Читать книгу The Socratic Turn - Dustin Sebell - Страница 8

Introduction

Over fifty years ago, Robert Dahl argued that the difficulty with “traditional” or “normative” political theory, what seems to make it more akin to literary criticism, for example, than scientific analysis (1958, 97–98), is that it can “rarely, if ever, meet rigorous criteria of truth” (95). Dahl’s main point was not that he himself knew the criteria in question and knew, as a result, that they could not be met by political theory (cf. 97); it was that, so far as he could see, political theorists themselves had not made a serious effort to spell out the kind of evidence from which they take their bearings or the criteria on the basis of which they evaluate it. And in the absence of a serious effort along those lines, political theory necessarily suffers from a degree and kind of “vagueness” hardly compatible with an aspiration to be counted among the (social) sciences (97). Dahl demanded, therefore, that political theorists say with some “high degree of precision what would constitute a fair test of a political theory” (95, 97, 98).

On the other hand, in a seminal work that, according to one later assessment of it, more than any other in the 1960s “summed up the frustrations and hopes of the contemporary political theorists” (Scaff 1980, 1155; Gunnell 2006, 772) in the face of the behavioralists’ objections, Sheldon Wolin made a case against truth that is “rigorous, precise, and quantifiable” in favor of “tacit political knowledge,” as Michael Polanyi first put it (1964), which is none of these things (1969, 1069–77, cf. 1063). By Wolin’s own account, tacit political knowledge and the criteria of evaluating it—that is, “[judgments] about the nature and perplexities of politics” and “judgments about the adequacy and value of theories and methods” (1077)—are indeed vague. Tacit political knowledge, he said, “is elusive and hence meaningful statements about it often have to be allusive and intimative. … Knowledge of this type tends, therefore, to be suggestive and illuminative rather than explicit and determinate” (1070). And the criteria of evaluating “the forms of theory built upon [tacit political knowledge]” (1071) are not less “elusive” than tacit political knowledge itself. “A certain sensibility is needed, qualities of thinking and feeling which are not readily formulable but pertain to a capacity for discriminative judgment” (1076, emphasis added). If tacit political knowledge is “elusive” and if, when it comes to the evaluation of it, “appropriateness of judgment cannot be encapsulated into a formula” (1076), it is indeed hard to see how what Wolin went so far as to call “the creation of theories” (1073) does not, as Dahl and others objected, fall into “the domain of literary criticism, where the study of the ‘meaning’ of a poem generally does not, even at the hands of the new critics, lead to an agreed interpretation” (1958, 97). Wolin, of course, did not think it did. But instead of articulating, “in rather careful language” (Dahl 1958, 97), the evidence or criteria on the basis of which tacit political knowledge or a theory founded on it could be sharply and exactly distinguished from “false, vague, unreliable, or even ‘mystical’” opinion (1071) or from mere “bias”—to which, even he himself granted, it surely has “a family resemblance” (1074)—Wolin seemed to argue that this could not and hence need not be done. Instead of doing so himself, at any rate, he (merely) gave eloquent and impassioned expression to the fact that there is something vague in the very nature of political phenomena, something of the utmost importance, which is lost sight of or obscured when we try to eliminate “extra-scientific considerations” or to recognize only “truth which is economical, replicable, and easily packaged” (1070–75). Moreover, when this “assault” (Tarlton 1970, 590) of his on the new political science called forth the not unexpected objection that it presupposed “an almost occult sense of the mysteries of politics, the magic of insight and sensitivity, the alchemy of special, unarticulated wisdom” (591; compare Wolin 1969, 1071, 1074), Wolin’s response was contemptuous and dismissive (1970, 592; but cf. Schaar and Wolin 1963, 146). He denied, in effect, that a political theorist needed to address the question with the “high degree of precision” that Dahl, for one, demanded (1958, 95–98).

