in the text, that not only virtue and breeding but also wealth should count in
the distribution of honours and of spoils (and even size and good looks), see Laws, 744c,
quoted in note 20 (1) to the present chapter, where other relevant passages are also
discussed.

(1) In ihQLaws, 757b-d, Plato discusses 'two kinds of equality'. 'The one of these ... is

equality of measure, weight, or number [i.e. numerical or arithmetical equality]; but the
truest and best equality . . . distributes more to the greater and less to the smaller, giving each
his due measure, in accordance with nature ... By granting the greater honour to those who
are superior in virtue, and the lesser honour to those who are inferior in virtue and breeding,
it distributes to each what is proper, according to this principle of [rational] proportions .
And this is precisely what we shall call ""political justice'". And whoever may found a state
must make this the sole aim of his legislation this justice alone which, as stated, is
natural equality, and which is distributed, as the situation requires, to unequals.' This second
of the two equalities which constitutes what Plato here calls 'political justice' (and what
Aristotle calls 'distributive justice'), and which is described by Plato (and Aristotle) as
'proportionate equality' — the truest, best, and most natural equality — was later called
'geometrical' (Gorgias 508a; see also 465b/c, and Plutarch, Moralia 719b, f ), as opposed to
the lower and democratic ' arithmeticaV equality. On this identification, the remarks under
(2) may throw some hght.

(2) According to tradition (see Comm. in Arist. Graeca, pars XV, Berlin, 1897, p. 117, 29,
din&pars XVIII, Berlin, 1900, p. 118, 18), an inscription over the door of Plato's academy
said: 'Nobody untrained in geometry may enter my house!' I suspect that the meaning of
this is not merely an emphasis upon the importance of mathematical studies, but that it
means: 'Arithmetic (i.e. more precisely, Pythagorean number theory) is not enough; you
must know geometry!' And I shall attempt to sketch the reasons which make me believe that
the latter phrase adequately sums up one of Plato's most important contributions to science.
See also Addendum, p. 3 19.

As is now generally believed, the earher Pythagorean treatment of geometry adopted a
method somewhat similar to the one nowadays called 'arithmetization'. Geometry was
treated as part of the theory of integers (or 'natural' numbers, i.e. of numbers composed of
monads or 'indivisible units'; cp. Republic, 525e) and of their 'logoV, i.e. their 'rational'
proportions. For example, the Pythagorean rectangular triangles were those with sides in
such rational proportions. (Examples are 3:4:5; or 5:12:13.) A general formula ascribed to
Pythagoras is this: 2n + 1: 2n(n + 1): 2n (n + 1) + 1. But this formula, derived from the
'gnomo-n, is not general enough, as the example 8:15:17 shows. A general formula, from

which the Pythagorean can be obtained by putting m = n + 1, is this: m - n : 2mn: m + n
(where m > n). Since this formula is a close consequence of the so-called 'Theorem of
Pythagoras' (if taken together with that kind of Algebra which seems to have been known to
the early Pythagoreans), and since this formula was, apparently, not only unknown to
Pythagoras but even to Plato (who proposed, according to Proclus, another non-general
formula), it seems that the 'Theorem of Pythagoras' was not known, in its general form, to
either Pythagoras or even to Plato. (See for a less radical view on this matter T. Heath, A
History of Greek Mathematics, 1921, vol. I, pp. 80-2. The formula described by me as
'general' is essentially that of Euclid; it can be obtained from Heath's unnecessarily
complicated formula on p. 82 by first obtaining the three sides of the triangle and by
multiplying them by 2/mn, and then by substituting in the result m and n and p and q.)
The discovery of the irrationality of the square root of two (alluded to by Plato in the
Greater Hippias and in the Meno; cp. note 10 to chapter 8; see also Aristotle, Anal. Priora,
41a26 f ) destroyed the Pythagorean programme of 'arithmetizing' geometry, and with it, it
appears, the vitality of the Pythagorean Order itself. The tradition that this discovery was at
first kept secret is, it seems, supported by the fact that Plato still calls the irrational at first
'arrhe-tos\ i.e. the secret, the unmentionable mystery; cp. the Greater Hippias, 303b/c;
Republic, 546c. (A later term is 'the non-commensurable'; cp. Theaetetus, 147c, din& Laws,
820c. The term 'alogos' seems to occur first in Democritus, who wrote two books On
Illogical Lines and Atoms (or and Full Bodies) which are lost; Plato knew the term, as
proved by his somewhat disrespectful allusion to Democritus' title in the Republic, 534d, but
never used it himself as a synonym for 'arrhe-tos\ The first extant and indubitable use in
this sense is in Aristotle's Anal. Post., 76b9. See also T. Heath, op. cit., vol. I, pp. 84 f , 156
f. and my first Addendum on p. 3 19, below.)

It appears that the breakdown of the Pythagorean programme, i.e. of the arithmetical method
of geometry, led to the development of the axiomatic method of Euchd, that is to say, of a
new method which was on the one side designed to rescue, from the breakdown, what could
be rescued (including the method of rational proof), and on the other side to accept the
irreducibility of geometry to arithmetic. Assuming all this, it would seem highly probable
that Plato's role in the transition from the older Pythagorean method to that of Euclid was an

exceedingly important one — in fact, that Plato was one of the first to develop a specifically
geometrical method aiming at rescuing what could be rescued from, and at cutting the losses
of, the breakdown of Pythagoreanism. Much of this must be considered as a highly
uncertain historical hypothesis, but some confirmation may be found in Aristotle, Anal.
Post., 76b9 (mentioned above), especially if this passage is compared with ihQLaws, 818c,
895e (even and odd), and 819e/820a, 820c (incommensurable). The passage reads:
'Arithmetic assumes the meaning of "odd" and "even", geometry that of "irrational" ...'(Or
'incommensurable'; c^. Anal. Priora, 41a26 f, 50a37. See also Metaphysics, 983a20,
106 lb 1-3, where the problem of irrationality is treated as if it were the proprium of
geometry, and 1089a, where, as in Anal. Post., 76b40, there is an allusion to the 'square
foot' method of the Theaetetus, 147d.) Plato's great interest in the problem of irrationality is
shown especially in two of the passages mentioned above, the Theaetetus, 147c-148a, and
Laws, 819d-822d, where Plato declares that he is ashamed of the Greeks for not being alive
to the great problem of incommensurable magnitudes.

Now I suggest that the 'Theory of the Primary Bodies' (in the Timaeus, 53c to 62c, and
perhaps even down to 64a; see also Republic, 528b-d) was part of Plato's answer to the
challenge. It preserves, on the one hand, the atomistic character of Pythagoreanism — the
indivisible units ('monads') which also play a role in the school >of the Atomists — and it
introduces, on the other hand, the irrationalities (of the square roots of two and three) whose
admission into the world had become unavoidable. It does so by taking two of the offending
rectangular triangles — the one which is half of a square and incorporates the square root of
two, and the one which is half of an equilateral triangle and incorporates the square root of
three — as the units of which everything else is composed. Indeed, the doctrine that these two
irrational triangles are the limits (peras; cp. Meno, 75d-76a) or Forms of all elementary
physical bodies may be said to be one of the central physical doctrines of the Timaeus.
All this would suggest that the warning against those untrained in geometry (an allusion to it
may perhaps be found in the Timaeus, 54a) might have had the more pointed significance
mentioned above, and that it may have been connected with the belief that geometry is
something of higher importance than is arithmetic. (Cp. Timaeus, 31c.) And this, in turn,
would explain why Plato's 'proportionate equality', said by him to be something more

aristocratic than the democratic arithmetical or numerical equality, was later identified with
the 'geometrical equality', mentioned by Plato in the Gorgias, 508a (cp. note 48 to this
chapter), and why (for example by Plutarch, loc. cit.) arithmetic and geometry were
associated with democracy and Spartan aristocracy respectively — in spite of the fact, then
apparently forgotten, that the Pythagoreans had been as aristocratically minded as Plato
himself; that their programme had stressed arithmetic; and that 'geometrical', in their
language, is the name of a certain kind of numerical (i.e. arithmetical) proportion.
(3) In the Timaeus, Plato needs for the construction of the Primary Bodies an Elementary
Square and an Elementary Equilateral Triangle. These two, in turn, are composed of two
different kinds of sub -elementary trianglesdiAihQ half-square which incorporates 02, and the
half-equilateral which incorporates 03 respectively. The question why he chooses these two
sub -elementary triangles, instead of the Square and the Equilateral itself, has been much
discussed; and similarly a second question — see below under (4) — ^why he constructs his
Elementary Squares out of four sub-elementary half-squares instead of two, and the
Elementary Equilateral out of six sub-elementary half-equilaterals instead of two. (See the
first two of the three figures below.)

Concerning the first of these two questions, it seems to have been generally overlooked that
Plato, with his burning interest in the problem of irrationality, would not have introduced the
two irrationalities 02 and 03 (which he explicitly mentions in 54b) had he not been anxious
to introduce precisely these irrationalities as irreducible elements into his world . (Comford,
Plato's Cosmology , pp. 214 and 231 ff, gives a long discussion of both questions, but the
common solution which he offers for both — ^his 'hypothesis' as he calls it on p. 234 —
appears to me quite unacceptable; had Plato wanted to achieve some 'grading' like the one
discussed by Comford — ^note that there is no hint in Plato that anything smaller than what
Comford calls 'Grade B' exists — it would have been sufficient to divide into two the sides of
the Elementary Squares and Equilaterals of what Cornford calls 'Grade B', building each of
them up from four elementary figures which do not contain any irrationalities.) But if Plato
was anxious to introduce these irrationalities into the world, as the sides of sub-elementary
triangles of which everything else is composed, then he must have believed that he could, in
this way, solve a problem; and this problem, I suggest, was that of 'the nature of (the

commensurable and) the uncommensurable' {Laws, 820c). This problem, clearly, was
particularly hard to solve on the basis of a cosmology which made use of anything like
atomistic ideas, since irrationals are not multiples of any unit able to measure rationals; but if
the unit measures themselves contain sides in 'irrational ratios', then the great paradox might
be solved; for then they can measure both, and the existence of irrationals was no longer
incomprehensible or 'irrational'.

But Plato knew that there were more irrationalities than 02 and 03, for he mentions in the
Theaetetus the discovery of an infinite sequence of irrational square roots (he also speaks,
148b, of 'similar considerations concerning solids', but this need not refer to cubic roots but
could refer to the cubic diagonal, i.e. to 03); and he also mentions in the Greater Hippias
(303b-c; cp. Heath, op. cit, 304) the fact that by adding (or otherwise composing)
irrationals, other irrational numbers may be obtained (but also rational numbers — ^probably
an allusion to the fact that, for example, 2 minus 02 is irrational; for this number, plus 02,
gives of course a rational number). In view of these circumstances it appears that, if Plato
wanted to solve the problem of irrationality by way of introducing his elementary triangles,
he must have thought that all irrationals (or at least their multiples) can be composed by
adding up {a) units; (b) 02; (c) 03; and multiples of these. This, of course, would have been
a mistake, but we have every reason to believe that no disproof existed at the time; and the
proposition that there are only two kinds of atomic irrationalities — the diagonals of the
squares and of cubes — and that all other irrationalities are commensurable relative to {a) the
unit; {b) 02; and (c) 03, has a certain amount of plausibility in it if we consider the relative
character of irrationalities. (I mean the fact that we may say with equal justification that the
diagonal of a square with unit side is irrational or that the side of a square with a unit
diagonal is irrational. We should also remember that Euchd, in Book X, def 2, still calls all
incommensurable square roots 'commensurable by their squares'.) Thus Plato may well
have believed in this proposition, even though he could not possibly have been in the
possession of a valid proof of his conjecture. (A disproof was apparently first given by
Euclid.) Now there is undoubtedly a reference to some unproved conjecture in the very
passage in the Timaeus in which Plato refers to the reason for choosing his sub-elementary
triangles, for he writes {Timaeus, 53c/d): 'all triangles are derived from two, each having one

right angle of these triangles, one [the half-square] has on either side half of a right
angle, ... and equal sides; the other [the scalene] ... has unequal sides. These two we assume
as the first principles ... according to an account which combines likelihood [or likely
conjecture] with necessity [proof]. Principles which are still further removed than these are
known to heaven, and to such men as heaven favours.' And later, after explaining that there
is an endless number of scalene triangles, of which 'the best' must be selected, and after
explaining that he takes the half-equilateral as the best, Plato says (Timaeus, 54a/b; Comford
had to emend the passage in order to fit it into his interpretation; cp. his note 3 to p. 214):
'The reason is too long a story; but if anybody puts this matter to the test, and proves that it
has this property, then the prize is his, with all our good will.' Plato does not say clearly
what 'this property' means; it must be a (provable or refutable) mathematical property which
justifies that, having chosen the triangle incorporating 02, the choice of that incorporating
03 is 'the best'; and I think that, in view of the foregoing considerations, the property which
he had in mind was the conjectured relative rationality of the other irrationals, i.e. relative to
the unit, and the square roots of two and three.

Plalo'6 Elementary Square, composed of Plato's Elementary Equilateral, composed
(bur sub-elementary isosceles lectangular of six suk)-elementary scalene rectangular
triangles triangles

The rectangle ABCD has an area exceeding that of the drcJe by

less than 1 pro mille

(4) An additional reason for our interpretation, although one for which I do not find any
further evidence in Plato's text, may perhaps emerge from the following consideration. It is a
curious fact that 02 + 03 very nearly approximates p. (Cp. E. Borel, Space and Time, 1926,
1960, p. 216; my attention was drawn to this fact, in a different context, by W. Marinelh.)
The excess is less than 0.0047, i.e. less than 1 1/2 pro mille of p, and a better approximation
to 71 was hardly known at the time. A kind of explanation of this curious fact is that the
arithmetical mean of the areas of the circumscribed hexagon and the inscribed octagon is a
good approximation of the area of the circle. Now it appears, on the one hand, that Bryson
operated with the means of circumscribed and inscribed polygons (cp. Heath, op. cit., 224),
and we know, on the other hand (from the Greater Hippias), that Plato was interested in the
adding of irrationals, so that he must have added 02 + 03. There are thus two ways by

which Plato may have found out the approximate equation 02 + 03 ~ n, and the second of
these ways seems ahnost inescapable. It seems a plausible hypothesis that Plato knew of this
equation, but was unable to prove whether or not it was a strict equality or only an
approximation.

But if this is so, then we can perhaps answer the 'second question' mentioned above under
(3), i.e. the question why Plato composed his elementary square of four sub-elementary
triangles (half-squares) instead of two, and his elementary equilateral of six sub-elementary
triangles (half-equilaterals) instead of two. If we look at the first two of the figures above,
then we see that this construction emphasizes the centre of the circumscribed and inscribed
circles, and, in both cases, the radii of the circumscribed circle. (In the case of the
equilateral, the radius of the inscribed circle appears also; but it seems that Plato had that of
the circumscribed circle in mind, since he mentions it, in his description of the method of
composing the equilateral, as the 'diagonal'; cp. the Timaeus, 54d/e; cp. also 54b.)
If we now draw these two circumscribed circles, or more precisely, if we inscribe the
elementary square and equilateral into a circle with the radius r, then we find that the sum of
the sides of these two figures approximates rp; in other words, Plato's construction suggests
one of the simplest approximate solutions of the squaring of the circle, as our three figures
show. In view of all this, it may easily be the case that Plato's conjecture and his offer of 'a
prize with all our good will', quoted above under (3), involved not only the general problem
of the commensurability of the irrationalities, but also the special problem whether 02 + 03
squares the unit circle.

I must again emphasize that no direct evidence is known to me to show that this was in
Plato's mind; but if we consider the indirect evidence here marshalled, then the hypothesis
does perhaps not seem too far-fetched. I do not think that it is more so than Cornford's
hypothesis; and if true, it would give a better explanation of the relevant passages.
(5) If there is anything in our contention, developed in section (2) of this note, that Plato's
inscription meant 'Arithmetic is not enough; you must know geometry!' and in our
contention that this emphasis was connected with the discovery of the irrationality of the
square roots of 2 and 3, then this might throw some light on the Theory of Ideas, and on
Aristotle's much debated reports. It would explain why, in view of this discovery, the

Pythagorean view that things (forms, shapes) are numbers, and moral ideas ratios of
numbers, had to disappear — perhaps to be replaced, as in the Timaeus, by the doctrine that
the elementary forms, or limits ('peras'; cp. the passage from the Meno, 75d-76a, referred to
above), or shapes, or ideas of things, are triangles. But it would also explain why, one
generation later, the Academy could return to the Pythagorean doctrine. Once the shock
caused by the discovery of irrationality had worn off, mathematicians began to get used to
the idea that the irrationals must be numbers, in spite of everything, since they stand in the
elementary relations of greater or less to other (rational) numbers. This stage reached, the
reasons against Pythagoreanism disappeared, although the theory that shapes are numbers or
ratios of numbers meant, after the admission of irrationals, something different from what it
had meant before (a point which possibly was not fully appreciated by the adherents of the
new theory). See also Addendum I, p. 319.*

10 . The well-known representation of Themis as blindfolded, i.e. disregarding the suppliant's
station, and as carrying scales, i.e. as distributing equality or as balancing the claims and
interests of the contesting individuals, is a symbolic representation of the equalitarian idea of
justice. This representation cannot, however, be used here as an argument in favour of the
contention that this idea was current in Plato's time; for, as Prof E. H. Gombrich kindly
informs me, it dates from the Renaissance, and is inspired by a passage in Plutarch's De
Iside et Osiride, but not by classical Greece. *On the other hand, the representation of Dike
- with scales is classical (for such a representation, by Timochares, one generation after
Plato, see R. Eisler, The Royal Art of Astrology , 1946, pp. 100, 266, and Plate 5), and goes
back, probably, to Hesiod's identification of the constellation of Virgo with Dike - (in view
of the neighbouring scales). And in view of the other evidence given here to show the
association of Justice or Dike - with distributive equality, the scales are likely to mean the
same as in the case of Themis.*

11 . Republic, 440c-d. The passage concludes with a characteristic sheep-dog metaphor: 'Or
else, until he has been called back, and calmed down, by the voice of his own reason, like a
dog by his shepherd?' Cp. note 32 (2) to chapter 4.

12 . Plato, in fact, implies this when he twice presents Socrates as rather doubtful where he

should now look out for justice. (Cp. 368b, ff., 432b, ff.)

13 . Adam obviously overlooks (under the influence of Plato) the equalitarian theory in his note
to Republic, 33 le, ff., where he, probably correctly, says that 'the view that Justice consists
in doing good to friends and harm to enemies, is a faithful reflection of prevalent Greek
morality'. But he is wrong when he adds that this was 'an all but universal view'; for he
forgets his own evidence (note to 561e28), which shows that equality before the laws
('isonomy') 'was the proud claim of democracy'. See also notes 14 and 17 to this chapter.
One of the oldest (if not the oldest) reference to 'isonomy' is to be found in a fragment due
to Alcmaeon the physician (early fifth century; see Diels^, chapter 24, fr. 4); he speaks of
isonomy as a condition of health, and opposes it to 'monarchy' — the dominance of one
over many. Here we have a political theory of the body, or more precisely, of human
physiology. Cp. also notes 32 to chapter 5 and 59 to chapter 10.

14 . A passing reference to equality (similar to that in the Gorgias, 483c/d; see also this note,
below, and note 47 to this chapter) is made in Glaucon's speech in Republic, 359c; but the
issue is not taken up. (For this passage cp. note 50 to this chapter.)

In Plato's abusive attack upon democracy (see text to notes 14-18, chapter 4), three scornful
jocular references to equalitarianism occur. The first is a remark to the effect that democracy
'distributes equality to equals and to unequals alike' (558c; cp. Adam's note to 55 8c 16; see
also note 2 1 to this chapter); this is intended as an ironical criticism. (Equality has been
connected with democracy before, viz. in the description of the democratic revolution; cp.
Rep., 557a, quoted in the text to note 13, chapter 4.) The second characterizes the
'democratic man' as gratifying all his desires 'equally', whether they may be good or bad;
he is therefore called an 'equalitarianist' ('isonomist'), a punning allusion to the idea of
'equal laws for all' or 'equality before the law' ('isonomy'; cp. notes 13 and 17 to this
chapter). This pun occurs in Republic, 56 le. The way for it is well paved, since the word
'equal' has already been used three times {Rep., 561b and c) to characterize an attitude of
the man to whom all desires and whims are 'equal'. The third of these cheap cracks is an
appeal to the reader's imagination, typical even nowadays of this kind of propaganda: 'I
nearly forgot to mention the great role played by these famous "equal laws", and by this

famous "liberty", in the interrelations between men and women {Rep., 563b).
Besides the evidence of the importance of equalitarianism mentioned here (and in the text to
notes 9-10 to this chapter), we must consider especially Plato's own testimony in (1) the
Gorgias, where he writes (488e/489a; see also notes 47, 48, and 50 to the present chapter):
'Does not the multitude (i.e. here: the majority of the people) believe ... that justice is
equality?'

(2) The Menexenus (238e-239a; see note 19 to this chapter, and text). The passages in the
Laws on equality are later than \hQ Republic, and cannot be used as testimony for Plato's
awareness of the issue when writing the Republic; but see text to notes 9, 20 and 21 to this
chapter.

15 . Plato himself says, in connection with the third remark (563b; cp. the last note): 'Shall we
utter whatever rises to our lips?'; by which he apparently wishes to indicate that he does not
see any reason to suppress the joke.

16 . 1 believe thatThucydides' (II, 37 ff ) version of Pericles' oration can be taken as practically
authentic. In all likelihood, he was present when Pericles spoke; and in any case he would
have reconstructed it as faithfully as possible. There is much reason to believe that in those
times it was not extraordinary for a man to learn another's oration even by heart (cp. Plato's
Phaedrus), and a faithful reconstruction of a speech of this kind is indeed not as difficult as
one might think. Plato knew the oration, taking either Thucydides' version or another
source, which must have been extremely similar to it, as authentic. Cp. also notes 3 1 and
34/35 to chapter 10. (It may be mentioned here that early in his career, Pericles had made
rather dubious concessions to the popular tribal instincts and to the equally popular group
egoism of the people; I have in mind the legislation concerning citizenship in 451 B.C. But
later he revised his attitude towards these matters, probably under the influence of such men
as Protagoras.)

17 . Cp. Herodotus, III, 80, and especially the eulogy on 'isonomy', i.e. equality before the law
(III, 80, 6); see also notes 13 and 14 to this chapter. The passage from Herodotus, which
influenced Plato in other ways also (cp. note 24 to chapter 4), is one which Plato ridicules in
the Republic just as he ridicules Pericles' oration; cp. note 14 to chapter 4, and 34 to chapter

10.

18 . Even the naturalist Aristotle does not always refer to this naturalistic version of
equalitarianism; for instance, his formulation of the principles of democracy in Politics,
13 17b (cp. note 9 to this chapter, and text), is quite independent of it. But it is perhaps even
more interesting that in the Gorgias, in which the opposition of nature and convention plays
such an important role, Plato presents equalitarianism without burdening it with the dubious
theory of the natural equality of all men (see 488e/489a, quoted in note 14 to this chapter,
and 483d, 484a, and 508a).

19 . Cp. Menexenus, 238e/239a. The passage immediately follows a clear allusion to Pericles'
oration (viz., to the second sentence quoted in the text to note 17, in this chapter). — It seems
not improbable that the reiteration of the term 'equal birth' in that passage is meant as a
scornful allusion to the 'low' birth of Pericles' and Aspasia's sons, who were recognized as
Athenian citizens only by special legislation in 429 B.C. (Cp. E. Meyer, Gesch. d. Altertums,
vol. IV, p. 14, note to No. 392, and p. 323, No. 558.)

It has been held (even by Grote; cp. his Plato, III, p. 11) that Plato in the Menexenus, 'in his
own rhetorical discourse, ... drops the ironical vein', i.e. that the middle part of the
Menexenus, from which the quotation in the text is taken, is not meant ironically. But in
view of the quoted passage on equality, and in view of Plato's open scorn in the Republic
when he deals with this point (cp. note 14 to this chapter), this opinion seems to me
untenable. And it appears to me equally impossible to doubt the ironical character of the
passage immediately preceding the one quoted in the text where Plato says of Athens (cp.
238c/d): 'In this time as well as at present ... our government was always an aristocracy
though it is sometimes called a democracy, it is really an aristocracy, that is to say, a rule of
the best, with the approval of the many ...' In view of Plato's hatred of democracy, this
description needs no further comment. *Another undoubtedly ironical passage is 245c-d
(cp. note 48 to chapter 8) where 'Socrates' praises Athens for its consistent hatred of
foreigners and barbarians. Since elsewhere (in the Republic, 562e, f , quoted in note 48 to
chapter 8) in an attack on democracy — and this means Athenian democracy — Plato scorns
Athens because of its liberal treatment of foreigners, his praise in the Menexenus cannot be

anything but irony; again the liberality of Athens is ridiculed by a pro-Spartan partisan.
(Strangers were forbidden to reside in Sparta, by a law of Lycurgus; cp. Aristophanes' Birds,
1012.) It is interesting, in this connection, that in \hQ Menexenus (236a; cp. note 15 (1) to
chapter 10) where 'Socrates' is an orator who attacks Athens, Plato says of 'Socrates' that he
was a pupil of the oligarchic party leader Antiphon the Orator (of Rhamnus; not to be
confused with Antiphon the Sophist, who was an Athenian); especially in view of the fact
that 'Socrates' produces a parody of a speech recorded by Thucydides, who in fact seems to
have been a pupil of Antiphon whom he greatly admired.* For the genuineness of the
Menexenus, see also note 35 to chapter 10.

20. Laws, 757a; cp. the whole passage, 757a-e, of which the main parts are quoted above, in
note 9 (1) to this chapter.

(1) For what I call the standard objection against equalitarianism, cp. also Laws, 744b, ff. 'It
would be excellent if everybody could . . . have all things equal; but since this is impossible
...', etc. The passage is especially interesting in view of the fact that Plato is often described
as an enemy of plutocracy by many writers who judge him only by the Republic. But in this
important passage of the Laws (i.e. 744b, ff.) Plato demands that 'political offices, and
contributions, as well as distributions, should be proportional to the value of a citizen's
wealth. And they should depend not only on his virtue or that of his ancestors or on the size
of his body and his good looks, but also upon his wealth or his poverty. In this way, a man
will receive honours and offices as equitably as possible, i.e. in proportion to his wealth,
although according to a principle of unequal distribution.' *The doctrine of the unequal
distribution of honour and, we may assume, of spoils, in proportion to wealth and bodily
size, is probably a residue from the heroic age of conquest. The wealthy who are heavily
and expensively armed, and those who are strong, contribute more to the victory than the
others. (The principle was accepted in Homeric times, and it can be found, as R. Eisler
assures me, in practically all known cases of conquering war hordes.)* The basic idea of this
attitude, viz., that it is unjust to treat unequals equally, can be found, in a passing remark, as
early as the Protagoras, 337a (see also Gorgias, 508a, f, mentioned in notes 9 and 48 to
this chapter); but Plato did not make much use of the idea before writing the Laws.

(2) For Aristotle's elaboration of these ideas, cp. esp. his Politics, III, 9, 1, 1280a (see also

12 82b- 12 84b and 1301b29), where he writes: 'AH men cling to justice of some kind, but
their conceptions are imperfect, and do not embrace the whole Idea. For example, justice is
thought (by democrats) to be equality; and so it is, although it is not equality for all, but only
for equals. And justice is thought (by oligarchs) to be inequality; and so it is, although it is
not inequality for all, but only for unequals.' Cp. also Nichom. Eth., 1 13 lb27, 1 158b30 ff.

(3) Against all this anti-equalitarianism, I hold, with Kant, that it must be the principle of all
morality that no man should consider himself more valuable than any other person. And I
assert that this principle is the only one acceptable, considering the notorious impossibility
of judging oneself impartially. I am therefore at a loss to understand the following remark of
an excellent writer like Catlin {Principles, 314): 'There is something profoundly immoral in
the morality of Kant which endeavours to roll all personalities level ... and which ignores
the Aristotelian precept to render equals to equals and unequals to unequals. One man has
not socially the same rights as another . . . The present writer would by no means be prepared
to deny that ... there is something in "blood".' Now I ask: If there were something in
'blood', or in inequality of talents, etc.; and even if it were worth while to waste one's time
in assessing these differences; and even if one could assess them; why, then, should they be
made the ground of greater rights and not only of heavier duties? (Cp. text to notes 31/32 to
chapter 4.) I fail to see the profound immorality of Kant's equalitarianism. And I fail to see
on what Catlin bases his moral judgement, since he considers morals to be a matter of taste.
Why should Kant's 'taste' be profoundly immoral? (It is also the Christian 'taste'.) The only
reply to this question that I can think of is that Catlin judges from his positivistic point of
view (cp. note 18 (2) to chapter 5), and that he thinks the Christian and Kantian demand
immoral because it contradicts the positively enforced moral valuations of our contemporary
society.

(4) One of the best answers ever given to all these anti-equalitarianists is due to Rousseau. I
say this in spite of my opinion that his romanticism (cp. note 1 to this chapter) was one of
the most pernicious influences in the history of social philosophy. But he was also one of the
few really brilliant writers in this field. I quote one of his excellent remarks from the Origin
of Inequality (see, for instance, the Everyman edition of ihQ Social Contract, p. 174; the
itahcs are mine); and I wish to draw the reader's attention to the dignified formulation of the

last sentence of this passage. 'I conceive that there are two kinds of inequality among the
human species; one, which I call natural or physical because it is established by nature, and
consists in a difference of age, health, bodily strength, and the qualities of the mind or of the
soul; and another, which may be called moral or political inequality, because it depends on a
kind of convention, and is established, or at least authorized, by the consent of men. This
latter consists of the different privileges, which some men enjoy ...; such as that of being
more rich, more honoured, or more powerful ... It is useless to ask what is the source of
natural inequality, because that question is answered by the simple definition of the word.
Again, it is still more useless to inquire whether there is any essential connection between
the two inequalities; for this would be only asking, in other words, whether those who
command are necessarily better than those who obey, and whether strength of body or of
mind, or wisdom, or virtue, are always found ... in proportion to the power or wealth of a
man; a question fit perhaps to be discussed by slaves in the hearing of their masters, but
highly unbecoming to reasonable and free men in search of the truth.'

21 . Republic, 558c; cp. note 14 to this chapter (the first passage in the attack on democracy).

22 . Republic, 433b. Adam, who also recognizes that the passage is intended as an argument,
tries to reconstruct the argument (note to 43 3b 11); but he confesses that 'Plato seldom leaves
so much to be mentally supplied in his reasoning'.

23 . Republic, 433e/434a. — For a continuation of the passage, cp. text to note 40 to this chapter;
for the preparation for it in earlier parts of the Republic, see note 6 to this chapter. — ^Adam
comments on the passage which I call the 'second argument' as follows (note to 433e35):
'Plato is looking for a point of contact between his own view of Justice and the popular
judicial meaning of the word ...' (See the passage quoted in the next paragraph in the text.)
Adam tries to defend Plato's argument against a critic (Krohn) who saw, though perhaps not
very clearly, that there was something wrong with it.

24 . The quotations in this paragraph are from Republic, 430d, ff.

25 . This device seems to have been successful even with a keen critic such as Gomperz, who,
in his brief criticism {Greek Thinkers, Book V, II, 10; Germ, edn, vol. II, pp. 378/379), fails
to mention the weaknesses of the argument; and he even says, commenting upon the first

two books (V, II, 5; p. 368): 'An exposition follows which might be described as a miracle
of clarity, precision, and genuine scientific character adding that Plato's interlocutors
Glaucon and Adeimantus, 'driven by their burning enthusiasm ... dismiss and forestall all
superficial solutions'.

For my remarks on temperance, in the next paragraph of the text, see the following passage
from Davies' and Vaughan's 'Analysis' (cp. the Golden Treasury edition of the Republic, p.
xviii; italics mine): 'The essence of temperance is restraint. The essence of political
temperance lies in recognizing the right of the governing body to the allegiance and
obedience of the governed.'' This may show that my interpretation of Plato's idea of
temperance is shared (though expressed in a different terminology) by followers of Plato. I
may add that 'temperance', i.e. being satisfied with one's place, is a virtue in which all three
classes share, although it is the only virtue in which the workers may participate. Thus the
virtue attainable by the workers or money-earners is temperance; the virtues attainable by
the auxiliaries are temperance and courage; by the guardians, temperance, courage, and
wisdom.

The 'lengthy preface', also quoted in the next paragraph, is from Republic, 432b, ff.

26 . On the term 'collectivism', a terminological comment may be made here. What H. G. Wells
calls 'collectivism' has nothing to do with what I call by that name. Wells is an individualist
(in my sense of the word), as is shown especially by his Rights of Man and his Common
Sense of War and Peace, which contain very acceptable formulations of the demands of an
equalitarian individualism. But he also believes, rightly, in the rational planning of political
institutions, with the aim of furthering the freedom and the welfare of individual human
beings. This he calls 'collectivism'; to describe what I believe to be the same thing as his
'collectivism', I should use an expression like: 'rational institutional planning for freedom'.
This expression may be long and clumsy, but it avoids the danger that 'collectivism' may be
interpreted in the anti-individualistic sense in which it is often used, not only in the present
book.

27 . Laws, 903c; cp. text to note 35, chapter 5. The 'preamble' mentioned in the text ('But he
needs ... some words of counsel to act as a charm upon him', etc.) is Laws, 903b.

28 . There are innumerable places in the Republic and in the Laws where Plato gives a warning
against unbridled group egoism; cp., for instance, Republic, 519e, and the passages referred
to in note 4 1 to this chapter.

Regarding the identity often alleged to exist between collectivism and altruism, I may refer,
in this connection, to the very pertinent question of Sherrington, who asks in Man on His
Nature (p. 388): 'Are the shoal and the herd altruism?'

29. For Dickens' mistaken contempt of Parliament, cp. also note 23 to chapter 7.

30 . Aristotle's Politics, III, 12, 1 (1282b); cp. text to notes 9 and 20, to this chapter. (Cp. also
Aristotle's remark in Pol, III, 9, 3, 1280a, to the effect that justice pertains to persons as well
as to things.) With the quotation from Pericles later in this paragraph, cp. text to note 16 to
this chapter, and to note 31 to chapter 10.

31 . This remark is from a passage {Rep., 519e, f ) quoted in the text to note 35 to chapter 5.

32. The important passages from the Laws quoted (1) in the present and (2) in the next
paragraph are:

{\)Laws, 739c, ff. Plato refers here to \hQ Republic, and apparently especially to Republic,
462a ff, 424a, and 449e. (A list of passages on collectivism and holism can be found in
note 35 to chapter 5. On his communism, see note 29 (2) to chapter 5 and other places there
mentioned.) The passage here quoted begins, characteristically, with a quotation of the
Pythagorean maxim 'Friends have in common all things they possess'. Cp. note 36 and text;
also the 'common meals' mentioned in note 34.

(2) Laws, 942a, f ; see next note. Both these passages are referred to as anti- individualistic
by Gomperz {op. cit., vol. II, 406). See also Laws, 807d/e.

33 . Cp. note 42, chapter 4, and text. — The quotation which follows in the present paragraph is
Laws, 942a, f (see the preceding note).

We must not forget that military education in the Laws (as in the Republic) obligatory for all
those allowed to carry arms, i.e. for all citizens — for all those who have anything like civil
rights (cp. Laws, 753b). All others are 'banausic', if not slaves (cp. Laws, 741e and 743d,
and note 4 to chapter 11).

It is interesting that Barker, who hates militarism, believes that Plato held similar views

{Greek Political Theory, 298-301). It is true that Plato did not eulogize war, and that he even
spoke against war. But many militarists have talked peace and practised war; and Plato's
state is ruled by the military caste, i.e. by the wise ex-soldiers. This remark is as true for the
Laws (cp. 753b) as it is for the Republic.

34. Strictest legislation about meals — especially 'common meals' — and also about drinking
habits plays a considerable part in Plato; cp., for instancQ, Republic, 416e, 458c, 547d/e;
Laws, 625e, 633a (where the obligatory common meals are said to be instituted with a view
to war), 762b, 780-783, 806c, f, 839c, 842b. Plato always emphasizes the importance of
common meals, in accordance with Cretan and Spartan customs. Interesting also is the
preoccupation of Plato's uncle Critias with these matters. (Cp. Diels^, Critias, fir. 33.)

With the allusion to the anarchy of the 'wild beasts', at the end of the present quotation, cp.
also Republic, 563c.

35 . Cp. E. B. England's edition of the Laws, vol. I, p. 514, note to 739b8 ff. The quotations
from Barker are from op. cit.; pp. 149 and 148. Countless similar passages can be found in
the writings of most Platonists. See however Sherrington's remark (cp. note 28 to this
chapter) that it is hardly correct to say that a shoal or a herd is inspired by altruism. Herd
instinct and tribal egoism, and the appeal to these instincts, should not be mixed up with
unselfishness.

36 . C^. Republic, 424a, 449c; Phaedrus, 279c; Laws, 739c; see note 32 (1). (Cp. also Lysis,
207c, and Euripides, Orest., 725.) For the possible connection of this principle with early
Christian and Marxian communism, see note 29 (2) to chapter 5.

Regarding the individualistic theory of justice and injustice of the Gorgias, cp. for instance
the examples given in the Gorgias, 468b, ff., 508d/e. These passages probably still show
Socratic influence (cp. note 56 to chapter 10). Socrates' individualism is most clearly
expressed in his famous doctrine of the self-sufficiency of the good man; a doctrine which is
mentioned by Plato in the Republic (387d/e) in spite of the fact that it flatly contradicts one
of the main theses of the Republic, viz., that the state alone can be self-sufficient. (Cp.
chapter 5, note 25, and the text to that and the following notes.)

37 . Republic, 368b/c.

38 . Cp. especially Republic, 344a, ff.

39. Cp. Laws, 923b.

40 . Republic, 434a-c. (Cp. also text to note 6 and note 23 to this chapter, and notes 27 (3) and
31 to chapter 4.)

41 . Republic, 466b/c. Cp. also ih^Laws, 715b/c, and many other passages against the anti-
hoHstic misuse of class prerogatives. See also note 28 to this chapter, and note 25 (4) to
chapter 7.

42 . The problem here alluded to is that of the 'paradox of freedom'; cp. note 4 to chapter 7. —
For the problem of state control in education, see note 13 to chapter 7.

43 . Cp. Aristotle, Politics, III, 9, 6 ff. (1280a). Cp. Burke, French Revolution (edn 1815; vol. V,
184; the passage is aptly quoted by Jowett in his notes to the passage of Aristotle's; see his
edition of Aristotle's Politics, vol. II, 126).

The quotation from Aristotle later in the paragraph is op. cit.. Ill, 9, 8, (1280b).
Field, for instance, proffers a similar criticism (in his Plato and His Contemporaries, 117):
'There is no question of the city and its laws exercising any educative effect on the moral
character of its citizens.' However, Green has clearly shown (in his Lectures on Political
Obligation) that it is impossible for the state to enforce morality by law. He would certainly
have agreed with the formula: 'We want to moralize politics, and not to politicize morals.'
(See end of this paragraph in the text.) Green's view is foreshadowed by Spinoza {Tract.
Theol. Pol, chapter 20): 'He who seeks to regulate everything by law is more likely to
encourage vice than to smother it.'

44 . I consider the analogy between civil peace and international peace, and between ordinary
crime and international crime, as fundamental for any attempt to get international crime
under control. For this analogy and its limitations as well as for the poverty of the historicist
method in such problems, cp. note 7 to chapter 9.

* Among those who consider rational methods for the establishment of international peace as a
Utopian dream, H. J. Morgenthau may be mentioned (cp. his book. Scientific Man versus

Power Politics, English edition, 1947). Morgenthau's position can be summed up as that of a
disappointed historicist. He realizes that historical predictions are impossible; but since he
assumes (with, for example, the Marxists) that the field of applicability of reason (or of the
scientific method) is limited to the field of predictability, he concludes from the
unpredictability of historical events that reason is inapplicable to the field of international
affairs.

The conclusion does not follow, because scientific prediction and prediction in the sense of
historical prophecy are not the same. (None of the natural sciences, with practically the sole
exception of the theory of the solar system, attempts anything resembling historical
prophecy.) The task of the social sciences is not to predict 'trends' or 'tendencies' of
development, nor is this the task of the natural sciences. 'The best the so-called "social laws"
can do is exactly the best the so-called "natural laws" can do, namely, to indicate certain
trends . . . Which conditions will actually occur and help one particular trend to materialize,
neither the natural nor the social sciences are able to foretell. Nor are they able to forecast
with more than a high degree of probability that in the presence of certain conditions a
certain trend will materialize', writes Morgenthau (pp. 120 ff; italics mine). But the natural
sciences do not attempt the prediction of trends, and only historicists believe that they, and
the social sciences, have such aims. Accordingly, the realization that these aims are not
realizable will disappoint only the historicist. 'Many ... political scientists, however, claim
that they can . . . actually . . . predict social events with a high degree of certainty. In fact, they
... are the victims of ... delusions', writes Morgenthau. I certainly agree; but this merely
shows that historicism is to be repudiated. To assume, however, that the repudiation of
historicism means the repudiation of rationahsm in politics reveals a fundamentally
historicist prejudice — the prejudice, namely, that historical prophecy is the basis of any
rational politics. (I have mentioned this view as characteristic of historicism in the beginning
of chapter 1 .)

Morgenthau ridicules all attempts to bring power under the control of reason, and to
suppress war, as springing from a rationalism and scientism which is inapplicable to society
by its very essence. But clearly, he proves too much. Civil peace has been established in
many societies, in spite of that essential lust for power which, according to Morgenthau's

theory, should prevent it. He admits the fact, of course, but does not see that it destroys the
theoretical basis of his romantic contentions.*

45 . The quotation is from Aristotle's Politics, III, 9, 8, (1280).

(1) 1 say in the text 'furthermore' because I believe that the passages alluded to in the text,
i.Q. Politics, III, 9, 6, and III, 9, 12, are likely to represent Lycophron's views also. My
reasons for believing this are the following. From III, 9, 6, to III, 9, 12, Aristotle is engaged
in a criticism of the doctrine I have called protectionism. In III, 9, 8, quoted in the text, he
directly attributes to Lycophron a concise and perfectly clear formulation of this doctrine.
From Aristotle's other references to Lycophron (see (2) in this note), it is probable that
Lycophron's age was such that he must have been, if not the first, at least one of the first to
formulate protectionism. Thus it seems reasonable to assume (although it is anything but
certain) that the whole attack upon protectionism, i.e. Ill, 9, 6, to III, 9, 12, is directed
against Lycophron, and that the various but equivalent formulations of protectionism are all
his. (It may also be mentioned that Plato describes protectionism as a 'common view' in
Rep., 358c.)

Aristotle's objections are all intended to show that the protectionist theory is unable to
account for the local as well as the internal unity of the state. It overlooks, he holds (III, 9,
6), the fact that the state exists for the sake of the good life in which neither slaves nor beasts
can have a share (i.e. for the good life of the virtuous landed proprietor, for everybody who
earns money is by his 'banausic' occupation prevented from citizenship). It also overlooks
the tribal unity of the 'true' state which is (III, 9, 12) 'a community of well-being in families,
and an aggregation of families, for the sake of a complete and self-sufficient life ...
established among men who live in the same place, and who intermarry'.

(2) For Lycophron's equalitarianism, see note 13 to chapter 5. — Jowett (in Aristotle's
Politics, II, 126) describes Lycophron as 'an obscure rhetorician'; but Aristotle must have
thought otherwise, since in his extant writings he mentions Lycophron at least six times. (In
Pol., Rhet., Fragm., Metaph., Phys., Soph. El.)

It is unlikely that Lycophron was much younger than Alcidamas, his colleague in Gorgias'
school, since his equalitarianism would hardly have attracted so much attention if it had
become known after Alcidamas had succeeded Gorgias as the head of the school.

Lycophron's epistemological interests (mentioned by Aristotle in Metaphysics, 1045b9, and
Physics, 185b27) are also a case in point, since they make it probable that he was a pupil of
Gorgias' earlier period, i.e. before Gorgias confined himself practically exclusively to
rhetoric. Of course, any opinion on Lycophron must be highly speculative, owing to the
scanty information we have.

46 . Barker, Greek Political Theory, I, p. 160. For Hume's criticism of the historical version of
the contract theory, see note 43 to chapter 4. Concerning Barker's further contention (p.
161) that Plato's justice, as opposed to that of the contract theory, is not 'something
external', but rather, internal to the soul, I may remind the reader of Plato's frequent
recommendations of most severe sanctions by which justice may be achieved; he always
recommends the use of 'persuasion and force' (cp. notes 5, 10 and 18 to chapter 8). On the
other hand, some modem democratic states have shown that it is possible to be liberal and
lenient without increasing criminality.

With my remark that Barker sees in Lycophron (as I do) the originator of the contract theory,
cp. Barker, op. cit., p. 63: 'Protagoras did not anticipate the Sophist Lycophron in founding
the doctrine of Contract.' (Cp. with this the text to note 27 to chapter 5.)

47. Cp. Gorgias, 483b, f.

48. Cp. Gorgias, 488e-489b; see also 527b.

From the way in which Socrates replies here to Callicles, it seems possible that the historical
Socrates (cp. note 56 to chapter 10) may have countered the arguments in support of a
biological naturalism of Pindar's type by arguing like this: If it is natural that the stronger
should rule, then it is also natural that equality should rule, since the multitude which shows
its strength by the fact that it rules demands equality. In other words, he may have shown the
empty, ambiguous character of the naturalistic demand. And his success might have inspired
Plato to proffer his own version of naturalism.

I do not wish to assert that Socrates' later remark (508a) on 'geometrical equality' must
necessarily be interpreted as anti-equalitarian, i.e. why it must mean the same as the
'proportionate equity' of the Laws, 744b, ff., and 757a-e (cp. notes 9 and 20 (1) to this
chapter). This is what Adam suggests in his second note to Republic, 558cl5. But perhaps

there is something in his suggestion; for the 'geometrical' equahty of the Gorgias, 508a,
seems to allude to Pythagorean problems (cp. note 56 (6) to chapter 10; see also the remarks
in that note on the Cratylus) and may well be an allusion to 'geometrical proportions'.

49. Republic, 358e. Glaucon disclaims the authorship in 358c. In reading this passage, the
reader's attention is easily distracted by the issue 'nature versus convention', which plays a
major role in this passage as well as in Callicles' speech in the Gorgias. However, Plato's
major concern in the Republic is not to defeat conventionalism, but to denounce the rational
protectionist approach as selfish. (That the conventionalist contract theory was not Plato's
main enemy emerges from notes 27-28 to chapter 5, and text.)

50. If we compare Plato's presentation of protectionism in the Republic with that in the
Gorgias, then we fmd that it is indeed the same theory, although in the Republic much less
emphasis is laid on equality. But even equality is mentioned, although only in passing, viz.,
in Republic, 359c: 'Nature by conventional law, is twisted round and compelled by force
to honour equality.' This remark increases the similarity with Callicles' speech. (See
Gorgias, esp. 483c/d.) But as opposed to the Gorgias, Plato drops equality at once (or
rather, he does not even take the issue up) and never returns to it; which makes it only the
more obvious that he was at pains to avoid the problem. Instead, Plato revels in the
description of the cynical egoism which he presents as the only source from which
protectionism springs. (For Plato's silence on equalitarianism, cp. especially note 14 to this
chapter, and text.) A. E. Taylor, Plato: The Man and His Work (1926), p. 268, contends that
while Callicles starts from 'nature', Glaucon starts from 'convention'.

51 . Cp. Republic, 359a; my further allusions in the text are to 359b, 360d, ff.; see also 358c.
For the 'rubbing in', cp. 359a-362c, and the elaboration down to 367e. Plato's description
of the nihilistic tendencies of protectionism fills altogether nine pages in the Everyman
edition of the Republic; an indication of the significance Plato attached to it. (There is a
parallel passage in the Laws, 890a, f )

52 . When Glaucon has finished his presentation, Adeimantus takes his place (with a very
interesting and indeed most pertinent challenge to Socrates to criticize utilitarianism), yet not
until Socrates has stated that he thinks Glaucon 's presentation an excellent one (362d).

Adeimantus' speech is an amendment of Glaucon's, and it reiterates the claim that what I
call protectionism derives from Thrasymachus' nihilism (see especially 367a, ff). After
Adeimantus, Socrates himself speaks, full of admiration for Glaucon as well as Adeimantus,
because their belief in justice is unshaken in spite of the fact that they presented the case for
injustice so excellently, i.e. the theory that it is good to inflict injustice as long as one can
'get away with it'. By emphasizing the excellence of the arguments proffered by Glaucon
and Adeimantus, 'Socrates' (i.e. Plato) implies that these arguments are a fair presentation of
the views discussed; and he ultimately states his own theory, not in order to show that
Glaucon's representation needs emendation, but, as he emphasizes, in order to show that,
contrary to the opinions of the protectionists, justice is good, and injustice evil. (It should not
be forgotten — cp. note 49 to this chapter — that Plato's attack is not directed against the
contract theory as such but solely against protectionism; for the contract theory is soon
{Rep., 369b-c; cp. text to note 29 to chapter 5) adopted by Plato himself, at least partially;
including the theory that people 'gather into settlements' because 'every one expects in this
way to further his own interests'.)

It must also be mentioned that the passage culminates with the impressive remark of
'Socrates' quoted in the text to note 37 to this chapter. This shows that Plato combats
protectionism only by presenting it as an immoral and indeed unholy form of egoism.
Finally, in forming our judgement on Plato's procedure, we must not forget that Plato likes
to argue against rhetoric and sophistry; and indeed, that he is the man who by his attacks on
the 'Sophists' created the bad associations connected with that word. I believe that we
therefore have every reason to censor him when he himself makes use of rhetoric and
sophistry in place of argument. (Cp. also note 10 to chapter 8.)

53 . We may take Adam and Barker as representative of the Platonists mentioned here. Adam
says (note to 358e, ff.) of Glaucon that he resuscitates Thrasymachus' theory, and he says
(note to 373a, ff.) of Thrasymachus that his is 'the same theory which is afterwards (in 358e,
ff.) represented by Glaucon'. Barker says {op. cit., 159) of the theory which I call
protectionism and which he calls 'pragmatism', that it is 'in the same spirit as
Thrasymachus'.

54 . That the great sceptic Carneades beheved in Plato's presentation can be seen from Cicero
{De Republica, III, 8; 13; 23), where Glaucon's version is presented, practically without
alteration, as the theory adopted by Carneades. (See also text to notes 65 and 66 and note 56
to chapter 10.)

In this connection I may express my opinion, that one can find a great deal of comfort in the
fact that anti-humanitarians have always found it necessary to appeal to our humanitarian
sentiments; and also in the fact that they have frequently succeeded in persuading us of their
sincerity. It shows that they are well aware that these sentiments are deeply rooted in most of
us, and that the despised 'many' are too good, too candid, and too guileless, rather than too
bad; while they are even ready to be told by their often unscrupulous 'betters' that they are
unworthy and materialistically minded egoists who only want to 'fill their bellies like the
beasts'.

Notes to Chapter Seven

The motto to this chapter is from the Laws, 690b. (Cp. note 28 to chapter
5.)

L Cp. text to notes 2/3 to chapter 6.

2. Similar ideas have been expressed by J. S. Mill; thus he writes in his Logic (1st edn, p. 557
f.): 'Although the actions of rulers are by no means wholly determined by their selfish
interests, it is as security against those selfish interests that constitutional checks are
required.' Similarly he writes in The Subjection of Women (p. 251 of the Everyman edition;
italics mine): 'Who doubts that there may be great goodness, and great happiness and great
affection, under the absolute government of a good man? Meanwhile laws and institutions
require to be adapted, not to good men, but to bad Much as I agree with the sentence in
italics, I feel that the admission contained in the first part of the sentence is not really called
for. (Cp. especially note 25 (3) to this chapter.) A similar admission may be found in an
excellent passage of his Representative Government (1861; see especially p. 49) where Mill
combats the Platonic ideal of the philosopher king because, especially if his rule should be a
benevolent one, it will involve the 'abdication' of the ordinary citizen's will, and ability, to
judge a policy.

It may be remarked that this admission of J. S. Mill's was part of an attempt to resolve the
conflict between James Mill's Essay on Government and 'Macaulay's famous attack' on it
(as J. S. Mill calls it; cp. his Autobiography, chapter V, One Stage Onward; 1st edition, 1873,
pp. 157-61; Macaulay's criticisms were first published in tht Edinburgh Review, March
1829, June 1829, and October 1829). This conflict played a great role in J. S. Mill's
development; his attempt to resolve it determined, indeed, the ultimate aim and character of
his Logic ('the principal chapters of what I afterwards pubHshed on the Logic of the Moral
Sciences') as we hear from his Autobiography.

The resolution of the conflict between his father and Macaulay which J. S. Mill proposes is
this. He says that his father was right in believing that politics was a deductive science, but
wrong in believing that 'the type of deduction (was) that of ... pure geometry', while

Macaulay was right in believing that it was more experimental than this, but wrong in
believing that it was like 'the purely experimental method of chemistry'. The true solution
according to J. S. Mill {Autobiography, pp. 159 ff.) is this: the appropriate method of politics
is the deductive one of dynamics — a method which, he believes, is characterized by the
summation of effects as exemplified in the 'principle of the Composition of Forces'. (That
this idea of J. S. Mill survived at any rate down to 1937 is shown in my The Poverty oj
Historicism, p. 63.)

I do not think that there is very much in this analysis (which is based, apart from other
things, upon a misinterpretation of dynamics and chemistry). Yet so much would seem to be
defensible.

James Mill, like many before and after him, tried to 'deduce the science of government from
the principles of human nature' as Macaulay said (towards the end of his first paper), and
Macaulay was right, I think, to describe this attempt as 'utterly impossible'. Also,
Macaulay's method could perhaps be described as more empirical, in so far as he made full
use of historical facts for the purpose of refuting J. Mill's dogmatic theories. But the method
which he practised has nothing to do with that of chemistry or with that which J. S. Mill
believed to be the method of chemistry (or with the Baconian inductive method which,
irritated by J. Mill's syllogisms, Macaulay praised). It was simply the method of rejecting
invalid logical demonstrations in a field in which nothing of interest can be logically
demonstrated, and of discussing theories and possible situations, in the light of alternative
theories and of alternative possibilities, and of factual historical evidence. One of the main
points at issue was that J. Mill believed that he had demonstrated the necessity for monarchy
and aristocracy to produce a rule of terror — a point which was easily refuted by examples. J.
S. Mill's two passages quoted at the beginning of this note show the influence of this
refutation.

Macaulay always emphasized that he only wanted to reject Mill's proofs, and not to
pronounce on the truth or falsity of his alleged conclusions. This alone should have made it
clear that he did not attempt to practise the inductive method which he praised.

3. Cp. for instance E. Meyer's remark {Gesch. d. Altertums, V, p. 4) that 'power is, in its very
essence, indivisible'.

4. Cp. Republic, 562b-565e. In the text, I am alluding especially to 562c: 'Does not the
excess' (of liberty) 'bring men to such a state that they badly want a tyranny?' Cp.
furthermore 563d/e: 'And in the end, as you know well enough, they just do not take any
notice of the laws, whether written or unwritten, since they want to have no despot of any
kind over them. This then is the origin out of which tyranny springs.' (For the beginning of
this passage, see note 19 to chapter 4.)

Other remarks of Plato's on the paradoxes of freedom and of democracy are: Republic,
564a: 'Then too much freedom is liable to change into nothing else but too much slavery, in
the individual as well as in the state ... Hence it is reasonable to assume that tyranny is
enthroned by no other form of government than by democracy. Out of what I believe is the
greatest possible excess of freedom springs what is the hardest and most savage form of
slavery.' See also Republic, 565c/d: 'And are not the common people in the habit of making
one man their champion or party leader, and of exalting his position and making him
great?' — 'This is their habit.' — 'Then it seems clear that whenever a tyranny grows up, this
democratic party-leadership is the origin from which it springs.'

The so-called paradox of freedom is the argument that freedom in the sense of absence of
any restraining control must lead to very great restraint, since it makes the bully free to
enslave the meek. This idea is, in a slightly different form, and with a very different
tendency, clearly expressed by Plato.

Less well known is the paradox of tolerance: unlimited tolerance must lead to the
disappearance of tolerance. If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are
intolerant, if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the
intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them. — In this formulation,
I do not imply, for instance, that we should always suppress the utterance of intolerant
philosophies; as long as we can counter them by rational argument and keep them in check
by public opinion, suppression would certainly be most unwise. But we should claim the
right to suppress them if necessary even by force; for it may easily turn out that they are not
prepared to meet us on the level of rational argument, but begin by denouncing all
argument; they may forbid their followers to Hsten to rational argument, because it is
deceptive, and teach them to answer arguments by the use of their fists or pistols. We should

therefore claim, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant. We should
claim that any movement preaching intolerance places itself outside the law, and we should
consider incitement to intolerance and persecution as criminal, in the same way as we should
consider incitement to murder, or to kidnapping, or to the revival of the slave trade, as
criminal.

Another of the less well-known paradoxes is the paradox of democracy, or more precisely,
of majority-rule; i.e. the possibility that the majority may decide that a tyrant should rule.
That Plato's criticism of democracy can be interpreted in the way sketched here, and that the
principle of majority-rule may lead to self-contradictions, was first suggested, as far as I
know, by Leonard Nelson (cp. note 25 (2) to this chapter). I do not think, however, that
Nelson, who, in spite of his passionate humanitarianism and his ardent fight for freedom,
adopted much of Plato's political theory, and especially Plato's principle of leadership, was
aware of the fact that analogous arguments can be raised against all the different particular
forms of the theory of sovereignty.

All these paradoxes can easily be avoided if we frame our political demands in the way
suggested in section ii of this chapter, or perhaps in some such manner as this. We demand a
government that rules according to the principles of equalitarianism and protectionism; that
tolerates all who are prepared to reciprocate, i.e. who are tolerant; that is controlled by, and
accountable to, the public. And we may add that some form of majority vote, together with
institutions for keeping the public well informed, is the best, though not infallible, means of
controlling such a government. (No infallible means exist.) Cp. also chapter 6, the last four
paragraphs in the text prior to note 42; text to note 20 to chapter 17; note 7 (4) to chapter 24;
and note 6 to the present chapter.

5. Further remarks on this point will be found in chapter 19, below.

6. Cp. passage (7) in note 4 to chapter 2.

The following remarks on the paradoxes of freedom and of sovereignty may possibly appear
to carry the argument too far; since, however, the arguments discussed in this place are of a
somewhat formal character, it may be just as well to make them more watertight, even if it
involves something approaching hair-splitting. Moreover, my experience in debates of this

kind leads me to expect that the defenders of the leader-principle, i.e. of the sovereignty of
the best or the wisest, may actually offer the following counter-argument: (a) if 'the wisest'
should decide that the majority should rule, then he was not really wise. As a further
consideration they may support this by the assertion (b) that a wise man would never
establish a principle which might lead to contradictions, like that of majority-rule. My reply
to (b) would be that we need only to alter this decision of the 'wise' man in such a way that
it becomes free from contradictions. (For instance, he could decide in favour of a
government bound to rule according to the principle of equalitarianism and protectionism,
and controlled by majority vote. This decision of the wise man would give up the
sovereignty-principle; and since it would thereby become free from contradictions, it may be
made by a 'wise' man. But of course, this would not free the principle that the wisest should
rule from its contradictions. The other argument, namely (a), is a different matter. It comes
dangerously close to defining the 'wisdom' or 'goodness' of a politician in such a way that
he is called 'wise' or 'good' only if he is determined not to give up his power. And indeed,
the only sovereignty-theory which is free from contradictions would be the theory which
demands that only a man who is absolutely determined to cling to his power should rule.
Those who believe in the leader-principle should frankly face this logical consequence of
their creed. If freed from contradictions it implies, not the rule of the best or wisest, but the
rule of the strong man, of the man of power. (Cp. also note 7 to chapter 24.)

7. * Cp. my lecture 'Towards a Rational Theory of Tradition' (first published in The
Rationalist Yearbook, 1949; now in my Conjectures and Refutations), where I try to show
that traditions play a kind of intermediate and intermediary role between persons (and
personal decisions) and institutions *

8. For Socrates' behaviour under the Thirty, see Apology, 32c. The Thirty tried to implicate
Socrates in their crimes, but he resisted. This would have meant death to him if the rule of
the Thirty had continued a little longer. Cp. also notes 53 and 56 to chapter 10.

For the contention, later in the paragraph, that wisdom means knowing the limitations of
one's knowledge, see the Charmides, 167 a, 170a, where the meaning of 'know thyself is
explained in this way; the Apology (cp. especially 23a-b) exhibits a similar tendency (of

which there is still an echo in the Timaeus, 72a). For the important modification in the
interpretation of 'know thyself which takes place in the Philebus, see note 26 to the present
chapter. (Cp. also note 15 to chapter 8.)

9. Cp. Plato's Phaedo, 96-99. The Phaedo is, I believe, still partly Socratic, but very largely
Platonic. The story of his philosophical development told by the Socrates of the Phaedo has
given rise to much discussion. It is, I believe, an authentic autobiography neither of Socrates
nor of Plato. I suggest that it is simply P/ato 5 interpretation of Socrates' development.
Socrates' attitude towards science (an attitude which combined the keenest interest in
rational argument with a kind of modest agnosticism) was incomprehensible to Plato. He
tried to explain it by referring to the backwardness of Athenian science in Socrates' day, as
opposed to Pythagoreanism. Plato thus presents this agnostic attitude in such a way that it is
no longer justified in the light of his newly acquired Pythagoreanism. (And he tries to show
how much the new metaphysical theories of the soul would have appealed to Socrates'
burning interest in the individual; cp. notes 44 and 56 to chapter 10, and note 58 to chapter
8.)

10 . It is the version that involves the square root of two, and the problem of irrationality; i.e. it
is the very problem that precipitated the dissolution of Pythagoreanism. By refuting the
Pythagorean arithmetization of geometry, it gave rise to the specific deductive-geometrical
methods which we know from Euclid. (Cp. note 9 (2) to chapter 6.) The use of this problem
in the Meno might be connected with the fact that there is a tendency in some parts of this
dialogue to 'show off the author's (hardly Socrates') acquaintance with the 'latest'
philosophical developments and methods.

11 . Gorgias, 52 Id, f.

12 . Cp. Grossman, Plato To-Day, 118. 'Faced by these three cardinal errors of Athenian
Democracy ...' — How truly Crossman understands Socrates may be seen from op. cit., 93:
'All that is good in our Western culture has sprung from this spirit, whether it is found in
scientists, or priests, or politicians, or quite ordinary men and women who have refused to
prefer political falsehoods to simple truth ... in the end, their example is the only force
which can break the dictatorship of force and greed . . . Socrates showed that philosophy is

nothing else than conscientious objection to prejudice and unreason.'

13 . Cp. Grossman, op. cit., 117 f. (first group of italics mine). It seems that Grossman has for
the moment forgotten that, in Plato's state, education is a class monopoly. It is true that in
the Republic the possession of money is not a key to higher education. But this is quite
unimportant. The important point is that only the members of the ruling class are educated.
(Gp. note 33 to chapter 4.) Besides, Plato was, at least in his later life, anything but an
opponent of plutocracy, which he much preferred to a classless or equalitarian society: cp.
the passage from the Laws, 744b, ff., quoted in note 20 (1) to chapter 6. For the problem of
state control in education, cp. also note 42 to that chapter, and notes 39-41, chapter 4.

14 . Burnet takes (Greek Philosophy , I, 178) the Republic to be purely Socratic (or even pre-
Socratic — a view which may be nearer to the truth; cp. especially A. D. Winspear, The
Genesis of Plato's Thought, 1940). But he does not even seriously attempt to reconcile this
opinion with an important statement which he quotes from Plato's Seventh Letter (326a, cp.
Greek Philosophy , I, 218) which he believes to be authentic. Gp. note 56 (5, d) to chapter
10.

15 . Laws, 942c, quoted more fully in text to note 33, chapter 6.

16 . Republic, 540c.

17 . Gp. the quotations from the Republic, 473c-e, quoted in text to note 44, chapter 8.

18 . Republic, 498b/c. Gp. the Laws, 634d/e, in which Plato praises the Dorian law that 'forbids
any young man to question which of the laws are right and which are wrong, and makes
them all unanimous in proclaiming that the laws are all good'. Only an old man may criticize
a law, adds the old writer; and even he may do so only when no young man can hear him.
See also text to note 21 to this chapter, and notes 17, 23 and 40 to chapter 4.

19. Republic, 497d.

20. Op. cit., 537c. The next quotations are from 537d-e, and 539d. The 'continuation of this
passage' is 540b-c. Another most interesting remark is 536c-d, where Plato says that the
persons selected (in the previous passage) for dialectical studies are decidedly too old for
learning new subjects.

21 . * Cp. H. Chemiss, The Riddle of the Early Academy, p. 79; and the Parmenides, 135c-d.*
Grote, the great democrat, strongly comments on this point (i.e. on the 'brighter' passages of
the Republic, 537c-540): 'The dictum forbidding dialectic debate with youth ... is decidedly
anti-Socratic ... It belongs indeed to the case of Meletus and Anytus, in their indictment
against Socrates ... It is identical with their charge against him, of corrupting the youth . . .
And when we fmd him (= Plato) forbidding all such discourse at an earher age than thirty
years — ^we remark as a singular coincidence that this is the exact prohibition which Critias
and Charicles actually imposed upon Socrates himself, during the short-lived dominion of
the Thirty Oligarchs at Athens.' (Grote, Plato, and the Other Companions of Socrates, edn
1875, vol. 111,239.)

22 . The idea, contested in the text, that those who are good in obeying will also be good in
commanding is Platonic. Cp. Laws, 762e.

Toynbee has admirably shown how successfully a Platonic system of educating rulers may
work — in an arrested society; cp. ^4 Study of History, III, especially 33 ff.; cp. notes 32 (3)
and 45 (2) to chapter 4.

23 . Some may perhaps ask how an individualist can demand devotion to any cause, and
especially to such an abstract cause as scientific inquiry. But such a question would only
reveal the old mistake (discussed in the foregoing chapter), the identification of
individualism and egoism. An individualist can be unselfish, and he can devote himself not
only to the help of individuals, but also to the development of the institutional means for
helping other people. (Apart from that, I do not think that devotion should be demanded, but
only that it should be encouraged.) I believe that devotion to certain institutions, for
instance, to those of a democratic state, and even to certain traditions, may fall well within
the realm of individualism, provided that the humanitarian aims of these institutions are not
lost sight of. Individualism must not be identified with an anti-institutional personalism. This
is a mistake frequently made by individualists. They are right in their hostility to
collectivism, but they mistake institutions for collectives (which claim to be aims in
themselves), and therefore become anti-institutional personalists; which leads them
dangerously close to the leader-principle. (I believe that this partly explains Dickens' hostile

attitude towards Parliament.) For my terminology ('individualism' and 'collectivism') see
text to notes 26-29 to chapter 6.

24 . Cp. Samuel Butler, Erewhon (1872), p. 135 of the Everyman's edition.

25 . Cp. for these events: Meyer, Gesch. d. Altertums, V, pp. 522-525, and 488f ; see also note
69 to chapter 10. The Academy was notorious for breeding tyrants. Among Plato's pupils
were Chairon, later the tyrant of Pellene; Eurastus and Coriscus, the tyrants of Skepsis (near
Atarneus); and Hermias, later tyrant of Atarneus and Assos. (Cp. Athen., XI, 508, and
Strabo, XIII, 610.) Hermias was, according to some sources, a direct pupil of Plato's;
according to the so-called 'Sixth Platonic Letter', whose authenticity is questionable, he was
perhaps only an admirer of Plato's, ready to accept his advice. Hermias became a patron of
Aristotle, and of the third head of the Academy, Plato's pupil Xenocrates.

For Perdiccas III, and his relations to Plato's pupil Euphacus, see Athen., XI, 508 ff., where
Callippus is also referred to as Plato's pupil.

(1) Plato's lack of success as an educator is not very surprising if we look at the principles of
education and selection developed in the First Book of the Laws (from 637d and especially
643a: 'Let me define the nature and meaning of education' to the end of 650b). For in this
long passage he shows that there is one great instrument of educating, or rather, of selecting
the man one can trust. It is wine, drunkenness, which will loose his tongue, and give you an
idea of what he is really like. 'What is more fitting than to make use of wine, first of all to
test the character of a man, and secondly, to train him? What is cheaper, and less
objectionable?' (649d/e). So far, I have not seen the method of drinking discussed by any of
the educationists who glorify Plato. This is strange, for the method is still widely in use, even
though it is perhaps no longer so cheap, especially in the universities.

(2) In fairness to the leader-principle, it must be admitted, however, that others have been
more fortunate than Plato in their selection. Leonard Nelson (cp. note 4 to this chapter), for
instance, who believed in this principle, seems to have had a unique power both of attracting
and of selecting a number of men and women who have remained true to their cause, in the
most trying and tempting circumstances. But theirs was a better cause than Plato's; it was the
humanitarian idea of freedom and equalitarian justice. *(Some of Nelson's essays have just

been published in an English translation, by Yale University Press, under the title Socratic
Method and Critical Philosophy, 1949. The very interesting introductory essay is by Julius
Kraft.)*

(3) There remains this fundamental weakness in the theory of the benevolent dictator, a
theory still flourishing even among some democrats. I have in mind the theory of the leading
personality whose intentions are for the best for his people and who can be trusted. Even if
that theory were in order; even if we believe that a man can continue, without being
controlled or checked, in such an attitude: how can we assume that he will detect a successor
of the same rare excellence? (Cp. also notes 3 and 4 to chapter 9, and note 69 to chapter 10.)

(4) Concerning the problem of power, mentioned in the text, it is interesting to compare the
Gorgias (525e, f) with the Republic (615d, f). The two passages are closely parallel. But
the Gorgias insists that the greatest criminals are always 'men who come from the class
which possesses power'; private persons may be bad, it is said, but not incurable. In the
Republic, this clear warning against the corrupting influence of power is omitted. Most of the
greatest sinners are still tyrants; but, it is said, 'there are also some private people among
them'. (In the Republic, Plato relies on self-interest which, he trusts, will prevent the
guardians from misusing their power; cp. Rep., 466b/c, quoted in text to note 41, chapter 6.
It is not quite clear why self-interest should have such a beneficial effect on guardians, but
not on tyrants.)

26 . * In the early (Socratic) dialogues (e.g. in the Apology and the Charmides; cp. note 8 to the
present chapter, note 15 to chapter 8 and note 56 (5) to chapter 10), the saying 'know
thyself is interpreted as 'know how little you know'. The late (Platonic) dialogue Philebus,
however, introduces a subtle but very important change. At first (48c/d, f ), the saying is
here interpreted, by implication, in the same way; for the many who do not know themselves
are said to be 'claiming, ... and lying, that they are wise'. But this interpretation is now
developed as follows. Plato divides men into two classes, the weak and the powerful. The
ignorance and folly of the weak man is described as laughable, while 'the ignorance of the
strong' is 'appropriately called "evil" and "hateful" ...'. But this implies the Platonic
doctrine that he who wields power ought to be wise rather than ignorant (or that only he
who is wise ought to wield power); in opposition to the original Socratic doctrine that

(everybody, and especially) he who wields power ought to be aware of his ignorance.
(There is, of course, no suggestion in the Philebus that 'wisdom' in its turn ought to be
interpreted as 'awareness of one's limitations'; on the contrary, wisdom involves here an
expert knowledge of Pythagorean teaching, and of the Platonic Theory of Forms, as
developed in the Sophist.)*

Notes to Chapter Eight

With the motto for this chapter, taken from Republic 540c-d, cp. note 37
to this chapter, and note 12 to chapter 9, where the passage is quoted
more fully.

1. Republic, 475e; cp. for instance also 485c, f., 501c.

2. Op. cit, 389b, f.

3. Op. cit., 389c/d; cp. also Laws, 730b, ff.

4. With this and the three following quotations, cp. Republic, 407e and 406c. See also
Statesman, 293a, f , 295b-296e, etc.

5. Cp. Laws, 720c. It is interesting to note that the passage (718c-722b) serves to introduce the
idea that the statesman should use persuasion, together with force (722b); and since by
'persuasion' of the masses, Plato means largely lying propaganda — cp. notes 9 and 10 to
this chapter and the quotation from Republic , 414b/c, quoted there in the text — it turns out
that Plato's thought in our passage from the Laws, in spite of this novel gentleness, is still
pervaded by the old associations — the doctor-politician administering lies. Later on {Laws,
857c/d), Plato complains about an opposite type of doctor: one who talks too much
philosophy to his patient, instead of concentrating on the cure. It seems likely enough that
Plato reports here some of his experiences when he fell ill while writing the Laws.

6. Republic, 389b. — With the following short quotations cp. Republic, 459c.

7. Cp. Kant, On Eternal Peace, Appendix. {Werke, ed. Cassirer, 1914, vol. VI, 457.) Cp. M.
Campbell Smith's translation (1903), pp. 162 ff.

8. Cp. Crossman, P/(3to To-Day (1937), 130; cp. also the immediately preceding pages. It
seems that Crossman still believes that lying propaganda was intended only for the
consumption of the ruled, and that Plato intended to educate the rulers to a full use of their
critical faculties; for I fmd now (in The Listener, vol. 27, p. 750) that he writes: 'Plato
believed in free speech, free discussion only for the select few.' But the fact is that he did

not believe in it at all. Both in the Republic and in the Laws (cp. the passages quoted in notes
18-21 to chapter 7, and text), he expresses his fear lest anybody who is not yet on the verge
of old age should think or speak freely, and thus endanger the rigidity of the arrested
doctrine, and therefore the petrifaction of the arrested society. See also the next two notes.

9. Republic, 414b/c. In 414d, Plato reaffirms his hope of persuading 'the rulers themselves and
the military class, and then the rest of the city', of the truth of his lie. Later he seems to have
regretted his frankness; for in the Statesman, 269b, ff. (see especially 271b; cp. also note 6
(4) to chapter 3), he speaks as if he believed in the truth of the same Myth of the Earthbom
which, in the Republic, he had been reluctant (see note 11 to this chapter) to introduce even
as a lordly 'lie'.

* What I translate as a 'lordly lie' is usually translated 'noble lie' or 'noble falsehood' or even
'spirited fiction'.

The literal translation of the word 'gennaios' which I now translate by 'lordly' is 'high born'
or 'of noble descent'. Thus 'lordly lie' is at least as literal as 'noble lie', but it avoids the
associations which the term 'noble lie' might suggest, and which are in no way warranted by
the situation, viz. a lie by which a man nobly takes something upon himself which
endangers him — such as Tom Sawyer's lie by which he takes Becky's guilt upon himself
and which Judge Thatcher (in chapter XXXV) describes as 'a noble, a generous, a
magnanimous lie'. There is no reason whatever why the 'lordly lie' should be considered in
this light; thus the translation 'noble lie' is just one of the typical attempts at idealizing Plato.
— Cornford translates 'a ... bold flight of invention', and argues in a footnote against the
translation 'noble lie'; he gives passages where 'gennaios' means 'on a generous scale'; and
indeed, 'big lie' or 'grand lie' would be a perfectly appropriate translation. But Cornford at
the same time argues against the use of the term 'lie'; he describes the myth as 'Plato's
harmless allegory' and argues against the idea that Plato 'would countenance lies, for the
most part ignoble, now called propaganda'; and in the next footnote he says: 'Note that the
Guardians themselves are to accept this allegory, if possible. It is not "propaganda" foisted
on the masses by the Rulers.' But all these attempts at idealization fail. Plato himself makes it
quite clear that the lie is one for which one ought to feel ashamed; see the last quotation in

note 11, below. (In the first edition of this book, I translated 'inspired lie', alluding to its
'high birth', and suggested 'ingenious lie' as an alternative; this was criticized both as too
free and as tendentious by some of my Platonic friends. But Cornford's 'bold flight of
invention' takes 'gennaios' in precisely the same sense.)
See also notes 10 and 18 to this chapter.*

10 . Cp. Republic, 519e, f , quoted in the text to note 35 to chapter 5; on persuasion and force,
see also Republic, 366d, discussed in the present note, below, and the passages referred to in
notes 5 and 18 to this chapter.

