Is there No Escape from the Universal Tyrant?
Preparing to Study Xenophon's Hiero
I just finished reading chapter four of Leo Strauss’ What is Political Philosophy?
Strauss’ “Restatement on Xenophon’s Hiero” is as great an introduction to Xenophon, to Xenophon’s Hiero, to Kojève, to political philosophy, and to learning how to think as can be found anywhere. Studying Strauss is a great way to learn or to remember how little I know. It is also a great way to learn or to remember why such learning and remembering is so enjoyable.
Should I attempt to summarize Strauss’ appreciation for and critique of Kojève in this chapter? I think that it makes sense to postpone such an attempt until after re-reading Strauss’ On Tyranny. On Tyranny is Strauss’ classic reading of Xenophon’s Hiero or Tyrannicus. Hiero or Tyrannicus is a dialogue in which the tyrant Hiero and the poet Simonides discuss the advantages and disadvantages of exercising tyranny. Strauss’ On Tyranny includes a translation of Xenophon’s dialogue, Kojève’s critique of Strauss’ commentary, Strauss’ restatement on Xenophon’s dialogue in response to Kojève, and the complete Strauss-Kojève correspondence.
Is chapter four of What Is Political Philosophy? “Restatement on Xenophon’s Hiero” the same thing as Strauss’ restatement in On Tyranny? Maybe it is, or maybe it is similar, but I’ll have to find out later when I read On Tyranny again (unless someone else answers this question first).
In my previous posts on political philosophy in this section of my Substack, Athen’s Flame (see “What Is Tyranny?,” “Graced by Nature’s Grace,” and “What Is Political Philosophy?”) I’ve extracted and commented upon several gems from Strauss’ chapters. Unless there are any objections, questions, or suggestions from my audience, I will proceed in a similar manner, at least for this chapter.
Before selecting and examining some of Strauss’ gems in this chapter, consider the praise that a couple of his contemporary interlocutors (both of whom appear in this chapter) gave for his book On Tyranny:
Through [Strauss's] interpretation Xenophon appears to us as no longer the somewhat dull and flat author we know, but as a brilliant and subtle writer, an original and profound thinker. What is more, in interpreting this forgotten dialogue, Strauss lays bare great moral and political problems that are still ours. —Alexandre Kojève, Critique
and
Every political scientist who tries to disentangle himself from the contemporary confusion over the problems of tyranny will be much indebted to this study and inevitably use it as a starting point.—Eric Voegelin, The Review of Politics
Kojève and Voegelin must have been at least two of the philosophic friends that Strauss fished out of the market place or the public square.
There are too many gems in chapter four to possibly comment upon all of them, but perhaps a few gems and commentaries can prepare us to more profitably study Xenophon’s Hiero:
“The peculiar character of the Hiero does not disclose itself to cursory reading. It will not disclose itself to the tenth reading, however painstaking, if the reading is not productive of a change of orientation. This change was much easier to achieve for the 18th century reader than for the reader in our century who has been brought up on the brutal and sentimental literature of the last five generations. We are in need of a second education in order to accustom our eyes to the noble reserve and the quiet grandeur of the classics. Xenophon, as it were, limited himself to cultivating exclusively that character of classical writing which is wholly foreign to the modern reader. No wonder that he is today despised or ignored. An unknown ancient critic, who must have been a man of uncommon discernment, called him most bashful. Those modern readers who are so fortunate as to have a natural preference for Jane Austen rather than for Dostoievski, in particular, have an easier access to Xenophon than others might have; to understand Xenophon, they have only to combine the love of philosophy with their natural preference. In the words of Xenophon, ‘it is both noble and just, and pious and more pleasant to remember the good things rather than the bad ones.’ In the Hiero, Xenophon experimented with the pleasure that comes from remembering bad things, with a pleasure that admittedly is of doubtful morality and piety.” (p. 104)
What is the peculiar character of the Hiero? Why doesn’t this peculiar character disclose itself to cursory reading or even to ten readings? What change does Strauss encourage in the orientation of the reader? Why was this change easier for the 18th century reader than it is for Strauss’ contemporaries or for us today? What is the second education that Strauss recommends? What is the noble reserve and the quiet grandeur of the classics?