Due in large part to its unwillingness or inability to meet the demand that it become “scientific,” political theory was for a time deemed by its friends and foes alike to be “dead” or, at a minimum, in “decline” or “decay.”¹ That passed, of course. Among other things, to be brief, unwelcome practical consequences of the behavioralists’ “scientific study of politics”—the irrelevance of the latter to “the immediate issues of the day” (Easton 1969, 1055; Parenti 2006, 502–3), not least the war in Vietnam—combined with powerful critiques of positivism and its theoretical basis, the fact/value distinction, gave political theory a new lease on life (Ball 1995, 45–53). But the fall of behavioralism, an event that seemed to make room again for traditional political theory, was a peculiar thing; it was in a way, as one of the foremost historians of the discipline puts it, a “non-event” (Ricci 1984, 211; cf. Freeman 1991, 33). For the only clearly recognizable feature of the largely indefinable “behavioralist persuasion” was its “scientific outlook,” which is to say, its claim that political science can and, what is more, should model itself after modern natural science (Ricci 134–36; Dahl 1961; Cobban 1953, 334). And this claim was never seriously questioned, much less abandoned (209–11).² It has in fact endured to this day (23).³ It is no wonder, therefore, that history seems to be repeating itself.

Political theory once again finds itself on the brink,⁴ and it has been driven there in large part by more or less the same objection that led to its first near-death experience. “From the heyday of the behavioral revolution to the present, political scientists have objected that political theorists are not ‘scientific’” (Ball 2007, 1, 5). Not long ago, for example, King, Keohane, and Verba could express the demand—which, they pointed out, is usually met by the “quantitative-systematic-generalizing” branch of social science and usually unmet by its “qualitative-humanistic-discursive” (1994, 4) branch—that the methods of genuinely scientific research be “explicit, codified, and public” by appealing to a statement made by Robert K. Merton some fifty years earlier (8). “The sociological analysis of qualitative data,” Merton said, “often resides in a private world of penetrating but unfathomable insights and ineffable understandings. … [However,] science … is public, not private” ([1948] 1968, 71–72). The vitality this objection has shown over the years is equaled by the vitality of political theory’s “go-to” defense against it. For example, in response to the fact that, today, too, “in the eyes of its critics, research in political theory resembles humanities research far more closely than it does scientific research” (2002, 578), Ruth Grant more recently set out to “articulate some of the common presuppositions, generally unspoken, that guide the ways in which research in political theory is done” (577). As impressive as her articulation of these presuppositions undoubtedly was (cf., e.g., 587–89), however, it did not meet the issue as political theory’s critics see it. “To political scientists, the perpetual disagreements among political theorists and the repeated reconsiderations of the same issues and texts are indications that political theorists lack meaningful standards for assessing what constitutes good research” (577). Yet, like Wolin, instead of making the case that political theorists can in fact appeal to such standards, she all but acknowledges that, even or precisely on their own presuppositions, they cannot do so. Certain “epistemological realities,” she says, leave the humanities—and political theory, it is conceded, belongs to the humanities (578)—exposed to persistent “uncertainties and disagreements” (581). And, insofar as “messy uncertainties and disagreements” cannot be removed from political phenomena (591–92), political theorists cannot be expected to spell out “in rather careful language” (Dahl 1958, 97) the means of their removal.⁵