The Greek word ('peitho-'; its personification is an alluring goddess, an attendant of
Aphrodite -) usually translated by persuasion can mean {a) 'persuasion by fair means' and
{b) 'talking over by foul means', i.e. 'make-believe' (see below, sub. (D), i.e. Rep., 414c),
and sometimes it means even 'persuasion by gifts', i.e. bribery (see below, sub. (D), i.e.
Rep., 390e). Especially in the phrase 'persuasion and force', the term 'persuasion' is often
{Rep. 548b) interpreted in sense {a), and the phrase is often (and often appropriately)
translated 'by fair means or foul' (cp. Davies' and Vaughan's translation 'by fair means or
foul', of the passage (C),Rep., 365d, quoted below). I believe, however, that Plato, when
recommending 'persuasion and force' as instruments of political technique, uses the words
in a more literal sense, and that he recommends the use of rhetorical propaganda together
with violence. (Cp. Laws, 661c, 711c, 722b, 753a.)

The following passages are significant for Plato's use of the term 'persuasion' in sense (b),
and especially in connection with political propaganda. (A) Gorgias, 453a to 466a,
especially 45 4h-45 5 a; Phaedrus, 260b, ft, Theaetetus, 20la; Sophist, 222c; Statesman,
296b, ff., 304c/d; Philebus, 58a. In all these passages, persuasion (the 'art of persuasion' as
opposed to the 'art of imparting true knowledge') is associated with rhetoric, make-believe,
and propaganda. In the Republic, 364b, f , especially 364e-365d (cp. Laws, 909b), deserves
attention. {B) In 364e ('they persuade', i.e. mislead into believing, 'not only individuals, but
whole cities'), the term is used much in the same sense as in 414b/c (quoted in the text to
note 9, this chapter), the passage of the 'lordly lie'. (Q 365d is interesting because it uses a
term which Lindsay translates very aptly by 'cheating' as a kind of paraphrase for
'persuading'. ('In order not to be caught ... we have the masters of persuasion at our

disposal; ... thus hy persuasion and force, we shall escape punishment. But, it may be
objected, one cannot cheat, or force, the gods ...') Furthermore {D) in Republic, 390e, f., the
term 'persuasion' is used in the sense of bribery. (This must be an old use; the passage is
supposed to be a quotation from Hesiod. It is interesting that Plato, who so often argues
against the idea that men can 'persuade' or bribe the gods, makes some concession to it in
the next passage, 399a/b.) Next we come to 414b/c, the passage of the 'lordly lie';
immediately after this passage, in 414c (cp. also the next note in this chapter), 'Socrates'
makes the cynical remark {E): 'It would need much persuading to make anybody believe in
this story.' Lastly, I may mention {F) Republic, Slid and 533e, where Plato speaks of
persuasion or belief or faith (the root of the Greek word for 'persuasion' is the same as that
of our 'faith') as a lower cognitive faculty of the soul, corresponding to the formation of
(delusive) opinion about things in flux (cp. note 21 to chapter 3, and especially the use of
'persuasion' in Tim., 51e), as opposed to rational knowledge of the unchanging Forms. For
the problem of 'moral' persuasion, see also chapter 6 . especially notes 52/54 and text, and
chapter 10, especially text to notes 56 and 65, and note 69.

11 . Republic, 415a. The next quotation is from 415c. (See also the Cratylus, 398a.) Cp. notes
12-14 to the present chapter and text, and notes 27 (3), 29, and 3 1 to chapter 4.
(1) For my remark in the text, earlier in this paragraph, concerning Plato's uneasiness, see
Republic, 414c-d, and last note, {E): 'It would need much persuading to make anybody
believe in this story,' says Socrates. — 'You seem to be rather reluctant to tell it,' replies
Glaucon. — 'You will understand my reluctance', says Socrates, 'when I have told
it.' — 'Speak and don't be frightened', says Glaucon. This dialogue introduces what I call the
first idea of the Myth (proffered by Plato in the Statesman as a true story; cp. note 9 to this
chapter; see also Laws, 740a). As mentioned in the text, Plato suggests that it is this 'first
idea' which is the reason for his hesitation, for Glaucon replies to this idea: 'Not without
reason were you so long ashamed to tell your lie.' No similar rhetorical remark is made after
Socrates has told 'the rest of the story', i.e., the Myth of Racialism.

* (2) Concerning the autochthonous warriors, we must remember that the Athenian nobility
claimed (as opposed to the Dorians) to be the aborigines of their country, born of the earth

'like grasshoppers' (as Plato says in the Symposium, 191b; see also end of note 52 to the
present chapter). It has been suggested to me by a friendly critic that Socrates' uneasiness,
and Glaucon's comment that Socrates had reason to be ashamed, mentioned here under (1),
is to be interpreted as an ironical allusion of Plato's to the Athenians who, in spite of their
claim to be autochthonous, did not defend their country as they would defend a mother. But
this ingenious suggestion does not appear to me a tenable one. Plato, with his openly
admitted preference of Sparta, would be the last to charge the Athenians with lack of
patriotism; and there would be no justice in such a charge, for in the Peloponnesian war, the
Athenian democrats never gave in to Sparta (as will be shown in chapter 10), while Plato's
own beloved uncle Critias did give in, and became the leader of a puppet government under
the protection of the Spartans. If Plato intended to allude ironically to an inadequate defence
of Athens, then it could be only an allusion to the Peloponnesian war, and thus a criticism of
Critias — the last person whom Plato would criticize in this way.

(3) Plato calls his Myth a 'Phoenician lie'. A suggestion which may explain this is due to R.
Eisler. He points out that the Ethiopians, Greeks (the silver mines), Sudanese, and Syrians
(Damascus) were in the Orient described, respectively, as golden, silver, bronze, and iron
races, and that this description was utilized in Egypt for purposes of political propaganda
(cp. also Daniel, ii. 31-45); and he suggests that the story of these four races was brought to
Greece in Hesiod's time by the Phoenicians (as might be expected), and that Plato alludes to
this fact*

12 . The passage is from the Republic, 546a, ff.; cp. text to notes 36-40 to chapter 5. The
intermixture of classes is clearly forbidden in 434c also; cp. notes 27 (3), 31 and 34 to
chapter 4, and note 40 to chapter 6.

The passage from \hQ Laws (930d-e) contains the principle that the child of a mixed
marriage inherits the caste of his lesser parent.

13 . Republic, 547a. (For the mixture theory of heredity, see also text to note 39/40 to chapter 5,
especially 40 (2), and to notes 39-43, and 52, to the present chapter.)

14- Op. cit, 415c.

15 . Cp. Adam's note to Republic, 414b, ff., italics mine. The great exception is Grote {Plato,

and the Other Companions of Socrates, London, 1875, III, 240), who sums up the spirit of
the Republic, and its opposition to that of the Apology: 'In the ... Apology, we find Socrates
confessing his own ignorance . . . But the Republic presents him in a new character ... He is
himself on the throne of King Nomos: the infallible authority, temporal as well as spiritual,
from which all public sentiment emanates, and by whom orthodoxy is determined ... He
now expects every individual to fall into the place, and contract the opinions, prescribed by
authority; including among these opinions deliberate ethical and political fictions, such as
about the ... earthbom men ... Neither the Socrates of the Apology, nor his negative
Dialectic, could be allowed to exist in the Platonic Republic' (Italics mine; see also Grote,
op. cit., p. 188.)

The doctrine that religion is opium for the people, although not in this particular formulation,
turns out to be one of the tenets of Plato and the Platonists. (Cp. also note 17 and text, and
especially note 18 to this chapter.) It is, apparently, one of the more esoteric doctrines of the
school, i.e. it may be discussed only by sufficiently elderly members (cp. note 18 to chapter
7) of the upper class. But those who let the cat out of the bag are prosecuted for atheism by
the idealists.

16 . For instance Adam, Barker, Field.

17 . Cp. Diels, Vorsokratiker^ , Critias fragm. 25. (I have picked about eleven characteristic lines
out of more than forty.) — It may be remarked that the passage commences with a sketch of
the social contract (which even somewhat resembles Lycophron's equalitarianism; cp. note
45 to chapter 6). On Critias, cp. especially note 48 to chapter 10. Since Burnet has suggested
that the poetic and dramatic fragments known under the name of Critias should be attributed
to the grandfather of the leader of the Thirty, it should be noted that Plato attributes to the
latter poetic gifts in the Charmides, 157e; and in 162d, he alludes even to the fact that Critias
was a dramatist. (Cp. also Xenophon's Memorabilia, I, iv, 18.)

18 . Cp. the Laws, 909e. It seems that Critias' view later even became part of the Platonic school
tradition, as indicated by the following passage from Aristotle's Metaphysics (1074b3)
which at the same time provides another example of the use of the term 'persuasion' for
'propaganda' (cp. notes 5 and 10 to this chapter). 'The rest ... has been added in the form of

a myth, with a view to the persuasion of the mob, and to legal and general (political)
expediency Cp. also Plato's attempt in the Statesman, 271a, f., to argue in favour of the
truth of a myth in which he certainly did not believe. (See notes 9 and 15 to this chapter.)

19. Laws, 908b.

20. Op. cit, 909a.

21 . For the conflict between good and evil, see op. cit., 904-906. See especially 906a/b (justice
versus injustice; 'justice' means here, still, the collectivist justice of the Republic).
Immediately preceding is 903c, a passage quoted above in the text to note 35 to chapter 5
and to note 27 to chapter 6. See also note 32 to the present chapter.

22. Op. cit., 905d-907b.

23. The paragraph to which this note is appended indicates my adherence to an 'absolutist'
theory of truth which is in accordance with the common idea that a statement is true ^/(and
only if) it agrees with the facts it describes. This 'absolute' or 'correspondence theory of
truth' (which goes back to Aristotle) was first clearly developed by A. Tarski ( Der
Wahrheitsbegriff in den formalisierten Sprachen, Polish edn 1933, German translation
1936), and is the basis of a theory of logic called by him Semantics (cp. note 29 to chapter 3
and note 5 (2) to chapter 5); see also R. Carnap's Introduction to Semantics, 1942, which
develops the theory of truth in detail. I am quoting from p. 28: 'It is especially to be noticed
that the concept of truth in the sense just explained — we may call it the semantical concept
of truth — is fundamentally different from concepts like "believed", "verified", "highly
confirmed", etc' — A similar, though undeveloped view can be found in my Logik der
Forschung (translated, 1959, as The Logic of Scientific Discovery), section 84; this was
written before I became acquainted with Tarski's Semantics, which is the reason why my
theory is only rudimentary. The pragmatist theory of truth (which derives from Hegelianism)
was criticized by Bertrand Russell from the point of view of an absolutist theory of truth as
early as 1907; and recently he has shown the connection between a relativist theory of truth
and the creed of fascism. See Russell, Let the People Think, pp. 77, 79.

24 . Especially Rep., 474c-502d. The following quotation is Rep., 475e.

25 . For the seven quotations which follow, in this paragraph, see: (1) and (2), Republic, 476b;
(3), (4), (5), op. cit., 500d-e; (6) and (7): op. cit., 501a/b; with (7), cp. also the parallel
passage, op. cit., 484c. See, furthermore. Sophist, 253d/e; Laws, 964a-966a (esp. 965b/c).

26 . Cp. op. cit., 501c.

27 . Cp. especially Republic, 509a, f. — See 509b: 'The sun induces the sensible things to
generate' (although he is not himself involved in the process of generation); similarly, 'you
may say of the objects of rational knowledge that not only do they owe it to the Good that
they can be known, but their reality and even their essence flows from it; although the Good
is not itself an essence but transcends even essences in dignity and power.' (With 509b, cp.
Aristotle, i)e Gen. et Corn, 336a 15, 31, 2ind Phys., 194b 13.) — In 510b, the Good is
described as the absolute origin (not merely postulated or assumed), and in 511b, it is
described as 'the first origin of everything'.

28 . Cp. especially Republic, 508b, ff. — See 508b/c: 'What the Good has begotten in its own
likeness' (viz. truth) 'is the link, in the intelligible world between reason and its objects' (i.e.
the Ideas) 'in the same way as, in the visible world, that thing' (viz. light which is the
offspring of the sun) 'which is the link between sight and its objects' (i.e. sensible things).

29. Cp. op. cit., 505a; 534b, ff

30. Cp. op. cit., 505d.

31 . Philebus, 66a.

32. Republic, 506d, ff , and 509-511.

The definition of the Good, here quoted, as 'the class of the determinate (or finite, or limited)
conceived as a unity' is, I believe, not so hard to understand, and is in full agreement with
others of Plato's remarks. The 'class of the determinate' is the class of the Forms or Ideas,
conceived as male principles, or progenitors, as opposed to the female, unlimited or
indeterminate space (cp. note 15 (2) to chapter 3). These Forms or primogenitors are, of
course, good, in so far as they are ancient and unchanging originals, and in so far as each of
them is one as opposed to the many sensible things which it generates. If we conceive the
class or race of the progenitors as many, then they are not absolutely good; thus the absolute

Good can be visualized if we conceive them as a unity, as One — as the One primogenitor.
(Cp. also Arist, Met., 988a 10.)

Plato's Idea of the Good is practically empty. It gives us no indication of what is good, in a
moral sense, i.e. what we ought to do. As can be seen especially from notes 27 and 28 to
this chapter, all we hear is that the Good is highest in the realm of Form or Ideas, a kind of
super-Idea, from which the Ideas originate, and receive their existence. All we could
possibly derive from this is that the Good is unchangeable and prior or primary and
therefore ancient (cp. note 3 to chapter 4), and One Whole; and, therefore, that those things
participate in it which do not change, i.e., the good is what preserves (cp. notes 2 and 3 to
chapter 4), and what is ancient, especially the ancient laws (cp. note 23 to chapter 4, note 7,
paragraph on Platonism, to chapter 5, and note 18 to chapter 7), and that holism is good (cp.
note 21 to the present chapter); i.e., we are again thrown back, in practice, to totalitarian
morality (cp. text to notes 40/41 to chapter 6).

If the Seventh Letter is genuine, then we have there (314b/c) another statement by Plato that
his doctrine of the Good cannot be formulated; for he says of this doctrine: 'It is not capable
of expression like other branches of study.' (Cp. also note 57 to chapter 10.)
It is again Grote who clearly saw and criticized the emptiness of the Platonic Idea or Form of
Good. After asking what this Good is, he says {Plato, III, 241 f.): 'This question is put ...
But unfortunately it remains unanswered ... In describing the condition of other men's
minds — ^that they divine a Real Good ... do everything in order to obtain it, but puzzle
themselves in vain to grasp and determine what it is — he' (Plato) 'has unconsciously
described the condition of his own.' It is surprising to see how few modem writers have
taken any notice of Grote 's excellent criticism of Plato.

For the quotations in the next paragraph of the text, see (1): Republic, 500b-c; (2): op. cit,
485a/b. This second passage is very interesting. It is, as Adam reaffirms (note to 485b9), the
first passage in which 'generation' and 'degeneration' are employed in this half-technical
sense. It refers to the flux, and to Parmenides' changeless entities. And it introduces the main
argument in favour of the rule of the philosophers. See also note 26 (1) to chapter 3 and note
2 (2) to chapter 4. In the Laws, 689c-d, when discussing the 'degeneration' (688c) of the
Dorian kingdom brought about by the 'worst ignorance' (the ignorance, namely, of not

knowing how to obey those who are rulers by nature; see 689b), Plato explains what he
means by wisdom: only such wisdom as aims at the greatest unity or 'unisonity' entitles a
man to authority. And the term 'unisonity' is explained in the Republic, 591b and d, as the
harmony of the ideas of justice (i.e. of keeping one's place) and of temperance (of being
satisfied with it). Thus we are again thrown back to our starting point.

33 . *A critic of this passage asserted that he could find no trace, in Plato, of any fear of
independent thought. But we should remember Plato's insistence on censorship (see notes
40 and 41 to chapter 4) and his prohibition of higher dialectical studies for anybody under
50 years of age in the Republic (see notes 19 to 21 to chapter 7), to say nothing of the Laws
(see note 18 to chapter 7, and many other passages).*

34 . For the problem of the priest caste, see the Timaeus, 24a. In a passage which clearly alludes
to the best or 'ancient' state of the Republic, the priest caste takes the place of the
'philosophic race' of the Republic. Cp. also the attacks on priests (and even on Egyptian
priests), diviners, and shamans, in the Statesman, 290c, f ; see also note 57 (2) to chapter 8,
and note 29 to chapter 4.

The remark of Adam's, quoted in the text in the paragraph after the next, is from his note to
Republic, 547a3 (quoted above in text to note 43 to chapter 5).

35 . Cp. for instance Republic, 484c, 500e, ff.

36 Republic, 535a/b. All that Adam says (cp. his note to 535b8) about the term which I have
translated by 'awe-inspiring' supports the usual view that the term means 'stern' or 'awful',
especially in the sense of 'inspiring terror'. Adam's suggestion that we translate 'masculine'
or 'virile' follows the general tendency to tone down what Plato says, and it clashes
strangely with Theaetetus 149a. Lindsay translates: 'of... sturdy morals'.

37 . Op. cit., 540c; see also 500c-d: 'the philosopher himself ... becomes godlike', and note 12
to chapter 9, where 540c, f , is quoted more fully. — It is most interesting to note how Plato
transforms the Parmenidian One when arguing in favour of an aristocratic hierarchy. The
opposition one — many is not preserved, but gives rise to a system of grades: the one Idea —
the few who come close to it — the more who are their helpers — the many, i.e. the mob (this
division is fundamental in the Statesman). As opposed to this, Antisthenes' monotheism

preserves the original Eleatic opposition between the One (God) and the Many (whom he
probably considered as brothers because of their equal distance from God). — Antisthenes
was influenced by Parmenides through Zeno's influence upon Gorgias. Probably there was
also the influence of Democritus, who had taught: 'The wise man belongs to all countries
alike, for the home of a great soul is the whole world.'

38. Republic, 500d.

39 . The quotations are from Republic, 459b, and ff.; cp. also notes 34 f. to chapter 4, and
especially 40 (2) to chapter 5. Cp. also the three similes of the Statesman, where the ruler is
compared with (1) the shepherd, (2) the doctor, (3) the weaver whose functions are
explained as those of a man who blends characters by skilful breeding (3 10b, f ).

40. Op. cit., 460a. My statement that Plato considers this law very important is based on the fact
that Plato mentions it in the outline of the Republic in the Timaeus, 18d/e.

41 . Op. cit., 460b. The 'suggestion is taken up' in 468c; see the next note.

42 . Op. cit., 468c. Though it has been denied by my critics, my translation is correct, and so is
my remark about 'the latter benefit'. Shorey calls the passage 'deplorable'.

43 . For the Story of the Number and the Fall, cp. notes 13 and 52 to this chapter, notes 39/40 to
chapter 5, and text.

44 . Republic, 473 c-e. Note the opposition between (divine) rest, and the evil, i.e. change in the
form of corruption, or degeneration. Concerning the term translated here by 'oligarchs' cp.
the end of note 57, below. It is equivalent to 'hereditary aristocrats'.

The phrase which, for stylistic reasons, I have put in brackets, is important, for in it Plato
demands the suppression of all 'pure' philosophers (and unphilosophical politicians). A
more literal translation of the phrase would be this: 'while the many' (who have) 'natures'
(disposed or gifted) 'for drifting along, nowadays, in one alone of these two, are eliminated
by force'. Adam admits that the meaning of Plato's phrase is 'that Plato refuses to sanction
the exclusive pursuit of knowledge'; but his suggestion that we soften the meaning of the
last words of the phrase by translating: 'are forcibly debarred from exclusively pursuing
either' (italics his; cp. note to 473d24, vol. I, 330, of his edn of the Republic) has no

foundation in the original, — only in his tendency to idealize Plato. The same holds for
Lindsay's translation ('are forcibly debarred from this behaviour'). — Whom does Plato wish
to suppress? I believe that 'the many' whose limited or incomplete talents or 'natures' Plato
condemns here are identical (as far as philosophers are concerned) with the 'many whose
natures are incomplete', mentioned in Republic, 495d; and also with the 'many' (professed
philosophers) 'whose wickedness is inevitable', mentioned in 489e (cp. also 490e/491a); cp.
notes 47, 56, and 59 to this chapter (and note 23 to chapter 5). The attack is, therefore,
directed on the one hand against the 'uneducated' democratic politicians, on the other hand
most probably mainly against the half-Thracian Antisthenes, the 'uneducated bastard', the
equalitarian philosopher; cp. note 47, below.

. Kant, On Eternal Peace, Second Supplement {Werke, ed. Cassirer, 1914, vol. VI, 456).
Italics mine; I have also abbreviated the passage. (The 'possession of power' may well
allude to Frederick the Great.)

. Cp. for instance Gom^Qxz, Greek Thinkers, V, 12, 2 (German edn, vol. II , 382); or
Lindsay's translation of the Republic. (For a criticism of this interpretation, cp. note 50,
below.)

. It must be admitted that Plato's attitude towards Antisthenes raises a highly speculative
problem; this is of course connected with the fact that very little is known about Antisthenes
from first-rate sources. Even the old Stoic tradition that the Cynic school or movement can
be traced back to Antisthenes is at present often questioned (cp., for instance, G. C. Field's
Plato, 1930, or D. R. Dudley, A History of Cynicism, 1937) although perhaps not on quite
sufficient grounds (cp. Fritz's review of the last-mentioned book in Mind, vol. 47, p. 390). In
view of what we know, especially from Aristotle, about Antisthenes, it appears to me highly
probable that there are many allusions to him in Plato's writings; and even the one fact that
Antisthenes was, apart from Plato, the only member of Socrates' inner circle who taught
philosophy at Athens, would be a sufficient justification for searching Plato's work for such
allusions. Now it seems to me rather probable that a series of attacks in Plato's work first
pointed out by Duemmler (especially , 495d/e, mentioned below in note 56 to this
chapter; i^ep., 535e, f.,Soph., 251b-e) represents these allusions. There is a definite

resemblance (or so at least it appears to me) between these passages and Aristotle's scornful
attacks on Antisthenes. Aristotle, who mentions Antisthenes' name, speaks of him as of a
simpleton, and he speaks of 'uneducated people such as the Antistheneans' (cp. note 54 to
chapter 11). Plato, in the passages mentioned, speaks in a similar way, but more sharply.
The first passage I have in mind is from the Sophist, 251b, f, which corresponds very
closely indeed to Aristotle's first passage. Regarding the two passages from the Republic, we
must remember that, according to the tradition, Antisthenes was a 'bastard' (his mother came
from barbarian Thrace), and that he taught in the Athenian gymnasium reserved for
'bastards'. Now we fmd, in Republic, 535e, f. (cp. end of note 52 to this chapter), an attack
which is so specific that an individual person must be intended. Plato speaks of 'people who
dabble in philosophy without being restrained by a feeling of their own unworthiness', and
he contends that 'the basebom should be debarred' from doing so. He speaks of the people
as 'unbalanced' (or 'skew' or 'limping') in their love of work and of relaxation; and
becoming more personal, he alludes to somebody with a 'crippled soul' who, though he
loves truth (as a Socratic would), does not attain it, since he 'wallows in ignorance'
(probably because he does not accept the theory of Forms); and he warns the city not to trust
such limping 'bastards'. I think it likely that Antisthenes is the object of this undoubtedly
personal attack; the admission that the enemy loves truth seems to me an especially strong
argument, occurring as it does in an attack of extreme violence. But if this passage refers to
Antisthenes, then it is very likely that a very similar passage refers to him also, viz. Republic,
495d/e, where Plato again describes his victim as possessing a disfigured or crippled soul as
well as body. He insists in this passage that the object of his contempt, in spite of aspiring to
be a philosopher, is so depraved that he is not even ashamed of doing degrading
('banausic'; cp. note 4 to chapter 11) manual labour. Now we know of Antisthenes that he
recommended manual labour, which he held in high esteem (for Socrates' attitude, cp.
Xenophon, Mem., II, 7, 10), and that he practised what he taught; a further strong argument
that the man with the crippled soul is Antisthenes.

Now in the same passage, Republic, 495d, there is also a remark about 'the many whose
natures are incomplete', and who nevertheless aspire to philosophy. This seems to refer to
the same group (the 'Antistheneans' of Aristotle) of 'many natures' whose suppression is

demanded in Republic, 473c-e, discussed in note 44 to this chapter. — Cp. also Republic,
489e, mentioned in notes 59 and 56 to this chapter.

48 . We know (from Cicero, De Natura Deorum, and Philodemus, De Pietate) that Antisthenes
was a monotheist; and the form in which he expressed his monotheism (there is only One
God 'according to nature', i.e., to truth, although there are many 'according to convention')
shows that he had in mind the opposition nature — convention which, in the mind of a
former member of the school of Gorgias and contemporary of Alcidamas and Lycophron
(cp. note 13 to chapter 5), must have been connected with equalitarianism.
This in itself does not of course establish the conclusion that the half-barbarian Antisthenes
believed in the brotherhood of Greeks and barbarians. Yet it seems to me extremely likely
that he did.

W. W. Tarn ( Alexander the Great and the Unity of Mankind; cp. note 13 (2) to chapter 5)
has tried to show — I once thought successfully — that the idea of the unity of mankind can be
traced back at least to Alexander the Great. I think that by a very similar line of reasoning,
we can trace it back farther; to Diogenes, Antisthenes, and even to Socrates and the 'Great
Generation' of the Periclean age (cp. note 27 to chapter 10, and text). This seems, even
without considering the more detailed evidence, likely enough; for a cosmopolitan idea can
be expected to occur as a corollary of such imperialist tendencies as those of the Periclean
age {c^.Rep., 494c/d, mentioned in note 50 (5) to this chapter, and the First Alcibiades,
105b, ff.; see also text to notes 9-22, 36 and 47 to chapter 10). This is especially likely if
other equalitarian tendencies exist. I do not intend to belittle the significance of Alexander's
deeds, but the ideas ascribed to him by Tarn seem to me, in a way, a renaissance of some of
the best ideas of fifth-century Athenian imperialism. See also Addendum III, pp. 329 f.
Proceeding to details, I may first say that there is strong evidence that at least in Plato's (and
Aristotle's) time, the problem of equalitarianism was clearly seen to be concerned with two
fully analogous distinctions, that between Greeks and barbarians on the one side and that
between masters (or free men) and slaves on the other; cp. with this note 13 to chapter 5.
Now we have very strong evidence that the fifth-century Athenian movement against
slavery was not confined to a few intellectual-ists like Euripides, Alcidamas, Lycophron,
Antiphon, Hippias, etc., but that it had considerable practical success. This evidence is

contained in the unanimous reports of the enemies of Athenian democracy (especially the
'Old Oligarch', Plato, Aristotle; cp. notes 17, 18 and 29 to chapter 4, and 36 to chapter 10).
If we now consider in this light the admittedly scanty available evidence for the existence of
cosmopolitism, it appears, I believe, reasonably strong — provided that we include the
attacks of the enemies of this movement among the evidence. In other words, we must make
full use of the attacks of the Old Oligarch, of Plato, and of Aristotle against the humanitarian
movement, if we wish to assess its real significance. Thus the Old Oligarch (2, 7) attacks
Athens for an eclectic cosmopolitan way of life. Plato's attacks on cosmopolitan and similar
tendencies, although not frequent, are especially valuable. (I have in mind passages like
Rep., 562e/563a — 'citizens, resident aliens, and strangers from abroad, are all on a footing
of equality' — a passage which should be compared with the ironical description in
Menexenus, 245c-d, in which Plato sarcastically eulogizes Athens for its consistent hatred of
barbarians; Rep., 494c/d; of course, the passage Rep., 469b-471c, must be considered in this
context too. See also end of note 19 to chapter 6.) Whether or not Tarn is right on
Alexander, he hardly does full justice to the various extant statements of this fifth-century
movement, for instance to Antiphon (cp. p. 149, note 6 of his paper) or Euripides or
Hippias, or Democritus (cp. note 29 to chapter 10), or to Diogenes (p. 150, note 12) and
Antisthenes. I do not think that Antiphon wanted only to stress the biological kinship
between men, for he was undoubtedly a social reformer; and 'by nature' meant to him 'in
truth'. It therefore seems to me practically certain that he attacked the distinction between
Greeks and barbarians as being fictitious. Tarn comments on Euripides' fragment which
states that a noble man can range the world like an eagle the air by remarking that 'he knew
that an eagle has a permanent home-rock'; but this remark does not do full justice to the
fragment; for in order to be a cosmopolitan, one need not give up one's permanent home. In
the light of all this, I do not see why Diogenes' meaning was purely 'negative' when he
replied to the question 'where are you from?' by saying that he was a cosmopolite, a citizen
of the whole world; especially if we consider that a similar answer ('I am a man of the
world') is reported of Socrates, and another ('The wise man belongs to all countries, for the
home of a great soul is the whole world'; cp. Diels^, fr. 247; genuineness questioned by
Tarn and Diels) of Democritus.

Antisthenes' monotheism also must be considered in the light of this evidence. There is no
doubt that this monotheism was not of the Jewish, i.e. tribal and exclusive, type. (Should the
story of Diog. Laert., VI, 13, that Antisthenes taught in the Cynosarges, the gymnasium for
'bastards', be true, then he must have deliberately emphasized his own mixed and barbarian
descent.) Tarn is certainly right when he points out (p. 145) that Alexander's monotheism
was connected with his idea of the unity of mankind. But the same should be said of the
Cynic ideas, which were influenced, as I believe (see the last note), by Antisthenes, and in
this way by Socrates. (Cp. especially the evidence of Cicero, Tuscul, V., 37, and of
Epictetus, I, 9, 1, withAZ., VI, 2, 63-71; also Gorgias, 492e, withAZ., VI, 105. See also
Epictetus, III, 22 and 24.)

All this made it once appear to me not too unlikely that Alexander may have been genuinely
inspired, as the tradition reports, by Diogenes' ideas; and thus by the equalitarian tradition.
But in view of E. Badian's criticism of Tarn {Historia, 7, 1958, pp. 425 ff.) I feel now
inclined to reject Tarn's claim; but not, of course, my views on the fifth-century movement.

49. Cp. Republic, 469b-471c, especially 470b-d, and 469b/c. Here indeed we have (cp. the
next note) a trace of something like the introduction of a new ethical whole, more embracing
than the city; namely the unity of Hellenic superiority. As was to be expected (see the next
note (1) (Z))), Plato elaborates the point in some detail. *(Cornford justly summarizes this
passage when he says that Plato 'expresses no humanitarian sympathies extending beyond
the borders of Hellas'; cp. The Republic of Plato, 1941, p. 165.)*

50 . In this note, further arguments are collected bearing on the interpretation of Republic, 473e,
and the problem of Plato s humanitarianism . I wish to express my thanks to my colleague.
Prof H. D. Broadhead, whose criticism has greatly helped me to complete and clarify my
argument.

(1) One of Plato's standard topics (cp. the methodological remarks. Rep., 368e, 445c, 577c,
and note 32 to chapter 5) is the opposition and comparison between the individual and the
whole, i.e. the city. The introduction of a new whole, even more comprehensive than the
city, viz. mankind, would be a most important step for a holist to take; it would need (a)
preparation and (b) elaboration, (a) Instead of such a preparation we get the above

mentioned passage on the opposition between Greeks and barbarians {Rep., 469b-471c). {b)
Instead of an elaboration, we find, if anything, a withdrawal of the ambiguous expression
'race of men'. First, in the immediate continuation of the key passage under consideration,
i.e. of the passage of the philosopher king {Rep., 473d/e), there occurs a paraphrase of the
questionable expression, in form of a summary or winding up of the whole speech; and in
this paraphrase, Plato's standard opposition, city — individual, replaces that of city — human
race. The paraphrase reads: 'No other constitution can establish a state of happiness, neither
in private affairs nor in those of the city.' Secondly, a similar result is found if we analyse
the six repetitions or variations (viz. 487e, 499b, 500e, 50 le, 536a-b, discussed in note 52
below, and the summary 540d/e with the afterthought 541b) of the key passage under
consideration (i.e. of Rep., 473d/e). In two of them (487e, 500e) the city alone is mentioned;
in all the others, Plato's standard opposition city — individual again replaces that of city —
human race. Nowhere is there a further allusion to the allegedly Platonic idea that
sophocracy alone can save, not only the suffering cities, but all suffering mankind. — In view
of all this it seems clear that in all these places only his standard opposition lingered in
Plato's mind (without, however, the wish to give it any prominence in this connection),
probably in the sense that sophocracy alone can attain the stability and the happiness — the
divine rest — of any state, as well as that of all its individual citizens and their progeny (in
which otherwise evil must grow — the evil of degeneration).

(2) The term 'human' ('anthro- pinos') is used by Plato, as a rule, either in opposition to
'divine' (and, accordingly, sometimes in a slightly disparaging sense, especially if the
limitations of human knowledge or human art are to be stressed, cp. Timaeus, 29c/d; 77a, or
Sophist, 266c, 268d, or Laws, 69 le, f., 854a), or in a zoological sense, in opposition, or with
reference to, animals, for example, eagles. Nowhere except in the early Socratic dialogues
(for one further exception, see this note under (6), below) do I find this term (or the term
'man') used in a humanitarian sense, i.e. indicating something that transcends the distinction
of nation, race, or class. Even a 'mental' use of the term 'human' is rare. (I have in mind a
use such as mLaws, 737b: 'a humanly impossible piece of folly'.) In fact, the extreme
nationahst views of Fichte and Spengler, quoted in chapter 12, text to note 79, are a pointed
expression of the Platonic usage of the term 'human', as signifying a zoological rather than a

moral category. A number of Platonic passages indicating this and similar usages may be
given: Republic, 365d; 486a; 459b/c; 514b; 522c; 606e, f. (where Homer as a guide to
human affairs is opposed to the composer of hymns to the gods); 620b. — Phaedo, 82b. —
Cratylus, 392b. — Parmenides, 134e. — Theaetetus, 107b. — Crito, 46e. — Protagoras,
344c. — Statesman, 274d (the shepherd of the human flock who is a god, not a man). —
Laws 673d; 688d; 737b (890b is perhaps another example of a disparaging use — 'the men'
seems here nearly equivalent with 'the many').

(3) It is of course true that Plato assumes a Form or Idea of Man; but it is a mistake to think
that it represents what all men have in common; rather, it is an aristocratic ideal of a proud
super-Greek; and on this is based a belief, not in the brotherhood of men, but in a hierarchy
of 'natures', aristocratic or slavish, in accordance with their greater or lesser likeness to the
original, the ancient primogenitor of the human race. (The Greeks are more like him than
any other race.) Thus 'intelligence is shared by the gods with only a very few men' {Tim.,
51e; cp. Aristotle, in the text to note 3, chapter 11).

(4) The 'City in Heaven' {Rep., 592b) and its citizens are, as Adam rightly points out, not
Greek; but this does not imply that they belong to 'humanity' as he thinks (note to 470e30,
and others); they are rather super-exclusive, super-Greek (they are 'above' the Greek city of
470e, ff.) — more remote from the barbarians than ever. (This remark does not imply that the
idea of the City in Heaven — as those of the Lion in Heaven, for example, and of other
constellations — ^may not have been of oriental origin.)

(5) Finally, it may be mentioned that the passage 499c/d rescinds the distinction between
Greeks and barbarians no more than that between the past, the present, and the future: Plato
tries here to give drastic expression to a sweeping generalization in regard to time and space;
he wishes to say no more than: 'If at any time whatever, or if at any place whatever' (we
may add: even in such an extremely unlikely place as a barbarian country) 'such a thing did
happen, then ...' The remark. Republic, 494c/d, expresses a similar, though stronger, feeling
of being faced with something approaching impious absurdity, a feeling here aroused by
Alcibiades' hopes for a universal empire of Greeks and foreigners. (I agree with the views
expressed by Field, Plato and His Contemporaries, 130, note 1, and by Tarn; cp. note 13 (2)
to chapter 5.)

To sum up, I am unable to find anything but hostility towards the humanitarian idea of a
unity of mankind which transcends race and class, and I believe that those who fmd the
opposite idealize Plato (cp. note 3 to chapter 6, and text) and fail to see the link between his
aristocratic and anti-humanitarian exclusiveness and his theory of Ideas. See also this
chapter, notes 51, 52, and 57, below.

*(6) There is, to my knowledge, only one real exception, one passage which stands in
flagrant contrast to all this. In a passage {Theaetetus, 174e, f), designed to illustrate the
broad-mindedness and the universaHstic outlook of the philosopher, we read: 'Every man
has had countless ancestors, and among them are in any case rich and poor, kings and
slaves, barbarians and Greeks.' I do not know how to reconcile this interesting and definitely
humanitarian passage — its emphasis on the parallelism master v. slave and Greek v.
barbarian is reminiscent of all those theories which Plato opposes — with Plato's other views.
Perhaps it is, like so much in the Gorgias, Socratic; and the Theaetetus is perhaps (as against
the usual assumption) earlier than the Republic. See also my Addendum Hp. 320.*

51 . The allusion is, I believe, to two places in the Story of the Number where Plato (by
speaking of 'your race') refers to the race of men: 'concerning your own race' (546a/b; cp.
note 39 to chapter 5, and text) and 'testing the metals within your races' (546d/e, f ; cp.
notes 39 and 40 to chapter 5, and the next passage). Cp. also the arguments in note 52 to
this chapter, concerning a 'bridge' between the two passages, i.e. the key passage of the
philosopher king, and the Story of the Number.

52 . Republic, 546d/e, f. The passage quoted here is part of the Story of the Number and the Fall
of Man, 546a-547a, quoted in text to notes 39/40 to chapter 5; see also notes 13 and 43 to
the present chapter. — My contention (cp. text to the last note) that the remark in the key
passage of the philosopher king. Republic, 473e (cp. notes 44 and 50 to this chapter),
foreshadows the Story of the Number, is strengthened by the observation that there exists a
bridge, as it were, between the two passages. The Story of the Number is undoubtedly
foreshadowed by Republic, 536a/b, a passage which, on the other hand, may be described
as the converse (and so as a variation) of the philosopher king passage; for it says in effect
that the worst must happen if the wrong men are selected as rulers, and it even finishes up

with a direct reminiscence of the great wave: 'if we take men of another kind ... then we
shall bring down upon philosophy another deluge of laughter'. This clear reminiscence is, I
believe, an indication that Plato was conscious of the character of the passage (which
proceeds, as it were, from the end of 473c-e back to its beginning), which shows what must
happen if the advice given in the passage of the philosopher king is neglected. Now this
'converse' passage (536a/b) may be described as a bridge between the 'key passage' (473e)
and the 'Number-passage' (546a, ff.); for it contains unambiguous references to raciahsm,
foreshadowing the passage (546d, f ) on the same subject to which the present note is
appended. (This may be interpreted as additional evidence that raciahsm was in Plato's
mind, and alluded to, when he wrote the passage of the philosopher king.) I now quote the
beginning of the 'converse' passage (536a/b): 'We must distinguish carefully between the
true-bom and the bastard. For if an individual or a city does not know how to look upon
matters such as these, they will quite innocently accept the services of the unbalanced (or
limping) bastards in any capacity; perhaps as friends, or even as rulers.' (Cp. also note 47 to
this chapter.)

For something like an explanation of Plato's preoccupation with matters of racial
degeneration and racial breeding, see text to notes 6, 7, and 63 to chapter 10, in connection
with note 39 (3) and 40 (2) to chapter 5.

*For the passage about Codrus the martyr, quoted in the next paragraph of the text, see the
Symposium, 208d, quoted more fully in note 4 to chapter 3. — R. R. Eisler {Caucasica, 5,
1928, p. 129, note 237) asserts that 'Codrus' is a pre -Hellenic word for 'king'. This would
give some further colour to the tradition that Athens' nobility was autochthonous. (See note
1 1 (2) to this chapter; 52 to chapter 8; and Republic 368a and 580b/c.)*

53. A. E. Taylor, Plato (1908, 1914), pp. 122 f I agree with this interesting passage as far as it
is quoted in the text. I have, however, omitted the word 'patriot' after 'Athenian' since I do
not fully agree with this characterization of Plato in the sense in which it is used by Taylor.
For Plato's 'patriotism' cp. text to notes 14-18 to chapter 4. For the term 'patriotism', and
the 'paternal state', cp. notes 23-26 and 45 to chapter 10.

54 . Republic, 494b: 'But will not one who is of this type be first in everything, from childhood

on?'

55 . Op. cit., 496c: 'Of my own spiritual sign, I need not speak.'

56 . Cp. what Adam says in his edn of the Republic, notes to 495d23 and 495e31, and my note
47 to the present chapter. (See also note 59 to this chapter.)

57 . Republic, 496c-d; cp. the Seventh Letter, 325d. (I do not think that Barker, Greek Political
Theory, I, 107, n. 2, makes a good guess when he says of the passage quoted that 'it is
possible ... that Plato is thinking of the Cynics'. The passage certainly does not refer to
Antisthenes; and Diogenes, whom Barker must have in mind, was hardly famous when it
was written, quite apart from the fact that Plato would not have referred to him in this way.)
(1) Earlier in the same passage of X^q Republic, there is another remark which may be a
reference to Plato himself Speaking of the small band of the worthy and those who belong
to it, he mentions 'a nobly-born and well-bred character who was saved by flight' (or 'by
exile'; saved, that is, from the fate of Alcibiades, who became a victim of flattery and
deserted Socratic philosophy). Adam thinks (note to 496b9) that 'Plato was hardly exiled';
but the flight to Megara of Socrates' disciples after the death of their master may well stand
out in Plato's memory as one of the turning-points of his life. That the passage refers to Dio
is hardly possible since Dio was about 40 when he went into exile, and therefore well
beyond the critical youthful age; and there was not (as in Plato's case) a parallelism with the
Socratic companion Alcibiades (quite apart from the fact that Plato had resisted Dio's
banishment, and had tried to get it rescinded). If we assume that the passage refers to Plato,
then we shall have to assume the same of 502a: 'Who will doubt the possibility that kings or
aristocrats may have a descendant who is a born philosopher?'; for the continuation of that
passage is so similar to the previous one that they seem to refer to the same 'nobly-born
character'. This interpretation of 502a is probable in itself, for we must remember that Plato
always showed his family pride, for instance, in the eulogy on his father and on his brothers,
whom he calls 'divine'. {Rep., 368a; I cannot agree with Adam, who takes the remark as
ironical; cp. also the remark on Plato's alleged ancestor Codrus in Symp., 20 8d, together
with his alleged descent from Attica's tribal kings.) If this interpretation is adopted, the
reference in 499b-c to 'rulers, kings, or their sons', which fits Plato perfectly (he was not

only a Codride, but also a descendant of the ruler Dropides), would have to be considered in
the same light, i.e. as a preparation for 502a. But this would solve another puzzle. I have in
mind 499b and 502a. It is difficult, if not impossible, to interpret these passages as attempts
to flatter the younger Dionysius, since such an interpretation could hardly be reconciled with
the unmitigated violence and the admittedly (576a) personal background of Plato's attacks
(572-580) upon the older Dionysius. It is important to note that Plato speaks in all three
passages (473d, 499b, 502a) about hereditary kingdoms (which he opposes so strongly to
tyrannies) and about 'dynasties'; but we know from Aristotle's Politics, 1292b2 (cp. Meyer,
Gesch. d. Altertums, V, p. 56) and 1293all, that 'dynasties' are hereditary oligarchic
families, and therefore not so much the families of a tyrant like Dionysius, but rather what
we call now aristocratic famihes, like that of Plato himself. Aristotle's statement is supported
by Thucydides, IV, 78, and Xenophon, Hellenica, V, 4, 46. (These arguments are directed
against Adam's second note to 499bl3.) See also note 4 to chapter 3.

(2) Another important passage which contains a revealing self-reference is to be found in the
Statesman. Here the essential characteristic of the royal statesman is assumed (258b, 292c)
to be his knowledge or science; and the result is another plea for sophocracy: 'The only right
government is that in which the rulers are true Masters of Science' (293c). And Plato proves
that 'the man who possesses the Royal Science, whether he rules or does not rule, must, as
our argument shows, be proclaimed royal' (292e/293a). Plato certainly claimed to possess
the Royal Science; accordingly, this passage implies unequivocally that he considered
himself a 'man who must be proclaimed royal'. This illuminating passage must not be
neglected in any attempt to interpret the Republic. (The Royal Science, of course, is again
that of the romantic pedagogue and breeder of a master class which must provide the fabric
for covering and holding together the other classes — ^the slaves, labourers, clerks, etc.,
discussed in 289c, ff The task of the Royal Science is thus described as that of
'interweaving' (blending, mixing) 'of the characters of temperate and courageous men,
when they have been drawn together, by kingscraft, into a community life of unanimity and
friendship'. See also notes 40 (2) to chapter 5; 29 to chapter 4; and note 34 to the present
chapter.)*

58 . In a famous passage in the Phaedo (89d) Socrates warns against misanthropy or hatred of
men (with which he compares misology or distrust in rational argument). See also note 28
and 56 to chapter 10, and note 9 to chapter 7.

The next quotation in this paragraph is from Republic, 489b/c. — The connection with the
previous passages is more obvious if the whole of 488 and 489 is considered, and especially
the attack in 489e upon the 'many' philosophers whose wickedness is inevitable, i.e. the
same 'many' and 'incomplete natures' whose suppression is discussed in notes 44 and 47 to
this chapter.

An indication that Plato had once dreamt of becoming the philosopher king and saviour of
Athens can be found, I believe, in the Laws, 704a-707c, where Plato tries to point out the
moral dangers of the sea, of seafaring, trade, and imperialism. (Cp. Aristotle, Pol, 1326b-
1327a, and my notes 9-22 and 36 to chapter 10, and text.)

See especially Laws, 704d: 'If the city were to be built on the coast, and well supplied with
natural harbours ... then it would need a mighty saviour, and indeed, a super-human
legislator, to make her escape variability and degeneration.' Does this not read as if Plato
wanted to show that his failure in Athens was due to the super-human difficulties created by
the geography of the place? (But in spite of all disappointments — cp. note 25 to chapter 7 —
Plato still believes in the method of winning over a tyrant; cp. Laws, 710c/d, quoted in text
to note 24 to chapter 4.)

59 . There is a passage (beginning in Republic, 498d/e; cp. note 12 to chapter 9) in which Plato
even expresses his hope that 'the many' may change their minds and accept philosophers as
rulers, once they have learned (perhaps from the Republic!) to distinguish between the
genuine philosopher and the pseudo-philosopher.

With the last two lines of the paragraph in the text, cp. Republic, 473e-474a, and 517a/b.

60 . Sometimes such dreams have even been openly confessed. F. Nietzsche, The Will to Power
(ed. 1911, Book IV, Aphor. 958; the reference is to Theages, 125e/126a), writes: 'In Plato's
Theages it is written: "Every one of us wants to be the lord of all men, if it were only
possible — and most of all he would like to be the Lord God Himself." This is the spirit which
must come again.' I need not comment upon Nietzsche's political views; but there are other

philosophers, Platonists, who have naively hinted that if a Platonist were, by some lucky
accident, to gain power in a modem state, he would move towards the Platonic Ideal, and
leave things at least nearer perfection than he found them. men born into an "oligarchy"
or "democracy"', we read (in the context this may well be an allusion to England in 1939),
with the ideals of Platonic philosophers and finding themselves, by some fortunate turn of
circumstance, possessed of supreme political power, would certainly try to actualise the
Platonic State, and even if they were not completely successful, as they might be, would at
least leave the commonwealth nearer to that model than they found it.' (Quoted from A. E.
Taylor, 'The Decline and Fall of the State in Republic, VIII', Mind, N.S. 48, 1939, p. 31.)
The argument in the next chapter is directed against such romantic dreams.

* A searching analysis of the Platonic lust for power can be found in H. Kelsen's brilliant
article Platonic Love (The American Imago, vol. Ill, 1942, pp. 1 ff.).*

61 . Op. cit., 520a-521c, the quotation is from 520d.

62. Cp. G. B. Stem, The Ugly Dachshund, 1938.

Notes to Chapter Nine

The motto, from Les Thibaults, by Roger Martin du Gard, is quoted from
p. 575 of the English edition {Summer 1914, London, 1940).

1. My description of Utopian social engineering seems to coincide with that kind of social
engineering advocated by M. Eastman in Marxism: is it Science?; see especially pp. 22 ff. I
have the impression that Eastman's views represent the swing of the pendulum from
historicism to Utopian engineering. But I may possibly be mistaken, and what Eastman
really has in mind may be more in the direction of what I call piecemeal engineering.
Roscoe Pound's conception of 'social engineering' is clearly 'piecemeal'; cp. note 9 to
chapter 3. See also note 18 (3) to chapter 5.

2. I believe that there is, from the ethical point of view, no symmetry between suffering and
happiness, or between pain and pleasure. Both the greatest happiness principle of the
Utilitarians and Kant's principle 'Promote other people's happiness ...' seem to me (at least
in their formulations) wrong on this point which, however, is not completely decidable by
rational argument. (For the irrational aspect of ethical beliefs, see note 11 to the present
chapter, and for the rational aspect, sections II and especially III of chapter 24). In my
opinion (cp. note 6 (2) to chapter 5) human suffering makes a direct moral appeal, namely,
the appeal for help, while there is no similar call to increase the happiness of a man who is
doing well anyway. (A further criticism of the Utilitarian formula 'Maximize pleasure' is that
it assumes, in principle, a continuous pleasure-pain scale which allows us to treat degrees of
pain as negative degrees of pleasure. But, from the moral point of view, pain cannot be
outweighed by pleasure, and especially not one man's pain by another man's pleasure.
Instead of the greatest happiness for the greatest number, one should demand, more
modestly, the least amount of avoidable suffering for all; and further, that unavoidable
suffering — such as hunger in times of an unavoidable shortage of food — should be
distributed as equally as possible.) There is some kind of analogy between this view of
ethics and the view of scientific methodology which I have advocated in my The Logic oj
Scientific Discovery. It adds to clarity in the field of ethics if we formulate our demands

negatively, i.e. if we demand the elimination of suffering rather than the promotion of
happiness. Similarly, it is helpful to formulate the task of scientific method as the elimination
of false theories (from the various theories tentatively proffered) rather than the attainment of
established truths.

3. A very good example of this kind of piecemeal engineering, or perhaps of the
corresponding piecemeal technology, are C. G. F. Simkin's two articles on 'Budgetary
Reform' in the Australian Economic Record (1941, pp. 192 ff., and 1942, pp. 16 ff.). I am
glad to be able to refer to these two articles since they make conscious use of the
methodological principles which I advocate; they thus show that these principles are useful
in the practice of technological research.

I do not suggest that piecemeal engineering cannot be bold, or that it must be confined to
'smallish' problems. But I think that the degree of complication which we can tackle is
governed by the degree of our experience gained in conscious and systematic piecemeal
engineering.

4. This view has recently been emphasized by F. A. von Hayek in various interesting papers
(cp. for instance his Freedom and the Economic System, Public Policy Pamphlets, Chicago,
1939). What I call 'Utopian engineering' corresponds largely, I believe, to what Hayek
would call 'centralized' or 'collectivist' planning. Hayek himself recommends what he calls
'planning for freedom'. I suppose he would agree that this would take the character of
'piecemeal engineering'. One could, I believe, formulate Hayek's objections to collectivist
planning somewhat like this. If we try to construct society according to a blueprint, then we
may find that we cannot incorporate individual freedom in our blueprint; or if we do, that we
cannot realize it. The reason is that centralized economic planning eliminates from economic
life one of the most important functions of the individual, namely his function as a chooser
of the product, as a free consumer. In other words, Hayek's criticism belongs to the realm of
social technology. He points out a certain technological impossibility, namely that of
drafting a plan for a society which is at once economically centralized and individualistic.

* Readers of Hayek's The Road to Serfdom (1944) may feel puzzled by this note; for Hayek's
attitude in this book is so explicit that no room is left for the somewhat vague comments of

my note. But my note was printed before Hayek's book was published; and although many
of his leading ideas were foreshadowed in his earlier writings, they were not yet quite as
explicit as in The Road to Serfdom. And many ideas which, as a matter of course, we now
associate with Hayek's name were unknown to me when I wrote my note.
In the light of what I know now about Hayek's position, my summary of it does not appear
to me to be mistaken, although it is, no doubt, an understatement of his position. The
following modifications may perhaps put the matter right.

{a) Hayek would not himself use the word 'social engineering' for any political activity
which he would be prepared to advocate. He objects to this term because it is associated
with a general tendency which he has called 'scientism' — ^the naive belief that the methods
of the natural sciences (or, rather, what many people believe to be the methods of the natural
sciences) must produce similarly impressive results in the social field. (Cp. Hayek's two
series of articles, Scientism and the Study of Society, Economica, IX-XI 1942-44, and The
Counter-revolution of Science, ibid., VIII, 1941.)

If by 'scientism' we mean a tendency to ape, in the field of social science, what are
supposed to be the methods of the natural sciences, then historicism can be described as a
form of scientism. Atypical and influential scientistic argument in favour of historicism is, in
brief, this: 'We can predict eclipses; why should we not be able to predict revolutions?'; or,
in a more elaborate form: 'The task of science is to predict; thus the task of the social
sciences must be to make social, i.e. historical, predictions.' I have tried to refute this kind of
argument (cp. my The Poverty of Historicism, and 'Prediction and Prophecy, and their
Significance for Social Theory', Proceedings of the Xth International Congress of
Philosophy, Amsterdam, 1948; now in my Conjectures and Refutations); and in this sense, I
am opposed to scientism.

But if by 'scientism' we should mean the view that the methods of the social sciences are, to
a very considerable extent, the same as those of the natural sciences, then I should be
obliged to plead 'guilty' to being an adherent of 'scientism'; indeed, I believe that the
similarity between the social and the natural sciences can even be used for correcting wrong
ideas about the natural sciences by showing that these are much more similar to the social
sciences than is generally supposed.

It is for this reason that I have continued to use Roscoe Pound's term 'social engineering' in
Roscoe Pound's sense, which as far as I can see, is free of that 'scientism' which, I think,
must be rejected.

Terminology apart, I still think that Hayek's views can be interpreted as favourable to what I
call 'piecemeal engineering'. On the other hand, Hayek has given a much clearer
formulation of his views than my old outline indicates. The part of his views which
corresponds to what I should call 'social engineering' (in Pound's sense) is his suggestion
that there is an urgent need, in a free society, to reconstruct what he describes as its 'legal
framework'.'^

5. Bryan Magee has drawn my attention to what he rightly calls 'de Tocqueville's superbly put
argument' in L 'ancien regime.

6. The problem whether or not a good end justifies bad means seems to arise out of such cases
as whether one should lie to a sick man in order to set his mind at rest; or whether one
should keep a people in ignorance in order to make them happy; or whether one should
begin a long and bloody civil war in order to estabUsh a world of peace and beauty.

In all these cases the action contemplated is to bring about first a more immediate result
(called 'the means') which is considered an evil, in order that a secondary result (called 'the
end') may be brought about which is considered a good.
I think that in all such cases three different kinds of questions arise.

(a) How far are we entitled to assume that the means will in fact lead to the expected end?
Since the means are the more immediate result, they will in most cases be the more certain
result of the contemplated action, and the end, which is more remote, will be less certain.
The question here raised is a factual question rather than one of moral valuations. It is the
question whether, as a matter of fact, the assumed causal connection between the means and
the end can be relied upon; and one might therefore reply that, if the assumed causal
connection does not hold, the case was simply not one of means and ends.
This may be true. But in practice, the point here considered contains what is perhaps the
most important moral issue. For although the question (whether the contemplated means will
bring about the contemplated end) is a factual one, our attitude towards this question raises

some of the most fundamental moral problems'si4thQ problem whether we ought to rely, in
such cases, on our conviction that such a causal connection holds; or in other words,
whether we ought to rely, dogmatically, on causal theories, or whether we should adopt a
sceptical attitude towards them, especially where the immediate result of our action is, in
itself, considered evil.

This question is perhaps not so important in the first of our three examples, but it is so in the
two others. Some people may feel very certain that the causal connections assumed in these
two cases hold; but the connection may be a very remote one; and even the emotional
certainty of their belief may itself be the result of an attempt to suppress their doubts. (The
issue, in other words, is that between the fanatic and the rationalist in the Socratic sense — the
man who tries to know his intellectual limitations.) The issue will be the more important the
greater the evil of 'the means'. However that may be, to educate oneself so as to adopt an
attitude of scepticism towards one's causal theories, and one of intellectual modesty, is,
without doubt, one of the most important moral duties.

But let us assume that the assumed causal connection holds, or in other words, that there is a
situation in which one can properly speak of means and ends. Then we have to distinguish
between two further questions, (b) and (c).

(b) Assuming that the causal relation holds, and that we can be reasonably certain of it, the
problem becomes, in the main, one of choosing the lesser of two evils — that of the
contemplated means and that which must arise if these means are not adopted. In other
words, the best of ends do not as such justify bad means, but the attempt to avoid results
may justify actions which are in themselves producing bad results. (Most of us do not doubt
that it is right to cut off a man's limb in order to save his life.)

In this connection it may become very important that we are not really able to assess the
evils in question. Some Marxists, for example (cp. note 9 to chapter 19), believe that there
would be far less suffering involved in a violent social revolution than in the chronic evils
inherent in what they call 'Capitalism'. But even assuming that this revolution leads to a
better state of affairs — how can they evaluate the suffering in the one state and in the other?
Here, again, a factual question arises, and it is again our duty not to over-estimate our factual
knowledge. Besides, granted that the contemplated means will on balance improve the

situation — have we ascertained whether other means would not achieve better results, at a
lesser price?

But the same example raises another very important question. Assuming, again, that the sum
total of suffering under 'Capitalism' would, if it continues for several generations, outweigh
the suffering of civil war — can we condemn one generation to suffer for the sake of later
generations? (There is a great difference between sacrificing oneself for the sake of others,
and between sacrificing others — or oneself and others — for some such end.)
(c) The third point of importance is that we must not think that the so-called 'end', as a final
result, is more important than the intermediate result, the 'means'. This idea, which is
suggested by such sayings as 'All is well that ends well', is most misleading. First, the so-
called 'end' is hardly ever the end of the matter. Secondly, the means are not, as it were,
superseded once the end is achieved. For example, 'bad' means, such as a new powerful
weapon used in war for the sake of victory, may, after this 'end' is achieved, create new
trouble. In other words, even if something can be correctly described as a means to an end,
it is, very often, much more than this. It produces other results apart from the end in
question; and what we have to balance is not the (past or present) means against (future)
ends, but the total results, as far as they can be foreseen, of one course of action against
those of another. These results spread over a period of time which includes intermediate
results; and the contemplated 'end' will not be the last to be considered.

7. (1) I believe that the parallelism between the institutional problems of civil and of
international peace is most important. Any international organization which has legislative,
administrative and judicial institutions as well as an armed executive which is prepared to
act should be as successful in upholding international peace as are the analogous institutions
within the state. But it seems to me important not to expect more. We have been able to
reduce crime within the states to something comparatively unimportant, but we have not
been able to stamp it out entirely. Therefore we shall, for a long time to come, need a police
force which is ready to strike, and which sometimes does strike. Similarly, I beheve that we
must be prepared for the probability that we may not be able to stamp out international
crime. If we declare that our aim is to make war impossible once and for all, then we may
undertake too much, with the fatal result that we may not have a force which is ready to

strike when these hopes are disappointed. The failure of the League of Nations to take action
against aggressors was, at least in the case of the attack on Manchukuo, due largely to the
general feeling that the League had been established in order to end all wars and not to wage
them. This shows that propaganda for ending all wars is self-defeating. We must end
international anarchy, and be ready to go to war against any international crime. (Cp.
especially H. Mannheim, War and Crime, 1941; and A. D. Lindsay, 'War to End War', in
Background and Issues, 1940.)

But it is also important to search for the weak spot in the analogy between civil and
international peace, that is to say, for the point where the analogy breaks down. In the case
of civil peace, upheld by the state, there is the individual citizen to be protected by the state.
The citizen is, as it were, a 'natural' unit or atom (although there is a certain 'conventional'
element even in the conditions of citizenship). On the other hand, the members or units or
atoms of our international order will be states. But a state can never be a 'natural' unit like
the citizen; there are no natural boundaries to a state. The boundaries of a state change, and
can be defined only by applying the principle of a status quo; and since every status quo
must refer to an arbitrarily chosen date, the determination of the boundaries of a state is
purely conventional.

The attempt to find some 'natural' boundaries for states, and accordingly, to look upon the
state as a 'natural' unit, leads to the principle of the national state and to the romantic
fictions of nationalism, raciahsm, and tribahsm. But this principle is not 'natural', and the
idea that there exist natural units like nations, or linguistic or racial groups, is entirely
fictitious. Here, if anywhere, we should learn fi"om history; for since the dawn of history,
men have been continually mixed, unified, broken up, and mixed again; and this cannot be
undone, even if it were desirable.

There is a second point in which the analogy between civil and international peace breaks
down. The state must protect the individual citizen, its units or atoms; but the international
organization also must ultimately protect human individuals, and not its units or atoms, i.e.
states or nations.

The complete renunciation of the principle of the national state (a principle which owes its
popularity solely to the fact that it appeals to tribal instincts and that it is the cheapest and

surest method by which a poHtician who has nothing better to offer can make his way), and
the recognition of the necessarily conventional demarcation of a// states, together with the
further insight that human individuals and not states or nations must be the ultimate concern
even of international organizations, will help us to realize clearly, and to get over, the
difficulties arising from the breakdown of our fundamental analogy. (Cp. also chapter 12,
notes 51-64 and text, and note 2 to chapter 13.)

(2) It seems to me that the remark that human individuals must be recognized to be the
ultimate concern not only of international organizations, but of all politics, international as
well as 'national' or parochial, has important applications. We must realize that we can treat
individuals fairly, even if we decide to break up the power-organization of an aggressive
state or 'nation' to which these individuals belong. It is a widely held prejudice that the
destruction and control of the military, political and even of the economic power of a state or
'nation' implies misery or subjugation for its individual citizens. But this prejudice is as
unwarranted as it is dangerous.

It is unwarranted provided that an international organization protects the citizens of the thus
weakened state against exploitation of their political and military weakness. The only
damage to the individual citizen that cannot be avoided is one to his national pride; and if
we assume that he was a citizen of an aggressor country, then this is a damage which will be
unavoidable in any case, provided the aggression has been warded off.
The prejudice that we cannot distinguish between the treatment of a state and of its
individual citizens is also very dangerous, for when it comes to the problem of dealing with
an aggressor country, it necessarily creates two factions in the victorious countries, viz., the
faction of those who demand harsh treatment and those who demand leniency. As a rule,
both overlook the possibility of treating a state harshly, and, at the same time, its citizens
leniently.

But if this possibility is overlooked, then the following is likely to happen. Immediately after
the victory the aggressor state and its citizens will be treated comparatively harshly. But the
state, the power-organization, will probably not be treated as harshly as might be reasonable
because of a reluctance to treat innocent individuals harshly, that is to say, because the
influence of the faction for leniency will make itself felt somehow. In spite of this reluctance.

it is likely that individuals will suffer beyond what they deserve. After a short time,
therefore, a reaction is likely to occur in the victorious countries. Equalitarian and
humanitarian tendencies are likely to strengthen the faction for leniency until the harsh
pohcy is reversed. But this development is not only likely to give the aggressor state a
chance for a new aggression; it will also provide it with the weapon of the moral indignation
of one who has been wronged, while the victorious countries are likely to become afflicted
with the diffidence of those who feel that they may have done wrong.

This very undesirable development must in the end lead to a new aggression. It can be
avoided if, and only if, from the start, a clear distinction is made between the aggressor state
(and those responsible for its acts) on the one hand, and its citizens on the other hand.
Harshness towards the aggressor state, and even the radical destruction of its power
apparatus, will not produce this moral reaction of humanitarian feelings in the victorious
countries if it is combined with a policy of fairness towards the individual citizens.
But is it possible to break the political power of a state without injuring its citizens
indiscriminately? In order to prove that this is possible I shall construct an example of a
pohcy which breaks the political and military power of an aggressor state without violating
the interests of its individual citizens.

The fringe of the aggressor country, including its sea-coast and its main (not all) sources of
water power, coal, and steel, could be severed from the state, and administered as an
international territory, never to be returned. Harbours as well as the raw materials could be
made accessible to the citizens of the state for their legitimate economic activities, without
imposing any economic disadvantages on them, on the condition that they invite
international commissions to control the proper use of these facilities. Any use which may
help to build up a new war potential is forbidden, and if there is reason for suspicion that the
internationalized facilities and raw materials may be so used, their use has at once to be
stopped. It then rests with the suspect party to invite and to facilitate a thorough
investigation, and to offer satisfactory guarantees for a proper use of its resources.
Such a procedure would not eliminate the possibility of a new attack but it would force the
aggressor state to make its attack on the internationalized territories prior to building up a
new war potential. Thus such an attack would be hopeless provided the other countries have

retained and developed their war potential. Faced with this situation the former aggressor
state would be forced to change its attitude radically, and adopt one of co-operation. It
would be forced to invite the international control of its industry and to facilitate the
investigation of the international controlling authority (instead of obstructing them) because
only such an attitude would guarantee its use of the facilities needed by its industries; and
such a development would be likely to take place without any further interference with the
internal politics of the state.

The danger that the internationalization of these facilities might be misused for the purpose
of exploiting or of humiliating the population of the defeated country can be counteracted
by international legal measures that provide for courts of appeal, etc.

This example shows that it is not impossible to treat a state harshly and its citizens leniently.

(I have left parts (1) and (2) of this note exactly as they were written in 1942. Only in part
(3), which is non-topical, have I made an addition, after the first two paragraphs.)*
(3) But is such an engineering approach towards the problem of peace scientific? Many will
contend, I am sure, that a truly scientific attitude towards the problems of war and peace
must be different. They will say that we must first study the causes of war. We must study
the forces that lead to war, and also those that may lead to peace. It has been recently
claimed, for instance, that 'lasting peace' can come only if we consider ftilly the 'underlying
dynamic forces' in society that may produce war or peace. In order to find out these forces,
we must, of course, study history. In other words, we must approach the problem of peace
by a historicist method, and not by a technological method. This, it is claimed, is the only
scientific approach.

The historicist may, with the help of history, show that the causes of war can be found in the
clash of economic interests; or in the clash of classes; or of ideologies, for instance, freedom
versus tyranny; or in the clash of races, or of nations, or of imperialisms, or of militarist
systems; or in hate; or in fear; or in envy; or in the wish to take revenge; or in all these things
together, and in countless others. And he will thereby show that the task of removing these
causes is extremely difficult. And he will show that there is no point in constructing an
international organization, as long as we have not removed the causes of war, for instance
the economic causes, etc.

Similarly, psychologism may argue that the causes of war are to be found in 'human nature',
or, more specifically, in its aggressiveness, and that the way to peace is that of preparing for
other outlets for aggression. (The reading of thrillers has been suggested in all seriousness —
in spite of the fact that some of our late dictators were addicted to them.)
I do not think that these methods of dealing with this important problem are very promising.
And I do not believe, more especially, in the plausible argument that in order to establish
peace we must ascertain the cause or the causes of war.

Admittedly, there are cases where the method of searching for the causes of some evil, and
of removing them, may be successful. If I feel a pain in my foot I may find that it is caused
by a pebble and remove it. But we must not generalize from this. The method of removing
pebbles does not even cover all cases of pains in my foot. In some such cases I may not find
'the cause'; and in others I may be unable to remove it.

In general, the method of removing causes of some undesirable event is apphcable only if
we know a short list of necessary conditions (i.e. a list of conditions such that the event in
question never happens except if one at least of the conditions on the list is present) and if
all of these conditions can be controlled, or, more precisely, prevented. (It may be remarked
that necessary conditions are hardly what one describes by the vague term 'causes'; they
are, rather, what are usually called 'contributing causes'; as a rule, where we speak of
'causes' we mean a set of sufficient conditions.) But I do not think that we can hope to
construct such a hst of the necessary conditions of war. Wars have broken out under the
most varying circumstances. Wars are not simple phenomena, such as, perhaps,
thunderstorms. There is no reason to beheve that by calling a vast variety of phenomena
'wars', we ensure that they are all 'caused' in the same way.

All this shows that the apparently unprejudiced and convincingly scientific approach, the
study of the 'causes of war', is, in fact, not only prejudiced, but also liable to bar the way to
a reasonable solution; it is, in fact, pseudo -scientific.

How far should we get if, instead of introducing laws and a police force, we approached the
problem of criminality 'scientifically', i.e. by trying to find out what precisely are the causes
of crime? I do not imply that we cannot here or there discover important factors contributing
to crime or to war, and that we cannot avert much harm in this way; but this can well be

done after we have got crime under control, i.e. after we have introduced our poHce force.
On the other hand, the study of economic, psychological, hereditary, moral, etc., 'causes' of
crime, and the attempt to remove these causes, would hardly have led us to fmd out that a
police force (which does not remove the cause) can bring crime under control. Quite apart
from the vagueness of such phrases as 'the cause of war', the whole approach is anything
but scientific. It is as if one insisted that it is unscientific to wear an overcoat when it is cold;
and that we should rather study the causes of cold weather, and remove them. Or, perhaps,
that lubricating is unscientific, since we should rather find out the causes of friction and
remove them. This latter example shows, I believe, the absurdity of the apparently scientific
criticism; for just as lubrication certainly reduces the 'causes' of friction, so an international
police force (or another armed body of this kind) may reduce an important 'cause' of war,
namely the hope of 'getting away with it'.

8. I have tried to show this in my The Logic of Scientific Discovery. I believe, in accordance
with the methodology outlined, that systematic piecemeal engineering will help us to build
an empirical social technology, reached by the method of trial and error. Only in this way, I
believe, can we begin to build an empirical social science. The fact that such a social science
hardly exists so far, and that the historical method is incapable of furthering it much, is one
of the strongest arguments against the possibility of large-scale or Utopian social
engineering. See also my The Poverty ofHistoricism.

9. For a very similar formulation, see John Carruthers' lecture Socialism & Radicalism
(published as a pamphlet by the Hammersmith Socialist Society, London, 1894). He argues
in a typical manner against piecemeal reform: 'Every palliative measure brings its own evil
with it, and the evil is generally greater than that it was intended to cure. Unless we make up
our minds to have a new garment altogether, we must be prepared to go in rags, for patching
will not improve the old one.' (It should be noted that by 'radicalism', used by Carruthers in
the title of his lecture, he means about the opposite of what is meant here. Carruthers
advocates an uncompromising programme of canvas-cleaning and attacks 'radicalism', i.e.
the programme of 'progressive' reforms advocated by the 'radical liberals'. This use of the
term 'radical' is, of course, more customary than mine; nevertheless, the term means

originally 'going to the root' — of the evil, for instance — or 'eradicating the evil'; and there is
no proper substitute for it.)

For the quotations in the next paragraph of the text (the 'divine original' which the artist-
politician must 'copy'), see Republic, 500e/501a. See also notes 25 and 26 to chapter 8.
In Plato's Theory of Forms are, I believe, elements which are of great importance for the
understanding, and for the theory, of art. This aspect of Platonism is treated by J. A. Stewart,
in his book Plato s Doctrine of Ideas (1909), 128 ff. I believe, however, that he stresses too
much the object of pure contemplation (as opposed to that 'pattern' which the artist not only
visualizes, but which he labours to reproduce, on his canvas).

10 . Republic, 520c. For the 'Royal Art', see especially the Statesman; cp. note 57 (2) to chapter
8.

11. It has often been said that ethics is only a part of aesthetics, since ethical questions are
ultimately a matter of taste. (Cp. for instance G. E. G. Catlin, The Science and Methods oj
Politics, 315 ff.) If by saying this, no more is meant than that ethical problems cannot be
solved by the rational methods of science, I agree. But we must not overlook the vast
difference between moral 'problems of taste' and problems of taste in aesthetics. If I dislike
a novel, a piece of music, or perhaps a picture, I need not read it, or listen to it, or look at it.
Aesthetic problems (with the possible exception of architecture) are largely of a private
character, but ethical problems concern men, and their lives. To this extent, there is a
fundamental difference between them.

12 . For this and the preceding quotations, cp. Republic, 500d-501a (italics mine); cp. also notes
29 (end) to chapter 4, and 25, 26, 37, 38 (especially 25 and 38) to chapter 8.

The two quotations in the next paragraph are from ihQ Republic, 541a, and from the
Statesman, 293c-e.

It is interesting (because it is, I believe, characteristic of the hysteria of romantic radicalism
with its hubrisMiis ambitious arrogance of godlikeness) to see that both passages of the
RepublicMthQ canvas-cleaning of 500d, ff., and the purge of 541a — are preceded by
reference to the godlikeness of the philosophers; cp. 500c-d, 'the philosopher becomes ...
godlike himself, and 540c-d (cp. note 37 to chapter 8 and text), 'And the state will erect

monuments, at the expense of the pubHc, to commemorate them; and sacrifices will be
offered to them, as demigods, ... or at least as men who are blessed by grace, and godlike.'
It is also interesting (for the same reasons) that the first of these passages is preceded by the
passage (498d/e, f.; see note 59 to chapter 8) in which Plato expresses his hope that
philosophers may become, as rulers, acceptable even to 'the many'.

* Concerning the term 'liquidate' the following modem outburst of radicalism may be quoted:
'Is it not obvious that if we are to have socialism — real and permanent socialism — all the
fundamental opposition must be "liquidated" (i.e. rendered politically inactive by
disfranchisement, and if necessary by imprisonment)?' This remarkable rhetorical question
is printed on p. 18 of the still more remarkable pamphlet Christians in the Class Struggle, by
Gilbert Cope, with a Foreword by the Bishop of Bradford. (1942; for the historicism of this
pamphlet, see note 3 to chapter 1.) The Bishop, in his Foreword, denounces 'our present
economic system' as 'immoral and un-Christian', and he says that 'when something is so
plainly the work of the devil . . . nothing can excuse a minister of the Church from working
for its destruction'. Accordingly, he recommends the pamphlet 'as a lucid and penetrating
analysis'.

A few more sentences may be quoted from the pamphlet. 'Two parties may ensure partial
democracy, but a full democracy can be established only by a single party ...' (p. 17). — 'In
the period of transition ... the workers ... must be led and organized by a single party which
tolerates the existence of no other party fundamentally opposed to it ...' (p. 19). — 'Freedom
in the sociahst state means that no one is allowed to attack the principle of common
ownership, but everyone is encouraged to work for its more effective realization and
operation ... The important matter of how the opposition is to be nullified depends upon the
methods used by the opposition itself (p. 18).

Most interesting of all is perhaps the following argument (also to be found on p. 18) which
deserves to be read carefully: 'Why is it possible to have a sociahst party in a capitahst
country if it is not possible to have a capitahst party in a socialist state? The answer is simply
that the one is a movement involving all the productive forces of a great majority against a
small minority, while the other is an attempt of a minority to restore their position of power
and privilege by renewed exploitation of the majority.' In other words, a ruling 'small

minority' can afford to be tolerant, while a 'great majority' cannot afford to tolerate a 'small
minority'. This simple answer is indeed a model of 'a lucid and penetrating analysis', as the
Bishop puts it*

13 . Cp. for this development also chapter 13, especially note 7, and text.

14 . It seems that romanticism, in literature as well as in philosophy, may be traced back to
Plato. It is well known that Rousseau was directly influenced by him (cp. note 1 to chapter
6). Rousseau also knew Plato's Statesman (cp. the Social Contract, Book II, ch. VII, and
Book III, ch. VI) with its eulogy of the early hill-shepherds. But apart from this direct
influence, it is probable that Rousseau derived his pastoral romanticism and love for
primitivity indirectly from Plato; for he was certainly influenced by the Italian Renaissance,
which had rediscovered Plato, and especially his naturalism and his dreams of a perfect
society of primitive shepherds (cp. notes 11 (3) and 32 to chapter 4 and note 1 to chapter 6).
— It is interesting that Voltaire recognized at once the dangers of Rousseau's romantic
obscurantism; just as Kant was not prevented by his admiration for Rousseau from
recognizing this danger when he was faced with it in Herder's 'Ideas' (cp. also note 56 to
chapter 12, and text).

Notes to Chapter Ten

This chapter's motto is taken from the Symposium, 193d.

1. Cp. Republic, 419a, ff., 421b, 465c, ff., and 519e; see also chapter 6 . especially sections II
and IV.

2. I am thinking not only of the medieval attempts to arrest society, attempts that were based
on the Platonic theory that the rulers are responsible for the souls, the spiritual welfare of the
ruled (and on many practical devices developed by Plato in the Republic and in the Laws),
but I am thinking also of many later developments.

3. 1 have tried, in other words, to apply as far as possible the method which I have described in

my The Logic of Scientific Discovery.

4. Cp. especially Republic, 566e; see also below, note 63 to this chapter.

5 . In my story there should be 'no villains . . . Crime is not interesting ... It is what men do at
their best, with good intentions ... that really concerns us'. I have tried as far as possible to
apply this methodological principle to my interpretation of Plato. (The formulation of the
principle quoted in this note I have taken from G. B. Shaw's Preface to Saint Joan; see the
first sentences in the section 'Tragedy, not Melodrama'.)

