Posner v. Scalia; Or, What Is It to Be Conservative?

In the current issue of The New Republic, Richard Posner, prolific writer and judge on the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals, reviews Reading Law: The Interpretation of Legal Texts, by Antonin Scalia and Bryan A. Garner. Posner and Scalia have a long-running battle, as might be expected from the fact that the former believes judges should decide cases based, at least in part, on economic reasoning while the latter clings to a textual originalism that sees the economic style of interpretation to be fundamentally unsound because it imports extra-textual factors into the reading of law and constitution. Posner is a sharp reasoner -- considerably sharper in my view than Scalia, who favors the clever bon mot and the witty, sarcastic one-liner. This is not the place to venture into a full-scale critique of Scalia's originalism, however. Suffice it to say that Scalia's interpretive methodology does not hold up well to criticism -- whether from the left or the right -- and Scalia's own practice of it seems suffused with the justice's political leanings. Posner finds Scalia's jurisprudence to be "incoherent," and makes a strong case for the claim. Indeed, Posner is overall a much more rigorous thinker than Scalia, though in the end I find him no more congenial because I do not agree that the purpose of law can be reduced to an economic one.

What is most interesting in this conflict is that both judges would generally be considered "conservative." One lesson from this observation is that conservative thought does not necessarily lead to "originalism." Scalia and Garner are right to argue that interpretive approaches (at least this one) have no inherent political leaning. One can imagine an originalist who does a better job than Scalia typically does determining the original meanings of words and phrases and passages and texts -- one who finds, contra Scalia, that those original meanings are considerably more "liberal" than does Scalia. Still, as usually practiced, originalism serves as a cover for politically conservative results, and as Posner is at pains to show, many of Justice Scalia's judicial opinions seem rooted far more in political conservatism than in originalism; certain sorts of results are much more likely to emerge from Scalia's search for original meanings than are others.

Another lesson follows from the first. "Conservatism" is a copious term, encompassing many different points of view and a subject of considerable controversy in itself. Traditionally, a conservative was someone who sought to "conserve," to keep things the way they are and have long been. That sort of conservative is wary of human interference with custom and tradition, believing that no person, no set of policymakers, can know enough to redesign what history has handed down to us without risking great harm, disorder, and destruction. That sort of conservative followed Edmund Burke, who attacked the French Revolution for casting off centuries of tradition in favor of newfangled ideas propounded by professors and writers -- and replacing a longstanding political regime with something new, untried, and, in the end, brutal and tyrannical. Michael Oakeshott best captured this sort of conservatism in his "On Being Conservative": "To be conservative, then, is to prefer the familiar to the unknown, to prefer the tried to the untried, fact to mystery, the actual to the possible, the limited to the unbounded, the near to the distant, the sufficient to the superabundant, the convenient to the perfect, present laughter to utopian bliss." Oakeshott was particularly concerned about the increasing role of what he called "Rationalism" in politics. The Rationalist is someone who thinks "the conduct of affairs . . . is a matter of solving problems, and in this no man can hope to be successful whose reason has become inflexible by surrender to habit or is clouded by the fumes of tradition." The Rationalist is a social engineer with no patience for "second best" solutions. The Rationalist thinks now is the time to achieve the ideal; his solutions are perfect and must be applied uniformly, across the board, with no local variation, for they are founded on the application of rigorous scientific reason to the problems a society faces. The true conservative, on the other hand, resists rationalism and favors the slow, tedious working out of solutions over time to the helter skelter vigor of rationalist interventionism. Tocqueville had this sort of conservatism in mind when he said that lawyers in America are the true aristocrats, the true conservatives.

Who represents such a conservatism today? Certainly not Posner, who espouses an activist judiciary bent on assuring that law serves to produce economic welfare by permitting the market to do its work. Posner is a proponent of the free market, a follower of Milton Friedman and a contributor to the so-called "Chicago School" of economics. In Posner's view, documents like laws and constitutions are ever subject to reinterpretation under the circumstances by wise judges equipped with the best knowledge and methodology economic science has to offer. Posner himself admits that the conservative label may not fit him very well these days, telling Nina Totenberg that he has "become less conservative since the Republican Party started becoming goofy."

But it is just as hard to make the case that Scalia is a conservative in any traditional sense. His vision of the judicial role involves a readiness to overturn statute and precedent in an activist effort to return the nation to an earlier, purer time -- an "original" time when words had their original meaning, a day before all those changes in law and society that so inconveniently occurred over the past 200 years or so. Scalia is conservative only in the sense that the political views he barely veils are considerably more consistent with those of the Republican Party than with those of the Democrats. But as a judge, Scalia does not seek to conserve anything, and he finds nothing congenial in what the historical process -- the traditions and customs that have evolved in the United States -- has given us; far from wanting to conserve these traditions and customs, he wants to return to a time before they developed. This is not conservatism in any meaningful sense, though its proper name is unclear.

In fact, both Posner and Scalia are rationalists: Posner with his eye on the ways legal decisions can shape a better future and Scalia with his eye on a day in the past before society and language and meanings and values had not changed from their "original" state. Both are impatient with letting society, tradition, custom, and law develop over time: Posner because he considers such forces as barriers to sound reasoning, Scalia because they have just turned out all the wrong ways. Both, in short, favor action over passivity in the face of the way things are now. They just want to go in different directions.

The Posner-Scalia debate, therefore, confronts us with a problem (beyond the question of who we find most persuasive): are today's so-called conservatives really "conservative," or are they Oakeshottian rationalists who resemble their supposed "liberal" opponents in their desire to interfere with the way things are? In fact, the debate makes us wonder what a conservative really is. Is it conservative to call for a freer market and a legal system that aims to foster that freedom and encourage the pursuit of economic betterment? Is it conservative to reject what our society and its law has become in favor of older forms of social order and some supposedly ascertainable "original" meaning in legal words? Or is it conservative to cling stubbornly to what we have and where we are, only accepting gradual change and solutions that, while not ideal, are "best in the circumstances"?

Posner's critique of Scalia is worth reading not only because it calls into question a jurisprudential view that gets more respect that it deserves, but also because it raises these questions about what it means to be a conservative. For if a republic, as Machiavelli, Harrington, and Jefferson told us, must periodically return to its first principles in order to guard it against the degeneration all political societies inevitably face, a proper sense of what conservation of those principles requires must go along with a consideration of what those principles actually are.

