What do abused dogs, prisoners tortured in Guantánamo and supermax facilities, and slaves killed by the state have in common? They have all been deprived of their personhood by the law. In The Law is a White Dog, Colin Dayan shows how the law can be used to dehumanize and marginalize, even as it upholds civil order. Dayan puts the topic in historical context, showing how these issues are still prevalent today. In an interview with WFHB Indiana, the author speaks to recent instances of police brutality. Listen for a fresh take on a a timely issue.
A poet, somewhere in Siberia, or the Balkans, or West Africa, some time in the past 60,000 years, recites thousands of memorised lines in the course of an evening. The lines are packed with fixed epithets and clichés. The bard is not concerned with originality, but with intonation and delivery: he or she is perfectly attuned to the circumstances of the day, and to the mood and expectations of his or her listeners.
If this were happening 6,000-plus years ago, the poet’s words would in no way have been anchored in visible signs, in text. For the vast majority of the time that human beings have been on Earth, words have had no worldly reality other than the sound made when they are spoken.
As the theorist Walter J Ong pointed out in Orality and Literacy: Technologizing the Word (1982), it is difficult, perhaps even impossible, now to imagine how differently language would have been experienced in a culture of ‘primary orality’. There would be nowhere to ‘look up a word’, no authoritative source telling us the shape the word ‘actually’ takes. There would be no way to affirm the word’s existence at all except by speaking it – and this necessary condition of survival is important for understanding the relatively repetitive nature of epic poetry. Say it over and over again, or it will slip away. In the absence of fixed, textual anchors for words, there would be a sharp sense that language is charged with power, almost magic: the idea that words, when spoken, can bring about new states of affairs in the world. They do not so much describe, as invoke.
As a consequence of the development of writing, first in the ancient Near East and soon after in Greece, old habits of thought began to die out, and certain other, previously latent, mental faculties began to express themselves. Words were now anchored and, though spellings could change from one generation to another, or one region to another, there were now physical traces that endured, which could be transmitted, consulted and pointed to in settling questions about the use or authority of spoken language.
Writing rapidly turned customs into laws, agreements into contracts, genealogical lore into history. In each case, what had once been fundamentally temporal and singular was transformed into something eternal (as in, ‘outside of time’) and general. Even the simple act of making everyday lists of common objects – an act impossible in a primary oral culture – was already a triumph of abstraction and systematisation. From here it was just one small step to what we now call ‘philosophy’.
Homer’s epic poetry, which originates in the same oral epic traditions as those of the Balkans or of West Africa, was written down, frozen, fixed, and from this it became ‘literature’. There are no arguments in the Iliad: much of what is said arises from metrical exigencies, the need to fill in a line with the right number of syllables, or from epithets whose function is largely mnemonic (and thus unnecessary when transferred into writing). Yet Homer would become an authority for early philosophers nonetheless: revealing truths about humanity not by argument or debate, but by declamation, now frozen into text.
Plato would express extreme concern about the role, if any, that poets should play in society. But he was not talking about poets as we think of them: he had in mind reciters, bards who incite emotions with living performances, invocations and channellings of absent persons and beings.
It is not orality that philosophy rejects, necessarily: Socrates himself rejected writing, identifying instead with a form of oral culture. Plato would also ensure the philosophical canonisation of his own mentor by writing down (how faithfully, we don’t know) what Socrates would have preferred to merely say, and so would have preferred to have lost to the wind. Arguably, it is in virtue of Plato’s recording that we might say, today, that Socrates was a philosopher.
Plato and Aristotle, both, were willing to learn from Homer, once he had been written down. And Socrates, though Plato still felt he had to write him down, was already engaged in a sort of activity very different from poetic recitation. This was dialectic: the structured, working-through of a question towards an end that has not been predetermined – even if this practice emerged indirectly from forms of reasoning only actualised with the advent of writing.
The freezing in text of dialectical reasoning, with a heavy admixture (however impure or problematic) of poetry, aphorism and myth, became the model for what, in the European tradition, was thought of as ‘philosophy’ for the next few millennia.
Why are these historical reflections important today? Because what is at stake is nothing less than our understanding of the scope and nature of philosophical enquiry.