6. For Heraclitus, see chapter 2 . For Alcmaeon's and Herodotus' theories of isonomy, see
notes 13, 14, and 17, to chapter 6. For Phaleas of Chalcedon's economic equalitarianism,
see Aristotle's Politics, 1266a, and Diels^, chapter 39 (also on Hippodamus). For
Hippodamus of Miletus, see Aristotle's Politics, 1267b22, and note 9 to chapter 3. Among
the first political theorists, we must, of course, also count the Sophists, Protagoras, Antiphon,
Hippias, Alcidamas, Lycophron; Critias (cp. Diels^, fr. 6, 30-38, and note 17 to chapter 8),
and the Old Oligarch (if these were two persons); and Democritus.

For the terms 'closed society' and 'open society', and their use in a somewhat similar sense
by Bergson, see the Note to the Introduction. My characterization of the closed society as
magical and of the open society as rational and critical of course makes it impossible to
apply these terms without idealizing the society in question. The magical attitude has by no

means disappeared from our life, not even in the most 'open' societies so far realized, and I
think it unlikely that it can ever completely disappear. In spite of this, it seems to be possible
to give some useful criterion of the transition from the closed society to the open. The
transition takes place when social institutions are first consciously recognized as man-made,
and when their conscious alteration is discussed in terms of their suitability for the
achievement of human aims or purposes. Or, putting the matter in a less abstract way, the
closed society breaks down when the supernatural awe with which the social order is
considered gives way to active interference, and to the conscious pursuit of personal or
group interests. It is clear that cultural contact through civilization may engender such a
breakdown, and, even more, the development of an impoverished, i.e. landless, section of
the ruling class.

I may mention here that I do not like to speak of 'social breakdown' in a general way. I
think that the breakdown of a closed society, as described here, is a fairly clear affair, but in
general the term 'social breakdown' seems to me to convey very little more than that the
observer does not like the course of the development he describes. I think that the term is
much misused. But I admit that, with or without reason, the member of a certain society
might have the feeling that 'everything is breaking down'. There is little doubt that to the
members of the ancien regime or of the Russian nobility, the French or the Russian
revolution must have appeared as a complete social breakdown; but to the new rulers it
appeared very differently.

Toynbee (cp. A Study of History, V, 23-35; 338) describes 'the appearance of schism in the
body social' as a criterion of a society which has broken down. Since schism, in the form of
class disunion, undoubtedly occurred in Greek society long before the Peloponnesian war, it
is not quite clear why he holds that this war (and not the breakdown of tribalism) marks what
he describes as the breakdown of Hellenic civilization. (Cp. also note 45 (2) to chapter 4,
and note 8 to the present chapter.)

Concerning the similarity between the Greeks and the Maoris, some remarks can be found in
Burnet's Early Greek Philosophy^, especially pp. 2 and 9.

7. I owe this criticism of the organic theory of the state, together with many other suggestions,
to J. Popper-Lynkeus; he writes {Die allgemeine Ndhrpflicht, 2nd edn, 1923, pp. 71 f): 'The

excellent Menenius Agrippa ... persuaded the insurgent plebs to return' (to Rome) 'by
telling them his simile of the body's members who rebelled against the belly ... Why did not
one of them say: "Right, Agrippa! If there must be a belly, then we, the plebs, want to be the
belly from now on; and you ... may play the role of the members!'" (For the simile, see Livy
II, 32, and Shakespeare's Coriolanus, Act 1, Scene 1.) It is perhaps interesting to note that
even a modem and apparently progressive movement like 'Mass-Observation' makes
propaganda for the organic theory of society (on the cover of its pamphlet, F/ra^ Year's
Work, 1937-38). See also note 31 to chapter 5.

On the other hand, it must be admitted that the tribal 'closed society' has something like an
'organic' character, just because of the absence of social tension. The fact that such a society
may be based on slavery (as it was the case with the Greeks) does not create in itself a social
tension, because slaves sometimes form no more part of society than its cattle; their
aspirations and problems do not necessarily create anything that is felt by the rulers as a
problem within society. Population growth, however, does create such a problem. In Sparta,
which did not send out colonies, it led first to the subjugation of neighbouring tribes for the
sake of winning their territory, and then to a conscious effort to arrest all change by
measures that included the control of population increase through the institution of
infanticide, birth control, and homosexuality. All this was seen quite clearly by Plato, who
always insisted (perhaps under the influence of Hippodamus) on the need for a fixed
number of citizens, and who recommended in the Laws colonization and birth control, as he
had earher recommended homosexuality (explained in the same way in Aristotle's Politics,
1272a23) as means for keeping the population constant; ^QQLaws, 740d-741a, and 838e.
(For Plato's recommendation of infanticide in the Republic, and for similar problems, see
especially note 34 to chapter 4; furthermore, notes 22 and 63 to chapter 10, and 39 (3) to
chapter 5 .)

Of course, all these practices are far from being completely explicable in rational terms; and
the Dorian homosexuality, more especially, is closely connected with the practice of war,
and with the attempts to recapture, in the life of the war horde, an emotional satisfaction
which had been largely destroyed by the breakdown of tribahsm; see especially the 'war
horde composed of lovers', glorified by Plato in the Symposium, 178e. In the Laws, 636b, f ,

836b/c, Plato deprecates homosexuality (cp., however, 83 8e).

8. I suppose that what I call the 'strain of civilization' is similar to the phenomenon which
Freud had in mind when writing Civilization and its Discontents. Toynbee speaks of a Sense
of Drift {A Study of History, V, 412 ff.), but he confines it to 'ages of disintegration', while I
find my strain very clearly expressed in Heraclitus (in fact, traces can be found in Hesiod) —
long before the time when, according to Toynbee, his 'Hellenic society' begins to
'disintegrate'. Meyer speaks of the disappearance of 'The status of birth, which had
determined every man's place in life, his civil and social rights and duties, together with the
security of earning his living' {Geschichte des Altertums, III, 542). This gives an apt
description of the strain in Greek society of the fifth century B.C.

9. Another profession of this kind which led to comparative intellectual independence, was
that of a wandering bard. I am thinking here mainly of Xenophanes, the progressivist; cp.
the paragraph on 'Protagoreanism' in note 7 to chapter 5. (Homer also may be a case in
point.) It is clear that this profession was accessible to very few men.

I happen to have no personal interest in matters of commerce, or in commercially minded
people. But the influence of commercial initiative seems to me rather important. It is hardly
an accident that the oldest known civilization, that of Sumer, was, as far as we know, a
commercial civilization with strong democratic features; and that the arts of writing and
arithmetic, and the beginnings of science, were closely connected with its commercial life.
(Cp. also text to note 24 to this chapter.)

10 . Thucydides, I, 93 (I mostly follow Jowett's translation). For the problem of Thucydides'
bias, cp. note 15 (1) to this chapter.

11. This and the next quotation: op. cit., I, 107. Thucydides' story of the treacherous oligarchs
can hardly be recognized in Meyer's apologetic version {Gesch. d. Altertums, III, 594), in
spite of the fact that he has no better sources; it is simply distorted beyond recognition. (For
Meyer's partiality, see note 15 (2) to the present chapter.) — For a similar treachery (in 479
B.C. on the eve of Plataea) cp. Plutarch's ^raftV/e^, 13.

12 . Thucydides, III, 82-84. The following conclusion of the passage is characteristic of the
element of individualism and humanitarianism present in Thucydides, a member of the Great

Generation (see below, and note 27 to this chapter) and, as mentioned above, a moderate:
'When men take revenge, they are reckless; they do not consider the future, and do not
hesitate to annul those common laws of humanity on which every individual must rely for
his own deliverance should he ever be overtaken by calamity; they forget that in their own
hour of need they will look for them in vain.' For a further discussion of Thucydides' bias
see note 15 (1) to this chapter.

13 . Aristotle, PoMc^, VIII, (V), 9, 10/11; 1310a. Aristotle does not agree with such open
hostility; he thinks it wiser that 'true Oligarchs should affect to be advocates of the people's
cause'; and he is anxious to give them good advice: 'They should take, or they should at
least pretend to take, the opposite line, by including in their oath the pledge: I shall do no
harm to the people.'

14 . Thucydides, II, 9.

15 . Cp. E. Meyer, Geschichte des Altertums, IV (1915), 368.

(1) In order to judge Thucydides' alleged impartiality, or rather, his involuntary bias, one
must compare his treatment of the most important affair of Plataea which marked the
outbreak of the first part of the Peloponnesian war (Meyer, following Lysias, calls this part
the Archidamian war; cp. Meyer, Gesch. d. Altertums, IV, 307, and V, p. vii) with his
treatment of the Melian affair, Athens' first aggressive move in the second part (the war of
Alcibiades). The Archidamian war broke out with an attack on democratic Plataea — a
lightning attack made without declaration of war by Thebes, a partner of totalitarian Sparta,
whose friends inside Plataea, the oligarchic fifth column, had by night opened the doors of
Plataea to the enemy. Though most important as the immediate cause of the war, the incident
is comparatively briefly related by Thucydides (II, 1-7); he does not comment upon the
moral aspect, apart from calling 'the affair of Plataea a glaring violation of the thirty years
truce'; but he censures (II, 5) the democrats of Plataea for their harsh treatment of the
invaders, and even expresses doubts whether they did not break an oath. This method of
presentation contrasts strongly with the famous and most elaborate, though of course
fictitious, Melian Dialogue {Thuc, V, 85-113) in which Thucydides tries to brand Athenian
imperialism. Shocking as the Melian affair seems to have been (Alcibiades may have been

responsible; cp. Plutarch, ^/c, 16), the Athenians did not attack without warning, and tried
to negotiate before using force.

Another case in point, bearing on Thucydides' attitude, is his eulogy (in VIII, 68) of the
oligarchic party leader, the orator Antiphon (who is mentioned in Plato's Menexenus, 236a,
as a teacher of Socrates; cp. end of note 19 to chapter 6).

(2) E. Meyer is one of the greatest modem authorities on this period. But to appreciate his
point of view one must read the following scornful remarks on democratic governments
(there are a great many passages of this kind): 'Much more important' (viz., than to arm)
'was it to continue the entertaining game of party-quarrels, and to secure unlimited freedom,
as interpreted by everybody according to his particular interests.' (V, 61.) But is it more, I
ask, than an 'interpretation according to his particular interests' when Meyer writes: 'The
wonderful freedom of democracy, and of her leaders, have manifestly proved their
inefficiency.' (V, 69.) About the Athenian democratic leaders who in 403 B.C. refused to
surrender to Sparta (and whose refusal was later even justified by success — although no
such justification is necessary), Meyer says: 'Some of these leaders might have been honest
fanatics; ... they might have been so utterly incapable of any sound judgement that they
really believed' (what they said, namely:) 'that Athens must never capitulate.' (IV, 659.)
Meyer censures other historians in the strongest terms for being biased. (Cp. e.g. the notes in
V, 89 and 102, where he defends the older tyrant Dionysius against allegedly biased attacks,
and 113 bottom to 114 top, where he is also exasperated by some anti-Dionysian 'parroting
historians'.) Thus he calls Grote 'an Enghsh radical leader', and his work 'not a history, but
an apology for Athens', and he proudly contrasts himself with such men: 'It will hardly be
possible to deny that we have become more impartial in questions of politics, and that we
have arrived thereby at a more correct and more comprehensive historical judgement. ' (All
this in III, 239.)

Behind Meyer's point of view stands — Hegel. This explains everything (as will be clear, I
hope, to readers of chapter 12). Meyer's Hegelianism becomes obvious in the following
remark, which is an unconscious but nearly literal quotation from Hegel; it is in III, 256,
when Meyer speaks of a 'flat and moralizing evaluation, which judges great political
undertakings with the yardstick of civil morality' (Hegel speaks of 'the litany of private

virtues'), 'ignoring the deeper, the truly moral factors of the state, and of historical
responsibilities'. (This corresponds exactly to the passages from Hegel quoted in chapter 12,
below; cp. note 75 to chapter 12.) I wish to use this opportunity once more to make it clear
that I do not pretend to be impartial in my historical judgement. Of course I do what I can to
ascertain the relevant facts. But I am aware that my evaluations (like anybody else's) must
depend entirely on my point of view. This I admit, although I fully believe in my point of
view, i.e. that my evaluations are right.

16. Cp. Meyer, op. cit., IV, 367.

17. Cp. Meyer, op. cit., IV, 464.

18 . It must however be kept in mind that, as the reactionaries complained, slavery was in
Athens on the verge of dissolution. Cp. the evidence mentioned in notes 17, 18 and 29 to
chapter 4; furthermore, notes 13 to chapter 5, 48 to chapter 8, and 27-37 to the present
chapter.

19. Cp. Meyer, op. cit., IV, 659.

Meyer comments upon this move of the Athenian democrats: 'Now when it was too late they
made a move towards a political constitution which later helped Rome ... to lay the
foundations of its greatness.' In other words, instead of crediting the Athenians with a
constitutional invention of the first order, he reproaches them; and the credit goes to Rome,
whose conservatism is more to Meyer's taste.

The incident in Roman history to which Meyer alludes is Rome's alliance, or federation,
with Gabii. But immediately before, and on the very page on which Meyer describes this
federation (in V, 135) we can read also: 'All these towns, when incorporated with Rome, lost
their existence ... without even receiving a political organization of the type of Attica's
"demes".' A little later, in V, 147, Gabii is again referred to, and Rome in her generous
'liberality' again contrasted with Athens; but at the turn of the same page Meyer reports
without criticism Rome's looting and total destruction of Veil, which meant the end of
Etruscan civilization.

The worst perhaps of all these Roman destructions is that of Carthage. It took place at a
moment when Carthage was no longer a danger to Rome, and it robbed Rome, and us, of

most valuable contributions which Carthage could have made to civilization. I only mention
the great treasures of geographical information which were destroyed there. (The story of the
decline of Carthage is not unlike that of the fall of Athens in 404 B.C., discussed in this
chapter below; see note 48. The oligarchs of Carthage preferred the fall of their city to the
victory of democracy.)

Later, under the influence of Stoicism, derived indirectly from Antisthenes, Rome began to
develop a very liberal and humanitarian outlook. It reached the height of this development
in those centuries of peace after Augustus (cp. for instance Toynbee, A Study of History, V,
pp. 343-346), but it is here that some romantic historians see the beginning of her decline.
Regarding this decline itself, it is, of course, naive and romantic to believe, as many still do,
that it was due to the degeneration caused by long-continued peace, or to demoralization, or
to the superiority of the younger barbarian peoples, etc.; in brief, to over-feeding. (Cp. note
45 (3) to chapter 4.) The devastating result of violent epidemics (cp. H. Zinsser, Rats, Lice,
and History, 1937, pp. 131 ff.) and the unchecked and progressive exhaustion of the soil,
and with it a breakdown of the agricultural basis of the Roman economic system (cp. V. G.
Simkhovitch, 'Hay and History', and 'Rome's Fall Reconsidered', in Towards the
Understanding of Jesus, 1927), seem to have been some of the main causes. Cp. also W.
Hegemann, Entlarvte Geschichte (1934).

20 . Thucydides, VII, 28; cp. Meyer, op. cit., IV, 535. The important remark that 'this would
yield more' enables us, of course, to fix an approximate upper limit for the ratio between the
taxes previously imposed and the volume of trade.

21 . This is an allusion to a grim little pun which I owe to R Milford: 'A Plutocracy is preferable
to a Lootocracy.'

22 . Plato, Republic, 423b. For the problem of keeping the size of the population constant, cp.
note 7, above.

23 . Cp. Meyer, Geschichte des Altertums, IV, 577.

24 . Op. cit., V, 27. Cp. also note 9 to this chapter, and text to note 30 to chapter 4. *For the
passage from the Laws, see 742a-c. Plato elaborates here the Spartan attitude. He lays down
'a law that forbids private citizens to possess any gold or silver ... Our citizens should be

allowed only such coins as are legal tender among ourselves, but valueless elsewhere . . . For
the sake of an expeditionary force, or official visit abroad, such as embassies or other
necessary missions ... it is necessary that the state should always possess Hellenic (gold)
coinage. And if a private citizen should ever be obliged to go abroad, he may do so,
provided he has duly obtained permission from the magistrates. And should he have, upon
his return, any foreign money left, then he must surrender it to the state, and accept its
equivalent in home currency. And should anybody be found to keep it, then it must be
confiscated, and he who imported it, and anybody who failed to inform against him, should
be liable to curses and condemnations, and, in addition, to a fine of not less than the amount
of the money involved.' Reading this passage, one wonders whether one does not wrong
Plato in describing him as a reactionary who copied the laws of the totalitarian township of
Sparta; for here he anticipates by more than 2000 years the principles and practices which
nowadays are nearly universally accepted as sound policy by the most progressive Western
European democratic governments (who, like Plato, hope that some other government will
look after the 'Universal Hellenic gold currency').

A later passage {Laws, 950d) has, however, less of a liberal Western ring. 'First, no man
under forty years shall obtain permission for going abroad to whatever place it may be.
Secondly, nobody shall obtain such permission in a private capacity: in a public capacity,
permission may be granted only to heralds, ambassadors, and to certain missions of
inspection ... And these men, after their return, will teach the young that the political
institutions of other countries are inferior to their own.'

Similar laws are laid down for the reception of strangers. For 'intercommunication between
states necessarily results in a mixing of characters . . . and in importing novel customs; and
this must cause the greatest harm to people who enjoy ... the right laws' (949e/950a).*

25 . This is admitted by Meyer {op. cit, IV, 433 f ), who in a very interesting passage says of
the two parties: 'each of them claims that it defends "the paternal state" and that the
opponent is infected with the modern spirit of selfishness and revolutionary violence. In
reality, both are infected . . . The traditional customs and religion are more deeply rooted in
the democratic party; its aristocratic enemies who fight under the flag of the restoration of

the ancient times, are ... entirely modernized.' Cp. also op. cit., V, 4 f., 14, and the next
note.

26 . From Aristotle's Athenian Constitution, ch. 34, §3, we learn that the Thirty Tyrants
professed at first what appeared to Aristotle a 'moderate' programme, viz., that of the
'paternal state'. — For the nihilism and the modernity of Critias, cp. his theory of religion
discussed in chapter 8 (see especially note 17 to that chapter) and note 48 to the present
chapter.

27 . It is most interesting to contrast Sophocles' attitude towards the new faith with that of
Euripides. Sophocles complains (cp. Meyer, op. cit, IV, III): 'It is wrong that ... the lowly
born should flourish, while the brave and nobly born are unfortunate.' Euripides replies
(with Antiphon; cp. note 13 to chapter 5) that the distinction between the nobly and the low
born (especially slaves) is merely verbal: 'The name alone brings shame upon the slave.' —
For the humanitarian element in Thucydides, cp. the quotation in note 12 to this chapter. For
the question how far the Great Generation was connected with cosmopolitan tendencies, see
the evidence marshalled in note 48 to chapter 8 — especially the hostile witnesses, i.e. the
Old Oligarch, Plato, and Aristotle.

28. 'Misologists', or haters of rational argument, are compared by Socrates to 'misanthropists',
or haters of men; cp. the Phaedo, 89c. In contrast, cp. Plato's misanthropic remark in the
Republic, 496c-d (cp. notes 57 and 58 to chapter 8).

29 . The quotations in this paragraph are from Democritus' fragments, Diels, Vorsokratiker^ ,
fragments number 41; 179; 34;261; 62; 55;251;247 (genuineness questioned by Diels and
by Tarn, cp. note 48 to chapter 8); 118.

30 . Cp. text to note 16, chapter 6.

31. Cp. Thucydides, II, 37-41. Cp. also the remarks in note 16 to chapter 6.

32. Cp. T. Gomperz, Greek Thinkers, Book V, ch. 13,3 (Germ, edn, II, 407).

33 . Herodotus' work with its pro-democratic tendency (cp. for example. III, 80) appeared about
a year or two after Pericles' oration (cp. Meyer, Gesch. d. Altertums, IV, 369).

34 . This has been pointed out for instance by T. Gomperz, Greek Thinkers, V, 13, 2 (Germ.

edn, II, 406 f.); the passages in the Republic to which he draws attention are: 557d and 561c,
ff. The similarity is undoubtedly intentional. Cp. also Adam's edition of the Republic, vol. II,
235, note to 557d26. See also theZam, 699d/e, ff., and 704d-707d. For a similar
observation regarding Herodotus III, 80, see note 17 to chapter 6.

35 . Some hold the Menexenus to be spurious, but I believe that this shows only their tendency
to idealize Plato. The Menexenus is vouched for by Aristotle, who quotes a remark from it as
due to the 'Socrates of the Funeral Dialogue' {Rhetoric, I, 9, 30 = 1367b8; and III, 14, 11 =
1415b30). See especially also end of note 19 to chapter 6; also note 48 to chapter 8 and
notes 15(1) and 61 to the present chapter.

36 . The Old Oligarch's (or the Pseudo-Xenophon's) Constitution of Athens was pubHshed in
424 B.C. (according to Kirchhoff, quoted by Gomperz, Greek Thinkers, Germ, edn, I, 477).
For its attribution to Critias, cp. J. E. ^dindys, Aristotle's Constitution of Athens , Introduction
IX, especially note 3. See also notes 18 and 48 to this chapter. Its influence upon
Thucydides is, I think, noticeable in the passages quoted in notes 10 and 11 to this chapter.
For its influence upon Plato, see especially note 59 to chapter 8, and Laws, 704a-707d. (Cp.
Aristotle, Politics, 1326b-1327a; Cicero, De Republica, II, 3 and 4.)

37 . I am alluding to M. M. Rader's book. No Compromise — The Conflict between Two Worlds
(1939), an excellent criticism of the ideology of fascism.

With the allusion, later in this paragraph, to Socrates' warning against misanthropy and
misology, cp. note 28, above.

38 . *(1) For the theory that what may be called 'the invention of critical thought' consists in the
foundation of a new tradition — the tradition of critically discussing the traditional myths and
theories — see my 'Towards a Rational Theory of Tradition,' The Rationalist Annual , 1949;
now in Conjectures and Refutations . (Only such a new tradition can explain the fact that, in
the Ionian School, the three first generations produced three different philosophies.)*

(2) Schools (especially Universities) have retained certain aspects of tribalism ever since. But
we must think not only of their emblems, or of the Old School Tie with all its social
implications of caste, etc., but also of the patriarchal and authoritarian character of so many
schools. It was not just an accident that Plato, when he had failed to re-establish tribalism.

founded a school instead; nor is it an accident that schools are so often bastions of reaction,
and school teachers dictators in pocket edition.

As an illustration of the tribalistic character of these early schools, I give here a list of some
of the taboos of the early Pythagoreans. (The Hst is from Burnet's Early Greek Philosophy'^,
106, who takes it from Diels; cp. Vorsokratiker^, vol. I, pp. 97 ff.; but see also Aristoxenus'
evidence in op. cil, p. 101.) Burnet speaks of 'genuine taboos of a thoroughly primitive
type'. — To abstain from beans. — ^Not to pick up what has fallen. — ^Not to touch a white
cock. — ^Not to break bread. — ^Not to step over a crossbar. — ^Not to stir the fire with iron. —
Not to eat from a whole loaf — ^Not to pluck a garland. — ^Not to sit on a quart measure. — ^Not
to eat the heart. — ^Not to walk on highways. — ^Not to let the swallows share one's roof —
When the pot is taken off the fire, not to leave the mark of it in the ashes, but to stir them
together. — Not to look in a mirror beside a light. — After rising from the bedclothes, to roll
them together and to smooth out the impress of the body.

39 . An interesting parallelism to this development is the destruction of tribalism through the
Persian conquests. This social revolution led, as Meyer points out (op. cil, vol. Ill, 167 ff),
to the emergence of a number of prophetic, i.e. in our terminology, of historicist, religions of
destiny, degeneration, and salvation, among them that of the 'chosen people', the Jews (cp.
chapter 1).

Some of these religions were also characterized by the doctrine that the creation of the world
is not yet concluded, but still going on. This must be compared with the early Greek
conception of the world as an edifice and with the Heraclitean destruction of this conception,
described in chapter 2 (see note 1 to that chapter). It may be mentioned here that even
Anaximander felt uneasy about the edifice. His stress upon the boundless or indeterminate
or indefinite character of the building-material may have been the expression of a feeling
that the building may possess no definite framework, that it may be in flux (cp. next note).
The development of the Dionysian and the Orphic mysteries in Greece is probably
dependent upon the religious development of the east (cp. Herodotus, II, 81).
Pythagoreanism, as is well known, had much in common with Orphic teaching, especially
regarding the theory of the soul (see also note 44 below). But Pythagoreanism had a

definitely 'aristocratic' flavour, as opposed to the Orphic teaching which represented a kind
of 'proletarian' version of this movement. Meyer {op. cit. III, p. 428, § 246) is probably
right when he describes the beginnings of philosophy as a rational counter-current against
the movement of the mysteries; cp. Heraclitus' attitude in these matters (fragm. 5, 14, 15;
and 40, 129, Diels^; 124-129; and 16-17, Bywater). He hated the mysteries and Pythagoras;
the Pythagorean Plato despised the mysteries. {Rep., 364e, f; cp. however Adam's
Appendix IV to Book IX of the Republic, vol. II, 378 ff., of his edition.)

40 . For Anaximander (cp. the preceding note), see Diels^, fragm. 9: 'The origin of things ... is
some indeterminate (or boundless) nature; ... out of those things from which existing things
are generated, into these they dissolve again, by necessity. For they do penance to one
another for their offence (or injustice), according to the order of time.' That individual
existence appeared to Anaximander as injustice was the interpretation of Gomperz {Greek
Thinkers, Germ, edn, vol. I, p. 46; note the similarity to Plato's theory of justice); but this
interpretation has been severely criticized.

41 . Parmenides was the first to seek his salvation from this strain by interpreting his dream of
the arrested world as a revelation of true reality, and the world of flux in which he lived as a
dream. 'The real being is indivisible. It is always an integrated whole, which never breaks
away from its order; it never disperses, and thus need not re-unite.' (D5, fragm. 4.) For
Parmenides, cp. also note 22 to chapter 3, and text.

42 . Cp. note 9 to the present chapter (and note 7 to chapter 5).

43. Cp. Meyer, Geschichte des Altertums, III, 443, and IV, 120 f.

44 . J. Burnet, 'The Socratic Doctrine of the SouV , Proceedings of the British Academy, VIII
(1915/16), 235 ff. I am the more anxious to stress this partial agreement since I cannot agree
with Burnet in most of his other theories, especially those that concern Socrates' relations to
Plato; his opinion in particular that Socrates is politically the more reactionary of the two
{Greek Philosophy, I, 210) appears to me untenable. Cp. note 56 to this chapter.
Regarding the Socratic doctrine of the soul, I believe that Burnet is right in insisting that the
saying 'care for your souls' is Socratic; for this saying expresses Socrates' moral interests.
But I think it highly improbable that Socrates held any metaphysical theory of the soul. The

theories of the Phaedo, the Republic, etc., seem to me undoubtedly Pythagorean. (For the
Orphic-Pythagorean theory that the body is the tomb of the soul, cp. Adam, Appendix IV to
Book IX of the Republic; see also note 39 to this chapter.) And in view of Socrates' clear
statement in ihQ Apology, 19c, that he had 'nothing whatever to do with such things' (i.e.
with speculations on nature; see note 56 (5) to this chapter), I strongly disagree with
Burnet's opinion that Socrates was a Pythagorean; and also with the opinion that he held any
definite metaphysical doctrine of the 'nature' of the soul.

I believe that Socrates' saying 'care for your souls' is an expression of his moral (and
intellectual) individuahsm. Few of his doctrines seem to be so well attested as his
individuahstic theory of the moral self-sufficiency of the virtuous man. (See the evidence
mentioned in notes 25 to chapter 5 and 36 to chapter 6.) But this is most closely connected
with the idea expressed in the sentence 'care for your souls'. In his emphasis on self-
sufficiency, Socrates wished to say: They can destroy your body, but they cannot destroy
your moral integrity. If the latter is your main concern, they cannot do any really serious
harm to you.

It appears that Plato, when becoming acquainted with the Pythagorean metaphysical theory
of the soul, felt that Socrates' moral attitude needed a metaphysical foundation, especially a
theory of survival. He therefore substituted for 'they cannot destroy your moral integrity' the
idea of the indestructibility of the soul. (Cp. also notes 9f. to chapter 7.)
Against my interpretation, it may be contended by both metaphysicians and positivists that
there can be no such moral and non-metaphysical idea of the soul as I ascribe to Socrates,
since any way of speaking of the soul must be metaphysical. I do not think that I have much
hope of convincing Platonic metaphysicians; but I shall attempt to show positivists (or
materiahsts, etc.) that they too believe in a 'soul', in a sense very similar to that which I
attribute to Socrates, and that most of them value that 'soul' more highly than the body.
First of all, even positivists may admit that we can make a perfectly empirical and
'meaningful', although somewhat unprecise, distinction between 'physical' and 'psychical'
maladies. In fact, this distinction is of considerable practical importance for the organization
of hospitals, etc. (It is quite probable that one day it may be superseded by something more
precise, but that is a different question.) Now most of us, even positivists, would, if we had

to choose, prefer a mild physical malady to a mild form of insanity. Even positivists would
moreover probably prefer a lengthy and in the end incurable physical illness (provided it
was not too painful, etc.) to an equally lengthy period of incurable insanity, and perhaps
even to a period of curable insanity. In this way, I believe, we can say without using
metaphysical terms that they care for their 'souls' more than for their 'bodies'. (Cp. Phaedo,
82d: they 'care for their souls and are not servants of their bodies'; see also Apology, 29d-
30b.) And this way of speaking would be quite independent of any theory they might have
concerning the 'soul'; even if they should maintain that, in the last analysis, it is only part of
the body, and all insanity only a physical malady, our conclusion would still hold. (It would
come to something like this: that they value their brains more highly than other parts of their
bodies.)

We can now proceed to a similar consideration of an idea of the 'soul' which is closer still to
the Socratic idea. Many of us are prepared to undergo considerable physical hardship for the
sake of purely intellectual ends. We are, for example, ready to suffer in order to advance
scientific knowledge; and also for the sake of furthering our own intellectual development,
i.e. for the sake of attaining 'wisdom'. (For Socrates' intellectualism, cp. for instance the
Crito, 44d/e, and 47b.) Similar things could be said of the furthering of moral ends, for
instance, equalitarian justice, peace, etc. (Cp. Crito, 47e/48a, where Socrates explains that he
means by 'soul' that part of us which is 'improved by justice and depraved by injustice'.)
And many of us would say, with Socrates, that these things are more important to us than
things like health, even though we like to be in good health. And many may even agree with
Socrates that the possibility of adopting such an attitude is what makes us proud to be men,
and not animals.

All this, I believe, can be said without any reference to a metaphysical theory of the 'nature
of the soul'. And I see no reason why we should attribute such a theory to Socrates in the
face of his clear statement that he had nothing to do with speculations of that sort.

45 . In the Gorgias, which is, I believe, Socratic in parts (although the Pythagorean elements
which Gomperz has noted show, I think, that it is largely Platonic; cp. note 56 to this
chapter), Plato puts into the mouth of Socrates an attack on 'the ports and ship-yards and
walls' of Athens, and on the tributes or taxes imposed upon her allies. These attacks, as they

stand, are certainly Plato's, which may explain why they sound very much like those of the
oligarchs. But I think it quite possible that Socrates may have made similar remarks, in his
anxiety to stress the things which, in his opinion, mattered most. But he would, I believe,
have loathed the idea that his moral criticism could be turned into treacherous oHgarchic
propaganda against the open society, and especially, against its representative, Athens. (For
the question of Socrates' loyalty, cp. esp. note 53 to this chapter, and text.)

46 . The typical figures, in Plato's works, are Callicles and Thrasymachus. Historically, the
nearest realizations are perhaps Theramenes and Critias; Alcibiades also, whose character
and deeds, however, are very hard to judge.

47 . The following remarks are highly speculative and do not bear upon my arguments.

I consider it possible that the basis of the First Alcibiades is Plato's own conversion by
Socrates, i.e. that Plato may in this dialogue have chosen the figure of Alcibiades to hide
himself. There might have been a strong inducement for him to tell the story of his
conversion; for Socrates, when accused of being responsible for the misdeeds of Alcibiades,
Critias, and Charmides (see below), had referred, in his defence before the court, to Plato as
a living example, and as a witness, of his true educational influence. It seems not unlikely
that Plato with his urge to literary testimony felt that he had to tell the tale of Socrates'
relations with himself, a tale which he could not tell in court (cp. Taylor, Socrates, note 1 to
p. 105). By using Alcibiades' name and the special circumstances surrounding him (e.g. his
ambitious political dreams which might well have been similar to those of Plato before his
conversion) he would attain his apologetic purpose (cp. text to notes 49-50), showing that
Socrates' moral influence in general, and in particular on Alcibiades, was very different from
what his prosecutors maintained it to be. I think it not unlikely that the Charmides is also,
largely, a self-portrait. (It is not without interest to note that Plato himself undertook similar
conversions, but as far as we can judge, in a different way; not so much by direct personal
moral appeal, but rather by an institutional teaching of Pythagorean mathematics, as a pre-
requisite for the dialectical intuition of the Idea of the Good. Cp. the stories of his attempted
conversion of the younger Dionysius.) For the First Alcibiades and related problems, see
also Grote's Plato, I, especially pp. 351-355.

48 . Cp. Meyer, Geschichte des Altertums , V, 38 (and Xenophon's Hellenica, II, 4, 22). In the
same volume, on pp. 19-23 and 36-44 (see especially p. 36) can be found all the evidence
needed for justifying the interpretation given in the text. The Cambridge Ancient History
(1927, vol. V; cp. especially pp. 369 ff.) gives a very similar interpretation of the events.
It may be added that the number of full citizens killed by the Thirty during the eight months
of terror approached probably 1,500, which is, as far as we know, not much less than one-
tenth (probably about 8 per cent.) of the total number of full citizens left after the war, or 1
per cent, per month — an achievement hardly surpassed even in our own day.
Taylor writes of the Thirty {Socrates, Short Biographies, 1937, p. 100, note 1): 'It is only fair
to remember that these men probably "lost their heads" under the temptation presented by
their situation. Critias had previously been known as a man of wide culture whose political
leanings were decidedly democratic' I believe that this attempt to minimize the
responsibility of the puppet government, and especially of Plato's beloved uncle, must fail.
We know well enough what to think of the shortlived democratic sentiments professed in
those days at suitable occasions by the young aristocrats. Besides, Critias' father (cp. Meyer,
vol. IV, p. 579, and Lys., 12, 43, and 12, 66), and probably Critias himself, had belonged to
the oligarchy of the Four Hundred; and Critias' extant writings show his treacherous pro-
Spartan leanings as well as his oligarchic outlook (cp., for instance, Diels^, 45) and his blunt
nihilism (cp. note 17 to chapter 8) and his ambition (cp. Diels^, 15; cp. also Xenophon's
Memorabilia, I, 2, 24; and his Hellenica, II, 3, 36 and 47). But the decisive point is that he
simply tried to give consistent effect to the programme of the 'Old Oligarch', the author of
the Pseudo-Xenophontic Constitution of Athens (cp. note 36 to the present chapter): to
eradicate democracy; and to make a determined attempt to do so with Spartan help, should
Athens be defeated. The degree of violence used is the logical result of the situation. It does
not indicate that Critias lost his head; rather, that he was very well aware of the difficulties,
i.e. of the democrats' still formidable power of resistance.

Meyer, whose great sympathy for Dionysius I proves that he is at least not prejudiced
against tyrants, says about Critias {op. cit., V, p. 17), after a sketch of his amazingly
opportunistic political career, that 'he was just as unscrupulous as Lysander', the Spartan
conqueror, and therefore the appropriate head of Lysander' s puppet government.

It seems to me that there is a striking similarity between the characters of Critias, the soldier,
esthete, poet, and sceptical companion of Socrates, and of Frederick II of Prussia, called 'the
Great', who also was a soldier, an aesthete, a poet, and a sceptical disciple of Voltaire, as
well as one of the worst tyrants and most ruthless oppressors in modem history. (On
Frederick, cp. W. Hegemann, Entlarvte Geschichte, 1934; see especially p. 90 on his attitude
towards religion, reminiscent of that of Critias.)

49 . This point is very well explained by Taylor, Socrates, Short Biographies, 1937, p. 103, who
follows here Burnet's note to Plato's Euthyphro, 4c, 4. — The only point in which I feel
inclined to deviate, but only very slightly, from Taylor's excellent treatment {op. cit., 103,
120) of Socrates' trial is in the interpretation of the tendencies of the charge, especially of
the charge concerning the introduction of 'novel religious practices' {op. cit., 109 and 111
f).

50 . Evidence to show this can be found in Taylor's Socrates, 113-115; cp. especially 115, note
1, where Aeschines, I, 173, is quoted: 'You put Socrates the Sophist to death because he was
shown to have educated Critias.'

51 . It was the policy of the Thirty to implicate as many people in their acts of terrorism as they
could; cp. the excellent remarks by Taylor in Socrates, 101 f (especially note 3 to p. 101).
For Chaerephon, see note 56, (5) e 6 to the present chapter.

52 . As Crossman and other do; cp. Crossman, Plato To-Day, 91/92. I agree in this point with
Taylor, Socrates, 116; see also his notes 1 and 2 to that page.

That the plan of the prosecution was not to make a martyr of Socrates; that the trial could
have been avoided, or managed differently, had Socrates been prepared to compromise, i.e.
to leave Athens, or even to promise to keep quiet, all this seems fairly clear in view of
Plato's (or Socrates') allusions in the Apology as well as in the Crito. (Cp. Crito, 45e and
especially 52b/c, where Socrates says that he would have been permitted to emigrate had he
offered to do so at the trial.)

53 . Cp. especially Crito, 53b/c, where Socrates explains that, if he were to accept the
opportunity for escape, he would confirm his judges in their belief; for he who corrupts the
laws is likely to corrupt the young also.

The Apology and Crito were probably written not long after Socrates' death. The Crito
(possibly the earlier of the two) was perhaps written upon Socrates' request that his motives
in declining to escape should be made known. Indeed, such a wish may have been the first
inspiration of the Socratic dialogues. T. Gomperz (Greek Thinkers, V, 11, 1, Germ, edn, II,
358) believes the Crito to be of later date and explains its tendency by assuming that it was
Plato who was anxious to stress his loyalty. 'We do not know' writes Gomperz, 'the
immediate situation to which this small dialogue owes its existence; but it is hard to resist the
impression that Plato is here most interested in defending himself and his group against the
suspicion of harbouring revolutionary views.' Although Gomperz's suggestion would easily
fit into my general interpretation of Plato's views, I feel that the Crito is much more likely to
be Socrates' defence than Plato's. But I agree with Gomperz's interpretation of its tendency.
Socrates had certainly the greatest interest in defending himself against a suspicion which
endangered his hfe's work. — Regarding this interpretation of the contents of the Crito, I
again agree fully with Taylor (Socrates, 124 f ). But the loyalty of the Crito and its contrast
to the obvious disloyalty of the Republic which quite openly takes sides with Sparta against
Athens seems to refute Burnet's and Taylor's view that the Republic is Socratic, and that
Socrates was more strongly opposed to democracy than Plato. (Cp. note 56 to this chapter.)
Concerning Socrates' affirmation of his loyalty to democracy, cp. especially the following
passages of the Crito: 51d/e, where the democratic character of the laws is stressed, i.e. the
possibility that the citizen might change the laws without violence, by rational argument (as
Socrates puts it, he may try to convince the laws); — 52b, f., where Socrates insists that he
has no quarrel with the Athenian constitution; — 53c/d, where he describes not only virtue
and justice but especially institutions and laws (those of Athens) as the best things among
men; — 54c, where he says that he may be a victim of men, but insists that he is not a victim
of the laws.

In view of all these passages (and especially of Apology, 32c; cp. note 8 to chapter 7), we
must, I believe, discount the one passage which looks very different, viz. 52e, where
Socrates by implication praises the constitutions of Sparta and Crete. Considering especially
52b/c, where Socrates said that he was not curious to know other states or their laws, one
may be tempted to suggest that the remark on Sparta and Crete in 52e is an interpolation.

made by somebody who attempted to reconcile the Crito with later writings, especially with
the Republic. Whether that is so or whether the passage is a Platonic addition, it seems
extremely unlikely that it is Socratic. One need only remember Socrates' anxiety not to do
anything which might be interpreted as pro-Spartan, an anxiety of which we know from
^Qno^horv's Anabasis, III, 1, 5. There we read that 'Socrates feared that he' (i.e. his friend,
the young Xenophon — another of the young black sheep) 'might be blamed for being
disloyal; for Cyrus was known to have assisted the Spartans in the war against Athens.' (This
passage is certainly much less suspect than the Memorabilia; there is no influence of Plato
here, and Xenophon actually accuses himself, by implication, of having taken his
obligations to his country too lightly, and of having deserved his banishment, mentioned in
op. cit, V, 3, 7, and VII, 7, 57.)

54 . Apology, 30e/3 la.

55 . Platonists, of course, would all agree with Taylor who says in the last sentence of his
Socrates: 'Socrates had just one "successor" — Plato.' Only Grote seems sometimes to have
held views similar to those stated in the text; what he says, for instance, in the passage
quoted here in note 2 1 to chapter 7 (see also note 1 5 to chapter 8) can be interpreted as at
least an expression of doubt whether Plato did not betray Socrates. Grote makes it perfectly
clear that the Republic (not only the Laws) would have furnished the theoretical basis for
condemning the Socrates of the Apology, and that this Socrates would never have been
tolerated in Plato's best state. And he even points out that Plato's theory agrees with the
practical treatment meted out to Socrates by the Thirty. (An example showing that the
perversion of his master's teaching by a pupil is a thing that can succeed, even if the master
is still alive, famous, and protests in public, can be found in note 58 to chapter 12.)

For the remarks on the Laws, made later in this paragraph, see especially the passages of the
Laws referred to in notes 19-23 to chapter 8. Even Taylor, whose opinions on these
questions are diametrically opposed to those presented here (see also the next note), admits:
'The person who first proposed to make false opinions in theology an offence against the
state, was Plato himself, in the tenth Book of the Laws.' (Taylor, op. cit., 108, note 1.)
In the text, I contrast especially Plato's Apology and Crito with his Laws. The reason for this

choice is that nearly everybody, even Burnet and Taylor (see the next note), would agree
that the Apology and the Crito represent the Socratic doctrine, and that the Laws may be
described as Platonic. It seems to me therefore very diffi-cult to understand how Burnet and
Taylor could possibly defend their opinion that Socrates' attitude towards democracy was
more hostile than Plato's. (This opinion is expressed in Burnet's Greek Philosophy, I, 209 f ,
and in Taylor's Socrates, 150 f , and 170 f ) I have seen no attempt to defend this view of
Socrates, who fought for freedom (cp. especially note 53 to this chapter) and died for it, and
of Plato, who wrote the Laws.

Burnet and Taylor hold this strange view because they are committed to the opinion that the
Republic is Socratic and not Platonic; and because it may be said that the Republic is slightly
less anti-democratic than the Platonic Statesman and the Laws. But the differences between
the Republic and the Statesman as well as the Laws are very slight indeed, especially if not
only the first books of the Laws are considered but also the last; in fact, the agreement of
doctrine is rather closer than one would expect in two books separated by at least one
decade, and probably by three or more, and most dissimilar in temperament and style (see
note 6 to chapter 4, and many other places in this book where the similarity, if not identity,
between the doctrines of the Laws and the Republic is shown). There is not the slightest
internal difficulty in assuming that the Republic and the Laws are both Platonic; but Burnet's
and Taylor's own admission that their theory leads to the conclusion that Socrates was not
only an enemy of democracy but even a greater enemy than Plato shows the difficulty if not
absurdity of their view that not only the Apology and the Crito are Socratic but the Republic
as well. For all these questions, see also the next note, and the Addenda, III, B(2), below.

56 . I need hardly say that this sentence is an attempt to sum up my interpretation of the
historical role of Plato's theory of justice (for the moral failure of the Thirty, cp. Xenophon's
Hellenica, II, 4, 40-42); and particularly of the main political doctrines of the Republic; an
interpretation which tries to explain the contradictions among the early dialogues, especially
the Gorgias, and the Republic, as arising from the fundamental difference between the views
of Socrates and those of the later Plato. The cardinal importance of the question which is
usually called the Socratic Problem may justify my entering here into a lengthy and partly
methodological debate.

(1) The older solution of the Socratic Problem assumed that a group of the Platonic
dialogues, especially the Apology and the Crito, is Socratic (i.e., in the main historically
correct, and intended as such) while the majority of the dialogues are Platonic, including
many of those in which Socrates is the main speaker, as for instance the Phaedo and the
Republic. The older authorities justified this opinion often by referring to an 'independent
witness', Xenophon, and by pointing out the similarity between the Xenophontic Socrates
and the Socrates of the 'Socratic' group of dialogues, and the dissimilarities between the
Xenophontic 'Socrates' and the 'Socrates' of the Platonic group of dialogues. The
metaphysical theory of Forms or Ideas, more especially, was usually considered Platonic.

(2) Against this view, an attack was launched by J. Burnet, who was supported by A. E.
Taylor. Burnet denounced the argument on which the 'older solution' (as I call it) is based as
circular and unconvincing. It is not sound, he held, to select a group of dialogues solely
because the theory of Forms is less prominent in them, to call them Socratic, and then to say
that the theory of Forms was not Socrates' but Plato's invention. And it is not sound to claim
Xenophon as an independent witness since we have no reason whatever to beheve in his
independence, and good reason to believe that he must have known a number of Plato's
dialogues when he commenced writing the Memorabilia. Burnet demanded that we should
proceed from the assumption that Plato really meant what he said, and that, when he made
Socrates pronounce a certain doctrine, he believed, and wished his readers to believe, that
this doctrine was characteristic of Socrates' teaching.

(3) Although Burnet's views on the Socratic Problem appear to me untenable, they have
been most valuable and stimulating. A bold theory of this kind, even if it is false, always
means progress; and Burnet's books are full of bold and most unconventional views on his
subject. This is the more to be appreciated as a historical subject always shows a tendency to
become stale. But much as I admire Burnet for his brilliant and bold theories, and much as I
appreciate their salutary effect, I am, considering the evidence available to me, unable to
convince myself that these theories are tenable. In his invaluable enthusiasm, Burnet was, I
beheve, not always critical enough towards his own ideas. This is why others have found it
necessary to criticize these ideas instead.

Regarding the Socratic Problem, I believe with many others that the view which I have

described as the 'older solution' is fundamentally correct. This view has lately been well
defended, against Burnet and Taylor, especially by G. C. Field {Plato and His
Contemporaries, 1930) and A. K. Rogers {The Socratic Problem, 1933); and many other
scholars seem to adhere to it. In spite of the fact that the arguments so far offered appear to
me convincing, I may be permitted to add to them, using some results of the present book.
But before proceeding to criticize Burnet, I may state that it is to Burnet that we owe our
insight into the following principle of method. Plato 's evidence is the only first-rate evidence
available to us; all other evidence is secondary. (Burnet has applied this principle to
Xenophon; but we must apply it also to Aristophanes, whose evidence was rejected by
Socrates himself, in the Apology; see under (5), below.)

(4) Burnet explains that it is his method to assume 'that Plato really meant what he said'.
According to this methodological principle, Plato's 'Socrates' must be intended as a portrait
of the historical Socrates. (Cp. Greek Philosophy, I, 128, 212 f., and note on p. 349/50; cp.
Taylor's Socrates, 14 f , 32 f , 153.) I admit that Burnet's methodological principle is a
sound starting point. But I shall try to show, under (5), that the facts are such that they soon
force everybody to give it up, including Burnet and Taylor. They are forced, like all others,
to interpret what Plato says. But while others become conscious of this fact, and therefore
careful and critical in their interpretations, it is inevitable that those who cling to the belief
that they do not interpret Plato but simply accept what he said make it impossible for
themselves to examine their interpretations critically.

(5) The facts that make Burnet's methodology inapplicable and force him and all others to
interpret what Plato said, are, of course, the contradictions in Plato's alleged portrait of
Socrates. Even if we accept the principle that we have no better evidence than Plato's, we
are forced by the internal contradictions in his writing not to take him at his word, and to
give up the assumption that he 'really meant what he said'. If a witness involves himself in
contradictions, then we cannot accept his testimony without interpreting it, even if he is the
best witness available. I give first only three examples of such internal contradictions.

{a) The Socrates of the Apology very impressively repeats three times (18b-c; 19c-d; 23d)
that he is not interested in natural philosophy (and therefore not a Pythagorean): 'I know
nothing, neither much nor little, about such things', he said (19c); 'I, men of Athens, have

nothing whatever to do with such things' (i.e. with speculations about nature). Socrates
asserts that many who are present at the trial could testify to the truth of this statement; they
have heard him speak, but neither in few nor in many words has anybody ever heard him
speak about matters of natural philosophy. {Ap., 19, c-d.) On the other hand, we have {a')
the Phaedo (cp. especially 108d, f, with the passages of the Apology referred to) and the
Republic. In these dialogues, Socrates appears as a Pythagorean philosopher of 'nature'; so
much so that both Burnet and Taylor could say that he was in fact a leading member of the
Pythagorean school of thought. (Cp. Aristotle, who says of the Pythagoreans 'their
discussions ... are all about nature'; see Metaphysics, end of 989b.)

Now I hold that (a) and («') flatly contradict each other; and this situation is made worse by
the fact that the dramatic date of the Republic is earlier and that of the Phaedo later than that
of the Apology. This makes it impossible to reconcile {a) with {a') by assuming that Socrates
either gave up Pythagoreanism in the last years of his life, between the Republic and the
Apology, or that he was converted to Pythagoreanism in the last month of his life.
I do not pretend that there is no way of removing this contradiction by some assumption or
interpretation. Burnet and Taylor may have reasons, perhaps even good reasons, for trusting
the Phaedo and the Republic rather than the Apology. (But they ought to realize that,
assuming the correctness of Plato's portrait, any doubt of Socrates' veracity in the Apology
makes of him one who lies for the sake of saving his skin.) Such questions, however, do not
concern me at the moment. My point is rather that in accepting evidence {a') as against {a),
Burnet and Taylor are forced to abandon their fundamental methodological assumption 'that
Plato really meant what he said'; they must interpret.

But interpretations made unawares must be uncritical; this can be illustrated by the use made
by Burnet and Taylor of Aristophanes' evidence. They hold that Aristophanes' jests would
be pointless if Socrates had not been a natural philosopher. But it so happens that Socrates (I
always assume, with Burnet and Taylor, that the Apology is historical) foresaw this very
argument. In his apology, he warned his judges against precisely this very interpretation of
Aristophanes, insisting most earnestly {Ap., 19c, ff.; see also 20c-e) that he had neither little
nor much to do with natural philosophy, but simply nothing at all. Socrates felt as if he were
fighting against shadows in this matter, against the shadows of the past {Ap., 18d-e); but we

can now say that he was also fighting the shadows of the future. For when he challenged his
fellow-citizens to come forward — ^those who beUeved Aristophanes and dared to call
Socrates a liar — not one came. It was 2,300 years before some Platonists made up their
minds to answer his challenge.

It may be mentioned, in this connection, that Aristophanes, a moderate anti-democrat,
attacked Socrates as a 'sophist', and that most of the sophists were democrats.

(b) In the Apology (40c, ff.) Socrates takes up an agnostic attitude towards the problem of
survival; (Z)') the Phaedo consists mainly of elaborate proofs of the immortality of the soul.
This difficulty is discussed by Burnet (in his edition of the Phaedo, 1911, pp. xlviii ff.), in a
way which does not convince me at all. (Cp. notes 9 to chapter 7, and 44 to the present
chapter.) But whether he is right or not, his own discussion proves that he is forced to give
up his methodological principle and to interpret what Plato says.

(c) The Socrates of the Apology holds that the wisdom even of the wisest consists in the
realization of how little he knows, and that, accordingly, the Delphian saying 'know thyself
must be interpreted as 'know thy limitations'; and he implies that the rulers, more than
anybody else, ought to know their limitations. Similar views can be found in other early
dialogues. But the main speakers of the Statesman and the Laws propound the doctrine that
the powerful ought to be wise; and by wisdom they no longer mean a knowledge of one's
limitations, but rather the initiation into the deeper mysteries of dialectic philosophy — the
intuition of the world of Forms or Ideas, or the training in the Royal Science of politics. The
same doctrine is expounded, in the Philebus, even as part of a discussion of the Delphian
saying. (Cp. note 26 to chapter 7.)

{d) Apart from these three flagrant contradictions, I may mention two further contradictions
which could easily be neglected by those who do not believe that the Seventh Letter is
genuine, but which seem to me fatal to Burnet who maintains that the Seventh Letter is
authentic. Burnet's view (untenable even if we neglect this letter; cp. for the whole question
note 26 (5) to chapter 3) that Socrates but not Plato held the theory of Forms, is contradicted
in 342a, ff, of this letter; and his view that the Republic, more especially, is Socratic, in 326a
(cp. note 14 to chapter 7). Of course, all these difficulties could be removed, but only by
interpretation.

(e) There are a number of similar although at the same time more subtle and more important
contradictions which have been discussed at some length in previous chapters, especially in
chapters 6, 7 and 8. 1 may sum up the most important of these.

(el) The attitude towards men, especially towards the young, changes in Plato's portrait in a
way which cannot be Socrates' development. Socrates died for the right to talk freely to the
young, whom he loved. But in the Republic, we fmd him taking up an attitude of
condescension and distrust which resembles the disgruntled attitude of the Athenian Stranger
(admittedly Plato himself) in the Laws and the general distrust of mankind expressed so
often in this work. (Cp. text to notes 17-18 to chapter 4; 18-21 to chapter 7; and 57-58 to
chapter 8.)

(el) The same sort of thing can be said about Socrates' attitude towards truth and free
speech. He died for it. But in the Republic, 'Socrates' advocates lying; in the admittedly
Platonic Statesman, a lie is offered as truth, and in the Laws, free thought is suppressed by
the establishment of an Inquisition. (Cp. the same places as before, and furthermore notes 1-
23 and 40-41 to chapter 8; and note 55 to the present chapter.)

(e3) The Socrates of the Apology and some other dialogues is intellectually modest; in the
Phaedo, he changes into a man who is assured of the truth of his metaphysical speculations.
In the Republic, he is a dogmatist, adopting an attitude not far removed from the petrified
authoritarianism of the Statesman and of the Laws. (Cp. text to notes 8-14 and 26 to chapter
7; 15 and 33 to chapter 8; and (c) in the present note.)

{eA) The Socrates of the Apology is an individualist; he believes in the self-sufficiency of the
human individual. In the Gorgias, he is still an individualist. In the Republic, he is a radical
collectivist, very similar to Plato's position in the Laws. (Cp. notes 25 and 35 to chapter 5;
text to notes 26, 32, 36 and 48-54 to chapter 6 and note 45 to the present chapter.)
{eS) Again we can say similar things about Socrates' equalitarianism. In the Meno, he
recognizes that a slave participates in the general intelhgence of all human beings, and that
he can be taught even pure mathematics; in the Gorgias, he defends the equalitarian theory
of justice. But in ihe Republic, he despises workers and slaves and is as much opposed to
equalitarianism as is Plato in the Timaeus and in the Laws. (Cp. the passages mentioned
under {e 4); furthermore, notes 18 and 29 to chapter 4; note 10 to chapter 7, and note 50 (3)

to chapter 8, where Timaeus, 51e, is quoted.)

(e6) The Socrates of the Apology and Crito is loyal to Athenian democracy. In the Meno and
in the Gorgias (cp. note 45 to this chapter) there are suggestions of a hostile criticism; in the
Republic (and, I believe, in the Menexenus), he is an open enemy of democracy; and
although Plato expresses himself more cautiously in the Statesman and in the beginning of
the Laws, his political tendencies in the later part of the Laws are admittedly (cp. text to note
32 to chapter 6) identical with those of the 'Socrates' of the Republic. (Cp. notes 53 and 55
to the present chapter and notes 7 and 14-18 to chapter 4.)

The last point may be further supported by the following. It seems that Socrates, in the
Apology, is not merely loyal to Athenian democracy, but that he appeals directly to the
democratic party by pointing out that Chaerephon, one of the most ardent of his disciples,
belonged to their ranks. Chaerephon plays a decisive part in the Apology, since by
approaching the Oracle, he is instrumental in Socrates' recognition of his mission in life, and
thereby ultimately in Socrates' refusal to compromise with the Demos. Socrates introduces
this important person by emphasizing the fact {ApoL, 20e/21a) that Chaerephon was not
only his friend, but also a friend of the people, whose exile he shared, and with whom he
returned (presumably, he participated in the fight against the Thirty); that is to say, Socrates
chooses as the main witness for his defence an ardent democrat. (There is some independent
evidence for Chaerephon's sympathies, such as in Aristophanes' Clouds, 104, 501 ff.
Chaerephon's appearance in the Charmides may be intended to create a kind of balance; the
prominence of Critias and Charmides would otherwise create the impression of a pro-Thirty
manifesto.) Why does Socrates emphasize his intimacy with a militant member of the
democratic party? We cannot assume that this was merely special pleading, intended to
move his judges to be more merciful: the whole spirit of his apology is against this
assumption. The most likely hypothesis is that Socrates, by pointing out that he had disciples
in the democratic camp, intended to deny, by implication, the charge (which also was only
implied) that he was a follower of the aristocratic party and a teacher of tyrants. The spirit of
the Apology excludes the assumption that Socrates was pleading friendship with a
democratic leader without being truly sympathetic with the democratic cause. And the same
conclusion must be drawn from the passage (ApoL, 32b-d) in which he emphasizes his faith

in democratic legality, and denounces the Thirty in no uncertain terms.
(6) It is simply the internal evidence of the Platonic dialogues which forces us to assume that
they are not entirely historical. We must therefore attempt to interpret this evidence, by
proffering theories which can be critically compared with the evidence, using the method of
trial and error. Now we have very strong reason to believe that the Apology is in the main
historical, for it is the only dialogue which describes a public occurrence of considerable
importance and well known to a great number of people. On the other hand, we know that
the Laws are Plato's latest work (apart from the doubtful Epinomis), and that they are frankly
'Platonic'. It is, therefore, the simplest assumption that the dialogues will be historical or
Socratic so far as they agree with the tendencies of the Apology, and Platonic where they
contradict these tendencies. (This assumption brings us practically back to the position
which I have described above as the 'older solution' of the Socratic Problem.)
If we consider the tendencies mentioned above under {e l) to {e 6), we find that we can
easily order the most important of the dialogues in such a way that for any single one of
these tendencies the similarity with the Socratic Apology decreases and that with the Platonic
Laws increases. This is the series.

Apology and Crito — Meno — Gorgias — Phaedo — Republic — Statesman — Timaeus — Laws.
Now the fact that this series orders the dialogues according to all the tendencies (el) to (e 6)
is in itself a corroboration of the theory that we are here faced with a development in Plato's
thought. But we can get quite independent evidence. 'Stylometric' investigations show that
our series agrees with the chronological order in which Plato wrote the dialogues. Lastly, the
series, at least up to the Timaeus, exhibits also a continually increasing interest in
Pythagoreanism (and Eleaticism). This must therefore be another tendency in the
development of Plato's thought.

A very different argument is this. We know, from Plato's own testimony in the Phaedo, that
Antisthenes was one of Socrates' most intimate friends; and we also know that Antisthenes
claimed to preserve the true Socratic creed. It is hard to beheve that Antisthenes would have
been a friend of the Socrates of the Republic. Thus we must find a common point of
departure for the teaching of Antisthenes and Plato; and this common point we find in the
Socrates of the Apology and Crito, and in some of the doctrines put into the mouth of the

'Socrates' of the Meno, Gorgias, and Phaedo.

These arguments are entirely independent of any work of Plato's which has ever been
seriously doubted (as the Alcibiades I or the Theages or the Letters). They are also
independent of the testimony of Xenophon. They are based solely upon the internal
evidence of some of the most famous Platonic dialogues. But they agree with this secondary
evidence, especially with the Seventh Letter, where in a sketch of his own mental
development (325 f.), Plato even refers, unmistakably, to the key passage of the Republic as
his own central discovery: T had to state ... that ... never will the race of men be saved from
its plight before either the race of the genuine and true philosophers gains political power, or
the ruling men in the cities become genuine philosophers, by the grace of God.' (326a; cp.
note 14 to chapter 7, and (d) in this note, above.) I cannot see how it is possible to accept,
with Burnet, this letter as genuine without admitting that the central doctrine of the Republic
is Plato's, not Socrates'; that is to say, without giving up the fiction that Plato's portrait of
Socrates in the Republic is historical. (For further evidence, cp. for instance Aristotle,
Sophist. El, 183b7: 'Socrates raised questions, but gave no answers; for he confessed that
he did not know.' This agrees with the Apology, but hardly with the Gorgias, and certainly
not with the Phaedo or the Republic. See furthermore Aristotle's famous report on the
history of the theory of Ideas, admirably discussed by Field, 0/7. cit; cp. also note 26 to
chapter 3 .)

(7) Against evidence of this character, the type of evidence used by Burnet and Taylor can
have little weight. The following is an example. As evidence for his opinion that Plato was
politically more moderate than Socrates, and that Plato's family was rather 'Whiggish',
Burnet uses the argument that a member of Plato's family was named 'Demos'. (Cp. Gorg.,
48 Id, 513b. — It is not, however, certain, although probable, that Demos' father Pyrilampes
here mentioned is really identical with Plato's uncle and stepfather mentioned in Charm.,
158a, dindParm., 126b, i.e. that Demos was a relation of Plato's.) What weight can this
have, I ask, compared with the historical record of Plato's two tyrant uncles; with the extant
political fragments of Critias (which remain in the family even if Burnet is right, which he
hardly is, in attributing them to his grandfather; cp. Greek Phil, I, 338, note 1, with
Charmides, 157e and 162d, where the poetical gifts of Critias the tyrant are alluded to); with

the fact that Critias' father had belonged to the OHgarchy of the Four Hundred {Lys., 12, 66);
and with Plato's own writings which combine family pride with not only anti-democratic but
even anti-Athenian tendencies? (Cp. the eulogy, in Timaeus, 20a, of an enemy of Athens
like Hermocrates of Sicily, father-in-law of the older Dionysius.) The purpose behind
Burnet's argument is, of course, to strengthen the theory that the Republic is Socratic.
Another example of bad method may be taken from Taylor, who argues {Socrates, note 2 on
p. 148 f.; cp. also p. 162) in favour of the view that the Phaedo is Socratic (cp. my note 9 to
chapter 7): 'In the Phaedo [72e] ... the doctrine that "learning is just recognition" is
expressly said by Simmias' (this is a slip of Taylor's pen; the speaker is Cebes) 'speaking to
Socrates, to be "the doctrine j^ow are so constantly repeating". Unless we are willing to
regard the Phaedo as a gigantic and unpardonable mystification, this seems to me proof that
the theory really belongs to Socrates.' (For a similar argument, see Burnet's edition of the
Phaedo, p. xii, end of chapter ii.) On this I wish to make the following comments: (a) It is
here assumed that Plato considered himself a historian when writing this passage, for
otherwise his statement would not be 'a gigantic and unpardonable mystification'; in other
words, the most questionable and the most central point of the theory is assumed, (b) But
even if Plato had considered himself a historian (I do not think that he did), the expression 'a
gigantic ... etc' seems to be too strong. Taylor, not Plato, puts 'you' in italics. Plato might
only have wished to indicate that he is going to assume that the readers of the dialogue are
acquainted with this theory. Or he might have intended to refer to the Meno, and thus to
himself (This last explanation is I think almost certainly true, in view Phaedo, 73a, f,
with the allusion to diagrams.) Or his pen might have slipped, for some reason or other.
Such things are bound to occur, even to historians. Burnet, for example, has to explain
Socrates' Pythagoreanism; to do this he makes Parmenides a Pythagorean rather than a pupil
of Xenophanes, of whom he writes {Greek Philosophy, I, 64): 'the story that he founded the
Eleatic school seems to be derived from a playful remark of Plato's which would also prove
Homer to have been a Heraclitean.' To this, Burnet adds the footnote: 'Plato, Soph., 242d.
See E. Gn Ph. , p. 140'. Now I believe that this statement of a historian clearly implies four
things, (1) that the passage of Plato which refers to Xenophanes is playful, i.e. not meant
seriously, (2) that this playfulness manifests itself in the reference to Homer, that is, (3) by

remarking that he was a HeracHtean, which would, of course, be a very playful remark since
Homer lived long before Heraclitus, and (4) that there is no other serious evidence
connecting Xenophanes with the Eleatic School. But none of these four implications can be
upheld. For we fmd, (1) that the passage in the Sophist (242d) which refers to Xenophanes is
not playful, but that it is recommended by Burnet himself, in the methodological appendix to
his Early Greek Philosophy , as important and as full of valuable historical information; (2)
that it contains no reference at all to Homer; and (3) that another passage which contains this
reference {Theaet., 179d/e; cp. 152d/e, 160d) with which Burnet mistakenly identified
Sophist, 242d, in Greek Philosophy , I (the mistake is not made in his Early Greek
Philosophy^), does not refer to Xenophanes; nor does it call Homer a Heraclitean, but it says
the opposite, namely, that some of Heraclitus' ideas are as old as Homer (which is, of
course, much less playful); and (4), there is a clear and important passage in Theophrastus
{Phys. op., fragm. 8 = Simp lie iu s, P/?;;^. , 28, 4) ascribing to Xenophanes a number of
opinions which we know Parmenides shared with him and linking him with Parmenides — to
say nothing of D.L. ix, 21-3, or of Timaeus ap. Clement ^S^rom 1, 64, 2. This heap of
misunderstandings, misinterpretations, misquotations, and misleading omissions (for the
created myth, see Kirk and Raven, p. 265) can be found in one single historical remark of a
truly great historian such as Burnet. From this we must learn that such things do happen,
even to the best of historians: all men are fallible. (A more serious example of this kind of
fallibility is the one discussed in note 26 (5) to chapter 3.)

(8) The chronological order of those Platonic dialogues which play a role in these arguments
is here assumed to be nearly the same as that of the stylometric list of Lutoslawski {The
Origin and Growth of Plato 's Logic, 1897). A list of those dialogues which play a role in the
text of this book will be found in note 5 to chapter 3. It is drawn up in such a way that there
is more uncertainty of date within each group than between the groups. A minor deviation
from the stylometric list is the position of the Euthyphro which for reasons of its content
(discussed in text to note 60 to this chapter) appears to me to be probably later than the
Crito; but this point is of little importance. (Cp. also note 47 to this chapter.)

57 . There is a famous and rather puzzling passage in the Second Letter (314c): 'There is no
writing of Plato nor will there ever be. What goes by his name really belongs to Socrates

turned young and handsome.' The most likely solution of this puzzle is that the passage, if
not the whole letter, is spurious. (Cp. Field, Plato and His Contemporaries, 200 f , where he
gives an admirable summary of the reasons for suspecting the letter, and especially the
passages '312d-313c and possibly down to 314c'; concerning 314c, an additional reason is,
perhaps, that the forger might have intended to allude to, or to give his interpretation of, a
somewhat similar remark in the Seventh Letter, 341b/c, quoted in note 32 to chapter 8.) But
if for a moment we assume with Burnet {Greek Philosophy , I, 212) that the passage is
genuine, then the remark 'turned young and handsome' certainly raises a problem,
especially as it cannot be taken literally since Socrates is presented in all the Platonic
dialogues as old and ugly (the only exception is the Parmenides, where he is hardly
handsome, although still young). If genuine, the puzzling remark would mean that Plato
quite intentionally gave an idealized and not an historical account of Socrates; and it would
fit our interpretation quite well to see that Plato was indeed conscious of re-interpreting
Socrates as a young and handsome aristocrat who is, of course, Plato himself (Cp. also note
1 1 (2) to chapter 4, note 20 (1) to chapter 6, and note 50 (3) to chapter 8.)

58 . I am quoting from the first paragraph of Davies' and Vaughan's introduction to their
translation of the Republic. Cp. Crossman, Plato To-Day, 96.

59 . (1) The 'division' or 'split' in Plato's soul is one of the most outstanding impressions of his
work, and especially of the Republic. Only a man who had to struggle hard to uphold his
self-control or the rule of his reason over his animal instincts could emphasize this point as
much as Plato did; cp. the passages referred to in note 34 to chapter 5, especially the story of
the beast in man (Rep., 588c), which is probably of Orphic origin, and in notes 15 (l)-(4),
17, and 19 to chapter 3, which not only show an astonishing similarity with psycho-
analytical doctrines, but might also be claimed to exhibit strong symptoms of repression.
(See also the beginning of Book IX, 571d and 575a, which sound like an exposition of the
doctrine of the Oedipus Complex. On Plato's attitude to his mother, some light is perhaps
thrown by Republic, 548e-549d, especially in view of the fact that in 548e his brother
Glaucon is identified with the son in question.) *An excellent statement of the conflicts in
Plato, and an attempt at a psychological analysis of his will to power, are made by H. Kelsen

in The American Imago, vol. 3, 1942, pp. 1-110, and Werner Fite, The Platonic Legend,
1939.*

Those Platonists who are not prepared to admit that from Plato's longing and clamouring for
unity and harmony and unisonity, we may conclude that he was himself disunited and
disharmonious, may be reminded that this way of arguing was invented by Plato. (Cp.
Symposium, 200a, f , where Socrates argues that it is a necessary and not a probable
inference that he who loves or desires does not possess what he loves and desires.)
What I have called Plato's political theory of the soul (see also text to note 32 to chapter 5),
i.e. the division of the soul according to the class-divided society, has long remained the
basis of most psychologies. It is the basis of psycho-analysis too. According to Freud's
theory, what Plato had called the ruling part of the soul tries to uphold its tyranny by a
'censorship', while the rebellious proletarian animal-instincts, which correspond to the social
underworld, really exercise a hidden dictatorship; for they determine the policy of the
apparent ruler. — Since Heraclitus' 'flux' and 'war', the realm of social experience has
strongly influenced the theories, metaphors, and symbols by which we interpret the physical
world around us (and ourselves) to ourselves. I mention only Darwin's adoption, under the
influence of Malthus, of the theory of social competition.

(2) A remark may be added here on mysticism, in its relation to the closed and open society,
and to the strain of civilization.

As McTaggart has shown, in his excellent study Mysticism (see his Philosophical Studies,
edited by S. V. Keeling, 1934, esp. pp. 47 ff. ), the ftindamental ideas of mysticism are two:
{a) the doctrine of the mystic union, i.e. the assertion that there is a greater unity in the world
of realities than that which we recognize in the world of ordinary experience, and (b) the
doctrine of the mystic intuition, i.e. the assertion that there is a way of knowing which
'brings the known into closer and more direct relation with what is known' than is the
relation between the knowing subject and the known object in ordinary experience.
McTaggart rightly asserts (p. 48) that 'of these two characteristics the mystic unity is the
more fundamental', since the mystic intuition is 'an example of the mystic unity'. We may
add that a third characteristic, less fundamental still, is (c) the mystic love, which is an
example of mystic unity and mystic intuition.

Now it is interesting (and this has not been seen by McTaggart) that in the history of Greek
Philosophy, the doctrine of the mystic unity was first clearly asserted by Parmenides in his
hohstic doctrine of the one (cp. note 41 to the present chapter); next by Plato, who added an
elaborate doctrine of mystic intuition and communion with the divine (cp. chapter 8), of
which doctrine there are just the very first beginnings in Parmenides; next by Aristotle, e.g.
m De Anima, 425b30 f : 'The actual hearing and the actual sound are merged into one'; cp.
Rep. 507c, ff., 430a20, and 431al: 'Actual knowledge is identical with its object' (see also
De Anima, 404bl6, diVid Metaphysics, 1072b20 and 1075a2, and cp. Plato's Timaeus, 45b-c,
Aldi-&;Meno, 81a, ff. ; Phaedo, 79d); and next by the Neo-Platonists, who elaborated the
doctrine of the mystic love, of which only the beginning can be found in Plato (for example,
in his doctrine, 475 ff., that the philosopher /ove^ truth, which is closely connected
with the doctrines of hohsm and the philosopher's communion with the divine truth).
In view of these facts and of our historical analysis, we are led to interpret mysticism as one
of the typical reactions to the breakdown of the closed society; a reaction which, in its
origin, was directed against the open society, and which may be described as an escape into
the dream of a paradise in which the tribal unity reveals itself as the unchanging reality.
This interpretation is in direct conflict with that of Bergson in his Two Sources of Morality
and Religion; for Bergson asserts that it is mysticism which makes the leap from the closed
to the open society.

* But it must of course be admitted (as Jacob Viner very kindly pointed out to me in a letter)
that mysticism is versatile enough to work in any political direction; and even among the
apostles of the open society, mystics and mysticism have their representatives. It is the
mystic inspiration of a better, a less divided, world which undoubtedly inspired not only
Plato, but also Socrates.*

It may be remarked that in the nineteenth century, especially in Hegel and Bergson, we find
an evolutionary mysticism, which, by extolling change, seems to stand in direct opposition to
Parmenides' and Plato's hatred of change. And yet, the underlying experience of these two
forms of mysticism seems to be the same, as shown by the fact that an over-emphasis on
change is common to both. Both are reactions to the frightening experience of social
change: the one combined with the hope that change may be arrested; the other with a

somewhat hysterical (and undoubtedly ambivalent) acceptance of change as real, essential
and welcome. — Cp. also notes 32-33 to chapter 11, 36 to chapter 12, and 4, 6, 29, 32 and
58 to chapter 24.

60 . The Euthyphro, an early dialogue, is usually interpreted as an unsuccessful attempt of
Socrates to define piety. Euthyphro himself is the caricature of a popular 'pietist' who knows
exactly what the gods wish. To Socrates' question 'What is piety and what is impiety?' he is
made to answer: 'Piety is acting as I do! That is to say, prosecuting any one guilty of
murder, sacrilege, or of any similar crime, whether he be your father or your mother
while not to prosecute them is impiety' (5, d/e). Euthyphro is presented as prosecuting his
father for having murdered a serf (According to the evidence quoted by Grote, Plato, I, note
to p. 3 12, every citizen was bound by Attic law to prosecute in such cases.)

61 . Menexenus, 235b. Cp. note 35 to this chapter, and the end of note 19 to chapter 6.

62 . The claim that if you want security you must give up liberty has become a mainstay of the
revolt against freedom. But nothing is less true. There is, of course, no absolute security in
life. But what security can be attained depends on our own watchfulness, enforced by
institutions to help us watch — i.e. by democratic institutions which are devised (using
Platonic language) to enable the herd to watch, and to judge, their watch-dogs.

63 . With the 'variations' and 'irregularities', cp. Republic, 547a, quoted in the text to notes 39
and 40 to chapter 5. Plato's obsession with the problems of propagation and birth control
may perhaps be explained in part by the fact that he understood the implications of
population growth. Indeed (cp. text to note 7 to this chapter) the 'Fall', the loss of the tribal
paradise, is caused by a 'natural' or 'original' fault of man, as it were: by a maladjustment in
his natural rate of breeding. Cp. also notes 39 (3) to ch. 5, and 34 to ch. 4. With the next
quotation further below in this paragraph, cp. Republic, 566e, and text to note 20 to chapter
4. — Crossman, whose treatment of the period of tyranny in Greek history is excellent (cp.
Plato To-Day, 27-30), writes: 'Thus it was the tyrants who really created the Greek State.
They broke down the old tribal organization of primitive aristocracy ...' (op. cit., 29). This
explains why Plato hated tyranny, perhaps even more than freedom: cp. Republic, 577c. —
(See, however, note 69 to this chapter.) His passages on tyranny, especially 565-568, are a

brilliant sociological analysis of a consistent power-politics. I should like to call it the first
attempt towards a logic of power. (I chose this term in analogy to F. A. von Hayek's use of
the term logic of choice for the pure economic theory.) — The logic of power is fairly simple,
and has often been applied in a masterly way. The opposite kind of politics is much more
difficult; partly because the logic of anti-power politics, i.e. the logic of freedom, is hardly
understood yet.

64 . It is well known that most of Plato's political proposals, including the proposed communism
of women and children, were 'in the air' in the Periclean period. Cp. the excellent summary
in Adam's edition of the Republic, vol. I, p. 354 f , *and A. D. Winspear, The Genesis oj
Plato's Thought, 1940.*

65 . Cp. V. Pareto, Treatise on General Sociology, §1843 (English translation: The Mind and
Society, 1935, vol. Ill, pp. 1281); cp. note 1 to chapter 13, where the passage is quoted more
fully.