Random Notes, Part I: Ayn Rand and Reason

I have argued several times that good citizenship of a constitutional democracy like our own requires thoughtful engagement with ideas on a wide range of issues and from a wide range of perspectives. A significant criticism frequently leveled at contemporary America is that most people have isolated themselves into enclaves where everyone lives and thinks the same way. As Cass Sunstein, Bill Bishop, Robert Putnam, and a host of others have argued, Americans increasingly choose to expose themselves to a narrower and narrower spectrum of opinion and many Americans simply avoid engaging in the realm of political and social ideas. Liberals say this about conservatives; conservatives say this about liberals. To some extent they are both right -- and it speaks to the generally sad state of citizenship in the United States. It may be, as I have hinted before, cause for despair and a sign that our long-lasting republic has begun to degenerate as, the tradition tells us, all republics eventually do.

But those who do open themselves to thoughtful analyses of ideas and events -- legal, political, social, economic, religious -- frequently come across interesting items that deserve a wider audience than they are likely to receive in the compacted world of contemporary discussion. In the next few posts I share some of the things I've read this week that I found provocative.

In my most recent post on "Corruption and Equality" I made a veiled reference to Ayn Rand, who has always commanded a devoted following and who has recently been on the lips of many a conservative policymaker and politician. Rand is hot, not just with Ron Paul and his followers, but with many on the right, including Republican vice-presidential nominee Paul Ryan. My reference suggested that American citizens might be better served by finding their intellectual inspiration in the writings of those who founded our constitutional system (and those who inspired them) rather than in the novels of a Russian emigre. Snarky, perhaps, but worth considering. This week I came across a powerful critique of Rand by Canadian philosopher, Nicholas McGinnis. If you are philosophically minded and are interested in wrestling with complicated ideas, McGinnis's analysis of Randian philosophy and economics is quite persuasive. Rand's followers rarely examine the philosophical assumptions upon which her economic conclusions are based. They like the conclusions, and simply assume the argument is strong; or they toss out a few of Rand's seemingly self-evident truths and, skipping blithely past the deductions that might lead from the truths to the economics, assume they've said all they need to say. But the essence of McGinnis's argument is that Rand writes as if she building upon a well-worked out philosophical system, when in reality she is not. For instance, the famous Randian claim that "existence exists," always presented as if it were an indubitable truth, has no particular cash value when an attempt is made to ground economic policy on it. In fact, some would be inclined, I imagine, to say the phrase is silly, meaningless, high-sounding babble -- and they might well be right.

What is most interesting about McGinnis's critique is that it does not rest merely on critics such as Gore Vidal, who said in 1961 that Rand

has great attraction for simple people who are puzzled by organized society, who object to paying taxes, who dislike the "welfare" state, who feel guilt at the thought of the suffering of others but who would like to harden their hearts . . . Ayn Rand's "philosophy" is nearly perfect in its immorality, which makes the size of her audience all the more ominous and symptomatic.

Strong words, but easily tossed aside as the ideological claims of a dyed-in-the-wool liberal. McGinnis, however, relies more on a philosophical analysis of Rand's reasoning and, most interestingly, on the developed views of numerous conservative and libertarian writers -- from philosophers to journalists to politicians to economists, from Robert Nozick to William F. Buckley to Whitaker Chambers to Alan Greenspan. McGinnis, in other words, does not remain in some sort of liberal bubble, but ventures out into territory he may not find congenial or comforting. But what he finds there is that Rand has far more devotees than people who are convinced by her arguments. He concludes that Rand's thought doesn't stand up to analysis, whether from the left or the right or from a standpoint of neutral reason (if there is such a thing -- but that is a topic for another occasion).

Take, for instance, the fairly recent rejection of the foundation of Randian economic policy -- the claim that self-interest is a virtue and therefore that the world will be a better place if we simply take the government reins off of selfish behavior -- by a former devotee, Alan Greenspan. Testifying in 2008 before a senate committee investigating the financial crisis, Greenspan admitted:

I made a mistake in presuming that the self-interests of organizations, specifically banks and others, were such that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders and their equity in the firms . . .  Those of us who have looked to the self-interest of lending institutions to protect shareholders' equity, myself included, are in a state of shocked disbelief.

Pressed by committee chair Henry Waxman for more, Greenspan conceded there was a serious flaw in this most fundamental of Randian arguments: it seems that Rand's views do not, after all, provide a sound basis upon which to build economic policy.

In fact, the flaws in Rand's thought are legion, as McGinnis shows with the help of his conservative sources. Philosopher Robert Nozick, author of the widely read and praised Anarchy, State, and Utopia (which makes a strong, if ultimately unconvincing, philosophical case for libertarianism), typifies the response of thinkers who have taken Rand's arguments seriously. Nozick criticizes Rand for lacking clarity, for simply asserting (without support) a set of debatable premises, for leaping to conclusions without proper argument, and for (in McGinnis's words) "baldly stating controversial theses as if they were self-evident facts." Nozick states that, as much as he would like to set out Rand's argument in deductive form and then examine the premises, "it is not clear (to me) exactly what that argument is." This from an acknowledged master of libertarian and Austrian economic logic.

Writing in 1957 in the National Review, whose editor William F. Buckley had rejected the banal and "dessicated philosophy" of Rand as a violation of the conservative tradition, Whitaker Chambers concluded:

Out of a lifetime of reading, I can recall no other book in which a tone of overriding arrogance was so implacably sustained. Its shrillness is without reprieve. Its dogmatism is without appeal. In addition, the mind which finds this tone natural to it shares other characteristics of its type. (1) It consistently mistakes raw force for strength, and the rawer the force, the more reverent the posture of the mind before it. (2) It supposes itself to be the bringer of a final revelation. Therefore, resistance to the Message cannot be tolerated because disagreement can never be merely honest, prudent, or just humanly fallible. 

Chambers worried that blind devotion to the Randian cult was not only anti-conservative, it was dangerous. At the end of the road that starts with treating Rand as some sort of prophetess with the key to political and economic truth, lies Big Brother -- as it does with the form of materialism Rand most hated: Russian Marxism.

I can understand the initial appeal of Rand's novels, with their heroic individualists taking on the world. I have friends who think these novels are classics, though no one I know would go so far as Rand's erstwhile lover and follower, Nathaniel Branden, who once proclaimed

Ayn Rand is the greatest human being who has ever lived. Atlas Shrugged is the greatest human achievement in the history of the world. Ayn Rand, by virtue of her philosophical genius, is the supreme arbiter of any issue pertaining to what is rational, moral or appropriate to man's life on earth.