This last question reminds me of chapter XV of section I of Volume II of Tocqueville’s Democracy in America: “The Study Of Greek And Latin Literature Peculiarly Useful In Democratic Communities” in which Tocqueville praises the usefulness of ancient literature for modern democratic peoples:
And indeed a very superficial survey of the literary remains of the ancients will suffice to convince us, that if those writers were sometimes deficient in variety, or fertility in their subjects, or in boldness, vivacity, or power of generalization in their thoughts, they always displayed exquisite care and skill in their details. Nothing in their works seems to be done hastily or at random: every line is written for the eye of the connoisseur, and is shaped after some conception of ideal beauty. No literature places those fine qualities, in which the writers of democracies are naturally deficient, in bolder relief than that of the ancients; no literature, therefore, ought to be more studied in democratic ages. This study is better suited than any other to combat the literary defects inherent in those ages; as for their more praiseworthy literary qualities, they will spring up of their own accord, without its being necessary to learn to acquire them. (My emphasis)
Strauss’ call for a change or a second education seems to echo Tocqueville’s praise for ancient literature. Tocqueville continues:
It is important that this point should be clearly understood. A particular study may be useful to the literature of a people, without being appropriate to its social and political wants. If men were to persist in teaching nothing but the literature of the dead languages in a community where everyone is habitually led to make vehement exertions to augment or to maintain his fortune, the result would be a very polished, but a very dangerous, race of citizens. For as their social and political condition would give them every day a sense of wants which their education would never teach them to supply, they would perturb the State, in the name of the Greeks and Romans, instead of enriching it by their productive industry.
What other reasons does Tocqueville, like Strauss after him, give for encouraging the study of ancient literature?
It is evident that in democratic communities the interest of individuals, as well as the security of the commonwealth, demands that the education of the greater number should be scientific, commercial, and industrial, rather than literary. Greek and Latin should not be taught in all schools; but it is important that those who by their natural disposition or their fortune are destined to cultivate letters or prepared to relish them, should find schools where a complete knowledge of ancient literature may be acquired, and where the true scholar may be formed. A few excellent universities would do more towards the attainment of this object than a vast number of bad grammar schools, where superfluous matters, badly learned, stand in the way of sound instruction in necessary studies.
Are there any such schools or excellent universities today? Where might a student in modern America go to cultivate letters and be prepared to relish them? In short, where is it possible for those who by their natural disposition or their fortune are destined to cultivate letters or prepared to relish them can acquire the second education or the change in orientation that Strauss, echoing Tocqueville, encourages?
Tocqueville concludes his chapter with an exhortation:
All who aspire to literary excellence in democratic nations, ought frequently to refresh themselves at the springs of ancient literature: there is no more wholesome course for the mind. Not that I hold the literary productions of the ancients to be irreproachable; but I think that they have some especial merits, admirably calculated to counterbalance our peculiar defects. They are a prop on the side on which we are in most danger of falling. (My emphasis)
Refreshing ourselves at the springs of Xenophon’s Hiero, as Strauss demonstrates, requires much more than cursory reading. Why is there a character of classical writing that is wholly foreign to the modern reader? Why was Xenophon despised or ignored? Why did Strauss choose an author like Xenophon to examine so thoroughly? Why did it require uncommon discernment for the unknown ancient critic to call Xenophon most bashful? Why would a modern reader be fortunate to have a natural preference for Jane Austen rather than for Dostoievski?
Let’s proceed to appreciate and examine a few more gems from Strauss’ fourth chapter in What Is Political Philosophy?:
“Since he [Kojève] is a philosopher, he knows that the philosopher is, in principle, more capable of ruling than other men and hence will be regarded by a tyrant like Hiero as a most dangerous competitor for tyrannical rule.” (p. 104)
This is something to keep in mind as we study the Hiero.
“The desire for prestige, recognition or authority is the primary motive of all political struggles, and in particular of the struggle that leads a man to tyrannical power.” (p. 108)
Bingo.
“One does not characterize Socrates adequately by calling him a Master.” (p. 109)
This reminds me to return to Strauss’ essay “The Problem of Socrates.” (see also here)
“Xenophon indicates his view most succinctly by failing to mention manliness in his two lists of Socrates’ virtues. He sees in Socrates’ military activity a sign not of his manliness, but of his justice. (Memorabilia IV 4.1)”
Why is Xenophon’s failure to mention manliness in his two lists of Socrates’ virtues so significant?
