Political Pluralism and the State: Explorations in political theory beyond the nation-state (Routledge Innovators in Political Theory)

Political Pluralism and the State

The concept of a sovereign nation-state is a central part of many debates discussing the salient issues in political science today. Yet the debate on the state is fragmented and, while the sub-disciplines within political science address the various possible consequences of different processes, the one thing they all share is uncertainty about the future shape and role of the state. Political Pluralism and the State is the first work in political theory to bring together approaches from international relations, comparative politics and political theory to analyze the post-sovereign state and develop a new interpretative scheme for social and political scientists. This scheme takes account not only of the fragmentation of the polity but also of the often ignored concurrent fragmentation of society. The book seeks to understand and interpret political pluralization as an expression of the continuous processes of cooperation and secession that define politics and legitimize institutions. It develops an alternative, sovereignty-free conception of the ‘polis’ that is sensitive to these unavoidable processes, and assesses the viability of liberal-democratic ideals in a radically pluralized world. This book will be of interest to students and scholars in philosophy, politics, political economy, international relations, sociology and other social sciences. Marcel Wissenburg is Professor of Political Theory at the Radboud University Nijmegen and Socrates Professor of Humanist Philosophy at Wageningen University, the Netherlands.

Routledge Innovations in Political Theory

1 A Radical Green Political Theory Alan Carter 2 Rational Woman A feminist critique of dualism Raia Prokhovnik 3 Rethinking State Theory Mark J. Smith 4 Gramsci and Contemporary Politics Beyond pessimism of the intellect Anne Showstack Sassoon 5 Post-Ecologist Politics Social theory and the abdication of the ecologist paradigm Ingolfur Blühdorn 6 Ecological Relations Susan Board 7 The Political Theory of Global Citizenship April Carter 8 Democracy and National Pluralism Edited by Ferran Requejo

9 Civil Society and Democratic Theory Alternative voices Gideon Baker 10 Ethics and Politics in Contemporary Theory Between critical theory and post-marxism Mark Devenney 11 Citizenship and Identity Towards a new republic John Schwarzmantel 12 Multiculturalism, Identity and Rights Edited by Bruce Haddock and Peter Sutch 13 Political Theory of Global Justice A cosmopolitan case for the world state Luis Cabrera 14 Democracy, Nationalism and Multiculturalism Edited by Ramón Maiz and Ferrán Requejo 15 Political Reconciliation Andrew Schaap

16 National Cultural Autonomy and Its Contemporary Critics Edited by Ephraim Nimni 17 Power and Politics in Poststructuralist Thought New theories of the political Saul Newman 18 Capabilities Equality Basic issues and problems Edited by Alexander Kaufman 19 Morality and Nationalism Catherine Frost 20 Principles and Political Order The challenge of diversity Edited by Bruce Haddock, Peri Roberts and Peter Sutch 21 European Integration and the Nationalities Question Edited by John McGarry and Michael Keating 22 Deliberation, Social Choice and Absolutist Democracy David van Mill 23 Sexual Justice / Cultural Justice Critical perspectives in political theory and practice Edited by Barbara Arneil, Monique Deveaux, Rita Dhamoon and Avigail Eisenberg

24 The International Political Thought of Carl Schmitt Terror, liberal war and the crisis of global order Edited by Louiza Odysseos and Fabio Petito 25 In Defense of Human Rights A non-religious grounding in a pluralistic world Ari Kohen 26 Logics of Critical Explanation in Social and Political Theory Jason Glynos and David Howarth 27 Political Constructivism Peri Roberts 28 The New Politics of Masculinity Men, power and resistance Fidelma Ashe 29 Citizens and the State Attitudes in Western Europe and East and Southeast Asia Takashi Inoguchi and Jean Blondel 30 Political Language and Metaphor Interpreting and changing the world Edited by Terrell Carver and Jernej Pikalo 31 Political Pluralism and the State Beyond sovereignty Marcel Wissenburg

Political Pluralism and the State Beyond sovereignty

Marcel Wissenburg

First published 2009 by Routledge 2 Park Square Milton Park Abingdon Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2008. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2009 Marcel Wissenburg All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Wissenburg, M. L. J. (Marcel L. J.) Political pluralism and the state : beyond sovereignty / Marcel Wissenburg. p. cm. – (Routledge innovations in politics theory ; 31) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Sovereignty. 2. Pluralism (Social sciences) I. Title. JC327.W57 2008 320.1'5–dc22 2008002202

ISBN 0-203-89411-1 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN10: 0-415-46739-x (hbk) ISBN10: 0-203-89411-1 (ebk) ISBN13: 978-0-415-46739-1 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-89411-8 (ebk)

Contents

List of Illustrations Preface

viii ix

1

Introduction

1

2

Political pluralization

13

3

The need to interfere

41

4

Principles, discord and concord

61

5

Sustainability as a policy telos

80

6

Beyond political principles

96

7

Alexandrism

111

8

The new polis

130

9

Citizenship in the metropolis

147

10 The princes of industry

168

11 Harmony and political pluralization

183

Notes Bibliography Index

194 202 212

Illustrations

Tables 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4

Rough identity of client-producer preferences A perverse innovation game Aggressive conservatism Constrained innovation Four types of political concern for the environment Scales representing types of sustainability Decision tree from liberal democratic perspective Decision tree including conceptions of sustainable development

46 47 48 48 86 87 89 90

Figures 8.1 Classic sovereign nation-state 8.2 Metropolis

143 144

Preface

Professional and personal interests have a weird way of interacting. Both as a genealogist and as a political theorist, I enjoyed discovering at night how some of my ancestors’ lives and actions illustrated the ideas I was working on in daylight. As chief representative of the city of Delft in the States of Holland in 1535, Hugo van den Eynde (1488–1566) got away with calling the imperial inquisitor ‘a murderer, a bigamist and a traitor to his country’ for trying to implement a papal bull against Lutherans. Hugo’s point was not that he loved Lutherans but that the inquisitor mixed obligations to emperor and pope. His son, Jacob II van den Eynde (1515–69), advocate (roughly, president) of the States (roughly, parliament) of Holland, died in Spanish custody for defying the authority of king and emperor (whose interests his father still saw as congruent with those of the country) by calling the States to meet without imperial order whenever Jacob felt the country needed it. Hugo and Jacob were supporting actors in the early stages of processes they could not possibly oversee: the shattering of the unity of the Universal Mother Church; the secession of an ever-changing coalition of counties and cities from the equally universal Holy Roman Empire; the continuous creation and disintegration of those coalitions and behind that, the coalition-building of and feuds among aristocratic, commercial and religious associations; and finally – a consequence no one foresaw – the replacement of the sovereign by the States of the United Provinces, by provincial States and by local authorities alike, an initially temporary arrangement that was to last for centuries since no-one actually needed a sovereign. And that is exactly the message of this book: no one needs a sovereign – not then and not now. We can live with the apparent disorder of fragmenting state authority, disintegrating states, globalization, sub-national and public–private cooperation; we should acknowledge it not as the end of things but as the beginning of a potentially glorious future in which autonomy and emancipation slowly gnaw away at human submission. The book before you has evolved over a period of almost seven years, in between other research projects, out of a collection of questions initially united only by the idea that politics may change shape and context, but never its substance. The questions to which that idea gave rise found their

x

Preface

way into a series of conference papers presented internationally on one or more occasions. Although the individual chapters are all new, some of them are based on parts of these papers, and it is only fair that I acknowledge their origins. Chapter 2 is in part based on Wissenburg (1999c). I have also used elements here and in other chapters from a paper presented at a conference on the ‘Wandel der Beziehungsmustern zwischen Staatenwelt, Gesellschaftswelt und Wirtschaftswelt als Anpassung an die Globalisierung’, Technical University of Darmstadt, Germany, 15–16 October 1999. The greater part of Chapter 3 is based on a paper presented at the 6th International Interdisciplinary Conference on the Environment, Interdisciplinary Environmental Association (IEA), Montreal, 21–24 June 2000, which was subsequently published in Global Environmental Politics (Wissenburg 2001a) – I am grateful to MIT Press for allowing me to publish it in a revised form here. Chapter 5 has a very complicated history, explained in a note at the beginning of that chapter; the briefest way to explain its existence is by calling it a blood relative of Wissenburg and Levy (2004a), published here in a strongly revised form with permission from Blackwell Publishing. Parts of Chapter 9 are based on a paper presented at the Annual Conference of the Dutch Political Science Association, Veldhoven, 15–16 June 2001, in a workshop on ‘The Concept of Representation’; other parts of that paper were included in another article (Wissenburg 2004). Section 9.5 is based on ‘Democracy and Fuzzy Politics’, a brief presentation from a workshop on ‘The Borders of Democracy’ at the Nijmegen School of Management founding conference on 19 April 2001. It goes without saying that I have benefited enormously from the comments received at these and other conferences over the years, as well as from suggestions by several anonymous referees, including four who provided extremely detailed comments on near-final versions of this book. I am sure the following list is far from complete: John Barry, Brian Baxter, Timm Beichelt, Andy Dobson, Patrick Dunphy, Robyn Eckersley, Jane Edward, Herman van Gunsteren, Linda Hadfield, Kees van Kersbergen, Yoram Levy, Bob Lieshout, Grahame Lock, Anthony Lumby, Frank Schimmelpfennig, Hilmar Schmidt, Piers Stephens, Hattori Takashi, Ingo Take, my Master’s Degree students in 2004–5 and 2005–6, my colleagues in the Department of Political Science at the Radboud University Nijmegen, the Netherlands – the best place to work – and last but not least Amelia McLaurin at Routledge. My sincerest thanks to you all, and of course the usual proviso applies: the views expressed in this book reflect my opinions only, and the countless flaws in my argument should solely be blamed on me. Spread out over the text, but more densely represented in Chapters 2 and 10, are ideas derived from a series of papers written for various audiences in Chile: ‘Another nail in the coffin: Some reflections occasioned by the Treaty between the EU and Chile’ (presented at a conference on ‘The International Trade Relations of Chile’, University of La Républica, Santiago de Chile, 8 April 2003); ‘International trade and the environment’ and ‘Sustainability,

Preface xi global justice and the environment’ (both presented at the Academia Diplomática Andrés Bello, Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Chile, Santiago de Chile, 9 April 2003); and ‘The social responsibility of the enterprise is a political responsibility’, (presented at a meeting of the NGO Casa de la Paz, Santiago de Chile, 14 April 2003). I owe a special word of thanks and the deepest respect to Raul F. Campusano Droguett, who organized this unforgettable ‘grand tour’, and seduced me into accepting invitations for at first two, then three, and finally six presentations in something like four days. Acknowledgements traditionally end with a slightly or not so slightly hypocritical word of appreciation for the support of family members who were harmed in the making of a book. I do not think I made any such victims, but I do feel that I must here acknowledge the role my father, Co Wissenburg (1935–2007), played in my life and in the evolution of this text. Had he not been politically active himself, and had he not stimulated his children to talk and think freely and openly about anything including politics from the moment the diapers came off, my life would have been far duller. I remember him with immense pride.