The Italian philosopher of history Giambattista Vico wrote in his Scienza Nuova (1725): ‘the order of ideas must follow the order of institutions’. This order was, namely: ‘First the woods, then cultivated fields and huts, next little houses and villages, thence cities, finally academies and philosophers.’ It is implicit for Vico that the philosophers in these academies are not illiterate. The order of ideas is the order of the emergence of the technology of writing.
Within academic philosophy today, there is significant concern arising from how to make philosophy more ‘inclusive’, but no interest at all in questioning Vico’s order, in going back and recuperating what forms of thought might have been left behind in the woods and fields.
The groups ordinarily targeted by philosophy’s ‘inclusivity drive’ already dwell in the cities and share in literacy, even if discriminatory measures often block their full cultivation of it. No arguments are being made for the inclusion of people belonging to cultures that value other forms of knowledge: there are no efforts to recruit philosophers from among Inuit hunters or Hmong peasants.
The practical obstacles to such recruitment from a true cross-section of humanity are obvious. Were it to happen, however, the simple process of moving from traditional ways of life into academic institutions would at the same time dilute and transform the perspectives that are deserving of more attention. Irrespective of such unhappy outcomes, there is already substantial scholarship on these forms of thought accumulated in philosophy’s neighbouring disciplines – notably history, anthropology, and world literatures – to which philosophers already have access. It’s a literature that could serve as a corrective to the foundational bias, present since the emergence of philosophy as a distinct activity.
As it happens, there are few members of primary oral cultures left in the world. And yet from a historical perspective the great bulk of human experience resides with them. There are, moreover, members of literate cultures, and subcultures, whose primary experience of language is oral, based in storytelling, not argumentation, and that is living and charged, not fixed and frozen. Plato saw these people as representing a lower, and more dangerous, use of language than the one worthy of philosophers.
Philosophers still tend to disdain, or at least to conceive as categorically different from their own speciality, the use of language deployed by bards and poets, whether from Siberia or the South Bronx. Again, this disdain leaves out the bulk of human experience. Until it is eradicated, the present talk of the ideal of inclusion will remain mere lip-service.
Justin E. H. Smith is a professor of history and philosophy of science at the Université Paris Diderot – Paris 7. He writes frequently for The New York Times and Harper’s Magazine. His latest book is The Philosopher: A History in Six Types (2016).
Guest post by Michael Fontaine, Acting Dean of Faculty, Cornell University.
When a long and fulfilling career comes to an end, what do you do next? Seriously, what do you do?
That question came to mind over and over last week, when I suddenly found myself tapped to host a celebration for newly retired faculty at Cornell University. I teach Latin in the Classics department there, and this past semester I’ve been the acting dean of faculty. What on earth was I to say? I was told to speak off the cuff for five or ten minutes, but for someone who’s only just entering middle age, it’s hard to know what gems of wisdom could possibly sound sincere. What could unite a distinguished group of intellectuals from different departments at a huge research university and resonate with them?
Then it hit me—Cicero’s essay On Old Age! I’d been passing Philip Freeman’s new translation around to relatives and recommending it to friends since it came out a couple months ago. I grabbed my copy and marked out a half-dozen passages for the Provost and me to take turns reading. I worried that the title Freeman gave the essay, How to Grow Old, might put people off, so I had to be careful how I introduced the book. It could have blown up in my face.
But it didn’t blow up. The crowd loved it.
The context was crucial. I began by pointing out that Cicero’s title, De Senectute, could also be translated “On Old Age” or “On Retirement” or “On Turning 60.” I then pointed out that like Barack Obama, Cicero was a politician who rose from humble beginnings to achieve Rome’s highest office. He became consul—the equivalent of president—in 63 BC, and he did it purely through his sensational gift of public speaking. In his year in office, Cicero thwarted a terrorist attack and survived an attempt on his life, and wound up being hailed as a second founder of Rome. And in his spare time, he was a devotee of philosophy, poetry, and political theory—a real thinker.