“According to the classics, the highest good is a life devoted to wisdom or to virtue, honor being no more than a very pleasant, but secondary and dispensable reward. What Kojève calls the pleasure deriving from doing one’s work well or from realizing one’s projects or one’s ideals, was called by the classics the pleasure deriving from virtuous or noble activity. The classical interpretation would seem to be truer to the facts.” (p. 110)
Is a life devoted to wisdom or to virtue the highest good? (see also my friend Carl E. Scott’s “The Five Wonderful Lives of the Ancient World”)
“By thinking through this observation one arrives at the view that the highest kind of job, or the only job that is truly human, is noble or virtuous activity, or noble or virtuous work. If one is fond of this manner of looking at things, one may say that noble work is the synthesis effected by the classics between the morality of workless nobility and the morality of ignoble work. (cf. Plato, Meno 81d3 ff.)” (p. 110)
What is noble or virtuous work?
“In discussing the fundamental issue which concerns the relation of wisdom to rule or to tyranny, Kojève starts from the observation that at least up to now there have been no wise men but at best men who strove for wisdom, i.e., philosophers. Since the philosopher is the man who devotes his whole life to the quest for wisdom, he has no time for political activity of any kind: the philosopher cannot possibly desire to rule. His only demand on the political men is that they leave him alone. He justifies his demand by honestly declaring that his pursuit is purely theoretical and does not interfere in any way with the business of the political men. This simple solution presents itself at first glance as the strict consequence from the definition of the philosopher. Yet a short reflection shows already that it suffers from a fatal weakness. The philosopher cannot lead an absolutely solitary life because legitimate ‘subjective certainty’ and the ‘subjective certainty’ of the lunatic are indistinguishable. Genuine certainty must be ‘inter-subjective.’ The classics were fully aware of the essential weakness of the mind of the individual. Hence their teaching about the philosophic life is a teaching about friendship: the philosopher is as philosopher in need of friends. To be of service to the philosopher in his philosophizing the friends must be competent men: they must themselves be actual or potential philosophers, i.e., members of the natural ‘elite.’ Friendship presupposes a measure of conscious agreement. The things regarding which the philosophic friends must agree cannot be known or evident truths. For philosophy is not wisdom but quest for wisdom. The things regarding which the philosophic friends agree will then be opinions or prejudices. But there is necessarily a variety of opinions or prejudices. Hence there will be a variety of groups of philosophic friends: philosophy, as distinguished from wisdom, necessarily appears in the form of philosophic schools or of sects. Friendship as the classics understood it offers then no solution to the problem of ‘subjective certainty.’ Friendship is bound to lead to, or to consist in, the cultivation and perpetuation of common prejudices by a closely knit group of kindred spirits. It is therefore incompatible with the idea of philosophy. The philosopher must leave the closed and charmed circle of the ‘initiated’ if he intends to remain a philosopher. He must go out to the market place; the conflict with the political men cannot be avoided. And this conflict by itself, to say nothing of its cause or its effect, is a political action.” (p. 114)
Why can’t the philosopher lead an absolutely solitary life? What is legitimate ‘subjective certainty’ or genuine certainty and why is it ‘inter-subjective’ (and why does Strauss place these phrases in quotations)? Why must the philosopher go out to the market place? Why is the conflict between the philosopher and the political men unavoidable? What is the essential weakness of the mind of the individual that the classics understood? This last question also reminds me of Tocqueville’s commentary on the same subject in Democracy in America.
More gems:
“But philosophy in the original meaning of the term is nothing but knowledge of one’s ignorance.” (p. 115)
It’s always helpful when Strauss, like Aristotle, provides concise definitions for terms, even though Strauss, like Aristotle, often refines and qualifies those same definitions.
“But one cannot know that one does not know without knowing what one does not know." (p. 115)
It takes a lot of hard work to discover that we don’t know, and even more hard work to discover what we don’t know.