66 . Cp. the effect which Glaucon's presentation of Lycophron's theory had on Cameades (cp.
note 54 to chapter 6), and later, on Hobbes. The professed 'a-morality' of so many Marxists
is also a case in point. Leftists frequently believe in their own immorality. (This, although
not much to the point, is sometimes more modest and more pleasant than the dogmatic self-
righteousness of many reactionary moralists.)

67 . Money is one of the symbols as well as one of the difficulties of the open society. There is
no doubt that we have not yet mastered the rational control of its use; its greatest misuse is
that it can buy political power. (The most direct form of this misuse is the institution of the
slave-market; but just this institution is defended in Republic, 563b; cp. note 17 to chapter 4;
and in th^Laws, Plato is not opposed to the political influence of wealth; cp. note 20 (1) to
chapter 6.) From the point of view of an individualistic society, money is fairly important. It
is part of the institution of the (partially) free market, which gives the consumer some
measure of control over production. Without some such institution, the producer may
control the market to such a degree that he ceases to produce for the sake of consumption,
while the consumer consumes largely for the sake of production. — The sometimes glaring
misuse of money has made us rather sensitive, and Plato's opposition between money and

friendship is only the first of many conscious or unconscious attempts to utiHze these
sentiments for the purpose of poHtical propaganda.

68 . The group-spirit of tribalism is, of course, not entirely lost. It manifests itself, for instance,
in the most valuable experiences of friendship and comradeship; also, in youthful tribalistic
movements like the boy-scouts (or the German Youth Movement), and in certain clubs and
adult societies, as described, for instance, by Sinclair Lewis in Babbitt. The importance of
this perhaps most universal of all emotional and aesthetic experiences must not be
underrated. Nearly all social movements, totalitarian as well as humanitarian, are influenced
by it. It plays an important role in war, and is one of the most powerful weapons of the
revolt against freedom; admittedly also in peace, and in revolts against tyranny, but in these
cases its humanitarianism is often endangered by its romantic tendencies. — conscious and
not unsuccessful attempt to revive it for the purpose of arresting society and of perpetuating
a class rule seems to have been the English Public School System. ('No one can grow up to
be a good man unless his earliest years were given to noble games' is its motto, taken from
Republic, 558b.)

Another product and symptom of the loss of the tribalistic group-spirit is, of course, Plato's
emphasis upon the analogy between politics and medicine (cp. chapter 8, especially note 4),
an emphasis which expresses the feeling that the body of society is sick, i.e. the feeling of
strain, of drift. 'From the time of Plato on, the minds of political philosophers seem to have
recurred to this comparison between medicine and politics,' says G. E. G. Catlin {A Study oj
the Principles of Politics, 1930, note to 458, where Thomas Aquinas, G. Santayana, and
Dean Inge are quoted to support his statement; cp. also the quotations in op. cit, note to 37,
from Mill's Logic). Catlin also speaks most characteristically {op. cit., 459) of 'harmony' and
of the 'desire for protection, whether assured by the mother or by society'. (Cp. also note 18
to chapter 5.)

69 . Cp. chapter 7 (note 24 and text; see Athen., XI, 508) for the names of nine such disciples of
Plato (including the younger Dionysius and Dio). I suppose that Plato's repeated insistence
upon the use, not only of force, but of 'persuasion and force' (cp. Laws, 722b, and notes 5,
10, and 18 to chapter 8), was meant as a criticism of the tactics of the Thirty, whose

propaganda was indeed primitive. But this would imply that Plato was well aware of Pareto's
recipe for utilizing sentiments instead of fighting them. That Plato's friend Dio (cp. note 25
to chapter 7) ruled Syracuse as a tyrant is admitted even by Meyer in his defence of Dio
whose fate he explains, in spite of his admiration for Plato as a politician, by pointing out the
'gulf between' (the Platonic) 'theory and practice' {op. cil, V, 999). Meyer says of Dio ( he.
cit.), 'The ideal king had become, externally, indistinguishable from the contemptible
tyrant.' But he believes that, internally as it were, Dio remained an idealist, and that he
suffered deeply when political necessity forced murder (especially that of his ally
Heraclides) and similar measures upon him. I think, however, that Dio acted according to
Plato's theory; a theory which, by the logic of power, drove Plato in the Laws to admit even
the goodness of tyranny (709e, ff.; at the same place, there may also be a suggestion that the
debacle of the Thirty was due to their great number: Critias alone would have been all right).

70 . The tribal paradise is, of course, a myth (although some primitive people, most of all the
Eskimos, seem to be happy enough). There may have been no sense of drift in the closed
society, but there is ample evidence of other forms of fear — fear of demoniac powers behind
nature. The attempt to revive this fear, and to use it against the intellectuals, the scientists,
etc., characterizes many late manifestations of the revolt against freedom. It is to the credit of
Plato, the disciple of Socrates, that it never occurred to him to present his enemies as the
offspring of the sinister demons of darkness. In this point, he remained enlightened. He had
little inclination to idealize the evil which was to him simply debased, or degenerate, or
impoverished goodness. (Only in one passage in the Laws, 896e and 898c, there is what
may be a suggestion of an abstract idealization of the evil.)

71 . A final note may be added here in connection with my remark on the return to the beasts.
Since the intrusion of Darwinism into the field of human problems (an intrusion for which
Darwin should not be blamed) there have been many 'social zoologists' who have proved
that the human race is bound to degenerate physically, because insufficient physical
competition, and the possibility of protecting the body by the efforts of the mind, prevent
natural selection from acting upon our bodies. The first to formulate this idea (not that he
believed in it) was Samuel Butler, who wrote: 'The one serious danger which this writer' (an

Erewhonian writer) 'apprehended was that the machines' (and, we may add, civihzation in
general) 'would so ... lessen the severity of competition, that many persons of inferior
physique would escape detection and transmit their inferiority to their descendants.'
{Erewhon, 1872; cp. Everyman's edition, p. 161.) The first as far as I know to write a bulky
volume on this theme was W. Schallmayer (cp. note 65 to chapter 12), one of the founders
of modem racialism. In fact, Butler's theory has been continually rediscovered (especially
by 'biological naturalists' in the sense of chapter 5, above). According to some modem
writers (see, for example, G. H. Estabrooks, M<3«.- The Mechanical Misfit, 1941), man made
the decisive mistake when he became civilized, and especially when he began to help the
weak; before this, he was an almost perfect man-beast; but civilization, with its artificial
methods of protecting the weak, leads to degeneration, and therefore must ultimately destroy
itself In reply to such arguments, we should, I think, first admit that man is likely to
disappear one day from this world; but we should add that this is also tme of even the most
perfect beasts, to say nothing of those which are only 'almost perfect'. The theory that the
human race might live a little longer if it had not made the fatal mistake of helping the weak
is most questionable; but even if it were tme — is mere length of survival of the race really all
we want? Or is the almost perfect man-beast so eminently valuable that we should prefer a
prolongation of his existence (he did exist for quite a long time, anyway) to our experiment
of helping the weak?

Mankind, I believe, has not done so badly. In spite of the treason of some of its intellectual
leaders, in spite of the stupefying effects of Platonic methods in education and the
devastating results of propaganda, there have been some surprising successes. Many weak
men have been helped, and for nearly a hundred years slavery has been practically
abolished. Some say it will soon be re-introduced. I feel more optimistic; and, after all, it will
depend on ourselves. But even if all this should be lost again, and even if we had to retum to
the almost perfect man-beast, this would not alter the fact that once upon a time (even if the
time was short), slavery did disappear fi"om the face of the earth. This achievement and its
memory may, I believe, compensate some of us for all our misfits, mechanical or otherwise;
and it may even compensate some of us for the fatal mistake made by our forefathers when
they missed the golden opportunity of arresting all change — of retuming to the cage of the

closed society and establishing, for ever and ever, a perfect zoo of almost perfect monkeys.

Notes to Volume II

Notes to Chapter Eleven

1. That Aristotle's criticism of Plato is very frequently, and in important places, unmerited, has
been admitted by many students of the history of philosophy. It is one of the few points in
which even the admirers of Aristotle find it difficult to defend him, since usually they are
admirers of Plato as well. Zeller, to quote just one example, comments (cp. Aristotle and the
Earlier Peripatetics, English translation by Costelloe and Muirhead, 1897, II, 261, n. 2),
upon the distribution of land in Aristotle's Best State: 'There is a similar plan in Plato's Laws,
745c seqq.; Aristotle, however, in Politics 1265b24 considers Plato's arrangement, merely
on account of a trifling difference, highly objectionable.' A similar remark is made by G.
Grote, Aristotle (Ch. XIV, end of second paragraph). In view of many criticisms of Plato
which strongly suggest that envy of Plato's originality is part of his motive, Aristotle's
much-admired solemn assurance {Nicomachean Ethics, I, 6, 1) that the sacred duty of giving
preference to truth forces him to sacrifice even what is most dear to him, namely, his love
for Plato, sounds to me somewhat hypocritical.

2. Cp. Th. Gomperz, Greek Thinkers (I am quoting from the German edition. III, 298, i.e.
Book 7, Ch. 31, § 6). See especially Aristotle's Politics, 1313a.

G. C. Field (in Plato and His Contemporaries, 114 f ) defends Plato and Aristotle against the
'reproach ... that, with the possibility, and, in the case of the latter, the actuality of this' (i.e.
the Macedonian conquest) 'before their eyes, they ... say nothing of these new
developments'. But Field's defence (perhaps directed against Gomperz) is unsuccessful, in
spite of his strong comments upon those who make such a reproach. (Field says: 'this
criticism betrays ... a singular lack of understanding.') Of course, it is correct to claim, as
Field does, 'that a hegemony like that exercised by Macedon ... was no new thing'; but
Macedon was in Plato's eyes at least half-barbarian and therefore a natural enemy. Field is
also right in saying that 'the destruction of independence by Macedon' was not a complete
one; but did Plato or Aristotle foresee that it was not to become complete? I believe that a
defence like Field's cannot possibly succeed, simply because it would have to prove too
much; namely, that the significance of Macedon 's threat could not have been clear, at the

time, to any observer; but this is disproved, of course, by the example of Demosthenes. The
question is: why did Plato, who like Isocrates had taken some interest in pan-Hellenic
nationalism (cp. notes 48-50 to chapter S,Rep., 470, and the Eighth Letter, 353e, which
Field claims to be 'certainly genuine') and who was apprehensive of a 'Phoenician and
Oscan' threat to Syracuse, why did he ignore Macedon's threat to Athens? A likely reply to
the corresponding question concerning Aristotle is: because he belonged to the pro-
Macedonian party. A reply in Plato's case is suggested by Zeller {op. cit., II, 41) in his
defence of Aristotle's right to support Macedon: 'So satisfied was Plato of the intolerable
character of the existing political position that he advocated sweeping changes.' ('Plato's
follower', Zeller continues, referring to Aristotle, 'could the less evade the same convictions,
since he had a keener insight into men and things . . . ') In other words, the answer might be
that Plato's hatred of Athenian democracy exceeded so much even his pan-Hellenic
nationahsm that he was, like Isocrates, looking forward to the Macedonian conquest.

3. This and the following three quotations are from Aristotle's Politics, 1254b-1255a; 1254a;
1255a; 1260a.— See also: 1252a, f (I, 2, 2-5); 1253b, ff (I, 4, 386, and especially I, 5);
1313b (V, 11, 11). Furthermore: Metaphysics, 1075a, where freemen and slaves are also
opposed 'by nature'. But we find also the passage: 'Some slaves have the souls of freemen,
and others their bodies' {Politics, 1254b). Cp. with Plato's Timaeus, 51e, quoted in note 50
(2), to chapter 8. — For a trifling mitigation, and a typically 'balanced judgement' of Plato's
Laws, see Politics, 1260b: 'Those' (this is a somewhat typical Aristotelian way of referring to
Plato) 'are wrong who forbid us even to converse with slaves and say that we should only
use the language of command; for slaves must be admonished' (Plato had said, in Laws,
lllQ, that they should not be admonished) 'even more than children.' Zeller, in his long list
of the personal virtues of Aristotle {op. cit., I, 44), mentions his 'nobility of principles' and
his 'benevolence to slaves'. I cannot help remembering the perhaps less noble but certainly
more benevolent principle put forward much earlier by Alcidamas and Lycophron, namely,
that there should be no slaves at all. W. D. Ross {Aristotle, 2nd ed., 1930, pp. 241 ff.)
defends Aristotle's attitude towards slavery by saying: 'Where to us he seems reactionary, he
may have seemed revolutionary to them', viz., to his contemporaries. In support of this
view, Ross mentions Aristotle's doctrine that Greek should not enslave Greek. But this

doctrine was hardly very revolutionary since Plato had taught it, probably half a century
before Aristotle. And that Aristotle's views were indeed reactionary can be best seen from
the fact that he repeatedly finds it necessary to defend them against the doctrine that no man
is a slave by nature, and further from his own testimony to the anti-slavery tendencies of the
Athenian democracy.

An excellent statement on Aristotle's Politics can be found in the beginning of Chapter XIV
of G. Grote's Aristotle, from which I quote a few sentences: 'The scheme ... of government
proposed by Aristotle, in the two last books of his Politics, as representing his own ideas of
something like perfection, is evidently founded upon the Republic of Plato: from whom he
differs in the important circumstance of not admitting either community of property or
community of wives and children. Each of these philosophers recognizes one separate class
of inhabitants, relieved from all private toil and all money-getting employments, and
constituting exclusively the citizens of the commonwealth. This small class is in effect the
city — the commonwealth: the remaining inhabitants are not a part of the commonwealth, they
are only appendages to it — indispensable indeed, but still appendages, in the same manner
as slaves or cattle.' Grote recognizes that Aristotle's Best State, where it deviates from the
Republic, largely copies Plato's Laws. Aristotle's dependence upon Plato is prominent even
where he expresses his acquiescence in the victory of democracy; cp. especially Politics, III,
15; 11-13; 1286b (a parallel passage is IV, 13; 10; 1297b). The passage ends by saying of
democracy: 'No other form of government appears to be possible any longer'; but this result
is reached by an argument that follows very closely Plato's story of the decline and fall of
the state in Books VIII-IX of the Republic; and this in spite of the fact that Aristotle criticizes
Plato's story severely (for instance in V, 12; 1316a, f ).

4. Aristotle's use of the word 'banausic' in the sense of 'professional' or 'money earning' is
clearly shown in Politics, VIII, 6, 3 ff. (1340b) and especially 15 f (1341b). Every
professional, for example a flute player, and of course every artisan or labourer, is
'banausic', that is to say, not a free man, not a citizen, even though he is not a real slave; the
status of a 'banausic' man is one of 'partial or limited slavery' (Politics, I, 14; 13; 1260a/b).
The word 'banausos' derives, I gather, from a pre-Hellenic word for 'fire-worker'. Used as
an attribute it means that a man's origin and caste 'disqualify him from prowess in the field'.

(Cp. Greenidge, quoted by Adam in his edition of the Republic, note to 495e30.) It may be
translated by 'low-caste', 'cringing', 'degrading', or in some contexts by 'upstart'. Plato
used the word in the same sense as Aristotle. In the (74 le and 743d), the term

'banausia' is used to describe the depraved state of a man who makes money by means
other than the hereditary possession of land. See also the Republic, 495e and 590c. But if we
remember the tradition that Socrates was a mason; and Xenophon's story (Mem. II, 7); and
Antisthenes' praise of hard work; and the attitude of the Cynics; then it seems unlikely that
Socrates agreed with the aristocratic prejudice that money earning must be degrading. (The
Oxford English Dictionary proposes to render 'banausic' as 'merely mechanical, proper to a
mechanic', and quotes GrotQ, Eth. Fragm., vi, 227 = Aristotle, 2nd edn, 1880, p. 545; but
this rendering is much too narrow, and Grote's passage does not justify this interpretation,
which may originally rest upon a misunderstanding of Plutarch. It is interesting that in
Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream the term 'mere mechanicals' is used precisely in
the sense of 'banausic' men; and this use might well be connected with a passage on
Archimedes in North's translation of the Life of Marcellus .)

In Mind, vol. 47, there is an interesting discussion between A. E. Taylor and F. M. Cornford,
in which the former (pp. 197 ff.) defends his view that Plato, when speaking of 'the god' in
a certain passage of the Timaeus, may have had in mind a 'peasant cultivator' who 'serves'
by bodily labour; a view which is, I think most convincingly, criticized by Cornford (pp.
329 ff.). Plato's attitude towards all 'banausic' work, and especially manual labour, bears on
this problem; and when (p. 198, note) Taylor uses the argument that Plato compares his gods
'with shepherds or sheep-dogs in charge of a flock of sheep' {Laws, 90 le, 907a), then we
could point out that the activities of nomads and hunters are quite consistently considered by
Plato as noble or even divine; but the sedentary 'peasant cultivator' is banausic and
depraved. Cp. note 32 to chapter 4, and text.

5. The two passages that follow are from Politics (1337b, 4 and 5).

6. The 1939 edition of the Pocket Oxford Dictionary still says: 'liberal ... (of education) fit for
a gentleman, of a general literary rather than technical kind'. This shows most clearly the
everlasting power of Aristotle's influence.

I admit that there is a serious problem of a professional education, that of narrow-
mindedness. But I do not believe that a 'literary' education is the remedy; for it may create
its own peculiar kind of narrow-mindedness, its peculiar snobbery. And in our day no man
should be considered educated if he does not take an interest in science. The usual defence
that an interest in electricity or stratigraphy need not be more enhghtening than an interest in
human affairs only betrays a complete lack of understanding of human affairs. For science is
not merely a collection of facts about electricity, etc.; it is one of the most important spiritual
movements of our day. Anybody who does not attempt to acquire an understanding of this
movement cuts himself off from the most remarkable development in the history of human
affairs. Our so-called Arts Faculties, based upon the theory that by means of a literary and
historical education they introduce the student into the spiritual life of man, have therefore
become obsolete in their present form. There can be no history of man which excludes a
history of his intellectual struggles and achievements; and there can be no history of ideas
which excludes the history of scientific ideas. But literary education has an even more
serious aspect. Not only does it fail to educate the student, who is often to become a teacher,
to an understanding of the greatest spiritual movement of his own day, but it also often fails
to educate him to intellectual honesty. Only if the student experiences how easy it is to err,
and how hard to make even a small advance in the field of knowledge, only then can he
obtain a feeling for the standards of intellectual honesty, a respect for truth, and a disregard
of authority and bumptiousness. But nothing is more necessary to-day than the spread of
these modest intellectual virtues. 'The mental power', T. H. Huxley wrote in A Liberal
Education, 'which will be of most importance in your ... life will be the power of seeing
things as they are without regard to authority . . . But at school and at college, you shall know
of no source of truth but authority.' I admit that, unfortunately, this is true also of many
courses in science, which by some teachers is still treated as if it was a 'body of knowledge',
as the ancient phrase goes. But this idea will one day, I hope, disappear; for science can be
taught as a fascinating part of human history — as a quickly developing growth of bold
hypotheses, controlled by experiment, and by criticism. Taught in this way, as a part of the
history of 'natural philosophy', and of the history of problems and of ideas, it could become
the basis of a new liberal University education; of one whose aim, where it cannot produce

experts, will be to produce at least men who can distinguish between a charlatan and an
expert. This modest and liberal aim will be far beyond anything that our Arts Faculties
nowadays achieve.

7. Politics, VIII, 3, 2 (1337b): 'I must repeat over and again, that the first principle of all action
is leisure.' Previously, in VII, 15, 1 f (1334a), we read: 'Since the end of individuals and of
states is the same . . . they should both contain the virtues of leisure . . . For the proverb says
truly, "There is no leisure for slaves".' Cp. also the reference in note 9 to this section, and
Metaphysics, 1072b23.

Concerning Aristotle's 'admiration and deference for the leisured classes', cp. for example
the following passage from thQ Politics, IV (VII), 8, 4-5 (1293b/1294a): 'Birth and
education as a rule go together with wealth . . . The rich are already in possession of those
advantages the want of which is a temptation to crime, and hence they are called noblemen
and gentlemen. Now it appears to be impossible that a state should be badly governed if the
best citizens rule . . . ' Aristotle, however, not only admires the rich, but is also, like Plato, a
racialist (cp. op. cit.. Ill, 13, 2-3, 1283a): 'The nobly born are citizens in a truer sense of the
word than the low bom ... Those who come from better ancestors are likely to be better
men, for nobility is excellence of race.'

8. Cp. Th. Gomperz, Greek Thinkers. (I am quoting from the German edition, vol. Ill, 263, i.e.
book 6, ch. 27, § 7.)

9. Cp. Nicomachean Ethics, X, 7, 6. The Aristotelian phrase, 'the good life', seems to have
caught the imagination of many modern admirers who associate with this phrase something
like a 'good life' in the Christian sense — a life devoted to help, service, and the quest for the
'higher values'. But this interpretation is the result of a mistaken idealization of Aristotle's
intentions; Aristotle was exclusively concerned with the 'good life' of feudal gentlemen, and
this 'good life' he did not envisage as a life of good deeds, but as a life of refined leisure,
spent in the pleasant company of friends who are equally well situated.

10 . I do not think that even the term 'vulgarization' would be too strong, considering that to
Aristotle himself 'professional' means 'vulgar', and considering that he certainly made a
profession of Platonic philosophy. Besides, he made it dull, as even Zeller admits in the

midst of his eulogy {op. cit., I, 46): 'He cannot inspire us ... at all in the same way as Plato
does. His work is drier, more professional ... than Plato's has been.'

11 . Plato presented in the Timaeus (42a f , 90e f , and especially 91d f ; see note 6 (7) to
chapter 3) a general theory of the origin of species by way of degeneration, down from the
Gods and the first man. Man first degenerates into a woman, then further to the higher and
lower animals and to the plants. It is, as Gomperz says {Greek Thinkers, book 5, ch. 19, § 3;
I am quoting from the German edition, vol. 11, 482), 'a theory of descent in the literal sense
or a theory of devolution, as opposed to the modern theory of evolution which, since it
assumes an ascending sequence, might be called a theory of ascent.' Plato's mythical and
possibly semi-ironical presentation of this theory of descent by degeneration makes use of
the Orphic and Pythagorean theory of the transmigration of the soul. All this (and the
important fact that evolutionary theories which made the lower forms precede the higher
were in vogue at least as early as Empedocles) must be remembered when we hear from
Aristotle that Speusippus, together with certain Pythagoreans, believed in an evolutionary
theory according to which the best and most divine, which are first in rank, come last in the
chronological order of development. Aristotle speaks {Met., 1072b30) of 'those who
suppose, with the Pythagoreans and Speusippus, that supreme beauty and goodness are not
present in the beginning'. From this passage we may conclude, perhaps, that some
Pythagoreans had used the myth of transmigration (possibly under the influence of
Xenophanes) as the vehicle of a 'theory of ascent'. This surmise is supported by Aristotle,
who says {Met., 1091a34): 'The mythologists seem to agree with some thinkers of the
present day' (an allusion, I suppose, to Speusippus) '... who say that the good as well as the
beautiful make their appearance in nature only after nature has made some progress.' It also
seems as if Speusippus had taught that the world will in the course of its development
become a Parmenidian Owe — an organized and fully harmonious whole. (Cp.Me?.,
1092a 14, where a thinker who maintains that the more perfect always comes from the
imperfect, is quoted as saying that 'the One itself does not yet exist'; cp. dXsoMet,
1091 all.) Aristotle himself consistently expresses, at the places quoted, his opposition to
these 'theories of ascent'. His argument is that it is a complete man that produces man, and
that the incomplete seed is not prior to man. In view of this attitude, Zeller can hardly be

right in attributing to Aristotle what is practically the Speusippian theory. (Cp. Zeller,
Aristotle, etc., vol. II, 28 f. A similar interpretation is propounded by H. F. Osborn, From the
Greeks to Darwin, 1908, pp. 48-56.) We may have to accept Gomperz's interpretation,
according to which Aristotle taught the eternity and invariability of the human species and
at least of the higher animals. Thus his morphological orders must be interpreted as neither
chronological nor genealogical. (Cp. Greek Thinkers, book 6, ch. 11, § 10, and especially
ch. 13, §§ 6 f., and the notes to these passages.) But there remains, of course, the possibility
that Aristotle was inconsistent in this point, as he was in many others, and that his arguments
against Speusippus are due to his wish to assert his independence. See also note 6 (7) to
chapter 3, and notes 2 and 4 to chapter 4.

12 . Aristotle's First Mover, that is, God, is prior in time (though he is eternal) and has the
predicate of goodness. For the evidence concerning the identification of formal and final
cause mentioned in this paragraph, see note 1 5 to this chapter.

13 . For Plato's biological teleology see Timaeus, 73a-76e. Gomperz comments rightly {Greek
Thinkers, book 5, ch. 19, § 7; German edn, vol. II, 495 f ) that Plato's teleology is only
understandable if we remember that 'animals are degenerate men, and that their organization
may therefore exhibit purposes which were originally only the ends of man'.

14 . For Plato's version of the theory of the natural places, see Timaeus, 60b-63a, and
especially 63b f. Aristotle adopts the theory with only minor changes and explains like Plato
the 'lightness' and 'heaviness' of bodies by the 'upward' and 'downward' direction of their
natural movements towards their natural places; cp. for instance P/^j^^/c^, 192b 13; also
Metaphysics, 1065b 10.

15 . Aristotle is not always quite definite and consistent in his statements on this problem. Thus
he writes in ihQ Metaphysics (1044a35): 'What is the formal cause (of man)? His Essence.
The final cause? His end. ^ut perhaps these two are the same.' In other parts of the same
work he seems to be more assured of the identity between the Form and the end of a change
or movement. Thus we read (1069b/1070a): 'Everything that changes ... is changed by
something into something. That by which it is changed is the immediate mover; ... that into
which it is changed, the Form.' And later (1070a, 9/10): 'There are three kinds of substance:

first, matter secondly, the nature towards which it moves; and thirdly, the particular
substance which is composed of these two.' Now since what is here called 'nature' is as a
rule called 'Form' by Aristotle, and since it is here described as an end of movement, we
have: Form = end.

16 . For the doctrine that movement is the realization or actualization of potentialities, see for
instance Metaphysics, Book IX; or 1065b 17, where the term 'buildable' is used to describe a
definite potentiality of a prospective house: 'When the "buildable" ... actually exists, then it
is being built; and this is the process of building.' Cp. also Aristotle's Physics, 201b4 f;
furthermore, see Gomperz, op. cit, book 6, ch. 11, § 5.

17. Cp. Metaphysics, 1049b5. See further Book V, ch. IV, and especially 1015al2 f , Book VII,
ch. IV, especially 1029b 15.

18 . For the definition of the soul as the First Entelechy, see the reference given by Zeller, op.
cit., vol. II, p. 3, n. 1. For the meaning of Entelechy as formal cause, see op. cit., vol. I, 379,
note 2. Aristotle's use of this term is anything but precise. (See also Met., 1035bl5.) Cp. also
note 19 to chapter 5, and text.

19 . For this and the next quotation see Zeller, op. cit, I, 46.

20. Cp. Politics, II, 8, 21 (1269a), with its references to Plato's various Myths of the Earthborn
{Rep., 414c; Pol, 271a; Tim., 22c; Laws, 677a).

21 . Cp. YLQgQl, Lectures on the Philosophy of History, transl. by J. Sibree, London 1914,
Introduction, 23; see also Loewenberg's Hegel — Selections (The Modern Student's Library),
366. — The whole Introduction, especially this and the following pages, shows clearly
Hegel's dependence upon Aristotle. That Hegel was aware of it is shown by the way in
which he alluded to Aristotle on p. 59 (Loewenberg's edition, 412).

22 . Hegel, op. cit., 23 (Loewenberg's edition, 365).

23. Cp. Caird, Hegel (Blackwood 191 1), 26 f

24 . The next quotations are from the place referred to in notes 21 and 22.

25 . For the following remarks, sqq Hegel's Philosophical Propaedeutics, 2nd Year,

Phenomenology of the Spirit, transl. by W. T. Harris (Loewenberg's edition, 68 ff.). I deviate
slightly from this translation. My remarks allude to the following interesting passages: § 23:
'The impulse of self-consciousness' ('self-consciousness' in German means also self-
assertion; cp. the end of chapter 16) 'consists in this: to realize its ... "true nature" ... It is
therefore ... active ... in asserting itself externally ...' § 24: 'Self-consciousness has in its
culture, or movement, three stages: ... (2) in so far as it is related to another self the
relation of master and slave (domination and servitude) Hegel does not mention any other
'relation to another self. — We read further: '(3) The Relation of Master and Slave ... § 32:
In order to assert itself as free being and to obtain recognition as such, self-consciousness
must exhibit itself to another self ... § 33: ... With the reciprocal demand for recognition
there enters ... the relation of master and slave between them ... § 34: Since ... each must
strive to assert and prove himself ... the one who prefers hfe to freedom enters into a
condition of slavery, thereby showing that he has not the capacity' ('nature' would have
been Aristotle's or Plato's expression) '... for his independence ... § 35: ... The one who
serves is devoid of selfhood and has another self in place of his own ... The master, on the
contrary, looks upon the servant as reduced, and upon his own individual will as preserved
and elevated ... § 36: The individual will of the servant ... is cancelled in his fear of the
master ...' etc. It is difficult to overlook an element of hysteria in this theory of human
relations and their reduction to mastership and servitude. I hardly doubt that Hegel's method
of burying his thoughts under heaps of words, which one must remove in order to get to his
meaning (as a comparison between my various quotations and the original may show) is one
of the symptoms of his hysteria; it is a kind of escape, a way of shunning the daylight. I do
not doubt that this method of his would make as excellent an object for psycho-analysis as
his wild dreams of domination and submission. (It must be mentioned that Hegel's dialectics
— see the next chapter — carries him, at the end of § 36 here quoted, beyond the master-
slave relation 'to the universal will, the transition to positive freedom'. As will be seen from
chapter 12 (especially sections II and IV), these terms are just euphemisms for the
totalitarian state. Thus, mastership and servitude are very appropriately 'reduced to
components' of totalitarianism.) With Hegel's remark quoted here (cp. § 35) that the slave is
the man who prefers hfe to freedom, compare Plato's remark (Republic, 387a) that free men

are those who fear slavery more than death. In a sense, this is true enough; those who are
not prepared to fight for their freedom will lose it. But the theory which is implied by both
Plato and Hegel, and which is very popular with later authors also, is that men who give in
to superior force, or who do not die rather than give in to an armed gangster, are, by nature,
'born slaves' who do not deserve to fare better. This theory, I assert, can be held only by the
most violent enemies of civilization.

26 . For a criticism of Wittgenstein's view that, while science investigates matters of fact, the
business of philosophy is the clarification of meaning, see notes 46 and especially 5 1 and 52
to this chapter. (Cp. further, H. Gomperz, 'The Meanings of Meaning', in Philosophy oj
Science, vol. 8, 1941, especially p. 183.) For the whole problem to which this digression
(down to note 54 to this chapter) is devoted, viz. the problem of methodological essentialism
versus methodological nominalism, cp. notes 27-30 to chapter 3, and text; see further
especially note 38 to the present chapter.

27 . For Plato's, or rather Parmenides', distinction between knowledge and opinion (a distinction
which continued to be popular with more modern writers, for example with Locke and
Hobbes), see notes 22 and 26 to chapter 3, and text; further, notes 19 to chapter 5, and 25-
27 to chapter 8. For Aristotle's corresponding distinction, cp. for example Metaphysics
1039b31 2ind Anal. Post., I, 33 (88b30 ff); II, 19 (100b5).

For Aristotle's distinction between demonstrative and intuitive knowledge, see the last
chapter of the ^««/. Post. (II, 19, especially 100b 5-17; see also 72b 18-24, 75b31, 84a31,
90a6-91all.) For the connection between demonstrative knowledge and the 'causes' of a
thing which are 'distinct from its essential nature' and thereby require a middle term, see op.
cit, II, 8 (especially 93a5, 93b26). For the analogous connection between intellectual
intuition and the 'indivisible form' which it grasps — the indivisible essence and individual
nature which is identical with its cause — see op. cit., 72b24, 77a4, 85al, 88b35. See also op.
cit, 90a31: 'To know the nature of a thing is to know the reason why it is' (i.e. its cause);
and 93b21: 'There are essential natures which are immediate, i.e. basic premises.' For
Aristotle's recognition that we must stop somewhere in the regression of proofs or
demonstrations, and accept certain principles without proof, see for example Metaphysics,

1006a7: 'It is impossible to prove everything, for then there would arise an infinite
regression See also Anal. Post., II, 3 (90b, 18-27).

I may mention that my analysis of Aristotle's theory of definition agrees largely with that of
Grote, but partly disagrees with that of Ross. The very great difference between the
interpretations of these two writers may be just indicated by two quotations, both taken from
chapters devoted to the analysis of Aristotle's Anal. Post., Book II. 'In the second book,
Aristotle turns to consider demonstration as the instrument wherohy definition is reached.'
(Ross, Aristotle, 2nd edn, p. 49.) This may be contrasted with: 'The Definition can never be
demonstrated, for it declares only the essence of the subject whereas Demonstration
assumes the essence to be known ...' (Grote, Aristotle, 2nd edn, 241; see also 240/241. Cp.
also end of note 29 below.)

28. Cp. Aristotle's Metaphysics, 103 lb? and 1031b20. See also 996b20: 'We have knowledge
of a thing if we know its essence.'

29 . 'A definition is a statement that describes the essence of a thing' (Aristotle, Topics, I, 5,
101b36; VII, 3, 153a, 153al5, etc. See also Met., 1042al7)— 'The definition ... reveals the
essential nature' {Anal. Post., II, 3, 91al). — 'Definition is ... a statement of the nature of the
thing' (93b28). — 'Only those things have essences whose formulae are definitions.' {Met.,
1030a5 f) — 'The essence, whose formula is a definition, is also called the substance of a
thing.' {Met., 1017b21) — 'Clearly, then, the definition is the formula of the essence ...'
{Met., 1031al3).

Regarding the principles, i.e. the starting points or basic premises of proofs, we must
distinguish between two kinds. (1) The logical principles (cp. Met., 996b25 ff.) and (2) the
premises from which proofs must proceed and which cannot be proven in turn if an infinite
regression is to be avoided (cp. note 27 to this chapter). The latter are definitions: 'The basic
premises of proofs are definitions' {Anal. Post., II, 3, 90b23; cp. 89al7, 90a35, 90b23). See
also Ross, Aristotle, p. 45/46, commenting upon Anal. Post., I, 4, 20-74a4: 'The premises of
science', Ross writes (p. 46), 'will, we are told, be per se in either sense {a) or sense (Z)).' On
the previous page we learn that a premise is necessary per se (or essentially necessary) in the
senses {a) and {b) if it rests upon a definition.

30 . 'If it has a name, then there will be a formula of its meaning', says Aristotle {Met., 1030al4;
see also 1030b24); and he explains that not every formula of the meaning of a name is a
definition; but if the name is one of a species of a genus, then the formula will be a
definition.

It is important to note that in my use (I follow here the modern use of the word) 'definition'
always refers to the whole definition sentence, while Aristotle (and others who follow him in
this, e.g. Hobbes) sometimes uses the word also as a synonym for 'defmiens'.
Definitions are not of particulars, but only of universals {c^.Met., 1036a28) and only of
essences, i.e. of something which is the species of a genus (i.e. a last differentia; cp. Met,
103 8a 19) and an indivisible form, see also Anal. Post. II, 13., 97b6 f.

3 1 . That Aristotle's treatment is not very lucid may be seen from the end of note 27 to this
chapter, and from a further comparison of these two interpretations. The greatest obscurity is
in Aristotle's treatment of the way in which, by a process of induction, we rise to definitions
that are principles; cp. especially Post, II, 19, pp. 100a, f

32 . For Plato's doctrine, see notes 25-27 to chapter 8, and text.

Grote writes {Aristotle, 2nd ed., 260): 'Aristotle had inherited from Plato his doctrine of an
infallible Nous or Intellect, enjoying complete immunity from error.' Grote continues to
emphasize that, as opposed to Plato, Aristotle does not despise observational experience, but
rather assigns to his Nous (i.e. intellectual intuition) 'a position as terminus and correlate to
the process of Induction' {loc. cit, see also op. cit, p. 577). This is so; but observational
experience has apparently only the function of priming and developing our intellectual
intuition for its task, the intuition of the universal essence; and, indeed, nobody has ever
explained how definitions, which are beyond error, can be reached by induction.

33 . Aristotle's view amounts to the same as Plato's in so far as there is for both, in the last
instance, no possible appeal to argument. All that can be done is to assert dogmatically of a
certain definition that it is a true description of its essence; and if asked why this and no
other description is true, all that remains is an appeal to the 'intuition of the essence'.
Aristotle speaks of induction in at least two senses — in a more heuristic sense of a method
leading us to 'intuit the general principle' (cp. An. Pri, 67a22f , 27b25-33, Post, 71a7,

81a38-b5, 100b4 f.) and in a more empirical sense {cp. An. Pri., 68bl5-37, 69al6,^/t.
Post, 78a35, 81b5 ff., Topics, 105al3, 156a4, 157a34).

A case of an apparent contradiction, which, however, might be cleared up, is 77a4, where
we read that a definition is neither universal nor particular. I suggest that the solution is not
that a definition is 'not strictly a judgement at all' (as G. R. G. Mure suggests in the Oxford
translation), but that it is not simply universal but 'commensurate', i.e. universal and
necessary. (Cp. 73b26, 96b4, 97b25.)

For the 'argument' of Anal. Post, mentioned in the text, see 100b6 ff. For the mystical union
of the knowing and the known in De Anima, see especially 425b30 f, 430a20, 431al; the
decisive passage for our purpose is 430b27 f : 'The intuitive grasp of the definition ... of the
essence is never in error . . . just as . . . the seeing of the special object of sight can never be in
error.' For the theological passages of the Metaphysics, see especially 1072b20 ('contact')
and 1075a2. See also notes 59 (2) to chapter 10, 36 to chapter 12, and notes 3, 4, 6, 29-32,
and 58 to chapter 24.

For 'the whole body of fact' mentioned in the next paragraph, see the end of Anal. Post.
(100bl5 f).

It is remarkable how similar the views of Hobbes (a nominalist but not a methodological
nominalist) are to Aristotle's methodological essentialism. Hobbes too believes that
definitions are the basic premises of all knowledge (as opposed to opinion).

34 . I have developed this view of scientific method in my Logic of Scientific Discovery; see,
e.g. pp. 278 ff. and pp. 315 ff., for a fuller translation from Erkenntnis, vol. 5 (1934) where I
say: 'We shall have to get accustomed to interpreting sciences as systems of hypotheses
(instead of "bodies of knowledge"), i.e. of anticipations that cannot be established, but
which we use as long as they are corroborated, and of which we are not entitled to say that
they are "true" or "more or less certain" or even "probable".'

35 . The quotation is from my note in Erkenntnis, vol. 3 (1933), now retranslated in The Logic
of Scientific Discovery, pp. 312 ff.; it is a variation and generalization of a statement on
geometry made by Einstein in his Geometry and Experience.

36 . It is, of course, not possible to estimate whether theories, argument, and reasoning, or else

observation and experiment, are of greater significance for science; for science is always
theory tested by observation and experiment. But it is certain that all those 'positivists' who
try to show that science is the 'sum total of our observations', or that it is observational
rather than theoretical, are quite mistaken. The role of theory and argument in science can
hardly be overrated. — Concerning the relation between proof and logical argument in
general, see note 47 to this chapter.

37 . Cp. e.g. Met., 1030a, 6 and 14 (see note 30 to this chapter).

38 . I wish to emphasize that I speak here dibout nominalism versus essentialism in a purely
methodological way. I do not take up any position towards the metaphysical problem of
universals, i.e. towards the metaphysical problem of nominalism versus essentialism (a term
which I suggest should be used instead of the traditional term 'realism'); and I certainly do
not advocate a metaphysical nominahsm, although I advocate a methodological nominahsm.
(See also notes 27 and 30 to chapter 3.)

The opposition between nominalist and essentialist definitions made in the text is an attempt
to reconstruct the traditional distinction between 'verbal' and 'real' definitions. My main
emphasis, however, is on the question whether the definition is read from the right to the left
or from the left to the right; or, in other words, whether it replaces a long story by a short
one, or a short story by a long one.

39 . My contention that in science only nominalist definitions occur (I speak here of explicit
definitions only and neither of implicit nor of recursive definitions) needs some defence. It
certainly does not imply that terms are not used more or less 'intuitively' in science; this is
clear if only we consider that all chains of definitions must start with undefined terms, whose
meaning can be exemplified but not defined. Further, it seems clear that in science,
especially in mathematics, we often first use a term, for instance 'dimension' or 'truth',
intuitively, but proceed later to define it. But this is a rather rough description of the
situation. A more precise description would be this. Some of the undefined terms used
intuitively can be sometimes replaced by defined terms of which it can be shown that they
fulfil the intentions with which the undefined terms have been used; that is to say, to every
sentence in which the undefined terms occurred (e.g. which was interpreted as analytic)

there is a corresponding sentence in which the newly defined term occurs (which follows
from the definition).

One certainly can say that K. Menger has recursively defined 'Dimension' or that A. Tarski
has defined 'Truth'; but this way of expressing matters may lead to misunderstandings. What
has happened is that Menger gave a purely nominal definition of classes of sets of points
which he labelled '^-dimensional', because it was possible to replace the intuitive
mathematical concept '^-dimensional' by the new concept in all important contexts; and the
same can be said of Tarski's concept 'Truth'. Tarski gave a nominal definition (or rather a
method of drafting nominal definitions) which he labelled 'Truth', since a system of
sentences could be derived from the definition corresponding to those sentences (like the
law of the excluded middle) which had been used by many logicians and philosophers in
connection with what they called 'Truth'.

40 . If anything, our language would gain precision if we were to avoid definitions and take the
immense trouble of always using the defining terms instead of the defined terms. For there is
a source of imprecision in the current methods of definition: Carnap has developed (in 1934)
what appears to be the first method of avoiding inconsistencies in a language using
definitions. C^. Logical Syntax of Language, 1937, §22, p. 67. (See also Hilbert-Bernays,
Grundlagen d. Math., 1939, II, p. 295, note 1.) Carnap has shown that in most cases a
language admitting definitions will be inconsistent even if the definitions satisfy the general
rules for forming definitions. The comparative practical unimportance of this inconsistency
merely rests upon the fact that we can always eliminate the defined terms, replacing them by
the defining terms.

41 . Several examples of this method of introducing the new term only after the need has arisen
may be found in the present book. Dealing, as it does, with philosophical positions, it can
hardly avoid introducing, for the sake of brevity, names for these positions. This is the
reason why I have to make use of so many 'isms'. But in many cases these names are
introduced only after the positions in question have been described.

42 . In a more systematic criticism of the essentialist method, three problems might be
distinguished which essentialism can neither escape nor solve. (1) The problem of

distinguishing clearly between a mere verbal convention and an essentialist definition which
'truly' describes an essence. (2) The problem of distinguishing 'true' essential definitions
from 'false' ones. (3) The problem of avoiding an infinite regression of definitions. — I shall
briefly deal with the second and third of these problems only. The third of these problems
will be dealt with in the text; for the second, see notes 44 (1) and 54 to this chapter.

43 . The fact that a statement is true may sometimes help to explain why it appears to us as self-
evident. This is the case with '2 +2 =4', or with the sentence 'the sun radiates light as well
as heat'. But the opposite is clearly not the case. The fact that a sentence appears to some or
even to all of us to be 'self-evident', that is to say, the fact that some or even all of us believe
firmly in its truth and cannot conceive of its falsity, is no reason why it should be true. (The
fact that we are unable to conceive of the falsity of a statement is in many cases only a
reason for suspecting that our power of imagination is deficient or undeveloped.) It is one of
the gravest mistakes if a philosophy ever offers self-evidence as an argument in favour of
the truth of a sentence; yet this is done by practically all idealist philosophies. It shows that
idealist philosophies are often systems of apologetics for some dogmatic beliefs.

The excuse that we are often in such a position that we must accept certain sentences for no
better reason than that they are self-evident, is not valid. The principles of logic and of
scientific method (especially the 'principle of induction' or the 'law of uniformity of nature')
are usually mentioned as statements which we must accept, and which we cannot justify by
anything but self-evidence. Even if this were so, it would be franker to say that we cannot
justify them, and leave it at that. But, in fact, there is no need for a 'principle of induction'.
(Cp. my The Logic of Scientific Discovery.) And as far as the 'principles of logic' are
concerned, much has been done in recent years which shows that the self-evidence theory is
obsolete. (Cp. especially C2LYr\2L^'s Logical Syntax of Language and his Introduction to
Semantics.) See also note 44 (2).

44 . (1) If we apply these considerations to the intellectual intuition of essences, then we can see
that essentialism is unable to solve the problem: How can we find out whether or not a
proposed definition which is formally correct is true also; and especially, how can we decide
between two competing definitions? It is clear that for the methodological nominalist the

answer to a question of this kind is trivial. For let us assume that somebody maintains (with
the Oxford Dictionary) that 'A puppy is a vain, empty-headed, impertinent young man', and
that he insists upon upholding this definition against somebody who clings to our previous
definition. In this case, the nominalist, if he is patient enough to do so, will point out that a
quarrel about labels does not interest him, since their choice is arbitrary; and he may
suggest, if there is any danger of ambiguity, that one can easily introduce two different
labels, for example 'puppy l' and 'puppy2'. And if a third party should support that 'A
puppy is a brown dog', then the nominalist will patiently suggest the introduction of the
label 'puppyS'. But should the contesting parties continue to quarrel, either because
somebody insists that only his puppy is the legitimate one, or because he insists that his
puppy must, at least, be labelled 'puppy l', then even a very patient nominahst would only
shrug his shoulders. (In order to avoid misunderstandings, it should be said that
methodological nominalism does not discuss the question of the existence of universals;
Hobbes, accordingly, is not a methodological nominalist, but what I should call an
onto logical nominalist.)

The same trivial problem, however, raises insurmountable difficulties for the essentiahst
method. We have already supposed that the essentialist insists that, for instance, 'A puppy is
a brown dog' is not a correct definition of the essence of 'puppiness'. How can he defend
this view? Only by an appeal to his intellectual intuition of essences. But this fact has the
practical consequence that the essentialist is reduced to complete helplessness, if his
definition is challenged. For there are only two ways in which he can react. The one is to
reiterate stubbornly that his intellectual intuition is the only true one, to which, of course, his
opponent may reply in the same way, so that we reach a deadlock instead of the absolutely
final and indubitable knowledge which we were promised by Aristotle. The other is to admit
that his opponent's intuition may be as true as his own, but that it is of a different essence,
which he unfortunately denotes by the same name. This would lead to the suggestion that
two different names should be used for the two different essences, for example 'puppy l' and
'puppy r. But this step means giving up the essentialist position altogether. For it means that
we start with the defining formula and attach to it some label, i.e. that we proceed 'from the
right to the left'; and it means that we shall have to attach these labels arbitrarily. This can be

seen by considering that the attempt to insist that a puppyl is, essentially, a young dog,
while the brown dog can only be a puppy2, would clearly lead to the same difficulty which
has driven the essentialist into his present dilemma. Accordingly, every definition must be
considered as equally admissible (provided it is formally correct); which means, in
Aristotelian terminology, that one basic premise is just as true as another (which is contrary
to it) and that Ht is impossible to make a false statement' . (This seems to have been pointed
out by Antisthenes; see note 54 to this chapter.) Thus the Aristotehan claim that intellectual
intuition is a source of knowledge as opposed to opinion, unerringly and indubitably true,
and that it furnishes us with definitions which are the safe and necessary basic premises of
all scientific deduction, is baseless in every single one of its points. And a definition turns
out to be nothing but a sentence which tells us that the defined term means the same as the
defining formula, and that each can be replaced by the other. Its nominalist use permits us to
cut a long story short and is therefore of some practical advantage. But its essen-tialist use
can only help us to replace a short story by a story which means the same but is much
longer. This use can only encourage verbalism.

(2) For a criticism of Husserl's intuition of essences, cp. J. Kraft, From Husserl to Heidegger
(in German, 1932). See also note 8 to chapter 24. Of all authors who hold related views, M.
Weber had probably the greatest influence upon the treatment of sociological problems. He
advocated for the social sciences a 'method of intuitive understanding'; and his 'ideal types'
largely correspond to the essences of Aristotle and Husserl. It is worth mentioning that
Weber saw, in spite of these tendencies, the inadmissibility of appeals to self-evidence. 'The
fact that an interpretation possesses a high degree of self-evidence proves in itself nothing
about its empirical validity' {Ges. Aufsaetze, 1922, p. 404); and he says quite rightly that
intuitive understanding 'must always be controlled by ordinary methods'. {Loc. cit, italics
mine.) But if that is so, then it is not a characteristic method of a science of 'human
behaviour' as he thinks; it also belongs to mathematics, physics, etc. And it turns out that
those who believe that intuitive understanding is a method pecuhar to sciences of 'human
behaviour' hold such views mainly because they cannot imagine that a mathematician or a
physicist could become so well acquainted with his object that he could 'get the feel of it', in
the way in which a sociologist 'gets the feel' of human behaviour.

45 . 'Science assumes the definitions of all its terms (Ross, Aristotle, 44; cp. Anal. Post., I,
2); see also note 30 to this chapter.

46 . The following quotation is from R. H. S. Grossman, Plato To-Day 1937, pp. 71 f

A very similar doctrine is expressed by M. R. Cohen and E. Nagel in their book. An
Introduction to Logic and Scientific Method (1936), p. 232: 'Many of the disputes about the
true nature of property, of religion, of law, . . . would assuredly disappear if the precisely
defined equivalents were substituted for these words.' (See also notes 48 and 49 to this
chapter.)

The views concerning this problem expressed by Wittgenstein in his Tractatus Logico-
Philosophicus (1921/22) and by several of his followers are not as definite as those of
Grossman, Cohen, and Nagel. Wittgenstein is an anti-metaphysician. 'The book', he writes
in the preface, 'deals with the problems of philosophy and shows, I believe, that the method
of formulating these problems rests on the misunderstanding of the logic of our language.'
He tries to show that metaphysics is 'simply nonsense' and tries to draw a limit, in our
language, between sense and nonsense: 'The limit can ... be drawn in languages and what
lies on the other side of the limit will be simply nonsense.' According to Wittgenstein's
book, propositions have sense. They are true or false. Philosophical propositions do not
exist; they only look like propositions, but are, in fact, nonsensical. The limit between sense
and nonsense coincides with that between natural science and philosophy: 'The totality of
true propositions is the total natural science (or the totality of the natural sciences). —
Philosophy is not one of the natural sciences.' The true task of philosophy, therefore, is not
to formulate propositions; it is, rather, to clarify propositions : 'The result of philosophy is
not a number of "philosophical propositions", but to make propositions clear.' Those who
do not see that, and propound philosophical propositions, talk metaphysical nonsense.
(It should be remembered, in this connection, that a sharp distinction between meaningful
statements which have sense, and meaningless linguistic expressions which may look like
statements but which are without sense, was first made by Russell in his attempt to solve the
problems raised by the paradoxes which he had discovered. Russell's division of
expressions which look like statements is threefold, since statements which may be true or
false, and meaningless or nonsensical pseudo-statements, may be distinguished. It is

important to note that this use of the terms 'meaningless' or 'senseless' partly agrees with
ordinary use, but is much sharper, since ordinarily one often calls real statements
'meaningless', for example, if they are 'absurd', i.e. self-contradictory, or obviously false.
Thus a statement asserting of a certain physical body that it is at the same time in two
different places is not meaningless but a false statement, or one which contradicts the use of
the term 'body' in classical physics; and similarly, a statement asserting of a certain electron
that it has a precise place and momentum is not meaningless — as some physicists have
asserted, and as some philosophers have repeated — ^but it simply contradicts modem
physics.)

What has been said so far can be summed up as follows. Wittgenstein looks for a line of
demarcation between sense and nonsense, and finds that this demarcation coincides with
that between science and metaphysics, i.e. between scientific sentences and philosophical
pseudo-propositions. (That he wrongly identifies the sphere of the natural sciences with that
of true sentences shall not concern us here; see, however, note 51 to this chapter.) This
interpretation of his aim is corroborated when we read: 'Philosophy limits the ... sphere of
natural science.' (All sentences so far quoted are from pp. 75 and 77.)

How is the line of demarcation ultimately drawn? How can 'science' be distinguished fi"om
'metaphysics', and thereby 'sense' from 'nonsense'? It is the reply given to this question
which establishes the similarity between Wittgenstein's theory and that of Grossman and the
rest. Wittgenstein implies that the terms or 'signs' used by scientists have meaning, while the
metaphysician 'has given no meaning to certain signs in his propositions'; this is what he
writes (pp. 187 and 189): 'The right method of philosophy would be this. To say nothing
except what can be said, i.e. the propositions of natural science, i.e. something that has
nothing to do with philosophy: and then always when someone else wished to say
something metaphysical, to demonstrate to him that he had given no meaning to certain
signs in his propositions.' In practice, this implies that we should proceed by asking the
metaphysician: 'What do you mean by this word? What do you mean by that word?' In
other words, we demand a definition from him; and if it is not forthcoming, we assume that
the word is meaningless.

This theory, as will be shown in the text, overlooks the facts {a) that a witty and

unscrupulous metaphysician every time he is asked, 'What do you mean by this word?', will
quickly proffer a definition, so that the whole game develops into a trial of patience; (b) that
the natural scientist is in no better logical position than the metaphysician; and even, if
compared with a metaphysician who is unscrupulous, in a worse position.
It may be remarked that Schlick, m Erkenntnis, 1, p. 8, where he deals with Wittgenstein's
doctrine, mentions the difficulty of an infinite regress; but the solution he suggests (which
seems to lie in the direction of inductive definitions or 'constitutions', or perhaps of
operationalism; cp. note 50 to this chapter) is neither clear nor able to solve the problem of
demarcation. I think that certain of the intentions of Wittgenstein and Schlick in demanding
a philosophy of meaning are fulfilled by that logical theory which Tarski has called
'Semantics'. But I also believe that the correspondence between these intentions and
Semantics does not go far; for Semantics propounds propositions ; it does not only 'clarify'
them. — These comments upon Wittgenstein are continued in notes 51-52 to the present
chapter. (See also notes 8 (2) and 32 to chapter 24; and 10 and 25 to chapter 25.)

47 . It is important to distinguish between a logical deduction in general, and a proof or
demonstration in particular. A proof or demonstration is a deductive argument by which the
truth of the conclusion is finally established; this is how Aristotle uses the term, demanding
(for example, in Anal. Post., I, 4, pp. 73a, ff.) that the 'necessary' truth of the conclusion
should be established; and this is how Carnap uses the term (see especially Logical Syntax, §
10, p. 29, § 47, p. 171), showing that conclusions which are 'demonstrable' in this sense are
'analytically' true. (Into the problems concerning the terms 'analytic' and 'synthetic', I shall
not enter here.)

Since Aristotle, it has been clear that not all logical deductions are proofs (i.e.
demonstrations); there are also logical deductions which are not proofs; for example, we can
deduce conclusions from admittedly false premises, and such deductions are not called
proofs. Non-demonstrative deductions are called by Carnap 'derivations' (loc. cit.). It is
interesting that a name for these non-demonstrative deductions has not been introduced
earlier; it shows the preoccupation with proofs, a preoccupation which arose from the
Aristotelian prejudice that 'science' or 'scientific knowledge' must establish all its

statements, i.e. accept them either as self-evident premises, or prove them. But the position is
this. Outside of pure logic and pure mathematics nothing can be proved. Arguments in other
sciences (and even some within mathematics, as I. Lakatos has shown) are not proofs but
merely derivations.

It may be remarked that there is a far-reaching parallelism between the problems of
derivation on the one side and definition on the other, and between the problems of the truth
of sentences and that of the meaning of terms.

A derivation starts with premises and leads to a conclusion; a definition starts (if we read it
from the right to the left) with the defining terms and leads to a defined term. A derivation
informs us about the truth of the conoXusion, provided we are informed about the truth of the
premises; a definition informs us about the meaning of the defined term, provided we are
informed about the meaning of the defining terms. Thus a derivation shifts the problem of
truth back to the premises, without ever being able to solve it; and a definition shifts the
problem of meaning back to the defining terms, without ever being able to solve it.

48 . The reason why the defining terms are likely to be rather less clear and precise than the
defined terms is that they are as a rule more abstract and general. This is not necessarily true
if certain modern methods of definition are employed ('definition by abstraction', a method
of symbolic logic); but it is certainly true of all those definitions which Grossman can have
in mind, and especially of all Aristotelian definitions (by genus and differentia).

It has been held by some positivists, especially under the infiuence of Locke and Hume, that
it is possible to define abstract terms like those of science or of politics (see text to next note)
in terms of particular, concrete observations or even of sensations. Such an 'inductive'
method of definition has been called by Carnap 'constitution'. But we can say that it is
impossible to 'constitute' universals in terms of particulars. (With this, cp. my The Logic oj
Scientific Discovery, especially sections 14, pp. 64 ff., and 25, p. 93; and Carnap's
'Testability and Meaning', in Philosophy of Science, vol. 3, 1936, pp. 419 ff., and vol. 4, pp.
Iff.)

49 . The examples are the same as those which Cohen and Nagel, op. cit, 232 f , recommend
for definition. (Cp. note 46 to this chapter.)

Some general remarks on the uselessness of essentialist definitions may be added here. (Cp.
also end of note 44 (1) to this chapter.)

(1) The attempt to solve a factual problem by reference to definitions usually means the
substitution of a merely verbal problem for the factual one. (There is an excellent example of
this method in Aristotle's Physics, II, 6, towards the end.) This may be shown for the
following examples, {a) There is a factual problem: Can we return to the cage of tribalism?
And by what means? (b) There is a moral problem: Should we return to the cage?

The philosopher of meaning, if faced by {a) or {b), will say: It all depends on what you
mean by your vague terms; tell me how you define 'return', 'cage', 'tribalism', and with the
help of these definitions I may be able to decide your problem. Against this, I maintain that if
the decision can be made with the help of the definitions, if it follows from the definitions,
then the problem so decided was merely a verbal problem; for it has been solved
independently of facts or of moral decisions.

(2) An essentialist philosopher of meaning may do even worse, especially in connection
with problem {b); he may suggest, for example, that it depends upon 'the essence' or 'the
essential character' or perhaps upon 'the destiny' of our civilization whether or not we
should try to return. (See also note 61 (2) to this chapter.)

(3) Essentialism and the theory of definition have led to an amazing development in Ethics.
The development is one of increasing abstraction and loss of touch with the basis of all
ethics — ^the practical moral problems, to be decided by us here and now. It leads first to the
general question, 'What is good?' or 'What is the Good?'; next to 'What does "Good"
mean?' and next to 'Can the problem "What does 'Good' mean?" be answered?' or 'Can
"good" be defined?' G. E. Moore, who raised this last problem in his Principia Ethica, was
certainly right in insisting that 'good' in the moral sense cannot be defined in 'naturalistic'
terms. For, indeed, if we could, it would mean something like 'bitter' or 'sweet' or 'green' or
'red'; and it would be utterly irrelevant from the point of view of morality. Just as we need
not attain the bitter, or the sweet, etc., there would be no reason to take any moral interest in
a naturahstic 'good'. But although Moore was right in what is perhaps justly considered his
main point, it may be held that an analysis of good or of any other concept or essence can in
no way contribute to an ethical theory which bears upon the only relevant basis of all ethics,

the immediate moral problem that must be solved here and now. Such an analysis can lead
only to the substitution of a verbal problem for a moral one. (Cp. also note 18 (1) to chapter
5, especially upon the irrelevance of moral judgements.)

50 . I have in mind the methods of 'constitution' (see note 48 to this chapter), 'implicit
definition', 'definition by correlation', and 'operational definition'. The arguments of the
'operationalists' seem to be in the main true enough; but they cannot get over the fact that in
their operational definitions, or descriptions, they need universal terms which have to be
taken as undefined; and to them, the problem applies again.

A few hints or allusions may be added here concerning the way we 'use our terms'. For the
sake of brevity, these hints will refer without explanation to certain technicalities; they may
therefore, in the present form, not be generally understandable.

Of the so-called implicit definitions, especially in mathematics, Camap has shown
{Symposion I, 1927, 355 ff.; cp. also his Abriss) that they do not 'define' in the ordinary
sense of this word; a system of implicit definitions cannot be considered as defining a
'model', but it defines a whole class of 'models'. Accordingly, the system of symbols
defined by a system of implicit definitions cannot be considered as a system of constants,
but they must be considered as variables (with a definite range, and bound by the system in
a certain way to one another). I believe that there is a limited analogy between this situation
and the way we 'use our terms' in science. The analogy can be described in this way. In a
branch of mathematics in which we operate with signs defined by implicit definition, the fact
that these signs have no 'definite meaning' does not affect our operating with them, or the
precision of our theories. Why is that so? Because we do not overburden the signs. We do
not attach a 'meaning' to them, beyond that shadow of a meaning that is warranted by our
implicit definitions. (And if we attach to them an intuitive meaning, then we are careful to
treat this as a private auxiliary device, which must not interfere with the theory.) In this way,
we try to keep, as it were, within the 'penumbra of vagueness' or of ambiguity, and to avoid
touching the problem of the precise limits of this penumbra or range; and it turns out that we
can achieve a great deal without discussing the meaning of these signs; for nothing depends
on their meaning. In a similar way, I believe, we can operate with these terms whose
meaning we have learned 'operationally'. We use them, as it were, so that nothing depends

upon their meaning, or as little as possible. Our 'operational definitions' have the advantage
of helping us to shift the problem into a field in which nothing or little depends on words.
Clear speaking is speaking in such a way that words do not matter.

51 . Wittgenstein teaches in the Tractatus (cp. note 46 to this chapter where further cross-
references are given) that philosophy cannot propound propositions, and that all
philosophical propositions are in fact senseless pseudo-propositions. Closely connected with
this is his doctrine that the true task of philosophy is not to propound sentences but to clarify
them: 'The object of philosophy is the logical clarification of thoughts. — Philosophy is not a
theory but an activity. A philosophical work consists essentially of elucidations.' ( Op. cit., p.
77.)

The question arises whether this view is in keeping with Wittgenstein's fundamental aim, the
destruction of metaphysics by unveiling it as meaningless nonsense. In my The Logic oj
Scientific Discovery (see especially pp. 311 ff), I have tried to show that Wittgenstein's
method leads to a merely verbal solution and that it must give rise, in spite of its apparent
radicalism, not to the destruction or to the exclusion or even to the clear demarcation of
metaphysics, but to their intrusion into the field of science, and to their confusion with
science. The reasons for this are simple enough.

(1) Let us consider one of Wittgenstein's sentences, for example, 'philosophy is not a theory
but an activity'. Surely, this is not a sentence belonging to 'total natural science (or the
totality of the natural sciences)'. Therefore, according to Wittgenstein (see note 46 to this
chapter), it cannot belong to 'the totality of true propositions'. On the other hand, it is not a
false proposition either (since if it were, its negation would have to be true, and to belong to
natural science). Thus we arrive at the result that it must be 'meaningless' or 'senseless' or
'nonsensical'; and the same holds for most of Wittgenstein 's propositions . This consequence
of his doctrine is recognized by Wittgenstein himself, for he writes (p. 189): 'My
propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as
senseless ...' The result is important. Wittgenstein's own philosophy is senseless, and it is
admitted to be so. 'On the other hand', as Wittgenstein says in his Preface, 'the truth of the
thoughts communicated here seems to me unassailable and definite. I am, therefore, of the
opinion that the problems have in essentials been finally solved.' This shows that we can

communicate unassailably and definitely true thoughts by way of propositions which are
admittedly nonsensical, and that we can solve problems 'finally' by propounding nonsense.
(Cp. also note 8 (2, b) to chapter 24.)

Consider what this means. It means that all the metaphysical nonsense against which Bacon,
Hume, Kant, and Russell have fought for centuries may now comfortably settle down, and
even frankly admit that it is nonsense. (Heidegger does so; cp. note 87 to chapter 12.) For
now we have a new kind of nonsense at our disposal, nonsense that communicates thoughts
whose truth is unassailable and definitive; in other words, deeply significant nonsense.
I do not deny that Wittgenstein's thoughts are unassailable and definitive. For how could
one assail them? Obviously, whatever one says against them must be philosophical and
therefore nonsense. And it can be dismissed as such. We are thus faced with that kind of
position which I have described elsewhere, in connection with Hegel (cp. note 33 to chapter
12) as 2i reinforced dogmatism . 'All you need', I wrote in my Logik der Forschung (now
translated as The Logic of Scientific Discovery: see p. 51), p. 21, 'is to determine the
conception of "sense" or of "meaning" in a suitably narrow way, and you can say of all
uncomfortable questions that you cannot find any "sense" or "meaning" in them. By
recognizing the problems of natural science alone as "meaningful", every debate about the
concept of meaning must become nonsensical. Once enthroned, the dogma of meaning is
for ever raised above the possibility of attack. It is "unassailable and definitive".'
(2) But not only does Wittgenstein's theory invite every kind of metaphysical nonsense to
pose as deeply significant; it also blurs what I have called (op. cit., p. 7) the problem of
demarcation. This he does because of his naive idea that there is something 'essentially' or
'by nature' scientific and something 'essentially' or 'by nature' metaphysical and that it is
our task to discover the 'natural' demarcation between these two. 'Positivism', I may quote
myself again {pp. cit, p. 8), 'interprets the problem of demarcation in a naturalistic way;
instead of interpreting this question as one to be decided according to practical usefulness, it
asks for a difference that exists "by nature", as it were, between natural science and
metaphysics.' But it is clear that the philosophical or methodological task can only be to
suggest and to devise a useful demarcation between these two. This can hardly be done by
characterizing metaphysics as 'senseless' or 'meaningless'. First, because these terms are

better fitted for giving vent to one's personal indignation about metaphysicians and
metaphysical systems than for a technical characterization of a line of demarcation.
Secondly, because the problem is only shifted, for we must now ask: 'What do "meaningful"
and "meaningless" mean?' If 'meaningful' is only an equivalent for 'scientific', and
'meaningless' for 'non-scientific', then we have clearly made no progress. For reasons such
as these I suggested {pp. cit, 8 ff., 21 f., 227) that we eliminate the emotive terms
'meaning', 'meaningful', 'meaningless', etc., from the methodological discussion altogether.
(Recommending that we solve the problem of demarcation by using falsifiability or
testability, or degrees of testability, as criterion of the empirical character of a scientific
system, I suggested that it was of no advantage to introduce 'meaningful' as an emotive
equivalent of 'testable'.) *In spite of my explicit refusal to regard falsifiability or testability
(or anything else) as a 'criterion of meaning', I find that philosophers frequently attribute to
me the proposal to adopt this as a criterion of meaning or of 'meaningfulness'. (See, for
example. Philosophic Thought in France and in the United States, edited by M. Farber,
1950, p. 570.)*

But even if we eliminate all reference to 'meaning' or 'sense' from Wittgenstein's theories,
his solution of the problem of demarcating science from metaphysics remains most
unfortunate. For since he identifies 'the totality of true propositions' with the totality of
natural science, he excludes all those hypotheses from 'the sphere of natural science' which
are not true. And since we can never know of a hypothesis whether or not it is true, we can
never know whether or not it belongs to the sphere of natural science. The same unfortunate
result, namely, a demarcation that excludes all hypotheses from the sphere of natural
science, and therefore includes them in the field of metaphysics, is attained by
Wittgenstein's famous 'principle of verification', as I pointed out in Erkenntnis, 3 (1933), p.
427. (For a hypothesis is, strictly speaking, not verifiable, and if we speak loosely, then we
can say that even a metaphysical system like that of the early atomists has been verified.)
Again, this conclusion has been drawn in later years by Wittgenstein himself, who,
according to Schlick (cp. my The Logic of Scientific Discovery, note 7 to section 4), asserted
in 1931 that scientific theories are 'not really propositions', i.e. not meaningful. Theories,
hypotheses, that is to say, the most important of all scientific utterances, are thus thrown out

of the temple of natural science, and therefore put on a level with metaphysics.
Wittgenstein's original view in the Tractatus can only be explained by the assumption that
he overlooked the difficulties connected with the status of a scientific hypothesis which
always goes far beyond a simple enunciation of fact; he overlooked the problem of
universality or generality. In this, he followed in the footsteps of earlier positivists, notably
of Comte, who wrote (cp. his Early Essays on Social Philosophy, edited by H. D. Hutton,
1911, p. 223; see F. A. von Hayek, Economica, VIII, 1941, p. 300): 'Observation of facts is
the only solid basis of human knowledge ... a proposition which does not admit of being
reduced to a simple enunciation of fact, special or general, can have no real and intelligible
sense.' Comte, although he remained unaware of the gravity of the problem hidden behind
the simple phrases 'general fact', at least mentions this problem, by inserting the words
'special or general'. If we omit these words, then the passage becomes a very clear and
concise formulation of Wittgenstein's fundamental criterion of sense or meaning, as
formulated by him in the Tractatus (all propositions are truth-functions of, and therefore
reducible to, atomic propositions, i.e. pictures of atomic facts), and as expounded by Schlick
in 193 1. — Comte 's criterion of meaning was adopted by J. S. Mill.

To sum up. The anti-metaphysical theory of meaning in Wittgenstein's Tractatus, far from
helping to combat metaphysical dogmatism and oracular philosophy, represents a reinforced
dogmatism that opens wide the door to the enemy, deeply significant metaphysical
nonsense, and throws out, by the same door, the best friend, that is to say, scientific
hypothesis.

52 . It appears that irrationalism in the sense of a doctrine or creed that does not propound
connected and debatable arguments but rather propounds aphorisms and dogmatic
statements which must be 'understood' or else left alone, will generally tend to become the
property of an esoteric circle of the initiated. And, indeed, this prognosis seems to be partly
corroborated by some of the publications that come from Wittgenstein's school. (I do not
wish to generalize; for example, everything I have seen of F. Waismann's writing is
presented as a chain of rational and exceedingly clear arguments, and entirely free from the
attitude of 'take it or leave if .)

Some of these esoteric publications seem to be without a serious problem; to me, they
appear to be subtle for subtlety's sake. It is significant that they come from a school which
started by denouncing philosophy for the barren subtlety of its attempts to deal with pseudo-
problems.

I may end this criticism by stating briefly that I do not think that there is much justification
for fighting metaphysics in general, or that anything worth while will result from such a
fight. It is necessary to solve the problem of the demarcation of science from metaphysics.
But we should recognize that many metaphysical systems have led to important scientific
results. I mention only the system of Democritus; and that of Schopenhauer which is very
similar to that of Freud. And some, for instance those of Plato or Malebranche or
Schopenhauer, are beautiful structures of thought. But I believe, at the same time, that we
should fight those metaphysical systems which tend to bewitch and to confuse us. But
clearly, we should do the same even with un-metaphysical and anti-metaphysical systems, if
they exhibit this dangerous tendency. And I think that we cannot do this at one stroke. We
have rather to take the trouble to analyse the systems in some detail; we must show that we
understand what the author means, but that what he means is not worth the effort to
understand it. (It is characteristic of all these dogmatic systems and especially of the esoteric
systems that their admirers assert of all critics that 'they do not understand'; but these
admirers forget that understanding must lead to agreement only in the case of sentences with
a trivial content. In all other cases, one can understand and disagree.)

53 . Cp. Schopenhauer, Grundprobleme (4th edn, 1890, p. 147). He comments upon
'intellectually intuiting reason that makes its pronouncements from the tripod of the oracle'
(hence my term 'oracular philosophy'); and he continues: 'This is the origin of that
philosophic method which entered the stage immediately after Kant, of this method of
mystifying and imposing upon people, of deceiving them and throwing dust in their eyes —
the method of windbaggery. One day this era will be recognized by the history of
philosophy as the age of dishonesty.' (Then follows the passage quoted in the text.)
Concerning the irrationahst attitude of 'take it or leave if, cp. also text to notes 39-40 to
chapter 24.

54 . Plato's theory of definition (cp. note 27 to chapter 3 and note 23 to chapter 5), which
Aristotle later developed and systematized, met its main opposition (1) from Antisthenes, (2)
from the school of Isocrates, especially Theopompus.

(1) Simplicius, one of the best of our sources on these very doubtful matters, presents
Antisthenes {ad Arist. Categ., pp. 66b, 67b) as an opponent of Plato's theory of Forms or
Ideas, and in fact, of the doctrine of essentialism and intellectual intuition altogether. 'I can
see a horse, Plato', Antisthenes is reported to have said, 'but I cannot see its horseness.' (A
very similar argument is attributed by a lesser source, D.L., VI, 53, to Diogenes the Cynic,
and there is no reason why the latter should not have used it too.) I think that we may rely
upon Simplicius (who appears to have had access to Theophrastus), considering that
Aristotle's own testimony in the Metaphysics (especially in Met., 1043b24) squares well with
this anti-essentialism of Antisthenes.

The two passages in the Metaphysics in which Aristotle mentions Antisthenes' objection to
the essentialist theory of definitions are both very interesting. In the first {Met., 1024b32) we
hear that Antisthenes raised the point discussed in note 44 (1) to this chapter; that is to say,
that there is no way of distinguishing between a 'true' and a 'false' definition (of 'puppy',
for example) so that two apparently contradictory definitions would only refer to two
different essences, 'puppy l' and 'puppy 2'; thus there would be no contradiction, and it
would hardly be possible to speak of false sentences. 'Antisthenes', Aristotle writes about
this criticism, 'showed his crudity by claiming that nothing could be described except by its
proper formula, one formula for one thing; from which it followed that there could be no
contradiction; and almost that it was impossible to make a false statement.' (The passage has
usually been interpreted as containing Antisthenes' positive theory, instead of his criticism
of the doctrine of definition. But this interpretation neglects Aristotle's context. The whole
passage deals with the possibility of false definitions, i.e. with precisely that problem which
gives rise, in view of the inadequacy of the theory of intellectual intuition, to the difficulties
described in note 44 (1). And it is clear from Aristotle's text that he is troubled by these
difficulties as well as by Antisthenes' attitude towards them.) The second passage {Met.,
1043b24) also agrees with the criticism of essentialist definitions developed in the present
chapter. It shows that Antisthenes attacked essentialist definitions as useless, as merely

substituting a long story for a short one; and it shows further that Antisthenes very wisely
admitted that, although it is useless to define, it is possible to describe or to explain a thing
by referring to the similarity it bears to a thing already known, or, if it is composite, by
explaining what its parts are. 'Indeed there is', Aristotle writes, 'something in that difficulty
which has been raised by the Antisthenians and other such-like uneducated people. They
said that what a thing is' (or the 'what is it' of a thing) 'cannot be defined; for the so-called
definition, they say, is nothing but a long formula. But they admit that it is possible to
explain, for example of silver, what sort of a thing it is; for we may say that it is similar to
tin.' From this doctrine it would follow, Aristotle adds, 'that it is possible to give a definition
and a formula of the composite kind of things or substances, whether they are sensible
things, or objects of intellectual intuition; but not of their primary parts ...'(In the sequel,
Aristotle wanders off, trying to link this argument with his doctrine that a defining formula is
composed of two parts, genus and differentia, which are related, and united, like matter and
form.)

I have dealt here with this matter since it appears that the enemies of Antisthenes, for
example Aristotle (cp. Topics, I, 104b21), cited what he said in a manner which has led to
the impression that it is not Antisthenes' criticism of essentialism but rather his positive
doctrine. This impression was made possible by mixing it up with another doctrine probably
held by Antisthenes; I have in mind the simple doctrine that we must speak plainly, just
using each term in one meaning, and that in this way we can avoid all those difficulties
whose solution is unsuccessfully attempted by the theory of definitions.
All these matters are, as mentioned before, very uncertain, owing to the scantiness of our
evidence. But I think that Grote is likely to be right when he characterizes 'this debate
between Antisthenes and Plato' as the 'first protest of Nominalism against the doctrine of an
extreme Reahsm' (or in our terminology, of an extreme essentialism). Grote 's position may
be thus defended against Field's attack {Plato and His Contemporaries, 167) that it is 'quite
wrong' to describe Antisthenes as a nominahst.

In support of my interpretation of Antisthenes, I may mention that against the scholastic
theory of definitions, very similar arguments were used by Descartes (cp. The Philosophical
Works, translated by Haldane and Ross, 1911, vol. I, p. 317) and, less clearly, by Locke

(Essay, Book III, ch. Ill, § 11, to ch. IV, § 6; also ch. X, §§ 4 to 11; see especially ch. IV, §
5). Both Descartes and Locke, however, remained essentialists. Essentialism itself was
attacked by Hobbes (cp. note 33 above) and by Berkeley who might be described as one of
the first to hold a methodological nominalism, quite apart from his ontological nominalism;
see also note 7 (2) to chapter 25.