I also pointed out that the speaker of the dialogue, Cato the Elder, was a man much like Cicero—or themselves. He enjoyed a tremendous career and then had to figure out what to do with his newfound spare time. That is surely why our first extract was the most popular of all:
So you see how old age, far from being feeble and sluggish, can be very active, always doing and engaged in something, as it follows the pursuits of earlier years. And you should never stop learning, just as Solon in his poetry boasts that while growing old he learned something new every day. I’ve done the same, teaching myself Greek as an old man. I have seized on this study like someone trying to satisfy a long thirst…. I have heard that Socrates learned as an old man to play the lyre, that favorite instrument of the ancients. I wish I could do that as well, but at least I’ve applied myself diligently to literature. (pp. 55-7)
Retirement is perfect for learning new languages—and Latin is one of the most popular choices. These faculty knew exactly what Cicero meant. They got the point of the next one, too, but not in the way I expected:
What indeed could be more pleasant than an old age surrounded by the enthusiasm of youth? For surely we must agree that old people at least have the strength to teach the young and prepare them for the many duties of life. What responsibility could be more honorable than this?… And no one who provides a liberal education to others can be considered unhappy even if his body is failing with age. The excesses of youth are more often to blame for the loss of bodily strength than old age. (pp. 61-3)
I assumed Cicero’s point about liberal education and being surrounded by young people would resonate with those who had spent their careers in university teaching. In the event, it was the final sentence that set of peals of laughter—and a few knowing smiles—from the crowd. Luckily, the Provost elevated the tone once more by reading our third extract:
We must fight, my dear Laelius and Scipio, against old age. We must compensate for its drawbacks by constant care and attend to its defects as if it were a disease. We can do this by following a plan of healthy living, exercising in moderation, and eating and drinking just enough to restore our bodies without overburdening them. And as much as we should care for our bodies, we should pay even more attention to our minds and spirits. For they, like lamps of oil, will grow dim with time if not replenished. And even though physical exercise may tire the body, mental activity makes the mind sharper. (pp. 73-5)
These words of advice never fail to win the attention and agreement of readers today; they seem to come right out of the latest self-help book for seniors. And because so many faculty look forward to retirement to at last devote more time to their research, I thought the next passage would hit home:
I am now working on the seventh book of my Origins [of Rome] and collecting all the records of our earliest history, as well as editing the speeches I delivered in famous cases. I am investigating augural, priestly, and civil law. I also devote much of my time to the study of Greek literature. And to exercise my memory, I follow the practice of the Pythagoreans and each evening go over everything I have said, heard, or done during the day. These are my mental gymnastics, the racecourses of my mind…. I also provide legal advice to my friends and frequently attend meetings of the Senate, where I propose topics for discussion and argue my opinion after pondering the issues long and hard. All this I do not with the strength of my body but with the force of my mind. (pp. 79-81)
This again brought forth giggles from the crowd, since many of them are active indeed in our faculty senate, but it was the phrase mental gymnastics that really caught their attention. It was a nice opportunity to point out that “gymnastics of the mind,” as Raffaella Cribiore has reminded us, is itself an ancient expression.
Retirees are a huge demographic that my field, Classics, ought to reach out to. Our outreach activities seem forever targeted toward the rising generation, but that’s a huge missed opportunity. We could, and should, do much more to think about other audiences for the classics—especially those for whom essays like De Senectute were written. That is the point of the final passage we chose for our celebration:
How wonderful it is for the soul when—after so many struggles with lust, ambition, strife, quarreling, and other passions—these battles are at last ended and it can return, as they say, to live within itself. There is no greater satisfaction to be had in life than a leisurely old age devoted to knowledge and learning. (p. 103)
Cicero is right. I recommend How to Grow Older to everyone out there who’s newly retired, or thinking about it.
The Natural Philosopher, the Sage, the Gadfly, the Ascetic, the Mandarin, and the Courtier. What would the global history of philosophy look like if it were told as a series of job descriptions—ones that might have been used to fill the position of philosopher at different times and places over the past 2,500 years? The Philosopher: A History in Six Types by Justin E. H. Smith does just that, providing a new way of looking at the history of philosophy. Why six types? Are some types superior to others? Recently, Smith took the time to answer these questions and more about his latest book.