“What Pascal said with antiphilosophic intent about the impotence of both dogmatism and scepticism, is the only possible justification of philosophy which as such is neither dogmatic nor sceptic, and still less ‘decisionist,’ but zetetic (or skeptic in the original sense of the term). Philosophy as such is nothing but genuine awareness of the problems, i.e., of the fundamental and comprehensive problems.” (p. 116)
This is another of Strauss’ definitions of philosophy. What is the difference between skepticism in the original sense of the term and modern skepticism? Can one be zetetic about zeteticism? Somewhere the quest for wisdom must result in the attainment of at least some wisdom, otherwise would not the quest be meaningless? The quest can’t be it’s own meaning, can it? If genuine awareness of the fundamental and comprehensive problems is neither dogmatic nor sceptic, nor ‘decisionist’ (is this like the “probabilism” in the works of Cicero?), but zetetic (proceeding by inquiry, or investigating), then does the zeteticism merely culminate in perpetual but genuine awareness instead of some kind of definitive answers? Isn’t zeteticism itself a kind of answer that we can further examine?
“But the philosopher does not necessarily succumb to this danger, as is shown by Socrates, who never belonged to a sect and never founded one.” (p. 116)
Aristophanes’ (and Nietzsche’s?) unfair or uncharitable portraits of Socrates seem to suggest otherwise, but Plato and Xenophon can help us to better understand the great founder of political philosophy. Similarly, Strauss never belonged to a sect and never founded one, but “Straussianism” (let alone “Socratism”) is a formidable problem with which to grapple, is it not?
“At this point we seem to get involved in a self-contradiction. For, if Socrates is the representative par excellence of the philosophic life, the philosopher cannot possibly be satisfied with a group of philosophic friends but has to go out to the market place where, as everyone knows, Socrates spent much or most of his time.” (p. 116)
Is Socrates the representative par excellence of the philosophic life? Is Strauss too? Is this why the philosopher must go out to the market place? To follow the example of Socrates? of Strauss?
“However, the same Socrates suggested that there is no essential difference between the city and the family, and the thesis of Friedrich Mentz, Socrates nec officiosus maritus nec laudandus paterfamilias (Leipzig 1716), is defensible: Xenophon goes so far as to not count the husband of Xanthippe among the married men (Symposium in fine).” (p. 116)
Socrates was neither a dutiful husband nor a praiseworthy father, in Mentz’ defensible thesis. Why didn’t Xenophon count Socrates among the married men? Was his relationship with Xanthippe really that bad? I’ve heard rumors about this Xanthippe, but who was she? Can you imagine being married to Socrates? Some ancient sources seemed to dwell on the opposite question, can you imagine being married to Xanthippe?
Xanthippe was the wife of Socrates and the mother of three sons. She may have been as many as 30 or 40 years younger than Socrates. Was she really “the most difficult, harshest, painful, ill-tempered” wife that Antisthenes describes in Xenophon's Symposium? I’ve heard similar rumors about Mary Todd Lincoln, but can you imagine being married to Abraham Lincoln?
Did Socrates have two wives? Or a wife and a concubine? Xanthippe makes at least one appearance in Plato’s Phaedo, but the characterization of her as a difficult wife appears to be Xenophon’s work. In Xenophon’s Symposium Socrates explains why he chose Xanthippe:
It is the example of the rider who wishes to become an expert horseman: "None of your soft-mouthed, docile animals for me," he says; "the horse for me to own must show some spirit" in the belief, no doubt, if he can manage such an animal, it will be easy enough to deal with every other horse besides. And that is just my case. I wish to deal with human beings, to associate with man in general; hence my choice of wife. I know full well, that if I can tolerate her spirit, I can with ease attach myself to every human being else.
Maybe Christine de Pizan’s version of Xanthippe is more accurate: a woman who attempted to save Socrates from death by taking the poison from him. Whatever the case, W.H. Auden‘s clerihew is hilarious:
Whenever Xantippe
Wasn't feeling too chippy,
She would bawl at Socrates:
'Why aren't you Hippocrates?'[26]
I’ve had experiences with women (bless their hearts) who make Xenophon’s Xanthippe seem as sweet, gentle, and kind as Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
Strauss posits that Mentz’ thesis that Socrates was neither a dutiful husband nor a praiseworthy father is defensible. Maybe Xanthippe had good reasons for not feeling chippy all the time. Hippocrates must have been a handful too though.