In short, “the discipline is stuck in a time warp” (Parenti 2006, 506) and many of those who have been in the profession for decades feel “a profound sense of déjà vu” (Hawkesworth 2006, 153; Behnegar 1997, 98–99; Schram 2012, 20–21).⁶ “Empirical” political scientists continue to demand of their “normative” colleagues something the latter continue to insist, in turn, cannot or should not be done (Rehfield 2010, 466; Freeman 1991, 31). Whether the former have an adequate grasp of their own demand, which would include an adequate grasp of what scientific knowledge is or should be, is not certain. However that may be, it is obvious that, whereas they for their part claim to proceed scientifically, their “normative” colleagues are generally unwilling or unable to claim as much for themselves (Brown 2010, 681). And this of course puts them in an awkward situation. For political theorists can hardly sacrifice the intellect or relinquish the mantle of science completely. In doing so, they would have to face the consequence that, just as their critics have been saying all along, “having a subfield of political philosophy in a department of political science is akin to having a subfield of faith healers in a medical school” (Kasza 2010, 699). It therefore comes as no surprise that political theorists tend to blur the issue. To return to the exemplary case at hand, immediately after asserting that “uncertainties and disagreements” can never be removed from the matters with which political theory is concerned, Grant adds, “nonetheless, those things can be understood in some sense; reasonable judgments about them are possible” (2002, 582, 584). But again, no attempt is made to articulate the evidence or criteria on the basis of which “reasonable” judgments could be sharply and exactly distinguished from unreasonable ones. And so it would not be altogether reasonable, given what she says here at least, to take Grant’s word for it that political theory can be reasonable (cf. White 2004, 10).⁷ Apologies for political theory too often boil down in this way to the recommendation that we must beware of throwing out the baby (“reasonable judgments”) with the bathwater (“false, vague, unreliable, or even ‘mystical’” ones). Recommendations to this effect tend to presuppose, however, without so much as trying to prove, that the baby is sharply and exactly distinguishable from—despite admittedly having “a family resemblance” to—the bathwater. On the other hand, if political theorists cannot relinquish the mantle of science completely, why not dispense with such half measures and simply lay claim to it themselves? That is to say, why not reject the separation of (political) science from (political) philosophy as an error once and for all?

This course, though it may be the only consistent one, is liable to be written off immediately by “normative” political theorists, to say nothing of their “empirical” colleagues.⁸ Traditional political philosophy, as Ronald Beiner broadly defines it, consists in “super-ambitious reflection on the human condition, on ‘the ends of life’” (2014, xxix) with a view to capturing the truth about “the normative foundations of human experience” (230, cf. xxvi). Simply put, it is the attempt to convert, by way of “critical examination,” our opinions about just or good things into knowledge of just or good things (cf. M. Sandel 2009, 27–30). However, the possibility of a successful attempt along these lines—the possibility, that is, of a genuine science of the matters with which political philosophy is concerned—is all but inconceivable today. Two almost insuperable, mutually reinforcing obstacles are especially responsible for this.⁹

In the first place, there is the difficulty that opinions about just or good things are, now as ever, controversial.¹⁰ And criteria on the basis of which mere opinion could be reasonably distinguished from knowledge are not clearly available (Berlin 1962, 4; Bookman 1970, 22–23; Pennock 1951, 1083). The oft-maligned “vagueness” of much political theory is due to this longstanding lack. But the modern distinction between “facts,” which are knowable, and “values,” which are not—a distinction which, now that it has been somewhat discredited, still lives on subterraneously even in the work of political scientists who no longer invoke it in broad daylight:¹¹ for example, in the guise of the distinction between “empirical” and “philosophic” or “normative”¹²—is not warranted by this age-old situation. “The beginning of scientific inquiry,” it is still popularly believed, “is the fact/value dichotomy” (Bond 2007, 899). Or, to quote from a now frequently used textbook, one of “the rules of the road to scientific knowledge of politics” is to “avoid normative statements” (Kellstedt and Whitten 2013, 17–18). So they say, but why? Do we know scientifically that scientific knowledge of “normative” statements is impossible, or is this just a hunch; in the end, a bit of “folk wisdom” or pseudoscience? It could seem to follow from the widespread disagreement about “normative” statements that criteria for reaching agreement about them are necessarily lacking (Pippin 2009, 37; cf. Williams 2006, 157). In reality, it does not. Nothing follows from the hoary truth that “what is just and unjust is usually in dispute” (Rawls 1999, 5) but the incentive to resolve the disputes; which is to say, the incentive to engage in political philosophy.