This book doesn’t have a conventional structure or approach. In addition to straightforward scholarly exposition, it also contains autobiographical elements, as well as what appear to be fictional excursuses, written from the perspective of invented historical figures who represent different philosophical types. What are the reasons for this experimental approach?
JS: When I began speaking with my editor at Princeton University Press, what intrigued him most were some reflections of mine on the relationship between the activity of a philosopher and the practical need we all have to earn money and pay the bills. I had recently moved to Paris, was having trouble making ends meet with my modest French university salary, and so had begun experimenting with some ‘freelance’ philosophical dialogues with people willing to pay—mostly Anglo tourists who were looking to experience the frisson of sitting in a Parisian café and talking about love and death and stuff just like Sartre and De Beauvoir. So when I began writing, that personal experience served as the point of departure for reflecting on the long history of the problematic relationship between money and philosophy—after all, one of the most common foundation myths of the tradition is that it began when Socrates refused remuneration, thus liberating whatever it is we’re doing qua philosophers from whatever it is the Sophists had been doing. This approach then sort of expanded to other parts of the book: launching into an investigation of some aspect of the definition of philosophy by revealing something about my own personal engagement with it.
As for the fictional elements, I suppose this is just an irrepressible symptom of the sort of writing I’ve come to believe can best get across what I’m trying to do philosophically. I’m with Margaret Cavendish, who explicitly lays out at the beginning of her delirious 1666 novel, Blazing World, how it is that fantasy can be harnessed and utilized for the exploration of philosophical questions in ways for which the faculty of reason alone might be less ideally suited. I faced some resistance to these portions of the book from some readers of drafts. They wanted me to more clearly mark off and explain what I was doing in them, somewhat as Martha Nussbaum does when she introduces a fictional figure in one of her books to guide as through the exposition of arguments that follow. But I didn’t want my characters to serve simply as didactic aides. I wanted rather for the work to be, at least in part, a work of fiction, a product, like Cavendish’s, of the literary imagination.
Is this book philosophy, or is it about philosophy?
JS: I don’t know that there can really be a valid distinction here. By the same token, I’ve never understood what people mean when they talk about ‘metaphilosophy’. We’re all just trying to come to a clearer understanding of the nature of this activity we’re engaged in, in order, in part, to better engage in it. Philosophy is peculiar in that a great deal of effort is expended, by those who profess to practice it, in seeking to determine where its boundaries are, and what falls outside of them. This is a problem sedimentologists, say, don’t have, and one might easily suspect that philosophy is essentially constituted by this activity, that there’s not much left over to do once philosophers have stopped trying to determine what philosophy is not. I think my approach, the transregional and wide-focused historical survey of the very different ways people we think of as philosophers have themselves conceived what they were doing, helps to establish this point: ‘philosophy’ is said in many ways, to paraphrase Aristotle. I’m sure some critics who have some stake in portraying philosophy as essentially thus rather than so, or vice versa, will be quick to say that this book is ‘not philosophy’. But I think I can survive that, and in fact I think they’ll be helping to support my thesis.
Why six types? Is this list exhaustive or arbitrary?
JS: I make it very clear in the book that there has been no transcendental deduction of all possible types of philosopher, or anything like that. My approach is more like the one Kant accused Aristotle of taking in his elaboration of the ten categories: his listing of them continued until he grew tired. I also make clear that what we usually see when we look at actual philosophers is hybrids of two or more of the types, or different dimensions of the types becoming apparent at different moments in their work. The point of thinking in terms of types is to help reveal the degree to which the expectations placed on a person occupying the social role of the philosopher will determine in part the range of questions or problems that philosopher considers worthy of attention. I think of types as social categories, and for this reason certain social circumstances need to obtain in order for a given type of philosopher to make an appearance. Is an amateur observer of the way snails copulate in Central Park in 2015 a philosopher? No, but someone who was doing the same thing in the Jardin des Plantes in 1665 probably was.
You seem to be more sympathetic to some types than to others. Why?
JS: My training as a scholar, and so to speak my spiritual home base, is in the 17th century, which I see as a brief period of tremendous openness, of liberality and of true love of knowledge, inserted in the middle of what has generally been, philosophically speaking, a long, dark history of tedious scholasticism, provincialism, and submission to authority. Not coincidentally, this is also the period in which most of the philosophical action was going on outside of universities.