1

Introduction

1.1 Sovereignty and the state This book assumes the imminent demise of the state, and asks what may come next. Yet it is neither a Marxist text, nor utopian or dystopian. As usual, the devil is in the detail. There are many conceptions of the state, and many different institutions, traits and procedures combined in each of them; the imminent demise is predicated of only some of these conceptions and some of these defining elements. So let me begin again and be more precise. What I assume is the imminent demise of the sovereign state. Sovereignty, as a predicate of the state, is often taken to entail two things: external independence and internal absolute authority. An ideal-typical sovereign state recognizes no legitimate power above itself (except sometimes, though usually pro forma, God). It is the source of all legitimate power, and of all legitimate exercise of power within its territory. It exercises that power over all the people who live or reside there, over all their interests and all intraterritorial interests of non-resident foreigners, and over all material and all immaterial things within those borders. Only the laws of nature limit its power, and then only in a physical sense – if it could, it would make the laws of nature as well. It is a true Leviathan. In the words of Peter Steinberger, who distinguishes between a Hegelian ‘idea’ of the state and ‘governments’, the actual bodies incarnated by the idea of the state: ‘The reach and power of the state is always and inevitably unlimited, constrained only by the vicissitudes of time and physical nature’ (Steinberger 2004: 187) – from which it follows that: ‘To talk of a non-absolutist state is to talk nonsense’ (ibid. 228). The state exercises its absolute power through the attribution of rights: permissions and non-permissions to perform or not perform certain acts, thus creating, maintaining or excluding specific states of affairs (cf. Wissenburg 1999a, Kanger and Kanger 1966 for a more detailed description of ‘rights’ thus construed). It can permit individuals or organizations to attribute sets of rights in its stead. It can, for example, allow nuclear families to exercise procreative rights among members of the family as the heads of families see fit, or permit churches to attribute salvation, or shopkeepers to

2

Introduction

attribute goods. Yet these delegated rights remain just that: delegated, lent, borrowed, until recalled. ‘It is the institution that directs all the lesser institutions of society – universities and churches and all the rest’ (Steinberger 2004: 22). The state can also permit individuals or organizations to exercise rights to the use of violence in order to execute other rights, protect them or undo violations – this is what is known in political science literature as the state’s monopoly on the use of violence or force. All of this constitutes internal sovereignty – and by mutual recognition of each other’s internal sovereignty, states become externally sovereign. It is this sovereign state of which the imminent demise is assumed. I do not, however, assume that other traits associated with the (concept of the) state will disappear. I shall assume the continued existence of faceless institutions and organizations attributing or delegating rights within communities or territories, their continued facelessness as bureaucratic organizations or impersonal procedures, the possibility of a link to territories and the goods and peoples therein, to armies and legal borders (cf. Dittgen 1999: 173ff.), and even the continued claim to sovereignty. I merely dismiss the feasibility of making this claim true. As Harold Laski often argued (cf. Nicholls 1975: 46ff.), sovereignty is a legal fiction, not a political reality. Today’s political reality is one of what I call political pluralization: the emergence of polities other than the state, where polity stands for any form of social organization within which (among other things) politics takes place, specifically the attribution of rights within that organized form of life. This is still a bit vague – I shall expand on it in Chapter 2. Suffice it for the moment to say that political reality is about power not legality. States, the assumption is (cf. Walker 2003, Prokhovnik 2007), no longer have the power to make good on their claim to sovereignty: on the one hand they share power with other states and other entities low and high, on the other they cannot (always, fully) control those other entities – nor other states directly or indirectly operating within their respective territories. I assume the demise of the state, I do not predict it or claim that there is empirical proof for its decline, as that is partly a matter of definition. Recent debates on the decline of the state (see Chapter 2) even suggest that at least some of the processes of political pluralization actually contribute to the survival and strengthening of the role of the state. The assumption I make does not deny or contradict this: any player of a game can become more influential, decisive and important by joining coalitions – but that is not the same thing as becoming more powerful, and it is in fact the opposite of maintaining sovereign power (cf. Ilgen 2003). What I ask the reader to imagine, then, is that the state is just one of the boys (though most likely to be the bully), just one player wielding power among others; and that its claim to sovereignty, to being the absolute source of power from which all legitimate rules and legislation emanate, is false. This is an easy thing to do; all it requires is to understand law as a form of religion, and to stop believing.

Introduction

3

At this point, the critic may rightly ask whether there is any sense in talking of the demise of something that never existed in the first place – for states have never truly been sovereign. They have always had to share power and they have always had to recognize human-made limits to their power even in their own grounds. Is there, moreover, not a contradiction in terms in the idea that sovereignty is predicated on the recognition of sovereignty by other entities claiming sovereignty – is not ‘sovereignty’ then merely the temporary toleration of self-rule by others? The critic’s premises are correct, but the conclusion is arrived at too quickly. There is a confusion here of power with legality. As a legal fiction, state sovereignty existed, and exists to this day, and the idea exerts a tremendous influence in politics as well as in political science and political philosophy – both of which in turn occasionally help to shape real politics. The fact that legal sovereignty is a fiction does not make it any less of a fact – just a different kind of fact. In thinking about politics, whether academically or as a citizen or politician, it obviously makes a fundamental difference if one assumes the state to be (capable of being) sovereign or not, and if one believes sovereignty to be a desirable attribute of the state or not. If the state is sovereign and cannot be otherwise, then it is responsible for its acts and omissions to act, it is the natural object of analysis for academic research, and it is the primary instrument of all social good and evil. If the state is not sovereign, but can and should be, then the same applies and it should be held accountable for its failure to deliver. If the state cannot or should not be sovereign, however, then the perspective changes. Political scientists then need to redefine their object of research; political philosophers need to reconsider their ideas on the most desirable shape and order of the political community, on loyalty and obligation, on power and inequality; and citizens have to look elsewhere (or to an additional source) for their instruments of salvation. It is only when we let go of the fiction of the sovereign state, once we allow its demise, that we can sensibly ask why a sovereign state would be desirable (or not), whether it is possible (or not), and what kind of alternatives we face. Here, I assume that it is not possible for states (note the plural) to be sovereign. Whether ‘not possible’ means ‘not possible any more’ or ‘not possible in any case’ is immaterial; my interest lies in a normative assessment of the alternatives: in the absence of sovereign states, what can we hope to achieve in politics, and which institutions to realize those hopes would be legitimate? This type of question may remind some readers of a venerable but short-lived school in English political philosophy known as British political pluralism, representatives of which (among other things) rejected state sovereignty and defended the authority and independence of voluntary associations (Nicholls 1975). Although some of the ideas I defend in this book are similar, I shall argue below (in Chapter 2) that the resemblance is relatively superficial. British political pluralism failed to acknowledge that the denial of sovereignty goes hand in hand with the denial of the unity of society.

4

Introduction

1.2 Replies to political pluralization Why should we be interested in the consequences of the demise of the state, let alone worry and look for things we can do about it? I will not provide a general answer to the first part of this question: it is quite legitimate, even if one has the rare luxury of time to spare, not to be interested in politics. Yet if one is interested, one should worry. The sovereign state may be a Leviathan, a tyrant, a monster of unequalled power and knowledge, reined in only, imperfectly and perhaps merely accidentally, by actively enforced constitutional freedoms, by vigilant citizens and interest groups and by the reality of other powers – but it was conceived of for a very good reason. Quoting Peter Steinberger again: The state is best understood as a structure of intelligibility. ( … ) The propositions of which the state is composed are those that collectively embody the various judgments that the citizens of the state have made about how things really are. As such, they reflect a complex and comprehensive intellectual world – an immense world of concepts and beliefs. The state is the orderly and authoritative arrangement of this intellectual world, formulated so as to reflect and promote the social good. (Steinberger 2004: 13) The state brings order into the chaos of social life. The sovereign state made possible (in theory) a life of security and safety, prosperity and a perspective on happiness, for all within its territory. It was the modern (i.e. post-medieval) answer to the eternal quest for a political order that would guarantee an as harmonious as possible satisfaction of both the desires and demands of individuals, and of the demands posed by the necessity of life in community with others. It solved, at least in theory, the problem of choosing who should govern whom, while taking the risk that the ruler(s) ruled according to their self-interest – a problem haunting political philosophy since at least Aristotle’s times. ‘Who’ has simply been replaced by ‘what’: an institution rather than an individual or individuals. It solved, at least in theory, the question of divided loyalties and contradictory freedoms and obligations – not only those of the feudal lord holding land and rights from two overlords, not only those of the Christian torn between Church and Emperor, but also those of Antigone torn between her blood and her love of Athens. All loyalty henceforth simply derived from that owed to the sovereign state. More importantly, the concept of a sovereign state contributed, in practice, to the restriction of self-interested rule and social conflict, to the rise of liberal democracy and the rule of law – to the advancement of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all, and not just a happy few. In the absence of a state, anything is possible again. Loyalties can be divided again and no clear ranking or reconciliation technique is available, political agents can again serve the interests of some at the expense of others,

Introduction

5

competing institutions can claim dominion over the same act of the same citizen, and no right whatsoever is warranted. Chaos will rule supreme – homo homini lupus, bellum omnia contra omnes. Or that, at least, is the worstcase scenario, the dystopian nightmare that should haunt anyone prudent enough not to believe in the inevitability of Kingdom Come or communist paradise. Thus rises the question what our reply to political pluralization should be. Many answers are imaginable, from the absurd through the reasonable to the impossible; I can discuss only a few. In Chapter 3, I investigate the reply that I hold to be insufficient: coping with political pluralization by using the instruments we already have. The major premise of the argument against coping is the need (under the presumably classic circumstances of a ‘closed’ sovereign state) for authoritative, decisive interference in society, aimed at perpetuating the existence of said society. The argument also applies under different circumstances – the need for authoritative and decisive interference exists in any social and political constellation, not merely within a sovereign state. However, political pluralization by definition precludes the existence of an agent with the necessary clout to warrant such interference. In the special case of (economic) globalization, one could argue that this problem is not only recognized but is actually being addressed through international treaties and the creation of treaty organizations: coalitions are formed there, forces combined in the hope that states may be stronger together. Yet rather than diminishing the degree of political pluralization, treaties increase it (as I show in Chapter 2). In a way, states dig their own graves by partaking in the modern treaty culture. ‘Coping’, I conclude, may lead to viable and even effective policies, but not to the restoration of an unfragmented sovereign state, and nor, therefore, to a perfect cure for the effects of political pluralization. This raises the question of whether and how we can design alternative institutions or policies that are aimed either directly or indirectly at the creation of a limited degree of order among competing authorities and rules, and aimed at the creation of some limited kind of reference frame or polity. The remaining chapters explore this question by investigating the legitimization of cooperative ventures and institutions, and the various forms this legitimization can take. In doing so, we shall discover that there is no final cure, at least none that warrants liberal-democratic values, and perhaps there does not have to be one. Political pluralization itself can be understood as a legitimate structuring of social and political life – imperfect as it may be.