Wow. Really? But the oft-heard repetition of Rand's name as if it were a guarantor that there is sound philosophical reason behind policies to unleash selfishness partakes of the same sort of mindlessness. One does not need to be a liberal to bemoan the fact that, increasingly in some circles, selfishness is being touted as if it were the path to human welfare. Thinking conservatives, it seems, find this just as groundless. And both have reason to think it dangerous -- if for no other reason that that the Randian argument is, as McGinnis concludes, simply not there.

Equality and the Republican Tradition

After a short hiatus, I want to return to the theme of corruption. I have been taking my cues from Aristotle, exploring the various ways in which government -- particularly republican government-- can degenerate. The topic of corruption was one that preoccupied the founders of the American constitutional democracy. As Gordon Wood and Lance Banning have shown, American writers in the late 18th century built upon so-called "Country" opposition in England -- a tradition that extended back to the time of the English Civil War and found its paradigmatic expression in the work of James Harrington. In fact, the tradition goes back to Aristotle, via Machiavelli, and extends through Algernon Sidney and Lord Bolingbroke into the mid-18th century. As Banning demonstrates, the preoccupation of American politicians and political writers with the danger of corruption in a republic lay at the basis of the emergence of the "Jeffersonian persuasion": the oppositional ideology that emerged in the 1790s to oppose many of the policies of the Federalists in the executive branch and their congressional allies. The so-called "Republicans" led by Jefferson and Madison (the latter of whom somewhat unexpectedly switching away from his original federalist leanings), saw signs of corruption in federalist policies (such as the creation of the first Bank of the United States) that hinted at an increase in inequality through the rise and empowerment of a commercial elite closely tied with the federal government, as well as an increase in the power of the national government at the expense of the states, of the agrarian element in society, and of regions of the country not involved extensively in manufacturing and banking.

A concern about inequality is a major theme of civic republican thought. Aristotle argued that a healthy polity is one based on equality. Machiavelli, Harrington, Montesquieu, Rousseau -- all insisted that a rough equality among citizens was necessary to avoid the corruptive force of wealth. Each of them argued that laws must seek to prevent large inequalities and must seek to foster frugality and a devotion to the public interest rather than one's private interests. None of these thinkers called for complete equality; rather, they only noted that -- because a devotion to riches is a sign of corruption and because inequality inevitably leads to class warfare and the breakdown of the constitution -- the development of a vast gap between rich and poor must be prevented. Developments in the 19th century virtually put an end to this line of thinking in American political writing and in American government policymaking. As early as the 1830s, Tocqueville was noticing a tension between the urge for greater equality and the protection of economic liberty. Voices calling for equality, and for government policy to place limits on the growth of inequality, appear now and again in American history, but they have generally been drowned out by the sort of pro-capitalist boosterism that defines corporate success as national success, wealth as a sign of greatness, education as critical for economic growth (rather than, say, for active citizenship), and major corporate entities as so central to public welfare that they can be "too big to fail."

Of course, as J. Peter Euben has pointed out, in the Aristotelian framework the meaning of equality varies with the particular circumstances of the regime (oligarchic equality is different from democratic equality). What matters for Aristotle is that equals be treated equally and unequals unequally. But Aristotle was most concerned -- especially in his consideration of the best political regime -- with the quality of a person's contributions to the common good. Mere riches should never be enough to place one above others in terms of the honor and rewards handed out by society; rather, public reward and approval should be based on what one does for the community as a whole. Lining one's own pockets, or even the pockets of one's friends and the other members of one's social class, does not qualify as a significant contribution to the common good. In fact, given that, for Aristotle, the use of power for the good of the rulers rather than the good of all characterizes all perverted regimes, lining one's own pockets inevitably cuts against the common good: a nation in which many seek their own benefit (at the cost of the public interest) is a corrupt regime,  no matter how wealthy,  how powerful, or how proud its citizens may be of it. This is especially true when the behaviors required to obtain riches (always at the expense of others) are encouraged (or not discouraged) by the social order -- by its religions, its educational system, its popular culture. No republic can last long when the institutions that should encourage a commitment to the welfare of all instead praise those actions that work to benefit private individuals and to raise them above their fellows in economic, political, and cultural power. When the social order conspires to reward selfishness (however masked by protestations of concern for the public welfare) rather than commitment to the good of all, the regime is an oligarchy, not a republic. Republics reward those actions and ideals of character that foster the common good; oligarchies (i.e., perverted regimes) pass out rewards to the rich, regardless of any contribution to the common good. Oligarchies discriminate against those whose contributions to the common good warrant greater consideration and reward, while ever greater wealth flows into the coffers of the rich.

It is worth reiterating that no writer in the republican tradition called for complete equality. All of them recognized a value in commerce and the resulting inequalities; they differed only on whether those involved in commerce should have a political role to play in the republic. But all of these writers worried that the minimal inequality they were willing to accept could easily grow into considerable differences among citizens, as the few accumulated inordinate wealth and translated it into political power. Not only does such accumulation serve no particular common purpose, but it also tends to deprive the people whose habits and virtues most characterize good republican citizenship -- the middle class, according to republican theory (from Aristotle on) -- of their fair share of social rewards. Worse yet, it can lead to polarization within the society, ultimately leading to the demise of republican government and its replacement with an oligarchy or a tyranny.

To a disturbing extent, we have lost the spirit of the republican concern for equality -- which is to say that we have become corrupt. That loss confronts us with the need to think seriously about whether or not we agree with those who founded our constitutional democracy. They warned of the dangers of large inequalities of wealth; they contended that no regime could countenance such large inequalities and still remain a republic. They insisted that a social order pervaded by a glorification of economic accumulation, a society in which the rich are praised, fawned upon, and handed political power, was a land in which the people had lost their liberty, for they had given it into the hands of oligarchs. Were they right? If so, what must be do to re-found our republic on its original principles? If they were wrong, where is the political theory that explains why oligarchy is the best form of government? (Does it lie, for instance, in the dense books of Austrian economists or the nearly unreadable novels of Russian emigres?) And, if we truly think oligarchy is the best system of government, we must face the fact that we no longer believe in the same principles that motivated the founders of our nation. That is a path left open to us by republican theory, for the people can always re-found itself, reconstruct its regime, revise or create anew its constitution. But it is a path that diverges greatly from the ideas that inspired the founding of this nation.