While I didn’t mean to structure things in this way when I began writing, as it turned out the chapters, each of which focuses on a particular type, move from my most to my least favorite. The first chapter is on what I call the ‘Curiosa’ (or, masculine, ‘Curiosus’), and the fictional personnage is inspired by none other than Margaret Cavendish. She represents the intellectual virtue that I believe is most lacking in university-based philosophy since at least the moment, sometime around the end of the 18th century, when the natural sciences broke off from philosophy and ‘natural philosophy’ ceased to be a vital and central concern of philosophers. My least favorite figure is the Courtier, whose fictional representative is based loosely on Jan Sten, the Soviet philosopher who was called in to tutor Stalin on Hegel and dialectical materialism and whatever other profound things the dictator was having trouble understanding, and who was eventually purged in the Moscow show trials. Serves that groveling worm right, we’re inclined to say at our safe distance, but the truth is many of us are doing something somewhat similar when we bend ourselves to the reigning ideology of market-driven university research, and pretend to ourselves and others that that’s still philosophy.
You draw on many sources that are not traditionally considered philosophy in the narrow sense. What is the purpose of this?
JS: I just don’t know how one could possibly coherently define the corpus of texts that deserve to be included in, as it were, the imaginary library of the history of philosophy. Recently (too recently to be included in the book) I’ve been thinking a great deal about the philosophical problem of the concept of ‘world’, as it developed in the 17th century, and the way in which this development is central for our understanding of the metaphysics of possibility, counterfactuals, one of Kant’s three transcendental Ideas, and so on. I’ve learned a great deal about the history of this concept from the work, in French, of Édouard Mehl. One thing I’ve come to appreciate is that this concept simply cannot be adequately understood without reading early modern novels, particularly the ones we might call ‘proto-science fiction’, such as Cyrano de Bergerac’s Les états et empires de la Lune. Am I supposed to exclude that just because it’s not a treatise? But then I will fail to adequately understand the philosophical problem that interests me, and that would be bad.
Often we are willing to pay attention to things that canonical philosophers say that are, quite frankly, no less fantastical than 17th-century lunar fantasy novels, simply because they are already categorized as canonical philosophers and therefore, we presume, everything they say is of interest. So Leibniz says that every drop of water in a pond is a world full of beings, and that is poetic and wonderful, but is it any more worthy of our attention as philosophers than when, say, Walt Whitman finds that he incorporates “gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss”? Both capture something profound about nature and our place in it. Whitman says it better, in my view, and there’s no reason not to pay attention to it, as philosophers, on the grounds that Whitman didn’t also come up with the principle of sufficient reason or the infinitesimal calculus.
In the end you describe the work as ‘aporetic’? Does this indicate a failure?
JS: No, it’s philosophy’s fault.
Justin E. H. Smith is university professor of the history and philosophy of science at the Université Paris Diderot—Paris VII. He is also the author of Nature, Human Nature, and Human Difference: Race in Early Modern Philosophy and Divine Machines: Leibniz and the Sciences of Life (both Princeton). He writes frequently for the New York Times, Harper’s Magazine, Cabinet Magazine, and other publications.
In 44 BC, Marcus Tullius Cicero wrote a short dialogue on the joys of one’s advanced years called On Old Age. You can read it in translation in our edition, How to Grow Old, translated by Philip Freeman. In the meantime, take these nuggets to heart as time draws you inexorably onward.
- Those who are unhappy in their youth will be unhappy in their old age as well. Begin cultivating the qualities that will serve you best when you are young and you will have a pleasant winter of life.
- Nature will always win. Certain things are meant to be enjoyed at different times of life, and trying to cling to youthful activities in old age will lead to frustration and resentment.
- The old and the young have much to offer one another. In exchange for the wisdom and experience of age, young people give joy to the twilight years.
- Use your increased free time productively. Cicero himself wrote extensively. He expounds on the joys of gardening for older people. Find an interest and pursue it!