1.3 From politics to policy One criterion of legitimate rule – in addition to deliberate effectiveness and efficiency – is that of justification: the exercise of authority, be it in the form of the attribution of rights or the application of violence, must be supported by good reasons. What constitutes a good reason has always been open to

6

Introduction

debate – a debate rooted in Plato’s suspicion that democracy tends to rule good those reasons that are ‘felt’ to be good by the mob, rather than reasons that are warranted by careful deliberation, let alone reasons that are good by some objective standard.1 Taking a more or less realistic perspective, and accepting that what moves politics is not being right but being thought to be right, the best we can aim for is reasons warranted by deliberation. In Chapter 4, I expand on this concept and investigate how discord on normative (ethical, moral, political) principles is usually dealt with in political philosophy. In a world of political pluralization, good reasons are of vital importance; there is, by definition, no longer one unitary overpowering actor to push through decisions that are not perceived as legitimate (or desirable, or effective and efficient) by all the parties that make up a polity – be they reasonable or not. Under such circumstances, the possibility of political rule, let alone legitimate rule, is predicated on the possibility of what is nowadays often called multilevel governance: coordinated action by (all) factions, groups and political actors who have at least ‘obstructive power’ – that is the power to thwart or nullify the actions of others. The conclusion I draw in Chapter 4 is perhaps predictable: the solutions for discord that political philosophy ‘normally’ offers focus on agreement on the principles underlying action, and the procedures for reaching that kind of agreement will only work effectively under very special conditions. In real politics, consensus or rather adequate agreement on good reasons behind which parties can unite can seldom be reached at such abstract levels – even assuming that it would be sufficient to solve disagreements on the practical (policy) implications of shared principles. In Chapter 5, I therefore offer an additional mechanism and an additional conception of legitimate rule as based on good reasons: the notion of a policy telos. A policy telos is a policy aim that more or less causes itself to come into existence – hence its status as ‘telos’. Rather than defining precisely what the goals of policies are, and by what criteria (shared principles) the results should be assessed, the role of policy teloi is to unite stakeholders and actors on particular policies, regardless of the higher principles each hopes to realize. Thus, for instance, ‘sustainable development’ has in practice been used as such a policy telos. The parties involved in environmental policy do not agree on what it is they hope to achieve: there are many mutually exclusive conceptions of a sustainable society, and the added notion of development only further complicates any discussion. On a practical level, however, these same parties can and often do agree on the policies to be pursued, and, once executed, such policies reduce both the number of possible future worlds and the range of disagreement on sustainable development. Policy teloi are, however, not a panacea for all the troubles of political pluralization; they only add an extra instrument to the toolbox of philosopher and politician. The concept, like so many others, is useful only under specific circumstances which include: rough equality of power among all

Introduction

7

parties involved, their involvement as such, and substantive disagreement on principles. I address the first two conditions in Chapters 8–10, and the last one in Chapters 6 and 7: can we move beyond the sheer accidental coincidence of policy preferences and offer more stability, even in the form of ethical agreement, under circumstances of moral pluralism? In Chapter 6, I try to extend the application of deliberative political discourse to include principles at a higher level than politics, i.e. principles based not on an overlapping Rawlsian consensus but on justifiable criteria for the procedures by which political principles are chosen. In the end, no number or kind of agreement-building strategy can guarantee that any political action is taken, even when parties agree that something needs to be done. It is at this point that politics takes the shape of decision-making in the sense outlined by Carl Schmitt (cutting the Gordian knot) rather than in the sense known in liberal democracy (consensus building). Here, politics becomes Alexandrism: overruling parties that do not accept the legitimacy (in both senses distinguished so far) of a particular policy. Chapter 7 discusses the characteristics of the several forms of authoritarian rule in a politically pluralized world, and their potential contributions to the effective, efficient and justifiable – in short, legitimate – use of power.

1.4 Citizen and citizenship Legitimate rule and cooperation under political pluralization is possible, provided certain conditions are met, such as rough equality of power among the parties involved and their being involved in the first place. In the absence of a sovereign state, no political instrument is available to fully guarantee that these conditions are actually met. Chapters 8–10 address this issue: they ask how parties can be empowered, and who should be empowered to what purpose. They thus investigate institutional rather than purely discursive answers to political pluralization, based on a broad definition of ‘institutions’ – the focus is not on their form but on their substance. Chapter 8 starts with an analysis of the concept of the polis or polity – a concept (and synonyms like ‘political arena’ ‘political constellation’ or ‘society’) that I have used up to that point without really defining it. The original (Aristotelian) concept of polis referred to the natural environment of humankind: a cooperative structure uniting families, professions and villages so as to enable a life in harmony with human nature, where human nature demanded not only productive work and reproductive labour, but also room for creative activities – such as politics. Over the ages, the term has been used by political theorists from Athenian times, through those of the Roman Empires (the Old, the Western, the Byzantine and the medieval) and feudalism, to the present day, to describe that which unifies people, society and politics in all times: the overarching ‘community’ to which terms describing constituent parts like guild, market, civil society, parliament, emperor,

8

Introduction

people, citizen, chancellor etc. were all related (cf. Steinberger 2004: 141; Dittgen 1999: 161). The definition of polis or polity has been stretched to mean all spheres of social interaction (a notion further explored in Michael Walzer 1983) within a given territory, between individuals operating in those social spheres for a shared good – be it a substantive common good or merely mutual advantage. In a politically pluralized and increasingly globalizing world, a new categorization of ‘social spheres’, including the political, is needed, as is an account of legitimate authority and of the rights and duties of the components of this diversified (global and regional and functional and national and local, in brief: metropolitan) polis. I redefine the polis or polity in terms of all instances of iterated (repeated) social interaction between individuals involved in the execution of their plans of life. The account I give is inspired by a re-interpretation or, more precisely, a creative misinterpretation, of Bodin’s theory of sovereignty, according to which sovereignty is predicated on the allegiance of cités. Although cité is the French word for city, and although Bodin sometimes uses it as an equivalent of the Greek polis, he also apparently uses it to more generally describe conglomerates of social spheres within a region – making not only villages, towns and cities part of ‘cités’, but also guilds, universities, holy orders and so on. Bodin’s sovereign state is based on functional cooperation between networks of humans and cités. I apply this notion to the modern world, characterizing the latter as a metropolis, and argue that, in this setting, the old tasks of the state (the monopoly on violence and the attribution of rights, external connections, communication and social services) can be performed by distinct institutions covering different networks, thus splitting off the old notion of state from its ‘bureaucratic’ apparatus and administrative functions – functions that, I argue, can be split off (in a way, privatized) as long as they still ‘administer’ and ‘stand in the service of ’ the human metropolis. In the two ensuing chapters, I discuss what I believe to be main aspects of the new metropolis. First on this list is the inevitable decline of the role of mass democracy as a representative institution (Chapter 9), and its replacement by either a cynical realism or ‘consultative elitism’ predicated on active citizenship of ruler and ruled. Chapter 10 focuses on the role of institutions within the social spheres of civil society, specifically that of enterprise, as political actors, while trying to give the best arguments possible for their managers to be involved in politics, and to be involved as citizens motivated by the fate of their cité and polis. The concluding Chapter 11 will be discussed momentarily – first, however, I need to explain one other thing.

1.5 The environment There are senses in which the topic of this book – political pluralization – is very down to earth and easy to understand: we see its effects around us all day. Yet political pluralization itself is a rather abstract concept – and so are

Introduction

9

state, sovereignty, civil society, cité, polis, metropolis, and so on. This book would be at least as abstract, vague and inaccessible if no illustrations were provided. In the days of Hobbes or Spinoza, a political philosopher could get away with an abstract argument peppered, for the initiated, with hidden references to existing practices, and often this critique had to be concealed to avoid persecution. Today however, such practices are usually considered ‘not done’ because they demand an amount of intellectual and most of all informational baggage that one cannot expect every reader to possess – exactly because of political pluralization: today’s readers come from too many and too diverging contexts to assume awareness of, say, a cabinet crisis in Denmark in 1996, or a controversial privacy policy in Singapore during the 1980s. It is for this reason that I shall often (though not always) present the whole story of political pluralization, its disadvantages and possible defence strategies in the context of a particular case, moreover one that has an international, even truly global, appeal: environmental politics. Not accidentally, it was the issue of environmental politics that brought me into contact with the disadvantages of political pluralization in the first place, and then on to the formulation of the idea of political pluralization itself. It is notoriously difficult to translate ideas about the way a liberal-democratic society should address environmental issues into viable and practical recommendations for real-world politics. Within political theory, there exists a sub-discipline known as ‘green political theory’. Those who are active in it try to translate ideas originating in ecological ethics, and within the so-called new environmental social movement (s), into justifiable principles and criteria for politics and ultimately policy. It has been observed (e.g. Schlosberg 2004) that there is still a tremendous gap between green political thought and environmental activists’ practice. Theorists, for instance, assign attitudes and ideas (whether noble or ignoble) to activists that they ought to have as their source of inspiration if they were reasonable or consistent, yet activists do not recognize themselves in those images. Theorists also come up with principles, criteria, procedures and justification mechanisms that seem to be irrelevant to the activists’ practices. I made the same observation when I entered the circles of the food and energy industry, international politics and national politics in non-Western countries. Although often on opposite sides of environmentalists, many industrialists, mainstream politicians and public officials are as interested in and committed to the creation of effective and ‘good’ environmental policies as environmentalists are – and they find as little guidance and support in green political theory as environmentalists do. One can blame the absence of a ‘meaningful relationship’ between green political theory and environmental political practice on misguided expectations about the use of philosophy on the side of political actors, as Brian Barry did in response to Green Party founder Jonathan Porritt’s critique to this effect:

10

Introduction I can understand and indeed sympathize with the impatience that will undoubtedly be felt by any environmental activist into whose hands this might fall. (Jonathan Porritt eloquently expressed such sentiments – and not only in relation to my contribution – during the final session of the Keele seminars on social justice and sustainability.) What the activist wants is ammunition that can be used in the fight for greater ecological awareness and responsibility. Fine-drawn analyses of sustainability such as those offered here are hardly the stuff to give the troops. (Barry 1997: 63)