(2) Of other critics of the Platonic -Aristotelian theory of definition, I mention only
Theopompus (quoted by Epictetus, II, 17, 4-10; see Grote, Plato, I, 324). I think it likely
that, as opposed to the generally accepted view, Socrates himself would not have favoured
the theory of definitions; what he seems to have combated was the merely verbal solution of
ethical problems; and his so-called attempted definitions of ethical terms, considering their
negative results, may well be attempts to destroy verbalist prejudices.

(3) I wish to add here that in spite of all my criticism I am very ready to admit Aristotle's
merits. He is the founder of logic, and down to Principia Mathematica, all logic can be said
to be an elaboration and generalization of the Aristotelian beginnings. (A new epoch in logic
has indeed begun, in my opinion, though not with the so-called 'non-Aristotelian' or 'multi-
valued' systems, but rather with the clear distinction between 'object- language' and 'meta-
language'.) Furthermore, Aristotle has the great merit of having tried to tame idealism by his
common-sense approach which insists that only individual things are 'real' (and that their
'forms' and 'matter' are only aspects or abstractions). *Yet this very approach is responsible
for the fact that Aristotle does not even attempt to solve Plato's problem of universals (see
notes 19 and 20 to chapter 3, and text), i.e., the problem of explaining why certain things
resemble one another and others do not. For why should there not be as many different
Aristotelian essences in things as there are things?*

55 . The influence of Platonism especially upon the Gospel of St. John is clear; and this
influence is less noticeable in the earlier Gospels, though I do not assert that it is absent.
Nevertheless the Gospels exhibit a clearly anti-intellectualist and anti-philosophizing
tendency. They avoid an appeal to philosophical speculation, and they are definitely against
scholarship and dialectics, for instance, that of the 'scribes'; but scholarship means, in this
period, interpreting the scriptures in a dialectical and philosophical sense, and especially in
the sense of the Neo-Platonists.

56 . The problem of nationalism and the superseding of Jewish parochial tribalism by
internationalism plays a most important part in the early history of Christianity; the echoes of
these struggles can be found in the Acts (especially 10, 15 ff; 11, 1-18; see also St. Matthew
3, 9, and the polemics against tribal feeding taboos in Acts 10, 10-15). It is interesting that
this problem turns up together with the social problem of wealth and poverty, and with that
of slavery; see Galatians 3, 28; and especially ^c^^ 5, 1-11, where the retention of private
property is described as mortal sin.

The survival in the Ghettos of eastern Europe, down to 1914 and even longer, of arrested
and petrified forms of Jewish tribalism is very interesting. (Cp. the way in which the Scottish
tribes attempted to cling to their tribal life.)

57 . The quotation is from Toynbee, A Study of History, vol. VI, p. 202; the passage deals with
the motive for the persecution of Christianity by the Roman rulers, who were usually very
tolerant in matters of religion. 'The element in Christianity', Toynbee writes, 'that was
intolerable to the Imperial Government was the Christians' refusal to accept the
Government's claim that it was entitled to compel its subjects to act against their conscience
... So far from checking the propagation of Christianity, the martyrdoms proved the most
effective agencies of conversion ...'

58. For Julian's Neo-Platonic Anti-Church with its Platonizing hierarchy, and his fight against
the 'atheists', i.e. Christianity, cp. for example Toynbee, op. cit, V, pp. 565 and 584; I may
quote a passage from J. Geffken (quoted by Toynbee, loc. cit.): 'In Jamblichus' (a pagan
philosopher and number-mystic and founder of the Syrian school of Neo-Platonists, living
about A.D. 300) 'the individual religious experience ... is eliminated. Its place is taken by a
mystical church with sacraments, by a scrupulous exactness in carrying out the forms of
worship, by a ritual that is closely akin to magic, and by a clergy ... Julian's ideas about the
elevation of the priesthood reproduce . . . exactly the standpoint of Jamblichus, whose zeal
for the priests, for the details of the forms of worship, and for a systematic orthodox doctrine
has prepared the ground for the construction of a pagan church.' We can recognize in these
principles of the Syrian Platonist and of Julian the development of the genuine Platonic (and
perhaps also late Jewish; cp. note 56 to this chapter) tendency to resist the revolutionary

religion of individual conscience and humaneness by arresting all change and by
introducing a rigid doctrine kept pure by a philosophic priest caste and by rigid taboos. (Cp.
text to notes 14 and 18-23 to chapter 7; and chapter 8, especially text to note 34.) With
Justinian's prosecution of non-Christians and heretics and his suppression of philosophy in
529, the tables are turned; it is now Christianity which adopts totalitarian methods and the
control of conscience by violence. The dark ages begin.

59 . For Toynbee's warning against an interpretation of the rise of Christianity in the sense of
Pareto's advice (for which cp. notes 65 to chapter 10 and 1 to chapter 13) see, for example,
A Study of History, V, 709.

60 . For Critias' and Plato's and Aristotle's cynical doctrine that religion is opium for the people,
cp. notes 5 to 18 (especially 15 and 18) to chapter 8. (See also Aristotle's Topics, I, 2,
101a30 ff.) For later examples (Polybius and Strabo) see, for example, Toynbee, op. cit., V,
646 f, 561. Toynbee quotes from Polybius {Historiae, VI, 56): 'The point in which the
Roman constitution excels others most conspicuously is to be found, in my opinion, in its
handling of Religion . . . The Romans have managed to forge the main bond of their social
order ... out of superstition.' etc. And he quotes from Strabo: 'A rabble ... cannot be
induced to answer to the call of Philosophic Reason ... In dealing with people of that sort,
you cannot do without superstition.' etc. In view of this long series of Platonizing
philosophers who teach that religion is 'opium for the people' I fail to see how the
imputation of similar motives to Constantine can be described as anachronistic.

It may be mentioned that it is a formidable opponent of whom Toynbee says, by implication,
that he lacks historical sense: Lord Acton. For he writes (cp. his History of Freedom, 1909,
p. 30 f., italics mine) of Constantine's relation to the Christians: 'Constantine, in adopting
their faith, intended neither to abandon his predecessor's scheme of policy nor to renounce
the fascinations of arbitrary authority, but to strengthen his throne with the support of a
religion which had astonished the world by its power of resistance . . . '

61 . I admire the mediaeval cathedrals as much as anybody, and I am perfectly prepared to
recognize the greatness and uniqueness of medieval craftsmanship. But I believe that
sstheticism must never be used as an argument against humanitarianism.

The eulogy of the Middle Ages seems to begin with the Romantic movement in Germany,
and it has become fashionable with the renaissance of this Romantic movement which
unfortunately we are witnessing at the present time. It is, of course, an anti-rationahst
movement; it will be discussed from another point of view in chapter 24.
The two attitudes towards the Middle Ages, rationahsm and anti-rationahsm, correspond to
two interpretations of 'history' (cp. chapter 25).

(1) The rationalist interpretation of history views with hope those periods in which man
attempted to look upon human affairs rationally. It sees in the Great Generation and
especially in Socrates, in early Christianity (down to Constantine), in the Renaissance and
the period of the Enlightenment, and in modern science, parts of an often interrupted
movement, the efforts of men to free themselves, to break out of the cage of the closed
society, and to form an open society. It is aware that this movement does not represent a
'law of progress' or anything of that sort, but that it depends solely upon ourselves, and
must disappear if we do not defend it against its antagonists as well as against laziness and
indolence. This interpretation sees in the intervening periods dark ages with their Platonizing
authorities, their hierarchies of priest and tribalist orders of knights.

A classical formulation of this interpretation has been made by Lord Acton {op. cit, p. 1;
italics mine). 'Liberty,' he writes, 'next to religion, has been the motive of good deeds and
the common pretext of crime, from the sowing of the seed at Athens, two thousand five
hundred and sixty years ago ... In every age its progress has been beset by its natural
enemies, by ignorance and superstition, by lust of conquest and by love of ease, by the
strong man's craving for power, and the poor man's craving for food. During long intervals
it has been utterly arrested ... No obstacle has been so constant, or so difficult to overcome,
as uncertainty and confusion touching the nature of true liberty. If hostile interests have
wrought much injury, false ideas have wrought still more.'

It is strange how strong a feeling of darkness prevails in the dark ages. Their science and
their philosophy are both obsessed by the feeling that the truth has once been known, and
has been lost. This expresses itself in the belief in the lost secret of the ancient philosopher's
stone and in the ancient wisdom of astrology no less than in the belief that an idea cannot be
of any value if it is new, and that every idea needs the backing of ancient authority (Aristotle

and the Bible). But the men who felt that the secret key to wisdom was lost in the past were
right. For this key is faith in reason, and liberty. It is the free competition of thought, which
cannot exist without freedom of thought.

(2) The other interpretation agrees with Toynbee in seeing, in Greek as well as in modern
rationalism (since the Renaissance), an aberration from the path of faith. 'To the present
writer's eye', Toynbee says {A Study of History, vol. V, pp. 6 f , note; italics mine), 'the
common element of rationalism which may be discernible in the Hellenic and Western
Civilization is not so distinctive as to mark this pair of societies off from all other
representatives of the species ... If we regard the Christian element of our Western
Civilization as being the essence of it, then our reversion to Hellenism might be taken to be,
not a fulfilment of the potentialities of Western Christendom, but an aberration from the
proper path of Western growth — in fact, a false step which it may or may not be possible
now to retrieve.'

In contrast to Toynbee, I do not doubt for a minute that it is possible to retrieve this step and
to return to the cage, to the oppressions, superstition, and pestilences, of the Middle Ages.
But I believe that we had much better not do so. And I contend that what we ought to do will
have to be decided by ourselves, through free decisions, and not by historicist essentiahsm;
nor, as Toynbee holds (see also note 49 (2) to this chapter), by 'the question of what the
essential Character of the Western Civilization may be'.

(The passages here quoted from Toynbee are parts of his reply to a letter from Dr. E. Bevan;
and Bevan 's letter, i.e. the first of his two letters quoted by Toynbee, seems to me to present
very clearly indeed what I call the rationalist interpretation.)

62 . See H. Zinsser, Rats, Lice, and History (1937), pp. 80 and 83; italics mine.

Concerning my remark in the text, at the end of this chapter, that Democritus' science and
morals still live with us, I may mention that a direct historical connection leads from
Democritus and Epicurus via Lucretius not only to Gassendi but undoubtedly to Locke also.
'Atoms and the void' is the characteristic phrase whose presence always reveals the
influence of this tradition; and as a rule, the natural philosophy of 'atoms and the void' goes
together with the moral philosophy of an altruistic hedonism or utilitarianism. In regard to
hedonism and utilitarianism, I believe that it is indeed necessary to replace their principle:

maximize pleasure! by one which is probably more in keeping with the original views of
Democritus and Epicurus, more modest, and much more urgent. I mean the rule: minimize
pain! I believe (cp. chapters 9, 24, and 25) that it is not only impossible but very dangerous
to attempt to maximize the pleasure or the happiness of the people, since such an attempt
must lead to totalitarianism. But there is little doubt that most of the followers of Democritus
(down to Bertrand Russell, who is still interested in atoms, geometry, and hedonism) would
have little quarrel with the suggested re-formulation of their pleasure principle provided it is
taken for what it is meant, and not for an ethical criterion.

Notes to Chapter Twelve

General Note to this Chapter. Wherever possible, I refer in these notes to
Selections, i.e. to Hegel: Selections, edited by J. Loewenberg, 1929.
(From The Modern Student s Library of Philosophy .) This excellent and
easily accessible selection contains a great number of the most
characteristic passages from Hegel, so that it was possible in many cases
to choose the quotations from them. Quotations from the Selections will,
however, be accompanied by references to editions of the original texts.
Wherever possible I have referred to 'JVW\ i.e. to Hegel's Sdmtliche
Werke, herausgegeben von H. Glockner, Stuttgart (from 1927 on). An
important version of the Encyclopedia, however, which is not included in
WW, is quoted as 'Encycl. 1870', i.e., G. W. F. Hegel, Encyclopddie,
herausgegeben von K. Rosenkranz, Berlin 1870. Passages from the
Philosophy of Law {ox Philosophy of Right) are quoted by paragraph
numbers, and the letter L indicates that the passage is from the lecture
notes added by Gans in his edition of 1833. 1 have not always adopted the
wording of the translators.

L In his Inaugural Dissertation, i)e Orbitis Planetarum, 1801. (The asteroid Ceres had been
discovered on the 1 st of January, 1801.)

2. Democritus, fragm., 118 (D^); cp. text to note 29 to chapter 10.

3. Schopenhauer, Grundprobleme (4th edn, 1890), p. 147; cp. note 53 to chapter 11.

4. The whole Philosophy of Nature is full of such definitions. H. Stafford Hatfield, for
instance, translates (cp. his translation of Bavink, The Anatomy of Modern Science, pp. 30)
Hegel's definition of heat: 'Heat is the self-restoration of matter in its form-lessness, its
liquidity the triumph of its abstract homogeneity over specific defmiteness, its abstract,
purely self-existing continuity, as negation of negation, is here set as activity.' Similar is, for
example, Hegel's definition of electricity.

For the next quotation see Hegel's Briefe, I, 373, quoted by Wallace, The Logic of Hegel

(transl., pp. xiv f., italics mine).

5. Cp. Falkenberg, History of Modern Philosophy (6th German edn, 1908, 612; cp. the English
translation by Armstrong, 1895, 632).

6. I have in mind the various philosophies of 'evolution' or 'progress' or 'emergence' such as
those of H. Bergson, S. Alexander, Field-Marshal Smuts or A. N. Whitehead.

7. The passage is quoted and analysed in note 43 (2), below.

8. For the eight quotations in this paragraph, cp. Selections, pp. 389 (= WW, vi, 71), 447, 443,
446 (three quotations); 388 (two quotations) (= WW, xi, 70). The passages are from The
Philosophy of Law (§§ 272L, 25 8L, 269L, 270L); the first and the last are from the
Philosophy of History.

For Hegel's holism, and for his organic theory of the state, see for example his reference to
Menenius Agrippa {Livy, II, 32; for a criticism, see note 7 to chapter 10) in the Philosophy oj
Law, § 269L; and his classical formulation of the opposition between the power of an
organized body and the powerless 'heap, or aggregate, of atomic units', at the end of § 290L
(cp. also note 70 to this chapter).

Two other very important points in which Hegel adopts Plato's political teaching are: (1) The
theory of the One, the Few, and the Many; see, for example, op. cit., § 273: The monarch is
one person; the few enter the scene with the executive; and the many ... with the legislative;
also the reference is to 'the many' in § 301, etc. (2) The theory of the opposition between
knowledge and opinion (cp. the discussion of op. cit., § 270, on freedom of thought, in the
text between notes 37 and 38, below), which Hegel uses for characterizing public opinion as
the 'opinion of the many' or even as the 'caprice of the many', cp. op. cit., §§ 316 ff., and
note 76, below.

For Hegel's interesting criticism of Plato, and the even more interesting twist he gives to his
own criticism, cp. note 43 (2) to this chapter.

9. For these remarks, cp. especially chapter 25.

10 . Cp. Selections, xii (J. Loewenberg in the Introduction to the Selections).

11 . I have in mind not only his immediate philosophical predecessors (Fichte, Schlegel,

Schelling, and especially Schleiermacher), or his ancient sources (Heraclitus, Plato,
Aristotle), but especially Rousseau, Spinoza, Montesquieu, Herder, Burke (cp. section IV to
this chapter), and the poet Schiller. Hegel's indebtedness to Rousseau, Montesquieu (cp. The
Spirit of the Laws, XIX, 4 f.), and Herder, for his Spirit of the Nation, is obvious. His
relations to Spinoza are of a different character. He adopts, or rather adapts, two important
ideas of the determinist Spinoza. The first is that there is no freedom but in the rational
recognition of the necessity of all things, and in the power which reason, by this recognition,
may exert over the passions. This idea is developed by Hegel into an identification of reason
(or 'Spirit') with freedom, and of his teaching that freedom is the truth of necessity
{Selections, 213, Encycl. 1870, p. 154). The second idea is Spinoza's strange moral
positivism, his doctrine that might is right, an idea which he contrived to use for the fight
against what he called tyranny i.e. the attempt to wield power beyond the limits of one's
actual power. Spinoza's main concern being the freedom of thought, he taught that it is
impossible for a ruler to force men's thoughts (for thoughts are free), and that the attempt to
achieve the impossible is tyrannical. On this doctrine, he based his support of the power of
the secular state (which, he naively hoped, would not curtail the freedom of thought) as
against the Church. Hegel also supported the state against the Church, and he paid lip-
service to the demand for freedom of thought whose great political significance he realized
(cp. the preface to the Phil, of Law); but at the same time he perverted this idea, claiming that
the state must decide what is true and false, and may suppress what it deems to be false (see
the discussion of the Phil, of Law, § 270, in the text between notes 37 and 38, below). From
Schiller, Hegel took (incidentally without acknowledgement or even indication that he was
quoting) his famous dictum 'The history of the world is the World's court of justice'. But
this dictum (at the end of § 340 of the Phil, of Law; cp. text to note 26) implies a good deal
of Hegel's historicist political philosophy; not only his worship of success and thus of
power, but also his peculiar moral positivism, and his theory of the reasonableness of
history.

The question whether Hegel was influenced by Vico seems to be still open. (Weber's
German translation of the New Science was published in 1822.)

12 . Schopenhauer was an ardent admirer not only of Plato but also of Heraclitus. He believed

that the mob fill their bellies like the beast; he adopted Bias' dictum 'all men are wicked' as
his device; and he believed that a Platonic aristocracy was the best government. At the same
time, he hated nationahsm, and especially German nationalism. He was a cosmopolite. The
rather repulsive expressions of his fear and hatred of the revolutionaries of 1848 can be
partly explained by his apprehension that under 'mob rules' he might lose his independence,
and partly by his hatred of the nationahst ideology of the movement.

13 . For Schopenhauer's suggestion of this motto (taken from Cymbeline, Act V, Sc. 4) see his
Will in Nature (4th edn, 1878), p. 7. The two following quotations are from his Works (2nd
edn, 1888), vol. V, 103 f , and vol. II, pp. xvii, f (i.e. Preface to the second edn of the World
as Will and Idea; the italics are mine). I believe that everybody who has studied
Schopenhauer must be impressed by his sincerity and truthfulness. Cp. also the judgement
of Kierkegaard, quoted in the text to notes 19/20 to chapter 25.

14 . Schwegler's first publication (1839) was an essay in memory of Hegel. The quotation is
from his History of Philosophy, transl. by H. Stirling, 7th edn, p. 322.

15 . 'To English readers Hegel was first introduced in the powerful statement of his principles
by Dr. Hutchinson Stirling', writes E. Caird {Hegel, 1883, Preface, p. vi); which may show
that Stirling was taken quite seriously. The following quotation is from Stirling's Annotations
to Schwegler's History, p. 429. I may remark that the motto of the present chapter is taken
from p. 441 of the same work.

16 . Stirling writes {op. cit., 441): 'The great thing at last for Hegel was a good citizen, and for
him who was already that, there was to Hegel's mind no call for philosophy. Thus he tells a
M. Duboc who writes to him about his difficulties with the system, that, as a good head of a
house and father of a family, possessed of a faith that is firm, he has pretty well enough, and
may consider anything further, in the way of philosophy, for instance, as but ... an
intellectual luxury.' Thus, according to Stirling, Hegel was not interested in clearing up a
difficulty in his system, but merely in converting 'bad' citizens into 'good' ones.

17 . The following quotation is from Stirling, op. cit., 444 f Stirling continues the last sentence
quoted in the text: 'I have gained much from Hegel, and will always thankfully

acknowledge that much, but my position in his regard has been simply that of one who, in
making the unintelligible intelligible, would do a service to the public' And he ends the
paragraph by saying: 'My general aim ... I conceive to be identical with Hegel's ... that,
namely, of a Christian philosopher.'

18 . Cp., for example, A Textbook of Marxist Philosophy.

19 . I take this passage from the most interesting study. Nationalism and the Cultural Crisis in
Prussia, 1806-1815, by E. N. Anderson (1939), p. 270. Anderson's analysis is critical of
nationalism, and he clearly recognizes the neurotic and hysterical element in it (cp., for
example, pp. 6 f ). And yet I cannot entirely agree with his attitude. Led, I suppose, by the
historian's desire for objectivity, he seems to me to take the nationalist movement too
seriously. I cannot agree, more particularly, with his condemnation of King Frederick
William for his lack of understanding of the nationalist movement. 'Frederick William
lacked the capacity for appreciating greatness', Anderson writes on p. 271, 'whether in an
ideal or in an action. The course into nationalism which the rising German literature and
philosophy opened so brilliantly for others remained closed to him.' But by far the best of
German literature and philosophy was anti-nationalistic; Kant and Schopenhauer were both
anti-national, and even Goethe kept away from nationalism; and it is unjustifiable to demand
of anybody, and especially of a simple, candid, conservative like the king, that he should get
excited about Fichte's windbaggery. Many will fully agree with the king's judgement when
he spoke {loc. cit.) of 'eccentric, popular scribbling'. Although I agree that the king's
conservatism was very unfortunate, I feel the greatest respect for his simplicity, and his
resistance to the wave of nationalist hysteria.

20 . Cp. Selections, xi (J. Loewenberg in the Introduction to the Selections).

21 . Cp. notes 19 to chapter 5 and 18 to chapter 11, and text.

22 . For this quotation see Selections, 103 (= WW, iii, 116); for the next one, see Selections, 130
(= G. W. F. Hegel, Werke, Berlin and Leipzig 1832-1887, vol. vi, 224). For the last
quotation in this paragraph, see Selections, 131 (= Werke, 1832-1887, vol. vi, 224-5).

23. Cp. Selections, 103 (= WW, iii, 103).

24. Cp. Selections, 128 (= WW, iii, 141).

25 . I am alluding to Bergson, and especially to his Creative Evolution. (Engl, transl. by A.
Mitchell, 1913.) It appears that the Hegelian character of this work is not sufficiently
recognized; and, indeed, Bergson 's lucidity and reasoned presentation of his thought
sometimes make it difficult to realize how much his philosophy depends on Hegel. But if we
consider, for example, that Bergson teaches that the essence is change, or if we read
passages like the following (cp. op. cit., 275 and 278), then there remains little doubt.
'Essential also is the progress to reflection', writes Bergson. 'If our analysis is correct, it is
consciousness, or rather super-consciousness, that is at the origin of life . . . Consciousness
corresponds exactly to the living being's power of choice; it is co-extensive with the fringe
of possible action that surrounds real action: consciousness is synonymous with invention
di.ndwith freedom.' (Italics mine.) The identification of consciousness (or Spirit) with
freedom is the Hegelian version of Spinoza. This goes so far that theories can be found in
Hegel which I feel inclined to describe as 'unmistakably Bergsonian'; for example, 'The
very essence of Spirit is activity; it realizes its potentiality; it makes itself its own deed, its
own work ...' {Selections, 435 = WW, xi, 113.)

26 . Cp. notes 21 to 24 to chapter 11, and text. Another characteristic passage is this (cp.
Selections, 409 = WW, xi, 89): 'The principle of Development involves also the existence of
a latent germ of being — a capacity or potentiality striving to realize itself.' — For the
quotation later in the paragraph, cp. Selections, 468 (i.e. Phil, of Law, § 340; see also note
11, above).

27 . Considering, on the other hand, that even a second-hand Hegelianism, i.e. a third-or fourth-
hand Fichteanism and Aristotelianism, has often been noisily acclaimed as an original
achievement, it is perhaps a little hard on Hegel to say that he was unoriginal. (But cp. note
11.)

28. Cp. Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, 2nd edn, p. 514 (top); see also p. 518 (end of section
5); for the motto of my Introduction, see Kant's letter to Mendelssohn of April 8th, 1766.

29 . Cp. note 53 to chapter 11, and text.

30 . It is perhaps reasonable to assume that what one usually calls the 'spirit of a language' is
very largely the traditional standard of clarity introduced by the great writers of that
particular language. There are some further traditional standards in a language, apart from
clarity, for example, standards of simplicity, of ornamentation, of brevity, etc.; but the
standard of clarity is perhaps the most important of them; and it is a cultural inheritance
which should be carefully guarded. Language is one of the most important institutions of
social life, and its clarity is a condition of its functioning as a means of rational
communication. Its use for the communication of emotions is much less important, for we
can communicate a great deal of emotion without saying a word.

* It may be worth saying that Hegel, who had learned from Burke something about the
importance of the historical growth of traditions, did in fact do much to destroy the
intellectual tradition which Kant had founded, both by his doctrine of 'the cunning of
reason' which reveals itself in passion (see notes 82, 84 and text), and by his actual method
of arguing. But he did more. By his historical relativism — by his theory that truth is relative,
dependent on the spirit of the age — he helped to destroy the tradition of searching for truth,
and of respecting truth. See also section IV of this chapter, and my paper, 'Towards a
Rational Theory of Tradition' (in The Rationalist Annual , 1949; now in my Conjectures and
Refutations) *

3 1 . Attempts to refute Kant's Dialectics (his doctrine of Antinomies) seem to be very rare.
Serious criticism attempting to clarify and restate Kant's arguments can be found in
Schopenhauer's World as Will and Idea and in J. F. Fries' New or Anthropological Critique
of Reason, second German edn, 1828, pp. xxiv ff. I have tried to interpret Kant as holding
that mere speculation cannot establish anything where experience cannot help to weed out
false theories. (Cp. Mind, 49, 1940, p. 416; also. Conjectures and Refutations, pp. 326 f. In
the same volume of Mind, pp. 204 ff., there is a careful and interesting criticism of Kant's
argument by M. Fried.) For an attempt to make sense of Hegel's dialectical theory of reason
as well as of his collectivist interpretation of reason (his 'objective spirit'), see the analysis of
the social or interpersonal aspect of scientific method in chapter 23, and the corresponding
interpretation of 'reason' in chapter 24.

32 . I have given a detailed justification of this in 'What is Dialectic?' {Mind, 49, pp. 403 ff.; see
especially the last sentence on p. 410: also, Conjectures and Refutations, p. 321). See also a
further note under the title. Are Contradictions Embracing? *This has since appeared in
Mind, 52, 1943, pp. 47 ff. After it was written I received Carnap's Introduction to Semantics,
1942, where he uses the term 'comprehensive', which seems preferable to 'embracing'. See
especially § 30 of Carnap's book.*

In 'What is Dialectic?' a number of problems are treated which are only touched upon in the
present book; especially the transition from Kant to Hegel, Hegel's dialectics, and his
philosophy of identity. Although a few statements from that paper have been repeated here,
the two presentations of the problems are in the main complementary to one another. Cp.
also the next notes, down to note 36.

33 . Cp. Selections, xxviii (the German quotation; for similar quotations see WW, iv, 618, and
Werke 1832-1887, vol. vi, 259). For the idea of dc reinforced dogmatism mentioned in this
paragraph, cp. 'What is Dialectic?', p. 417, and Conjectures and Refutations , p. 327; see
also note 5 1 to chapter 1 1 .

34 . Cp. 'What is Dialectic?' especially from p. 414, where the problem, 'How can our mind
grasp the world?' is introduced, down to p. 420 {Conjectures and Refutations, pp. 325-30).

35. 'Everything actual is an Idea', says Hegel. Cp. Selections, 103 (= WW, iii, 116); and from
the perfection of the Idea, moral positivism follows. See also Selections, 388 (= WW, xi, 70),
i.e. the last passage quoted in the text to note 8; see, furthermore, § 6 of the Encyclopcedia,
and the Preface as well as § 270L of the Philosophy of Right. — I need hardly add that the
'Great Dictator' in the previous paragraph is an allusion to Chaplin's film.

36. Cp. Selections, 103 (= WW, iii, 116). See also Selections, 128, § 107 (= WW, iii, 142).
Hegel's philosophy of identity shows, of course, the influence of the mystic theory of
knowledge of Aristotle — the doctrine of the unity of the knowing subject and the known
object. (Cp. notes 33 to chapter 11, 59-70 to chapter 10, notes 4, 6, and 29-32, and 58, to
chapter 24.)

To my remarks in the text about Hegel's philosophy of identity, it may be added that Hegel
believed, with most of the philosophers of his time, that logic is the theory of thinking or of

reasoning. (See 'What is Dialectic?' p. 418.) This, together with the philosophy of identity,
has the consequence that logic is considered as the theory of thought, or of reason, or of the
Ideas or notions, or of the Real. From the further premise that thought develops dialectically,
Hegel can deduce that reason, the Ideas or notions, and the Real, all develop dialectically;
and he further gets Logic = Dialectics and Logic = Theory of Reality. This latter doctrine is
known as Hegel's pan-logism.

On the other hand, Hegel can derive from these premises that notions develop dialectically,
i.e. are capable of a kind of self-creation and self-development, out of nothing. (Hegel
begins this development with the Idea of Being which presupposes its opposite, i.e. Nothing,
and creates the transition from Nothing to Being, i.e. Becoming.) There are two motives for
this attempt to develop notions out of nothing. The one is the mistaken idea that philosophy
has to start without any presuppositions. (This idea has been recently reaffirmed by Husserl;
it is discussed in chapter 24; cp. note 8 to that chapter, and text.) This leads Hegel to start
from 'nothing'. The other motive is the hope of giving a systematic development and
justification of Kant's Table of Categories. Kant had made the remark that the first two
categories of each group are opposed to each other, and that the third is a kind of synthesis
of the first. This remark (and the influence of Fichte) led Hegel to hope that he could derive
all categories 'dialectically', out of nothing, and thereby justify the 'necessity' of all the
categories.

37. Cp. Selections, xvi (= Werke, 1832-1887, vi, 153-4).

38. Cp. Anderson, Nationalism, etc., 294. — The king promised the constitution on May 22,
1815. — The story of the 'constitution' and the court-physician seems to have been told of
most of the princes of the period (for example, of the emperor Francis I as well as his
successor Ferdinand I of Austria). — The next quotation is from Selections, 246 f. {= Encycl.
1870, pp. 437-8).

39 . Cp. Selections, 248 f {= Encycl. 1870, pp. 437-8; italics partly mine).

40. Cp. note 25 to chapter 11.

41 . For the paradox of freedom, cp. note 43 (1) below; the four paragraphs in the text before

note 42 to chapter 6; notes 4 and 6 to chapter 7, and note 7 to chapter 24; and the passages
in the text. (See also note 20 to chapter 17.) For Rousseau's restatement of the paradox of
freedom, cp. the Social Contract, Book I, chapter VIII, second paragraph. For Kant's
solution, cp. note 4 to chapter 6. Hegel frequently alludes to this Kantian solution (cp.
Kant's Metaphysics of Morals, Introduction to the Theory of Law, § C; Works, ed. by
Cassirer, VII, p. 31); for example in his Philosophy of Law, § 29; and § 270, where,
following Aristotle and Burke (cp. note 43 to chapter 6 and text), Hegel argues against the
theory (due to Lycophron and Kant) that 'the state's specific function consists in the
protection of everybody's life, property, and caprice', as he sneeringly puts it.
For the two quotations at the beginning and end of this paragraph, cp. Selections, 248 £, and
249 i=Encycl. 1870, p. 439).

42 . For the quotations, cp. Selections, 250 {= En eye I. 1870, pp. 440-41).

43. (1) For the following quotations, cp. Selections, 251 (§ 540 = Encycl. 1870, p. 441); 25 If
(first sentence of § 541 = Encycl. 1870, p. 442); and 253 f (beginning of § 542, italics partly
mine = Encycl. 1870, p. 443). These are the passages from the Encyclopcedia. The 'parallel
passage' from the Philosophy of Law is: § 273 (last paragraph) to § 281. The two quotations
are from § 275, and from § 279, end of first paragraph (italics mine). For a similarly dubious
use of the paradox of freedom, cp. Selections, 394 (= WW, xi, 76): 'If the principle of regard
for the individual will is recognized as the only basis of political liberty . . . then we have,
properly speaking, no Constitution' See also Selections, 400 f (= WW, xi, 80-81), and 449
(see the Philosophy of Law, § 274).

Hegel himself summarizes his twist {Selections, 401 = WW, xi, 82): 'At an earlier stage of the
discussion, we established ...first, the Idea of Freedom as the absolute and final aim ... We
then recognized the State as the moral Whole and the Reality of Freedom ...'Thus we begin
with freedom and end with the totalitarian state. One can hardly present the twist more
cynically.

(2) For another example of a dialectic twist, viz., that of reason into passion and violence,
see end of (g) in section IV, below, of the present chapter (text to note 84). Particularly
interesting in this connection \s Hegel's criticism of Plato . (See also notes 7 and 8 above.

and text.) Hegel, paying lip-service to all modern and 'Christian' values, not only to
freedom, but even to the 'subjective freedom' of the individual, criticizes Plato's holism or
collectivism {Phil, of Law, § 185): 'The principle of the self-sufficient ... personality of the
individual, the principle of subjective freedom, is denied its right by ... Plato. This principle
dawned ... in the Christian religion and ... in the Roman World.' This criticism is excellent,
and it proves that Hegel knew what Plato was about; in fact, Hegel's reading of Plato agrees
very well with my own. For the untrained reader of Hegel, this passage might even prove the
injustice of branding Hegel as a collectivist. But we have only to turn to § 70L of the same
work in order to see that Plato's most radical collectivist saying, 'You are created for the
sake of the whole, and not the whole for the sake of you', is fully subscribed to by Hegel,
who writes: 'A single person, it hardly needs saying, is something subordinate, and as such
he must dedicate himself to the ethical whole', i.e. the state. This is Hegel's 'individualism'.
But why, then, does he criticize Plato? Why does he emphasize the importance of
'subjective freedom'? §§ 316 and 317 of \hQ Philosophy of Law give an answer to this
question. Hegel is convinced that revolutions can be avoided only by granting the people, as
a kind of safety valve, a certain small amount of freedom which should not go beyond an
irrelevant opportunity to give vent to their feelings. Thus he writes {op. cit., §§316, 317L,
italics mine): 'In our day ... the principle of subjective freedom is of great importance and
significance ... Everybody wishes to participate in discussions and deliberations. But once
he has had his say, ... his subjectivity is gratified and he will put up with a lot. In France,
freedom of speech has proved far less dangerous than silence imposed by force; with the
latter . . . men have to swallow everything, while if they are permitted to argue, they have an
outlet as well as some satisfaction; and in this way, a thing may be pushed ahead more
easily.' It must be difficult to surpass the cynicism exhibited by this discussion in which
Hegel gives vent, so freely, to his feeling concerning 'subjective freedom' or, as he often
calls it so solemnly, 'the principle of the modern world'.

To sum up. Hegel agrees with Plato completely, except that he criticizes Plato's failure to
provide the ruled with the illusion of 'subjective freedom'.

44 . The astonishing thing is that these despicable services could be successful, that even serious
people have been deceived by Hegel's dialectical method. As an example it may be

mentioned that even such a critical and enhghtened fighter for freedom and reason as C. E.
Vaughan fell a victim to Hegel's hypocrisy, when he expressed his belief in Hegel's 'belief
in freedom and progress which, on Hegel's own showing, is ... the essence of his creed'.
(Cp. C. E. Vaughan, Studies in the History of Political Philosophy, vol. II, 296; italics mine.)
It must be admitted that Vaughan criticized Hegel's 'undue leaning towards the established
order' (p. 178); he even said of Hegel that 'no one could ... be more ready ... to assure the
world that the most retrograde and oppressive institutions ... must ... be accepted as
indisputably rational' (p. 295); yet he trusted 'Hegel's own showing' so much that he took
features of this kind as mere 'extravagances' (p. 295), as 'shortcomings for which it is easy
to allow' (p. 182). Moreover, his strongest and perfectly justified comment, that Hegel
'discovers the last word of political wisdom, the coping stone ... of history, in the Prussian
Constitution' (p. 182), was not fated to be published without an antidote restoring the
reader's confidence in Hegel; for the editor of Vaughan's posthumous Studies destroys the
force of Vaughan's comment by adding in a foot-note, with reference to a passage from
Hegel which he assumes to be the one alluded to by Vaughan (he does not refer to the
passage quoted here in the text to notes 47, 48, and 49), 'but perhaps the passage hardly
justifies the comment . . . '

45 . See note 36 to this chapter. An indication of this dialectical theory may be found as early as
in Aristotle's Physics, I, 5.

46 . I am greatly indebted to E. H. Gombrich, who permitted me to adopt the main ideas of this
paragraph from his excellent criticism of my presentation of Hegel (communicated to me by
letter).

For Hegel's view that 'the Absolute Spirit manifests itself in the history of the world', see his
Philosophy of Law, § 259L. For his identification of the 'Absolute Spirit' with the 'World
Spirit', see op. cit., § 339L. For the view that perfection is the aim of Providence, and for
Hegel's attack on the (Kantian) view that the plan of Providence is inscrutable, see op. cit. , §
343. (For M. B. Foster's interesting counterattacks, see note 19 to chapter 25.) For Hegel's
use of (dialectical) syllogisms, see especially the Encyclopcedia, § 181 ('the syllogism is the
rational, and everything rational'); § 198, where the state is described as a triad of

syllogisms; and §§ 575 to 577, where Hegel's whole system is presented as such a triad of
syllogisms. According to this last passage, we might infer that 'history' is the realm of the
'second syllogism' (§ 576); cp. Selections, 309 f. For the first passage (from section III of
the Introduction to the Philosophy of History), see Selections, 348 f. — For the next passage
(from the Encyclopcedia) see Selections, 262 f.

47 . Cp. Selections, 442 (last paragraph = WW, xi, 119-20). The last quotation in this paragraph
is from the same place.

Concerning the three steps, cp. Selections, 360, 362, 398 (= WW, xi, 44, 46, 79-80). See
also Hegel's Philosophy of History (transl. by J. Sibree, 1857, quoted from the edition of
1914), p. 110: 'The East knew ... only that One is free; the Greek and the Roman World,
that some are free; the German World knows that All are free. The first political form
therefore which we observe in History is Despotism, the second Democracy and Aristocracy,
the third Monarchy.'

(For the further treatment of the three steps, cp. op. cit., pp. 117, 260, 354.)

48. For the next three quotations cp. Hegel's Philosophy of History, 429; Selections, 358, 359
(= WW, xi, 43-44).

The presentation in the text simplifies the matter somewhat; for Hegel first divides {Phil, oj
Hist., 356 ff.) the Germanic World into three periods which he describes (p. 358) as the
'Kingdoms of the Father, the Son and the Spirit'; and the kingdom of the Spirit is again
subdivided into the three periods mentioned in the text.

49 . For the following three passages, cp. the Philosophy of History, pp. 354, 476, 476-7.

50. See especially text to note 75 to this chapter.

51 . Cp. especially notes 48-50 to chapter 8.

52 . Cp. Hegel's Philosophy of History, p. 418. (The translator writes: 'Germanized Sclaves'.)

53 . Masaryk has been described sometimes as a 'philosopher king'. But he was certainly not a
ruler of the kind Plato would have liked; for he was a democrat. He was very interested in
Plato, but he idealized Plato and interpreted him democratically. His nationalism was a
reaction to national oppression, and he always fought against nationalist excesses. It may be

mentioned that his first printed work in the Czech language was an article on Plato's
patriotism. (Cp. K. Capek's biography of Masaryk, the chapter on his period as a university
student.) Masaryk's Czechoslovakia was probably one of the best and most democratic
states that ever existed; but in spite of all that, it was built on the principle of the national
state, on a principle which in this world is inapplicable. An international federation in the
Danube basin might have prevented much.

54 . See chapter 7 . For the quotation from Rousseau, later in the paragraph, cp. the Social
Contract, book I, ch. VII (end of second paragraph). For Hegel's view concerning the
doctrine of the sovereignty of the people, see the passage from § 279 of ihQ Philosophy oj
Law quoted in text to note 6 1 to this chapter.

55 . Cp. Herder, quoted by Zimmern, Modern Political Doctrines (1939), p. 165 f. (The passage
quoted in my text is not characteristic of Herder's empty verbalism, which was criticized by
Kant.)

56 . Cp. note 7 to chapter 9

For the two quotations from Kant, further on in this paragraph, cp. Works (ed. by E.
Cassirer), vol. IV, p. 179; and p. 195.

57 . Cp. Fichte's Briejwechsel (ed. Schulz, 1925), II, p. 100. The letter is partly quoted by
AndQYSon, Nationalism, etc., p. 30. (Cp. also HQgQmann, Entlarvte Geschichte, 2nd ed.,
1934, p. 118.) — The next quotation is from Anderson, op. cit., p. 34 f. — For the quotations
in the next paragraph, cp. op. cit., 36 f; italics mine.

It may be remarked that an originally anti-German feeling is common to many of the
founders of German nationalism; which shows how far nationalism is based upon a feeling
of inferiority. (Cp. notes 61 and 70 to this chapter.) As an example, Anderson says ( op. cit,
79) about E. M. Arndt, later a famous nationahst: 'When Amdt travelled through Europe in
1798-9, he called himself a Swede because, as he said, the name German "stinks in the
world"; not, he added characteristically, through the fault of the common people.'
Hegemann insists rightly {op. cit. ,118) that the German spiritual leaders of the time turned
especially against the barbarism of Prussia, and he quotes Winckelmann, who said, 'I would
rather be a Turkish eunuch than a Prussian'; and Lessing, who said, 'Prussia is the most

slavish country in Europe'; and he refers to Goethe, who passionately hoped that relief
would come from Napoleon. And Hegemann, who is also the author of a book against
Napoleon, adds: 'Napoleon was a despot; ... whatever we have to say against him, it must
be admitted that by his victory of Jena he had forced the reactionary state of Frederick to
introduce a few reforms that had been long overdue.'

An interesting judgement on the Germany of 1800 can be found in KanVs Anthropology
(1800), where he deals, not quite seriously, with national characteristics. Kant writes
(Works, vol. VIII, 213,211,212; italics mine) of the German 'His bad side is the compulsion
to imitate others and his low opinion of himself with respect to his own originality ...; and
especially a certain pedantic inclination to classify himself painstakingly in relation to other
citizens, according to a system of rank and of prerogatives. In this system of rank, he is
inexhaustible in the invention of titles, and thus slavish out of pedantry ... Of all civilized
peoples, the German submits most easily and most lastingly to the government under which
he happens to live, and he is further removed than any other from a love of change and from
resistance to the established order. His character is a kind of phlegmatic reason.'

58 . Cp. Kant's Works, vol. VIII, 516. Kant, who had been immediately ready to help when
Fichte appealed to him as an unknown author in distress, hesitated for seven years after the
anonymous publication of Fichte 's first book to speak his mind about Fichte, although he
was pressed to do so from various sides, for example by Fichte himself, who posed as the
fulflller of the Kantian promise. Ultimately, Kant published his Public Explanation
Regarding Fichte, as a reply 'to the solemn demand made by a reviewer in the name of the
public', that he should speak his mind. He declared that, in his view, 'Fichte 's system was
totally untenable'; and he declined to have anything to do with a philosophy which
consisted of 'barren subtleties'. And after praying (as quoted in the text) that God may
protect us from our friends, Kant goes on to say: 'For there may be also ... fraudulent and
perfidious friends who are scheming for our ruin, although they speak the language of
benevolence; one cannot be sufficiently cautious in order to avoid the traps they set for us.'
If Kant, a most balanced, benevolent, and conscientious person, was moved to say things
such as these, then we have every reason to consider his judgement seriously. But I have
seen so far no history of philosophy which clearly states that, in Kant's opinion, Fichte was

a dishonest impostor, although I have seen many histories of philosophy that try to explain

away Schopenhauer's indictments, for example, by hinting that he was envious.

But Kant's and Schopenhauer's accusations are by no means isolated. A. von Feuerbach (in

a letter of January 30th, 1799; cp. Schopenhauer's Works, vol. V, 102) expressed himself as

strongly as Schopenhauer; Schiller arrived at a similar opinion, and so did Goethe; and

Nicolovius called Fichte a 'sycophant and a deceiver'. (Cp. also Hegemann, op. cit., pp. 119

ff)

It is astonishing to see that, thanks to a conspiracy of noise, a man like Fichte succeeded in
perverting the teaching of his 'master', m spite of Kant's protests, and in Kant's lifetime .
This happened only a hundred years ago and can easily be checked by anybody who takes
the trouble to read Kant's and Fichte 's letters, and Kant's public announcements; and it
shows that my theory of Plato's perversion of the teaching of Socrates is by no means so
fantastic as it may appear to Platonists. Socrates was dead then, and he had left no letters.
(Were the comparison not one that does too much honour to Fichte and Hegel, one would be
tempted to say: without Plato, there could have been no Aristotle; and without Fichte, no
Hegel.)

59 . Cp. Anderson, op. cit, p. 13.

60 . Cp. Hegel's Philosophy of History, 465. See also Philosophy of Law, § 258. With Pareto's
advice, cp. note 1 to chapter 13.

61 . C^. Philosophy of Law, § 279; for the next quotation, sqq Selections, 256 f. {= Encycl.
1870, p. 446). The attack upon England, further below in the paragraph, follows on p. 257
{ = Encycl. 1870, p. 447). For Hegel's reference to the German empire, cp. Philosophy oj
History, p. 475 (see also note 77 to this chapter). — Feelings of inferiority, especially in
relation to England, and clever appeals to such feelings, play a considerable part in the story
of the rise of nationalism; cp. also notes 57 and 70 to this chapter. For other passages on
England, see the next note and note 70 to this chapter, and text. (The words 'arts and
science' are italicized by me.)

62 . Hegel's disparaging reference to merely 'formal' rights, to merely 'formal' freedom, to a
merely 'formal' constitution, etc., is interesting, since it is the dubious source of the modern

Marxist criticism of merely 'formal' democracies which offer merely 'formal' freedom. Cp.
note 1 9 to chapter 1 7 and text.

A few characteristic passages in which Hegel denounces merely 'formal' freedom, etc., may
be quoted here. They are all taken from the Philosophy of History — (p. 471): 'Liberalism
sets up, in opposition to all this' (i.e. to the Prussian 'holistic' restoration), 'the atomistic
principle which insists upon the sway of individual wills, maintaining that all governments
should ... have their' (the people's) 'explicit sanction. In thus asserting the formal side oj
Freedom — this mere abstraction — the party in question makes it impossible firmly to
establish any political organization.' — (p. 474): 'The Constitution of England is a complex
of mere particular rights and particular privileges, ... Of institutions characterized by real
freedom' (as opposed to merely formal freedom) 'there are nowhere fewer than in England.
In point of private rights and the freedom of possessions they present an incredible
deficiency: sufficient proof of which is afforded in the rights of primogeniture which make it
necessary to provide (by purchase or otherwise) military or ecclesiastical appointments for
the younger sons of the aristocracy.' See further the discussion of the French declaration of
the Rights of Man and Kant's principles on pp. 462 ff. with its reference to 'nothing more
than formal WilV and the 'principle of Freedom' that 'remained merely formal'; and contrast
this, for example, with the remarks on p. 354, which show that the German Spirit is 'true'
and 'absolute' freedom: 'The German Spirit is the Spirit of the new World. Its aim is the
realization of absolute Truth as the unlimited self-determination of Freedom; of that Freedom
which has its own absolute form itself as its purport.' If I were to use the term 'formal
freedom' in a disparaging sense, then I should apply it to Hegel's 'subjective freedom', as
treated by him in Philosophy of Law, § 3 17L (quoted at the end of note 43).

63 . Cp. Anderson, Nationalism, etc., p. 279. For Hegel's reference to England (quoted in
brackets at the end of this paragraph), cp. Selections, 263 {= Encycl. 1870, p. 452); see also
note 70 to this chapter.

64 . This quotation is from the Philosophy of Law, § 331. For the following two quotations, cp.
Selections, 403 (= WW, xi, 84) and 267 f. {= Encycl. 1870, pp. 455-56). For the quotation
further below (illustrating juridical positivism), cp. Selections, 449 (i.e. Phil, of Law, § 274).

With the theory of world dominion, cp. also the theory of domination and submission, and
of slavery, outlined in note 25 to chapter 11, and text. For the theory of national spirits or
wills or geniuses asserting themselves in history, i.e. in the history of wars see text to notes
69 and 77

In connection with the historical theory of the nation, cp. the following remarks of Renan
(quoted by A. Zimmern in Modern Political Doctrines, pp. 190 f ): 'To forget and — I will
venture to say — to get one's history wrong, are essential factors in the making of a nation
[or, as we now know, of a totalitarian state]; and thus the advance of historical studies is
often a danger to nationality ... Now it is of the essence of a nation that all individuals
should have much in common, and further that they should all have forgotten much.' One
would hardly believe that Renan is a nationalist; but he is, although one of the democratic
type; and his nationahsm is typically Hegelian; for he writes (p. 202): 'A nation is a soul, a
spiritual principle.'

65 . Haeckel can hardly be taken seriously as a philosopher or scientist. He called himself a free
thinker, but his thinking was not sufficiently independent to prevent him from demanding in
1914 'the following fruits of victory': '(1) Emancipation from England's tyranny: (2) the
invasion of the British pirate state by the German navy and army; the capture of London; (3)
the partitioning of Belgium'; and so forth for quite a time. (In: Das Monistische Jahrhundert,
1914, No. 31/32, pp. 65 f , quoted in Thus Spake Germany, 270.)

W. Schallmayer's prize essay has the title: Heredity and Selection in the Life of the Nations.
(See also note 71 to chapter 10, above.)

66 . For Bergson's Hegelianism, cp. note 25 to this chapter. For Shaw's characterization of the
religion of creative evolution, cp. Back to Methuselah, the last section of the Preface ('My
Own Part in The Matter'): '... as the conception of Creative Evolution developed, I saw that
we were at last within reach of a faith which complied with the first condition of all the
religions that have ever taken hold of humanity: namely that it must be, first and
fundamentally, a science of metabiology.'

67 . Cp. A. Zimmern's excellent Introduction to his Modern Political Doctrines, p. xviii. —
Regarding Platonic totalitarianism, cp. text to note 8 to this chapter. For the theory of master

and slave, and of domination and submission, cp. note 25 to chapter 11; see also note 74 to
the present chapter.

68 . Cp. Schopenhauer, Grundprobleme, p. xix.

69 . For the eight quotations in this paragraph, cp. Selections, 265, 402, 403, 435, 436, 399,
407, 267 f. {=Encycl. 1870, p. 453, WW, xi, 83, 84, 113-14, 81, 88, Encycl. pp. 455-6).
Cp. also § 347 of the Philosophy of Law.

70. Cp. Selections, 435 f. (= WW, xi, 114). For the problem of inferiority, cp. also notes 57 and
61 to this chapter, and text. For the other passage on England, see notes 61-63, and text to
this chapter. A very interesting passage {Phil, of Law, § 290L) containing a classical
formulation of holism shows that Hegel not only thought in terms of holism or collectivism
and power, but also that he saw the applicability of these principles towards the organization
of the proletariat. 'The lower classes', Hegel writes, 'have been left more or less
unorganized. And yet, it is of the utmost importance that they should be organized, for only
in this way can they become powerful. Without organization, they are nothing but a heap, an
aggregate of atoms.' Hegel comes pretty close to Marx in this passage.

71 . The passage is from H. Freyer, Pallas Athene (1935), quoted by A. Kolnai, The War against
the West (1938), p. 417. I am greatly indebted to Kolnai's book, which has made it possible
for me to quote in the remaining part of this chapter a considerable number of authors who
would otherwise have been inaccessible to me. (I have, however, not always followed the
wording of Kolnai's translations.)

For the characterization of Freyer as one of the leading sociologists of contemporary
Germany, cp. F. A. von Hayek, Freedom and the Economic System (Public Policy Pamphlet
No. 29, 2nd impression, 1940), p. 30.

For the four passages in this paragraph from Hegel's Philosophy of Law, §§ 331, 340, 342L
(cp. also 331 f) and 340, sqq Selections, 466, 467, 465, 468. For the passages from the
Encyclopcedia, cp. Selections, 260 f. (= Encycl. 1870, pp. 449-50). (The last sentence
quoted is a different version of the first sentence of § 546.)
For the passage from H. von Treitschke, cp. Thus Spake Germany (1941), p. 60.

72 . Cp. Philosophy of Law, § 257, i.Q. Selections, 443. For the next three quotations, see

Philosophy of Law, §§ 334 and 339L, i.e. Selections, 467. For the last quotation in this
paragraph, cp. Hegel's Philosophy of Law, §§ 330L and 333.

73 . Cp. Selections, 365 (= WW, xi, 49); italics partly mine. For the next quotation, cp.
Selections, 468, i.e. Philosophy of Law, § 340.

74 . Quoted by Kolnai, op. cit, 418. — For Heraclitus, cp. text to note 10 to chapter 2. — For
Haiser, see Kolnai, loc. cit.; cp. also Hegel's theory of slavery, mentioned in note 25 to
chapter 11. — For the concluding quotation of this paragraph, cp. Selections, 467, i.e.
Philosophy of Law, 334. For the 'war of defence' that turns into a 'war of conquest', see op.
cit., § 326.

75 . For all the passages from Hegel in this paragraph, cp. Selections, 426 f (= WW, xi, 105-6).
(Italics mine.) For another passage expressing the postulate that world-history must overrule
morals, see Philosophy of Law, § 345. For E. Meyer, cp. end of note 15 (2) to chapter
10.

76 . ^QQ Philosophy of Law, § 317 f; c^. Selections, 461; for similar passages, see § 316:
'Public opinion as it exists is a continuous self-contradiction'; see also § 301, i.e. Selections,
456, and § 318L. (For further views of Hegel on public opinion, cp. also text to note 84 to
this chapter.) — For Haiser's remark, cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 234.

77 . Cp. Selections, 464, 465, for the passages from the Philosophy of Law, §§ 324 and 324L.
For the next passages from the Philosophy of History, cp. Selections, 436 f. (= WW, xi, 114-
15). (The next passage quoted continues characteristically: '... naturally dead in itself, as
e.g. the German Imperial Cities, the German Imperial Constitution.' With this, cp. note 61 to
this chapter, and text.)

78. Cp. Philosophy of Law, §§ 327L and 328, i.Q. Selections, 465 f. (Italics mine.) For the
remark on gunpowder, cp. Hegel's Philosophy of History, p. 419.

79 . For the quotations from Kaufmann, Banse, Ludendorff, Scheler, Freyer, Lenz, and Jung, cp.
Kolnai, op. cit., 411, 411 f , 412, 411, 417, 411, and 420.— For the quotation from J. G.
FichtQ's Addresses to the German Nation (1808), cp. the German edition of 1871 (edited by
I. H. Fichte), pp. 49 f ; see also A. Zimmern, Modern Political Doctrines, 170 f. — For

Spengler's repetition, see his Decline of the West, I, p. 12; for Rosenberg's repetition, cp. his
Myth of the Twentieth Century (1935), p. 143; see also my note 50 to chapter 8, and Rader,
No Compromise (1939), 116.

80- Cp. Kolnai, op. cit, 412.

81. Cp. Caird, Hegel (1883), p. 26.

82 . Kolnai, op. cit., 438. — For the passages from Hegel, cp. Selections, 365 f , italics partly
mine; cp. also text to note 84 to this chapter. For E. Krieck, cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 65 f , and E.
KriQck, National-Political Education (in German, 1932, p. 1; quoted in Thus Spake
Germany, p. 53).

83 . Cp. Selections, 268 {= Encycl. 1870, p. 456); for Stapel, cp. Kolnai, op. cit, 292 f

84 . For Rosenberg, cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 295. For Hegel's views on public opinion, cp. also text
to note 76 to this chapter; for the passages quoted in the present paragraph, see Philosophy
of Law, § 318L, \.q. Selections, pp. 461 (italics mine), 375, 377, 377, 378, 367/368, 380,
368, 364, 388, 380 (= WW, xi, 59, 60, 60, 60-61, 51-2, 63, 52, 48, 70-1, 63). (Italics partly
mine.) For Hegel's eulogy of emotion and passion and self-interest, cp. also text to note 82
to this chapter.

85. For Best, cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 414 f — For the quotations from Hegel, cp. Selections, 464 f ,
464, 465, 437 (= WW, xi, 115, a noteworthy similarity to Bergson), 372. (The passages from
Phil, of Law are from §§ 324, 324L, 327L.) — For the remark on Aristotle, cp. Pol, VII, 15, 3
(1334a).

86 . For Stapel, cp. Kolnai, op. cit, 255-257.

87 . C^). Selections, p. 100: 'If I neglect <3// the determinations of an object, ih^n nothing
remains.' — For Heidegger's is Metaphysics! cp. Camap, Erkenntnis, 2, 229. For
Heidegger's relation to Husserl and Scheler, cp. J. Kraft, From Husserl to Heidegger (2nd
German edn, 1957). Heidegger recognizes that his sentences are meaningless: 'Question and
answer concerning nothingness are in themselves equally nonsensical', Heidegger writes
(cp. Erkenntnis, 2, 231). What could be said, from the point of view of Wittgenstein's
Tractatus, against this kind of philosophy which admits that it talks nonsense — ^but deeply

significant nonsense? (Cp. note 51 (1) to chapter 11.) G. Schneeberger, Nachlese zu
Heidegger, 1962, contains a collection of documents on Heidegger's political activity.

88 . For these quotations from Heidegger, cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 221, 313. — For Schopenhauer's
advice to the guardian, cp. Works, vol. V, p. 25 (note).

89. For Jaspers, cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 270 f. Kolnai (p. 282) calls Jaspers 'Heidegger's lesser
brother'. I cannot agree with that. For, as opposed to Heidegger, Jaspers has undoubtedly
written books which contain much of interest, even books which contain much that is based
on experience, for instance his General Psycho-Pathology . But I may quote here a few
passages from an early work, his Psychology of World-Views (first published in 1919; I
quote from the third German edn, 1925), which show that Jaspers' world-views were far
advanced, at any rate, before Heidegger took to writing. 'To visualize the life of man, one
would have to see how he lives in the Moment. The Moment is the sole reality, it is reality in
itself, in the life of the soul. The Moment that has been lived is the Last, the Warm-Blooded,
the Immediate, the Living, the Bodily-Present, the Totality of the Real, the only Concrete
Thing ... Man finds Existence and the Absolute ultimately in the Moment alone.' (p. 112.) —
(From the chapter on Enthusiastic Attitude , p. 112): 'Wherever Enthusiasm is the
absolute leading motive, i.e. wherever one lives in Reality and for Reality, and still dares and
risks all, there one may well speak of Heroism: of heroic Love, heroic Strife, heroic Work,
etc. § 5. The Enthusiastic Attitude is Love ...' — (Subsection 2, p. 128): 'Compassion is not
Love ...' — (p. 127): 'This is why Love is cruel, ruthless; and why it is believed in, by the
genuine Lover, only if it is so.' — (pp. 256 ff.): 'III. Single Marginal Situations ... (A) Strife.
Strife is a fundamental form of all Existence . . . The reactions to the Marginal Situations of
Strife are the following: ... 2. Man s lack of understanding of the fact that Strife is Ultimate:
He skulks ...' And so on. We always find the same picture: a hysterical romanticism,
combined with a brutal barbarism and the professorial pedantry of sub-sections and sub-sub-
sections.

90. Cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 208

For my remark on the 'philosophy of the gambler', cp. O. Spengler {The Hour of Decision.
Germany and World-Historical Evolution . — German edn, 1933, p. 230; quoted in Thus

Spake Germany, 28): 'He whose sword compels victory here will be lord of the world. The
dice are there, ready for this stupendous game. Who dares to throw them?'
Of the gangster philosophy, a book by the very talented author, E. von Salomon, is perhaps
even more characteristic. I quote a few passages from this book. The Outlaws (1930; the
passages quoted are from pp. 105, 73, 63, 307, 73, 367): 'Satanic lust! Am I not one with
my gun? ... The first lust of man is destruction ... They shot quite indiscriminately, just
because it was good fun . . . We are free of the burden of plan, method or system . . . What we
wanted we did not know, and what we knew we did not want . . . My greatest lust was always
for destruction.' And so on. (Cp. also Hegemann, op. cit., 171.)

91 . Cp. Kolnai, op. cit., 313.

92 . ForZiegler, cp. Kolnai, op. cit, 398.

93 . This quotation is from Schopenhauer, Grundprobleme (4th edn, 1 890), Introduction to the
first edition (1840), p. xix. — Hegel's remark on 'the most lofty depth' (or 'the most elevated
depth') is from the Jahrbuecher d. wiss. Lit, 1827, No. 7; it is quoted by Schopenhauer, op.
cit. — The concluding quotation is from Schopenhauer, op. cit., xviii.

Notes to Chapter Thirteen

General Note to the Chapters on Marx. Wherever possible, I refer in
these notes to Capital or to H.o.M. or to both. I usq Capital as
abbreviation for the Everyman Double Volume Edition of K. Marx,
Capital, translated by E. and C. Paul. — H.o.M. stands forv4 Handbook oj
Marxism, edited by E. Burns, 1935, but references to complete editions of
the texts have always been added. For quotations from Marx and Engels, I
refer to the Moscow standard edition (Gesamtausgabe, abbreviated GA),
published from 1927 onwards and edited by D. Ryazanow and others but
still incomplete. For quotations from Lenin, I refer to t\\Q Little Lenin
Library, published by Martin Lawrence, later Lawrence and Wishart,
abbreviated L.L.L. The later volumes of Capital are quoted as Das
Kapital (of which vol. I was first published in 1867); the references are to
vol. II, 1885, or to vol. Ill, part 1, and vol. Ill, part 2 (quoted as III/l and
III/2), both 1894. 1 wish to make it quite clear that although I refer where
possible to the translations mentioned above, I do not always adopt their
wording.

1. Cp. V. Pareto, Treatise on General Sociology, § 1843. (English transl.: The Mind and
Society, 1935, vol. Ill, p. 1281; cp. also text to note 65 to chapter 10.) Pareto writes (pp.
1281 f.): 'The art of government lies in finding ways to take advantage of such sentiments,
not wasting one's energy in futile efforts to destroy them; very frequently the sole effect of
the latter course is to strengthen them. The person capable of freeing himself from the blind
domination of his own sentiments will be able to utilize the sentiments of other people for
his own ends ... This may be said in general of the relation between ruler and ruled. The
statesman who is of greatest service to himself and to his party is the man without prejudice
who knows how to profit by the prejudices of others.' The prejudices Pareto has in mind are
of diverse character — nationalism, love of freedom, humanitarianism. And it may be just as
well to remark that Pareto, though he has freed himself from many prejudices, has certainly

not succeeded in freeing himself from all of them. This can be seen in nearly every page he
writes, especially, of course, where he speaks of what he describes not inappropriately as
'the humanitarian religion'. His own prejudice is the anti-humanitarian religion. Had he seen
that his choice was not between prejudice and freedom from prejudice, but only between the
humanitarian prejudice and the anti-humanitarian prejudice, he might perhaps have felt a
little less confident of his superiority. (For the problem of prejudices, cp. note 8 (1) to
chapter 24, and text.)

Pareto's ideas concerning the 'art of government' are very old; they go back at least to
Plato's uncle Critias, and have played their part in the Platonic school tradition (as pointed
out in note 18 to chapter 8).

2. (1) Fichte's and Hegel's ideas led to the principle of the national state and of national self-
determination, a reactionary principle in which, however, a fighter for the open society such
as Masaryk sincerely believed, and which the democrat Wilson adopted. (For Wilson, cp. for
instance Modern Political Doctrines, ed. by A. Zimmern, 1939, pp. 223 ff.) This principle is
obviously inapplicable on this earth, and especially in Europe, where the nations (i.e.
linguistic groups) are so densely packed that it is quite impossible to disentangle them. The
terrible effect of Wilson's attempt to apply this romantic principle to European politics
should be clear by now to everybody. That the Versailles settlement was harsh, is a myth;
that Wilson's principles were not adhered to, is another myth. The fact is that such principles
could not be more consistently applied; and Versailles failed mainly because of the attempt
to apply Wilson's inapplicable principles. (For all this, cp. note 7 to chapter 9, and text to
notes 51-64 to chapter 12.)

(2) In connection with the Hegelian character of Marxism mentioned in the text in this
paragraph, I give here a Hst of important views which Marxism takes over from
Hegelianism. My treatment of Marx is not based on this list, since I do not intend to treat him
just as another Hegelian, but rather as a serious investigator who can, and must, answer for
himself This is the list, ordered approximately according to the importance of the various
views for Marxism.

{a) Historicism: The method of a science of society is the study of history, and especially of
the tendencies inherent in the historical development of mankind.

(b) Historical relativism: What is a law in one historical period need not be a law in another
historical period. (Hegel maintained that what is true in one period need not be true in
another.)

(d) The development is one towards more freedom and reason, although the instrumentality
of bringing this about is not our reasonable planning but rather such irrational forces as our
passions and our self-interests. (Hegel calls this 'the cunning of reason'.)

(e) Moral positivism, or in Marx's case, moral 'futurism'. (This term is explained in chapter
22.)

(/) Class consciousness is one of the instruments by which the development propels itself
(Hegel operates with the consciousness of the nation, the 'national Spirit' or 'national
Genius'.)

(g) Methodological essentialism. Dialectics.

(h) The following Hegelian ideas play a part in Marx's writings but have become more
important with later Marxists.

(h\) The distinction between merely 'formal' freedom or merely 'formal' democracy and
'real' or 'economic' freedom or 'economic' democracy, etc.; in connection with this, there is
a certain 'ambivalent' attitude towards liberalism, i.e. a mixture of love and hate.
(hi) Collectivism.

In the following chapters, (a) is again the main theme. In connection with (a) and (b), see
also note 13 to this chapter. For (b), cp. chapters 22-24. For (c), cp. chapters 22 and 25. For
(d), cp. chapter 22 (and regarding Hegel's 'cunning of reason', cp. text to note 84 to chapter
12). For (/), cp. chapters 16 and 19. For (g), cp. notes 4 to the present chapter, 6 to chapter
17, 13 to chapter 15, 15 to chapter 19, and notes 20-24 to chapter 20, and text. For (hi), cp.
note 19 to chapter 17. (hi) has its influence on Marx's anti-psycho log ism (cp. text to note 16
to chapter 14); it is under the influence of the Platonic-Hegelian doctrine of the superiority of
the state over the individual that Marx develops his theory that even the 'consciousness' of
the individual is determined by social conditions. Yet, fundamentally, Marx was an
individualist; his main interest was to help suffering human individuals. Thus collectivism as
such certainly does not play an important part in Marx's own writings. (Apart from his

emphasis upon a collective class consciousness, mentioned under (/); cp., for example, note
4 to chapter 18.) But it plays its part in Marxist practice.

3. In Capital (387-9), Marx makes some interesting remarks both on Plato's theory of the
division of labour (cp. note 29 to chapter 5 and text) and on the caste character of Plato's
state. (Marx refers, however, only to Egypt and not to Sparta; cp. note 27 to chapter 4.) In
this connection, Marx quotes also an interesting passage from Socrates' Busiris, 15 f , 224/5,
where Isocrates first proffers arguments for the division of labour very similar to those of
Plato (text to note 29 to chapter 5); Isocrates then continues: 'The Egyptians ... were so
successful that the most celebrated philosophers who discuss such topics extol the
constitution of Egypt above all others, and that the Spartans ... govern their own city in such
an excellent manner because they have copied the ways of the Egyptians.' I think it most
probable that Isocrates refers here to Plato; and he may in turn be referred to by Grantor,
when he spoke of those who accuse Plato of becoming a disciple of the Egyptians, as
mentioned in note 27 (3) to chapter 4.

4. Or, 'intelligence destroying'; cp. text to note 68 to chapter 12. For dialectics in general, and
Hegelian dialectics in particular, cp. chapter 12, especially text to notes 28-33. With Marx's
dialectics, I do not intend to deal in this book, since I have dealt with it elsewhere. (Cp.
'What is Dialectic?', M>z<i, N.S., vol. 49, 1940, pp. 403 ff.; or, revised, in Conjectures and
Refutations, pp. 312 ff.) I consider Marx's dialectics, like Hegel's, a rather dangerous
muddle; but its analysis can be avoided here, especially since the criticism of his historicism
covers all that may be taken seriously in his dialectics.

5. Cp., for instance, the quotation in the text to note 1 1 to this chapter.

6. Utopianism is first attacked by Marx and Engels in the Communist Manifesto, III, 3. (Cp.
H.O.M., 55 ff. = GA, Series I, vol. 6, 553-5.) For Marx's attacks upon the 'bourgeois
economists' who 'try to reconcile ... political economy with the claims of the proletariat',
attacks directed especially against Mill and other members of the Comtist school, cp.
especially Capital, 868 (against Mill; see also note 14 to this chapter), and 870 (against the
Comiisi Revue Positiviste; see also text to note 21 to chapter 18). For the whole problem of
social technology versus historicism, and of piecemeal social engineering versus Utopian

social engineering, cp. especially chapter 9, above. (See also the notes 9 to chapter 3; 18 (3)
to chapter 5; and 1 to chapter 9; with references to M. Eastman's Marxism: Is it Science?)

7. (1) The two quotations from Lenin are taken from Sidney and Beatrice Webb, Soviet
Communism (2nd edn, 1937), pp. 650 f, who say, in a note, that the second of the
quotations is from a speech made by Lenin in May, 1918. It is most interesting to see how
quickly Lenin grasped the situation. On the eve of his party's rise to power, in August, 1917,
when he published his book State and Revolution, he was still a pure historicist. Not only
was he as yet unaware of the most difficult problems involved in the task of constructing a
new society; he even believed, with most Marxists, that the problems were non-existent, or
that they would be solved by the process of history. Cp. especially the passages from State
and Revolution in H.o.M., pp. 757f (= Lenin, State and Revolution, L.L.L., vol. 14, 77-9),
where Lenin emphasizes the simplicity of the problems of organization and administration in
the various phases of the evolving Communist society. 'All that is required', he writes, 'is
that they should work equally, should regularly do their share of work, and should receive
equal pay. The accounting and control necessary for this have been simplified' (italics in the
original) 'by capitalism to the utmost' They can thus be simply taken over by the workers,
since these methods of control are 'within reach of anybody who can read and write, and
knows the first four rules of arithmetic' These astonishingly naive statements are
representative. (We find similar views expressed in Germany and in England; cp. this note,
under (2).) They must be contrasted with Lenin's speeches made a few months later. They
show how free the prophetic 'scientific socialist' was from any foreboding of the problems
and disasters ahead. (I mean the disaster of the period of war-communism, that period which
was the outcome of this prophetic and anti-technological Marxism.) But they show also
Lenin's capability of finding, and of admitting to himself, the mistakes made. He abandoned
Marxism in practice, although not in theory. Compare also Lenin's chapter V, sections 2 and
3,H.o.M., pp. 742 ff. {= State and Revolution, 67-73), for the purely historicist, i.e.
prophetic and anti-technological ('anti-Utopian', Lenin might have said; cp. p. 747 = State
and Revolution 70-71), character of this 'scientific socialism' before its rise to power.
But when Lenin confessed that he knew no book dealing with the more constructive
problems of social engineering, then he only demonstrated that Marxists, faithful to Marx's

commandments, did not even read the 'Utopian stuff of the 'professorial armchair
sociaHsts' who tried to make a beginning with these very problems; I am thinking of some of
the Fabians in England and of A. Menger (e.g. Neue Staatslehre, 2nd edn, 1904, especially
pp. 248 ff.) and J. Popper-Lynkeus in Austria. The latter developed apart from many other
suggestions a technology of collective farming, and especially of giant farms of the kind
later introduced in Russia (see his AUgemeine Ndhrpflicht, 1912; cp. pp. 206 ff. and 300 ff.
of the 2nd edn, 1923). But he was dismissed by Marxists as a 'half-socialist'. They called
him a 'half-socialist' because he envisaged a private enterprise sector in his society; he
confined the economic activity of the state to the care for the basic needs of everybody — for
the 'guaranteed minimum of subsistence'. Everything beyond this was to be left to a strictly
competitive system.

(2) Lenin's view in State and Revolution quoted above is (as J. Viner has pointed out) very
similar to that of John Carruthers, Socialism and Radicalism (cp. note 9 to chapter 9); see
especially pp. 14-16. He says: 'The capitalists have invented a system of finance which,
although complex, is sufficiently simple to be practically worked, and which fully instructs
everyone as to the best manner of managing his factory. A very similar although greatly
simpler finance would in the same way instruct the elected manager of a sociaHst factory
how he should manage it, and he would have no more need for advice from a professional
organizer than a capitalist has.'

8. This naive naturalistic slogan is Marx's 'principle of communism' (taken over by Marx from
Louis Blanc's article 'L' Organisation de travail', as Bryan Magee has kindly pointed out to
me). Its origin is Platonic and early Christian (cp. note 29 to chapter 5; the Acts, 2, 44-45,
and 4, 34-35; see also note 48 to chapter 24, and the cross-references given there). It is
quoted by Lenin in State and Revolution; sqq H.o.M., 752 {= State and Revolution, 74).
Marx's 'principle of socialism', which is incorporated in the New Constitution of the
U.S.S.R. (1936), is slightly but significantly weaker; compare the Article 12: 'In the
U.S.S.R.', we read there, 'the principle of socialism is realized: "From each according to his
ability, to each according to his work".' The substitution of 'work' for the early Christian
term 'needs' transforms a romantic and economically quite indefinite naturalistic phrase into

a fairly practical but commonplace principle — and into one which even 'capitalism' may
claim as its own.

9. I am alluding to the title of a famous book by Engels: 'The Development of Socialism From
a Utopia Into a Science.' (The book has been published in English under the title: Socialism:
Utopian and Scientific.)

10 . See my The Poverty of Historicism (Economica, 1944: now published separately).

11 . This is the eleventh of Marx's Theses on Feuerbach (1845), cp. H.o.M., 231 (= F. Engels,
Ludwig Feuerbach und der Ausgang der Klassischen deutschen Philosophic, J. W. Dietz,
Nachf Berlin 1946, 56). See also notes 14-16 to this chapter, and the sections 1, 17 and 18
of The Poverty of Historicism.

12 . I do not intend to discuss here the metaphysical or the methodological problem of
determinism in any detail. (A few further remarks on the problem will be found in chapter
22, below.) But I wish to point out how little adequate it is if 'determinism' and 'scientific
method' are taken as synonyms. This is still done, even by a writer of the excellence and
clarity of B. Malinowski. Cp., for instance, his paper m Human Affairs (ed. by Cattell,
Cohen, and Travers, 1937), chapter XII. I fully agree with the methodological tendencies of
this paper, with its plea for the application of scientific method in social science as well as
with its brilliant condemnation of romantic tendencies in anthropology (cp. especially pp.
207 ff , 221-4.) But when Malinowski argues in favour of 'determinism in the study of
human culture' (p. 212; cp., for instance, also p. 252), I fail to see what he means by
'determinism' if not simply 'scientific method'. This equation is, however, not tenable, and
has its grave dangers, as shown in the text; for it may lead to historicism.

13 . For a criticism of historicism, see The Poverty of Historicism {Economica, 1944)

Marx may be excused for holding the mistaken belief that there is a 'natural law of historical
development'; for some of the best scientists of his time (e.g. T. H. Huxley; cp. his Lay
Sermons, 1880, p. 214) believed in the possibility of discovering dilaw of evolution. But
there can be no empirical 'law of evolution'. There is a specific evolutionary hypothesis,
stating that life on earth has developed in certain ways. But a universal or natural law of
evolution would have to state a hypothesis concerning the course of development of life on

all planets (at least). In other words, wherever we are confined to the observation of one
unique process, there we cannot hope to find, and to test, a 'law of nature'. (Of course, there
are laws of evolution pertaining to the development of young organisms, etc.)
There can be sociological laws, and even sociological laws pertaining to the problem of
progress; for example, the hypothesis that, wherever the freedom of thought, and of the
communication of thought, is effectively protected by legal institutions and institutions
ensuring the publicity of discussion, there will be scientific progress. (Cp. chapter 23.) But
there are reasons for holding the view that we should do better not to speak of historical
laws at all. (Cp. note 7 to chapter 25, and text.)

14 . Cp. Capital, 864 (Preface to the First Edition. For a similar remark of Mill's, see note 16,
below). At the same place, Marx also says: 'It is the ultimate aim of this work to lay bare the
economic law of motion of modem society.' (For this, cp. H.o.M., 374, and text to note 16
to the present chapter.) The clash between Marx's pragmatism and his historicism becomes
fairly obvious if we compare these passages with the eleventh of his Theses on Feuerbach
(quoted in text to note 11 to this chapter). In The Poverty of Historicism, section 17, I have
tried to make this clash more obvious by characterizing Marx's historicism in a form which
is exactly analogous to his attack on Feuerbach. For we can paraphrase Marx's passage
quoted in the text by saying: The historicist can only interpret social development, and aid it
in various ways; his point, however, is that nobody can change it. See also chapter 22 .
especially text to notes 5 ff.