- Do not fear death. Your soul will either continue on, or you will lose all awareness. Either way, the best thing to do is make the most of the time you have left.
There you have it! Armed with this knowledge, you too can enjoy a fruitful old age. For the rest of Cicero’s thoughts, pick up a copy of How to Grow Old.
What better way to celebrate Valentine’s Day than with a heartfelt declaration of our love of books? We offer up these quotes from our Quotable’s, as well as a special giveaway!
“It is the most interesting time, the period of falling in love, where after the first touch of a wand’s sweeping sensation, from each encounter, every glance…one brings something home, just like a bird busily fetching one stick after the other to her nest, yet always feels overwhelmed by the great wealth.”
“What is it, namely, that connect the temporal and eternity, what else but love, which for that very reason is before everything and remains after everything is gone.”
“It’s necessary to fall in love with a theory, and like falling in love with a woman, it’s only possible if one does not completely understand her.”
“How insufficient is all wisdom without love.”
“It is strange that men will talk of miracles, revelation, inspiration, and the like, as things past, while love remains.”
“What is the singing of birds, or any natural sound, compared with the voice of one we love?”
“Love brings much happiness, much more so than pining for someone brings pain.”
“If I love you more, it is because you deserve more.”
“We think last of those we love most.”
In Love’s Vision, Troy Jollimore puts forth a new way of thinking about love. For the most romantic holiday all year, we’re giving away three copies starting February 12. The entry period ends February 20. As you pay special attention to your loved ones let Troy Jollimore’s vision of love give you food for thought.
Democracy Doesn’t Rest on the Consent of the Governed
By Jason Brennan
There’s a popular idea—an idea you might get from middle school civics classes—that democracy is based on the consent of the governed. Now, democracy is more responsive to what people want than other forms of government, and it gives the governed a large say in what happens. However, it’s a mistake to say that the relationship individual citizens have to their government in a democracy is consensual. Let’s think about why.
Recently, I purchased a Marshall JVM amplifier from a dealer. It was an archetypical consensual transaction. It had each of the following features:
A. I performed an act that signified my consent. In this case, I ordered the amplifier. The outcome—that I lost money but gained a JVM—would not have occurred but for my performing the act that signified consent.
B. I was not forced to perform that act—I had a reasonable way to avoid doing it.
C. Had I explicitly said, “I refuse to buy a Marshall JVM at that price!” the exchange never would have taken place.
D. The dealer was not entitled to take my money unless it sent me the amplifier—it had to hold up its end of the bargain.
Now, imagine that any one of these conditions didn’t happen. Suppose, instead of A, that the dealer just extracted money from my bank account and sent me the amp, even though I’d never placed an order. In that case, that would be strange kind of theft. The dealer would have taken my money without my consent. Suppose, instead of B, the dealer (or someone else) had said, “Buy this amp or I’ll murder you.” In that case, we still wouldn’t call it consensual—it would be a weird form of theft. Suppose, instead of C, I tell the dealer, “I absolutely refuse to buy a JVM!,” but the dealer just sent it to me anyways. In that case, it would have been like it had given me a gift without my consent. If they then sent me a bill, I wouldn’t have any duty to pay it, since I’d told them I didn’t want to buy the amp. Suppose, instead of D, the dealer takes my money but never sends the amp. In that case, it would be fraud. In each of these cases, the transaction would not be consensual.
In general, our relationship as individuals to our government doesn’t look much like a consensual relationship.
If you don’t vote or participate, your government will just impose rules, regulations, restrictions, benefits, and taxes upon you. Except in exceptional circumstances, the same outcome will occur regardless of how you vote or what policies you support. So, for instance, I voted for a particular candidate in 2012. But had I abstained or voted for a different candidate, the same candidate would have won anyways. This is not like a consensual transaction, in which I order a JVM and the dealer sends me the amp I ordered. Rather, this is more a like a nonconsensual transaction in which the dealer decides to make me buy an amp no matter whether I place an order or not, and no matter what I order.
If you actively dissent, the government makes you obey its rules anyways. For instance, you can’t get out of marijuana criminalization laws by saying, “Just to be clear, I don’t consent to those laws, or to your rule”. This is unlike my relationship with my music gear dealer, where “no” means “no”. For government, your “no” means “yes”.