This is the classic Kantian philosopher’s answer to the accusation ‘that may be true in theory, yet in practice … ’ – the answer being that practice must therefore be wrong, since our understanding of practice is necessarily guided by theory and construed on the basis of theory. It is an answer with which I fully and wholeheartedly agree, an answer that philosophers should cry out rather than whisper, and yet it is not the complete answer. Most philosophers accept the ‘ought implies can’ axiom, the idea that to have an ethical duty (or obligation, or permission) necessarily entails the ability to perform that duty. If one does not have that ability, then (depending on one’s philosophical point of view) either ‘duty’ is a meaningless phrase, or it refers to a real but hopelessly impracticable duty. In either case, the claim by political agents operating in ‘practice’ that they cannot make heads or tails of philosophers’ well-meant advices implies that, no matter how well grounded the philosophers’ theory may be, there is something wrong with the philosophers’ practice: they fail to adequately translate abstract principles into concrete guidelines for action. The most obvious reason for this failure, next of course to the limits of the human (practitioners’ and philosophers’) intellect, is that context makes a difference. It is all well and good to present a sound philosophical defence of free will as a necessary precondition of guilt, blame and punishment if one accepts certain Enlightenment (read: liberal) values, and to be able to defend those values in turn as reasonable – but this does not help one bit in putting it into practice in, say, the context of a Nigerian women convicted to stoning on account of her adultery as proven by her baby conceived out of wedlock through rape. Now one could argue that contexts pose merely contingent problems, not problems of principle. Like turning the theory of nuclear physics into an atom bomb, translating principles into practical guidelines is, from an academic point of view, technique rather than science, application rather than discovery, boring rather than challenging. One knows, after all, that it can be done and why, and for the theorist, that is the definition of his or her job – all else is work for personnel. Again, I concur with an arrogant view – and again, it is not a complete answer. A necessary precondition for a successful translation of theory into contextual practice is that one understands the context. One can understand Nigeria and one can understand the Northern Nigerian interpretation of the Muslim conceptions of adultery and

Introduction

11

appropriate punishment, one can design ways of both enlightening2 Nigeria in the long term and saving the adulterer in the short term. But if the context itself is open to interpretation and, more importantly, to voluntary change – as is the case in a world of political pluralization where the clear structure offered by the sovereign state has disappeared – things are different. At that point, understanding the context becomes a legitimate object of philosophical (both moral and ontological) research. So far, I have given only a more or less instrumental (but nonetheless important) reason for making environmental politics a case worth using to illustrate observations about political pluralization – it could have been any other hot political topic. There are, however, more and better reasons to choose this exact case. I explain these reasons elsewhere in the book in more detail – here, I shall limit myself to a probably very incomplete and very brief list. The environment is first and foremost an excellent illustration because it is a problem at all levels – from global politics to the individual’s life – in all regions of the world, not to mention Earth’s space. It is also being addressed at all levels, both by the classic state and by institutions that illustrate the fullness of political pluralization. It is characterized by its multi-interpretability: for some (and hence in some ideologies, policies and institutions) it is a matter of resource management, for others it is one of fair distribution of resources, of sustainability, of sustainable development (of power, technology, resources or any combination of these), or of protecting the ecology rather than the (exploitable) environment. It has a potential both to unite parties and to divide them, each offering different perspectives on dealing with political pluralization. It brings new constituencies into the political arena: future generations, animals, biosystems, all of which may or may not deserve political representation in some form and place. It is a particularly serious challenge for liberal democracies, since solving environmental problems seems to require morally substantive rather than merely procedural (neutral) solutions, and since environmental problems are physical rather than merely ideological. Last, but certainly not least, the environment promises to be relevant to politics for a very long time: the discovery that Earth’s resources and Earth itself really can be finite radically limits the conditions under which welfare, growth and prosperity, justice and rights, and peace – or war – will be possible. Brian Barry chillingly concluded: ‘Over the next 50 years, renewable resources will continue to become scarcer, world population will grow and global warming will have more and more adverse effects. The only alternative is a nuclear holocaust, which I would not recommend as a solution’ (Barry 2005: 261). Green political theory, like any academic discipline, has its own vocabulary. One cannot assume that every reader will be intimately acquainted with distinctions between environmentalism and ecologism, anthropocentrism, biocentrism and ecocentrism, or with the niceties of the debate on the possible intrinsic or independent value of nature. Where and when necessary in the course of this book, I shall therefore try to initiate the reader in this language.

12

Introduction

1.6 The undiscovered polis Although I pay special attention to the question of the environment, it is by far not the only substantive challenge facing a politically pluralized world, nor the only illustration I provide. Many of the snags and hitches that political pluralization generates for environmental politics apply just as much to issues like migration, multi-culturalism, religious tolerance between rather than within faiths, global security and every form of human emancipation. Each and every one of these issues has been addressed extensively in recent political theory, resulting in an immense body of literature – but they are always addressed within their own limited context and against the background of a ‘will for undivided authority’, never in the context of an overall fragmentation of authority and allegiance. The concluding chapter therefore again deals with the more general and abstract issue of the consequences of political pluralization, a process that, by this time, we can no longer reject as undesirable, although we cannot call it unproblematic either. The new context of a divided world, in which the definition of political units and reference groups becomes rather fuzzy, calls for a renewal within political science in general and political theory specifically. A new conception of the polis is required, which is not predicated on the presence of a sovereign state or closed societies, let alone on a utopian dream of a unified global society, but on the existence of diverse spheres of interaction in which political power is legitimately exercised, diverse in size and scale as much as diverse in purposes of social interaction. The model suggested in this book, framing global society as a metropolis, highlights both the role (and responsibilities) of elites, and the foundations of legitimate rule in voluntary, deliberate and justifiable cooperation between individuals: right needs the support of might. Conversely, might is not always right. Chapter 11 discusses two aspects of the right: first, it summarizes and orders the criteria developed in the course of this book for legitimate political organization (both through political pluralization and through re-invigoration of central rule); secondly, it briefly discusses the place of the most popular substantive criterion for legitimate rule: social justice.

2

Political pluralization

2.1 New polities, new problems Above, I defined political pluralization as the emergence of ‘polities’ other than the state, where polity stands for any form of social organization within which (among other things) politics takes place, specifically the attribution of rights within that organized form of life. In this chapter, I shall give a more detailed description of political pluralization. In the course of the chapter, it will become clear that political pluralization has ‘consequences’ for the way in which politics is performed, the way in which it delivers its goods, as well as for the goods it can deliver in the first place. Consequences are just that: consequences. They are not in themselves interesting, challenging or problematic, let alone good or bad, desirable or undesirable. They only become interesting if something already recognized as valuable is at stake; the ‘thing that is at stake’ in turn colours the selection and description of the ‘consequences’. It is only fair that I inform the reader in advance about my colour, my particular ‘thing at stake’: liberal political theory. Virtually all of recent, mainstream political theory is predicated on the existence of a sovereign nation-state (cf. Levi 2002). It assumes the existence of a socially, economically and culturally more or less autarchic polity, which is endowed with a monolithic organization called ‘state’ that provides certain public goods (in a non-economic sense) to the polity. Schools within political theory focus on very different questions, and approach them from very different perspectives. Sometimes the topic of debate is the kinds of public goods the state should provide: those of the libertarian or ‘night watchmanstate’ (rules for exchange, protection of those rules, retribution for violations), of the welfare state (redistribution for undeserved advantages and disadvantages in capabilities and opportunities), or more – feminists, for instance, argued that the state also has responsibilities in the private sphere of family life, and ultimately convinced many a liberal. Sometimes the topic of debate is the choice of principles that are to guide the dispersal of public goods, sometimes the method of choice of such principles, sometimes (as for Marxism) the degree to which all of these debates make sense, i.e. the degree to which states can actually choose to deliver any goods. The debates and

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Political pluralization

schools within modern political theory can be described as variations on a theme: different answers to the questions what the machinery of state should and can do, how it should do it, and why. The point, however, is the shared theme, the shared assumption that there is a machinery of state. Thus, we can take John Rawls’ words to describe not only his own political theory but also communitarianism, republicanism, Marxism, feminism, libertarianism, and so on: I shall be satisfied if it is possible to formulate a reasonable conception of justice for the basic structure of society conceived for the time being as a closed system isolated from other societies. ( … ) It is natural to conjecture that once we have a sound theory for this case, the remaining problems of justice will prove more tractable in the light of it. With suitable modifications such a theory should provide the key for some of these other questions. (Rawls 1999a: 7) Even multiculturalism (Kymlicka 1995, 2002) fits most of this description of the object of modern political theory as the sovereign nation-state: it replaces the assumption of one culture with that of a dominant culture surrounded by minority cultures – together still forming ‘nations’ within one society and state. Likewise, in the recent debate (i.e. since roughly 2002) in political theory on global and international justice,1 either the classic state is assumed to be here to stay, or, as among cosmopolitans, in its stead a single undivided source of authority is constructed as desirable (cf. e.g. Barry 1999, 2005, Habermas 1999, 2004, Miller 1999, Langhelle 2000, Helm and Simonis 2001, Fraser 2004, Ignatieff 2004, Reidy 2004, Schlosberg 2004, Scruton 2004, Walzer 2004, Barry & Eckersley 2005, Nagel 2005, Paavola & Lowe 2005, Vaughan-Williams 2007). If political pluralization is, or will become, a fact of life, the classical state exists no more, and political theory loses its point of reference. Theoretically, this does not have to be a problem in at least one sense: valid arguments for political philosophical principles must be valid in every possible universe or they would not be valid anywhere. As I shall argue elsewhere in this book, political theory has always adapted successfully to a change of environment by simply redefining the polity, from Greek polis through all the Roman Empires down to the modern sovereign nation-state. A just ruler will allow the people to live honestly, give each his or her due, and not harm others, regardless of whether the ruler is an archon, an emperor or a faceless bureaucrat. In theory, then, it does not matter what the machine of politics looks like; making the machinery do what it should do is a practical, purely technical problem, not one that philosophers should worry about. Yet again, ‘ought’ implies ‘can’: if a principle X is universally valid, then we are obliged to put it into practice, and if we cannot, then we have a second obligation – to either design and create conditions under which we can, or, if that is

Political pluralization

15

impossible, reconsider the justification of principle X. The argument made in this book is that political pluralization offers a reason to put this second obligation into practice: the post-sovereign state’s political machinery cannot be expected to do what it is supposed to do (whatever that may be). This claim obviously contains an empirical element: the expectation that political pluralization is or will be actually as bad as it is made out to be. Until that hypothesis is proven (and since valid proof in political science is usually disproof, that may take quite some time), political theorists do not have anything to worry about. Then again, empirical research is sometimes a waste of time and money. We do not need empirical research to prove or disprove that raising corporate taxes induces capital flight, or that making political opponents disappear usually silences them. These are reasonable assumptions based on the logical mutual exclusion of alternatives. Then again, I would not want to suggest that empirical research into the viability and strength of the state is a waste of time; on the contrary, if political pluralization’s effects are as bad as they promise to be, such research is not just academically but also socially and politically of major interest. What would be a waste of time, however, is empirical research into the political sovereignty of the state as a means of assessing whether political pluralization is really taking place. As I shall argue later in this chapter, this is one of those reasonable assumptions for which no empirical proof is required. To turn the assumed ‘consequence’ of political pluralization – dysfunctionality of the polis – into a ‘problem’, we need something to be at stake, and what I shall assume to be at stake here is civilization, understood as the existence and protection in society of liberal-democratic values, thus choosing the side of the mainstream (or ‘dominant’) liberal school within political theory, with its interest in the design and vindication of liberal-democratic institutions. Liberalism as a school in political philosophy should be distinguished from liberalism as a political ideology. In the former sense, it presumes among other things: 1 the existence of an irreducible plurality of views on the good life, as a fact of political life, as a meta-ethical necessity, or both; 2 moral equality of individuals; 3 moral priority of the individual’s fate over that of more abstract entities; 4 neutrality in regard to individual plans of life and theories of the good on the part of the state, either as a political necessity or as a moral virtue; and 5 a consensus, at least hypothetically, among reasonable and impartial individuals as a necessary condition for the justification of principles, policies and institutions (cf. Wissenburg 1999a). Liberalism as a political ideology (see Section 4.5) adds to this a specific, substantive reason to care about liberal institutions: human emancipation. It is, therefore, possible to adhere to liberalism as a political theory without being a liberal in political practice.