Corruption and Commerce

As I noted in my last post (building on work by J. Peter Euben), corruption was a key notion in the classical republican tradition, one that influenced the thinking of the American founders in important ways. In the eyes of this tradition, corruption entailed not so much individual acts of cheating the system as the degradation of the system itself; it was a term used to characterize not particular behaviors but overall, deep-seated features of the polity. Corruption, in the eyes of Aristotle and of the republican tradition, is a disease of the body politic. The features of corruption emerge from a look at what constitutes a healthy polity. If health means that political life takes on a moral purpose as the collective activity of a people engaged in a common enterprise or project, corruption involves the injection of selfish interests into the political and the degeneration of politics into a competition to see whose private interests will be best protected by the force of the state. As I suggested, there is much in contemporary American politics that fits this picture of disease, much that falls far short of the picture of health.

Aristotle explores other aspects of corruption as well. Consistent with classical Greek sensitivities, Aristotle did not hold commerce in high regard. He believed that in a healthy constitution all commercial transactions would be rigorously subject to the moral purposes of community (both household and polis). That means that economic activity should be directed toward the ends of communal life. Economic transactions aimed at mere profit are signs of a community in which self-interest prevails over public interest. A corrupt society, then, is one in which gain is valued over friendship and fellow-feeling, where private interests are set above the common good. When materialism drives the people, both individually and collectively, leading them to focus solely on their own personal gains and losses whenever they make public decisions, corruption has set in and civic virtue has been driven out.

Good citizens think, speak, deliberate, decide, and act with an eye to the common good. The focus of the good Aristotelian (or republican) citizen rests on the betterment of the community, on the general welfare as opposed to their merely personal benefit. If I choose a specific policy on the basis of its effects on my own bank account, I am to that extent failing in virtue; I am to that extent a poor citizen. If I vote for a particular candidate because he or she espouses policies that would serve my own personal ends (such as being able to pay lower taxes so I can gratify more material desires), I am to that extent lacking in civic virtue; I am to that extent acting in a corrupt manner. If I refuse to participate in political affairs because I think they are silly or not worth the time away from my own business or leisure, I am acting selfishly, placing my private interests ahead of those of the community. A community that contains many of these sorts of citizens -- citizens who generally place self-interest ahead of public interest -- is rife with corruption. A political order in which officials or candidates for office cater to the selfish interests of their constituents through base appeals rather than raising them above their private benefit to a concern for the public good is a diseased, even degenerate, political order.

It is important to be clear about what exactly this commitment to the common good entails. Most of those working in what has come to be called the republican tradition (I speak here of a tradition of political thought, not a political party) -- including in addition to Aristotle, Machiavelli, Harrington, Montesquieu, and Rousseau -- have looked for ways to imbue citizens with a devotion to the common good while recognizing that human societies (like human beings) degenerate and decay over time. In short, these writers treated the citizen obsessed with the common good as a standard against which to judge actually existing societies, and concluded that real political worlds could never live up to the standard. Some who have not read these writers deeply miss this point: the notion that real people can never be withdrawn so effectively from their personal interests and their personal ties that they become focused in all things on the public interest. 

One thing for which the American founders are routinely praised is their realism. They understood that most people most of the time cannot be counted upon to rise above their personal interests. Republican idealism found its way into the writings of the so-called anti-federalists, who opposed the Constitution because it created a big, distant government, making corruption inevitable (this was a lesson they had drawn from republican political theory as well as from history). The federalists responded by noting that most people are preoccupied with their own personal affairs and cannot be expected to set those concerns aside routinely to look for and act upon the common good. James Madison, writing in the Federalist Papers was particularly clear about this, repeatedly proposing a setting of interest against interest and noting that not even elite public leaders can be expected to be angels. Madison insisted on "auxiliary precautions" to help ensure that the common good would sometimes be pursued by government, precautions in the form of an expanded sphere (a strong national government as opposed to a weak confederacy or a "dismemberment" of the nation into separate states) and structural devices (branches of government with limited powers, two houses in Congress, a system of federalism pitting states against the national government, and so forth). In short, in Madison's view, the goal of institutional design is to approximate a political world in which the common good is sought by all, especially by government; but this approximation requires multiple structures, limits, and processes that had the effect of filtering out self-interest so that the common interest remained.

Once we take into consideration the realistic understanding that few (if any) citizens are likely to be so caught up with the common good that they generally subordinate their personal to the public interest, the meaning of corruption (at least in this regard) shifts. On a Madisonian view, individuals cannot be considered corrupt simply because they do not obsess about the common good. Rather, corruption becomes a systemic matter, a characteristic of a political order that fails to work in such a way as to foster the public interest by setting ambition against ambition, self-interest against self-interest -- a political order that fails to generate leaders capable of setting aside their own interests and the interests of their friends in order to seek the good of all. Corruption is a disease of the commonwealth rather than a sin committed by individuals. 

Here we can return to Aristotle's distaste for commerce. Madison and the other federalists (following David Hume in this) did not share this distaste, for they saw commerce as crucial for the public benefit despite (or perhaps because of) its roots in self-interest. Indeed, while Charles Beard may have gone too far in claiming that the Constitution was designed specifically to protect the interests of the wealthy mercantile class emerging in the new nation, it is true that many of America's leaders in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (and in the years since, of course) believed that there was virtue in commerce, or at least that it was only when government protects a vibrant commerce that anything like the common good can be achieved.

But, at least until the end of the eighteenth century, those of the Madisonian persuasion regarding commerce were balanced by those, particularly among the anti-federalists, who persisted in the view, written deep in the republican tradition, that in order to ensure civic virtue and guard against corruption it was essential to keep the citizens poor or at least not permit them to become rich. Even Jefferson was ambivalent about commerce: on the one hand, he recognized the importance of commerce to the well-being of the new nation; on the other hand, he disdained the kind of commerce emerging in the big eastern cities with its bankers and endless trading designed to make money rather than meet needs. These traditionalists held that great riches were a sign of corruption and that commerce tended to focus everyone's attention on pecuniary gain rather than the public good. They held up the person of "the middling sort" as a model of republican virtue. Such a person was neither too poor nor too rich, but was as comfortable behind a plow as he was in the public forum deciding matters of political import. (One need think only of the equation of George Washington with Cincinnatus to see this point.) Only a person not too caught up in commercial affairs, not too rich (that is, not filthy rich), not too focused on personal gain, can be a good citizen. At least at crucial moments, a citizen must be able to set aside private interests in the pursuit of the common good. Those whose attention is too centered on trade, the accumulation of wealth, the proliferation of material good for themselves and those close to them, make poor citizens. In fact, they tend to corrupt the body politic because everything they do is aimed at personal benefit no matter what the ultimate cost to the health of the community.

