icarus fallen

18 III 2008

An interesting observation that Louis Hartz in his Liberal Tradition in America that shares with Isaiah Berlin’s “Two Concepts of Liberty” is liberalism’s capacity for absolutism. Hartz notes that the American form of liberal absolutism lies with the mentality of “self-evident truth”, a fundamental basis of the 1776 revolution. Echoing Tocqueville, Hartz points out that American liberalism has never undergone a revolution in the European sense; it does not need to free itself from a preexisting order, manifested economically in feudal structure and politically in authoritarian monarchism (35). Hence, while the Europeans created the enlightenment project out of dialectical necessity against intolerance of its time and have their liberalism always a notion whose every advance is made through antithesis and synthesis from a conservative other, Americans need not face such ghost: its adaptation of enlightenment ideal in the form of the Lokean natural law is wholesale and natural, while the advance of liberalism faces no real conservative forces for its own self-reflection (58). Because America lacks a Hume-like figure to attack on natural law, it becomes indeed “self-evident”, the absolutist language in describing a set of beliefs forced onto an entire people. Hence, as Hartz states the mood of America’s absolutism is “the sober faith that its norms are self-evident”—and, with neither a critical tradition in dialectics and an economic-political need to do so, “the American absolutism, flowing from an honest experience with universality, lacked even the passion that doubt might give… it was so sure of itself that it hardly needed to become articulate, so secure that it could actually support a pragmatism which seemed on the surface to belie it” (58-59). Thus, a set of belief characterized as liberalism, ironically, is itself capable of oppression if it fails to examine the very root of its origins, and impose its ideology as an unconditionally accepted norm for an entire people—as Hartz puts it, “America’s experience of being born equal has put it in a strange relationship to the rest of the world” (66).

The absolutist tendency evident in Hartz’s characterization of American liberal tradition resembles Berlin’s criticism against the notion of positive freedom. Berlin distinguishes positive freedom from negative freedom, “a certain minimum area of personal freedom which must on no account be violated”, to categorize it as something that “derives from the wish on the part of the individual to be his own master” (19, 22). This desire, however, is itself capable of oppression because the metaphor of self-mastery requires the distinction between lower and “real” self (23). Such distinction urges one to realize his own “real” self, and then from there, assign himself the role of a crusader who attempts to “free” others (24). By attributing reality to oneself through positive freedom, one gains a moral advantage even in coercion, for one claims that he knows better than others what others need, and that “they would not resist [him if they were rational and as wise as [he and understood their interests as [he does]” (24). The very liberal task of liberation, then, is itself capable of the worst kind of oppression. Hartz’s description of absolutist element in American liberalism reflects exactly this error of positive freedom: the enlightenment minded liberals, epitomized by well-versed Lokean Jefferson, acts and thinks for the entire American colonies that the freedoms they uphold are “self-evident” by nature. In this process, Locke’s particular endorsement of the natural law becomes a natural ideology beyond criticism; and, as the worst form of absolutism, it dominates man’s thought and welcomes no critique of its fundamental premises.

Although Hartz’s explanation of absolutist tendency in American liberalism describes the condition of American thought in its inception, it can be used to further analyze many distinctive American tendencies to reveal a distinctly American character. The red scare of Senator McCarthy, for example, clearly demonstrates this point: the notion of freedom and democracy should seem so “self-evident” that its opposite should be shunned and condemned as “un-American” betrayal. But perhaps we can find the traces of this absolutism-liberalism dialectics in the most profound American concerns in the period: the notion of autonomy and concerns of humanistic psychology—conformism is clearly a problem against the liberal tradition so that, “self-evidently”, everyone should have a normative autonomy in his mindset, or find a most suitable way to be himself. We must not forget, then, the very root of Berlin’s positive freedom is no different: the desire to be his own master. In each of these tendencies, the absolutist tendency in liberalism is latent, ready to manifest itself unless we always examine liberalism and its origins from a critical, dialectical perspective.