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Political pluralization

Most philosophical liberals value a thing called liberal democracy. To avoid wasting time on discussions of the importance and quality of definitions, I shall simply list a set of ideas to which I attach the label ‘liberal democracy’ (Wissenburg 1998, 1999a, cf. Hawkesworth and Cogan 1992). It so happens that this set overlaps with other definitions or implicit understandings of liberal democracy, and is sometimes narrower and sometimes broader. Liberal democracy, then, is first and foremost a combination of two sets of ideas: liberal values on the one hand and democracy on the other. In its liberal aspect, liberal democracy is a political system that aims both to satisfy in its structure, and to protect in its actions, a series of normative principles considered to be near-absolute, valuable in themselves, and nonnegotiable. The exact formulation of these principles may differ from time to time, system to system, person to person, but they cover at least the following ideas: 1 2 3 4 5

equal consideration for the interests of individuals; equal respect for their opinions; liberty of conscience, i.e. of conceptions of a life worth living; liberty of action in the pursuit of a life worth living; protection of individuals on these four points against interference by others (individuals or institutions); 6 a just distribution of individual rights to the (im)material benefits and burdens of social cooperation, compatible with at least the above five points. In the vocabulary of one of the greatest liberal theorists, John Rawls, this could be rephrased as saying that liberalism: (1) acknowledges moral pluralism, that is, acknowledges that individuals have different plans of life and different theories of the good; (2) admits that these divergent views on life are either practically or theoretically (or both) irreducible to one substantive idea of the good; and (3) tries to accommodate the basic structure of society to these raw facts or moral imperatives. In its democratic aspect,2 liberal democracy is concerned with reflecting the preferences of individuals in the structure and actions of their shared institutions. Again, the idea is open to further specification. It is usually reflected in institutions like universal suffrage, an elected parliament of representatives, a parliament controlling government, and majority decision rules for members of government and parliament. The exact shape and form of the institutions may differ, moreover, (we can imagine alternative constellations) and the aim of democracy – reflecting rather than developing the preferences of individuals – is itself contentious. Liberal democracy is, in addition to its concern for liberal values and democracy, a political system that tries to reconcile the two, in a logical sense, mutually exclusive ideals (Wissenburg 1999c, cf. also Hyland 1995,

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17

Weale 1999). After all, guaranteeing liberal values implies that the people’s preferences may not be satisfied, and satisfying the latter may mean that liberal values must give way. Since liberal values do not necessarily cover the whole of social life – and therefore leave room for democratic decisionmaking – but democracy cannot permanently guarantee liberal values, the priority lies with liberal values. Constitutions and bills of rights usually enshrine the latter, and describe the limits they pose on democracy. Finally, like many other political systems, liberal democracy is concerned with stability. Note that the managers of political systems do not by definition aim for stability or understand society as a cooperative venture for mutual advantage. For one, the dictator of a banana republic may be concerned only with gaining maximum financial profit in a minimum amount of time and making a safe escape before the next coup d’état; for another, there are political theories that recommend a state of permanent revolution in order to, ultimately, abolish the state. In liberal democracies, stability is understood not only as formal institutional stability, i.e. the persistence of political and social institutions over a longer period of time, but also as substantial and individual stability. Liberal democracy puts a high value on continued substantial support from its citizens: in acting on and internalizing the values of the system, and in at least tolerating and, if possible, supporting the workings of the institutions (legitimacy). Being concerned with the fate of individuals, it also aims to ensure a stable basis of expectations for them: guarantees for and protection of individual rights, and an unambiguous attribution of rights. In all this, the legal system plays a key role – and this is where the state comes in. Liberal political theorists have, in their analyses of liberal democracy, come to depend heavily on the notion of the nation-state. There are historical and biographical reasons for this: liberal theorists generally grow up in nation-states. Hence, the assumption that it takes a nation and a state to realize and uphold liberal democracy, and to inhibit arbitrary and illegitimate use of power by private interests, groups or sections within civil society (or the state apparatus itself) – all this seemed natural, and indeed went unquestioned for a long time (Ackerman 1980, Barry 1995, Canovan 1996, Miller 1995, 1998, Rawls 1999a, 1993a, Shapiro 1996). The rediscovery of minority cultures, however, and the emergence of ‘unstately’ political institutions like the EU, are starting to gnaw away at the basis of the existing consensus. Mainstream political theorists, discussing issues like multicultural citizenship (Kymlicka 1995) or nationality (Barry and Goodin 1992, Tamir 1993, Miller 1995, Canovan 1996), try to retain the framework of states but admit to meeting increasing difficulties. It was only in early 1998 that one leading political philosopher, David Miller, summarized for the first time an extensive list of ‘state-fragmenting’ phenomena, ranging from political and economic globalization to nationalism, religious fundamentalism and deregulation. He then posed the crucial question: ‘are we still living in a world in which it makes sense to speculate and theorize about social justice[?]’ (Miller

18

Political pluralization

1998), moving on to argue that many of the preconditions of liberal democracy in general threaten to dissolve – even though states can still perform an important role.3 In addition, some (though surprisingly few) political theorists have begun to take an interest in the ‘constitution of Europe’, i.e. the desirable and feasible shape of the EU in relation to its member states (Weale and Lehning 1997, Weale and Nentwich 1998). Nonetheless, there are, or were, also sound theoretical reasons for associating liberalism with the nation-state. Democracy and liberal values need support on the one hand, and protection on the other. They need support in that they require a shared interpretation and internalization by the members of a reference group, say, a polis: without shared concepts and aims, cooperation in any form becomes impossible. Liberal values and democracy cannot exist without a kind of basic consensus within this reference group, implying that this general consensus can be neither too thick nor too thin. If there is too much consensus, if there are too many like-minded minds, deviant views of the good will become heresies, and majority views public prescriptions; if there is too little consensus, cooperation will be impossible. The international community, with its hundreds of states, thousands of cultures, millions of shared histories and billions of diverging individuals, seems too large and diverse; local communities and cultures seem too closed and too small to exist as viable schemes of cooperation. The ‘thing’ in the middle, however, that half-mystical, notoriously underspecified idea of a nation, seems ideally suited for a balance between thin and thick consensus. In it, the idea of a viable, i.e. independent scheme of cooperation (society) conflates with the idea of a shared basis of understanding (culture). Democracy and liberal values also need protection. Without codification and coordination, and without institutions to control their being respected, their survival would be in the hands of individuals and factions within the nation. Factions and individuals might see a relative advantage in violating them; society as a whole might evolve into a set of subsystems, each with its own rules contradicting, in word or effect, those of other subsystems. Apart from these incidental violations of democracy and liberal values, the absence of coordinating mechanisms threatens the structural stability of society. A nation therefore needs a hierarchic ordering of legitimate power: a point of origin for the (coordination of the) attribution of rights, endowed with powers (including the famous last-resort monopoly on violence) to implement its rules against any subordinate entity. In short: liberal democracy seems best associated with a nation and sovereign state. Against this background, we finally have a philosophical rather than ideological problem – two, in fact. Liberalism is predicated on the idea of a sovereign nation-state as the central unit of politics, an idea that does not correspond to reality. The state may still claim legal sovereignty and (up to this day) be central to political life, yet cracks are appearing between the actual power of states and the formal marks of their sovereignty, such as the monopolies on violence and on the attribution of rights within their

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territories. In addition, the nation-state as a state for one ‘people’ – whatever that may mean, exactly – is increasingly recognized as a construction rather than as a ‘real’ category (Gilbert 2000: 58ff.). A fundamental political change seems to be taking place: the state’s legitimate powers seem to be ‘fragmenting’ and ‘leaking away’ in various directions – to international institutions, to NGOs and the non-political sectors of civil society, to autonomous regions and so on.4 If sovereignty becomes a fiction, if the state is no longer firmly in control, and if apparently no one else is, liberal political theory has a conceptual problem: to which entities other than the state can or should the adjective ‘liberal-democratic’ refer? It also has a moral problem: how should we act in order to safeguard liberal values? In the next three sections, I shall introduce two types of political pluralization: internationalization and dehierarchization. I inspect these types of political pluralization with an eye to their effects on the viability of liberal democracy, that is, to the threat they may pose to six important elements of liberal democracy: liberal ideals like autonomy and equality, democracy, the balance between these two, the basic consensus in the reference group (the ‘polity’), the formal stability of the system, and the stability of individual expectations. In Section 2.5, I focus on political pluralization in itself, rather than on its observable manifestations, and on the three fundamental problems preceding all others, three reasons why political pluralization apparently threatens liberal civilization: incompossibility of rights, loss of polity and fragmentation of the reference group. Section 2.6 contains a preliminary discussion of solution strategies.