It is this last point that is crucial to our understanding of corruption as a constitutional matter. Certainly, a person who cannot transcend his private interests to concern himself with public good is a poor citizen. But a corrupt polity is one in which there are many such citizens, one in which the "auxiliary precautions" of the social order have failed to filter the self-interests of citizens and officials out of public life. A corrupt polity is one that fosters the focus on selfish concerns while making a real focus on the good of the community less and less possible. A corrupt polity is one in which all discussion focuses on self-concern rather than seeking to determine what might really be for the good of the community as a whole. A corrupt polity is one in which those who speak employ the rhetoric of the good of the nation, while defining that good as what is for the personal benefit of the hearers -- and while doing so simply in order to gain or keep political, economic, or social power. It is this kind of corruption that we have most to fear today.

Corruption and Politics

The term corruption gets tossed around liberally in law and politics. Most commonly it is used to refer to a specific human activity such as bribery, and in this usage it is frequently employed to distinguish legal and political processes in the United States from those in other, less pure nations. It is true that, by and large, the legal and political systems in the US have become freer of corruption of various sorts -- buying and selling votes or influence, looking the other way for a price, and so forth -- than they once were, and generally freer of corruption than other systems (in the post-Soviet world, for instance, or in some Latin American or African nations). Though it is always important to recognize that our history is not best characterized as one of steady improvement, moving closer and closer to the ideal system -- and pockets of corruption or corrupt individuals continue to come to light now and then, exposed by whistleblowers or the media -- there can be little question that much of what we see today in American law and politics is relatively clean (if not pure).

But there is another meaning to the term corruption that we should recover -- a meaning rooted deep in our history as a nation. This is the notion of political corruption as a disease of the body politic -- not a matter of isolated acts, or even systemic acts by individuals, but one of overall sickness, a decaying, degeneration, or debasement of the system itself. In this usage, corruption contrasts with civic virtue -- it is a vice that can undermine, even destroy, a polity. It can be found in both individuals and the systems they inhabit, but its real critical bite lies in its use to describe a system as a whole.

As J. Peter Euben has shown in his contribution to Political Innovation and Conceptual Change (1989), the concept of corruption pervades ancient Greek considerations of political association. The concept provided the fundamental ground upon which Thucydides explains the decline of Athens. Thucydides' history, in fact, provides the first systematic analysis of corruption, of the degeneration of a polity over time as a result of the choices (or failures to choose) of a once-virtuous people. But the opus classicus for the analysis of corruption is Aristotle's Politics. Euben offers a succinct summary of Aristotelian political theory as it is applied to the idea of corruption. Aristotle, it turns out not surprisingly, has much to say that we moderns should heed and his notion of corruption offers an interesting basis for the examination of contemporary constitutional democracy.

Aristotle works by way of contrast between a healthy polity and one that is corrupt, and his view of political health and decay helped define an entire tradition -- the so-called republican tradition that lay at the basis of the political views of the American founders. Aristotle lays out a number of conditions of health in a polity and each one points to a distinctive form of corruption to which a constitution is subject. Most distinctively, Aristotle's understanding of corruption as a characteristic of a body politic rather than of individual acts pushes us to look beyond the moral foibles of our politicians to a consideration of the nature of our political life as a whole. It is often said that we get the politicians we deserve. Perhaps better stated, we get politicians whose characters reflect the state of our constitution (lower case) as a people and as a political association.

One of the features of a healthy polity according to Aristotle (and to the tradition he founded) rests on his view that citizens should share in the administration of justice. A citizen, according to Aristotle, is a person who rules and is ruled in turn. That means that citizens must be actively involved in deciding the affairs of their community. Aristotle, of course, recognizes the variety of political regimes in the world and refuses to take the Platonic route of describing a single ideal political society. (Plato's ideal is in fact, as Sheldon Wolin has shown, anti-political, designed to rid the world of the need for politics by establishing a timeless system ruled by impersonal and selfless reason).  As a result, Aristotle does not specify who counts as a citizen, how much they share in administering justice, or what justice actually is -- for each of these varies with the nature of the regime and with the historical and geographical circumstances in which it is located. Nevertheless, Aristotle does insist that politics is a moral activity in which men realize what is distinctively human -- man is, as he says, a "political animal" (zoon politicon); thus, political activity is intrinsically valuable, not merely something one engages in instrumentally. A political regime is one in which men are enabled to live well (in both a moral and a material sense). As Hannah Arendt argued, it is right and proper for us to engage in the vita activa, the life taken up with the affairs of the political order in which we are citizens. The vita activa carries its own rewards, fulfilling who we are as humans; its purpose is written into its very nature rather than being directed to some external goal. Politics, in short, is intrinsically, not instrumentally, right.  


But when a regime or its citizens fail to regard public life as a moral activity, political life changes from being what Euben calls a "partnership in virtue" to a mere modus vivendi that functions as a kind of truce between seekers of personal gain. Then the relations among citizens degenerates into mere alliance, commercial collaboration, or contractual agreement through which they pursue their narrow self-interest. At its extreme, political life takes on the features of a Hobbesian state of nature in which everyone seeks his own good, usually at the expense of the good of others and always at the expense of a collective good. When politics becomes a means to achieve selfish ends rather than a mutual collaboration to achieve shared ends consistent with our nature as humans, the regime has become corrupt. As Aristotle puts it, "so long as their association does not go beyond such things as commercial exchange and military alliance," their community is not a political society at all in the proper sense (Politics, 1280b). Such a community has degenerated into a barely contained war; such a community is suffering decay.