If then it is not so much the age-old, widespread disagreement about the opinions or evidence from which political philosophy starts that, to our eyes, precludes the possibility of genuine or scientific knowledge of “values” from the outset, perhaps it is also, in the second place, a certain implicit, negative assessment of the evidence itself that does this? Apparently, “no one … can deny that post-Enlightenment science and mathematics (Newton, Darwin, Maxwell, Lorentz, Planck, Einstein, Bohr, Schrödinger, Heisenberg, Dirac, Hawking, Higgs) has infinitely eclipsed ancient understandings of the world” (Beiner 2014, 60–61). But according to Friedrich Nietzsche, who was perhaps the first and surely among the last to face this difficulty squarely, modern nonteleological natural science undercuts our prescientific awareness of the world or the world of “common sense” (Burtt 1999, 303). That world, “the world that concerns us,” as Nietzsche called it, ceases to be the true or only one in the face of the “materialism” or “naturalism” of modern science (Beyond Good and Evil aphs. 34, 226). The latter implies or presupposes that the prescientific, common sense world is either a figment of the imagination or an epiphenomenon of matter in motion, or both. And since just or good things in particular belong to that world, modern natural science implies or presupposes that nothing is just or good in itself; the “is,” as it is conceived by modern natural science at least, excludes the “ought” (aph. 9). From the outset, then, modern natural science serves to undercut the evidence from which traditional political philosophy takes its bearings. In its shadow, ordinary opinions to the effect that something is in itself just or good can no longer be accepted at face value.¹³

Now, for the sake of clarity, let us double back and retrace our steps. Beginning at the end, then, “the modernist separation of the ‘fact-orientation’ of politics from ‘abstracted’ theory is itself tied … to the growth of forms of philosophical materialism, naturalism, empiricism, and positivism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and its consequent seepage into common sense. The ‘factual-orientation’ view of politics is thus the product of certain comparatively recent historical developments” (Vincent 2004, 9). That most “empirical” political scientists presuppose the validity of these developments is obvious.¹⁴ It is considerably less obvious, however, that most political theorists do too. And yet, as suggested, even political theorists and others who appear to resist or reject the developments in question actually do so, almost without exception, only to a limited extent. For they do not seriously question, much less consistently deny, the developments’ necessary consequence: the separation of (political) science from (political) philosophy and the impossibility of scientific knowledge of “values.” They tend, instead, to disagree with their fundamentally like-minded “empirical” colleagues primarily about the implications of this consequence or about its consequences.

To put this more exactly, it is agreed on all sides that “values,” in particular, transcend or fall short of the reach of science. As for “the ongoing methodological crisis of social science” (Gerring 2001, xv), it has to do with the disagreement that then arises over whether what transcends or falls short of the reach of science or human reason still deserves a hearing.¹⁵ And at this point a difficulty emerges for political theory. For, unless “having a subfield of political philosophy in a department of political science is akin to having a subfield of faith healers in a medical school,” “a hearing” necessarily means, first and foremost, a hearing before the tribunal of human reason.¹⁶ And those who maintain that “values,” though they buck reason, still deserve a hearing before reason are bound, as this ambiguous or even self-contradictory formulation itself suggests, to have difficulty articulating their position in clear and distinct terms.¹⁷ The difficulty, to say it again, follows from the fact that, notwithstanding their acceptance of the distinction between the sciences and the humanities, as well as of political theory’s place among the latter as opposed to the former, they can hardly relinquish the mantle of science completely. Inevitably, they are forced into a kind of halfway house.¹⁸ And since it is unintelligible to say political theory does and, at the same time, does not merit the name “science,” the effectual truth of their position is an almost fanatical obscurantism.¹⁹ In this way, that sector of the discipline not shaped by modern natural science more or less directly is still shaped by its reaction to it.

In this situation, political theorists can hardly avoid making an experiment at least of leaving their all but anti-theoretical halfway house and laying claim to the mantle of science themselves.²⁰ This is much easier said than done. For it requires, to repeat, both the discovery of criteria, or a method, for converting our opinions about justice into knowledge of justice and a defense of those opinions, especially over and against modern natural science’s implicit, negative assessment of their cognitive status. And it seems unlikely that these two requirements can ever be met. Still, the fact remains that to seem unlikely is one thing, to be impossible another. And, given this difference, the following study cannot be written off merely for exploring the possibility that they can be met, indeed, to add unlikelihood to unlikelihood, that they already were: in classical Athens, by Socrates.