2.2 Internationalization Many of the ways in which states may lose power can be placed under the heading of internationalization (cf. Prokhovnik 2007: 76); what unites them is merely the fact that power crosses a border.5 International cooperation between states is a first example (an illustration will be discussed in Section 2.3), in so far as it involves self-binding: any state that commits itself to others to use its power in a particular way also loses power in a particular way. This is not to say that states lose their de jure sovereignty; unless they merge completely, they do not. What they give up by cooperating is the ethical right and – by their own internal standards – legal power to act differently, plus in some cases the actual physical capability to act in certain ways. In theory, any form of cooperation is voluntary and can be terminated voluntarily – states being sovereign – but this may prove difficult in practice. There are degrees of cooperation, and thereby degrees of power loss: incidental cooperation on one specific issue is quite different from, say, entering a mutual defence treaty, military cooperation within NATO, or delegating legislative, executive and judicial powers to the EU. It is far easier to end cooperation on a search and rescue operation than it is to step out of the EU – the latter may even be economic, organizational and political suicide

20

Political pluralization

(cf. Beck and Grande 2004). Yet these are matters of degree, not of principle. It is difficult to imagine states cooperating, even on an incidental basis, without binding themselves: if, by order of their individual authorities, naval ships of two states cooperate to save castaways in a storm, the states in question already commit themselves not to use their powers (in this case, the capacity of their ships) in the area where the other ship is sailing. The point is this: where and in so far as states cooperate, they deny themselves the legitimacy of using their power to deviate from the conditions of cooperation. Now one may want to argue that two can do more than one, that cooperation implies an expansion of power. In a way, this can but need not be true: cooperation creates a new actor, consisting of the cooperating parties, one that may be able to ‘do more’ (however that is measured) than its constituent parts individually. The point, however, is that those constituent parts (1) cannot do these extra things on their own and (2) commit themselves to terms of cooperation constraining their original freedom of action. Odysseus, when sailing past the Sirens, did not increase his own power by tying himself to the mast, nor that of his crew by stuffing their ears; what increased was the power of the collective aboard the ship. Power is interpreted here as individual (i.e. an actor’s) freedom of action, expressed in terms of the (number of) single acts that an actor is not prevented from by others (for more on this conception of power, see Van Hees and Wissenburg 1998). Weberian characterizations of power, in terms of the constraints put on others, can logically be represented as instances of power as individual freedom of action. The latter concept is broader: it also includes, for instance, interactions with an actor’s non-human environment, and it does not require consciousness of power. It is, however, a more limited conception of power than Steven Lukes’ three-dimensional conception (cf. Lukes 2005). Seen from this perspective on power, supranational (i.e. global) cooperation, as for instance in the establishment and implementation of international commercial, criminal, civil and martial law and human rights, usually has roughly the same effects as international cooperation (Nugent 1997, Marks et al. 1996, Nagel 2005: 138ff.). The difference is one in degrees of participation, not in the nature of the loss of power itself. A caveat is in order here, though: international law and supranational organizations occasionally recognize native peoples as legitimate actors on a par with sovereign nation-states. The result can be paradoxical: the implication is that a state may at the same time claim sovereignty over a native people and, as a sovereign state within a supranational structure, recognize that people as practically sovereign, thus both claiming and denying itself the power to dictate the terms of cooperation within its borders. A third form of internationalization appears at first sight to bear no relation whatsoever to the perception of states losing or delegating power: the ‘expansion’ of national law (and thereby sovereignty) across the borders of a state.6 Well-known examples are the prosecution by European countries of their citizens for various pedosexual offences committed in the Far East; the

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British government arresting the Chilean former dictator Pinochet on charges of murder on Spanish citizens; and (given a slightly different conception of law) the death sentence imposed on the author Salman Rushdie. It would seem that if state X arrests, tries and convicts its citizens for heresies committed in other countries, or visitors from other countries for heretical acts committed elsewhere against citizens of X, X only expands its powers. However, one state’s gain is – at least in principle – another’s loss: by expanding its legal domain across its borders, X actually imposes its laws on other sovereign states and their citizens. Fourthly, there is governance without government (cf. e.g. Young 1997): relatively independent international non-state actors (often made up of members appointed by governments) arranging affairs that could, and would otherwise, belong to the dominion of the state. Examples range from the International Air Transport Authority, via the Great Lakes International Joint Commission, to the Antarctic Treaty System. The idea of governance without government must be taken with a grain of empirical salt: non-state actors turn out to be only relatively independent from the state, states do have direct influence on their policies, an international civil society providing an independent basis of power and legitimacy for state-less governance is still lacking in most areas, and so on. Yet we see here, once again, ethical and legal loss of power: states binding themselves to a regime and denying themselves the moral and legal right use their power to deviate from the terms of cooperation. There is one special instance of governance without government where the diffusion of power is of a radically different nature: economic globalization (see e.g. Hout and Sie Dhian Ho 1997 and Jackson 2007 for further references). Economic globalization, at least in the form of the globalization of capital, can be placed under this heading precisely because it involves international non-state actors (companies) arranging affairs that would normally be dealt with by sovereign states: the distribution of wealth, welfare and opportunity over a society is part of their monopoly on the attribution of rights. The two fundamental differences from other forms of state-less governance are that economic globalization does not require states to abstain from their legal or ethical rights, and that it does involve a practical loss of power – which, as some political scientists argue, states try to counter by means of other forms of internationalization described here. Whether and to what degree this causal link exists does not concern us; what matters is that there is internationalization in many forms, and with it a loss of power on the side of the sovereign nation-state. So what do all these developments (and similar ones: cf. Kahler 2002) mean for liberal democracy? Insofar as typically liberal values (liberty, equality, justice) are concerned, their effects are limited and mixed. Possible negative effects are fairly obvious. Governance without government may mean that existing or new control mechanisms are insufficient to guarantee them. Supra- and international cooperation may result in ‘lowest common

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denominator liberalism’, that is, liberty, equality or justice only in areas on which participants agree, and only to the degree to which they agree: no Dutch tolerance for soft drugs and prostitution, no Danish or Belgian tolerance for racist printed material, no European-style welfare state, and so on. It may also lead to a more far-reaching international redistribution of power and welfare, and in an ever-increasing flow of individuals from excluded have-not countries to included haves – but these are in no way new or fundamental problems for liberal democracy. In some form or other, they already exist, are dealt with, and are dealt with more or less successfully. Internationalization can, on the positive side, protect and stimulate liberal values, as in the case of international law or in international cooperation aimed at countering the negative effects of economic globalization. Only in one respect does there seem to be a fundamental problem here, reemerging from the mists of history. The expansion of national sovereignty, with its subjection of individuals to two or more distinct supreme authorities, and their potentially incompatible rules, will leave individuals in the cold with regard to their rights and freedoms: whose rules are they to follow? Below, we shall see that this will turn out to be a pivotal problem in all instances of political pluralization. Note also that, to some degree, governance without government and the recognition of non-state actors as practically sovereign can have a similar effect. As a rule, the effects of internationalization processes on democracy are equally double-edged and circumstantial. On the one hand, they can improve the democratic element of public life. Internationalization offers a chance to include more and more people in the anonymous and previously uncontrolled processes that shape their lives. On the other, internationalization is not necessarily democratic, or aimed at furthering democracy. It can involve the creation of new institutions and policy fields, in which (inter) national elites and interest groups, in the widest possible sense of the word, can divide and conquer without publicity, interference or popular control. Again, these are neither new nor fundamental problems; again, there is a fundamental problem preceding their solution: the existence of a reference group. Democracy requires a will or, at the very least, a need to live together and cooperate, including a shared basic consensus on the terms of cooperation, thus creating a polis out of accidentally co-existing individuals. As observed above, in an international context this consensus may be too thin, or even absent. This same problem reappears when we consider whether ‘internationalized’ political systems can find and guarantee a balance between liberal values and democracy. The practical results of such efforts are unpredictable, yet theoretical criteria can be designed. One example may suffice to illustrate the problem: the currently most popular liberal theory of justice evaluates political institutions on the basis of the so-called reflective equilibrium approach (Rawls 1999a, 1993a, 1999b; Singer 1976, 1987). This demands a repeated two-way comparison between, and if necessary adaptation of, moral

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intuitions on the one hand, and preconditions for an impartial judgement (think of John Rawls’ veil of ignorance) on the other, until a match between the two has been found. If we want just international institutions to be democratic, and if they are more than one-shot cooperative ventures, an equilibrium will have to be found among the intuitions of all involved, regardless of nationality, creed and level of development (cf. Goodin 1992b). John Rawls has already concluded that the difference between an affluent and a poor society in its appreciation of the relative value and substitutability of economic and political liberties was enough to justify two distinct conceptions of justice, one for poor societies, and one for affluent societies (Rawls 1999b). Reconciliation between the intuitions of members of both poor and affluent societies was considered impossible; Rawls therefore rejected the idea of an international reflective equilibrium (Rawls 1993a, 1993b, 1999b): there would simply be no basic consensus among them. The width and possible absence of a basic consensus is ultimately an empirical issue. There are indications for the evolution of an international civil society (Young 1997), yet even if these feeble signs are signs of life, they may not be enough. A basic consensus for a society requires more than shared interests and a limited set of (apparently) interculturally accepted legal criteria. It also takes a shared identity and identification, schemes of cooperation without which everyone would be worse off, a shared perception and culture. In other words, a real-life basic consensus presupposes the existence of a unifying context, a reference group performing all these functions. The more the nation-state appears to be withdrawing, the less it serves as a reference group. The question then arises of whether the new institutions that fill in for the state can serve as reference groups. As far as the formal stability of political institutions is concerned, internationalization again does not have to have adverse effects. The liberaldemocratic nation-state, being historically contingent (see e.g. Spruyt 1994, Jackson 2007: 315), had predecessors that were stable and ‘international’, in so far as the word nation is appropriate, yet, lacking complete monopolies, failed to meet modern definitions of the sovereign state. One example is the Roman Empire, with its centre of power and tributary allies; another is medieval Europe – without a clear centre of power, but with a system of mutual obligations binding individuals to the often contradictory rules of feudal lords and princes of the Church, cities, guilds and so forth. The example of medieval Europe also highlights why internationalization may result in instability of expectations – a threat to which no known answers exist. Nation-states,7 civil societies and the economic sphere all impose systems of legal and moral rules on their members; to keep things simple, let us call the products of these systems ‘rights’. Nation-states (being sovereign) ideally operate as monopolists, attributing rights either directly to individuals or indirectly through the channels of civil society and economy. They are prepared to exercise their monopoly on the use of violence to protect the former monopoly. Liberal democracy exists in part because there is a

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monopolist attributing rights – an actor who is prepared to exercise its monopoly on the use of force to protect this first monopoly, an actor, finally, whose authority rests on legitimacy in the eyes of its subjects. Where heterarchy occurs, where the monopoly on the attribution of rights crumbles and two or more authorities independently attribute rights to the same individual, freedoms and obligations become insecure. If one independent authority grants me an absolute right to freedom of movement, and another grants you an absolute ownership right to your car, meaning you can do with it as you please, our two rights logically contradict one another. Not only can they physically efface one another when we happen to be in the same place at the same time exercizing our respective rights, they also conceptually cancel one another: their combined implication is that we both have an absolute right to fill the same space in the universe at every moment in time. (Obviously, rights do not have to be absolute to physically contradict one another; nor do they need to be legal rights only.) In deontic logic, this problem is referred to as that of the ‘incompossibility’ of rights (Steiner 1994, cf. Wissenburg 1998, 1999a): the attribution of rights to contradictory or mutually effacing (‘existentially overlapping’) acts of one or more agents. Partly because legal forums still created a form of hierarchy acknowledged by all, if necessary by force, medieval society could live with a degree of incompossibility;8 liberal democracy, however, cannot. If a political constellation (a state, an international organization or whatever) ceases to guarantee liberty, equality and justice, it ceases to be a liberal democracy – or so it would seem.