Right away, we should see a major difference between the Aristotelian-republican tradition and what has become the dominant liberal view in the United States (using liberal is the classic sense to mean a political theory that emphasizes individual liberty and rights). In the liberal tradition, beginning with Thomas Hobbes and continued by John Locke and his more recent followers, humans are best viewed as isolated individuals constantly seeking their own interests. Community, then, is artificial, created by a social contract conceived as an option chosen because it has the instrumental effect of creating an environment in which we can pursue our private interests with a minimum of interference from others. The public world -- the polity, the constitution, the state -- are designed to make the world safe for the pursuit of our private ends; it has no inherent value in itself. Aristotle's notion that the political has a moral purpose -- that political relations are deeply human in the best, most natural sense -- appears odd when seen through liberal lenses. Hobbes notoriously had no use for Aristotle, seeing the claim that politics is a moral enterprise as just a facade behind which stood someone's self-interests and, indeed, as a major cause of the English Civil War. For Hobbes, nothing is moral or immoral, right or wrong, except what the sovereign  defines as such. And in the contemporary world where the "people" are sovereign, morality and right come to be shaped by sovereign consumers; morality is what the majority says it is. That means that corruption cannot be a matter of falling short of achieving the moral ends of political life, a failure to join together in a common pursuit of a good life together. In fact, corruption becomes a category with little critical purchase -- at best the description of those who cheat, who do not pursue their self-interest through the established processes but try to circumvent the agreed-upon system. The term cannot be used to describe the system as a whole, so long as the system is one that has been chosen or acquiesced in by the majority (explicit or tacit consent -- remember a liberal system is one rooted in the consent of the governed). 


But the Aristotelian analysis, I believe, has a point. A constitutional democracy such as our own is more than a set of structures and rules designed to limit the scope of government, freeing up individuals to pursue their private interests. It is rather a framework for the pursuit of a common project, the project of building a good life together. Citizens are people who participate in the thinking, speaking, debating, deliberating, and deciding required to pursue this common enterprise. To the extent that politics -- the whole of the vita activa that springs from our thoughtful consideration of the issues we face as a people or community -- degenerates into verbal fisticuffs, political life has become corrupt. To the extent that it gets taken over by those who seek their own self-interests even if that comes at the expense of the common good, the constitution has degenerated. To the extent that citizens pay no attention to common affairs, or refuse to see others as fellow citizens engaged in a the common project, the public realm has been debased. When decisions are based solely on what is good for one's own wallet, when deliberation involves only the parroting of the extreme views of loudmouths (or entails the echoes of what Cass Sunstein calls "the daily me"), when debates are shouting matches and speaking is simply ranting totally immune to reason or facts -- then the body politic has been stricken with disease. Death cannot be far off. 

Lying in Politics

Hannah Arendt once said that "[t]ruthfulness has never been counted among the political virtues, and lies have always been regarded as justifiable tools in political dealings." True. Certainly, playing fast and loose with the truth has been common, indeed expected, in the political realm. In fact, it has been seen by those of a realist bent as fully justifiable, almost a virtue in itself, essential to success  in the Hobbesian world of international relations and in the rough-and-tumble world of domestic politics. Much could be said about this view, which (to be clear) was not Arendt's. I have always balked at pure realism, but the present occasion is not the right one to develop an argument against it. There are many such arguments in existence already, anyway. In the end, I think Bernard Williams had it about right when he argued that "decent politics" lies somewhere between  a realist cynicism for which "the business of politics ceases to be disturbed by any moral qualms" and an idealism that entails "an absurd failure to recognize that if politics is to exist as an activity at all, some moral considerations must be expected to get out of its way."

My focus here is not the refutation of realism, whether in law or politics, or the development of a more reasonable and acceptable alternative. Nor is it to insist, idealistically, that dishonesty should be removed entirely from the public sphere -- that just isn't going to happen. Rather, I want to reflect upon political lying today and some of its risks. I want to consider what happens when lying becomes too pervasive and too accepted, when its omnipresence comes to define the public sphere and our interactions in it.

In a more recent work, Williams argues that there are two central virtues of truth: accuracy and sincerity. The former asks us to seek the truth, to try to acquire correct belief, and transport it to the pool of information available to our society. The second -- sincerity -- entails saying what one actually believes. Observation of the 2011-2012 political season suggests that both of these virtues are at risk and, as a result, that our politics may be in deep trouble.

As virtually everyone recognizes, political discourse has been growing shriller and more extreme for more than a decade. In the process, the quantity of deception -- what amounts to failures in sincerity -- in political discourse has increased. What is disturbing is that we may have passed the point where politicians and their campaign operatives have any significant reluctance to ignore the requirements of sincerity. In the past several months, we have witnessed a campaign in which truth and reason seem to have become increasingly irrelevant in political discussion. Lies are told, misinformation is spread, deception is perpetrated and no one stands up for truth-telling. In fact, we have seen campaign advisors, when confronted with pure raw falsehood, insist not just that what occurred was a misstatement or was misunderstood, but that lying in politics is to be expected. The claim has been made that deception is just part of the game, that positions can be taken and statements made that are understood to be false or to state incorrectly a candidate's real view of things. Further, or so we are told, these falsehoods, these evidences of severe insincerity are to be accepted as the ways things must be -- in other words, lying is not to be criticized but should be taken as just part of the way the political world works. Those in charge of these campaigns seem to think that spin is everything, that truth and falsehood are strategies, that deception is completely permissible when running for office, that the perceived goodness of the end (electoral victory) justifies whatever means are thought to be necessary, that reluctance to lie is a foolish waste of energy. It may have been Mr. Romney's senior campaign aide who made the infamous "Etch-a-Sketch" comment, but the thought underlying the comment seems to pervade much of the political environment: candidates should say whatever is necessary to gain the nomination and, then when the general election rolls around, they hit "reset" and become someone else.

What a sad commentary on the state of American citizenship. The assumption seems to be that citizens are infinitely manipulable, that they are served as well by lies as by truth, that deceiving them in order to gain power is unobjectionable. We have seen the emergence of candidates with preciously few qualifications to be president of the United States but a slew of strong views, many of them utterly mistaken. Some of these candidates seem uninterested in "the fact of the matter"; many, indeed, belittle science and reason as tools of the elite used to dominate the rest of us. And those candidates have gotten traction with the voting public. Many were startled earlier this month when it was revealed that a majority of voters in Alabama and Mississippi believe that President Obama is a Muslim. But when the intentional or reckless falsehood that sells talk shows on radio and television has battered the citizenry, when the voters have been regaled with lie upon lie, exaggeration upon exaggeration, what can we expect?