You have no reasonable way of opting out of government rule. Governments control all the habitable land, and most of us don’t have the resources or even the legal permission to move elsewhere. Governments won’t even let you move to Antarctica if you want to. At most, a privileged few of us can choose which government we live under, but the vast majority of us are stuck with whatever government we’re born with. This is unlike buying an amp from Sweetwater.com, which, by the way, I highly recommend as a dealer.
Finally, governments require you to obey their rules, pay taxes, and the like, even when they don’t do their part. The U.S. Supreme Court has repeatedly ruled that the government has no duty to protect individual citizens. Suppose you call the police to alert them that an intruder is in your house, but the police never bother dispatch someone to help you, and as a result the intruder shoots you. The government still requires you to pay taxes for the protection services it chose not to deploy on your behalf.
So, in summary, it looks like in general our relationship to our governments lacks any of the features that signify a consensual transaction.
None of this is to say that governments are unjust or illegitimate, or that we ought to be anarchists. There are other reasons to have governments. Nor is it to say that democracies are not in some way special. Democracies in fact do a much better job than alternative forms of government of responding to their concerns and interests of most of their members. But it’s a stretch to say that democracy rests on the consent of the governed, or, more precisely, it’s a stretch to say that you consent to democratic rule.
Check out Jason Brennan’s recent post on Why Smart Politicians Say Dumb Things.
Jason Brennan is Flanagan Family Associate Professor of Strategy, Economics, Ethics, and Public Policy at the McDonough School of Business at Georgetown University. He is the author of Markets without Limits, with Peter Jaworski (2015), Why Not Capitalism? (2014), Compulsory Voting, with Lisa Hill (2014), Libertarianism (2012), The Ethics of Voting (2011), and A Brief History of Liberty, with David Schmidtz (2010). He is currently writing Against Democracy, under contract with Princeton University Press, and Global Justice as Global Freedom, with Bas von der Vossen.
With the holiday season upon us, we’re busy decorating, planning out menus worthy of a 5-star restaurant, and worrying about gifts. But underneath the material chaos, many may be thinking more consciously of the holidays their families celebrate and their religious roots.
This holiday season, PUP has several books that explore major world religions and what they mean—and have meant throughout history.
First up is the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah, which begins on December 6th of this year and ends on the 14th. The Love of God, published this Fall, takes readers on an exploration of one of the most essential aspects of Judaism—the love of God.
Delving into the origins of the concept and tracing its beginnings to the ancient institution of the covenant, Jon D. Levenson explains the love of God in Judaism as a profoundly personal two-way relationship, expressed in God’s love for the people of Israel. Levenson examines the ways in which this bond has endured through countless persecutions and tribulations. To read further on Levenson’s thoughts on his new book, check out his recent Q&A here.
Not long after Hanukkah comes to an end this year, the celebration of the prophet’s birthday occurs on the 24th of December in the US. While there are mixed ideas of how to celebrate the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday—celebrations can range from parades, decorations, readings, and food donations—others make it a time of quiet reflection and choose to fast or put aside more time to read the Koran.
The late Shahab Ahmed’s book, What is Islam? The Importance of Being Islamic, is a fascinating new look at Islam that challenges many preconceived notions. Ahmed re-imagines a new concept of the historical constitution of Islamic law while placing it in a philosophical, ethical, and political context. An important read for anyone looking to see the religion of Islam in a new and intriguing light.
The birth of Jesus Christ is a story Christians and non-Christians alike are familiar with, but many who celebrate Christmas are unacquainted with other aspects of the Christian faith. George Marsden’s C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity: A Biography takes readers on the journey that C.S. Lewis took from atheism to Anglicanism in his well-known book, Mere Christianity. Marsden delves into Lewis’s passionate defense of the Christian religion and explores how it correlates to Lewis’s Narnia books and other writings, describing why Lewis’s case for Christianity has endured for so long, continuing to cultivate both critics and fervent admirers to this day.
These three books are a wonderful way to take a break this holiday season (and every holiday season for that matter) and reflect on why we celebrate these holidays and what they say about our closely held traditions.