2.3 The treaty culture To further illustrate what internationalization as a form of political pluralization means, I shall discuss one example in this section of international cooperation between states: the treaty. Treaties today are not what they used to be in medieval times; no longer are they treaties between rulers, solemnly sealed with formal oaths and the like, and with an extra flavour of sacredness added by their being written down and solemnly signed. Nor are treaties what they became after 1648, after the peace of Westphalia, when (as the myth goes; see Section 8.2), for the first time, not individual rulers but representatives of sovereign nation-states, and those representatives only, signed an agreement mutually recognizing each other’s sovereignty. For a long time, every treaty was exactly like this – a declaration in which two or more parties first declared themselves, willed themselves, sovereign nationstates, were then mutually recognized as such by the other parties, and finally came to the point that they wished to create peace, or to conspire in war or for peace. Today, the aims of most treaties have changed. Since roughly 1945, but perhaps for the first time in 1919 when the League of Nations was founded, they have become more and more self-binding agreements on the internal

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rules of nation-states – and yet they still retain the fiction of sovereignty. Sovereignty, to be more exact, is a legal fiction at the very least if we define legality in a positive sense as a rule or concept that is actually followed, and actually accepted in the minds or acts of real, existing individuals. Sovereignty has become a fiction because it no longer reflects political reality. Instead, we live in times of political pluralization. The intention of international treaties is obviously not to add to the confusion, not to increase political pluralization, but to diminish it. We can understand them as incorporating means to protect and restore sovereignty. Within the EU, to give only one telling example, treaties between member states on workers’ rights that are ‘dictated’ by Brussels (read: negotiated between members) have often been used by individual governments ‘at home’ to enforce locally unpopular measures (Van der Vleuten 2007). By the same token, the existence and evolution of the EU itself is often interpreted as a strategy of sovereign nation-states struggling to retain or regain control over their social, political and economic affairs. Yet this strategy of protecting sovereignty through treaties between sovereign states is, I would argue, self-defeating in one important respect. It is not self-defeating in any legal respect – each and every treaty mutually recognizing sovereignty reinforces sovereignty. The legal authority of the state, its potestas, remains unchallenged; its actual power, on the other hand, its potentia, diminishes with every treaty, since a modern treaty implies selfbinding – that is, it implies that a state either limits its own liberty of action, or hands over control to a regime or treaty organization. The more governments bind themselves with promises to others (and the more they keep their promises, that is, the more they implement treaties), the greater grows the discrepancy between potentia and potestas, between political and legal sovereignty. In other words, the EU (like any treaty organization) is at the same time an instance of political pluralization and a countermeasure to attempt to deal with pluralization. We can understand modern international treaties, and the rationality of signing and keeping them, only if we ignore the legal fiction of sovereignty, and the idea that treaties are signed by (representatives of) sovereign nationstates. We are dealing with something more akin to any two actors – be they individuals or corporations, political, economic or other – negotiating mutually beneficial deals in return for the sacrifice of things considered, overall, less beneficial. Thus, we should understand the contracting parties to a treaty (states) not as absolute, sovereign powers, but as ‘supreme’ powers, as ‘high powers’ trying to maintain, regain or establish control, and as one type of political actor amid others. Treaties are a matter of the generation and redistribution of power: they involve two or more power players acting together, supporting each other, to ensure that mutually accepted and overall beneficial aims are met. Of course, mutual advantage demands also that some sacrifices in terms of, for instance, liberty of action have to be made; in a power play, moreover, not all parties

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necessarily gain or lose equally. Let me illustrate this with the Association Agreement between the EU and Chile (European Union 2003a, 2003b). The 1450 page Association Agreement between the EU (or more precisely: the European Community), its Member States, and the Republic of Chile (signed on 18 November 2002), is only one of many treaties ruling international relations these days. It is also a very specific kind of treaty – meaning that due to its focus on specific issues, it is not representative of all treaties. A quick glance through other EU treaties, however, indicates that conclusions drawn here with regard to this particular treaty apply, mutatis mutandis, to all EU treaties with other countries. The official (EU) interpretation of the treaty is that it consists of three parts (chapters): political, trade and cooperation. However, the reader immediately notices that the trade and cooperation chapters both deal with the same thing: the economic relations between EU and Chile. The opening formalities and the political chapter take up 56 articles and far less pages – the economic part takes up articles 57–197 and all of the seventeen annexes. In the official summary, the political chapter contains articles on ‘the political dialogue between the EU and Chile’ that is to be ‘strengthened’, on an aspiration to ‘coordinate positions and undertake joint initiatives in international fora’, and on cooperation ‘in the fight against terrorism’. The means to these aims are dialogue, ‘increased’ consultation, involvement of civil society, and something mysteriously called ‘the regular contribution of the Association Parliamentary Committee’. The summary is more or less accurate. What it says – and what the treaty says – is that no party is obliged to follow another’s dictates, yet they shall remain on speaking terms. The exact means of communication are left in the dark – let us be honest, a commitment to talk without schedules and agendas attached is not exactly a clear commitment. What is important to note about these first 56 articles is not only their non-committal nature, indicating that the governments involved do not mind good advice, but do object to interference in – with a classic expression – ‘the internal affairs of a sovereign state’. There is more; the treaty pays special attention to cooperation and exchange of information on one very specific subject: the efficiency and effectiveness of government bureaucracies, partly veiled behind expressions like (art. 16.1(a)) the institutional capacity to underpin democracy, partly more openly by inviting cooperation to secure the modernization of the state and its institutions. In so far as the treaty has any explicit political objectives backed up by action goals, then, these aims are to protect the state against loss of actual power. At the same time, though, the treaty establishes an Association Council with independent powers (Article 3), supported by an Association Committee of bureaucrats. This is political pluralization at its best: on the one hand, an attempt to strengthen the state, on the other, instruments that take away some of its power – and it does take away power, because the Association Council is given quite a task in the following 140-odd articles.

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Compared to the relatively non-committal political part, the economic articles of the treaty are a completely different kettle of fish. Of course, there are non-committal bits of text here as well, even meaningless phrases, like my personal favourite in Article 16.1(c), where the parties agree that they will seek to ‘stimulate productive synergies’. Overall, the economic part has real substance, however. According to the summary, they cover ‘a wide range of areas’, which is something of an understatement. There are articles on industrial cooperation, on standards and assessments, on services, on investment opportunities, on transport, energy, agriculture, fishery, statistics, customs, environment, consumer and data protection, intellectual property, science and technology, mining, tourism, and much more. The summary also says, about the economic part of the treaty, that ‘Chile and the EU have reached a very ambitious and innovative agreement that goes well beyond their respective WTO commitments.’ Not only does it do that, it also does something else, by logical implication: it binds the parties to an immense number of mutual and one-sided obligations and rules – all accompanied by incredibly precise time schedules, percentages, definitions and whatnot. One may bicker with the EU summary about whether economic development really goes hand in hand with social development and the protection of the environment – attention for the last two is far more limited and far less precise – but one cannot deny that the treaty is an impressive attempt to control economic developments. This becomes even clearer when we compare all these articles relating to the free movement of goods to the one single article dealing with the free movement of humans – all it says there is that the parties agree to take back their nationals once the other party has kicked them out as illegal immigrants. Here, of course, we see the double face of political pluralization again: on the one hand, self-binding, on the other, empowering the state in the attempt to check and direct economic globalization, the evolution of a modern global economy. In both lies mutual advantage for the contracting parties, to the exclusion of other parties. Exactly who benefits, where and when, from which part of the economic obligations, and who pays, is an interesting topic for further research. The Association Agreement between the EU and Chile illustrates many of the points I made earlier. Obviously, inductive evidence cannot be taken as proof for the political pluralization thesis itself, but it does indicate that political pluralization can serve as a fruitful interpretative scheme. Ultimately, the treaty combines two (apparently) contradictory motives: on the one hand, the desire to maintain the legal fiction of state sovereignty, on the other, the attempt to control, or regain control of, international economic relations. We can then interpret the treaty as a countermeasure against political pluralization, and at the same time as a factor contributing to it. The result is as contradictory as the treaty (or any modern treaty) itself: the more self-binding a treaty is, the more it adds to the fragmentation and

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pluralization of politics, and the greater the discrepancy becomes between the potestas of the legally sovereign state and the potentia of the state as one among many powerful actors. Treaties seem to be nails in the coffin of the sovereign state, or to use another metaphor, the sovereign nation-state apparently brings forth its own undertakers: the treaties that dig its grave. How to assess this development – that is, assuming I am right? Two comments are in order here. First, there is the question of whether or not treaties themselves have negative consequences; they do, at least in terms of political pluralization. The development of increasing numbers of treaties and regimes between an increasing number of states, and their increasing depth, will not lead to chaos and the end of civilization. (Although the exclusion of so-called rogue states may have this effect, exactly because they feel excluded – and they cannot be included because there is little to gain in it for other ‘civilized’ parties.) In terms of economic control, they may or may not have the desired effect, and that effect may or may not be desirable – that depends on one’s views on free trade, and on the contribution the treaty makes to it. In political-institutional terms, it brings with it all the troubles of political pluralization: the danger of incompossibility, loss of polity and loss of identification. It also undermines the position of the state as the one factor ideally bringing stability to society and to the lives of the individuals within society. This brings me to a second, more fundamental comment: should we mourn the passing of the sovereign state? Note once more that I do not wish to imply that the state as a very powerful actor is disappearing – the evidence (for instance the number of treaties and regimes) evidently points in a different direction. What I have argued is that one of the state’s properties, sovereignty, is more and more becoming a fiction – if ever it had any reality – and what I am asking is whether sovereignty is a desirable property in a state or not. Not so long ago, the Canadian government, faced with the question of the legitimacy of intervention in regional conflicts elsewhere in the world (one of the greatest political dilemmas since the fall of communism), asked an international commission of experts for their opinion. The result is a report (Evans and Sahnoun 2001) that has a number of interesting things to say about sovereignty. First, the experts give a positive (empirical) argument for sovereignty: it would be needed because ‘effective and legitimate states remain the best way to ensure that the benefits of the internationalization of trade, investment, technology and communication will be equitably shared’ (Evans and Sahnoun 2001: 1.34). The sovereign state, the Commission argues, is often the last or only line of defence against global inequality of power and resources (Evans and Sahnoun 2001: 1.32). Let us assume for a moment that the Commission is right, that sovereignty can help states to defend themselves against global inequality – this is a question which empirical political scientists can perhaps settle. What is more interesting in