Citizens who are generally unprepared to resist the lure of extreme rhetoric that appeals to baser instincts cannot be expected to distinguish truth from falsehood when no one stands up for truth-telling. When sincerity is cast aside as the prejudice of either the elite or the foolish, we cannot expect citizens whose attention is preoccupied with the more mundane affairs of daily life to draw tough distinctions between truth and falsehood; nor can we expect them to reward those whose sincerity drives them to tell the truth, no matter how uncomfortable to the hearer, when other speakers abound who pander to bias, prejudice, and self-interest. As a result, politicians (or those who run for office claiming not to be politicians) are not rewarded for calm, for reason, for truth-telling. Instead, they are rewarded for outrage, for disregard of even-tempered statement, for a headlong rush to the edges (in this case to the extreme right, though this feature of the situation is only circumstantial). Rather than lift up the citizenry, today's candidates seek to dive to the depths inhabited by the least thoughtful members of the public, sincerity be damned.

It is not that we haven't been here, or near here, before. Politics exists in a world where the tendency is always to race to the bottom rather than raise anyone up. That is its nature, and those who succeed in that world can never be expected to be moral exemplars. But it is worth reflecting that something may be different now, that cultural and social forces may have worked up a situation in which no moral holds are barred short of outright and open corruption. At the root of that situation may well be the disappearance of a disposition toward accuracy, Williams' other virtue of truth.

There seems to be no cash value to accuracy, at least among candidates. Even those candidates who cannot be criticized for being insincere seem to operate on a belief that truth is not particularly relevant to political campaigning -- or they operate with a conception of truth that is unaffected by careful thought or the gradual accumulation of facts through research. Certainly many of them reject inconvenient facts, speaking as if the facts are only theories foisted upon the public by power-hungry elites. Some simply jettison the findings of science when those findings contradict what they want to believe. Though they would surely reject this characterization, the reigning mood is relativist: what counts as truth is determined by pre-existing beliefs, by faith, by emotion, and can therefore differ from one person to the next. The candidates do not so much question the existence of truth as they tie truth to prejudice, treating science and other forms of careful research as just another kind of bias one might have.

Since we have not equipped the vast majority of the population with the dispositions, skills, and knowledge necessary to be reflective citizens, these fact-eluding candidates find a ready audience. Our political culture -- with its endless campaigns, its screaming matches on radio and television, its overall fostering of prejudice and emotion over reason -- provides a fertile ground for the purveying of falsehood and deception via emotional appeal. We have crafted a citizenry that is impatient with careful analysis and drawn toward the kind of "thought" best captured in sound bites. Truth tends to be complex, not susceptible to quick, pithy statement (except, of course, those simple, plain truths that we generally take for granted, such as "I am writing a blog post" or "the weather is cold today and it's raining"). Truth is not easily captured in the kind of emotion-laden language that appeals to the pre-existing prejudices of one's hearers, the kind of language that inspires cheers rather than thought and discomfort. Our educational system, our politics, our media -- indeed much of our culture as a whole -- discourage thought and the patient search for the facts of the matter in an effort to arrive at the truth. Instead, they encourage quick response rooted in unexamined biases. Such a citizenry is uniquely prone to the gradual disappearance of a disposition to accuracy in public life.

One of the central problems our politics lies in a dilemma facing newly elected government officials. Elections are won using a strategy that minimizes the importance of accurate understanding of national problems or of economic, social, and environmental conditions related to national policy. But once they have won, they must govern. And governing, at least for those who are serious about wanting to ensure the welfare of our constitutional democracy and the people who have ordained and established it, requires a commitment to accuracy. The disposition seemingly necessary to getting elected contradicts the disposition necessary to govern well. The newly elected officeholder, disposed to opt for emotion and bias when it seems necessary to achieving success, confronts the challenge of changing to a disposition quite the opposite -- or to continue on the path of saying what is thought to be necessary to achieve one's short-term ends regardless of its truth. But dispositions are not easily changed  -- they are habits of mind and cannot be shaken off as one would shake off the loss of one's favorite team in a tournament. Dispositions cling, and if one's disposition is to place image above accuracy, that tendency is likely to cling to everything one does in public office.

When lying becomes widespread, when politicians display less and less reluctance to deceive when they can persuade themselves that deception is necessary to gain or hold office (which, in turn, they always see as essential to the welfare of their country), when they tolerate the spread of misinformation and pander to and exploit ignorance of facts, something has gone seriously wrong with our politics. Then "citizens have reason to fear their politicians' judgment," as Williams put it. Additionally, they have reason to fear for the well-being of their country -- at least this is true of those citizens, fewer and fewer perhaps, who recognize what is going on.

Some Thoughts About Reading

Citizens read. The sort of informed civil discourse that lies at the heart of a vital public realm in a constitutional democracy depends upon citizens engaging with their social world, and their own past and present. Such engagement requires knowledge of basic facts (not just opinions) about that world. It also requires a practiced ability to reflect upon these materials and to evaluate, assess, think about, and confront alternative interpretations of the the meaning of the facts. Reading is not the only way in which this sort of citizenship can be developed, but it is a valuable and highly effective way that should be encouraged by any nation serious about being a constitutional democracy.

In fact, I think it is fair to say that the person who does not read, and read actively, suffers from a dangerous sort of shallowness -- a shallowness that, if too common among the citizenry, jeopardizes the ongoing project of constitutionalism. That is why proponents of constitutional government have long argued for the importance of reading, why they have called for universal education, why they have insisted on measuring schools by their success at developing reading skills in their pupils.In the heyday of education for citizenship (sadly, a time in which we no longer live) the ability to read and absorb was seen as the fundamental educational goal. And in those days students were pushed to read and wrestle with a wide variety of challenging texts -- texts that to a great extent have disappeared from the elementary, secondary, and even college curriculum, to the detriment of thoughtfulness in the public realm.

Of course, she who reads, even if she reads regularly, does not do so solely (or even primarily) because doing so fosters a more reflective and deliberative public sphere. That sort of idealism formed the target of many of the Founders, who realized that viable polities can only be fashioned if people are taken as they really are. People as they really are do not obsess about the common good and generally do not act with the commonwealth in mind. Real people are selfish, self-interested, concerned about their families and friends, and maybe their local communities and associations. Real people by and large do not read because it makes them better citizens.

Rather, we must accept the fact that most people read for entertainment, for relaxation, for something to do in front of the fire or on the beach or on the plane. These purposes should not be scoffed at: in our fast-paced, over-stimulated (and over-stimulating) society, where voices crash down on the individual from all angles, usually at great volume, people need a quiet place, shelter from the storm of everyday life, and reading can provide that. For that reason, entertainment/relaxation reading is valuable and healthy. So we should never criticize those who while away the hours reading spy novels or detective stories, for doing so refreshes and helps prepare the reader to for the next hour or the next day.