Back to Strauss:
“Xenophon indicates in the Hiero that the motivation of the philosophic life is the desire for being honored or admired by a small minority, and ultimately the desire for ‘self-admiration,’ whereas the motivation of the political life is the desire for love, i.e., for being loved by human beings irrespective of their qualities. Kojève rejects this view altogether. He is of the opinion that the philosopher and the ruler or tyrant are equally motivated by the desire for satisfaction, i.e., for recognition (honor) and ultimately for universal recognition, and that neither of the two is motivated by a desire for love. A human being is loved because he is and regardless of what he does. Hence love is at home within the family rather than in the public spheres of politics and of philosophy.” (p. 117)
What is the motivation of the philosopher? Of the tyrant? Are they the same motivation? Why or why not?
“The philosopher is then necessarily concerned with approval or admiration by others and he cannot help being pleased with it when he gets it. It is practically impossible to say whether the primary motive of the philosopher is the desire for admiration or the desire for the pleasures deriving from understanding. The very distinction has no practical meaning unless we gratuitously assume that there is an omniscient God who demands from men a pure heart.” (p.117)
Gratuitously assume? We don’t have to assume it, Dr. Strauss. There is an omniscient God who demands from men a pure heart. Wouldn’t the true philosopher par excellence, regardless of the pleasures of understanding or the pleasures of admiration, be primarily concerned with the truth for the truth’s sake? Strauss arrives at a similar point further down the page, but this topic reminds me of C.S. Lewis’ keen observation in “Learning in War Time”:
"The intellectual life is not the only road to God, nor the safest, but we find it to be a road, and it may be the appointed road for us. Of course, it will be so only so long as we keep the impulse pure and disinterested. That is the great difficulty. As the author of the Theologia Germanicai says, we may come to love knowledge -- our knowing -- more than the thing known: to delight not in the exercise of our talents but in the fact that they are ours, or even in the reputation they bring us. Every success in the scholar's life increases this danger. If it becomes irresistible, he must give up his scholarly work. The time for plucking our the right eye has arrived."
Back to Strauss on the motivations of philosophers and political men:
“All men desire ‘satisfaction.’ But satisfaction cannot be identified with recognition and even universal recognition. The classics identified satisfaction with happiness. The difference between the philosopher and the political man will then be a difference with respect to happiness. The philosopher’s dominating passion is the desire for truth, i.e. for knowledge of the eternal order, or the eternal cause or causes of the whole. As he looks up in search for the eternal order, all human things and all human concerns reveal themselves to him in all clarity as paltry and ephemeral, and no one can find solid happiness in what he knows to be paltry and ephemeral. He has then the same experience regarding all human things, nay, regarding man himself, which the man of high ambition has regarding the low and narrow goals, or the cheap happiness, of the general run of men. The philosopher, being the man of the largest views, is the only man who can properly be described as possessing megaloprepreia (which is commonly rendered by ‘magnificence’) (Plato, Republic 486a). Or, as Xenophon indicates, the philosopher is the only man who is truly ambitious.” (p. 118)
Is the philosopher’s dominating passion the desire for truth? Is truth knowledge of the eternal order, or the eternal cause or causes of the whole? Is the philosopher the only man who possesses magnificence? Is the philosopher the only man who is truly ambitious?
“The political man must reject this way altogether. He cannot tolerate this radical depreciation of man and of all human things (Plato, Laws 804b5-c1). He could not devote himself to his work with all his heart or without reservation if he did not attach absolute importance to man and to human things. He must ‘care’ for human beings as such. He is essentially attached to human beings. This attachment is at the bottom of his desire to rule human beings, or of his ambition. But to rule human beings means to serve them. Certainly an attachment to beings which prompts one to serve them may well be called love of them. Attachment to human beings is not peculiar to the ruler; it is characteristic of all men as mere men. The difference between the political man and the private man is that in the case of the former, the attachment enervates all private concerns; the political man is consumed by erotic desire, not for this or that human being, or for a few, but for the large multitude, for the demos (Plato, Gorgias 481d1-5, 513d7, Republic 573e6-7, 574e2, 575a1-2), and in principle, for all human beings. But erotic desire craves reciprocity: the political man desires to be loved by all his subjects. The political man is characterized by the concern with being loved by all human beings regardless of their quality.” (p. 118)
The political man’s erotic desire and the philosopher’s erotic desire seem to be very different, but also connected. Does ruling human beings mean serving them and loving them?