This is not the first or only attempt in recent times to solve a peculiarly modern problem by recourse to the thought of the past. It suffices to mention in this connection the work of Hannah Arendt, Alasdair Mac-Intyre, Martha Nussbaum, and Leo Strauss. But why should we look in this case to Socrates of all people?

We have it on good authority that political philosophy was founded by Socrates. It was Socrates, according to Cicero, who first called science or philosophy down from heaven—or rather, away from the study of the whole of nature—established it in the cities, introduced it also in the households, and compelled it to inquire about human life and manners as well as about good and evil.²¹ Similarly, Aristotle, Plato, and Xenophon seem to say that Socrates concerned himself exclusively with the ethical or human things, and—contrary to his philosophic predecessors, the so-called pre-Socratics—not at all with the whole of nature.²² He did so, they seem to say, especially or only as a result of practical considerations, for whereas natural science does not “matter” much or at all to human life, political philosophy surely does.²³ The first philosopher was famously ridiculed for falling into a well because his head was in the clouds (Theaetetus 173e1–174b7); Socrates, it seems, was just the first philosopher to get the joke. In that case, however, “the Socratic turn,” as the founding in question has come to be called, would be only indirectly relevant to the awkward situation in which political theory finds itself today. For even granted that Socrates acquired “the true political art” (Gorgias 521d7–8), as he put it, by methodically examining opinions about just or good things, the success of modern natural science still presents a difficulty. Doubts about the assumption that it is theoretically possible to examine opinions about just or good things would not be directly affected by, indeed, they would continue to subvert, the examination of them. For how could the conclusions of an examination whose premises—in this case, common sense opinions—are deprived of cognitive value by what passes for science amount, themselves, to science? In this regard, the experience of the last century or so is telling. For example, “in Husserl on the life-world; in Heidegger on pre-predicative experience, being-in-the-world, and the everyday; in the later Wittgenstein, Austin, Cavell,” Robert Pippin finds, “an appeal to ‘the ordinary’ as a way of bypassing, avoiding, not refuting the supposedly reductionist, skeptical, disenchanting, enervating trajectory of modern naturalism” (2003, 344). But however enervating modern natural science may be, if it has not been refuted, if it remains “the most rigorous and authoritative body of knowledge we have” (344), it cannot be reasonably or consistently bypassed in favor of “the life-world.” Our concern for “what matters” (utility) can never wholly extinguish our concern for truth, and an analysis of “the life-world” cannot be truer than “the life-world” itself.

On the other hand, even if practical considerations played a role, more went into the Socratic founding of political philosophy than the usual sources seem to say. Cicero’s suggestion that Socrates founded political philosophy tends to elicit the objection that philosophers, and not only philosophers, gave serious thought to politics prior to Socrates. But Cicero was not unaware of this fact. And to suggest in full awareness of this fact that it was, nevertheless, Socrates who founded political philosophy is to suggest that serious thought about politics does not qualify as “political philosophy” unless it meets certain criteria, criteria which were not met by political thought prior to Socrates. “In early Greek philosophy the emergence of political philosophy and of a special field of politics was obscured by the [pre-Socratic] attempt to include all phenomena within ‘nature’ and to explain their workings by a common unifying principle” (Wolin 1960, 29–30). That means, before Socrates could develop a method for converting our prescientific, common sense opinions about justice into knowledge, he had to mount a theoretical defense of those opinions, especially over and against pre-Socratic natural science’s explicit, negative assessment of their cognitive status. The question of the basis of common sense opinions about good and evil had to be approached in such a way as to enable science, for the first time, to have genuine access to the question of their content. And a closer look at the usual sources corroborates the suggestion that Socrates founded political philosophy, or rejected natural science, especially or also as a result of theoretical considerations; which is to say, as a result of a concern with the whole of nature.²⁴