Of course, people read for a wide range of practical, instrumental reasons. Some people read to improve themselves, or improve their business or communicative abilities, or to learn new ways to make money or influence people. Some people -- lawyers and other business people come to mind -- read documents, contracts, and other copy for a living. Doctors read the latest drug studies, materials for conferences on the latest techniques, patient records. Many read EULAs (or, more likely, parts of them), bits and pieces from the Internet, instruction manuals for new appliances or gadgets, and much more. Some people read for information or instruction in practical activities, as many read the newspaper, political e-zines, encyclopedia, or cookbooks. These, of course, are useful things to do, and so reading how to do them is useful as well. For many of us -- this is especially true of we professionals -- our day is filled with reading. This sort of reading is essential to our lives as we've chosen to live them. And sometimes this sort of reading causes us to reflect on what we are doing (or about to do), and to that extent it can accustom us to the reflection that characterizes good citizenship.

Reading can take another form, one even more closely tied to the requirements of good citizenship, though ironically this sort of reading has no immediate practical application (not even relaxation -- in fact, it is as likely to be stressful as to be relaxing). This kind of reading characterizes the thinker: the person who examines what she does and what she confronts in the world, the person who lives the examined life. Though it is not undertaken with this end in mind, this sort of reading can nurture the kind of thinking life praised by Socrates, Emerson, Arendt, and many others -- the sort of examined life that good citizens live, and bad citizens (Arendt's Eichmann, for instance) shun. In this sense, reading of this sort resembles liberal education, which is valuable in itself as a part of a human life lived to the fullest rather than because of any practical end it might serve.

Emerson, who read widely and encouraged others to do so as well, nevertheless insisted that one should avoid being too heavily influenced by what one reads. As he put it, we must "learn to divine books, to feel those that you want without wasting much time on them." Emerson encouraged readers to browse, to skip around, to hunt for those passages that speak to them: "The glance reveals what the gaze obscures. Somewhere the author has hidden his message. Find it, and skip the paragraphs that do not talk to you." "Learn how to tell from the beginnings of the chapters and from glimpses of the sentences whether you need   to read them entirely through," he tells us. "So turn page after page, keeping the writer's thoughts before you, but not tarrying with him, until he has brought you the thing you are in search of."

That means that one reads to discover and grab hold of those things one can use. One reads for stimulation, not necessarily visceral excitement, but for sparks that ignite one's own reasoning. One reads to nourish one's own thought. Emerson went so far as to suggest that reading for any other end is to waste one's time. I think he's wrong about that, as I've tried to indicate above. But his larger point, that one should avoid becoming so engrossed in what is being read, so carried away on the breeze of the author's language, that you stop thinking, is exactly right. "Reading long at one time anything, no matter how it fascinates, destroys thought."

Hence, one should not read anything as if it were divine writ; rather, one should read to appropriate, to find threads to weave into what one is already thinking. This does not mean that one only reads to reinforce one's pre-existing prejudices, as many read certain blogs or websites to reconfirm their political views. Rather, reading by appropriating is an active, interactive, dialectical process in which one collects materials that can be combined in new, creative ways as one reflects. This sort of reading entails engagement with the text, interaction with it, wrestling with it, grabbing bits of it that attract one's attention, confirm a trend one's mind is already following, or force one to reconsider one's existing views. Reading of this sort compels growth and change; it compels struggle with new views by seeing how they affect one's old views. It feeds thought; it prompts the creative definition and ongoing redefinition of what one thinks. And it inevitably means that as one reads one skips or lightly brushes over large swaths of text that do not fire one's own thinking or speak to one's developing ideas. One must have the courage to resist, to refuse anything that is not one's own material.

Notice how this differs from the approach to reading we generally take when we read for practical purposes. There one reads and accepts. One does not reflect upon the directions for the coffee maker, let alone take pieces of those directions and weave them into the rules of civil procedure. More importantly, Emerson's approach to reading differs markedly from that frequently recommended to and followed by students, scholars, and other intellectuals. Consider, for instance, the once-well-known approach to reading outlined by Mortimer Adler in his classic How to Read a Book. Adler suggested correctly that some books are not worth  spending much time with and that readers need to learn how to distinguish books that can be read quickly from those that require considerably more time. (One of my graduate professors spoke to this point when he told me I needed to learn how to read a book in fifteen minutes.) So far, so good. But for those books that deserve sustained attention, Adler recommends that after skipping around and getting the flavor of the book, the reader must dig into its inner structure, consuming hours and days recreating the argument of each paragraph, each chapter, and the book as a whole. Adler, of course, was a believer in the "Great Books," that canonical list of books "gentlemen" need to be familiar with, a list that formed the basis of a cabined sort of liberal education, defined by fellow Chicago School intellectual Leo Strauss as a conversation with the great authors in pursuit of the truth. And so Adler's reading method would compel the reader to take many hours working laboriously through the argument in Plato's Republic, Aquinas's Summa Theologica, or any other tome on the canonical list. The Truth, in the Adler-Strauss view, lies inside these books, waiting to be unearthed through arduous labor by the careful reader.

Not so for Emerson, for whom the truth (to the extent there is such a thing -- a larger subject we cannot broach here) lies within the individual, not in the pages of a dusty volume on the Great Books shelf. If the truth lies in here rather than out there, inside oneself rather than on the pages of someone else's book, the whole point of reading is changed. As Emerson put it, "you only read to start your own team." That is, you read to trigger your own thinking. The aim is not to grasp in depth the thoughts of another, except to the extent that doing so helps inspire your own. You read not to master what Emerson elsewhere calls "books written by the dead for the dead," but to enliven one's own train of thoughts.

Of course we don't teach this sort of reading to our fellow citizens. That is unfortunate for reading this way spawns exactly the sort of thinking we should want (most of) our fellow citizens to be capable of and practiced in. In fact, we seldom ask pupils (at any level) to read in this manner, or to read the books that have their most powerful impact when read this way. It is sad to see how few professionals -- the class of people once considered the best and brightest of the liberally educated -- read in this manner or read these books. Once again we see the deeper failure of education in our society. But schools for generations now have been aimed at practical ends -- particularly preparing students for the work world -- and, as indicated above, Emersonian reading (the sort of reading inspired by a truly liberal education) has no immediate practical benefit. It may, indeed, ill equip someone to passively take his or her place in the economy for it fosters thoughtfulness, critical analysis, engaged examination of what is and what could be -- none of these traits particularly desirable for subjects of powerful structures, from governments to corporations.