“But if the philosopher is radically detached from human beings as human beings, why does he communicate his knowledge, or his questionings, to others? Why was the same Socrates who said that that the philosopher does not even know the way to the market place almost constantly in the market place?” (p. 119)
A similar question below:
“Why was the same Socrates who said that the philosopher barely knows whether his neighbor is a human being, so well informed about so many trivial details regarding his neighbors?” (p. 119)
An answer:
“The philosopher’s radical detachment from human beings must then be compatible with an attachment to human beings. While trying to transcend humanity (for wisdom is divine) or while trying to make it his sole business to die and to be dead to all human things, the philosopher cannot help living as a human being who as such cannot be dead to human concerns, although his soul will not be in these concerns. The philosopher cannot devote his life to his own work if other people do not take care of the needs of his body. Philosophy is possible only in a society in which there is ‘division of labor.’ The philosopher needs the services of other human beings and has to pay for them with services of his own if he does not want to be reproved as a thief or fraud.” (p. 119)
Is philosophy possible in modern American society?
“But man’s need for other men’s services is founded on the the fact that man is by nature a social animal or that the human individual is not self-sufficient. There is therefore a natural attachment of man to man which is prior to any calculation of mutual benefit. This natural attachment to human beings is weakened in the case of the philosopher by his attachment to the eternal beings.” (p. 120)
There is therefore a natural attachment of man to man which is prior to any calculation of mutual benefit. This rings true to me. This natural attachment or the nature of man as a social animal is prior to a lot of things, I think.
“In particular, he will give advice to his city or to other rulers. Since all advice of this kind presupposes comprehensive reflections which as such are the business of the philosopher, he must first have become a political philosopher. After this preparation he will act as Simonides did when he talked to Hiero, or as Socrates did when he talked to Alcibiades, Critias, Charmides, Critobulus, the younger Pericles and others.” (p. 120)
What does it mean to become a political philosopher and not merely a philosopher?
“The attachment to human beings as human beings is not peculiar to the philosopher. As philosopher, he is attached to a particular type of human being, namely to actual or potential philosophers or to his friends. His attachment to his friends is deeper than his attachment to other human beings, even to his nearest and dearest, as Plato shows with almost shocking clarity in the Phaedo. The philosopher’s attachment to his friends is based in the first place on the need which arises from the deficiency of ‘subjective certainty.’ Yet we see Socrates frequently engaged in conversations from which he cannot have benefited in any way.” (p. 120)
How does one identify actual or potential philosophers? Why is the philosopher’s attachment to actual or potential philosophers or to his friends deeper than his attachment to other human beings, even to his nearest and dearest? (Is this why Xanthippe poured cold water on Socrates’ head?)
“The philosopher’s attempt to grasp the eternal order is necessarily an ascent from the perishable things which as such reflect the eternal order.” (p. 121)
Perishable things reflect the eternal order. There is something imperishable in the perishable things. There is something eternal in the temporal. How do perishable things reflect the eternal order? An answer below:
“Of all perishable things known to us, those which reflect that order most, or which are most akin to that order, are the souls of men. But the souls of men reflect the eternal order in different degrees. A souls that is in good order or healthy reflects it to a higher degree than a soul that is chaotic or diseased. The philosopher who as such has had a glimpse of the eternal order is therefore particularly sensitive to the difference among human souls.” (p. 121)
Why do the souls of men reflect the eternal order in different degrees? Is this true? What does it mean for a soul to be in good order? Why is the philosopher particularly sensitive to the difference among human souls? Answers below:
“In the first place, he alone knows what a healthy or well-ordered soul is. And secondly, precisely because he has had a glimpse of the eternal order, he cannot help being intensely pleased by the aspect of a healthy or well-ordered soul, and he cannot help being intensely pained by the aspect of a diseased or chaotic soul, without any regard to his own needs or benefits. He he cannot help being attached to men of well-ordered souls: he desires ‘to be together’ with such men all the time. He admires such men not on account of any services which they may render to him but simply because they are what they are. On the other hand, he cannot help being repelled by ill-ordered souls. He avoids men of ill-ordered souls as much as he can, while trying of course not to offend them. Last but not least, he is highly sensitive to the promise of good or ill order, or of happiness or misery, which is held out by the souls of the young. Hence he cannot help desiring, without any regard to his own needs or benefits, that those among the young, whose souls are by nature fitted for it, acquire good order of their souls. But the good order of the soul is philosophizing. The philosopher therefore has the urge to educate potential philosophers simply because he cannot help living well-ordered souls.” (p. 121)
Does the philosopher know what a healthy or well-ordered soul is? Is the philosopher’s love for well-ordered souls and his aversion to chaotic or diseased souls virtuous? Why is the good order of the soul philosophizing?