12 III 2008

A central notion present in Paul Tillich’s Courage to Be that Valerie Saiving Goldstein’s article “Human Situation: A Feminine View” attempts to dispute is the centrality of anxiety in man’s psyche. Tillich’s “courage to be”, in both its individual (courage to be oneself) and collective (courage to be a part) forms, cannot escape its fate as an attribute against anxiety. He states, courage to be is “a part which it gives to masses of people who lived under an increasing threat of nonbeing and a growing feeling of anxiety” (98). Tillich further categorizes anxiety into three forms: anxiety towards death, anxiety towards doubt and meaninglessness, and anxiety of guilt and condemnation. The courage to be takes these three main forms of anxiety unto itself when it necessarily transcends them. Goldstein criticizes this very point and attributes the emphasis of anxiety a sexist prejudice: while it is a common experience among development of males, it is not a central concern of females. The man is to prove himself, while the woman does not—Goldstein states, “the man’s sense of his own masculinity, then, is throughout characterized by uncertainty, challenge, and the feeling that he must again and again prove himself a man… it also calls for a kind of objective achievement and a greater degree of self-differention and self-development that are required of the woman as woman” (105). The woman, on the other hand, has to face something else, the “I-thou” relationship between herself as the mother and her child; a woman faces his own particular type of sin that masculine notion present in Niebuhr’s theology and also in Tillich’s as “courage to be” cannot possibly overcome. Society’s change from masculine to feminine orientation further calls for reexamination (111). Therefore, Goldstein calls for a reevaluation of theology beyond one based on anxiety. I think, however, that perhaps the criticism against philosophy or theology based on overcoming of anxiety requires further critical examination beyond a feminist one. It appears that anxiety, though always present in much of humanity (for example, we cannot deny, especially after Erikson’s study, that Martin Luther was anxious), only became a central part of societal inquiry with the particular historical context of the twenty’s century. The introduction of the unconscious, experience o two world wars, constant threat for new war (the cold war), and among others, certainly added to notions of anxiety. The overemphasis on anxiety seems to be based on a particular perspective on human nature, one that is based on a society too conscious of guilt and fear. These two notions seem to be of Judeo-Christian origin (in contrast to the Greco-Roman, or Japanese society, which is one of shame rather than guilt). In an industrialized, at one point Judeo-Christian, society where division of labor has effectively reduced man to the twofold tendency of either nothing but himself or nothing but a part of the collective effectively creates this particular concern of anxiety. One must question, then, about the effectiveness or even the relevance of the courage to be beyond this particular historical context.

In addition to this, Tillich further suggests that the courage to be is a part of the productive progress and offers his own vision of progressive historiography (109). He names two types of “progress”—

In every action in which something is produced beyond what was already given, a progress is made (pro-gress means going forward). In this sense action and the belief in progress are inseparable. The other meaning of progress is a universal, metaphysical law of progressive evolution, in which accumulation produces higher and higher forms and values (109).

One is to realize that the metaphysical knowledge of progress cannot be possible, but nonetheless affirm the first, more physical type of progress because “past gains” are evident (109). Hence, the courage to be incarnates the courage of participation in this physical progress. To this point I again raise skepticism: it seems a product of a particular ideology (Judeo-Christian eschatology) to force a belief in some form of progressive historiography, and a logical fallacy to mistake a subjective understanding of particular expressions of the past gains as determinates for future gains. The courage to “participate” seems to me more one to resign oneself to the dominant collective historiography of certain ideologies rather than one “to be”. Tillich’s specific distinction between two forms of progress, eschewing one (because progressive evolutionary historiography at the time points to communism) and valuing the other seems rather an arbitrary choice, anxious itself, as he realize that certain notions of progressivism is already an anachronism of his time, but cannot let go and must affirm progressivism in another form.

If I continue with this any further, I am afraid that I will be characterized as one of Tillich’s condemned modern cynics , and my skeptical opinions will become less credible than valid.

1 XI 2007

We were. We are. Or, are we?
I am.
Where to start? Where to end?
I am.

The subject, regardless of his entanglement of social relations, regardless of his past, his self-styled future, and other forms of things of becoming, is ultimately and inevitably alone. He faces a group, a situation, a problem–alone–to acknowledge his oneness with time. By recognizing his solitude, the subject wills something unto himself, and attempts to make sense out of his condition: that is which I call his being. Being, maturing, evolving, morphing through time, faces its inevitable negation in the end–that is death, a subject of void and unthinkable multitude of expanded nothingness. Thus he makes a choice, which results in an act–and life is hence born to him.

The fallen Icarus is an Icarus whom, upon realizing his condition of falling as a result of his own folly, accepts his fate. He is to drown, to perish, to become void. He recognizes that no one else is responsible for his death except for he himself; and he cannot do anything to alter his fate. Nay, Daedalus, he who bequeath power through human invention, the father figure, is distant–and the gods are indifferent to the fate of a mere mortal. He fears his end. He is bewildered to the condition of his destiny: but through reason he realizes that the choice was his, and it was made with no alternative option at hand. It was he, believing in his infallibility, who flew too high so the wax connecting his wings–creation of human genius–and his natural limb melted. He resigns to his fate; but resignation is not enough. He questions its rationale.

We were. We are. Or, are we?
I am.
Where to start? Where to end?
I am.

With this will, the fallen Icarus faces inevitable death, allowing himself to become a part of time, and his being emerges into becoming, and even that strange notion of nothingness is accepted as an understandable part of existence.

Yes, the fallen Icarus speaks to himself in the very moment when ocean swallows his existence, I am.