We invite you to explore our Philosophy 2016 catalog:
|Be sure to check out How Propaganda Works, Jason Stanley’s examination of how our political system is influenced and debilitated by the subtle use of propaganda, supported with historical examples.|
|From the New York Times bestselling author of On Bullshit we bring you On Inequality in which Harry G. Frankfurt cogently argues that instead of focusing on reducing inequality, we should be focusing on eliminating poverty. This book will change the conversation on one of the most divisive issues of our time.|
|Don’t miss The Philosopher. Justin E.H. Smith challenges us to rethink our traditional view of what makes a philosopher by introducing us to different types and putting them in historical context.|
|PUP is excited to see that The Shape of the New by Scott L. Montgomery and Daniel Chirot has been included in the New York Times Sunday Book Review Notable Books of 2015.|
For these and other new titles, scroll through our catalog above. If you would life updates on new titles emailed to you, subscribe to our newsletter.
Finally, if you’re attending the American Philosophical Association Eastern Division Annual Meeting from January 6 to January 9 in D.C., visit us at the Princeton booth!
Today, Oct. 21, 2015, celebrates what would have been the 101st birthday of world renowned popular mathematics and science writer, Martin Gardner.
Gardner was a man who wore many hats — he was a skeptic, mathematician, philosopher, writer, magician and influence to millions of people worldwide. He garnered a huge following, whether he was writing literary reviews of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or examining the intricacies of stage magic. Publishing over a hundred works and writing columns for decades in several magazines, Gardner altered the common perceptions of mathematics and became an inspiration to multiple generations in the twentieth century.
Gardner was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, going on to earn a degree in Philosophy from University of Chicago. He then served four year in the U.S. Navy and moved to New York City, where he met his wife, Charlotte Greenwald. He has two sons, Jim and Tom.
While in New York, Gardner worked as a writer for Humpty Dumpty, one of America’s longest-running children’s magazines, producing stories and designing paper folding activities. This led him to Scientific American, where he would remain for decades. Through his Mathematical Games column from 1956-1981, he’s credited with introducing and sustaining the interest in recreational math. Through the words and designs of Gardner, math evolved into an enjoyable and entertaining exercise. Those who were once intimidated by math’s complicated algorithms discovered a newfound appreciation and pleasure in solving puzzles and riddles.
Gardner served as such an inspiration and instructor to aspiring magicians that the Academy of Magical Arts offered him a Lifetime Achievement Award in 2005. Gardner wrote the Encyclopedia of Impromptu Magic and his column “Martin Gardner’s Corner” was published occasionally in MAGIC from 1994-2004.
An avid skeptic, Gardner was one of the founders of the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry, devoted to debunking pseudoscience (the practice of incorrectly claiming a belief or viewpoint as scientific). From 1983-2002, Gardner wrote a monthly column for Skeptical Inquirer , detailing his criticism of fringe science, a science that is speculative, unorthodox and often refuted the by the mainstream scientific community.
Gardner influenced a wide audience on numerous subjects by covering topics that ranged from philosophy to magic; from logic to religion. Yet, being notably shy, Gardner often times declined awards and recognition given to him by academies and fans. That is why in 1993, the first Gathering for Gardner was established. At these events, mathematicians, scientists, magicians, philosophers and more from around the globe discuss and celebrate the topics Gardner’s touched upon in his lifetime’s work. Starting in 1996, Gathering for Gardner became a biannual event. Following his death in 2011, Gardner’s legacy has also been praised through Celebration of Mind events that take place every year on his birthday. Celebration of Mind encourages anyone with a curious mind and spirit to take part in Gardner’s birthday celebration and learn about just how magical Martin Gardner really was.
Read more about the fascinating life of Martin Gardner in his autobiography, Undiluted Hocus-Pocus: The Autobiography of Martin Gardner. Or, discover the secrets of magic, with a foreword written by Gardner, in Magical Mathematics:The Mathematical Ideas That Animate Great Magic Tricks co-authored by Persi Diaconis, Stanford professor of mathematics and former professional magician, and Ron Graham, University of California, San Diego professor of mathematics and former professional juggler.