“Philosophy, being knowledge of our ignorance regarding the most important things, is impossible without some knowledge regarding the most important things. By realizing that we are ignorant of the most important things, we realize at the same time that the most important things for us, or the one thing needful, is quest for knowledge of the most important things, or philosophy. In other words, we realize that only by philosophizing can man’s soul become well-ordered.” (p. 122)
What is philosophy? This is yet another definition of philosophy that Strauss provides. It is interesting that Strauss uses the phrase “one thing needful,” something that should remind us of Mary’s devotion and attention to our Savior Jesus Christ.
“But concern with being recognized by others has no necessary connection with the quest for the eternal order. Therefore, concern with recognition necessarily detracts from the singleness of purpose which is characteristic of the philosopher. It blurs his vision. This fact is not at variance with the other fact that high ambition is frequently a sign by which one can recognize the potential philosopher. But to the extent to which high ambition is not transformed into full devotion to the quest for wisdom, and to the pleasures which accompany that quest, he will not become an actual philosopher. One of the pleasures accompanying the quest for truth comes from the awareness of progress in that quest.” (p. 124)
How does one transform high ambition into full devotion toward the quest for wisdom? Why is singleness of purpose characteristic of the philosopher?
“The self-admiration of the philosopher is in this respect akin to ‘the good conscience’ which as such does not require confirmation by others.” (p. 125)
This makes me think of a child who is proud of himself or herself for doing something well, such as tying his own shoe or taking her first step. I would be proud of the same child and that same child has every reason to be proud of himself or herself.
“While I must disagree with a considerable part of Kojève’s reasoning, I agree with his conclusion that the philosopher has to go to the market place, or in other words, that the conflict between the philosopher and the city is inevitable. The philosopher must go to the market place in order to fish there for potential philosophers. His attempts to convert young men to the philosophic life will necessarily be regarded by the city as an attempt to corrupt the young. The philosopher is therefore forced to defend the cause of philosophy. He must therefore act upon the city or upon the ruler. Up to this point Kojève is in perfect agreement with the classics.” (p. 125)
Why is the philosopher forced to defend the cause of philosophy? How does the philosopher fish for potential philosophers? How does the philosopher act upon the city or upon the ruler?
“In what then does philosophic politics consist? In satisfying the city that the philosophers are not atheists, that they do not desecrate everything sacred to the city, that they reverence what the city reverences, that they are not subversives, in short, that they are not irresponsible adventurers but good citizens, even the best of citizens. This is the defense of philosophy which was required always and everywhere, whatever the regime might have been.” (p. 126)
Are philosophers good citizens or even the best citizens? Why or why not?
“This defense of philosophy before the tribunal of the city was achieved by Plato with a resounding success (Plutarch, Nicias ch. 23). The effects have lasted down to the present throughout all ages except the darkest ones. What Plato did in the Greek city and for it was done in and for Rome by Cicero, whose political action on behalf of philosophy has nothing in common with his actions against Catiline and for Pompey, for example. It was done in and for the Islamic world by Fārābī and in and for Judaism by Maimonides. Contrary to what Kojève seems to suggest, the political action of the philosophers on behalf of philosophy has achieved full success. One sometimes wonders whether it has not been too successful.” (p. 127)
There’s a lot to learn from the different defenses of philosophy that Strauss lists here. What are the differences between what Plato did in and for the Greek city and what the others did in and for their respective regimes? Could we add other examples, such as what Thomas Aquinas did? or what Publius or Tocqueville did? What might a new defense of philosophy look like in modern America?