15 . Cp. Capital, 469; the next three quotations are from Capital, 868 (Preface to the Second
Edition. The translation 'shallow syncretism' is not quite in keeping with the very strong
expression of the original); o/?. cit., 673; and (9/>. cit., 830. For the 'ample circumstantial
evidence' mentioned in the text, see, for instance, op. cit., 105, 562, 649, 656.

16 . Cp. Capital, 864 = H.o.M., 374; cp. note 14 to this chapter. The following three quotations
are from J. S. Mill, ^ System of Logic (1st edn, 1843; quoted from the 8th edn). Book VI,
Chapter X; § 2 (end); § 1 (beginning); § 1 (end). An interesting passage (which says nearly
the same as Marx's famous remark quoted in text to note 14) can be found in the same
chapter of Mill's Logic, § 8. Referring to the historical method, which searches for the 'laws

of social order and of social progress', Mill writes: 'By its aid we may hereafter succeed not
only in looking far forward into the future history of the human race, but in determining
what artificial means may be used, and to what extent, to accelerate the natural progress in
so far as it is beneficial; to compensate for whatever may be its inherent inconveniences or
disadvantages, and to guard against the dangers or accidents to which our species is exposed
from the necessary incidents of its progression.' (Italics mine.) Or as Marx puts it, to 'shorten
and lessen its birth-pangs'.

17 . Cp. Mill, loc. cit., § 2; the next remarks are from the first paragraph of § 3. The 'orbit' and
the 'trajectory' are from the end of the second paragraph of § 3. When speaking of 'orbits'
Mill thinks, probably, of such cyclical theories of historical development as formulated in
Plato's Statesman, or perhaps in Machiavelli's Discourses on Livy.

18 . Cp. Mill, loc. cit, the beginning of the last paragraph of § 3. — For all these passages, cp.
also notes 6-9 to chapter 14, and The Poverty ofHistoricism, sections 22, 24, 27, 28.

19 . Concerning psychologism (the term is due to E. Husserl), I may here quote a few sentences
by the excellent psychologist D. Katz; the passages are taken from his article Psychological
Needs (Chapter III of Human Affairs , ed. by Cattell, Cohen, and Travers, 1937, p. 36). 'In
philosophy there has been for some time a tendency to make psychology "the" fundamental
basis of all other sciences ... This tendency is usually called psychologism ... But even such
sciences, which, like sociology and economics, are more closely related to psychology, have
a neutral nucleus which is not psychological . . . ' Psychologism will be discussed at length in
chapter 14. Cp. also note 44 to chapter 5.

20 . Cp. Marx's Preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy (1859), quoted in
H.O.M., 371 (= Karl Marx, Zur Kritik der politischen Oekonomie, edited by K. Kautsky, J.
W. Dietz, Nachf Berlin 1930, LIV-LV, also in Capital, pp. xv f). The passage is quoted
more fully in text to note 13 to chapter 15, and in text to note 3 to chapter 16; see also note 2
to chapter 14.

Notes to Chapter Fourteen

1. Cp. note 19 to the last chapter.

2. Cp. Marx's Preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, quoted also in
note 20 to chapter 13 and in text to notes 13 to chapter 15 and 4 to chapter 16; cp. H.o.M.,
372 = Capital, p. xvi. See also Marx and Engels, German Ideology (H.o.M., 213 = GA,
Series I, vol. v, 16): 'It is not consciousness that determines life, but life that determines
consciousness.'

3. Cp. M. Ginsberg, Sociology (Home University Library, 130 ff), who discusses this problem
in a similar context, without, however, referring to Marx.

4. Cp. for instance. Zoology Leaflet 10, published by the Field Museum of Natural History,
Chicago, 1929.

5. For institutionalism, cp. especially chapter 3 (text to notes 9 and 10) and chapter 9.

6. Cp. Mill, A System of Logic, VI; IX, § 3. (Cp. also notes 16-18 to chapter 13.)

7. Cp. Mill, op. cit., VI; VI, § 2.

8. Cp. Mill, op. cit., VI; VII, § 1. For the opposition between 'methodological individualism'
and 'methodological collectivism', see F. A. von Hayek's Scientism and the Study oj
Society, Part II, section VII {Economica, 1943, pp. 41 ff.).

9. For this and the following quotation see Mill, op. cit., VI; X, § 4.

10 . I am using the term 'sociological laws' to denote the natural laws of social life, as opposed
to its normative laws; cp. text to notes 8-9 to chapter 5.

11. Cp. note 10 to chapter 3. (The passage is from p. 122 of part II of my The Poverty oj
Historicism {Economica, N.S. xi, 1944), and p. 65 of the book.

I owe the suggestion that it was Marx who first conceived social theory as the study of the
unwanted social repercussions of nearly all our actions to K. Polanyi, who emphasized this
aspect of Marxism in private discussions (1924).

(1) It should be noted, however, that in spite of the aspect of Marxism which has been just
mentioned and which constitutes an important point of agreement between Marx's views on
method and mine, there is a considerable disagreement between Marx's and my views about
the way in which these unwanted or unintended repercussions have to be analysed. For
Marx is a methodological collectivist. He believes that it is the 'system of economic
relations' as such which gives rise to the unwanted consequences — a system of institutions
which, in turn, may be explicable in terms of 'means of production', but which is not
analysable in terms of individuals, their relations, and their actions. As opposed to this, I
hold that institutions (and traditions) must be analysed in individualistic terms — ^that is to
say, in terms of the relations of individuals acting in certain situations, and of the unintended
consequences of their actions.

(2) The reference in the text to 'canvas-cleaning', and to chapter 9 is to notes 9 to 12, and
the text, of this chapter.

(3) Concerning the remarks in the text (in the paragraph to which this note is appended, and
in some of those which follow) about the unintended social repercussions of our actions, I
wish to draw attention to the fact that the situation in the physical sciences (and in the field
of mechanical engineering and technology) is somewhat similar. The task of technology is
here also largely to inform us about unintended consequences of what we are doing (e.g.
that a bridge may become too heavy if we strengthen certain of its components). But the
analogy goes even further. Our mechanical inventions do rarely turn out according to our
original plans. The inventors of the motor car probably did not foresee the social
repercussions of their doings, but they certainly did not foresee the purely mechanical
repercussions — the many ways in which their cars broke down. And while their cars were
altered in order to avoid these breakdowns, they changed beyond recognition. (And with
them, some people's motives and aspirations changed also.)

(4) With my criticism of the Conspiracy Theory (pp. 94-6), cp. my Prediction and Prophecy
and their Significance for Social Theory (in Proceedings of the Xth International Congress
of Philosophy, 1948, vol. i, pp. 82 ff., especially p. 87 f ), and 'Towards a Rational Theory
of Tradition' {The Rationalist Annual , 1949, pp. 36 ff., especially p. 40 f.). Both papers are

now in my Conjectures and Refutations.^

12 . See the passage from Mill cited in note 8 to this chapter.

13 . Cp. note 63 to chapter 10. Important contributors to the logic of power are Plato (in Books
VIII and IX of the Republic, and in the Laws), Aristotle, MachiavelH, Pareto, and many
others.

14 . Cp. Max Weber's Ges. Aufsaetze zur Wissenschaftslehre (1922), especially pp. 408 ff. A
remark may be added here concerning the often repeated assertion that the social sciences
operate with a method different from that of the natural sciences, in so far as we know the
'social atoms', i.e. ourselves, by direct acquaintance, while our knowledge of physical atoms
is only hypothetical. From this, it is often concluded (e.g. by Karl Menger) that the method
of social science, since it makes use of our knowledge of ourselves, is psychological, or
perhaps 'subjective', as opposed to the 'objective' methods of the natural sciences. To this,
we may answer: There is surely no reason why we should not use any 'direct' knowledge
we may have of ourselves. But such knowledge is useful in the social sciences only if we
generalize, i.e. if we assume that what we know of ourselves holds good for others too. But
this generalization is of a hypothetical character, and it must be tested and corrected by
experience of an 'objective' kind. (Before having met anybody who does not like chocolate,
some people may easily believe that everybody likes it.) Undoubtedly, in the case of 'social
atoms' we are in certain ways more favourably situated than in the case of physical atoms,
owing not only to our knowledge of ourselves, but also to the use of language. Yet from the
point of view of scientific method, a social hypothesis suggested by self-intuition is in no
different position from a physical hypothesis about atoms. The latter may also be suggested
to the physicist by a kind of intuition about what atoms are like. And in both cases, this
intuition is a private affair of the man who proposes the hypothesis. What is 'public', and
important for science, is merely the question whether the hypotheses could be tested by
experience, and whether they stood up to tests.

From this point of view, social theories are no more 'subjective' than physical ones. (And it
would be clearer, for example, to speak of 'the theory of subjective values' or of 'the theory
of acts of choice' than of 'the subjective theory of value': see also note 9 to chapter 20.)

15 . The present paragraph has been inserted in order to avoid the misunderstanding mentioned

in the text. I am indebted to Prof. E. Gombrich for drawing my attention to the possibiHty of
such a misunderstanding.

16 . Hegel contended that his 'Idea' was something existing 'absolutely', i.e. independently of
anybody's thought. One might contend, therefore, that he was not a psychologist. Yet Marx,
quite reasonably, did not take seriously this 'absolute ideahsm' of Hegel; he rather
interpreted it as a disguised psychologism, and combated it as such. Cp. Capital, 873 (italics
mine): 'For Hegel, the thought process (which he even presents in disguise under the name
"Idea" as an independent agent or subject) is the creator of the real.' Marx confines his
attack to the doctrine that the thought process (or consciousness, or mind) creates the 'real';
and he shows that it does not even create the social reality (to say nothing about the material
universe).

For the Hegelian theory of the dependence of the individual upon society, see (apart from
section iii of chapter 12) the discussion, in chapter 23, of the social, or more precisely, the
inter-personal element in scientific method, as well as the corresponding discussion, in
chapter 24, of the inter-personal element in rationality.

Notes to Chapter Fifteen

1. Cp. Cole's Preface to Capital, xvi. (But see also the next note.)

2. Lenin too sometimes used the term 'Vulgar Marxists', but in a somewhat different sense. —
How little Vulgar Marxism has in common with the views of Marx may be seen from Cole's
analysis, op. cit, xx, and from the text to notes 4 and 5 to chapter 16, and from note 17 to
chapter 17.

3. According to Adler, lust for power, of course, is really nothing but the urge towards
compensation for one's feelings of inferiority by proving one's superiority.

Some Vulgar Marxists even believe that the finishing touch to the philosophy of the modern
man was added by Einstein, who, so they think, discovered 'relativity' or 'relativism', i.e.
that 'everything is relative'.

4. J. F. Hecker writes {Moscow Dialogues, p. 76) of Marx's so-called 'historical materiahsm':
'I would have preferred to call it "dialectical historicism" or ... something of that sort.' — I
again draw the reader's attention to the fact that in this book I am not dealing with Marx's
dialectics, since I have dealt with them elsewhere. (Cp. note 4 to chapter 13.)

5. For Heraclitus' slogan, cp. especially text to note 4 (3) to chapter 2, notes 16/17 to chapter
4, and note 25 to chapter 6.

6. Both the following quotations are from Capital, 873 (Epilogue to the second edn of vol. 1).

7. C^.Das Kapital, vol. III/2 (1894), p. 355; i.e. chapter 48, section III, from where the
following quotations are taken.

8. Cp. Das Kapital, vol. III/2, loc. cit.

9. For the quotations in this paragraph, cp. F. Engels, Anti-Duhring; see H.o.M., 298, 299 (= F.
Engels, Herrn Eugen Duehring's Umwaelzung der Wissenschaft, GA special volume, 294-
5).

10 . I have in mind questions concerning, for example, the influence of economic conditions
(such as the need for land surveying) upon Egyptian geometry, and upon the different

development of early Pythagorean geometry in Greece.

11 . Cp. especially the quotation from Capital in note 13 to chapter 14; also the full passages
from the Preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, quoted only
partially in the text to the next note. For the problem of Marx's essentialism, and the
distinction between 'reality' and appearance, see note 13 to this chapter, and notes 6 and 16
to chapter 17.

12. But I feel inclined to say that it is a little better than an idealism of the Hegelian or Platonic
brand; as I said in 'What is Dialectic?', if I were forced to choose, which, fortunately, I am
not, I would choose materialism. (Cp. p. 422 of Mind, vol. 49, ox Conjectures and
Refutations, p. 331, where I deal with problems very similar to those dealt with here.)

13 . For this and the following quotations, cp. Marx's Preface to A Contribution to the Critique
of Political Economy, H.o.M., 372 {= Zur Kritik der politischen Oekonomie, LV).

Some further light is thrown upon these passages (and on the text to note 3 to chapter 16) by
the Second Observation of part II of Marx's Poverty of Philosophy (cp. H.o.M., 354 f. = GA,
Series I, vol. vi, 179-80); for Marx here analyses society very clearly into three layers, if I
may call them so. The first of these layers corresponds to 'reality' or 'essence', the second
and the third to a primary and a secondary form of appearance. (This is very similar to
Plato's distinction of Ideas, sensible things, and images of sensible things; cp. for the
problem of Plato's essentialism chapter 3; for Marx's corresponding ideas, see also notes 8
and 16 to chapter 17.) The first or fundamental layer (or 'reality') is the material layer, the
machinery and other material means of production that exist in society; this layer is called by
Marx the material 'productive forces', or 'material productivity'. The second layer he calls
'productive relationship' or 'social relations'; they are dependent on the first layer: 'Social
relations are closely bound up with productive forces. In acquiring new productive forces
men change their mode of production; and in changing their mode of production, they
change their way of earning their living — they change all their social relations.' (For the first
two layers, cp. text to note 3 to chapter 16.) The third layer is formed by the ideologies, i.e.
by legal, moral, religious, scientific ideas: 'The same men who estabhsh their social relations
in conformity with material productivity, produce also principles, ideas, and categories, in

conformity with their social relations.' In terms of this analysis, we may say that in Russia
the first layer was transformed in conformity with the third, a striking refutation of Marx's
theory. (See also the next note.)

14 . It is easy to make very general prophecies; for instance, to prophesy that, within a
reasonable time, it will rain. Thus there would not be much in the prophecy that, in some
decades, there will be a revolution somewhere. But, as we see, Marx said just a little more
than that, and just enough to be falsified by events. Those who try to interpret this
falsification away remove the last bit of empirical significance from Marx's system. It then
becomes purely 'metaphysical' (in the sense of my The Logic of Scientific Discovery).
How Marx conceived the general mechanism of any revolution, in accordance with his
theory, is illustrated by the following description of the social revolution of the bourgeoisie
(also called the 'industrial revolution'), taken from the Communist Manifesto {H.o.M., 28;
italics mine = GA, Series I, vol. vi, 530-31): 'The means of production and of exchange, on
whose foundation the bourgeoisie built itself up, were generated in feudal society. At a
certain stage in the development of the means of production and of exchange . . . the feudal
relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive
forces. They became so many fetters. They had to be burst asunder. And they were burst
asunder.' (Cp. also text to note 11, and note 17 to chapter 17.)

15 . Cp. H. Heine, Religion and Philosophy in Germany. (Engl, transl., 1882); here quoted from
the appendix to P. Carus, Kant's Prolegomena, 1912, p. 267.

16. A testimony to this friendship can be found in Capital, at the end of footnote 2 to p. 671
Marx, I admit, was often intolerant. Nevertheless, I feel — but I may easily be mistaken — that
he had sufficient critical sense to see the weakness of all dogmatism, and that he would have
disliked the way in which his theories were converted into a set of dogmas. (See note 30 to
chapter 17, and p. 425 — ^p. 334 in Conjectures and Refutations — of 'What is Dialectic?' Cp.
note 4 to chapter 13.) It seems, however, that Engels was prepared to tolerate the intolerance
and orthodoxy of the Marxists. In his Preface to the first English translation of Capital, he
writes (cp. Capital, 886) of the book that it 'is often called, on the Continent, "the Bible of
the working class".' And instead of protesting against a description which converts

'scientific' socialism into a religion, Engels proceeds to show, in his comments, that Capital
is worthy of this title, since 'the conclusions arrived at in this work are daily more and more
becoming the fundamental principles of the great working-class movement' all over the
world. From here there was only one step to the heresy-hunting and excommunication of
those who retain the critical, i.e. scientific, spirit, the spirit which had once inspired Engels as
well as Marx.

Notes to Chapter Sixteen

1. Cp. Marx and Engels, The Communist Manifesto; sqq H.o.M., p. 22 (= GA, Series I, vol. vi,
525). As pointed out in chapter 4 (see text to notes 5/6 and 11/12), Plato had very similar
ideas.

2. Cp. text to note 15 to chapter 14.

3. Cp. MsLYx,The Poverty of Philosophy, H.o.M., 355 {= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 179). (The
quotation is from the same place as that from which the passages quoted in note 13 to
chapter 15 are taken.)

4. Cp. the preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy; cp. Capital, xvi, and
H.o.M., 371 f {= Zur Kritik der politischen Oekonomie, LIV-LV. See also note 20 to chapter
13, note 1 to chapter 14, note 13 to chapter 15, and text.) The passage quoted here, and
especially the terms 'material productive forces' and 'productive relationships' receive some
light from those quoted in note 13 to chapter 15.

5. Cp. Capital, 650 f. See also the parallel passage on capitalist and miser in Capital, 138 f , =
H.o.M., 437; cp. also note 17 to chapter 17. In The Poverty of Philosophy, H.o.M., 367 (=
GA, Series I, vol. vi, 189), Marx writes: 'Although all the members of the modem
bourgeoisie have the same interest in so far as they form a class against another class, they
have opposite, antagonistic interests, in so far as they stand face to face with one another.
This opposition of interests results from the economic conditions of their bourgeois life.'

6. Capital, 651.

7. This is exactly analogous to Hegel's nationalist historicism, where the true interest of the
nation gains consciousness in the subjective minds of the nationals, and especially of the
leader.

8. Cp. the text to note 14 to chapter 13.

9. Cp. Capital, 651.

10 . *I originally used the term 'laissezfaire capitaHsm'; but in view of the fact that 'laissez-

faire' indicates the absence of trade barriers (such as customs) — something highly desirable,
I believe — and of the fact that I consider the economic policy of non-interference of the
early nineteenth century as undesirable, and even as paradoxical, I decided to change my
terminology, and to use the term 'unrestrained capitalism' instead.*

Notes to Chapter Seventeen

1. Cp. the Preface to A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy {H.o.M., 372 = Zur
Kritik der politischen Oekonomie, LV). For the theory of the strata or layers of the
'superstructures', see the quotations in note 13 to chapter 15.

2. For Plato's recommendation of 'both persuassion and force', see, for instance, text to note
35 to chapter 5, and notes 5 and 10 to chapter 8.

3. Cp. Lenin, State and Revolution {H.o.M., 733/4 and 735 = State and Revolution, 15 and 16).

4. The two quotations are from Marx-Engels, The Communist Manifesto (H.o.M., 46 = GA,
Series I, vol. vi, 546).

5. Cp. Lenin, State and Revolution {H.o.M., 725 = State and Revolution, 8-9).

6. For the characteristic problems of a historicist essentialism, and especially for problems of
the type 'What is the state?' or 'What is government?' cp. the text to notes 26-30 to chapter
3,21-4 and 26 ff. to chapter 1 1 and 26 to chapter 12.

For the language of political demands (or better, of political 'proposals ', as L. J. Russell
puts it) which in my opinion must replace this kind of essentialism, cp. especially text
between notes 41 and 42 to chapter 6 and note 5(3) to chapter 5. For Marx's essentialism,
see especially text to note 11, and note 13, to chapter 15; note 16 to the present chapter; and
notes 20-24 to chapter 20. Cp. especially the methodological remark in the third volume of
Capital {Das Kapital, III/2, p. 352), quoted in note 20 to chapter 20.

7. This quotation is from the Communist Manifesto {H.o.M., 25 = GA, Series I, vol. vi, 528).
The text is from Engels' Preface to the first English translation of Capital. I quote here the
whole concluding passage of this Preface; Engels speaks there about Marx's conclusion 'that
at least in Europe, England is the only country where the inevitable social revolution might
be effected entirely by peaceful and legal means. He certainly never forgot to add that he
hardly expected the English ruling class to submit, without a "pro-slavery rebellion", to this
peaceful and legal revolution'. (Cp. Capital, 887; see also text to note 7 to chapter 19.) This
passage shows clearly that, according to Marxism, the violence or non-violence of the

revolution will depend on the resistance or non-resistance of the old ruling class. Cp. also
text to notes 3 ff. to chapter 19.

8. Cp. EngQls, Anti-Diihring {H.o.M., 296 = GA, Special volume, 292); see also the passages
mentioned in note 5 to this chapter.

The resistance of the bourgeoisie has been broken for some years in Russia; but there are no
signs of the 'withering away' of the Russian state, not even in its internal organization.
The theory of the withering away of the state is highly unrealistic, and I think that it may
have been adopted by Marx and Engels mainly in order to take the wind out of their rivals'
sails. The rivals I have in mind are Bakunin and the anarchists; Marx did not like to see
anyone else's radicalism outdoing his own. Like Marx, they aimed at the overthrow of the
existing social order, directing their attack, however, against the politico-legal, instead of the
economic system. To them, the state was the fiend who had to be destroyed. But for his
anarchist competitors, Marx, from his own premises, might have easily granted the
possibility that the institution of the state, under socialism, might have to fulfil new and
indispensable functions; namely those functions of safeguarding justice and freedom allotted
to it by the great theorists of democracy.

9. Cp. Capital 799.

10 . In the chapter, 'Primary accumulation', Marx is, as he says (p. 801), 'not concerned ... with
the purely economic causes of the agricultural revolution. Our present interest is the forcible'
(i.e. political) 'means that were used to bring about the change.'

11 . For the many passages, and the superstructures, cp. note 13 to chapter 15.

12 . Cp. the text to the notes referred to in the last note.

13 . One of the most noteworthy and valuable parts of Capital, a truly imperishable document of
human suffering, is Chapter VIII of the First Volume, entitled 'The Working Day', in which
Marx sketches the early history of labour legislation. From this well-documented chapter, the
following quotations are taken.

It must, however, be realized that this very chapter contains the material for a complete
refutation of Marxist 'Scientific SociaHsm', which is based upon the prophecy of ever-

increasing exploitation of the workers. No man can read this chapter of Marx without
realizing that this prophecy has fortunately not come true. It is not impossible, however, that
this is due, in part, to the activities of the Marxists in organizing labour; but the main
contribution comes from the increased productivity of labour — in its turn, according to
Marx, a result of 'Capitalist accumulation'.

14 . Cp. Capital, 246. (See the footnote 1 to this passage.)

15 . Cp. Capital, 257 f. Marx's comment in his footnote 1 to this page is most interesting. He
shows that such cases as these were used by the pro-slavery Tory reactionaries for
propaganda for slavery. And he shows that among others, Thomas Carlyle, the oracle (a
forerunner of fascism), participated in this pro-slavery movement. Carlyle, to quote Marx,
reduced 'the one great event of contemporary history, the American Civil War, to this level,
that the Peter of the North wants to break the head of the Paul of the South because the Peter
of the North hires his workers "by the day, and the Paul of the South hires them by the
lifetime".' Marx is here quoting Carlyle's article 'Ilias Americana in Nuce' {Macmillan's
Magazine, August, 1863). And Marx concludes: 'Thus the bubble of the Tory sympathy for
the urban workers (the Tories never had any sympathy for agricultural workers) has burst at
last. Inside it we find — slavery!'

One of my reasons for quoting this passage is that I wish to emphasize Marx's complete
disagreement with the belief that there is not much to choose between slavery and 'wage-
slavery'. Nobody could stress more strongly than Marx the fact that the abolition of slavery
(and consequently the introduction of 'wage-slavery') is a most important and necessary
step in the emancipation of the oppressed. The term 'wage-slavery' is therefore dangerous
and misleading; for it has been interpreted, by Vulgar Marxists, as an indication that Marx
agreed with what is in fact Carlyle's appraisal of the situation.

16 . Marx defines the 'value' of a commodity as the average number of labour hours necessary
for its reproduction. This definition is a good illustration of his essentialism (cp. note 8 to
this chapter). For he introduces value in order to get at the essential reality which
corresponds to what appears in the form of the price of a commodity. Price is a delusive
kind of appearance. 'A thing may have a price without having value', writes Marx (Capital,

79; see also Cole's excellent remarks in his Introduction to Capital, especially pp. xxvii, ff.).
A sketch of Marx's 'value theory' will be found in chapter 20. (Cp. notes 9-27 to that
chapter, and text.)

17. For the problem of the 'wage-slaves', cp. end of note 15 to this chapter; also Capital, 155
(especially footnote 1). For Marx's analysis the results of which are briefly sketched here,
see especially Capital, 153 ff., also the footnote 1 to p. 153; cp. also my chapter 20, below.
My presentation of Marx's analysis may be supported by quoting a statement made by
Engels in his Anti-Duhring on the occasion of a summary of Capital. Engels writes (H.o.M.,
269 = GA, Special volume, 160-67): 'In other words, even if we exclude all possibility of
robbery, violence, and fraud and even if we assume that all private property was originally
produced by the owner's own labour; and that throughout the whole subsequent process,
there was only exchange of equal values for equal values; even then the progressive
development of production and exchange would necessarily bring about the present
capitalist system of production; with its monopolization of the instruments of production as
well as of the goods of consumption in the hands of a class weak in numbers; with its
degradation into proletarian paupers of the other class comprising the immense majority;
with its periodic cycle of production booms and of trade depressions; in other words, with
the whole anarchy of our present system of production. The whole process is explained by
purely economic causes: robbery, force, and the assumption of political interference of any
kind are unnecessary at any point whatever.'

Perhaps this passage may one day convince a Vulgar Marxist that Marxism does not explain
depressions by the conspiracy of 'big business'. Marx himself said {Das Kapital, II, 406 f ,
italics mine): 'Capitalist production involves conditions which, independently of good or
bad intentions, permit only a temporary relative prosperity of the working class, and always
only as a forerunner of a depression.'

18 . For the doctrine 'property is theft' or 'property is robbery', cp. also Marx's remark on John
Watts in Capital, 601, footnote 1.

19 . For the Hegelian character of the distinction between merely 'formal' and 'actual' or 'real'
freedom, or democracy, cp. note 62 to chapter 12. Hegel likes to attack the British

constitution for its cult of merely 'formal' freedom, as opposed to the Prussian state in which
'real' freedom is 'actualized'. For the quotation at the end of this paragraph, cp. the passage
quoted in the text to note 7 to chapter 15. See also notes 14 and 15 to chapter 20, and text.

20 . For the paradox of freedom and the need for the protection of freedom by the state, cp. the
four paragraphs in the text before note 42 to chapter 6, and especially notes 4 and 6 to
chapter 7, and text; see also note 41 to chapter 12, and text, and note 7 to chapter 24.

21 . Against this analysis, it may be said that, if we assume perfect competition between the
entrepreneurs as producers, and especially as buyers of labour on the labour markets (and if
we further assume that there is no 'industrial reserve army' of unemployed to exert pressure
on this market), then there could be no talk of exploitation of the economically weak by the
economically strong, i.e. of the workers by the entrepreneurs. But is the assumption of
perfect competition between the buyers on the labour markets at all realistic? Is it not true
that, for example, on many local labour markets, there is only one buyer of any
significance? Besides, we cannot assume that perfect competition would automatically
eliminate the problem of unemployment, if for no other reason than because labour cannot
easily be moved.

22 . For the problem of economic intervention by the state, and for a characterization of our
present economic system as interventionism, see the next three chapters, especially note 9 to
chapter 18 and text. It may be remarked ihdit interventionism as used here is the economic
complement of what I have called in chapter 6, text to notes 24-44, political protectionism.
(It is clear why the term 'protectionism' cannot be used instead of 'interventionism'.) See
especially note 9 to chapter 18, and 25/26 to chapter 20, and text.

23 . The passage is quoted more fully in the text to note 14 to chapter 13; for the contradiction
between practical action and historicist determinism, see that note, and text to notes 5 ff. to
chapter 22.

24 . Cp. section II of chapter 7.

25 . See Bertrand Russell, Power (1938); cp. especially pp. 123 ff.; Walter Lippmann, The Good
Society (1937), cp. especially pp. 188 ff.

26 . Russell, Power, pp. 128 f. Italics mine.

27 . Laws to safeguard democracy are still in a rather rudimentary state of development. Very
much could and should be done. The freedom of the press, for instance, is demanded
because of the aim that the public should be given correct information; but viewed from this
standpoint, it is a very insufficient institutional guarantee that this aim will be achieved.
What good newspapers usually do at present on their own initiative, namely, giving the
public all important information available, might be established as their duty, either by
carefully framed laws, or by the establishment of a moral code, sanctioned by public
opinion. Matters such as, for instance, the Zinovief letter, could be perhaps controlled by a
law which makes it possible to nullify elections won by improper means, and which makes a
publisher who neglects his duty to ascertain as well as possible the truth of pubHshed
information liable for the damage done; in this case, for the expenses of a fresh election. I
cannot go into details here, but it is my firm conviction that we could easily overcome the
technological difficulties which may stand in the way of achieving such ends as the conduct
of election campaigns largely by appeal to reason instead of passion. I do not see why we
should not, for instance, standardize the size, type, etc., of the electioneering pamphlets, and
eliminate placards. (This need not endanger freedom, just as reasonable limitations imposed
upon those who plead before a court of justice protect freedom rather than endanger it.) The
present methods of propaganda are an insult to the public as well as to the candidate.
Propaganda of the kind which may be good enough for selling soap should not be used in
matters of such consequence.

28 . *Cp. the British 'Control of Engagement Order', 1947. The fact that this order is hardly
used (it is clearly not abused) shows that legislation of even the most dangerous character is
enacted without compelling need — obviously because the fundamental difference between
the two types of legislation, viz. the one that estabhshes general rules of conduct, and the
one that gives the government discretionary powers, is not sufficiently understood.*

29 *For this distinction, and for the use of the term 'legal framework', see F. A. Hayek, The
Road to Serfdom (I am quoting from the 1st English edition, London, 1944). See, for
example, p. 54, where Hayek speaks of 'the distinction ... between the creation of a

permanent framework of laws within which productive activity is guided by individual
decision, and the direction of economic activity by a central authority.' (Italics mine.) Hayek
emphasizes the significance of the predictability of the legal framework; see, for example, p.
56.*

30 . The review, published in the European Messenger of St. Petersburg, is quoted by Marx in
the Preface to the 2nd edition of Capital. (See Capital, 871.)

In fairness to Marx, we must say that he did not always take his own system too seriously,
and that he was quite prepared to deviate a little from his fundamental scheme; he
considered it as a point of view (and as such it was certainly most important) rather than as a
system of dogmas.

Thus we read, on two consecutive pages of Capital (832 f ), a statement which emphasizes
the usual Marxist theory of the secondary character of the legal system (or of its character as
a cloak, an 'appearance'), and another statement which ascribes a very important role to the
political might of the state and raises it explicitly to the rank of a full-grown economic force.
The first of these statements, 'The author would have done well to remember that
revolutions are not made by laws', refers to the industrial revolution, and to an author who
asked for the enactments by which it was effected. The second statement is a comment (and
one most unorthodox from the Marxist point of view) upon the methods of accumulating
capital; all these methods, Marx says, 'make use of the power of the state, which is the
centralized political might of society. Might is the midwife of every old society pregnant
with a new one. It is itself an economic force.' Up to the last sentence, which I have put in
italics, the passage is clearly orthodox. But the last sentence breaks through this orthodoxy.
Engels was more dogmatic. One should compare especially one of his statements in his Anti-
Duhring {H.o.M., 277), where he writes, 'The role played in history by political might as
opposed to economic developments is now clear.' He contends that whenever 'political
might works against economic developments, then, as a rule, with only few exceptions, it
succumbs; these few exceptions are isolated cases of conquest in which barbarian
conquerors ... have laid waste ... productive forces which they did not know how to use'.
(Compare, however, notes 13/14 to chapter 15, and text.)

The dogmatism and authoritarianism of most Marxists is a really astonishing phenomenon. It

just shows that they use Marxism irrationally, as a metaphysical system. It is to be found
among radicals and moderates alike. E. Bums, for example, makes (in H.o.M., 374) the
surprisingly naive statement that 'refutations ... inevitably distort Marx's theories'; which
seems to imply that Marx's theories are irrefutable, i.e. unscientific; for every scientific
theory is refutable, and can be superseded. L. Laurat, on the other hand, in Marxism and
Democracy, p. 226, says: 'In looking at the world in which we live, we are staggered at the
almost mathematical precision with which the essential predictions of Karl Marx are being
realized. '

Marx himself seems to have thought differently. I may be wrong in this, but I do beheve in
the sincerity of his statement (at the end of his Preface to the first edition of Capital; see
865): 'I welcome scientific criticism, however harsh. But in the face of the prejudices of a
so-called public opinion, I shall stick to my maxim ...: Follow your course, and let them
chatter! '

Notes to Chapter Eighteen

1. For Marx's essentialism, and the fact that the material means of production play the part of
essences in his theory, cp. especially note 13 to chapter 15. See also note 6 to chapter 17
and notes 20-24 to chapter 20, and text.

2. Cp. Capital, 864 =H.o.M., 374, and notes 14 and 16 to chapter 13.

3. What I call the secondary aim of Capital, its anti-apologetic aim, includes a somewhat
academic task, namely, the critique of political economy with regard to its scientific status. It
is this latter task to which Marx alluded both in the title of the forerunner of Capital, namely
in A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, and in the sub-title of Capital itself,
which reads, in literal translation. Critique of Political Economy. For both these titles allude
unmistakably to Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. And this title, in turn, was intended to
mean: 'Critique of pure or metaphysical philosophy in regard to its scientific status'. (This is
more clearly indicated by the title of the paraphrase of Kant's Critique which reads in an
almost literal translation: Prolegomena To Any Metaphysics Which In Future May Justly
Claim Scientific Status.) By alluding to Kant, Marx apparently wished to say: 'Just as Kant
criticized the claim of metaphysics, revealing that it was no science but largely apologetic
theology, so I criticize here the corresponding claims of bourgeois economics.' That the
main tendency of Kant's Critique was, in Marx's circles, considered to be directed against
apologetic theology can be seen from its representation in Religion and Philosophy in
Germany by Marx's friend, H. Heine (cp. notes 15 and 16 to chapter 15). It is not quite
without interest that, in spite of Engels' supervision, the first English translators of Capital
translated its sub-title as A Critical Analysis of Capitalist Production , thus substituting an
emphasis upon what I have described in the text as Marx's first aim for an allusion to his
second aim.

Burke is quoted by Marx in Capital, 843, note 1. The quotation is from E. Burke, Thoughts
and Details on Scarcity, 1800, pp. 31 f.

4. Cp. my remarks on class consciousness towards the end of section I, in chapter 16.
Concerning the continued existence of class-unity after the class struggle against the class

enemy has ceased, it is, I think, hardly in keeping with Marx's assumptions, and especially
with his dialectics, to assume that class consciousness is a thing that can be accumulated and
afterwards stored, that it can survive the forces that produced it. But the further assumption
that it must necessarily outlive these forces contradicts Marx's theory which looks upon
consciousness as a mirror or as a product of hard social realities. And yet, this further
assumption must be made by anybody who holds with Marx that the dialectic of history
must lead to sociahsm.

The following passage from the Communist Manifesto {H.o.M., 46 f. = GA, Series I, vol. vi,
46) is particularly interesting in this context; it contains a clear statement that the class
consciousness of the workers is a mere consequence of the 'force of circumstances', i.e. the
pressure of the class situation; but it contains, at the same time, the doctrine criticized in the
text, namely, the prophecy of the classless society. This is the passage: 'In spite of the fact
that the proletariat is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organize itself as a class
during its struggle with the bourgeoisie; in spite of the fact that, by means of revolution, it
makes itself the ruling class, and, as such, sweeps away by force the old conditions of
production; in spite of these facts, it will sweep away, along with these conditions, also the
conditions for the existence of any class antagonism and of any classes, and will thereby
aboHsh its own supremacy as a class. — In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes
and class antagonism, we shall have an association in which the free development of each is
the warrant for the free development of all.' (Cp. also text to note 8 to this chapter.) It is a
beautiful belief, but it is an aesthetic and romantic belief; it is a wishful 'Utopianism', to use
Marxist terminology, not a 'scientific socialism'.

Marx fought against what he called 'Utopianism', and rightly so. (Cp. chapter 9.) But since
he was himself a romantic, he failed to discern the most dangerous element in Utopianism,
its romantic hysteria, its aestheticist irrationalism; instead, he fought against its (admittedly
most immature) attempts at rational planning, opposing to them his historicism. (Cp. note 21
to the present chapter.)

For all his acute reasoning and for all his attempts to use scientific method, Marx permitted
irrational and aesthetic sentiments to usurp, in places, complete control of his thoughts.
Nowadays one calls this wishful thinking. It was romantic, irrational, and even mystical

wishful thinking that led Marx to assume that the collective class unity and class solidarity of
the workers would last after a change in the class situation. It is thus wishfiil thinking, a
mystical collectivism, and an irrational reaction to the strain of civilization which leads Marx
to prophesy the necessary advent of socialism.

This kind of romanticism is one of the elements of Marxism which appeals most strongly to
many of its followers. It is expressed, for example, most touchingly in the dedication of
Hecker's Moscow Dialogues. Hecker speaks here of socialism as of 'a social order where the
strife of class and race shall be no more, and where truth, goodness and beauty shall be the
share of all'. Who would not like to have heaven on earth! And yet, it must be one of the
first principles of rational politics that we cannot make heaven on earth. We are not going to
become Free Spirits or angels at least not for the next couple of centuries or so. We are
bound to this earth by our metabohsm, as Marx once wisely declared; or as Christianity puts
it, we are spirit and flesh. Thus we must be more modest. In politics and in medicine, he
who promises too much is likely to be a quack. We must try to improve things, but we must
get rid of the idea of a philosopher's stone, of a formula which will convert our corrupt
human society into pure, lasting gold.

At the back of all this is the hope of casting out the devil from our world. Plato thought he
could do it by banishing him to the lower classes, and ruling over him. The anarchists
dreamt that once the state, the Political System, was destroyed, everything must turn out
well. And Marx dreamt a similar dream of banishing the devil by destroying the economic
system.

These remarks are not intended to imply that it is impossible to make even rapid advances,
perhaps even through the introduction of comparatively small reforms, such as, for example,
a reform of taxation, or a reduction of the rate of interest. I only wish to insist that we must
expect every elimination of an evil to create, as its unwanted repercussion, a host of new
though possibly very much lesser evils, which may be on an altogether different plane of
urgency. Thus the second principle of sane politics would be: all politics consists in
choosing the lesser evil (as the Viennese poet and critic K. Kraus put it). And politicians
should be zealous in the search for the evils their actions must necessarily produce instead of
concealing them, since a proper evaluation of competing evils must otherwise become

impossible.

5. Although I do not intend to deal with Marx's dialectics (cp. note 4 to chapter 13), I may
show that it would be possible to 'strengthen' Marx's logically inconclusive argument by so-
called 'dialectical reasoning'. In accordance with this reasoning, all we need is to describe
the antagonistic trends within capitalism in such a manner that socialism (for instance in the
form of a totalitarian state-capitalism) appears as the necessary synthesis. The two
antagonistic tendencies of capitalism can then perhaps be described thus. Thesis: The
tendency towards the accumulation of capital in a few hands; towards industrialization and
bureaucratic control of industry; towards economic and psychological levelling of the
workers through the standardization of needs and desires. Antithesis: The increasing misery
of the great masses; their increasing class consciousness in consequence of {a) class war,
and {b) their increasing realization of their paramount significance within an economic
system like that of an industrial society in which the working class is the only productive
class, and accordingly the only essential class. (Cp. also note 15 to chapter 19, and text.)

It is hardly necessary to show how the desired Marxist synthesis emerges; but it may be
necessary to insist that a slightly changed emphasis in the description of the antagonistic
tendency may lead to very different 'syntheses'; in fact, to any other synthesis one wishes to
defend. For instance, one could easily present fascism as a necessary synthesis; or perhaps
'technocracy'; or else, a system of democratic interventionism.

6. *Bryan Magee writes about this passage: 'This is what The New Class by Djilas is all about:
a fully worked out theory of the realities of the Communist revolution, written by an
unrepentant Communist.'*

7. The history of the working-class movement is full of contrasts. It shows that the workers
have been ready for the greatest sacrifices in their fight for the liberation of their own class,
and beyond this, of mankind. But there are also many chapters telling a sorry tale of quite
ordinary selfishness and of the pursuit of sectional interest to the detriment of all.

It is certainly understandable that a trade union which obtains a great advantage for its
members through solidarity and collective bargaining should try to exclude those from these
benefits who are not prepared to join the union; for instance, by incorporating in their

collective contracts the condition that only members of the union are to be employed. But it
is a very different matter, and indeed indefensible, if a union which in this way has obtained
a monopoly closes its membership list, thus keeping out fellow workers who want to join,
without even establishing a just method (such as the strict adherence to a waiting list) of
admitting new members. That such things can occur shows that the fact that a man is a
worker does not always prevent him from forgetting all about the solidarity of the oppressed
and from making full use of the economic prerogatives he may possess, i.e. from exploiting
his fellow workers.

8. Cp. The Communist Manifesto {H.o.M., 47 = GA, Series I, vol. vi, 546); the passage is
quoted more fully in note 4 to this chapter, where Marx's romanticism is dealt with.

9. The term 'capitalism' is much too vague to be used as a name of a definite historical period.
The term 'capitalism' was originally used in a disparaging sense, and it has retained this
sense ('system favouring big profits made by people who do not work') in popular usage.
But at the same time it has also been used in a neutral scientific sense, but with many
different meanings. In so far as, according to Marx, all accumulations of means of
production may be termed 'capital', we may even say that 'capitalism' is in a certain sense
synonymous with 'industrialism'. We could in this sense quite correctly describe a
communist society, in which the state owns all capital, as 'state-capitalism'. For these
reasons, I suggest using the name 'unrestrained capitalism' for that period which Marx
analysed and christened 'capitalism', and the name interventionism for our own period. The
name 'interventionism' could indeed cover the three main types of social engineering in our
time: the collectivist interventionism of Russia; the democratic interventionism of Sweden
and the 'Smaller Democracies' and the New Deal in America; and even the fascist methods
of regimented economy. What Marx called 'capitalism' — i.e. unrestrained capitalism — has
completely 'withered away' in the twentieth century.

10 . The Swedish 'social democrats', the party which inaugurated the Swedish experiment, had
once been Marxist; but it gave up its Marxist theories shortly after its decision to accept
governmental responsibilities and to embark upon a great programme of social reform. One
of the aspects in which the Swedish experiment deviates from Marxism is its emphasis upon

the consumer, and the role played by the consumer co-operatives, as opposed to the
dogmatic Marxist emphasis upon production. The technological economic theory of the
Swedes is strongly influenced by what Marxists would call 'bourgeois economies', while the
orthodox Marxist theory of value plays no role in it whatever.

11 . For this programme, see H.o.M., 46 (= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 545). — With point (1), cp. text
to note 15 to chapter 19.

It may be remarked that even in one of the most radical statements ever made by Marx, the
Address to the Communist League (1850), he considered a progressive income tax a most
revolutionary measure. In the fmal description of revolutionary tactics towards the end of
this address which culminates in the battle cry 'Revolution in permanence!' Marx says: 'If
the democrats propose proportional taxation, the workers must demand progressive taxation.
And should the democrats themselves declare for a moderate progressive tax, the workers
must insist upon a steeply graduated tax; so steeply graduated as to cause the collapse of
large capital.' (Cp. H.o.M., 70, and especially note 44 to chapter 20.)

12 . For my conception of piecemeal social engineering, cp. especially chapter 9. For political
intervention in economic matters, and a more precise explanation of the term
interventionism, see note 9 to this chapter and text.

13 . I consider this criticism of Marxism very important. It is mentioned in sections 17/18 of my
The Poverty of Historicism; and as stated there, it can be parried by proffering a historicist
moral theory. But I believe that only if such a theory (cp. chapter 22, especially notes 5 ff.
and text) is accepted can Marxism escape the charge that it teaches 'the belief in political
miracles'. (This term is due to Julius Kraft.) See also notes 4 and 21 to the present chapter.

14 . For the problem of compromise, cp. a remark at the end of the paragraph to which note 3 to
chapter 9 is appended. For a justification of the remark in the text, 'For they do not plan for
the whole of society', see chapter 9 . and my The Poverty of Historicism, II (especially the
criticism of holism).

15. F. A. von Hayek (cp., for example, his Freedom and the Economic System, Chicago, 1939)
insists that a centralized 'planned economy' must involve the gravest dangers to individual
freedom. But he also emphasizes that planning for freedom is necessary. ('Planning for

freedom' is also advocated by Mannheim, in his Man and Society in an Age oj
Reconstruction, 1941. But since his idea of 'planning' is emphatically collectivistic and
holistic, I am convinced that it must lead to tyranny, and not to freedom; and, indeed,
Mannheim's 'freedom' is the offspring of Hegel's. Cp. the end of chapter 23, and my paper
quoted at the end of the preceding note.)

16 . This contradiction between the Marxist historical theory and the Russian historical reality is
discussed in chapter 15, notes 13/14, and text.

17 . This is another contradiction between Marxist theory and historical practice; as opposed to
that mentioned in the last note, this second contradiction has given rise to many discussions
and attempts to explain the matter by the introduction of auxihary hypotheses. The most
important of these is the theory of imperialism and colonial exploitation. This theory asserts
that the revolutionary development is frustrated in countries in which the proletarian in
common with the capitalist reaps where not he but the oppressed natives of the colonies
have sown. This hypothesis which is undoubtedly refuted by developments like those in the
non-imperialistic Smaller Democracies will be discussed more fully in chapter 20 (text to
notes 37-40).

Many social democrats interpreted the Russian revolution, in accordance with Marx's
scheme, as a belated 'bourgeois revolution', insisting that this revolution was bound up with
an economic development parallel to the 'industrial revolution' in the more advanced
countries. But this interpretation assumes, of course, that history must conform with the
Marxist scheme. In fact, such an essentialist problem as whether the Russian revolution is a
belated industrial revolution or a premature 'social revolution' is of a purely verbal
character; and if it leads to difficulties within Marxism, then this shows only that Marxism
has verbal difficulties in describing events which have not been foreseen by its founders.

18 . The leaders were able to inspire in their followers an enthusiastic faith in their mission — to
liberate mankind. But the leaders also were responsible for the ultimate failure of their
politics, and the breakdown of the movement. This failure was due, very largely, to
intellectual irresponsibility. The leaders had assured the workers that Marxism was a science,
and that the intellectual side of the movement was in the best hands. But they never adopted

a scientific, i.e. a critical, attitude towards Marxism. As long as they could apply it (and what
is easier than this?), as long as they could interpret history in articles and speeches, they
were intellectually satisfied. (Cp. also notes 19 and 22 to this chapter.)

19 . For a number of years prior to the rise of fascism in Central Europe a very marked
defeatism within the ranks of the social democratic leaders was noticeable. They began to
believe that fascism was an unavoidable stage in social development. That is to say, they
began to make some amendments to Marx's scheme, but they never doubted the soundness
of the historicist approach; they never saw that such a question as 'Is fascism an unavoidable
stage in the development of civilization?' may be totally misleading.

20 . The Marxist movement in Central Europe had few precedents in history. It was a movement
which, in spite of the fact that it professed atheism, can truly be called a great religious
movement. (Perhaps this may impress some of those intellectuals who do not take Marxism
seriously.) Of course, it was a collectivist and even a tribahst movement, in many ways. But
it was a movement of the workers to educate themselves for their great task; to emancipate
themselves, to raise the standard of their interests and of their pastimes; to substitute
mountaineering for alcohol, classical music for swing, serious books for thrillers. 'The
emancipation of the working class can only be achieved by the workers themselves' was
their belief (For the deep impression made by this movement on some observers, see, for
example, G. E. R. Gedye's Fallen Bastions, 1939.)

21 . The quotation is from Marx's Preface to the second edition of Capital (cp. Capital, 870; cp.
also note 6 to chapter 13). It shows how fortunate Marx was in his reviewers (cp. also note
30 to chapter 17, and text).

Another most interesting passage in which Marx expresses his anti-Utopianism and
historicism can be found mThe Civil War in France {H.o.M., 150, K. Marx, Z)er
Buergerkrieg in Frankreich, A. Willaschek, Hamburg 1920, 65-66), where Marx says
approvingly of the Paris Commune of 1871: 'The working class did not expect miracles from
the Commune. They have no ready-made Utopias, to be introduced by the decree of the
people. They know that in order to achieve their own emancipation, and with it, those higher
forms to which our present society is irresistibly tending, . . . they will have to pass through

long struggles, through a series of historic processes, transforming circumstances and men.
They have no ideals to realize, but to set free the elements of the new society with which the
old collapsing bourgeois society itself is pregnant.' There are few passages in Marx which
exhibit the historicist lack of plan more strikingly. 'They have to pass through long struggles
Marx says. But if they have no plan to realize, 'no ideals to realize', as Marx says, what
are they struggling for? They 'did not expect miracles', Marx says; but he himself expected
miracles in believing that the historical struggle irresistibly tends to 'higher forms' of social
life. (Cp. notes 4 and 13 to the present chapter.) Marx was to a certain extent justified in his
refusal to embark upon social engineering. To organize the workers was undoubtedly the
most important practical task of his day. If such a suspect excuse as 'the time was not ripe
for it' can ever be justly applied, it must be applied to Marx's refusal to dabble in the
problems of rational institutional social engineering. (This point is illustrated by the childish
character of the Utopian proposals down to and including, say, Bellamy.) But it was
unfortunate that he supported this sound political intuition by a theoretical attack upon social
technology. This became an excuse for his dogmatic followers to continue in the same
attitude at a time when things had changed, and technology had become politically more
important even than organizing the workers.

22 . The Marxist leaders interpreted the events as the dialectical ups and downs of history. They
thus functioned as cicerones, as guides through the hills (and valleys) of history rather than
as political leaders of action. This dubious art of interpreting the terrible events of history
instead of fighting them was forcefully denounced by the poet K. Kraus (mentioned in note
4 to this chapter).

Notes to Chapter Nineteen

1. Cp. Capital, 846 =H.o.M., 403.

2. The passage is from Marx-Engels, The Communist Manifesto . (Cp. H.o.M., 31 = GA, Series
I, vol. vi, 533.)

3. Cp. Capital, 547 = H.o.M., 560 (where it is quoted by Lenin).

A remark may be made concerning the term 'concentration of capital' (which I have
translated in the text 'concentration of capital in a few hands').

In the third edition of Capital (cp. Capital, 689 ff.) Marx introduced the following
distinctions: (a) by accumulation of capital he means merely the growth in the total amount
of capital goods, for example, within a certain region; (b) by concentration of capital he
means (cp. 689/690) the normal growth of the capital in the hands of the various individual
capitalists, a growth which arises from the general tendency towards accumulation and
which gives them command over an increasing number of workers; (c) by centralization he
means (cp. 691) that kind of growth of capital which is due to the expropriation of some
capitalists by other capitalists ('one capitalist lays many of his fellows low').
In the second edition, Marx had not yet distinguished between concentration and
centralization; he used the term 'concentration' in both senses {b) and (c). To show the
difference, we read in the third edition {Capital, 691): 'Here we have genuine centralization,
in contradistinction to accumulation and concentration.' In the second edition, we read at
this place: 'Here we have genuine concentration, in contradistinction to accumulation.' The
alteration, however, was not made throughout the book, but only in a few passages
(especially pp. 690-3, and 846). In the passage here quoted in the text, the wording
remained the same as in the second edition. In the passage (p. 846) quoted in the text to note
15 to this chapter, Marx replaced 'concentration' by 'centralization'.

4. Cp. Marx's Eighteenth Brumaire {H.o.M., 123; italics mine = Karl Marx, Der Achtzehnte
Brumaire des Louis Bonaparte, Verlag fur Literatur und Politik. Wien-Berlin 1927, 28-29):
'The bourgeois republic triumphed. On its side stood the aristocracy of finance, the
industrial bourgeoisie, the middle class, the petty bourgeoisie, the army, the rabble

proletariat, organized as the Mobile Guard, the intellectual lights, the clergy, and the rural
population. On the side of the Paris proletariat stood none but the proletariat itself.'
For an incredibly naive statement made by Marx concerning the 'rural producers', cp. also
note 43 to chapter 20.

5. Cp. text to note 1 1 to chapter 18.

6. Cp. the quotation in note 4 to the present chapter, especially the reference to the middle
class and to the 'intellectual lights'.

For the 'rabble proletariat', cp. the same place and Capital, 711 f. (The term is there
translated as 'tatterdemalion proletariat'.)

7. For the meaning of 'class consciousness' in Marx's sense, see end of section I in chapter 16.
Apart from the possible development of a defeatist spirit, as mentioned in the text, there are
other things which may undermine the class consciousness of the workers, and which may
lead to disunion among the working class. Lenin, for example, mentions that imperialism
may split the workers by offering them a share in its spoils; he writes {H.o.M., 101 = V. I.
Lenin, L.L.L., Imperialism, the Highest State of Capitalism, vol. xv, 96; cp. also note 40 to
chapter 20): '... in Great Britain, the tendency of imperialism to split the workers, to
strengthen the opportunists among them, and to cause temporary decay in the working-class
movement, revealed itself much earlier than at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning
of the twentieth centuries.'

H. B. Parkes rightly mentions in his excellent analysis, Marxism — A Post Mortem (1940; also
published under the title Marxism — An Autopsy), that it is quite possible that entrepreneurs
and workers may together exploit the consumer; in a protected or monopolist industry, they
may share in the spoil. This possibility shows that Marx exaggerates the antagonism between
the interests of the workers and entrepreneurs.

And lastly it may be mentioned that the tendency of most governments to proceed along the
line of least resistance is liable to lead to the following result. Since workers and
entrepreneurs are the best organized and politically most powerful groups in the community,
a modern government may easily tend to satisfy both at the expense of the consumer. And it
may do so without a guilty conscience; for it will persuade itself that it has done well by

establishing peace between the most antagonistic parties in the community.

8. Cp. text to notes 17 and 18 to this chapter.

9. Some Marxists even dare to assert that there would be far less suffering involved in a violent
social revolution than in the chronic evils inherent in what they call 'capitalism'. (Cp. L.
Lamat, Marxism and Democracy, translated by E. Fitzgerald, 1940; p. 38, note 2; Laurat
criticizes Sidney Hook, Towards an Understanding of Marx , for holding such views.) These
Marxists do not, however, disclose the scientific basis of this estimate; or to speak more
bluntly, of this utterly irresponsible piece of oracular pretence.

10 . 'It should be plain without any further comment', Engels says about Marx, remembering his
Hegel, 'that if things and their mutual relations are taken to be variable instead of fixed, then
their mental images, their notions, will be subject to variation and transformation also; that
one does not attempt to force them into the pigeonholes of rigid definitions; but that one
treats them, as the case may be, according to the historical or logical character of the process
by which they have been formed.' (Cp. Engels' Preface to Das Kapital, III/l, p. xvi.)

11. It does not correspond precisely because the Communists sometimes profess the more
moderate theory, especially in those countries where this theory is not represented by the
Social Democrats. Cp., for example, text to note 26 to this chapter.

12 . Cp. notes 4 and 5 to chapter 17, and text; as well as note 14 to the present chapter; and
contrast with notes 17 and 18 to the present chapter, and text.

13 . There are, of course, positions between these two; and there are also more moderate Marxist
positions: especially A. Bernstein's so-called 'revisionism'. This latter position, in fact, gives
up Marxism altogether; it is nothing but the advocacy of a strictly democratic and non-
violent workers' movement.

14 . This development of Marx's is, of course, an interpretation, and not a very convincing one;
the fact is that Marx was not very consistent, and that he used the terms 'revolution', 'force',
'violence', etc., with a systematic ambiguity. This position was partly forced upon him by
the fact that history during his lifetime did not proceed according to his plan. It conformed to
the Marxist theory in so far as it exhibited most clearly a tendency away from what Marx

called 'capitalism', i.e. away from non-intervention. Marx frequently referred with
satisfaction to this tendency, for example, in his Preface to the first edition of Capital. (Cp.
the quotation in note 16 to the present chapter; see also the text.) On the other hand, this
same tendency (towards interventionism) led to an improvement of the lot of the workers in
opposition to Marx's theory; and it thereby reduced the likelihood of a revolution. Marx's
wavering and ambiguous interpretations of his own teaching are probably the result of this
situation.

In order to illustrate the point, two passages may be quoted, one from an early and one from
a late work of Marx. The early passage is from the Address to the Communist League (1850;
cp.H.o.M., pp. 60 ff. = Labour Monthly, September 1922, 136 ff). The passage is
interesting because it is practical. Marx assumes that the workers together with the bourgeois
democrats have won the battle against feudalism and have set up a democratic regime. Marx
insists that after having achieved this, the battle-cry of the workers must be 'Revolution in
permanence!' What this means is explained in detail (p. 66): 'They must act in such a
manner that the revolutionary excitement does not collapse immediately after the victory. On
the contrary, they must maintain it as long as possible. Far from opposing so-called
excesses, such as the sacrificing to popular revenge of hated individuals or public buildings
to which hateful memories are attached, such deeds must not only be tolerated, but their
direction must be taken in hand, for example's sake.' (Cp. also note 35 (1) to this chapter,
and note 44 to chapter 20.)

A moderate passage which contrasts with the previous one may be chosen from Marx's
Address to the First International (Amsterdam, 1872; cp. L. Laurat, op. cit., p. 36): 'We do
not deny that there are countries, such as the United States and Great Britain — if I knew your
institutions better, I should perhaps add Holland — where the workers will be able to achieve
their aims by peaceftil means. But this is not the case in all countries.' For these more
moderate views, cp. also text to notes 16-18 to the present chapter.

But the whole confusion can be found in a nutshell as early as in the fmal summary of the
Manifesto where we find the following two contradictory statements, separated by one
sentence only: (1) 'In short, the Communists support everywhere every revolutionary
movement against the existing social and political order of things.' (This must include

England, for example.) (2) Finally, they labour everywhere for the union and agreement of
the democratic parties of all countries.' To make the confusion complete, the next sentences
run: 'The communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that
their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.'
(Democratic conditions are not excluded.)

15 . Cp. Capital, 846 =H.o.M., 403 f. (Concerning the term 'centralization', substituted in the
third edition for the term 'concentration' of the second edition, cp. note 3 to the present
chapter. Concerning the translation 'their capitalist cloak becomes a straitjacket', it may be
remarked that a more literal translation would be: 'they become incompatible with their
capitalist wrapper' or 'cloak' or slightly more freely: 'their capitaHst cloak becomes
intolerable'.)

This passage is strongly influenced by Hegelian dialectics, as is shown by its continuation.
(Hegel called the antithesis of a thesis sometimes its negation, and the synthesis the
'negation of the negation'.) 'The capitalist method of appropriation', Marx writes, '... is the
first negation of individual private property based upon individual labour. But with the
inexorability of a law of nature, capitaHst production begets its own negation. It is the
negation of the negation. This second negation . . . establishes . . . the common ownership of
the land and of the means of production.' (For a more detailed dialectical derivation of
socialism, cp. note 5 to chapter 18.)

16. This was the attitude taken up by Marx in his Preface to the first edition of Capital (Capital,
865), where he says: 'Still, progress is undeniable ... The foreign representatives of the
British crown . . . tell us . . . that in the more advanced countries of the European continent, a
change in the relations between capital and labour is just as obvious and as inevitable as in
England . . . Mr. Wade, the vice-president of the United States of North America . . . declares
at public meetings that, after the abolition of slavery, a radical change in the conditions of
capital and landed property comes next on the agenda!' (Cp. also note 14 to this chapter.)

17 . Cp. Engels' Preface to the first English edition of Capital. (Capital, 887.) The passage is
quoted more fully in note 9 to chapter 17.

18 . Cp. Marx's letter to Hyndman, dated December 8th, 1880; see H. H. Hyndman, The Record

of an Adventurous Life (1911), p. 283. Cp. also L. Laurat, op. cit., 239. The passage may be
quoted here more fully: 'If you say that you do not share the views of my party for England
I can only reply that that party considers an English revolution noinecessary, but —
according to historic precedents — possible. If the unavoidable evolution turns into a
revolution, it would not only be the fault of the ruling classes, but also of the working class.'
(Note the ambiguity of the position.)

19 . H. B. VdiX\.QS, Marxism — A Post Mortem, p. 101 (cp. also pp. 106 ff.), expresses a similar
view; he insists that the Marxist 'belief that capitalism cannot be reformed but can only be
destroyed' is one of the characteristic tenets of the Marxist theory of accumulation. 'Adopt
some other theory', he says, and it remains possible for capitaHsm to be transformed by
gradual methods.'

20. Cp. the end of \hQ Manifesto (H.o.M., 59 = GA, Series I, vol. vi, 557): 'The proletarians
have nothing to lose but their fetters. They have a world to win.'

21 . Cp. the Manifesto (H.o.M., 45 = GA, Series I, vol. vi, 545); the passage is quoted more fully
in text to note 35 to this chapter. — The last quotation in this paragraph is from the Manifesto,
H.o.M., 35 (= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 536). Cp. also note 35 to this chapter.

22 . But social reforms have rarely been carried out under the pressure of those who suffer;
religious movements — I include the Utilitarians — and individuals (like Dickens) may
influence public opinion greatly. And Henry Ford discovered, to the astonishment of all
Marxists and many 'capitalists' that a rise in wages may benefit the employer.

23 . Cp. notes 18 and 21 to chapter 18.

24. Cp. H.o.M., 37 (= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 538).

25 . Cp. The State and Revolution, H.o.M., 756 (= State and Revolution, 77). Here is the passage
in full: 'Democracy is of great importance for the working class in its struggle for freedom
against the capitalists. But democracy is by no means a limit one may not overstep; it is only
one of the stages in the course of the development from feudalism to capitalism, and from
capitalism, to Communism.'

Lenin insists that democracy means only 'formal equality'. Cp. also H.o.M., 834 (= V. I.

Lenin, The Proletarian Revolution and the Renegade Kautsky. L.L.L., vol. xviii, 34), where
Lenin uses this HegeHan argument of merely 'formal' equality against Kautsky: he
accepts the formal equality, which under capitaHsm is merely a fraud and a piece of
hypocrisy at its face value as a de facto equality . . . '

26 . Cp. Parkes, Marxism — A Post Mortem, p. 219.

27 . Such a tactical move is in keeping with the Manifesto which announces that the
Communists 'labour everywhere for the union and agreement of the democratic parties of all
countries', but which announces at the same time 'that their ends can be attained only by the
forcible overthrow of existing social conditions', which include democratic conditions.

But such a tactical move is also in keeping with the party programme of 1928; for this says
{H.O.M., 1036; italics mine = The Programme of the Communist International, Modem
Books Ltd., London 1932, 61): 'In determining its line of tactics each Communist Party must
take into account the concrete internal and external situation ... The party determines
slogans ... with a view to organizing ... the masses on the broadest possible scale.' But this
cannot be achieved without making full use of the systematic ambiguity of the term
revolution.

28 . Cp. H.O.M., 59 and 1042 {= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 557, dind Programme of the Communist
International, 65); and end of note 14 to this chapter. (See also note 37.)

29 . This is not a quotation but a paraphrase. Cp., for example, the passage from Engels' Preface
to the first English edition of Capital quoted in note 9 to chapter 17. See also L. Laurat, op.
cit., p. 240.

30 . The first of the two passages is quoted by L. Laurat, loc. cit.; for the second, cp. H.o.M., 93
(= Karl Marx, The Class Struggle in France 1848-1850. Introduction by F. Engels. Co-
operative Publishing Society of Foreign Workers in the U.S.S.R., Moscow 1934, 29). Italics
mine.

31 . Engels was partly conscious that he had been forced to a change of front since 'History has
proved us wrong, and all who thought like us', as he said {H.o.M., 79 = Karl Marx,
Klassenkampfe in Frankreich, Vorwaerts, Berlin 1890, 8). But he was conscious mainly of

one mistake: that he and Marx had overrated the speed of the development. That the
development was, in fact, in a different direction, he never admitted, although he
complained of it; cp. text to notes 38-9 to chapter 20, where I quote Engels' paradoxical
complaint that the 'working class is actually becoming more and more bourgeois'.

32 . Cp. notes 4 and 6 to chapter 7.

33 . They may continue for other reasons also; for example, because the tyrant's power depends
on the support of a certain section of the ruled. But this does not mean that the tyranny must
in fact be a class rule, as the Marxists would say. For even if the tyrant is forced to bribe a
certain section of the population, to grant them economic or other advantages, this does not
mean that he is forced by this section, or that this section has the power to claim and to
enforce these advantages as their right. If there are no institutions in existence enabling that
section to enforce its influence, the tyrant may withdraw the benefits enjoyed by this section
and seek support from another one.

34 . Cp. H.O.M., 171 (= Karl Marx, Civil War in France, Introduction by F. Engels. Martin
Lawrence, London 1933, 19). (See also H.o.M., 833 = The Proletarian Revolution, 33-34.)

35 . Cp. H.O.M., 45 (= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 545). See also note 21 to this chapter. Cp. further the
following passage from i^Q Manifesto {H.o.M., 1)1 = GA, Series I, vol. vi, 538): 'The
immediate aim of the Communists is the ... conquest of political power by the proletariat. '
(1) Tactical advice that must lead to the loss of the battle of democracy is given in detail by
Marx in Address to the Communist League . {H.o.M., 67 = Labour Monthly, September
1922, 143; cp. also note 14 to this chapter and note 44 to chapter 20.) Marx explains there
the attitude to be taken up, after democracy has been attained, towards the democratic party
with whom, according to ihQ Manifesto (cp. note 14 to this chapter), the Communists have
had to establish 'union and agreement'. Marx says: 'In short, from the first moment of
victory, we must no longer direct our distrust against the beaten reactionary enemy, but
against our former allies' (i.e. the democrats).

Marx demands that 'the arming of the whole proletariat with rifles, guns, and ammunition
should be carried out at once' and that 'the workers must try to organize themselves into an
independent guard, with their own chiefs and general staff. The aim is 'that the bourgeois

democratic Government not only immediately loses all backing among the workers, but
from the commencement finds itself under the supervision and threats of authorities behind
whom stands the entire mass of the working class'.

It is clear that this policy is bound to wreck democracy. It is bound to make the Government
turn against those workers who are not prepared to abide by the law, but try to rule by
threats. Marx tries to excuse his politics by prophecy {H.o.M., 68 and 67 = Labour Monthly,
Sept. 1922, 143): 'As soon as the new Government is established they will commence to
fight the workers', and he says: 'In order that this party' (i.e. the democrats) 'whose betrayal
of the workers will begin with the first hour of victory, should be frustrated in its nefarious
work, it is necessary to organize and to arm the proletariat.' I think that his tactics would
produce precisely the nefarious effect he prophesies. They would make his historical
prophecy come true. Indeed, if the workers were to proceed in this way, every democrat in
his senses would be forced (even if, and particularly if, he wished to promote the cause of
the oppressed) to join in what Marx describes as the betrayal of the workers, and to fight
against those who were out to wreck the democratic institutions for the protection of the
individual from the benevolence of tyrants and Great Dictators.

I may add that the passages quoted are comparatively early utterances of Marx and that his
more mature opinions were probably somewhat different, and at any rate more ambiguous.
But this does not detract from the fact that these early passages had a lasting influence, and
that they have often been acted upon, to the detriment of all concerned.
(2) In connection with point {b) in the text above, a passage from Lenin may be quoted
{H.o.M. , 828 = The Proletarian Revolution, 30): '... the working class realizes perfectly well
that the bourgeois parliaments are institutions foreign to them, that they are instruments oj
the oppression of the proletariat by the bourgeoisie, that they are institutions of the hostile
class, of the exploiting minority.' It is clear that these stories did not encourage the workers
to defend parliamentary democracy against the assault of the fascists.

36 . Cp. Lenin, State and Revolution {H.o.M., 744 = State and Revolution, 68): 'Democracy ...
for the rich, that is the democracy of capitaHst society ... Marx brilliantly grasped the
essence of capitalist democracy when ... he said that the oppressed were allowed, once
every few years, to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class should . . .

oppress them!' See also notes 1 and 2 to chapter 17.

37 . Lenin writes in Left-Wing Communism {H.o.M., 884 f.; italics mine = V. I. Lenin, Left-Wing
Communism, An Infantile Disorder. L.L.L. vol. xvi, 72-73): all attention must be
concentrated on the next step ... on seeking out the forms of transition or approach to the
proletarian revolution. The proletarian vanguard has been ideologically won over ... But
from this first step it is still a long way to victory ... In order that the entire class . . . may take
up such a position, propaganda and agitation alone are not enough. The masses must have
their own political experience. Such is the fundamental law of all great revolutions it has
been necessary ... to realize through their own painful experience ... the absolute
inevitability of a dictatorship of the extreme reactionaries ... as the only alternative to a
dictatorship of the proletariat, in order to turn them resolutely towards communism.'

38 . As is to be expected, each of the two Marxist parties tries to put the blame for their failure
on the other; the one blames the other for its policy of catastrophe, and in its turn is blamed
by the latter for keeping up the workers' faith in the possibility of winning the battle of
democracy. It is somewhat ironical to find that Marx himself has given an excellent
description which fits every detail of this method of blaming the circumstances, and
especially the competing party, for one's failure. (The description was, of course, aimed by
Marx against a competing leftist group of his time.) Marx writes {H.o.M., 130; last group of
italics mine = V. I. Lenin, The Teachings of Karl Marx, L.L.L. vol. i, 55): 'They do not need
to consider their own resources too critically. They have merely to give the signal, and the
people, with all its inexhaustible resources, will fall upon the oppressors. If, in the actual
event, their ... powers prove to be sheer impotence, then the fault lies either with the
pernicious sophists' (the other party, presumably) 'who split the united people into different
hostile camps, or ... the whole thing has been wrecked by a detail in its execution, or else an
unforeseen accident has, for the time being, spoilt the game. In any case the democrat' (or
the antidemocrat) 'comes out of the most disgraceful defeat immaculate, just as he went into
it innocent, with the newly won conviction that he is destined to conquer; that neither he
himself nor his party have to give up their old standpoint, but, on the contrary, conditions
have to ripen, to move in his direction ...'

39 . I say 'the radical wing', for this historicist interpretation of fascism as being an inevitable
stage in the inexorable development was believed in, and defended, by groups far beyond
the ranks of the Communists. Even some of the leaders of the Viennese workers who offered
a heroic but belated and badly organized resistance to fascism believed faithfully that
fascism was a necessary step in the historical development towards socialism. Much as they
hated it, they felt compelled to regard even fascism as a step forward, bringing the suffering
people nearer to the ultimate goal.

40 . Cp. the passage quoted in note 37 to this chapter.

Notes to Chapter Twenty

1. The only complete English translation of the three volumes of Capital has nearly 2,500
pages. To these have to be added the three volumes which were published in German under
the title Theories of Surplus Value; they contain material, largely historical, which Marx
intended to use in Capital.

2. Cp. the opposition between an unrestrained capitalism and interventionism introduced in
chapters 16 and 17. (See notes 10 to chapter 16, 22 to chapter 17 and 9 to chapter 18, and
text.)

For Lenin's statement, cp. H.o.M., 561 (= The Teachings of Karl Marx, 29, italics mine). It is
interesting that neither Lenin nor most of the Marxists appear to realize that society has
changed since Marx. Lenin speaks in 1914 of 'contemporary society' as if it were Marx's as
well as his contemporary society. But the Manifesto was published in 1848.

3. For all quotations in this paragraph, cp. Capital, 691.

4. Cp. the remarks on these terms made in note 3 to chapter 19.

5. It would do better because the defeatist spirit, which might endanger class consciousness (as
mentioned in the text to note 7 to chapter 19), would be less likely to develop.

6. Cp. Capital, 697 ff.

7. The two quotations are from Capital, 698 and 706. The term translated by 'semi-prosperity'
would be, in a more literal translation, 'medium prosperity'. I translate 'excessive
production' instead of 'over-production' because Marx does not mean 'over-production' in
the sense that more is produced than can be sold now, but in the sense that so much is
produced that a difficulty of selling it will soon develop.

8. As Parkes puts it; cp. note 19 to chapter 19.

9. The labour theory of value is, of course, very old. My discussion of the value theory, it must
be remembered, is confined to the so-called 'objective value theory'; I do not intend to
criticize the 'subjective value theory' (which should perhaps better be described as the

theory of subjective evaluation, or of acts of choice; cp. note 14 to chapter 14). J. Viner
kindly pointed out to me that almost the only connection between Marx's value theory and
Ricardo's arises out of Marx's misunderstanding of Ricardo, and that Ricardo never held
that, unit for unit, labour had any more creating power than capital.

10 . It appears to me certain that Marx never doubted that his 'values' in some way correspond
to market prices. The value of a commodity, he taught, is equal to that of another one if the
average number of labour hours needed for their production is the same. If one of the two
commodities is gold, then its weight can be considered as the price of the other commodity,
expressed in gold; and since money is based (by law) upon gold, we thus arrive at the
money price of a commodity.

The actual exchange ratios on the market, Marx teaches (see especially the important
footnote 1 to p. 153 of Capital), will oscillate about the value ratios; and accordingly, the
market price in money will also oscillate about the corresponding value ratio to gold of the
commodity in question. 'If the magnitude of value is transformed into price', Marx says, a
bit clumsily {Capital, 79; italics mine), 'then this ... relation assumes the form of an ...
exchange ratio to that commodity which functions as money' (i.e. gold). 'In this ratio
expresses itself, however, not only the magnitude of the value of the commodity, but also
the ups and downs, the more or less, for which special circumstances are responsible'; in
other words, prices may fluctuate. 'The possibility ... of a derivation of price from ... value
is therefore inherent in the price form. This is not a defect; on the contrary, it shows that the
price form is quite adequate to a method of production in which regularities can manifest
themselves only as averages of irregularities It seems to me clear that the 'regularities' of
which Marx speaks here are the values, and that he believes that values 'manifest
themselves' (or 'assert themselves') only as averages of the actual market prices, which are
therefore oscillating about the value.

The reason why I emphasize this is that it has sometimes been denied. G. D. H. Cole, for
example, writes in his 'Introduction' {Capital, xxv; italics mine): 'Marx ... speaks usually as
if commodities had actually a tendency, subsequent to temporary market fluctuations, to
exchange at their "values". But he says explicitly (on page 79) that he does not mean this;
and in the third volume of Capital he ... makes the inevitable divergence of prices and

"values" abundantly clear.' But although it is true that Marx does not consider the
fluctuations as merely 'temporary', he does hold that commodities have a tendency, subject
to market fluctuations, to exchange at their 'values'; for as we have seen in the passage
quoted here, and referred to by Cole, Marx does not speak of any divergence between value
and price, but describes fluctuations and averages. The position is somewhat different in the
third volume of Capital, where (in Chapter IX) the place of the 'value' of a commodity is
taken by a new category, the 'production-price', which is the sum of its production cost plus
the average rate of surplus value. But even here it remains characteristic of Marx's thinking
that this new category, the production-price, is related to the actual market price as a kind of
regulator of averages only. It does not determine the market price directly, but it expresses
itself (just as does 'value' in the first volume) as an average about which the actual prices
oscillate or fluctuate. This may be shown with the help of the following passage {Das
Kapital, III/2, pp. 396 f.): 'The market prices rise above or fall below these regulating
production-prices, but these oscillations compensate one another . . . The same principle of
regulative averages rules here that has been established by Quetelet for social phenomena in
general.' Similarly, Marx speaks there (p. 399) of the 'regulative price i.e. the price about
which market prices oscillate'; and on the next page, where he speaks of the influence of
competition, he says that he is interested in the 'natural price i.e. the price ... that is not
regulated by competition, but regulates it.' (Italics mine.) Apart from the fact that the
'natural' price clearly indicates that Marx hopes to find the essence of which the oscillating
market prices are the 'forms of appearance' (cp. also note 23 to this chapter), we see that
Marx consistently clings to the view that this essence, whether value or production-price,
manifests itself as the average of the market prices. See also Das Kapital, III/l, 171 f.