There are, therefore, reasons to entertain the possibility that the Socratic turn is still directly relevant to the situation of political theory today. For the pre-Socratic natural science that Socrates rejected surely shares with modern natural science certain fundamental assumptions and objectives. Both seek more or less single-mindedly to explain human behavior, for example, “reductively,” that is, in terms of underlying material or efficient causes. And the causal accounts or explanations of human behavior ordinarily offered up in speech, explanations in terms of this or that end or “value,” are thus written off as red herrings by both. Yet if modern and pre-Socratic natural science share certain fundamental assumptions and objectives, then perhaps Socrates’ theoretical reasons for rejecting the latter still have a bearing on our stance toward the former?²⁵ If so, and if indeed Socrates acquired “the true political art” by examining opinions about just or good things in accord with a method whose evidence or criteria are in principle “public, not private,” then perhaps scientific knowledge of “values” is not impossible after all?

Perhaps. But it is a long way, to say the least, from these prima facie reasons to the conclusion that Socrates originally conceived of political philosophy, both its basis and its method, in such a way as to safeguard it in advance against the difficulties that especially prevent it from laying claim to the mantle of science today. But we know where to start at any rate. For before Socratic political philosophy can be assessed, it must be understood. That inevitably means asking why—owing to precisely what reflections and concerns—Socrates founded it as he did. And Plato poses this question to his readers. For his Socrates was himself engaged in pre-Socratic natural science in his youth, and it was only much later in life, after turning away from pre-Socratic natural science, that he became a political philosopher. But Plato does not merely pose the question of Socrates’ intellectual development; he gives a comprehensive account of it whose aim is to help his readers undergo a similar development for themselves. That account is therefore the immediate focus of the following study.

The study has seven chapters. Chapter 1 discusses the way the comparatively recent preoccupation with Plato’s intellectual development has led scholars to disregard the question of Socrates’ intellectual development. And it situates Plato’s account of Socrates’ intellectual development in the context of the Platonic corpus. Then, on the basis of that account, Chapter 2 goes on to show that materialistic natural science is an attempt to confirm—and that it is of the essence of “antiscience” to deny—the basic premise of science as such; namely, that nothing can come to be without a cause. At least to begin with, as E. O. Wilson says, “reductionism is the primary and essential activity of science” (1999, 59). But, through an analysis of what a cause or a causal account is, Chapter 3 demonstrates that materialistic natural science is not equal to its task. As a matter of fact, it is derivative, incoherent, and incomplete. If Chapter 3 broaches the problem of science and its limits, Chapter 4 develops it more fully. It does so in such a way as to convey something of the true scope and depth of the so-called mind-body problem. For, contrary to popular belief, that problem is not, or not merely, the problem of the emergence of minds from bodies. Rather, we find ourselves in a world ordered into distinct classes or kinds of beings, and this heterogeneity is demonstrably noetic in origin. The beings of our experience—including “rocks,” to give the pertinent example—depend on mind for whatever unity they have. And we see in this way why natural or scientific teleology, as opposed to materialistic natural science, would alone seem to be worthy of the name “science.” (Partly because they aim to convey something of what science originally meant, which is hard to do today, Chapters 2–4 are more drawn-out than the rest.) Chapter 5 shows that even natural or scientific teleology is no more conceivable than materialistic natural science, however. The beings of our experience cannot be fully understood—either “from below” (materialistically) or “from above” (teleologically)—and this, the full understanding of this, leaves science itself teetering on the brink of collapse. Chapter 6 turns to the situation of man in society as it appears in light of the insight into the limits of science. And while it shows how knowledge of these limits makes it practically necessary for its possessor to examine opinions about justice, Chapter 7 shows how this knowledge finally makes it theoretically possible for its possessor to do so. Here we begin to make out what science is or can be when it is fully aware of the limits beyond which it cannot go if it is to remain science.²⁶ And we see how exactly—by what method—opinions about justice, for one, are to be scientifically examined. The Introduction and Conclusion have to do with nihilism. All together, the following study focuses on the basis and method of political philosophy—on the cognitive status of the evidence from which political philosophy takes its bearings, in the first place, and on its manner of handling the evidence in question, in the second.