“The problem of what the philosopher should do in regard to the city remains, therefore, an open question, the subject of an unfinishable discussion. But the problem which cannot be solved by the dialectics of discussion may well be solved by the higher dialectics of History. The philosophic study of our past shows that philosophy, far from being politically ineffectual, has radically revolutionized the character of political life. One is even entitled to say that philosophic ideas alone have had significant political effect. (p. 128)
What should the philosopher do in regard to the city? Why is philosophy the most politically effectual thing for political life? Why might philosophic ideas alone have significant political effect?
For what else is the whole political history of the world except a movement toward the universal and homogeneous state? The decisive stages in the movement were actions of tyrants or rulers (Alexander the Great and Napoleon, e.g.). But these tyrants or rulers were and are pupils of philosophers. Classical philosophy created the idea of the universal state. Modern philosophy, which is the secularized form of Christianity, created the idea of the universal and homogeneous state.” (p. 128)
What is the universal and homogeneous state? How did classical philosophy create the idea of the universal state? How did modern philosophy create the idea of the universal and homogeneous state? Why is modern philosophy a secularized form of Christianity?
“Kojève in fact confirms the classical view that unlimited technological progress and its accompaniment, which are the indispensable conditions of the universal and homogeneous state, are destructive of humanity. It is perhaps possible to say that the universal and homogeneous state is fated to come. But it is certainly impossible to say that man can reasonably be satisfied with it.” (p. 129)
I’m not thrilled about a universal and homogeneous state.
“There will always be men (andres) who will revolt against a state which is destructive of humanity or in which there is no longer a possibility of noble action and of great deeds.” (p. 130)
I sure hope so. Isn’t this a perfect description of what it is needed now in modern America?
“But perhaps it is not war nor work but thinking that constitutes the humanity of man.” (p. 131)
What is thinking? What is called thinking? Why did Strauss say that “the only great thinker in our time is Heidegger”? What was Strauss’ critique of Heidegger? (possibly helpful sources: here, here, and here)
“The classical solution is utopian in the sense that its actualization is improbable. The modern solution is utopian in the sense that its actualization is impossible. The classical solution supplies a stable standard by which to judge of any actual order. The modern solution eventually destroys the very idea of a standard that is independent of actual situations.” (p. 132)
This makes sense.
“The philosophers in their turn will be forced to defend themselves or the cause of philosophy. They will be obliged, therefore, to try to act on the Tyrant. Everything seems to be a re-enactment of the age-old drama. But this time, the cause of philosophy is lost from the start. For the Final Tyrant present himself as a philosopher, as the highest philosophic authority, as the supreme exegete of the only true philosophy, as the executor and hangman authorized by the only true philosophy. He claims therefore that he persecutes not philosophy but false philosophies. The experience is not altogether new for philosophers. If philosophers were confronted with claims of this kind in former ages, philosophy went underground. It accommodated itself in its explicit or exoteric teaching to the unfounded commands of rulers who believed they knew things which they did not know. Yet its very exoteric teaching undermined the commands or dogmas of the rulers in such a way as to guide the potential philosophers toward the eternal and unsolved problems. And since there was no universal state in existence, the philosophers could escape to other countries if life became unbearable in the tyrant’s dominions. From the Universal Tyrant, however, there is no escape. Thanks to the conquest of nature and to the completely unabashed substitution of suspicion and terror for law, the Universal and Final Tyrant has at his disposal practically unlimited means for ferreting out, and for extinguishing, the most modest efforts in the direction of thought. Kojève would seem to be right although for the wrong reason: the coming of the universal and homogeneous state will be the end of philosophy on earth.” (p. 133)
Why did philosophy go underground or why does philosophy go underground? How do philosophers act on the tyrant? How do the exoteric teachings of the philosophers undermine the commands or dogmas of the rulers and guide the potential philosophers toward the eternal and unsolved problems? What is the Universal Tyrant? Is there no escape from the Universal Tyrant?
Not if I can help it.
Let this suffice for now as preparation to read Xenophon’s Hiero and to continue with our study of Strauss and political philosophy.