7 III 2008

In his History and Class Consciousness, Georg Lukacs attempts to reemphasize Marxism’s Hegelian origin and redeem dialectics from attacks of revisionism. Opposing Kantian metaphysics, which makes an arbitrary difference between thing and thing-in-itself, the dialectic is supposed to be a relative dynamic between opposite ideas; in addition, it is supposed to be praxis, or unified thoughts and action. Consciousness is a dialectical notion: it is supposed to be “practical critical activity” with the task of “changing the world” (78). Class consciousness, in addition, “approaches society from another world and leads from the false path it has followed back to the right one” (78). In order to bring historical movement, the proletariat must organize itself and realize its own class consciousness.

This reading of class consciousness, while recognizing its aim for praxis, nonetheless place it primarily in the realm of thought. Even though upon realization of class consciousness action towards revolution must be on the way, the class consciousness itself does not quite contain action yet. This reading suggests that the realization of class consciousness is the exact moment that the thought is leading towards action; and, by virtue of its transition, class consciousness contains both thoughts and action. That which comes before class consciousness is either false consciousness or political unconsciousness; that which comes after consciousness–well, I think orthodox Marxism calls it revolution.

However, an opposing interpretation challenges this reading. It states that realization of class consciousness is revolution already because the proletariat class has already recognized its condition, and changes are already made in thoughts. To this point I object: where forth is praxis, that which unites thought and action? Defenders of this reading replies that because class consciousness is already defined as “thought and action”, the realization of such fulfills the dialectics of praxis. But isn’t this logic circular? Class consciousness is both thought and action, hence realizing it fulfills both thought and action. This interpretation seems to reduce class consciousness into a mere game of semantics, making it no more than a play of definitions. The condition of the proletariat does not change; perhaps it can imagine its socioeconomic condition changed–but usually we call that “false consciousness”.

If we are to talk about Marxism, I think it would be for the best that we stay within its historical materialist framework. And perhaps our critique of it should come from historical perspective as well. For example: why the proletariat? Reliance on this particular class by today’s standard seems absurd. Even in Marx’s, or perhaps later, in Lukacs’ time, such a class would be unable–too uneducated to understand the meaning of alienation, of fetishism, and of class consciousness–to carry out anything on its own. It is merely a reified object to the Marxist intellectuals and politicians, whom, symbolizing thought, required an outlet for action. What of subject-object relations and praxis? Well, I believe that in Hellenic Athens a group of professionals named sophists often taught their disciples ways of deceiving and taking advantage of others through the art of speech.

6 III 2008

When the term “revisionism” first appeared in Eduard Bernstein’s work Evolutionary Socialism, it lacked its latter stigma as any form of deviance to an arbitrarily established “orthodoxy” of Marxism. Had Bernstein lived, he would have rejected with disgust Mao’s calling of Khrushchev “revisionist” and other abuses of his term.

Is Bernstein’s revisionism truly “revisionist” by its later attribution? The answer is clear: Bernstein would disagree with Mao by stating that Khrushchev’s thaw and destalinization was not enough. Only a genuine move away from Communist ultimate goal and violent means of achieving for parliamentary socialism would suffice the burden of the term “revisionist”. Revisionism, in its philosophical grounds, further represents the move away from Hegelian dialectics for Kantianism. Bernstein undermines the theory of value that Marxist creates in Das Kapital. As an associate of Marx and a close friend (and one of the two literary trustee) of Engels, then, Bernstein had truly disowned the original foundation of Marxism.

The historical reception of Bernstein, however, is dim; he was criticized immediately by orthodox Marxists of his time–most famously by Sparticist Rosa Luxemburg, who called him the first of Marxist “opportunists”. His “revisionism” was often mentioned as a label against political enemies while his positive contribution to Marxism to call for self-examination: “the further development and elaboration of the Marxist doctrine must begin with criticism of it” (Bernstein, Evolutionary Socialism, 25). His reception outside of Marxism fared no better. Even though European democratic socialist parties in practice followed many of Bernstein’s points, they find Bernstein perhaps too tainted by his associations with Marx and Engels for orthodoxy. Had Bernstein been less practical and more capable of producing a sound theoretical work of his own, perhaps he would have found better receptions.

Of course, one must not forget that in the post-Marxist world, the specter of Marx (and his followers, critiques, friends and enemies) lives. Derrida’s hauntology found its way even into Marx’s prodigal son, Eduard Bernstein. When Bernstein’s spirit was invoked by Xie Tao in his famed article last February in support of Chinese adoption of Democratic Socialism, would it know that through such invocation Luxemburg’s criticism of Bernsteinian “opportunism” was again conjured into existence as well? Perhaps, instead of criticizing Xie Tao’s citation of Bernstein as an anachronism, we can see this act in the light of huantology and accepted our fate that the haunt is long from over.