11. Cole, op. cit, xxix, says in his otherwise excellently clear statement of Marx's theory of
Surplus Value that it was 'his distinctive contribution to economic doctrine'. But Engels, in
his Preface to the second volume of Capital, has shown that this theory was not Marx's, that
Marx not only never claimed that it was, but also had dealt with its history (in his Theories oj
Surplus Value; cp. note 1 to this chapter). Engels quotes from Marx's manuscript in order to
show that Marx deals with Adam Smith's and Ricardo's contribution to that theory and
quotes at length from the pamphlet. The Source and Remedy of the National Difficulties,

mentioned in Capital, 646, in order to show that the main ideas of the doctrine, apart from
the Marxian distinction between labour and labour power, can be found there. (Cp. Das
Kapital, II, xii-xv.)

12 . The first part is called by Marx (cp. Capital, 213 f ) necessary labour time, the second part
surplus labour time.

13 . Cp. Engels' Preface to the second volume of Capital. {Das Kapital, II, xxi, f )

14 . Marx's derivation of the doctrine of surplus value is of course closely connected with his
criticism of 'formal' freedom, 'formal' justice, etc. Cp. especially notes 17 and 19 to chapter
17, and text. See also the text to the next note.

15 . Cp. Capital, 845. See also the passages referred to in the foregoing note.

16 . Cp. the text to note 18 (and note 10) to this chapter.

17. See especially chapter X of the third volume of Capital.

18 . For this quotation, cp. Capital, 706. From the words 'thus surplus population', the passage
follows immediately after the one quoted in the text to note 7 to this chapter. (I have omitted
the word 'relative' before 'surplus population', since it is irrelevant in the present context,
and perhaps confusing. There seems to be a misprint in the Everyman edition:
'overproduction' instead of 'surplus population'.) The quotation is of interest in connection
with the problem of supply and demand, and with Marx's teaching that these must have a
'background' (or 'essence'); cp. notes 10 and 20 to this chapter.

19 . It may be mentioned in this connection that the phenomenon in question — misery in a
period of rapidly expanding industrialization (or of 'early capitaHsm'; cp. note 36 below,
and text) has recently been explained by a hypothesis which, if it can be upheld, would
show that there was a great deal in Marx's theory of exploitation. I have in mind a theory
based on Walter Euken's doctrine of the two pure monetary systems (the gold and the credit
system), and his method of analysing the various historically given economic systems as
'mixtures' of pure systems. Applying this method, Leonhard Miksch has recently pointed
out (in a paper 'Die Geldordnung der Zukunft\ Zeitschrift fur das Gesamte Kreditwesen,

1949) that the credit system leads to forced investments, i.e. the consumer is forced to save,
to abstain; 'but the capital saved by way of these forced investments', Miksch writes, 'does
not belong to those who were forced to abstain from consumption, but to the entrepreneurs'.
If this theory proves acceptable, then Marx's analysis (but neither his 'laws' nor his
prophecies) would be vindicated to a considerable extent. For there is only a small
difference between Marx's 'surplus value' which, by rights, belongs to the worker but is
'appropriated' or 'expropriated' by the 'capitalist', and Miksch's 'forced savings' which
become the property, not of the consumer who was forced to save, but of the 'entrepreneur'.
Miksch himself hints that these results explain much of the economic development of the
nineteenth century (and of the rise of socialism).

It should be noted that Miksch's analysis explains the relevant facts in terms of imperfections
in the competitive system (he speaks of an 'economic monopoly of money creation which is
possessed of stupendous power') while Marx attempted to explain corresponding facts with
the help of the assumption of a free market, i.e. of competition. (Furthermore, 'consumers'
and 'industrial workers' cannot, of course, be completely identified.) But whatever the
explanation, the facts — described by Miksch as 'intolerably anti-social' — remain; and it is to
Marx's credit, both that he did not accept these facts, and that he tried hard to explain them.

20 . Cp. note 10 to this chapter, especially the passage on the 'natural' price (also note 18 and
text); it is interesting that in the third volume of Capital, not far from the passages quoted in
note 10 to this chapter {sqq Das Kapital, III/2, 352; italics mine), and in a similar context,
Marx makes the following methodological remark: 'All science would be superfluous if the
forms of appearance of things coincided with their essences.' This is, of course, pure
essentialism. That this essentialism borders on metaphysics is shown in note 24 to this
chapter.

It is clear that when Marx speaks repeatedly, especially in the first volume, of the price-form,
he has a 'form of appearance' in mind; the essence is 'value'. (Cp. also note 6 to chapter 17
and text.)

21. In Capital, pp. 43 ff.: 'The Mystery of the Fetishistic Character of Commodities.'

22 . Cp. Capital, 567 (see also 328), with Marx's summary: 'If the productivity of labour is

doubled then, if the ratio of necessary labour to surplus labour remains unaltered, ... the
only result will be that each of them will represent twice as many use-values' (i.e.
commodities) 'as before. These use-values are now twice as cheap as before ... Thus it is
possible, when the productivity of labour is increasing, that the price of labour power should
keep on falling, and yet that this fall should be accompanied by a constant growth in the
quantity of the worker's means of subsistence.'

23 . If productivity increases more or less generally, then the productivity of the gold companies
may also increase; and this would mean that gold, like every other commodity, becomes
cheaper if appraised in labour hours. Accordingly, the same would hold for gold as for other
commodities; and when Marx says (cp. the foregoing note) that the quantity of the worker's
real income increases, this would, in theory, also be true of his income in gold, i.e. in
money. (Marx's analysis in Capital, p. 567, of which I have quoted only a summary in the
foregoing note, is therefore not correct wherever he speaks of 'prices'; for 'prices' are
'values' expressed in gold, and these may remain constant if productivity increases equally
in all lines of production, including the production of gold.)

24 . The strange thing about Marx's value theory (as distinct from the English classical school,
according to J. Viner) is that it considers human labour as fundamentally different from all
other processes in nature, for example, from the labour of animals. This shows clearly that
the theory is based ultimately upon a moral theory, the doctrine that human suffering and a
human lifetime spent is a thing fundamentally different from all natural processes. We can
call this the doctrine of the holiness of human labour. Now I do not deny that this theory is
right in the moral sense; that is to say, that we should act according to it. But I also think that
an economic analysis should not be based upon a moral or metaphysical or religious
doctrine of which the holder is unconscious. Marx who, as we shall see in chapter 22, did
not consciously believe in a humanitarian morality, or who repressed such beliefs, was
building upon a moralistic basis where he did not suspect it — in his abstract theory of value.
This is, of course, connected with his essentialism: the essence of all social and economic
relations is human labour.

25 . For interventionism, cp. notes 22 to chapter 17 and 9 to chapter 18. (See also note 2 to the

present chapter.)

26 . For the paradox of freedom in its appHcation to economic freedom, cp. note 20 to chapter
17, where further references are given.

The problem of the free market, mentioned in the text only in its application to the labour
market, is of very considerable importance. Generalizing from what has been said in the
text, it is clear that the idea of a free market is paradoxical. If the state does not interfere,
then other semi-political organizations such as monopolies, trusts, unions, etc., may
interfere, reducing the freedom of the market to a fiction. On the other hand, it is most
important to realize that without a carefully protected free market, the whole economic
system must cease to serve its only rational purpose, that is, to satisfy the demands of the
consumer. If the consumer cannot choose; if he must take what the producer offers; if the
producer, whether a private producer or the state or a marketing department, is master of the
market, instead of the consumer; then the situation must arise that the consumer serves,
ultimately, as a kind of money-supply and rubbish-remover for the producer, instead of the
producer serving the needs and desires of the consumer.

Here we are clearly faced with an important problem of social engineering: the market must
be controlled, but in such a way that the control does not impede the free choice of the
consumer and that it does not remove the need for the producers to compete for the favour
of the consumer. Economic 'planning' that does not plan for economic freedom in this sense
will lead dangerously close to totalitarianism. (Cp. F. A. von Hayek's Freedom and the
Economic System, Public Policy Pamphlets, 1939/40.)

27 . Cp. note 2 to this chapter, and text.

28 . This distinction between machinery serving mainly for the extension and machinery serving
mainly for the intensification of production is introduced in the text largely with the aim of
making the presentation of the argument more lucid. Apart from that, it is also, I hope, an
improvement of the argument.

I may give here a list of the more important passages of Marx, bearing on the trade cycle {t-
c), and on its connection with unemployment {u) : Manifesto, 29 f. (t-c). — Capital, 120
(monetary crisis = general depression), 624 (t-c and currency), 694 (u), 698 (t-c), 699 (t-c

depending on u; automatism of the cycle), 703-705 (t-c and u in interdependence), 706 f.
(u). See also the third volume of Capital, especially chapter XV, section on Surplus oj
Capital and Surplus of Population, H.o.M., 516-528 {t-c and u) and chapters XXV-XXXII
{t-c and currency; cp. especially £)<35 /to/, III/2, 22 ff.). See also the passage from the
second volume of Capital from which a sentence is quoted in note 17 to chapter 17.

29. Cp. the Minutes of Evidence, taken before the Secret Committee of the House of Lords
appointed to inquire into the causes of Distress , etc., 1875, quoted m Das Kapital, III/l, pp.
398 ff

30 . Cp. for example the two articles on Budgetary Reform by C. G. F. Simkin in the Australian
Economic Record, 1941 and 1942 (see also note 3 to chapter 9). These articles deal with
counter cycle policy, and report briefly on the Swedish measures.

31 . Cp. Parkes, Marxism — A Post Mortem, especially p. 220, note 6.

32 . The quotations are from Das Kapital, III/2, 354 f (I translate 'useful commodities' although
'use-value' would be more literal.)

33 . The theory I have in mind (held, or very nearly held, by J. Mill as J. Viner informs me) is
frequently alluded to by Marx, who struggled against it without, however, succeeding in
making his point quite clear. It can be expressed briefly as the doctrine that all capital
reduces ultimately to wages, since the 'immobilized' (or as Marx says, 'constant') capital has
been produced, and paid for, in wages. Or in Marx's terminology: There is no constant but
only variable capital.

This doctrine has been very clearly and simply presented by Parkes {op. cit, 97): 'All capital
is variable capital. This will be plain if we consider a hypothetical industry which controls
the whole of its processes of production from the farm or the mine to the finished product,
without buying any machinery or raw material from outside. The entire cost of production in
such an industry will consist of its wage bill.' And since an economic system as a whole can
be considered as such a hypothetical industry, within which machinery (constant capital) is
always paid for in terms of wages (variable capital), the sum total of constant capital must
form part of the sum total of variable capital.

I do not think that this argument, in which I once believed myself, can invalidate the

Marxian position. (This is perhaps the only major point in which I cannot agree with
Parkes's excellent criticism.) The reason is this. If the hypothetical industry decides to
increase its machinery — not only to replace it, or to make necessary improvements — then
we can look upon this process as a typical Marxian process of accumulation of capital by the
investment of profits. In order to measure the success of this investment, we should have to
consider whether the profits in succeeding years had increased in proportion to it. Some of
these new profits may be invested again. Now during the year in which they were invested
(or profits were accumulated by conversion into constant capital), they were paid for in the
form of variable capital. But once they have been invested, they are, in the following
periods, considered as part of the constant capital, since they are expected to contribute
proportionally to new profits. If they do not, the rate of profit must fall, and we say that it
was a mal-investment. The rate of profit is thus a measure of the success of an investment, of
the productivity of the newly added constant capital, which, though originally always paid
for in the form of variable capital, none the less becomes constant capital in the Marxian
sense, and exerts its influence upon the rate of profit.

34 . Cp. chapter XIII of the third volume of Capital, for example, H.o.M., 499: 'We see then,
that in spite of the progressive fall in the rate of profit, there may be ... an absolute increase
in the mass of the produced profit. And this increase may be progressive. And it may not
only be so. On the basis of capitalist production, it must be so, aside from temporary
fluctuations.'

35 . The quotations in this paragraph are from Capital, 708 ff.

36 . For Parkes's summary, cp. Marxism — A Post Mortem, p. 102

It may be mentioned here that the Marxian theory that revolutions depend on misery has
been to some extent confirmed in the last century by the outbreak of revolutions in countries
in which misery actually increased. But contrary to Marx's prediction, these countries were
not those of developed capitalism. They were either peasant countries or countries where
capitalism was at a primitive stage of development. Parkes has given a list to substantiate this
statement. (Cp. op. cit., 48.) It appears that revolutionary tendencies decrease with the
advance of industrialization. Accordingly, the Russian revolution should not be interpreted

as premature (nor the advanced countries as over-ripe for revolution), but rather as a product
of the typical misery of capitalist infancy and of peasant misery, enhanced by the misery of
war and the opportunities of defeat. See also note 19, above.

37. Cp. H.O.M., 507

In a footnote to this passage (i.e. Das Kapital, III/l, 219), Marx contends that Adam Smith is
right, against Ricardo.

The passage from Smith to which Marx probably alludes is quoted further below in the
paragraph: it is from the Wealth of Nations (vol. II, p. 95 of the Everyman edition).
Marx quotes a passage from Ricardo {Works, ed. MacCulloch, p. 73 = Ricardo, Everyman
edition, p. 78). But there is an even more characteristic passage in which Ricardo holds that
the mechanism described by Smith 'cannot ... affect the rate of profit' {Principles, 232).

38 . For Engels, cp. H.o.M., 708 (= quoted in Imperialism, 96).

39 . For this change of front, cp. note 3 1 to chapter 19, and text.

40. Cp. Lcmn, Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism {1911); H.o.M., 708 (=
Imperialism, 97).

41 . This may be an excuse, though only a very unsatisfactory excuse, for certain most
depressing remarks of Marx, quoted by Parkes, Marxism — A Post Mortem (213 f , note 3). —
They are most depressing since they raise the question whether Marx and Engels were the
genuine lovers of freedom one would like them to be; whether they were not more
influenced by Hegel's irresponsibility and by his nationalism than one should, from their
general teaching, expect.

42 . Cp. H.o.M., 295 (= GA, Special Volume, 290-1): 'By more and more transforming the great
majority of the population into proletarians, the capitalist mode of production creates the
force which ... is compelled to carry out this revolution.' For the passage from the
Manifesto, cp. H.o.M., 35 {= GA, Series I, vol. vi, 536). — For the following passage, cp.
H.o.M., 156 f. {= Der Buergerkrieg in Frankreich, 84).

43. For this amazingly naive passage, cp. H.o.M., 147 f {= Der Buergerkrieg in Frankreich, 75
f).

44 . For this policy, cp. Marx's Address to the Communist League , quoted in notes 14 and 35-
37 to chapter 19. (Cp. also, for example, notes 26 f. to that chapter.) See further the
following passage from \hQ Address {H.o.M., 70 £; italics mine = Labour Monthly, Sept.
1922, 145-6): 'Thus, for instance, if the petty bourgeoisie purpose to purchase the railways
and factories, the workers must demand that such railways and factories shall simply be
confiscated by the State without compensation; for they are the property of the reactionaries.
If the democrats propose proportional taxation, the workers must demand progressive
taxation. If the democrats themselves declare for a moderate progressive tax, the workers
must insist on a steeply graduated tax; so steeply graduated as to cause the collapse of large
capital. If the democrats propose the regulation of the National Debt, the workers must
demand State bankruptcy. The demands of the workers will depend on the proposals and
measures of the democrats. ' These are the tactics of the Communists, of whom Marx says:
'Their battle-cry must be: "Revolution in permanence!'"

Notes to Chapter Twenty-One

1. Cp. notes 22 to chapter 17 and 9 to chapter 18, and text.

2. Engels says in the Anti-Diihring that Fourier long ago discovered the 'vicious circle' of the
capitalist mode of production; cp. H.o.M., 287.

3. Cp. H.O.M., 527 {= Das Kapital, III/l, 242).

4. Cp., for example, Parkes, Marxism — A Post Mortem, pp. 102 ff.

5. This is a question which I wish to leave open.

6. This point has been emphasized by my colleague. Prof C. G. F. Simkin, in discussions.

7. Cp. text to note 1 1 to chapter 14, and end of note 17 to chapter 17.

8. Cp. H. A. L. Fisher, History of Europe (1935), Preface, vol. I, p. vii. The passage is quoted
more fully in note 27 to chapter 25.

Notes to Chapter Twenty-Two

1. For Kierkegaard's fight against 'official Christianity', cp. especially his Book of the Judge.
(German edn, by H. Gottsched, 1905.)

2. Cp. J. Townsend, A Dissertation on the Poor Laws, by a Wellwisher of Mankind (1817);
quoted in Capital, 715.

On p. 711 (note 1) Marx quotes 'the spirited and witty Abbe Galiani' as holding similar
views: 'Thus it comes to pass', Galiani says, 'that the men who practise occupations of
primary utility breed abundantly.' See Galiani, Delia Moneta, 1803, p. 78.
The fact that even in Western countries, Christianity is not yet entirely free from the spirit of
defending the return to the closed society of reaction and oppression can be seen from the
excellent polemic of H. G. Wells against Dean Inge's biased and pro-fascist attitude towards
the Spanish civil war. Cp. H. G. Wells, The Common Sense of War and Peace (1940), pp.
38-40. (In referring to Wells's book, I do not wish to associate myself with anything he says
on federation, whether critical or constructive; and especially not with the idea propounded
on pp. 56 ff., regarding fully empowered world commissions. The fascist dangers involved
in this idea seem to me enormous.) On the other hand, there is the opposite danger, that of a
pro-communist Church; cp. note 12 to chapter 9.

3. Cp. Kierkegaard, op. cit., 172.

4. But Kierkegaard said something of Luther that may be true of Marx also: 'Luther's
corrective idea ... produces ... the most sophisticated form of ... paganism.' {Op. cit., 147.)

5. Cp. H.O.M., 231 (= Ludwig Feuerbach, 56); cp. notes 1 1 and 14 to chapter 13.

6. Cp. note 14 to chapter 13, and text.

7. Cp. my The Poverty ofHistoricism, section 19.

8. Cp. H.O.M., 247 f. (= OA, Special Volume, 97).

9. For these quotations, cp. H.o.M., 248, and 279 (the latter passage is shortened = GA, Special
Volume, 97 and 277).

10 . Cp. L. Laurat, Marxism and Democracy, p. 16. (Italics mine.)

11 . For these two quotations, cp. The Churches Survey Their Task (1937), p. 130, and A.
Loewe, The Universities in Transformation (1940), p. 1. With the concluding remark of this
chapter, cp. also the views expressed by Parkes in the last sentences of his criticism of
Marxism {Marxism— A Post Mortem, 1940, p. 208).

Notes to Chapter Twenty-Three

1. Concerning Mannheim, see especially Ideology and Utopia (quoted here from the German
edn, 1929). The terms 'social habitat' and 'total ideology' are both due to Mannheim; the
terms 'sociologism' and 'historism' have been mentioned in the last chapter. The idea of a
'social habitat' is Platonic.

For a criticism of Mannheim's Man and Society in an Age of Reconstruction (1941), which
combines historicist tendencies with a romantic and even mystical holism, see my The
Poverty ofHistoricism, II {Economica, 1944).

2. Cp. my interpretation in 'What is Dialectic?' (Mind, 49, especially p. 414; also Conjectures
and Refutations, especially p. 325.)

3. This is Mannheim's term (cp. Ideology and Utopia, 1929, p. 35). For the 'freely poised
intelligence', see op. cit., p. 123, where this term is attributed to Alfred Weber. For the
theory of an intelligentsia loosely anchored in tradition, sqq op. cit., pp. 121-34, and
especially p. 122.

4. For the latter theory, or, rather, practice, cp. notes 51 and 52 to chapter 11.

5. Cp. 'What is Dialectic?' (p. 417; Conjectures and Refutations, p. 327). Cp. note 33 to
chapter 12.

6. The analogy between the psycho -analytic method and that of Wittgenstein is mentioned by
Wisdom, 'Other Minds' (Mind, vol. 49, p. 370, note): 'A doubt such as "I can never really
know what another person is feeling" may arise from more than one of these sources. This
over-determination of sceptical symptoms complicates their cure. The treatment is like
psycho -analytic treatment (to enlarge Wittgenstein's analogy) in that the treatment is the
diagnosis and the diagnosis is the description, the very full description, of the symptoms.'
And so on. (I may remark that, using the word 'know' in the ordinary sense, we can, of
course, never know what another person is feeling. We can only make hypotheses about it.
This solves the so-called problem. It is a mistake to speak here of doubt, and a still worse
mistake to attempt to remove the doubt by a semiotico-analytic treatment.)

7. The psycho-analysts seem to hold the same of the individual psychologists, and they are
probably right. Cp. Freud's History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement (1916), p. 42, where
Freud records that Adler made the following remark (which fits well within Adler's
individual-psychological scheme, according to which feelings of inferiority are
predominantly important): 'Do you believe that it is such a pleasure for me to stand in your
shadow my whole life?' This suggests that Adler had not successfully applied his theories to
himself, at that time at least. But the same seems to be true of Freud: None of the founders of
psycho-analysis were psycho-analysed. To this objection, they usually replied that they had
psycho-analysed themselves. But they would never have accepted such an excuse from
anybody else; and, indeed, rightly so.

8. For the following analysis of scientific objectivity, cp. my The Logic of Scientific Discovery,
section 8 (pp. 44 ff.).

9. I wish to apologize to the Kantians for mentioning them in the same breath as the Hegelians.

10 . Cp. notes 23 to chapter 8 and 39 (second paragraph) to chapter 11.

11 . Cp. notes 34 ff., to chapter 11.

12 . Cp. K. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia (German edn, p. 167).

13 . For the first of these two quotations, cp. op. cit., 161 . (For simplicity's sake, I translate
'conscious' for 'reflexive'.) For the second, cp. op. cit, 166.

14 . Cp. Handbook of Marxism, 255 (= GA, Special Volume, 117-18): 'Hegel was the first to
state correctly the relation between freedom and necessity. To him, freedom is the
appreciation of necessity.' For Hegel's own formulation of his pet idea, cp. Hegel Selections,
213 (= Werke, 1832-1887, vi, 310): 'The truth of necessity, therefore, is freedom.' 361 (=
WW, xi, 46): '... the Christian principle of self-consciousness — Freedom.' 362 (= WW, xi,
47): 'The essential nature of freedom, which involves in it absolute necessity, is to be
displayed as the attainment of a consciousness of itself (for it is in its very nature, self-
consciousness) and it thereby realizes its existence.' And so on.

Notes to Chapter Twenty-Four

1. I am here using the terni 'rationahsm' in opposition to 'irrationahsm' and not to
'empiricism'. Carnap writes in his Der Logische Aufbau der Welt (1928), p. 260: 'The word
"rationalism" is now often meant ... in a modern sense: in contradistinction to
irrationahsm.'

In using the term 'rationalism' in this way, I do not wish to suggest that the other way of
using this term, namely, in opposition to empiricism, is perhaps less important. On the
contrary, I believe that this opposition characterizes one of the most interesting problems of
philosophy. But I do not intend to deal with it here; and I feel that, in opposition to
empiricism, we might do better to use another term — perhaps 'intellectualism' or 'intellectual
intuitionism' — in place of 'rationalism' in the Cartesian sense. I may mention in this context
that I do not define the terms 'reason' or 'rationalism'; I am using them as labels, taking care
that nothing depends on the words used. Cp. chapter 11, especially note 50. (For the
reference to Kant, see note 56 to chapter 12, and text.)

2. *This is what I tried to do in 'Towards a Rational Theory of Tradition' ( The Rationalist
Annual, 1949, pp. 36 ff., and now in Conjectures and Refiitations, pp. 120 ff.).

3. Cp. Plato's Timaeus 51e. (See also the cross-references in note 33 to chapter 11.)

4. Cp. chapter 10, especially notes 38-41, and text.

In Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Parmenides, Plato, mystical and rationalist elements are mixed.
Plato especially, in spite of all his emphasis on 'reason', incorporated into his philosophy
such a weighty admixture of irrationahsm that it nearly ousted the rationalism he inherited
from Socrates. This enabled the Neo-Platonists to base their mysticism on Plato; and most
subsequent mysticism goes back to these sources.

It may perhaps be accidental, but it is in any case remarkable that there is still a cultural
frontier between Western Europe and the regions of Central Europe which coincide very
nearly with those regions that did not come under the administration of Augustus' Roman
Empire, and that did not enjoy the blessings of the Roman peace, i.e. of the Roman
civilization. The same 'barbarian' regions are particularly prone to be affected by mysticism.

even though they did not invent mysticism. Bernard of Clairvaux had his greatest successes
in Germany, where later Eckhart and his school flourished, and also Boehme.
Much later Spinoza, who attempted to combine Cartesian intellectuahsm with mystical
tendencies, rediscovered the theory of a mystical intellectual intuition, which, in spite of
Kant's strong opposition, led to the post-Kantian rise of 'IdeaHsm', to Fichte, Schelling, and
Hegel. Practically all modern irrationalism goes back to the latter, as is briefly indicated in
chapter 12. (Cp. also notes 6, 29-32 and 58, below, and notes 32-33 to chapter 11, and the
cross-references on mysticism there given.)

5. With the 'mechanical activities', cp. notes 21 and 22 to this chapter.

6. I say 'discarded' in order to cover the views (1) that such an assumption would be false, (2)
that it would be unscientific (or impermissible), though it might perhaps be accidentally true,
(3) that it would be 'senseless' or 'meaningless', for example in the sense of Wittgenstein's
Tractatus; cp. note 51 to chapter 12, and note 8 (2) to the present chapter.

In connection with the distinction between 'critical' and 'uncritical' rationalism, it may be
mentioned that the teaching of Duns Scotus as well as of Kant could be interpreted as
approaching 'critical' rationalism. (I have in mind their doctrines of the 'primacy of will',
which may be interpreted as the primacy of an irrational decision.)

7. In this and the following note a few remarks on paradoxes will be made, especially on the
paradox of the liar. In introducing these remarks, it may be said that the so-called 'logical'
and 'semantical' paradoxes are no longer merely playthings for the logicians. Not only have
they proved to be important for the development of mathematics, but they are also becoming
important in other fields of thought. There is a definite connection between these paradoxes
and such problems as the paradox of freedom which, as we have seen (cp. note 20 to
chapter 17 and notes 4 and 6 to chapter 7), is of considerable significance in political
philosophy. In point (4) of this note, it will be briefly shown that the various paradoxes oj
sovereignty (cp. note 6 to chapter 7, and text) are very similar to the paradox of the liar. On
the modern methods of solving these paradoxes (or perhaps better: of constructing
languages in which they do not occur), I shall not make any comments here, since it would
take us beyond the scope of this book.

(1) The paradox of the liar can be formulated in many ways. One of them is this. Let us
assume that somebody says one day: 'All that I say to-day is a lie'; or more precisely: 'AH
statements I make to-day are false'; and that he says nothing else the whole day. Now if we
ask ourselves whether he spoke the truth, this is what we find. If we start with the
assumption that what he said was true, then we arrive, considering what he said, at the result
that it must have been false. And if we start with the assumption that what he said was false,
then we must conclude, considering what he said, that it was true.

(2) Paradoxes are sometimes called 'contradictions'. But this is perhaps slightly misleading.
An ordinary contradiction (or a self-contradiction) is simply a logically false statement, such
as 'Plato was happy yesterday and he was not happy yesterday'. If we assume that such a
sentence is false, no further difficulty arises. But of a paradox, we can neither assume that it
is true nor that it is false, without getting involved in difficulties.

(3) There are, however, statements which are closely related to paradoxes, but which are,
more strictly speaking, only self-contradictions. Take for example the statement: 'AH
statements are false.' If we assume that this statement is true, then we arrive, considering
what it says, at the result that it is false. But if we assume that it is false, then we are out of
the difficulty; for this assumption leads only to the result that not all statements are false, or
in other words, that there are some statements — at least one — ^that are true. And this result is
harmless; for it does not imply that our original statement is one of the true ones. (This does
not imply that we can, in fact, construct a language free of paradoxes in which 'AH
statements are false' or 'All statements are true' can be formulated.)

In spite of the fact that this statement 'AH propositions are false' is not really a paradox, it
may be called, by courtesy, 'a form of the paradox of the liar', because of its obvious
resemblance to the latter; and indeed, the old Greek formulation of this paradox (Epimenides
the Cretan says: 'All Cretans always he') is, in this terminology, rather 'a form of the
paradox of the liar' i.e. a contradiction rather than a paradox. (Cp. also next note, and note
54 to this chapter, and text.)

(4) I shall now show briefly the similarity between the paradox of the liar and the various
paradoxes of sovereignty , for example, of the principle that the best or the wisest or the
majority should rule. (Cp. note 6 to chapter 7 and text.)

C. H. Langford has described various ways of putting the paradox of the Har, among them
the following. We consider two statements, made by two people, A and B.
A says: 'What B says is true.'
B says: 'What A says is false.'

By applying the method described above, we easily convince ourselves that each of these
sentences is paradoxical. Now we consider the following two sentences, of which the first is
the principle that the wisest should rule:

(A) The principle says: What the wisest says under (B) should be law.

(B) The wisest says: What the principle states under (A) should not be law.

8. (1) That the principle of avoiding all presuppositions is 'a form of the paradox of the liar' in
the sense of note 7 (3) to this chapter, and therefore self-contradictory, will be easily seen if
we describe it like this. A philosopher starts his investigation by assuming without argument
the principle: 'All principles assumed without argument are impermissible.' It is clear that if
we assume that this principle is true, we must conclude, considering what it says, that it is
impermissible. (The opposite assumption does not lead to any difficulty.) The remark 'a
counsel of perfection' alludes to the usual criticism of this principle which was laid down,
for example, by Husserl. J. Laird {Recent Philosophy, 1936, p. 121) writes about this
principle that it 'is a cardinal feature of Husserl's philosophy. Its success may be more
doubtful, for presuppositions have a way of creeping in.' So far, I fully agree; but not quite
with the next remark: '... the avoidance of all presuppositions may well be a counsel of
perfection, impracticable in an inadvertent world.' (See also note 5 to chapter 25.)

(2) We may consider at this place a few further 'principles' which are, in the sense of note 7

(3) to this chapter, 'forms of the paradox of the liar', and therefore self-contradictory.

{a) From the point of view of social philosophy, the following 'principle of sociologism'
(and the analogous 'principle of historism') are of interest. They can be formulated in this
way. 'No statement is absolutely true, and all statements are inevitably relative to the social
(or historical) habitat of their originators.' It is clear that the considerations of note 7 (3)
apply practically without alteration. For if we assume that such a principle is true, then it
follows that it is not true but only 'relative to the social or historical habitat of its originator'.
See also note 53 to this chapter, and text.

(b) Some examples of this kind can be found in Wittgenstein's Tractatus. The one is
Wittgenstein's proposition (quoted more fully in note 46 to chapter 11): 'The totality of true
propositions is ... the totality of natural science.' Since this proposition does not belong to
natural science (but, rather, to a meta-science, i.e. a theory that speaks about science) it
follows that it asserts its own untruth, and is therefore contradictory.

Furthermore, it is clear that this proposition violates Wittgenstein's own principle {Tractatus,
p. 57), 'No proposition can say anything about itself ...'

* But even this last quoted principle which I shall call ' W turns out to be a form of the
paradox of the liar, and to assert its own untruth. (It therefore can hardly be — as Wittgenstein
beheves it to be — equivalent to, or a summary of, or a substitute for, 'the whole theory of
types', i.e. Russell's theory, designed to avoid the paradoxes which he discovered by
dividing expressions which look like propositions into three classes — true propositions, false
propositions, and meaningless expressions or pseudo-propositions.) For Wittgenstein's
principle fTmay be re-formulated as follows:

{W^) Every expression (and especially one that looks like a proposition) which contains a
reference to itself — either by containing its own name or an individual variable ranging over
a class to which it itself belongs — is not a proposition (but a meaningless pseudo-
proposition).

Now let us assume that is true. Then, considering the fact that it is an expression, and
that it refers to every expression, it cannot be a proposition, and is therefore a fortiori not
true.

The assumption that it is true is therefore untenable; W + cannot be true. But this does not
show that it must be false; for both, the assumption that it is false and the other that it is a
meaningless (or senseless) expression, do not involve us in immediate difficulties.
Wittgenstein might perhaps say that he saw this himself when he wrote (p. 189; cp. note 51
(1) to chapter 11): 'My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me
finally recognizes them as senseless ...'; in any case, we may conjecture that he would
incline to describing as meaningless rather than false. I believe, however, that it is not
meaningless but simply false. Or more precisely, I believe that in every formalized language

(e.g. in one in which Goedel's undecidable statements can be expressed) which contains
means for speaking about its own expressions, and in which we have names of classes of
expressions such as 'propositions' and 'non-propositions', the formalization of a statement
which, like W^, asserts its own meaninglessness, will be self-contradictory and neither
meaningless nor genuinely paradoxical; it will be a meaningful proposition merely because
it asserts of every expression of a certain kind that it is not a proposition (i.e. not a well-
formed formula); and such an assertion will be true or false, but not meaningless, simply
because to be (or not to be) a well-formed proposition is a property of expressions. For
example, 'AH expressions are meaningless' will be self-contradictory, but not genuinely
paradoxical, and so will be the expression 'The expression x is meaningless', if we substitute
for 'x' a name of this expression. Modifying an idea of J. N. Findlay's, we can write:
The expression obtained by substituting for the variable in the following expression, 'The
expression obtained by substituting for the variable in the following expression x the
quotation name of this expression, is not a statement', the quotation name of this expression,
is not a statement.

And what we have just written turns out to be a self-contradictory statement. (If we write
twice 'is a false statement' instead of 'is not a statement', we obtain a paradox of the liar; if
we write 'is a non-demonstrable statement', we obtain a Goedehan statement in J. N.
Findlay's writing.)

To sum up. Contrary to first impressions, we find that a theory which implies its own
meaninglessness is not meaningless but false, since the predicate 'meaningless', as opposed
to 'false', does not give rise to paradoxes. And Wittgenstein's theory is therefore not
meaningless, as he believes, but simply false (or, more specifically, self-contradictory).
(3) It has been claimed by some positivists that a tripartition of the expressions of a language
into (i) true statements, (ii) false statements, and (iii) meaningless expressions (or, better,
expressions other than well-formed statements), is more or less 'natural' and that it provides,
because of their meaninglessness, for the elimination of the paradoxes and, at the same time,
of metaphysical systems. The following may show that this tripartition is not enough.
The General's Chief Counter-Espionage Officer is provided with three boxes, labelled (i)
'General's Box', (ii) 'Enemy's Box' (to be made accessible to the enemy's spies), and (iii)

'Waste Paper', and is instructed to distribute all information arriving before 12 o'clock
among these three boxes, according to whether this information is (i) true, (ii) false, or (iii)
meaningless.

For a time, he receives information which he can easily distribute (among it true statements
of the theory of natural numbers, etc., and perhaps statements of logic such as L: 'From a set
of true statements, no false statement can be validly derived'). The last message M, arriving
with the last incoming mail just before 12 o'clock, disturbs him a little, for M reads: 'From
the set of all statements placed, or to be placed, within the box labelled "General's Box", the
statement "0 = 1" cannot validly be derived.' At first, the Chief Counter-Espionage Officer
hesitates whether he should not put M into box (ii). But since he realizes that, if put into (ii),
M would supply the enemy with valuable true information, he ultimately decides to put M
into (i).

But this turns out to be a big mistake. For the symbolic logicians (experts in logistic?) on the
General's staff, after formalizing (and 'arithmetizing') the contents of the General's box,
discover that they obtain a set of statements which contains an assertion of its own
consistency; and this, according to Goedel's second theorem on decidability, leads to a
contradiction, so that '0 = 1' can actually be deduced from the presumably true information
supplied to the General.

The solution of this difficulty consists in the recognition of the fact that the tripartition-claim
is unwarranted, at least for ordinary languages; and we can see from Tarski's theory of truth
that no definite number of boxes will suffice. At the same time we find that
'meaninglessness' in the sense of 'not belonging to the well-formed formulae' is by no
means an indication of 'nonsensical talk' in the sense of 'words which just don't mean
anything, although they may pretend to be deeply significant'; but to have revealed that
metaphysics was just of this character was the chief claim of the positivists.*

9. It appears that it was the difficulty connected with the so-called 'problem of induction'
which led Whitehead to the disregard of argument displayed in Process and Reality. (Cp.
also notes 35-7 to this chapter.)

10 . It is a moral decision and not merely 'a matter of taste' since it is not a private affair but

affects other men and their lives. (For the opposition between esthetic matters of taste and
moral problems, cp. text to note 6 to chapter 5, and chapter 9 especially text to notes 10-
11.) The decision with which we are faced is most important from the point of view that the
'learned', who are faced with it, act as intellectual trustees for those who are not faced with
it.

11 . It is, I believe, perhaps the greatest strength of Christianity that it appeals fundamentally not
to abstract speculation but to the imagination, by describing in a very concrete manner the
suffering of man.

12 . Kant, the great equalitarian in regard to moral decisions, has emphasized the blessings
involved in the fact of human inequality. He saw in the variety and individuality of human
characters and opinions one of the main conditions of moral as well as material progress.

13 . The allusion is to A. Huxley's Brave New World.

14 . For the distinction between facts, and decisions or demands, cp. text to notes 5 ff. to chapter
4. For the 'language of political demands' (or 'proposals' in the sense of L. J. Russell) cp.
text to notes 41-43, chapter 6 and note 5(3) to chapter 5

I should be inclined to say that the theory of the innate intellectual equality of all men is
false; but since such men as Niels Bohr contend that the influence of environment is alone
responsible for individual differences, and since there are no sufficient experimental data for
deciding this question, 'probably false' is perhaps all that should be said.

15 . See, for example, the passage from Plato's Statesman, quoted in the text to note 12 to
chapter 9. Another such passage is Republic, 409e-410a. After having spoken (409b & c) of
the 'good judge ... who is good because of the goodness of his souV , Plato continues (409e,
f ), 'And are you not going to establish physicians and judges ... who are to look after those
citizens whose physical and mental constitution is healthy and good? Those whose physical
health is bad, they will leave to die. And those whose soul is bad-natured and incurable, they
will actually kill.' — 'Yes,' he said, 'since you have proved that this is the best thing, both for
those to whom it happens, and for the state.'

16 . Cp. notes 58 to chapter 8 and 28 to chapter 10.

17 . An example is H. G. Wells, who gave to the first chapter of his book, The Common Sense oj
War and Peace, the excellent title: 'Grown Men Do Not Need Leaders'. (Cp. also note 2 to
chapter 22.)

18 . For the problem and the paradox of tolerance, cp. note 4 to chapter 7.

19 . The 'world' is not rational, but it is the task of science to rationalize it. 'Society' is not
rational, but it is the task of the social engineer to rationalize it. (This does not mean, of
course, that he should 'direct' it, or that centralized or collectivist 'planning' is desirable.)
Ordinary language is not rational, but it is our task to rationalize it, or at least to keep up its
standards of clarity. The attitude here characterized could be described as 'pragmatic
rationalism'. This pragmatic rationahsm is related to an uncritical rationahsm and to
irrationalism in a similar way as critical rationalism is related to these two. For an uncritical
rationalism may argue that the world is rational and that the task of science is to discover this
rationality, while an irrationalist may insist that the world, being fundamentally irrational,
should be experienced and exhausted by our emotions and passions (or by our intellectual
intuition) rather than by scientific methods. As opposed to this, pragmatic rationalism may
recognize that the world is not rational, but demand that we submit or subject it to reason, as
far as possible. Using Camap's words {Der Logische Aufbau, etc., 1928, p. vi) one could
describe what I call 'pragmatic rationalism' as 'the attitude which strives for clarity
everywhere but recognizes the never fully understandable or never fully rational
entanglement of the events of life'.

20 . For the problem of the standards of clarity of our language, cp. the last note and note 30 to
chapter 12.

21 . Industrialization and the Division of Labour are attacked, for example, by Toynbee, A Study
of History, vol. I, pp. 2 ff. Toynbee complains (p. 4) that 'the prestige of the Industrial
System imposed itself upon the "intellectual workers" of the Western World and when
they have attempted to "work" these materials "up" into "manufactured" or "semi-
manufactured" articles, they have had recourse, once again, to the Division of Labour ...'In
another place (p. 2) Toynbee says of physical scientific periodicals: 'Those periodicals were
the Industrial System "in book form", with its Division of Labour and its sustained

maximum output of articles manufactured from raw materials mechanically.' (Italics mine.)
Toynbee emphasizes (p. 3, note 2) with the Hegelian Dilthey that the spiritual sciences at
least should keep apart from these methods. (He quotes Dilthey, who said: 'The real
categories . . . are nowhere the same in the sciences of the Spirit as they are in the sciences of
Nature.')

Toynbee's interpretation of the division of labour in the field of science seems to me just as
mistaken as Dilthey 's attempt to open up a gulf between the methods of the natural and the
social sciences. What Toynbee calls 'division of labour' could better be described as co-
operation and mutual criticism. Cp. text to notes 8 f. to chapter 23, and Macmurray's
comments upon scientific co-operation quoted in the present chapter, text to note 26. (For
Toynbee's anti-rationalism, cp. also note 61 to chapter 11.)

22 . Cp. Adolf Keller, Church and State on the European Continent (Beckly Social Service
Lecture, 1936). I owe it to Mr. L. Webb that my attention has been drawn to this interesting
passage.

23 . For moral futurism as a kind of moral positivism, cp. chapter 22 (especially text to notes 9
ff.).

I may draw attention to the fact that in contradistinction to the present fashion (cp. notes 51
f to chapter 11), I attempt to take Keller's remarks seriously and question their truth, instead
of dismissing them, as the positivist fashion would demand, as meaningless.

24 . Cp. note 70 to chapter 10 and text, and note 61 to chapter 11.

25 . Cp. Matthew 7, 15 f : 'Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but
inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits.'

26 . The two passages are from J. Macmurray, The Clue to History (1938), pp. 86 and 192. (For
my disagreement with Macmurray cp. text to note 16 to chapter 25.)

27 . Cp. L. S. Stebbing's book. Philosophy and the Physicists, and my own brief remark on the
Hegelianism of Jeans in 'What is Dialectic?' {Mind, 1940, 49, p. 420; now in Conjectures
and Refutations, p. 330).

28. Cp., for example, notes 8-12 to chapter 7, and text.

29 . Cp. chapter 10, especially the end of that chapter, i.e. notes 59-70, and text (see especially
the reference to McTaggart in note 59); the note to the Introduction; notes 33 to chapter 11
and 36 to chapter 12; notes 4, 6, and 58 to the present chapter. See also Wittgenstein's
insistence (quoted in note 32 to the present chapter) that the contemplation of, or the feeling
for, the world as a limited whole is the mystical feeling.

A much-discussed recent work on mysticism and its proper role in politics is Aldous
Huxley's Grey Eminence. It is interesting mainly because the author does not seem to realize
that his own story of the mystic and politician. Father Joseph, flatly refutes the main thesis of
his book. This thesis is that training in mystical practice is the only educational discipline
known that is capable of securing to men that absolutely firm moral and religious ground
which is so dearly needed by people who influence public policy. But his own story shows
that Father Joseph, in spite of his training, fell into temptation — the usual temptation of those
who wield power — and that he was unable to resist; absolute power corrupted him
absolutely. That is to say, the only historical evidence discussed at any length by the author
disproves his thesis completely; which, however, does not seem to worry him.

30 . Cp. F. Kafka, The Great Wall of China (English transl. by E. Muir, 1933), p. 236.

31 . Cp. also note 19 to this chapter.

32. Cp. Wittgenstein's Tractatus, p. 187: 'Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is. —
The contemplation of the world sub specie aeterni is its contemplation as a limited whole. —
The feeling of the world as a limited whole is the mystical feeling.' One sees that
Wittgenstein's mysticism is typically holistic. — For other passages of Wittgenstein {loc. cit.)
like: 'There is indeed the inexpressible. This shows itself; it is the mystical', cp. Carnap's
criticism in his Logical Syntax of Language (1937), pp. 314 f. Cp. also note 25 to chapter
25, and text. See also note 29 to the present chapter and the cross-references given there.

33 . Cp. chapter 10, for example notes 40, 41. The tribal and esoteric tendency of this kind of
philosophy may be exemplified by a quotation from H. Blueher (cp. Kolnai, The War
against the West, p. 74, italics mine): 'Christianity is emphatically an aristocratic creed, free
of morals, unteachable. The Christians know one another by their exterior type; they form a
set in human society who never fail in mutual understanding, and who are understood by

none but themselves. They constitute a secret league. Furthermore, the kind of love that
operates in Christianity is that which illuminates the pagan temples; it bears no relation to the
Jewish invention of so-called love of mankind or love of one's neighbours.' Another
example may be taken from E. von Salomon's book, The Outlaws (quoted also in note 90 to
chapter 12; the present quotation is from p. 240; italics mine): 'We recognized one another
in an instant, though we came from all parts of the Reich, having got wind of skirmishes and
of danger.'

34 . This remark is not meant in a historicist sense. I do not mean to prophesy that the conflict
will play no part in future developments. I only mean that by now we could have learned
that the problem does not exist, or that it is, at any rate, insignificant as compared with the
problem of the evil religions, such as totalitarianism and racialism, with which we are faced.

35 . I am alluding to Principia Mathematica, by A. N. Whitehead and B. Russell. (Whitehead
says, m Process and Reality, p. 10, note 1, that the 'introductory discussions are practically
due to Russell, and in the second edition wholly so'.)

36 . Cp. the reference to Hegel (and many others, among them Plato and Aristotle) in A. N.
Whitehead, Process and Reality, p. 14.

37 . Cp. Whitehead, op. cit, pp. 18 £

38 . Cp. Kant's Appendix to his Prolegomena. {Works, ed. by Cassirer, vol. IV, 132 f. For the
translation 'crazy quilt', cp. Carus' English edition of Kant's Prolegomena, 1902 and 1912,
p. iv.)

39. Cp. Whitehead, Process and Reality, pp. 20 f.

Concerning the attitude of take it or leave it, described in the next paragraph, cp. note 53 to
chapter 1 1 .

40. Cp. Whitehead, op. cit., 492. Two of the other antitheses are: 'It is as true to say that the
World is immanent in God, as that God is immanent in the World ... It is as true to say that
God creates the World, as that the World creates God.' This is very reminiscent of the
German mystic Scheffler (Angelus Silesius), who wrote: 'I am as great as God, God is as
small as me, I cannot without him, nor he without me, be.'

Concerning my remark, later in the paragraph, that I just do not understand what the author
wishes to convey, I may say that it was only with great reluctance that I wrote this. The 'I do
not understand' criticism is a rather cheap and dangerous kind of sport. I simply wrote these
words because, in spite of my efforts, they remained true.

41. Cp. Kant's letter to Mendelssohn of April 8th, 1766. {Works, ed. by Cassirer, vol. IX, 56 f.)

42 . Cp. Toynbee, A Study of History, vol. VI, 536 f.

43 . Toynbee says (op. cit, 537) of the 'traditionally orthodox minds' that they 'will see our
investigation as an attack upon the historicity of the story of Jesus Christ as it is presented in
the Gospels'. And he holds (p. 538) that God reveals himself through poetry as well as
through truth; according to his theory, God has 'revealed himself in folk-lore'.

44 . Following up this attempt to apply Toynbee 's methods to himself, one could ask whether
his Study of History which he has planned to consist of thirteen volumes is not just as much
what he terms a tour de force as the 'histories like the several series of volumes now in
course of publication by the Cambridge University Press' — undertakings which he brilliantly
compares (vol. I, p. 4) to 'stupendous tunnels and bridges and dams and liners and
battleships and skyscrapers'. And one could ask whether Toynbee 's tour de force is not,
more particularly, the manufacturing of what he calls a 'time machine', i.e. an escape into
the past. (Cp. especially Toynbee's medievalism, briefly discussed in note 61 to chapter 11.
Cp. further note 54 to the present chapter.)

45 . I have not so far seen more than the first six volumes. Einstein is one of the few scientists
mentioned.

46 . Toynbee, op. cit., vol. II, 178.

47 . Toynbee, op. cit., vol. V, 581 ff. (Italics mine.

In connection with Toynbee's neglect, mentioned in the text, of the Marxian doctrines and
especially of the Communist Manifesto , it may be said that on p. 179 (note 5) of this volume,
Toynbee writes: 'The Bolshevik or Majoritarian wing of the Russian Social-Democratic Party
renamed itself "the Russian Communist Party" (in homage to the Paris Commune of a.d.
1871) in March, 1918 ...'A similar remark can be found in the same volume, p. 582, note

But this is not correct. The change of name (which was submitted by Lenin to the party
conference of April, 1917; cp. Handbook of Marxism, 783; cp. also p. 787) referred,
obviously enough, to the fact that 'Marx and Engels called themselves Communists', as
Lenin puts it, and to the Communist Manifesto .

48 . Cp. Engels, Socialism: Utopian and Scientific (see note 9 to chapter 13). For two historical
roots of Marx's communism (Plato's and, perhaps, Pythagoras' — archaism, and the Acts,
which seem to be influenced by it) see especially note 29 to chapter 5; see also notes 30 to
chapter 4, 34-36 to chapter 6, and notes 3 and 8 to chapter 13 (and text).

49 . Cp. Toynbee, op. cit, vol. V, 587.

50 . Cp. chapter 22, especially text to notes 1-4, and the end of that chapter.

51 . The passage is not isolated; Toynbee very often expresses his respect for the 'verdict of
history'; a fact that is in keeping with his doctrine that it is 'the claim of Christianity ... that
God has revealed Himself in history'. This 'Neo-Protestant doctrine' (as K. Barth calls it)
will be discussed in the next chapter. (Cp. especially note 12 to that chapter.)

In connection with Toynbee 's treatment of Marx, it may be mentioned that his whole
approach is strongly influenced by Marxism. He says {op. cit., vol. I, p. 41, note 3): 'More
than one of these Marxian coinages have become current even among people who reject the
Marxian dogmas.' This statement refers especially to the use of the word 'proletariat'. But it
covers more than the mere use of words.

52 . Cp. Toynbee, op. cit., vol. Ill, 476. The passage refers back to vol. I, part I, A, 'The
Relativity of Historical Thought'. (The problem of the 'relativity' of historical thought will
be discussed in the next chapter.) For an excellent early criticism of historical relativism (and
historicism), see H. Sidgwick's Philosophy — Its Scope and Relations (1902), Lecture IX,
especially pp. 180 f.

53 . For if all thought is in such a sense 'inevitably relative' to its historical habitat that it is not
'absolutely true' (i.e. not true), then this must hold for this contention as well. Thus it cannot
be true, and therefore not an inevitable 'Law of Human Nature'. Cp. also note 8 (2, a) to this

chapter.

54 . For the contention that Toynbee escapes into the past, cp. note 44 to this chapter and note
61 to chapter 11 (on Toynbee's medievalism). Toynbee himself gives an excellent criticism
of archaism, and I fully agree with his attack (vol. VI, 65 f ) upon nationalist attempts to
revive ancient languages, especially in Palestine. But Toynbee's own attack upon
industrialism (cp. note 21 to the present chapter) seems to be no less archaistic. — For an
escape into the future, I have no other evidence than Toynbee's announced prophetic title of
part XII of his work: The Prospects of the Western Civilization.

55 . The 'tragic worldly success of the founder of Islam' is mentioned by Toynbee in op. cit,
III, p. 472. For Ignatius Loyola, cp. vol. Ill, 270; 466 f.

56 . Cp. op. cit., vol. V, 590. — The passage quoted next is from the same volume, p. 588.

57 . Toynbee, op. cit., vol. VI, 13.

58. Cp. Toynbee, vol. VI, 12 f (The reference is to Bergson's Two Sources of Morality and
Religion.)

The following historicist quotation from Toynbee (vol. V, 585; italics mine) is interesting in
this context: 'Christians believe — and a study of History assuredly proves them right — that
the brotherhood of Man is impossible for Man to achieve in any other way than by enrolling
himself as a citizen of a Civitas Dei which transcends the human world and has God himself
for its king.' How can a study of history prove such a claim? Is it not a highly responsible
matter to assert that it can be proved?

Concerning Bergson's Two Sources, I fully agree that there is an irrational or in tuitive
element in every creative thought; but this element can be found in rational scientific
thought also. Rational thought is not non-intuitive; it is, rather, intuition submitted to tests
and checks (as opposed to intuition run wild). Applying this to the problem of the creation
of the open society, I admit that men like Socrates were inspired by intuition; but while I
grant this fact, I believe that it is their rationality by which the founders of the open society
are distinguished from those who tried to arrest its development, and who were also, like
Plato, inspired by intuition — only by an intuition unchecked by reasonableness (in the sense
in which this term has been used in the present chapter). See also the note to the

Introduction.
59 . Cp. note 4 to chapter 18.

Notes to Chapter Twenty-Five

1. The so-called conventionalists (H. Poincare, P. Duhem, and more recently, A. Eddington);
cp. note 17 to chapter 5.

2. Cp. my The Logic of Scientific Discovery.

3. The 'bucket theory of the mind' has been mentioned in chapter 23. (*For the 'searchlight
theory of science', see also my 'Towards a Rational Theory of Tradition,' now in my
Conjectures and Refutations , especially pp. 127 f *) The 'searchlight theory' contains,
perhaps, just those elements of Kantianism that are tenable. We might say that Kant's
mistake was to think the searchlight itself incapable of improvement; and that he did not see
that some searchlights (theories) may fail to illuminate facts which others bring out clearly.
But this is how we give up using certain searchlights, and make progress.

4. Cp. note 23 to chapter 8.

5. For the attempt to avoid all presuppositions, cp. the criticism (of Husserl) in note 8 (1) to
chapter 24, and text. The naive idea that it is possible to avoid presupposition (or a point of
view) has also been attacked on different lines by H. Gomperz. (Cp. Weltanschauungslehre,
I, 1905, pp. 33 and 35; my translation is perhaps a little free.) Gomperz's attack is directed
against radical empiricists. (Not against Husserl.) 'A philosophic or scientific attitude
towards facts', Gomperz writes, 'is always an attitude of thought, and not merely an attitude
of enjoying the facts in the manner of a cow, or of contemplating facts in the manner of a
painter, or of being overwhelmed by the facts in the manner of a visionary. We must
therefore assume that the philosopher is not satisfied with the facts as they are, but thinks
about them . . . Thus it seems clear that behind that philosophical radicalism which pretends
... to go back to immediate facts or data, there is always hidden an uncritical reception of
traditional doctrines. For some thoughts about the facts must occur even to these radicals;
but since they are unconscious of them to such a degree as to hold that they merely admit
the facts, we have no choice but to assume that their thoughts are ... uncritical' (Cp. also the
same author's remarks on Interpretation in Erkenntnis, vol. 7, pp. 225 ff.)

6. Cp. Schopenhauer's comments on history {Parerga, etc., vol. II, ch. XIX, § 238; Works,
second German edition, vol. VI, p. 480).

7. (1) To my knowledge, the theory of causality sketched here in the text was first presented in
my book, Logik der Forschung (1935) — now translated as The Logic of Scientific Discovery
(1959). See pp. 59 f. of the translation. As here translated, the original brackets have been
eliminated, and numbers in brackets as well as four brief passages in brackets have been
added, partly in order to make a somewhat compressed passage more intelligible, and partly
(in the case of the two last brackets) to make allowance for a point of view I had not clearly
seen in 1935, the point of view of what A. Tarski has called 'semantics'. (See, e.g., his
Grundlegung der wissenschaftlichen Semantik, in Actes du Congres International
Philosophique, vol. Ill, Paris, 1937, pp. 1 ff., and R. CsLYnap, Introduction to Semantics,
1942.) Owing to Tarski's development of the foundations of semantics, I no longer hesitate
(as I did when writing the book referred to) to make full use of the terms 'cause' and
'effect'. For these can be defined, using Tarski's concept of truth, by a semantic definition
such as the following: Events is the cause of events, and events the effect of event ^4, if
and only if there exists a language in which we can formulate three propositions, u, a, and b,
such that w is a true universal law, a describes A, and b describes B, and Z) is a logical
consequence of u and a. (Here the term 'event' or 'fact' may be defined by a semantic
version of my definition of 'event' in my The Logic of Scientific Discovery, pp. 88 ff., say,
by the following definition: An event E is the common designatum of a class of mutually
translatable singular statements.)

(2) A few historical remarks concerning the problem of cause and effect may be added here.
The Aristotelian concept of cause (viz., his formal and material cause, and his efficient
cause; the final cause does not interest us here, even though my remark holds good for it
too) is typically essentiahstic; the problem is to explain change or motion, and it is explained
by reference to the hidden structure of things. This essentialism is still to be found in
Bacon's, Descartes', Locke's, and even Newton's views on this matter; but Descartes'
theory opens the way to a new view. He saw the essence of all physical bodies in their
spatial extension or geometrical shape, and concluded from this that the only way in which
bodies can act upon one another is by pushing; one moving body necessarily pushes

another from its place because both are extended, and therefore cannot fill the same space.
Thus the effect follows the cause by necessity, and all truly causal explanation {of physical
events) must be in terms of push. This view was still assumed by Newton, who accordingly
said about his own theory of gravitation — ^which, of course, employs the idea of pull rather
than push — ^that nobody who knows anything of philosophy could possibly consider it a
satisfactory explanation; and it still remains influential in physics in the form of a dislike of
any kind of 'action at a distance'. — Berkeley was the first to criticize the explanation by
hidden essences, whether these are introduced to 'explain' Newton's attraction, or whether
they lead to a Cartesian theory of push; he demanded that science should describe, rather
than explain by essential or necessary connections. This doctrine, which became one of the
main characteristics of positivism, loses its point if our theory of causal explanation is
adopted; for explanation becomes then a kind of description; it is a description which makes
use of universal hypotheses, initial conditions, and logical deduction. To Hume (who was
partly anticipated by Sextus Empiricus, Al-Gazzah, and others) is due what may be called
the most important contribution to the theory of causation; he pointed out (as against the
Cartesian view) that we cannot know anything about a necessary connection between an
events and another events. All we can possibly know is that events of the kind ^ (or
events similar to A) have so far been followed by events of the kind B (or events similar to
B). We can know that, in point of fact, such events were connected; but since we do not
know that this connection is a necessary one, we can say only that it has held good in the
past. Our theory fully recognizes this Humean criticism. But it differs from Hume (1) in that
it explicitly formulates the universal hypothesis that events of the kind A are always and
everywhere followed by events of the kind B; (2) that it asserts the truth of the statement that
A is the cause of B, provided that the universal hypothesis is true. — Hume, in other words,
only looked at the events A and B themselves; and he could not find any trace of a causal
link or a necessary connection between these two. But we add a third thing, a universal law;
and with respect to this law, we may speak of a causal link, or even of a necessary
connection. We could, for example, define: Event B is causally linked (or necessarily
connected) with events if and only if^ is the cause ofB (in the sense of our semantic
definition given above). — Concerning the question of the truth of a universal law, we may

say that there are countless universal laws whose truth we never question in daily life; and
accordingly, there are also countless cases of causation where in daily hfe we never question
the 'necessary causal link'. From the point of scientific method, the position is different. For
we can never rationally estabhsh the truth of scientific laws; all we can do is to test them
severely, and to eliminate the false ones (this is perhaps the crux of my The Logic oj
Scientific Discovery). Accordingly, all scientific laws retain for ever a hypothetical character;
they are assumptions. And consequently, all statements about specific causal connections
retain the same hypothetical character. We can never be certain (in a scientific sense) that A
is the cause ofB, precisely because we can never be certain whether the universal
hypothesis in question is true, however well it may be tested. Yet, we shall be inclined to
find the specific hypothesis that^ is the cause of 5 the more acceptable the better we have
tested and confirmed the corresponding universal hypothesis. (For my theory of
confirmation, see chapter X and also appendix *ix of The Logic of Scientific Discovery,
especially p. 275, where the temporal coefficients or indices of confirmation sentences are
discussed.)

(3) Concerning my theory of historical explanation, developed here in the text (further
below), I wish to add some critical comments to an article by Morton G. White, entitled
'Historical Explanation' and published m Mind (vol. 52, 1943, pp. 212 ff). The author
accepts my analysis of causal explanation, as originally developed in my Logik der
Forschung (now translated as The Logic of Scientific Discovery). (He mistakenly attributes
this theory to an article by C. G. Hempel, pubhshed in the Journal of Philosophy, 1942; see,
however, Hempel's review of my book in Deutsche Liter aturzeitung, 1937, (8), pp. 310 to
314.) Having found what in general we call an explanation. White proceeds to ask what is
historical explanation. In order to answer this question, he points out that the characteristic
of a biological explanation (as opposed, say, to a physical one) is the occurrence of
specifically biological terms in the explanatory universal laws; and he concludes that an
historical explanation would be one in which specifically historical terms would so occur.
He further finds that all laws in which anything like specific historical terms occur are better
characterized as sociological, since the terms in questions are of a sociological character
rather than of an historical one; and he is thus ultimately forced to identify 'historical

explanation' with 'sociological explanation'.

It seems to me obvious that this view neglects what has been described here in the text as the
distinction between historical and generalizing sciences, and their specific problems and
methods; and I may say that discussions on the problem of the method of history have long
ago brought out the fact that history is interested in specific events rather than in general
laws. I have in mind, for example, Lord Acton's essays against Buckle, written in 1858 (to
be found in his Historical Essays and Studies, 1908), and the debate between Max Weber
and E. Meyer (see Weber's Gesammelte Aufsaetze zur Wissenschaftslehre , 1922, pp. 215
ff.). Like Meyer, Weber always rightly emphasized that history is interested in singular
events, not in universal laws, and that, at the same time, it is interested in causal explanation.
Unfortunately, however, these correct views led him to turn repeatedly (e.g. op. cit., p. 8)
against the view that causality is bound up with universal laws. It appears to me that our
theory of historical explanation, as developed in the text, removes the difficulty and at the
same time explains how it could arise.

8. The doctrine that crucial experiments may be made in physics has been attacked by the
conventionalists, especially by Duhem (cp. note 1 to this chapter). But Duhem wrote before
Einstein, and before Eddington's crucial eclipse observation; he even wrote before the
experiments of Lummer and Pringsheim which, by falsifying the formulae of Rayleigh and
Jeans, led to the Quantum theory.

9. The dependence of history upon our interest has been admitted both by E. Meyer and by his
critic M. Weber. Meyer writes (Zur Theorie und Methodik der Geschichte, 1902, p. 37): 'The
selection of facts depends upon the historical interest taken by those living at the present
time ...' Weber writes {Ges. Aufsaetze, 1922, p. 259): 'Our ... interest ... will determine the
range of cultural values which determines ... history. ' Weber, following Rickert, repeatedly
insists that our interest, in turn, depends upon ideas of value; in this he is certainly not
wrong, but he does not add anything to the methodological analysis. None of these authors,
however, draw the revolutionary consequence that, since all history depends upon our
interest, there can be only histories, and never a 'history', a story of the development of
mankind 'as it happened'.

For two interpretations of history which are opposed to one another, cp. note 61 to chapter
11.

10 . For this refusal to discuss the problem of the 'meaning of meaning' (Ogden and Richards)
or rather of the 'meanings of meaning' (H. Gomperz), cp. chapter 11, especially notes 26,
47, 50, and 51. See also note 25 to the present chapter.

11 . For moral futurism, cp. chapter 22.

12 . Cp. K. Barth, Credo (1936), p. 12. For Earth's remark against 'the Neo-Protestant doctrine
of the revelation of God in history', cp. op. cit, 142. See also the Hegelian source of this
doctrine, quoted in text to note 49, chapter 12. Cp. also note 51 to chapter 24. For the next
quotation cp. Barth, op. cit., 79.

* Concerning my remark that the story of Christ was /to/ 'the story of an unsuccessful ...
nationahst revolution', I am now inclined to believe that it may have been precisely this; see
R. Eisler's book Jesus Basileus. But in any case, it is not a story of worldly success.*

13 . Cp. Barth, op. cit., 76.

14 . Cp. Kierkegaard's Journal of 1854; see the German edition (1905) of his Book of the Judge,
p. 135.

15 . Cp. note 57 to chapter 11, and text.

16 . Cp. the concluding sentences of Macmurray's The Clue to History (1938; p. 237).

17 . Cp. especially note 55 to chapter 24, and text.

18 . Kierkegaard was educated at the University of Copenhagen in a period of intense and even
somewhat aggressive Hegelianism. The theologian Martensen was especially influential.
(For this aggressive attitude, cp. the judgement of the Copenhagen Academy against
Schopenhauer's prize essay on the Foundations of Morals, of 1840. It is very likely that this
affair was instrumental in making Kierkegaard acquainted with Schopenhauer, at a time
when the latter was still unknown in Germany.)

19 . Cp. Kierkegaard's Journal of 1853; see the German edition of his Book of the Judge, p.
129, from which the passage in the text is freely translated.

Kierkegaard is not the only Christian thinker protesting against Hegel's historicism; we have
seen (cp. note 12 to this chapter) that Barth also protests against it. A remarkably interesting
criticism of Hegel's teleological interpretation of history was given by the Christian
philosopher, M. B. Foster, a great admirer (if not a follower) of Hegel, at the end of his book
The Political Philosophies of Plato and Hegel. The main point of his criticism, if I
understand him rightly, is this. By interpreting history teleologically, Hegel does not see, in
its various stages, ends in themselves, but merely means for bringing about the final end.
But Hegel is wrong in assuming that historical phenomena or periods are means to an end
which can be conceived and stated as something distinguishable from the phenomena
themselves, in a way in which a purpose can be distinguished from the action which seeks to
realize it, or a moral from a play (if we wrongly assume that the sole purpose of the play was
to convey this moral). For this assumption, Foster contends, shows a failure to recognize the
difference between the work of a creator and that of an instrument maker, a technician or
'Demiurge', '...a series of works of creation may be understood as a development', Foster
writes {pp. cit, pp. 201-3), without a distinct conception of the end to which they
progress ... the painting, say, of one era may be understood to have developed out of the era
preceding it, without being understood as a nearer approximation to a perfection or end . . .
Political history, similarly, ... may be understood as development, without being interpreted
as a teleological process. — But Hegel, here and elsewhere, lacks insight in the significance
of creation.' And later, Foster writes {pp. cit, p. 204; itahcs partly mine): 'Hegel regards it as
a sign of inadequacy of the rehgious imagery that those who hold it, while they assert that
there is a plan of Providence, deny that the plan is knowable ... To say that the plan of
Providence is inscrutable is, no doubt, an inadequate expression, but the truth which it
expresses inadequately is not that God's plan is knowable, but that, as Creator and not as a
Demiurge, God does not work according to plan at all.'

I think that this criticism is excellent, even though the creation of a work of art may, in a
very different sense, proceed according to a 'plan' (although not an end or purpose); for it
may be an attempt to realize something like the Platonic idea of that work — that perfect
model before his mental eyes or ears which the painter or musician strives to copy. (Cp. note
9 to chapter 9 and notes 25-26 to chapter 8.)

20 . For Schopenhauer's attacks upon Hegel, to which Kierkegaard refers, cp. chapter 12, for
example, text to note 13, and the concluding sentences. The partly quoted continuation of
Kierkegaard's passage is op. cit., 130. (In a note, Kierkegaard later inserted 'pantheist'
before 'putridity'.)

21 . Cp. chapter 6, especially text to note 26.

22 . For the Hegelian ethics of domination and submission, cp. note 25 to chapter 11. For the
ethics of hero-worship, cp. chapter 12, especially text to notes 75 ff.

23 . Cp. chapter 5 (especially text to note 5).

24 . We can 'express ourselves' in many ways without communicating anything. For our task of
using language for the purpose of rational communication, and for the need of keeping up
the standards of clarity of the language, cp. notes 19 and 20 to chapter 24 and note 30 to
chapter 12.

25 . This view of the problem of the 'meaning of life' may be contrasted with Wittgenstein's
view of the problems of the 'sense of life' in the Tractatus (p. 187): 'The solution of the
problem of life is seen in the vanishing of this problem. — (Is not this the reason why men to
whom after long doubting the sense of life became clear, could not then say wherein this
sense consisted?)' For Wittgenstein's mysticism, see also note 32 to chapter 24. For the
interpretation of history here suggested, cp. notes 61 (1) to chapter 11, and 27 to the present
chapter.

26 . Cp., for example, note 5 to chapter 5 and note 19 to chapter 24

It may be remarked that the world of facts is in itself complete (since every decision can be
interpreted as a fact). It is therefore for ever impossible to refute a monism which insists that
there are only facts. But irrefutability is not a virtue. Idealism, for example, cannot be refuted
either.

27 . It appears that one of the motives of historicism is that the historicist does not see that there
is a third alternative, besides the two which he allows: either that the world is ruled by
superior powers, by an 'essential destiny' or Hegelian 'Reason', or that it is a mere wheel of
chance, irrational, on the level of a gamble. there is a third possibility: that we may

introduce reason into it (cp. note 19 to chapter 24); that although the world does not
progress, we may progress, individually as well as in co-operation.

This third possibility is clearly expressed by H. A. L. Fisher in his History of Europe (vol. I,
p. vii, italics mine; partly quoted in text to note 8 to chapter 21): 'One intellectual excitement
has ... been denied me. Men wiser and more learned than I have discerned in history a plot,
a rhythm, a pre-determined pattern. These harmonies are concealed from me. I can see only
one emergency following upon another as wave follows wave, only one great fact with
respect to which, since it is unique, there can be no generalizations , only one safe rule for
the historian: that he should recognize ... the play of the contingent and the unforeseen.'
And immediately after this excellent attack upon historicism (with the passage in italics, cp.
note 13 to chapter 13), Fisher continues: 'This is not a doctrine of cynicism and despair. The
fact of progress is written plain and large on the page of history; but progress is not a law
of nature. The ground gained by one generation may be lost by the next'
These last three sentences represent very clearly what I have called the 'third possibility', the
belief in our responsibility, the belief that everything rests with us. And it is interesting to see
that Fisher's statement is interpreted by Toynbee {A Study of History, vol. V, 414) as
representing 'the modem Western belief in the omnipotence of Chance'. Nothing could
show more clearly the attitude of the historicist, his inability to see the third possibility. And
it explains perhaps why he tries to escape from this alleged 'omnipotence of chance' into a
behef in the omnipotence of the power behind the historical scene — that is, into historicism.
(Cp. also note 61 to chapter 11.)

I may perhaps quote more fully Toynbee's comments on Fisher's passage (which Toynbee
quotes down to the words 'the unforeseen'): 'This brilliantly phrased passage', Toynbee
writes, 'cannot be dismissed as a scholar's conceit; for the writer is a Liberal who is
formulating a creed which Liberahsm has translated from theory into action . . . This modem
Western belief in the omnipotence of Chance gave birth in the nineteenth century of the
Christian Era, when things still seemed to be going well with Westem Man, to the pohcy of
laissezfaire ...' (Why the belief in a progress for which we ourselves are responsible should
imply a belief in the omnipotence of Chance, or why it should produce the policy of laissez-
faire, Toynbee leaves unexplained.)

28 . By the 'realism' of the choice of our ends I mean that we should choose ends which can be
realized within a reasonable span of time, and that we should avoid distant and vague
Utopian ideals, unless they determine more immediate aims which are worthy in themselves.
Cp. especially the principles of piecemeal social engineering, discussed in chapter 9.

The final manuscript of volume I of the first edition of this book was
completed in October, 1942, and that of volume II in February, 1943.

Index

absolute idealism 688
absolute monarchy 259- 60
absolutism 267, 493, 50i, 506, 590-1
absolutist theory 673
abstract rationalism 271
abstract society 166- 7

accummulation 362, 390- 1. 398 . 692 : capital 356 . 373 . 385; Marxism 374- 6: wealth 47, 391
activism 407, 408, 110, 416
activist theory of knowledge 421
ActsTM.

Adam, J. 41, 79, 133, 520-1. 525, 533, 534, 535, 538, 578; autarky 554; awe-inspiring 593 :
City in Heaven 598 : exile 689 : infanticide 541 : justice 94, 569 : knowledge 593 ; music 542 :
Number 558-9; Philosophy of History 140 . 520; slavery 537

Adeimantus 573 , 578-9

Adler, Alfred ix. Ml, 688, 217

Aesculapius 131

aestheticism 154- 5. 156 . 157 . 663

aesthetics 415 . 611

age of Cronos 18-19. 521

age of dishonesty 237 . 243 . 660

age of industrialization 445

age of irresponsibility 243

age of Zeus 14, 19, 63

aggression 142 . 272 . 326; see also violence

Alcibiades 144, 181, 182, 595, 598, 600, 615, 622-3. 631
Alcidamas 67, 91, 108, 143, 175, 550, 577, 595, 613, 641
Alcmaeon 75, 165

Alexander the Great 220, 262-3. 596
altruism 96-8, 114, HI, 480, 574, 575
ambiguity, Marxism 365- 6. 371
ambition 40, 128, 145, 51i, 623
anamnesis 53 1

Anaximander 179, 515, 516, 512, 523 , 620
Ancillon 256

Anderson, E. N. 265-7. 668 . 671 . 674-6
Anderson, Maxwell 205
animal instincts 75

Antiphon 66, 70, 91, 547, 549, 554, 571, 595, 596, 611, 615, 618

Antisthenes 91, 123, Ml, 175, 550, 555, 600, 611, 642, 652; definitions 217, 660-1:

monotheism 593- 6: Plato's attitude 144- 5: and Socrates 184 . 237 . 63 1
Anytus 182-3. 584

Apology 184, 191, 201, 200, 520, 628-31
Aquinas, Thomas 441 . 637
Archelaus 547
Archidamian War 615
Archytas of Tarentum 215
aristocracy U, 11, 164, 348, 600-1
Aristophanes HI, 115, 511, 511, 621, 628, 610
Aristotle 24, 28, 29, 61, 641; and

Antisthenes 660 : ascent theories 644 : banausic 642 : corruption 529 : doctrine of the mean 220;
equalitarianism 92; essence 27-8. 29 . 30, 223- 4: forms 36, 223 : geometry 190- 1. 211 :
Heraclitus' influence 9, H, 15.; individualism 91; justice 88; leisured classes 643 : logic 655 :
love 635 . 640; Menexenus 619 : music 543 : non-being 524 : Oligarchs 615 : Plato criticism
171 . 576- 7: protectionism 107 . 108 : religion as opium 348 . 590, 663 : roots of Hegelianism

2 1 9- 4 1 : slavery 220- 1: sociology of knowledge 428 : Timaeus parallelism 527
arithmetization 190 . 563 . 583
armed auxiliaries 45
Arndt, E. M. 674

arrested change 20, 29, 37, 44, 83, 169, 419, 420, 536-7: development 540; society 174, 546 :

state 45, 79; see also Forms or Ideas; ideal state
art 154, 732
artificial 554
ascent theories 644- 5
astrology 483, 521, 546, 569, 664
astronomy 77, 142, 190, 297, 557
Athenians 10-1 1

Athens 45, 51, 168, 169, 170, HI, 172; defence 589; democracy ix, xxxviii . 17, 39, 53, 149 :
education 50-2; fall of 169-75. 182 . 187 : imperialism 172. 173 . 174 : infanticide 541:
Levinson's critique 194-212 : Melian Affair 615 : Peloponnesian war 169- 75. 182 : slavery
42 , 46, 67 , 172, 595, 616, Ml

Atomists 676

atoms 606, 607, 665, 677, 687
Augustus 238
autarky 84, 111, 549, 554
authoritarian intellectualism 432- 3

authoritarianism 123 . 127 . 268, 432- 3. 695 : Christianity 293; education 124 . 126 . 129 :
medieval 241, 245; positivism 68; religion 239, 240-1. 497 . 498, 500-1: and truth 493,
494 . 504-5; Utopian engineering 149

authority 70

autochthonous warriors 589
autonomy 301-10. 321 . 322 . 500
auxiliary hypothesis 392, 393, 394

Bacon, Francis 232, 451, 452, 494

Bakunin, M. 691
banausic 221 . 642
Banse, E. 280

Barker 99, 109, 579, 590, 600; contract theory 577; Cynics 237-8: militarism 574

Barth, K. 477, 731, 762

basic premises 227, 228

beauty 136, 154-5. 156

Beethoven, L. van 415

Bentham, J. 442

Bergson, Henri 273 , 435, 460, 512, 513, 544, 677; creative thought 668; Hegelianism 669, 677 :

mysticism 635
Bernstein, A. 703

Best State 23, 29, 31, 39, 44-9, 51, 53, 77, 84, M, IM, 221, 521, 523, 534, 536, 540, 625 .

640 . 642 : see also ideal state
Bias 11, 211, 422, 423, 424, 465-7. 502-3: see also prejudices
biological holism 285

biological naturahsm 65-8. 69 . 73 . 74 . 75 . 76 . 78-9, 556

biological theory of state 72, 166 . 167 . 251 . 613 . 614 . 666

Bismarck, Otto von 270

Black Death 240

Blanc, Louis 555

Bleak House (Dickens) 96-7

Blueher, H. 725

Bodin, J. 115

Bohr, Niels 723

bolshevism 101

Book of the Judge (Kierkegaard) 407
Borel, E. 567

bourgeous economists 379

bourgeousie 347, 349, 355-7. 366 . 367 . 371 . 372 . 409, 689-91. 702, 707, 715; overthrow

392-3. 395 : war 368
Bowra, C. M. 529
Bradford, Bishop of 514
bravery 280

breakdown of closed societies 178 . 546 . 613

breeding 77-8, 79, 140-2. 206 . 207, 544-5. 560 : guardians 45, 49-5i, 75; philosopher king

140- 3: Royal Science 601 : ruling classes 45, 49, 50, 51; see also eugenics
Broadhead, H. D. 597
Bryson 568

bucket theory of mind 421 . 728
Budget 340, 603

Burke, Edmund 2, 107, 250, 271, 346, 432, 435, 575, 666, 669, 671, 696

Burnet, John 63, 180, 527, 549, 584, Ml, 620-1. 632 : Aristophanes 627, 628, 630; charmed

circle 546 : Demos 632 : Greeks and Maoris 613 : Parmenides 526 : Seventh Letter 584 :

Socratic Problem 626- 7: soul 621- 2: Xenophanes 526 . 632-3
Burns, E. 532, 555, 680, 695
Butler, Samuel 2, 128, 585

Caird, E. 225

Callicles HO, HI, 111, 175, 577, 578, 622
Callippus 129, 585

canvas-cleaning 155-6. 188 . 198 . 200, 205, 305, 686

Capital 298, 299, Ml, 113, 114, 321, 324, 331-2. 341 . 345-6. 362 . 381 . 390-1. 406 :
capitalism 373 : child exploitation 331 . 350 . 391 : competition 373- 4. 375; ethics 406 : misery
374-5: profits 388-90. 400 : social development 405
capital: centralization 374, 375 . 376 . 704 : concentration 702; constant and variable 389
capitaHsm: antagonistic tendencies 698 : and Christianity 406- 7: class structure 355 :
contradictions 373- 5. 390, 395- 6: evils 605 : fate 373- 96: laissez-faire 299 . 350 . 456 . 690 :
Marx 298, 299, HI, HI, 114, 321, 326, HI, 114; moral condemnation 323-4. 416 :
overthrow 345-6. 356 : rise of HO; unrestrained HO, HI, 185, 187, 190, HI, 691

capitalist competition 448 . 375
Carlyle, Thomas 692

Carnap, Rudolf xviii . 547 . 650 . 654 . 678 . 718 . 728; implicit definitions 656- 6: semantics 528
Carneades 1 12 . 579
Carmthers, John 610 . 683
Carthage 617

caste state 544-5. 554 . 589

Catlin, G. E. G. 28, 552, 553, 572, 6il, 637

cattle breeders 140

causal explanations 467-8, 728

causality 299, 728, 730

causal laws 517

causal relations 729

centralization 374, 375, 376 . 704

centralized economic planning 603

Chaerephon 183, 624, 630

change, theory of 43, 77, 143, 520, 535; Aristotle 222-4; Hegel 250, 259-60: Heraclitus
10-16. 515- 18: Jaspers 287; law of revolutions 38, 536 : Parmenides 26-7: philosophies of
419-20: Plato 18-20, 23-9, 250; Plato's descriptive sociology 35-8, 53; ruling classes 47;
theory of forms/ideas 524 : see also Forms or Ideas; Plato; social change

chaos, myth of 523

Charles V 336

Charmides 18, 519, 583, 586, 590, 623, 630, 632
Charmides 18, Ml, 182, 622
checks and balances, theory of 115- 16. 120
child labour 331, 350, 391

children 26, 28, 78, 519 . 525 . 530, 538 . 557 . 558, 559 . 641 : canvas-cleaning 155- 6: common
ownership 47-8, 98, 641 : communist revolution 94, 389 . 636 : education 124 . 350;
exploitation 389- 91: militarist principles 52, 99

Chion 129

chosen people 8, 238 . 456 . 514

Christianity 9, 63, 293 . 716 . 722 : altruism 98, 99; closed society 237- 41. 664 . 716; economics
697; equality 476; ethics 285-6, 408-9: French Revolution 245; history 476-7;
humanitarianism 270 : Marx 406-7, 457 : medieval conversion 270; myths 620; nationalism
662 : Plato 134-5: rationalism/irrationalism 440-1. 446-7. 448 . 454 . 455 : rise of 226:
science 478-9; spiritual naturalism 71-2: totalitarianism 100 : Toynbee 662-3

Christians in the Class Struggle (Cope) 514

city 54, 533 . 598 : as super-organism 72, 73, 75, 76

civilization xxxv : origins 38, 304-6. 532-3. 543-4: strain 163, 168, 179, 184, 187, 188, 309,

446 . 480. 614
civil peace 576 . 606- 9

civil war 17, 41, 353, 358, 368, 604-5. 692 . 701 . 706-16

classes: antagonism 42; collectivism 8; consciousness 301 . 322 . 394, 395 . 681 . 696 : division
47 . 83, 86, 537 : egoism 96-7. 99 : equilibrium theory 329; Happiness 161 . 168 : knowing
one's place 87-8, 93, 94, 101-2. 103 . 131 . 221 : Marx 311, 321-6: privileges 87, 91, 93;
rule 83, 168; structure 355, 357; struggles 39, 40, 11, 45-51, 53, 78, 165, 174, 179, 184,
347 . 348, 349, 355, 409; war 38-9, 45 , 78, 174, 312, 321, 358, 371, 698

class interest 170, 174, 249, 311, Ml, 321-3. 325

classless society 9, 347- 8

Clausewitz, Carl von 278

Clearchus 129

Clenias 536

closed societies 55, 57, 165, 166, 178, 179, 180, 189; Christianity 237-41. 664 . 716 : Fall of

Man 187 : naive monism 57-8, 65; organic character 614 : see also tribal societies
The Clue to History (Macmurray) 478
Codrus 18, 144, 519, 599, 600
cogs 103

Cohen, M. R. 653, 655, 684, 685
Cole, G. D. H. 688, 693, 709, HO
collective bargaining 384, 401

collective utility 103, 130, HI, 195, 274

collectivism 8, 76, 80, 95-101. 104 . 126 . 258 . 514 . 573-4; Hegel 246; H. G. Wells 723;

methodological 303, 686; Plato 91, 94, 130, HI, 195, 196-7: and psychologism 303 .

309-10: radical 246; reason 449-50; romantic 481; tribal 75-6
collectivist economic system xxxvi
collectivist theory, morality 452
colonial exploitation 392 . 393, 700
commandments 56, 57
commerce 168- 9. 174- 5
commodity, value 374, 692, 693, 709-10
common meals 47, 538 . 574 . 575

Communism 2di, xiv . 46-7. 349 . 350, 353 . 395- 6. 555 . 682 : ideal state 39; principle of 555;
revolution 372 . 595

Communist Manifesto ^TL, 329, 352, 356, 364-6. 369 . 394, 457, 532, 682, 689, 690, 691, 696,

698 . 701 . 704, 705-7. 709, 213 , 111, 726
competition 331 . 373- 4. 375 : accumulation due to 380 : and profits 388
completely abstract society 166
Composition of Forces, principle of 580
compromise 149, 220, 363, 364, 395, 441, 619, 699
Comte, A. 35, 40, 298, 354, 401, 419, 519, 533
condescension 42, 202, 629
Congress of Vienna ix, 263

consciousness 282-3, 301, 116, 322, 324, 325, 329, 335, 348, 355, 356, 362, 394, 395
conspiracy theory of society 306- 8. 3 12 . 340- 1. 687
constant capital 389

constitution 40, 165, 170, 172, 177, 185, 532, 533, 562, 579, 616, 618, 619, 623, 625, 654,
655 . 656 . 663 . 671 . 672 . 675 : democratic 360; England 248, 676; Hegel 256-7. 258, 259 :
Kant 562 : Plato 597 : Roman 663

Constitution of Athens 177-8, 534

consumption 399

contract theory 72, 73, 109, 112, 539, 555, 578, 579; Barker 109, 577; Lycophron 109, 555;

Plato 543 : see also social contract
convention, and nature 62, 65, 66, 70, 72-3, 134 . 728
conventional social laws 301 . 302

conventionalism 72-3. 74 . 551 : critical see critical dualism; naive 58
Cope, Gilbert 514-15. 611
Corey raean Revolution 170

Cornford, F. M. 524, 525, 536, 537, 642; grading 565; noble lie 587

correlation, definitions 656

correspondence theory 590

corruption 36, 37, 129 . 529

cosmic laws 19

cosmos 11

counter cycle policy 387

creative evolution 251 . 273 . 668 . 677

Creator of the Universe 57

credit system 374, 398, Zli

Credo ATL, 731

Crete 40, 45, 53 , 536-7. 540 . 541

crime 105, 108, HI, 111, 439, 441, 475, 576, 583, 612; Catlin 611; science 609-10
criteria, truth 487-9
Critias 44

Critias 18, 44, IM, 175, 181, 182, 184, 239, 519, 520, 530, 536, 575, 613, 618, 619, 622 .

623- 4. 630, 632 . 638, 680 : Levinson's critique 194 . 195 . 196- 7: religion as opium 663
critical dualism 57, 58-61. 63, 65
critical rationalism 435, 437, 442-3. 444 . 719
critical thought 513 . 619

criticism 176, 492, 493, 496, 504, 505, 507, 640; assumptions 495; free 424-5. 427 : scientific

432-3 ; self-criticism 123, IM, 502-3
Critique of All Revelation (Fichte) 266

Critique of Pure Reason (Kant) 252
Crito 184, 624, 625

Cronos 43, 52i, 535; age of 18-19, 521

Grossman, R. H. S. 124, 126, 233, 529, 561, 583-4. 587 . 624, 634, 636, 653, 654; definitions

655; Happiness 84-5. 161 : propaganda 131 . 587
customary life 164 . 174

cycles 18, 19, 520-2. 530 . 531 : laws 18; Plato 40, 471, 530, 531
Cynics 237-8. 550

Damon 542, 543

Darwin, Charles 273, 634, 645

Darwinism 273 . 638

Davie s 561 . 573

De Anima 228

death duties 376

decay 53., 250, 521- 2. 53 1 . 559 : historical law of 37-8; human nature 72: Plato 35: ruling
classes 40

decisions 60, 61-3, 64, 482-3. 496 . 498, 499, 522, 723
decline and fall 53 , 280, 530, 545, 546, 559, 602, 642
Decline of the West 53.
defence 104-5
defined term 227
defining formula 227 . 230

definition 95-6, HS, 125, 358; Aristotle 226, 228-9, 230-7: essentialism 226, 227-8, 228-9.

230-1, 233-4, 235-6, 237, 655-61: implicit 656-61: operational 490, 656, 657; and proof

232-3 ; radicalism 154 : rationalism/irrationalism 430- 1: scientific 230- 1. 234- 6: theory of

660; of things 29-31; wisdom 122, 123
degeneration, breeding 49-50, 78, 133, 140-2. 222 . 250; and change 18-20, 23-5, 27, 29;

Hesiod 10; human nature 72, 76; Plato 35., 37, 38; ruling castes 143 : states 77, 79; see also

change; decay; Forms or Ideas

delusive opinion 26, 27, 66, 21, 21, 523, 524, 526, 549, 557, 588
demands see political demands

democracy 12, 39, 53, iH, 118, 119, 149, 179, 337-8, 360, 361, 368, 370-1. 532; Aristotle
88, 220 . 630 : Athens ix, xxxviii . 17 . 39 . 53 . 149 : criticisms of 120 : degeneration 41-3:
economic 335 : and freedom 105 . 693 : Greeks 17; Heraclitus H; industrial revolution 331 :
interventionism 340 . 350, 391- 2: Lenin 705 : majority rule 117 . 118 : and naval imperialism
178 : paradox of 1 18 . 581- 2: Plato on 532, 569- 73: requirements of 368- 9: Socrates 121 .
625-6

Democritus U, 93, 175, 176, 241, 243, 593, 596, 613, 618, 660, 665, 666
demonstrative knowledge 227 . 228, 229
Demos 632

depersonalized society 166
derivation 655

Descartes 267, 494, 661-2. 729

descriptive sociology 30; nature and convention 55-80: Plato 35-54

destiny 733; Hegel 225, 277, 282; Heraclitus 10-15, 19; Homer 10, 515; law of 12-15, 19,

36-7: myth of 7-9, 178 : Plato 19, 20; see also fate
determinism: biological 9; economic 342 : Marx 293-300 : science 420; sociological 315 . 413 .

414 . 415-16. 420
de Tocqueville 149, 604
dialecticians 127
dialectical reasoning 698
dialectical studies 126 . 584, 592
dialectical twist 254
dialectic triad 253-4

dialectics 243, 670, 672, 716; capitalism, end of 348; Hegel 250-1. 252 . 255 . 257 . 259 : and

identity, philosophy of 259-62: Kant 669-70: Marx 313, 698
Dickens, Charles 96-7

dictatorships US, 119, 121, 129, 254, 338, 372; benevolent 149-50. 549 . 585-6: Utopian
engineering 149

Diels, H. 190, 192, 502, 515, 517, 525, 543, 612, 618-20. 623
Dik 569
Dio 129, 637

Dionysius 18, 42, 43, 129, 600
dishonesty, age 237, 243, 660
Dissension 78, 133 . 163
disunion 40, 43-7, 53, 72, 611, 702

divine: authority 63, 68, 74, 134, 139, Ml, 145-6. 246 : city 598; progenitors 71; soul 36-7;

state 246 : workmanship 71
division of labour 73, 165, 445, 539, 555, 682, 723, 724
doctrine of the chosen people 8, 238, 514
doctrine of the mean 220

dogmatism 176, 444, 493, 695; reinforced 254, 422, 658, 659, 670
dogs 45, 49, 50, 83, MO, Ml, 285, 539, 540, Ml, 556, 636, Ml
Dorians 48-9, 539, MO, 6M

dualism 313 . 314 . 526 : Christian 3 14 : critical 57, 58, 59, 60, 63, 65, 69; facts/decisions 482-3,

498, 522; facts/standards 498-9. 506-7: Marx 315; Plato 79-80
Duboc, M. 667
Duemmler, E. 594

du Gard, Roger Martin 147, IM, 602
Duhem, P. 728
Durkheim, E. 167

earthbom, myth of 49, 132, 133, 273, 521, 538, 539

Eastman, M. 522, 602, 682

economic abstinence 46, 50

economic democracy 335

economic historicism 8, 3 1 1- 20. 341

economic interventionism 333- 6. 338, 339-40

economic law M6, 373, 385, 405, 410, 6M

economic man 303

economic policy, Lenin 156

economic power 335- 6. 336 . 337- 8. 339

economics 303 : Christianity 697 : Euken's theory 711 : interventionism 333- 6. 338 . 339-40;

Marx 317 . 318 . 320; natural laws 60; Plato 38, 40, 45 , 73 , 79; structure of society 323
economism 315 . 317 . 318 . 320
Eddington ix, 448, 466, 551

education 84, 128- 9. 350, 480, 540- 1. 643 : authoritarianism 124 . 126, 129 : canvas-cleaning
188 : future leaders 121 . 123 . 128 : instincts 301- 2: institutionahsm 126 . 129 : liberal 221 .
643 : literary 51, 541, Ml; military 52, 99, 676; morals 482; Plato 50-2, iH, 126-7: ruling
castes 143, 584; state control 106, 124, 125, 138-9

egoism 96-7. 99

Egyptians 537 . 544

Eighth Letter 641

Einstein, Albert 235-6. 426 . 427

Eisler, Robert 515, 540, 546, 556, 569, 572, 589, 599, 731
emergent evolution 25 1

Empedocles 519, 520, 521, 523, 526, 529, 531, 644
empiricism 241, 430, 504, 558

employment, children 331 . 350 . 391 : see also unemployment
Encyclopaedia (Hegel) 259 . 260, 268, 276
ends 147-8. 150-1. 604-6. 733
energy 75

Engels, F. 311, Ml, 363, 367, 368, 371, 392-3. 408, 110, 680, 682, 684, 686, 688, 690, 691,
693 . 695 . 696 . 701 . 703, 705, 706, 215, 726; freedom 316; production 710; theory of
surplus value 378- 9. 710

England 248, 268-9. 346 . 350, 363, 387, 407, 519, 528, 561, 602, 675; constitution 676 :
interventionism 350

England, E. G. 99, 535, 536, 575

entelechy 224 . 646

environment, natural/social 55-80. 547 . 664- 5: marriage laws 301 : and morality 414 : snakes,

aversion to 302 : tribalism 164
Ephesians 12.
Epicureanism 241
Epicurus 665

equalitarianism 88, 89, 90, 91-5. 113 . 550, 595 : biological naturalism 66; dialectics 257 : Kant
722- 3: leadership 122 : Lycophron 109 : open society 179 : Pericles 177 : Plato 143 . 187- 8.
563 . 569-73; politics 155 : private property 534 : protectionism 109 . Ill : religion 476 :
Socrates 93, 95, 124, 125, 179, 180

equalitarian society 45

equality: geometrical 578; Glaucon 636 : individual differences 723 : Marxism 412 : of

opportunity 335; proportionate 563 : rationalism 439- 41. 445
equilibrium, theory of 38, 44, 50, 329
Eskimos 638

essences 27-8, 29, 30, 70, 71, 526, 528, 533, 562, 576, 581, 591; Aristotle 645, 647-9. 662 :

England's note 528; Hegel 250, 251, 254; hidden 729; Marx 383
essentialism 651 . 652 . 656 . 661 . 662 . 664 . 668 . 669 : Aristotle 223- 4: biological 273 :

definitions 528, 655- 61: fate 282; legal system 328; Marx 317 . 692- 3: methodological 29 .

30-1: social sciences 528; versus nominalism 649- 61
Estabrooks, G. H. 638
ethical idea 86, 277 : war 274
ethical individuahsm 66
ethical naturalism 68, 552
ethical nihilism 68, 1 12
ethical positivism 65, 68, 69, 74, 255

ethics: education 482; Marx 405- 16: moral judgements 169 . 551 . 572 . 656 : rationalism
437-45, 448; relativism 408- 9: rehgion 483; responsibility 59; scientific 551 . 552 : Socrates
27-8: see also morality

Euclid 190, 193

eugenics 49-50, 77, 78, 138, 139, 140-2. 187 . 206, 207, 559

Euken, Walter 711
Eurastus 585

Euripides 67, 91, 175, 550, 618
Euthyphro 186 . 635

evil: degeneration 39, 597; Fall of Man 187; Plato's 36, 37; state 43

evolution: creative 251 . 273 . 668 . 677; emergent 251 : law of 684 : of society 40; origin of

species 37, 522 . 644
evolutionary mysticism 635
Ewing, A. C. 561
Existence 225 . 286 . 287
exogamy, rules of 301
experience 228, 230, 503- 6
expertise 124 . 129

exploitation 330, 375, 376, 379, 380, 382, 384, 389; children 389-91: colonial 392, 393, TOO

facts: and decisions 59-64, 20, 482-3. 493 . 496 . 498, 499, 522, 723, 728; and standards

485-95, 498-510
faith in reason 436, 439, 442-3, 450, 460-1
fallibilism 490-94. 510
fallibilistic absolutism 493

Fall of Man 39, 54, 77, 78, 133, 143, 187, 520, 532

false morality 278

fame 15, 282, 480, 482

families 17, 25, 39

fanaticism 240

Faraday, M. 448

Farrington, B. 529

fascism 245 . 272-3, 350, 371- 2: Central Europe 700 : heroic man 274 : historical philosophy 9

fatalism 2di, xxxviii . 282

fate 15., 225 . 282, 484 : see also destiny

fatherhood of God 237-8. 461
feudalism 221 . 323 . 345 : medieval 245

Fichte, J. G. 236, 265-9. 281 . 293 . 562 . 598 . 666 . 668 . 669 . 674-5. 680 : and Kant 718 :

national state 680
Field, G. C. 522 . 526 : Second Letter 633 : Socratic Problem 627
fierceness 50-1. 52
fmal cause 222- 4
fire 13-14, 518-19
First World War 326
Fisher, H. A. L. 401, 733

flux, universal 515- 18. 520, 523 : see also change, theory of
formal freedom 332, 335, 337, 675-6. 681 . 693

Forms or Ideas 17-31. 39 . 83, 127 . 522 . 523; Aristotle 223 : bed 554 : descriptive sociology
35-6. 37, 38, 53, 54; divine state 77; education 126 : Good 136 . 137 . 590- 2: natural/social
environments 70; searching after truth 125 : wisdom 136 . 137- 8

Foster, M. B. 673, 732

Fourier, C. 398

Fowler 197, 198 , 199

fraternity 278

Frederick William III, king 246, 247, 248, 249, 254, 256-7. 262 . 267
free markets 333 . 400
free will 414

freedom: class struggles 322; education 124 : Engels 316 : formal/material 332, 337; Hegel
257-8, 261; interventionism 338; kingdom of 331; love of 406, 116; Marx 313 , 314, 114,
412 : paradox of HI, 333, 338, 339, 575, 581, 582, 671, 111, 219; planning 398; and
power of the state 104- 6: and rationalism/irrationalism 443 : realm of 420, 429 : and religion
476 : revolt against 178 : thought 256 : and violence 360

French Revolution 16, 245, 265, 267-8. 298, 119, 514

Freud, S. Ill, Mi, 611, 660, 717

Freyer, H. 280, 677, 678

friends 167, 334, 402, 441, 442, 450, 480, 555, 569, 574, 587, 599, 601, Ml, 630, 690

futurism 521; moral 41i, 412, 413, 476, 681, 724

Gabii 616, 611
Galiani, Abbe 716
gamblers 679, 733

gangster philosophy 189, 284, 287, 336, 647
Gauss 232

general interpretations 471- 2
generalizing sciences 468- 9. 470
genus 533

geometrical equality 578

geometry 190-1. 211 . 563-9. 567

German Idealism 243 . 247

German manhood 281

German nationalism 262- 70. 275 . 286

German Romantic Movement 271

Germany 249, 261, 287-8. 326 . 674

Glaucon 94-5, 95, HO, HI, Ml, 155, 578-9, 636

Glauconic Edict Ml, 142

glory 282, 283

Gobineau, Count 9, 514

Godel, K. 490

gods 68, 237-8, 261-2. 306 . 532; Form or Idea 25; Heraclitus 10; will of 8, 23
Goethe, J. W. von 668, 6M
Gogarten 285
gold Zli, 111

Golden Age 10, 18, 20, 23, 521, 530
Golden Rule 443

Gombrich, E. H. xvii-xxviii . 673 . 687

Gomperz, T. 85, 127, 220, 222, 526, 537, 542, 550, 561, 573, 574, 594, 619, 620, 622, 647,

619 . 640 : ascent theories 644-5: Crito 624
good 84, 551-2. 590-2: and evil 80, 590; fmal cause 222-4: life 644
Good Samaritan 240

good shepherd analogy 48, 49, 52, 538- 9
goodness 136 . 137 . 523, 53 1 . 533

Gorgias 66, M, 111, 112; equalitarianism 90, 122 : geometry 191 : individualism/collectivism

100 : protectionism UO, HI, 113
Gorgias 175, 577, 593, 595
grasshopper analogy 521 . 539 . 589
Great Cycle 517-18
Great Dictator 254, 283
Great Dog 146

Great Generation 67, 175, 177, 184, 185, 187, 188, 202, 238, 245; open/closed society, conflict

237.241
great lawgiver 43

Great Man 16, 274, 278, 283 , 471, 480

Great Men 278, 283, 421

Great Mystery 126

Great Myth of Sparta 40

Great Philosopher 247

Great Year 18, 518, 520, 521, 521

Greeks 16-18, 25, 35, 29, 598; religion 25; slavery 122, 220-1. 630 : society 163-5. 167 .

167-70
Green, T. H. 288, 525

Grote, G. 21, 85, 516, 519, 521, 539, 621, 616, 642, 661, 662; Aristotle 640, 641, 642; and
Meyer 616; Nous 648; Plato criticism 529, 561, 521, 592, 625; Socrates 556, 584, 589, 590,
625

guardians 45, 49-51, 25, 82, 94, 102, 101, HI, 140, Ml, 141, 144, 206, 202
guns 92, 116, 202

gymnastics 51

Haeckel, E. 273, 676
Haiser, F. 277-8

Happiness 136, 161, 163, 441-3. 501 . 533, 548-9. 554 . 602-3
harmonics 142 . 144
Harris, W. T. 646
Hastie 562

Hayek, F. A. von xxn, xxy, xxvii . 498, 119, 603-4. 636 . 659 . 677 . 686 . 695 . 700, 213
heat 651 . 666 : and sound 243
Heath, T. 564, 566, 568
Hecker, J. F. 688, 697

Hegel, F. ix, x, 9, 135, 244-7. 248, 249-50. 254 . 256 . 259 . 267 . 289 : absolute idealism 688 :
Aristotelian roots 2 1 9- 4 1 : change 250, 259- 60: formal freedom 693 : freedom 257-8, 261 .
293 : historicism 219, 226, 242, 246, 250-62. 269-70, 271, 272, 278, 285, 288; idealism
244 . 247 . 319 . 320; Kierkegaard 479; knowledge 420, 428, 429; logic 515; Marx 313-14:
Meyer 616 : morality 416 : new tribalism 272-89; rationalism 432, 451- 2. 460; relativism
507- 10: Schopenhauer 732 : self-consciousness 646 . 717 : slavery 225 . 646- 7: Whitehead
452

Hegemann, W. 612, 624, 621
Heidegger, M. 286, 628, 629
Heine, H. 319, 320
Heraclides 129

Heraclitus 9, 10-16, 38, 53, 69, 28, 515, 521; beasts quote H, 42, 69, 25, 94, 99, 145, 189 .

241 . 313 . 546 . 579 : cyclic laws 18; history 260- 1: leadership 117 : oppo sites 251- 2: Plato

19, 20; strife 39, 129; universal flux 515-18. 520, 523
Herder, J. G. 264-5. 545 . 562 . 612 . 666 . 674
herdsmanship 49
heredity 414, 115, 560
heritage 440

Hermias 585
Hermodoms 12
Herodotus 91, 175, 619

heroes 25, HO, 122, 142, 180, 187, 247, 283, 284, 480
heroic Hfe 274
heroic man 274, 284
heroism 164 . 284

Hesiod 10, li, 37, 38, 53, 103, 178, 515, 542, 549, 569, 588; metals 521, 531; myth of chaos
523

hidden reason 260
Hippias 66, 91, 203, 550
Hippodamus 165 . 522 . 612 . 614
historical decay, law of 37-8
historical descriptions 467

historical: materialism 311- 13. 315 . 317- 20. 321 . 688

historical prophecy see historicism; prophecy, historical

historical relativism 408- 9. 681

historical sciences 469

historical theory of the nation 269-70

historicism x, xxxvi . 521 . 733 : and change 16; definition xxxvii . 7-8, 681 : economic 8,
311-20. 341 . 345 : and Forms/Ideas 26, 3i; Hegel 219, 226, 242, 246, 250-62. 269-70,
271 . 272 . 278, 285, 288; Heraclitus 10, H; Marxism 272; myth of destiny 7-9; social
engineering clash 21-3. 334 : theory of society 40; see also Marx; Plato; prophecy

historicist methodology 71

historicist moral theory 405- 16. 481

historism 413 . 421

History of the Peloponnesian War (Thucydides) 169- 75. 182
Hobbes, T. HI, 133, 662
Hobhouse 288

holism 2d-2di, 2dii, 2dY, 91, 89, 303, 338, 450, 635; justice 89; Marxism 338; Plato 75, 76, 88,

Homer 10, 306, 477, 479, 515, 539, 541-2. 572, 598, Ml
hubris 179
human: Plato 597-8

human cattle 45, 46, 49, 51, 52, 83, 541
humanism 460

humanitarianism 67, 86, 97, 113, 174, 179, 199-200. 202, 203, 579, 663; anti- 281; Athens
176 . 177 : biological naturahsm 65-8, 69; Hegel 262, 293 ; justice 99, 100; Marx 293-4,
330, 341, 402; Plato 85, IM, 187, 188, 200; rationalism 440, 443, 444-5. 460 : and religion
270, 476 . 477 : and protectionism 109 . 113 : Socrates 186 : and tyranny 173

humanity 143 : Fichte 281

human nature 64, 69, 72, 79, 284, 302, 551, 580, 609; hidden motives 422, 423; laws 301, 401,
458; Mill 299, 301, 303 , 304; limitations 629; rationahsm 433 , 439, 440; society 69, 305,
310 : Toynbee 458

Humboldt, Wilhelm von 509

Hume, D. ix, 252, 267, 420, 451, 543-4. 577 . 655

Husserl, E. 232, 670, 678, 685, 720, 728

Huxley, A. 723

Huxley, T. H. 643, 684

hypotheses 56, 469 : science 229 : working 466- 7
idealism 83, 129, 153 : absolute 688 : German 243 . 247

ideal state 39, 40, 43, 44, 45, 74, 75, 77, 79, 80, 84, 148; see also Best State; Forms or Ideas;
Plato

Ideas, theory of 17-31, 39, 532 : Aristotle 223 : change, theory of 529 : descriptive sociology
35-6. 37, 38, 51, 54; education 126 : Hegel 251 . 255 : natural/social environments 70;
philosopher king 130 : Plato 83; power of 318- 19: truth 125 : Socrates 527 : space 525 : see
also Forms or Ideas

identity 259 : of opposites 15.; philosophy of 254 . 255 . 509, 670

imagination 438, 444, 445-6

immobilized capital 389
immorality see morality

impartiality 51, 86, 93, 170, 424, 426, 440, 441, 442, 443, 615
imperfections 188 : see also perfection

imperialism 393, 700, 702; Athens 169, 171-4: modern 392; naval 178; Sparta 173
implicit definition 656- 61
incest 301

independent thought 139 . 592
indeterminism 415

individualism 80, 91, 95-101. 104, 109, 111, 111, 143, 155, 167, 177, 480, 481, 585 ; Plato on
187- 8: and protectionism 1 11 . 113 : and psychologism 303, 309- 10: and rationalism
449-50;; and religion 135; Socrates 122, 124, 180

indoctrination 106

induction 649 : problem of 722 : Socrates 192

inductive interference 70

inductive method 580, 581 . 655

industrial reserve army 391 . 374 . 375- 6. 386 . 391

industrial revolution 330, 331

industrialization 356, 357 : age of 445

inequality 47, 73., 76, 89, 439 : Kant 722- 3: Rousseau 674 : see also equalitarianism

infanticide 49, 207, 541

initial conditions 468

innovation, fear of 84, 531

inquisition 184 the Inquisition 189 . 239

instincts 75, 301- 2

institutional control, of rulers 116 . 117 . 119 . 129
institutional intervention 340- 1
institutional selection 128

institutions 401 . 686 : beginnings of society 304- 6: education 126 . 129 : legal system 328;
machine analogy 64-5: personal solutions 339-40; psychologism 302-3

insubordination 127
intellectual independence 139 . 592
intellectual intuition 29, 231- 2. 651- 60
intellectual superiority 48, 50

intellectualism xiv-xvi. xxxix . 84 . 430; authoritarian 432-3 ; Hegel 271 : moral 121 . 123; and

rationalism 447, 450, 455; Socrates 121, 121, 121, HA, 129
international crime 108, 151, 460, 475, 476, 482, 576, 606
international peace 576 . 606- 9
international relations 102 . 225
international trade, theory of 64
inter-personal theory 432-3
interpretation, historical 163 . 471- 2. 473- 4. 628

interventionism 350, 352, 387, 391-2. 393 . 699 . 712 : economic 333-6, 338, 339-40:

institutional 340- 1: piecemeal 397-8; state 384- 5. 398 : and rationalism 459
intuition 285, 433, 434, 513, 635; of essences 651-3: intellectual 29, 227, 228, 231-2. 651-60
intuitive knowledge 227 . 228, 503-6
Ionian school 515 . 619
irrational behaviour 309

irrationalism 156, 157, 420, 422, 659-60, 664; geometric 190-1: and truth 496; Hegel 271 :

Toynbee 454-60; Whitehead 451- 4: see also rationalism
irresponsibility, age of 243
Isocrates 129, 144, Ml, 682
isolation 166
isonomy 569 . 570, 612

Jaspers, K. 286, 287, 679
Jeans, J. 448

Jews 10, 238, 620 : Babylonian conquest 16, 238
Joad, C. E. M. 84, 561
judges 93

Julian the Apostate 239 . 663
Jung, E. 281

juridical positivism 65, 68, 254 . 262 . 269 . 552 . 676

justice xxxix : absolute 84; Adam 94, 569 : Aristotle 88; definition 86-9: and individualism 97;
Marx 416 : Plato 135 . 293; relativist interpretation 408 : Socrates 180 : totalitarian 83- 1 13 : to
the universe 223; and war j_5; World's Court of 225 . 251

Kafka, F. 449

Kant, Immanuel 205- 6. 252 . 258, 669 : constitution 562 : dialectics 669- 70: equalitarianism
722- 3: and Ewing 561 : Golden Rule 443 : and Hegel 508 . 509; individualism 98; knowledge
421 : nationalism 265 . 266 : and Nietzsche 497-8; peace 594 : Prolegomina 451- 2: proof 236

Kapp, W. 370

Katz, D. 685

Kaufmann, E. 280

Kautsky, K. 544

keeping one's station 87-8, 93, 94, 101- 2. 103 : Aristotle 221 : and happiness 161 . 168 :

physician example 131
Keller, A. 445
Kelsen, H. 529, 601-2. 634
Kepler, J. 242, 493
Kierkegaard, S. 407, 479, 731
King, C. 504
Kingship of the Law 117
Kleist, Heinrich von 497- 8

knowledge: and fallibihsm 491-2; growth of 491-2. 498 : intuitive 227, 228, 503-6: know
thyself 193 . 629 : moral 121 : and opinion 227 . 557 : receptacle theory 421 : sociology of
419-29. 447 : sources 493-4, 503-6: theory of 420, 485, 496

Kolnai, A. 281, 282, 287, 288, 725

Kraus, K. 698, 701

Krohn 573

Kuratowski, K. 545

labour 339, 379, 380, 384; division of 73, 165, 445, 539, 555, 682, 723, 724; manual 555, 595,

642; productivity 388-90. 398-9: theory of value 377-83, 709-10
Laird, J. 720

laissezfaire 124, 299, 350, 456; capitalism 299, 350, 456, 690; liberalism 299
Langford, C. H. 720

language 443- 4: Carnap 725 : precision 96, 231 . 234- 5. 250; theory 264- 5. 269 : tripartition

721. 722
Lassalle, Ferdinand von 515 . 519
Laurat, L. 695

Laws 44, 66, 21, 525 : best state 523 ; betrayal of Socrates 184 : change, theory of 530 : critique of
text, reply to 200, 201 : cyclicity 521 : degeneration 522 : descriptive sociology 38-9. 43, 44,
46 . 48, 53.; equalitarianism 92; essence of things 528; Forms, theory of 524 :
individualism/collectivism 98-9: indoctrination 125 : influence on Aristotle 221 : justice 88;
origins of things 72; Plato 36, 520 : reactionary character 85; religion 134- 5: soul 524 . 529 :
spiritual naturahsm 74

laws 535 : accumulation 390- 1: brutal 141 : competition 375 : destiny 12-15: development 37-8,
346 : Heraclitus 517 : increasing misery 376, 377, 385 . 392, 393-6; of increasing wealth 376;
political revolutions 38, 53, 536 : sociology 19; sociological 36-7. 44 . 60-2, 64, 65, 684 :
supply and demand 381- 2: see also natural laws; normative laws; universal laws

leadership 2, 3, 99, 208, 209 . 210 . 211 . 283 . 585; and education 121 : natural leaders 69; Plato
114-29: principle 149; selection 119, 125, 127, 128, 129

legal system 327- 42

leisured classes 643

Lenin 156 . 295 . 313 . 318 . 373 : imperiahsm 393 : New Economic Policy 156 : social engineering

683 ; Vulgar Marxists 311, Ml, 322, 422
Lenz, F. 281
Leptines 129
Lessing 674

Leucippus 517

Levinson, Professor Ronald B. 194-212
Lewis, Sinclair 637

liar, paradox of 435, 436, 458, 719, 720, 721
liberal education 221 . 643

liberalism 117, 106, 406, 506-7. 509; laissezfaire 299

liberty 28, 39, 41, 176, 203, 233, 406, 562, 570, 581, 636, 664, 671; Hegel 257, 258, 259

lies 130-2. 134-5. 141 . 206 : lordly/noble 587-8; Plato 186, 195; see also paradox of liar;

propaganda
Lindsay, A. D. 534, 588, 593
Lippmann, Walter 214 . 293 . 336 . 513
liquidation 611

literary education 51, 541 . 643
Locke 729

logic 655; Hegel 515; norms 547; power 308-9. 687 : situational 308-9. 324, 326, 470
love 531; freedom 406, 116; mystic 635; and rationalism 440, 441-2. 444 . 450
Loyola, Ignatius 459 . 727
Ludendorff, General 280
Lutoslawski 633
Lybyer, A. H. 540

Lycophron 67, 72, 91, 108, 109, UO, 175, 577
Lysander 175

Mabbott, J. D. xxix . 523
Macaulay 580, 581
Macedon 220, 221, 640-1

machinery 64-5, 385-6: Marx 297, 318, 323, 328, 330, 334, 369, 374, 376, 379, 380, 382,

385, 386, 389, 398, 446, 689, 713-14
Macleod, W. C. 544
Macmurray, J. 447, 448, 478, 731

McTaggart, J. 244, 634, 635, 224
Magee, Bryan xxx, 522, 604, Ml, 698
magical monism 65

magical thinking 63, 122 . 165 . 167- 8. 176
magical tribalism 55, 58, 164 . 178 . 513 . 613
majority rule ill, 118, 117, US, 581, 582
Malinowski, B. 684
managerialism xxxviii
manhood 281

Manifesto see Communist Manifesto

mankind 406, 638; history 332, 345, 455, 474-6. 681 . 731 : unity 550, 595-8

Mannheim, H. 606

Mannheim, K. 420, 716, 211

manual labour 555 . 595 . 642

Maoris 611

Marinelli, W. 567

Marx, Karl 154 . 219 . 325 . 326 . 328 : autonomy of sociology 301- 10: class struggles 321- 6:
coming of socialism 345- 54: economic historicism 3 1 1- 20: ethics 405- 16: fate of
capitalism 373- 96: historical materialism 18; historical philosophy 9; legal/social system
327-42; method 291-342: moral theory 405-16. 481 : prophecy, historical 397-402:
psychologism 299-303 . 322 : rationalism 455- 7: revolution, social 355- 72: Schwarzchild's
book 510- 11: Toynbee's assessment 455- 7: utopianism, criticism of 153- 4

Marxism 293-300 . 522 : Capitalist evils 605 : communism 683- 4: dogmatism 695 : essentialism
692-3: Hegel 245, 313-14: Hegelianism 681; historicism 293-8. 315-17. 353 . 362 . 364

Masaryk, T. 261, 673-4. 680

material things H, H, 71

materialism 74, 241; historical 18, 311-13. 315 . 317-20. 321 . 688 : and rationalism 414, 435 .
440. 445-6

mathematics 318 . 451 . 563 . 563- 9. 567 , 657 . 725 : geometry 190- 1. 211 . 563- 9. 567: see also
Platonic Number

meals 64, 473, 575

meanings 653-5. 657-8. 722 . 731 : definitions 230, 234-5: history 474-84: life 732-3

means and ends 147-8. 150-1. 604-6. 733

mechanical engineering 64, 686

mechanization 445- 6

medicine, lies as 131 . 141

medieval feudalism 245

Meletus 584

Menexenus or the Funeral Oration 92, 177 . 186 . 92 . 570, 571 . 619
Menger, A. 683
Menger, K. 547, 650, 687
Meno 121

Mesopotamian civilization 544
meta-biology 78, 560

Metaphysics 221, 516, 517, 518, 523-7. 530, 549, 554, 564, 577

metaphysics xxxvii . 252 . 273 . 286, 451, 454, 590, 696, 732; Marx 696, 711; soul 622

methodological collectivism 303, 686

methodological determinism 315 . 413 . 414 . 415-16. 420

methodological essentialism 29, 30-1

methodological individualism 303, 309, 310

methodological nominalism 30-1. 528, 647

Metz, R. 288

Meyer, E. HI, 172, 278, 615-16. 617 . 618 . 620, 623, 637, 678, 730, 731

middle classes 355-7

midwifery 122

Miksch, Leonhard 711

Milford, P. 612

militarism 574

militarist principles 98, 208, 209, 210, 211
military caste 45

military discipline 98, 127
military education 52, 99, 676
Mill, James 580

Mill, J. S. 298, 299, 301, 303, 304, 308, MO, 312-13. 316 . 528, 533, 560, 579-81
mind, bucket theory of 421 . 728
misanthropy 601 . 619

misery 373, 375-7. 382, 384, 385, 387, 388, 391, 402, 554, 111; decreasing 391, 392, 394 :

Euken's theory 711 : Marxism 357 . 364 : revolutions 714 : trade cycle 389
misology 189 . 619

mistakes, learning from 152-3. 156-7. 491-2. 498, 501, 503-5. 510

modern imperialism 392, 393

The Modern Nation (Ziegler) 288

modernism, moral 412

Mohammed 447 . 459

Monarchy 259, 260

money 337, 538, Ml, 573, 577, 583, 617, 618, 636-7. 642 . 709, 711-13

monism 70, 551 : magical 65; naive 57-8, 65

monopoly 54, 125, 362, 378, 381, 384, 393

monotheism 237, 593, 595, 596

Moore, G. E. 656

moral conservatism 412

moral degeneration 19, 76

moral excellence 121

moral futurism 411, 412, 111, 476, 681, 724

moral intellectualism 121 . 123

moral judgements 169 . 551 . 572 . 656

moral knowledge 121

moral modernism 412

moral nihilism 102

moral opinion 554

moral positivism 225, 250-62. 411-13. 547

moral theory: historicism 405- 16: rationalism 437- 45

moral urgency 548

moral valuations 47, 572 . 604

morality 107 . 278 . 448, 483; and capitalism 323-4; closed society 103, 480; collectivist theory
452 : equality 572; false 278; Hegel 225, 250-62. 262 : theory of 452; totalitarian 102, 103 .
113 . 130 . 133 : value theory 709- 10: see also ethics

Morgenthau, H. J. 576

Morrow, G. R. 538, 562

motion, theory of 223 . 525

motives 422 . 423

Mueller, A. 266, 288

music 5i, 52, 139, 415-16. 542-3

mystic: intuition 635

mysticism 14, 78, 79, 139, 236, 237, 258, 396, 408, 422, 515, 634-5. 718 . 724 : closed society
513 : evolutionary 635 : Heraclitus 517 : and rationahsm 434, 445- 50: number 78, 242 . 536 :
religion 460

Myth of Blood and Soil 132, 133

myth of chaos 523

myth of destiny 7-9, 178

Myth of the Earthborn 132, 133, 273, 521, 538, 539
Myth of the Metals in Man 132
myth of revolution 445

Nagel, E. 653, 655
naive conventionalism 58
naive monism 57-8, 65
naive naturalism 58

Napoleon 61, 244, 264, 266, 267, 269, 411, 674
National Genius 275

nationalism 175, 274, 460, 662, 675, 680; Christianity 662; German 262-70, 674; Hegel 275,

279 . 676, 715; Schopenhauer 668
national self-determination 263 . 680
national state, principle of 263 . 264 . 606 . 607, 674 . 680
natural environment 55-80, IM, 301, 302, 414, 547, 664-5
natural laws 55-70. 552-4, 555-6; see also natural environment
natural leaders 69
natural places, theory of 223 . 225
natural privilege 87, 91, 93
natural rights 68, 69, 92

naturalism 70, 72-3 , 273 . 549 . 554 : biological 65-7. 577; equality 67; ethical 68, 552 : naive
58; Plato 83, 72-3, 92, 549, 555, 556, 561, 578, 612; psychological/spiritual 65, 69, 71-2,
74, 134, 552-3, 554, 555-6

naturalistic historicism 8, H, 83

naturalistic theory of slavery 220

nature 71-2: and convention 72-3: of the good 551- 2: and soul 71, 554
naval imperialism 178
« -dimensionality 650
Nelson, L. 545, 582, 585
Neurath, Otto 196

New Economic Policy (NEP) 156, 295
Newton 190, 242, 455, 471, 493 , 729
Nicolovius 675

Nietzsche, F. 497-8, 498, Ml, 544, 601-2
nihilism 175, 286, 287, 497, 498

nominaHsm 528, 649-61: definitions 230-1. 234 . 528; methodological 30-1, 528, 647
non-intervention 106 . 333 . 384

normative laws (norms) 56-70. 74 . 96 . 546 . 547 . 552 . 553 . 686 : logic of 547- 8: monistic

tendency 551
Nothingness 286, 287

Nous 648

objective: description 467 : Hegel 255 . 261 . 271 : knowledge 422 : methods 423- 7. 687 : value
379. 709

objectivity 431, 423-8. 431 . 442 . 473 . 502
offence 278, 447, 475

Old Oligarch 187, 188, 195, 262, 619, 622, 623
oHgarchy 39, 40-1, 43, 519
operational definitions 490, 656 . 657

opinion 66; delusive 26, 27, 66, 71, 77, 523 . 524 . 526 . 549 . 557 . 588 : knowledge distinction

227 . 527 : moral 554 : science 229
Oppenheimer, F. 544
opportunism 134 . 135 . 413
opportunity, equality 335

opposites: identity of 15., 254 : table of 523 . 524 . 560 : unity of 251- 5. 257 . 518- 19: war of 252

oracular philosophy 226, 237, 402, 413, 438, 444, 447, 659, 660

organic theory of state 72, 166 . 167 . 251 . 613 . 614 . 666

organic tribalism 167

origin of species 37, 522 . 644

Orphic mystery 620

Orphic sects 178 . 540

Osborn, H. F. 645

Paine, T. 69

paradox of democracy 118 . 581- 2

paradox of freedom UJ, 333, 338, 339, 575, 581, 582, 671, 111, 719
paradox of the liar 719 . 720

paradox of sovereignty 115 . 116 . 117 . 118 . 582, 719
paradox of tolerance 581 . 723

Pareto 38, 118, 239, 268, 270, 348, 482, 536, 636, 680

Paris Commune 701 . 726

Parkes, H. B. 366, 388, 391, 703, 709, 111, IM

Parmenides 127

Parmenides 26-7, 524 . 620, 633 : change il; knowledge and opinion 647 : mystic unity 718 :

Opinion of the Mortals 526 : Way of Delusive Opinion 523
passion 149, 283, 411, 434, 439, 440, 531
passivist theory of knowledge 420- 1
patriotism 170, 175, 177, 262, 266, 589, 600, 673
pauperism 392

peace, civil/international 576 . 606- 9
Peloponnesian war 17, 169- 75. 182
perception 557-8; limitations of 77-8, 79-80
Perdiccas III 585
perfect competition 693- 4

perfect state 39, 40, 43, 44, 45, 74, 75, 77, 79, 80, M, 148; see also Best State; Forms or Ideas;
Plato

perfection 24, 25, 29, 36, 39, 72, 530
perfectionism 147- 57

Pericles 3, 91, 92, 93, 100, 175, 176, 237, 238, 514; funeral oration 176-7: School of Hellas

172 . 177 : Thucydides' version 570
Persian conquests 620
Persian Empire 53., 530, 620
personal decisions 165
personal intervention 340
personal relations, theory of 225 . 432 . 480

personal responsibility xxxix . 164 . 165 . 188 . 189 . 239-40. 416 . 483
personal solutions 339- 40
personalism 120 : anti-institutional 585
persuasion 76, 132, 327, 577, 586, 588-90. 637
pessimism/optimism 222-3, 250- 1. 285, 401 . 535

Phaleas 165
Pharisaism 48
Philebus 137

philosopher king 130-46. 599 . 601 . 673-4: Mill 601; Plato as 144-6. 601
philosophical method 242
Philosophy of Existence 286 . 287

Philosophy of History (Hegel) 261, 279, 646, 666, 673, 675, 678

Philosophy of History (Marx, Plato) 9, 79, 140

philosophy of identity 254, 255, 509, 670

Philosophy of Law (Hegel) 256, 257, 259, 268, 276, 279

Philosophy of Nature (Hegel) 243-4

physics U, 30, H, 297, 427, 451, 467-9. 471 . 517 . 518 . 577 . 645 . 654 . 653 . 655 . 729 . 731
piecemeal interventionism 397-8
piecemeal scientific methods 428
piecemeal reform 156 . 537, 610

piecemeal social engineering xxxvi . 21, 147, 148-9. 150 . 152 . 153 . 156 . 157 . 338, 340, 341,

352, 387, 442 , 443 , 537, 603 , 610, 699, 734
Pindar 66, 73 , 547, 549, 555, 577
planets 493
Plataea 615

Plato ix, X, xxxix . 3, 9, 147-57. 185 . 189 . 201 . 207-8, 211, 549; Aristotle's criticism 642 :
Aristotle, influence 220-6; attack background 161- 89: betrayal of Socrates 184- 5:
biographical details 17-18; change 13, 419, 420, 530; class struggles 39, 40-1, 43-50;
collectivism 196- 7: conflict of 185- 7. 188- 9: cycles 530 : critique, reply to 193-212 :
descriptive sociology 36, 38-9, 41, 43, 44, 46, 49, 51; education 127; equality 91, 92, 93;
Fall of Man 187 geometry 190- 1: Gospels, influence 662 : Greek tribes 10; and Hegel 242 .
245-7. 250, 251, 254, 257, 732; and Heraclitus 15, 16, 19, 20, 516-17: individualism 98,
100 : inquisition 184 : intellectualism 124 : leadership principle 1 14- 29: Macedon 640- 1:
philosopher king 144- 6. 601 : political programme 83- 157 : and Protagoreanism 549 :
religion as opium 348 . 590, 663 : Seventh Letter 519 . 520; slavery 186 . 203-5, 537; theory

of definition 660 : theory of forms/ideas 1 7-3 1 : totalitarian justice 83- 1 13 : tyranny 187 :

violence, approval 196 : see also Republic
Platonic Number 77, 78, 79, 142, 143, 144, 557, 558-9, 599
pleasure maximization 501 . 548- 9: see also utilitarianism
Plutarch 550, 557, 563 , 565, 569, 615, 642
Poincare 55 1
Poland 470
Polanyi, K. 528

political constitution: Hegel 256- 7. 258, 259 : see also constitution

political demands 35, 38, 44, 85, 86, 91, 104, 106, 107, 120, 140, 142, 143, 263, 440, 442 .

443 . 582, 691 . 723 : see also propositions/proposals
political economy: Marx 682, 685, 686, 688, 689, 690, 691, 696
political history 475-6. 480, 484
political intervention see interventionism
political justice 88, 563

political power 335-8; history 475-6, 480, 484; Marx 338-9. 405 : money 709, 711-13:

proletariat 706 : unchecked 115- 16: see also power
political problems 496-8
political programme, Plato's 83- 157

political revolutions 16, 44, 167, 330, 110; law of 38, 53, 536

political utilitarianism 102

politics xv-xvi. 171 . 641 : state theory 327- 42

Politicus see Statesman

Polybius 663

polytheism: Homer 10

Poor Law 406, 716

Popper-Linkeus, J. 613 . 683

Poseidon 519

positivism, ethical 225, 250-62, 411-13. 547
Posterior Analytic 228

Pound, Roscoe 522, 602, 604
poverty, avoidance 47

The Poverty of Historic ism (Popper) xxxvii . 522

power ill, 124, 129, IM, 309, 370, 379, 398, 667; economic 335-6, 337-8. 339 : and
freedom 104-6: history 475-6, 480; logic 308-9. 687 : Marxism 338-9. 405 : philosopher
king 130- 46: unchecked 115- 16: will to 601- 2: see also political power

power-politics 180 . 636

pragmatic rationalism 723

pragmatism 296 . 297

prediction xxxvii . 576 . 604 . 687, 695 . 714 : science 352 . 401- 2: see also historicism; prophecy,
historical

prejudices 427 . 428, 429 : see also bias

priest caste 592 . 663

Primary Bodies, Theory of 564- 6

primitive society 44, 48

primogenitor 23-6, 29, 36, 20, 21

privileges 87, 91, 93, 108

Process and Reality (Whitehead) 451- 4

production 322, 330, 324, 126, 328, 385, 696, 204, 211; Marx 316-17. 318 . 346-7
productivity: increasing 321, 388-90. 398-9. 400, 401
professionalism 221- 2
profits 328, 388-90. 400
prognosis 468, 469

progressivists 44, 45, 85, 154, 401, 509, 535, Mi
Prolegomina (Kant) 45 1- 2

proletariat 329, 338, 355 . 357 . 365 . 715 : bourgeousification 392-3, 395; morality 409, 410 :

revolution 353 . 364 : see also workers
proof 229-31. 232-3. 647 : doctrine of 236
propaganda 131- 2. 206, 233- 4. 274 . 278- 9: see also lies

property 15, 42, 46, 82, 98, 112, 156, 252, 269, 332-4. 336 . 339 . 350-1. 356 . 362 . 689 . 693 .

704 . 705 . 711 . 715 . 721

prophecy xxxvii . xxxix . 20 . 689 : evaluation 397-402 : law of increasing misery 394- 5: Marx

345- 93: see also historicism
proportionate equality 563 . 565

propositions/proposals 498-9. 499-501. 507 . 548 . 657 . 659

prosperity 47, 176 : dangers of 279

Protagoras 55, 58, 63 , 64, 72, 73 , 134, 175, 203 , 550

Protagoreanism 549

protection by the state 334 . 335

protectionism 106-13. 175 . 577-9. 582, 694

Proudhon, P. 332

Providence 260, 262, 278, 280

Prussia 244, 246, 249, 250, 254, 256, 259, 261, 268; monarchism 260; nationalism 263, 265-6
Prussianism 246 . 250
pseudo-rationalism 433 . 434 . 483
psycho-analysis 422-3. 446-7. 634, 111

psychological naturalism 65, 69, 71-2. 74, 134 . 552- 3. 554 . 555- 6

psychologism 299-300, 301, 302-3. 304-6. 308 . 309-10. 316 . 322, 547, 560, 609, 685

public opinion 279

Pure Being 286

Pure Nothingness 286, 287

Pythagoras 14, 78, 139 . 180 : geometry 563- 9. 567 : table of opposites 523, 524 . 560 : theorem
122

Pythagorean creed 185
Pythagorean number mysticism 78, 242 . 536
Pythagorean programme 190 . 191 . 564
Pythagorean taboos 514 . 619
Pythagorean theory, soul 644

Pythagoreanism 185, 191, 526, 527, 564, 569, 583 , 620, 628, 631, 632

quasi-theories 472
Quine, W. V. 492, 545

rabble proletariat 357

race: Kolnai 282 : and nature 71

The Race as the Principle of Value (Lenz) 281

racial degeneration 19, 76, 78, 142, 143, 250, 599

racial superiority 9, 47-50

racialism 9, 132 . 133 . 143 . 201 . 273 . 282 . 545 : Plato 206 : see also eugenics
Rader, M. M. 619
radical collectivism 246

radicalism 156 : and aestheticism 154- 7: irrationalism 156 : Marx 362; skepticism 421 . 424 . 427

Ramsey, R. P. 226

rate of profit 388-90. 400

rational behaviour 309

rationalism 165, 166, 178, 271, 284, 119, 420, 430-52. 459-61. 512-13. 524 . 671-2. 718 :
abstract 271 : comprehensive/critical/uncritical 435, 437, 442- 4. 719 : pragmatic 723; see
also irrationalism

rationality 78, 79, 165, 166, 178, 284, 419

Rats, Lice, and History (Zinsser) 240- 1

reality 317, 383

reason 27, 75, 125, 149, 176, 179-80. 189 . 252-3. 283-4: faith in 436, 439, 442-3. 450,
460-1; Hegel 255, 261, 271, 432, 451-2. 460, 733; Heraclitus' theory 14; international
affairs 460, 576 : Marx 455- 7: Parmenides 27; revolt against 430- 61: Schopenhauer 669

reasonableness 431- 2. 667

receptacle theory 421 . 728

The Red Prussian (Schwarzchild) 510

Reformation 245 . 261

reinforced dogmatism 254 . 422

relativism 15, 271, 467; criticism 427, 485, 486, 487, 490-1. 497 . 502-3. 508 : Hegel 507-10:

historicist 408 : values 15.

religion 9, 62-4, 134, 267, 273, 283, 134-5. 401-2. 442 . 513 . 620; authoritarian 497, 498,
500- 1: ethics 483; Greek beliefs 25; historicism 476 . 477- 9: mysticism 455 . 460 : as opium
348 . 590, 663 : Protagoras 549 : standards 506 : state -worship 107 : see also Christianity; Jews

Renan 676

Republic (Plato) 26, 73, 75, Hi, 132, 134, 520, 522, 526, 532, 537; authoritarianism 124 :
betrayal of Socrates 184 : critique, reply to 200, 203- 4. 206, 207 : debased states 43; divine
state 246 : Earth-born 521 : equalitarianism 91, 92, 93 ; Forms or Ideas 524 : justice 86, 89, 90 .
100 : myth 72, 132 . 133 : Pericles caricature 177 : primitive society 44; protectionism 110 .
111 . 113 : strong, rule by the 66; translation 85; tribal collectivism 98, 100

rest: Plato's descriptive sociology 35-53

revolution 38, 229, 395, 689, 704, 708; bourgeousie TOO; industrial 330, 331; law of 536:
misery 714 : myth of 445 : social 347 . 355- 72: violence 707; see also French Revolution;
Russian revolution

revolutionaries, Plato as 85

Revue Positiviste 354

Ricardo, David 377, 378, 709, 210, ZM, 215

Robespierre, Maximilian 319

Robinson, Richard xxix . 202, 208, 211

Rodman, H. N. 508

Rogers, A. K. 522, 627

romantic collectivism 481

romantic medievalism 240

Romanticism 157, 236-7. 271 . 284, 285, 442, 446-7. 481 . 482, 561, 572, 697

Rome 111, 238, 550, Ml, 616, 611, 663

Rosenberg 281, 283

Ross, W. D. 641, 647, 648, 653

Rousseau, Jean- Jacques 40, 251, 254, 264, 265, 261, 284, 293, 303, 119, 516, 666, 674 :

inequality 572 : paradox of freedom 258, 671 : Plato's influence 115 . 533 . 561 . 612
Royal Science 629

rule of the strong 66, 73, UA, Ul, 254, Ml
rules of exogamy 301

ruling classes 44-51, 53, 73, 78, 83, 84, 208, 697, 705; breeding 143; degeneration 40, 76,

143 : education 47, 52, 143, 584; origins 48-9; revolution 38, 691
Russell, Bertrand 124, 267, 336, 419, 451, Ml, 591, 653, 658, 665, 694, 720, 725
Russell, L. J. 498, 547, 548, 691, 723

Russia 156, 249, 294-5. 397, 402, 470, 683, 689, 691; interventionism 699; social engineering
295

Russian Communists 350, 353., 371

Russian Revolution 318, 319-20. 371 . 613 . 700, 214

Sachs, Eva 192

St. Vitus' dance 240

Salomon, E. von 679 . 725

Samos 172

Sanazzaro 533 . 561

Schallmeyer, W. 273

Scheler, Max 280, 286, 420, 678

Schelling, F. 236, 243-4. 265

Schiller, F. 203, 509, 666, 667, 675

schism 78, 214, 238, Ml

Schlick, M. 654, 659

scholasticism 226, 236, 237, 428, 434, 444

Schopenhauer, A. xxi, 242, 247, 249, 252, 255, 259, 288-9. 467 . 479 . 497 . 508, 666, 667,
669 . 675 . 766, 680, 728, 731, 732; age of dishonesty 237, 243, 660; on Fichte 266, 281;
and Hegel 242, 243 , 247, 248, 266, 287, 288, 289, 294, 731, 732; historical description
467; metaphysics 660 : nationalism 274 . 668 : and Nietzsche 497

Schwarzchild, Leopold 510

Schwegler, A. 249, 667

scientific description 30, 467

scientific determinism 420, 684

scientific method xxxvii . 28, 176, 229, 234-6. 244 . 245 . 253 . 255 . 465-7. 469 . 492 . 504 :
causality 730 : knowledge 655 : and morality 409- 10. 438, 448 : politics 153 : and prophecy,
historical 352, 401- 2: nationahsm 434, 435 . 448; social engineering 294- 9: theories
467-70; and truth 229-31. 490-1

scientific objectivity 423- 7

Scientific Socialism 323, 349, 353, 396

scientism 604

sea-communications 168- 9
searchlight theory of science 466, 728
Second Letter 633

security 168, 398
self-analysis 429
self-assertion 225 . 646
self-conscious 325

self-consciousness 275 . 286 . 646 . 717

self-control 50, 66

self-criticism 123, IM, 503

self-evidence 236, 255, 498, 651-2

self-protection 109- 10

self-sufficiency (autarky) 84, 173 . 549 . 554

selfishness 96-8, 1 14 . 121 . 480, 574 . 575; see also individualism

semantics 528, 547, 590, 591, 651, 654, 670, 728

Seventh Letter 18, 519, 520, 584, 592, 600, 629, 633

Shaw, G. B. 273, 438, 560, Ml, 677

Sherrington, C. 547

Shorey 198, 203 , 204, 205, 207

shorthand labels/symbols 230- 1. 234

Simkhovitch, V. G. 611

Simkin, C. G. F. 521

SimpHcius 633 . 660

simultaneity 235- 6

situational logic 308-9. 324 . 326 . 470

slavery 42, 46, 66, 67, 175, 534, 537-8. 541 . 562 . 630 . 662 . 676 : Aristotle 220 social
technology 1; Athens 42, 46, 67, 112, 595, 616, 641; Hegel 221, 646-7. 677 : Marx 405,
691 . 692 . 705; naturalistic theory 220; Plato 186, 203-5. 537

Slavery: Its Biological Foundation and Moral Justification 277- 8

Smith, Adam 377, 391, HO, 214

social change 16, 18, 29, 35, 40, 53, 102, 163, 168, 174, 189, 221, 410, 419, 137, 631
social contracts 72, 73, 109 . 1 10 : see also contract theory
social decay 40

Social Democrats 353, 367, 371-2. 394 . 699 . 700 . 703
social development 39-40
social dynamics 15., 39

social engineering 29, 147 . 148- 9. 294 . 338 . 522 . 604 . 683 ; attitude of 21; historicism clash

334; Russia 295; see also piecemeal social engineering; Utopian social engineering
social environment 55-80, IM, 301, 302, 414, 547, 664-5
social habitat 72, 420-1. 423, 455, 458, 502, 555, 716
social institutions 21-3
social laws 576
social problems 496-8
social psychology 299
social reconstruction xxxi . xxxvi
social revolution 347, 354, 355-72
social system 327-42

social technology 21, 151, 294-5. 298-9. 306, 323-4. 352, 398, 402, 428, 522, 603, MO, 682,
701

sociaHsm 293-300, 318 . 345- 54. 397, 407, 611 . 612 : origins 457; see also Communism; Marx;
Marxism

society 513 : breakdown of closed 178 . 546 . 613 : primitive beginnings 38, 304- 6. 532-3,
543-4

Society of the Friends of Laconia 177
socio-analysis 422 . 423 . 447

sociological determinism 293-300, 315, 413, 414, 415-16. 420
sociological laws 36-7, 44, 60-2, 64, 65, 684

sociologism 413 . 414 . 415- 16. 720; see also sociological determinism
sociology: autonomy 301-10. 321 . 322 : of knowledge 419-29. 447
socio-therapy 422, 423, 447

Socrates 17, 27, 28, 31, 63, 64, 69, HI, 125, 132, 176; and Alcibiades 631; and Antisthenes
184 . 237 . 631 : betrayal 184- 5: comparison with Plato 202; condescension 42, 629 : critique
of closed societies 179 . 180- 1: Crito 624 . 625 : democracy 121 . 625- 6: dialectics 255- 6:

education 127 : equalitarianism 93, 95, 124 . 125 . 179 . 180 : ethics 27-8: execution/death
124 . 181- 4. 193 . 239 . 629 : and Glaucon 636 : humanitarianism 186 :
individualism/collectivism 100 . 104 . 180 : integrity 188 : intellectualism 121 . 122, 123 . 179 :
justice 101 . 180 : mistrust 441 : Myth of Blood and Soil 132 . 133 : philosopher king 130 :
protectionism 111 : religion 134 . 135 : reply to Callicles 577 . 578, rule of the strong 66;
Second Letter 633 : self-criticism 180 : ship-yard criticism 622 : soul 180 . 184- 5. 621- 2:
teaching 179- 80. 181 . 185 : temperance 94-5: theory of Forms or Ideas 527 : Thirty Tyrants
626 : trial 624, 628; truth 180, 629

Socratic Problem 202, 203, 512, 522, 626, 627, 631

soldiers 99, 138, 139, 210

Solon 18, 58

Sophistic Refutations 219
Sophists 55, 524-5. 527 . 628
Sophocles 175, 618
sophocracy 136

soul 69, 180, 201, 204, 524, 525, 533; Aristotle 224; divine 36-7; divisions of 75, 78; doctrine
of 69: immortality 628 : Laws 529 : and nature 554 : origins of things 74; perfect 72: Plato
176 . 186 . 224 . 528; political theory 556; power of 71; Socrates 180, 184-5. 621-2: split 634

sound 243-4

sovereignty: paradox of 115 . 116 . 117 . 118 . 582, 719 : philosopher king 142 : theory of 115 .

116 . 117 . 118 . 120 . 121 . 125 . 136 . 142 . 146
space 25, 523- 4. 525

Sparta 17, 40, 45, 46-7, 51, 52, 53, 168, 169, 170, HI, 173, 174, 187, 541; arrested change
536- 7. 540; common meals 47; human cattle 45, 46, 49, 51, 52, 83., 541 : infanticide 49;
Levinson's critique 195 . 196 : Peloponnesian war 17; ruling classes 40

Spearman, Diana 212

species origin 37, 522 . 644

specific interpretations 472

Spencer 35.

Spengler, O. 53, 281, 285, 401, 545, 678, 679

Speusippus 222, 223, 529, 549, 644, 645
Spinoza 267, 575, 666, 667, 669, 718

Spirit 25i, 261, 673, 285, 313-15. 440 : Great Men 283; of the Nation 251, 258, 269, 274-5.

279-80
spiritual historicism 8

spiritual naturalism 65, 69, 71-2. 74 . 134 . 552-3, 554 . 555- 6
square roots 523 . 564 . 565 . 566 . 568, 583
standards 485-95. 498-510
Stapel 282, 285

state 115- 16. 124 . 339; degeneration 77, 79; divine 246; foundation of 136- 8: Hegel 276 . 277 .
279 : interventionism 384-5. 398 : Marx 327-8, 330, 338, 338-9. 405 : morality 123; national
263 . 264 . 606, 607, 674, 680; organic theory of 72, 166, 167, 251, Ml, 614, 666; power of
104-6. 115 . 124 . 146 . 339, 370, 398, 667; preservation of 138-9: protection 334, 334, 335 :
social development 39-40; as super-organism 72, 73, 75, 76; theory of 104- 1 1. 559 :
totalitarianism 274 : war 543- 4: worship 246 : see also ideal state

statements 651 . 653

Statesman 19, 20, 38-9, 42, 43, 48, 198-9. 200, 205, 232, 520, 521, 523, 527, 530, 535

Stirling, J. H. 242, 244, 248, 667-8

Stoicism 617

Story of the Number 54

Strabo 663

strain of civilization 163, 168, 179, 184, 187, 188, 309, 446, 480, Mi

strong, rule of the 66, 73, HI, HI, 254, 662

A Study of History (Toynbee) 454-60. 540 . 544

Subjective, Hegel 255

subjective freedom 672 . 676

subjective methods 687

subjective value 687 . 709

Sumer 614

superstition 79, 483 . 663 : see also magical thinking

supply and demand 381- 2. 400 . 711

surplus population 382 . 383- 5. 391 . 401 . 711 : see also trade cycle; unemployment
surplus value 710 : theory of 378- 9. 710
Sweden 350, 387
syllogism, dialectical 261

tabooism, tribal H, 58, 63, 164- 5. 166

taboos ii, 11, 55, 58, 63, 107, 139, 164-6. 173 . 175 . 189 . 517 . 559 : Pythagorean 514, 619
Tarn, W. W. 550, 595

Tarski, A.: semantics 528, 547, 590, 591, 654, 728; truth 485, 486-7. 489, 490, 492, 650, 722,
728

taxation 152; Athens 172; Marx 376, 697, 699, 715

Taylor, A. E. 144, 516, 537, 559, 578, 599-600. 602 . 624 . 625-7. 628, 642; Aristophanes 628;

Socrates 200, 522, 527, 622, 624, 627, 632; Thirty Tyrants 623
technological unemployment 385-6
technology, Utopian 405
temperance 94, 573 . 592
Thales 515

Theaetetus 527 : dating 192
theism: chosen people doctrine 8
theistic historicism 8
Themis 569
Theopompus 660
theoretical sciences 467-70
theory: distrust 176 : quasi 472
Theses on Feuerbach (Marx) 407
third man 532

Thirty Tyrants 17, M, IM, 175, 181, 182, 1%, 239, 583, 615, 618, 623, 626, 629, 637, 638 :

and Socrates 121 . 583, 623- 5. 630
thought, freedom of 256

Thrasybulus 182

Thrasymachus 66, 101, HO, HI, 111, 115, 578, 579, 622

Thucydides 91, 178 . 541, 614-15. 617 . 618 . 619 : History of the Peloponnesian War 169-75.
182

Timaeus 24-5, 26, 28, 37, 44, 191, 242, 522, 523, 524, 525, 527, 532
timarchy/timocracy 39, 40, 46
time 525

tolerance 443 , 459; paradox of 723

total ideology 420, 421, 422, 423, 424, 428, 447, 716

totalitarian justice 83- 1 13

totalitarian morality 103 . 130 . 133 . 278, 592

totalitarianism x, 2di, xviii- xix. xxxv . xxxvi . xxxviii . xxxix . 124 . 125 . 130 . 132 . 135 . 162- 3.
239, 372, 647; critique 179, 206, 210; ethical idea 274; Hegel 245-6: interventionism 350 :
law of political revolutions 38; modern 272 . 273- 4. 277 : and nationalism 262 . 264 . 275 :
state 274

Townsend, J. 406, 716

Toynbee, A. J. 584, 723 . 726- 7. 733 : Christian persecution 662- 3: division of labour 724 : and
Fisher 733 : historicism 546 . 727 : rationalism 723 ; A Study of History 454- 60. 540, 544 :
schism 613 : strain of civilization 614

trade cycle 385-8. 389, 390, 400, 401; theory of 385-8: and unemployment 398, 111

trade unions 384

tradition 174, 178, 432, 494

transformation 13., 32

Treitschke 276

trends 576

trial and error 153, 156, 294, 340, 427, 428, 498, 505, MO, 631
triangles, sub-elementary 563, 565 . 566 . 568
tribal aristocracy H, 17
tribal collectivism 75-6
tribal life: Greeks 163-5

tribal morality 480
tribal paradise 638
tribal priest-kings 139
tribal taboo ism 1_3

tribalism xi, xxxv . 38, 47, 79, 139, 180, 189, 434, 450, 460, 546, 620, 725; chosen people 8;
Christianity 446; group spirit 637; Hegel 272-89; Jewish 238; knowing one's place 1 1-12:
magical thinking 55, 58; organic 167 : Plato's theory 44-5, 53.; schools 619

truth 486-7: absolute 493, 501, 590-1: artificial distinction 554; criteria 487-90;
definition/concept 650, 651, 728; dualism 498-9. 506-7; fallibilism 490-2: Hegel 247-8,
255, 507- 10: knowledge sources 493-4, 503-6; norms 547 : relativism 502-3; science
229-31. 490-1; searching after 125, 129, 130, 111, 135, 136, 243, 294, 491, 492-3:
rationalism 431, 433, 435; relativism 427, 485, 486, 497; Socrates 180, 629; theory of 485,
486-7. 489, 490, 492 , 650, 722, 728

tyranny 42, 43, 162, 173, 549, 581, 706; Plato on 187; and violence 360, 361

unalterable facts 60

uncritical rationahsm 435, 437 . 442-4. 719
undecidability theorem 490

unemployment 374, 375-6, 399, 400 : insurance 149 . 350, 387, 388 : technological 385- 6: trade

cycles 398; see also industrial reserve army; surplus population
unity of opposites 251- 5. 257 . 518- 19
universal flux 515- 18. 520, 523
Urey, Harold C. 490
utilitarian ethics 66
utilitarianism 102, 103 , 548-9
Utopian programme 44

Utopian social engineering xxxvi . 21, 23, 44, 52, 147, 148-9. 150 . 151 . 152 . 153 . 154 . 156 .

295 . 298, 338, Ml, 602, MO
Utopian systems 23
Utopian technology 405

utopianism 2di, 2LV, 147- 57. 682 : crime prevention 108 : Marx 294, 295 . 338 . 701

value theory 377-83. 709-10
values 47; relativism 15
variable capital 389

Vaughan, C. E. 561, 573, 588, 634, 672-3
verbalism 232-6. 237 . 294 . 662
verification principle ix, 591 . 659
Versailles settlement 681
Vico, Giambattista 533 . 534
victims 180

Viner, Jacob xxm, 635, 683, 709, 211, 211

violence 149, 156, 475, 703, 707; Marxism 358, 359-69. 371 : Plato 196; and rationalism 439,

441 . 459-60, 671-2: see also war
virtue 24-8, 37, 41, 84, 88, 93, 94, 103 , 107, 122, 174, 176
Voltaire 411
von Humboldt, W. 266
vote buying 337

Vulgar Marxism 311, Ml, 322, 422, 688

wage capital 389
wage-slavery 692

wages 388, 390 : constant capital 713- 14: depression 386 : starvation 373 . 386 : subsistence 373 .

theory of surplus value 378-9, 710 : trade cycle 385- 8: value theory 383
Wagner, R. 543
Waismann, F. 659
Walkley, Mary Anne 331
Wallas, Graham 513

war x; causes 609 : ethical 274 : Hegel 276- 81: and justice 15.; Marxism 295 : of opposites 252 :
religious 442

warriors 45, 52, 75, 132, 163, 589

water, heavy 490- 1

Way of Delusive Opinion 523, 526

wealth 375 . 376, 401 : accumulation 47, 391 : law of increasing wealth 376
Weber, Max 309, 528, 652, 662, 687, HI, 730, 211
Wells, H. G. 524, 223
White, Morton G. 230

Whitehead, A. N. 432, 451-4. 666 . 722 . 725

Wiener, N. 545

Wilde, Oscar 503

Will 293; ofGodS, 23

Wilson, W. 263, 680, 681

Winckelmann, J. 674

Winspear, A. D. 529, 584

wisdom 22, 122-3. 125 . 129 . 136 . 137-8. 176 . 193 : rule of the wisest 66, 111, 114-15. 117 .

122 . 125 : see also leadership
Wittgenstein, L. 216, 642, 658, 629, 212, 218, 720-1. 725 : mysticism 224, 225, 733 :

propositions 653 . 654 . 657- 8. 659 . 720- 1: sense of life 732 : verification principle 659
women: common ownership/property 47-8. 98
Wood, William HI

workers 329, HI, 112, 118, 142, 155, 152, 165, 199, 211; age of death 191; class

consciousness 301 . 322 : revolution 353 . 364 : see also human cattle; proletariat
World: creation 620; history 211, 260, 261, 222, 228, 285, 662, 621
World Historical Personality 274 . 283
World-Historical People 275
World-Spirit 222
World War, First 326
worship: hero 480 : state 475- 6

Xenophanes 14, 129, 502, 614, 632-3

Xenophon 63 1

Zeller 224, 516, 517, 529, 640, Ml, 644, 645

Zeus 14, 19, 63

Ziegler, H. O. 288

Zimmem, A. 273 . 677

Zinsser, H. 240-1. 475 . 617 . 665

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The Logic of

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Karl Popper

*One of Che most important documents of the twentieth century.' -
Peter Medawar* ^fMr SefMtitt

Described by the philosopher AJ. Ayer ss e woric 'of jreet or^^niH^ end

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book aho had a profound effect on post-war philosophy. This astonishing
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Conjectures and Refutations

Conjectures and
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Karl Popper

Conjeaures and Refutations is one of Karl Popper's most wide-ranging and
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The Poverty of
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Karl Popper

'Karl Popper was a philosopher of uncommon originality, clarity and
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On fts publication fn I The AwertyofNbnridmvm hailed by Arthur

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