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the present context, are the reasons the Commission gives for this apparent defensive duty. On the one hand, they argue, sovereignty expresses a recognition of equal worth and dignity for states and peoples, and affirms ‘their right to shape and determine their own destiny’. What legitimizes sovereignty then is something deeper: there is, apparently, a kind of (natural?) right to collective self-determination – which raises a question the Commission does not answer (nor does anyone in our times – it seems to be a highly controversial issue): what justifies the superiority and even the existence of a collective like a state, a nation, a people, in the first place? Peoples and nations perhaps really exist at any given moment in time, but they are also historical and ideological constructions. Their existence is no more morally legitimate than that of the Mongol Khanate, the medieval aristocracy, the Caliphate – the mere fact that they exist or existed cannot morally justify their existence. On the one hand then, the Commission makes the problematic claim that sovereignty can be good because it serves collective self-determination. On the other, it argues that sovereignty is more than a right to external independence and a right to internal self-rule. Sovereignty also implies a duty, or in the words of the commission, a responsibility. It is not a ‘claim of the unlimited power of a state to do what it wants to its own people’, but a dual responsibility ‘externally – to respect the sovereignty of other states, and internally, to respect the dignity and basic rights of all the people within the state’ (Evans and Sahnoun 2001: 1.35). In other words: sovereignty is a good only when it is used to enforce the rights of individuals, beginning with the state’s own citizens – but the responsibility also extends to individual members of other states that do not perform their duty. Two things follow from this observation. One is that the Commission contradicts itself. If one reads the report, one sees this clearly in the difficulties the Commission has in limiting, rather than justifying, the right to intervention. On the one hand, sovereignty is justified by what it does to individuals and their universal rights, regardless of local customs and rules; on the other, it is justified by an underdeveloped argument for collective selfrule. One cannot blame the Commission alone for this contradiction, although one can blame it for not seeing it – the Commission merely expresses a contradiction that is imminent to the modern concept of sovereignty. The second observation one can make also concerns a contradiction: on the one hand, sovereignty is there to protect individuals (or peoples) against global inequality and, although the Commission does not use those terms, exploitation and subjection. On the other hand, however, this immediately makes sovereignty a weapon of the powerful: it allows them to protect themselves not against inequality but against equality. So is the (hypothetical) demise of sovereignty worth mourning? We have not seen any clear reasons to morally appreciate sovereignty – the concept is too ambiguous. Yet the protection of humans, regardless of whether that includes or excludes rights to creating collectives, borders, insiders and

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outsiders, friends and enemies, requires clear rules and clearly visible authorities, and not the confusion created by political pluralization. What we should ask ourselves then, in the final analysis, is whether treaties like the Association Agreement, and that treaty in particular, contribute to the certainty, safety and stability of individual lives, and to the prevention of unjustified inequality on a global level. The fact that we cannot answer this question immediately bodes ill for the treaty, as it does for the modern treaty culture as a whole.

2.4 Dehierarchization A pattern is emerging, which allows us to move more swiftly past other types of diffusion of power and political pluralization to a separation between fundamental problems of principle and less fundamental – though not necessarily less simple – practical problems for liberal democracy. Next to internationalization, then, we can distinguish political delegation of power as a distinct way in which states can lose power and polities can fragment (pace Prokhovnik 2007: 3, 116, 209–11). A classic example is the recognition by states of (the exclusive authority of) pre-state institutions within their domain, ranging from precolonial kingdoms in Africa and Asia to the Ottoman, more or less clan-like, authorities on the Arabic peninsula. Although in temporal terms the state’s power exists by virtue of whatever powers such institutions lost, logically speaking a state loses power to them: it must be sovereign prior to refraining from exercising its powers. A more modern example is offered by border-crossing regional authorities (e.g. Euregions) to which two or more states have delegated power, in some instances (those in which the regional authority is autonomous) creating a new state. The consequences of political delegation of power for liberal democracy do not differ too much from those of internationalization. In terms of liberal values, democracy and the balance between the two, the effects can be both negative and positive. Obviously, new borders and limits are created both for individual liberty and participation: the creation of an autonomous Scotland could exclude the English from political positions and participatory rights in Scotland, and the Scots from the English equivalents, for instance. Yet these borders need not be oppressive. They may actually create a more stable basis for individual development, in protecting a shared but endangered language, culture and history and, as a consequence, protect individual members of a people against cultural schizophrenia (Kymlicka 1995). A further effect may be that more weight is given to those affected most by collective decisions: the Scottish vote obviously carries more weight in a Scottish parliament than in Westminster. It all depends on how the polity is defined, and on how liberal its constitution allows it to be. Nor does delegation have to result in formal instability, or in instability of expectations: whatever else may be said about the British, French and Dutch

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colonial empires, they were clear examples of how relative autonomy within a hierarchical structure could avoid incompossibility and promoted the system’s stability. Again, it is only the question of a basic consensus that poses problems, albeit in the opposite direction. All of the above possibilities for liberal democracy are predicated on a well-balanced basic consensus within the polity, yet the smaller the size and the higher the autonomy, the higher the risk that the consensus is just too thick. As mentioned before, culturally closed communities can be quite oppressive for plans of life, lifestyles and habits that deviate from the norm. More fundamentally, the success of political delegation of power also depends on the existence of a reference group but, like internationalization, it creates institutions next to the state, meaning there is more than one potential reference group to relate to. A third type of fragmentation of power occurs inside the borders of the nation-state: the depoliticization of power. In essence, this means that the state retreats from certain policy areas, a phenomenon often misleadingly referred to as deregulation – misleadingly, since rules, rights and duties do not disappear but merely originate in other spheres within society. In Muslim countries, depoliticization of power often takes the shape of an (informal) transfer of executive and judicial responsibilities from the state to organized religion, allowing the interpreters of the Koran to also interpret civil law, and outline legitimate policy aims and means. In the West, it takes at least two forms: that of a transfer of power to civil society and, more recently, as one of the defining characteristics of Third Way social policy, to the private sector (privatization of public and social services, see e.g. Hirst 1993, Cable 1995, Schuyt 1997, Social Philosophy and Policy 1997/2, Wissenburg 2001b). Depoliticization of power exhibits the same diffuse pattern of effects on (the viability of) liberal democracy. It can, but need not, increase individual autonomy and freedom of choice; it can, but need not, improve participation, yet may also reduce responsiveness; it can mean that new checks and balances are introduced to secure a balance between liberalism and democracy, yet it can also endanger that balance by bringing forth an uncontrolled and uncontrollable dominant sphere in society, a fear voiced by Michael Walzer (1983) as well as Jürgen Habermas (1981) and John Dryzek (1990). The system can be (formally) stable, as the medieval experience has shown, but it is also in danger of threatening the stability of the individual’s expectations: incompossibility of the rules of distinct social spheres is a far from imaginary threat. Finally, depoliticization can have a positive effect in terms of the basic consensus required to ensure social cooperation, in that the rules for the distribution of rights in one social sphere (say, education) may be devised more consensually without the rules of another (say, production) dominating (Walzer 1983), yet it also results in a fragmentation of institutions, the reference group and loyalties. A fourth type of political pluralization bears some resemblance to political delegation of power: the separation of nation and state. It takes many forms, from ethnic nationalism and tribalism to mere demands for the recognition

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of a regional language or customs, but the result is essentially the same: national minorities see their existence recognized and their autonomy increased (Miller 1995, Kymlicka 1995, Anderson 1996). The effects are also essentially similar to those of political delegation: apart from the threats posed by the incompossibility of systems of rights and the fragmentation of reference groups, it all depends on contingent empirical circumstances. Finally, mimicking depoliticization, new political issues tend to be dealt with more and more in arenas other than the state, or with the state playing only a minor role. The difference with depoliticization is that these issues either never even reach the agenda of the state, or are dealt with by others, pre-empting the state. Ulrich Beck has referred to this phenomenon as subpolitics (Beck 1997). Examples can be found in the environmental arena, where companies and environmental movements increasingly operate together on the basis of covenants, in the area of emancipation, but also in those of more recently ‘repoliticized’ issues like physical security (crime in the streets) and socio-economic security (cf. Schuyt 1997). To cut a long story short: the effects of sub-politics resemble those of depoliticization. Again, only incompossibility and the fragmentation of the reference group seem unavoidable; everything else depends on contingent circumstances.

2.5 The challenges of political pluralization As scholars, we like to distinguish between, on the one hand, less interesting superficial changes in our social environment, changes that are ‘business as usual’, changes that are not in fact ‘real’ changes at all, and, on the other hand, structural changes, macro changes, true political change. The real world often refuses to oblige: real life often makes it quite hard to distinguish between passing phenomena and lasting change. The process of political pluralization is as hypothetical as its constituents, dehierarchization and internationalization: it is an interpretation of political changes in the role of the nation-state since, roughly, the end of WWII. It essentially refers to the emergence of ‘polities’ other than the nation-state, undermining the actual power of state governments without (as yet) denying the formal sovereignty of the state. Sovereignty, in this context, should be read as external independence and, slightly more unusual, as having the internal supreme authority over the distribution of rights in society (a monopoly and freedom to recognize licensed ‘subcontractors’). The traditional expression of internal sovereignty as a monopoly on power is justified by, and is the means to, this end (Wissenburg 1999c). Two further remarks are in order here. First, not all political change since WWII can or need be interpreted as political pluralization. The riots surrounding WTO meetings over the past decade, for instance, signal a less than complete harmony in the relation between states, NGOs and civil society. Secondly, one could argue that liberal democracies are built on the recognition of (moral pluralism and, consequently) ‘state-free’ social spheres (family, economy, religion,

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education, etc.), and thereby on power sharing. The cardinal difference with political pluralization is that the latter implies something even libertarians will distrust: an increasing gap between formal sovereignty and actual power or, in other words, the deterioration of the state’s monopoly on the attribution of rights and the use of power. Being sovereign, the state by definition reserves for itself the legal authority to regain what it loses or delegates but, in many instances in the real world, this may be or may become impossible. As said above, even for the great powers, the price of retreating from international cooperative structures may be too high in terms of economic prosperity, reliability or viability, and the resistance from citizens, civil society, corporate life or minorities – who all stand to lose often dearly-gained freedom – may be too severe. Once it has delegated enough power for long enough, similar problems will make it difficult for the nation-state to regain its authority within its borders. For those accustomed to moral pluralism, and committed to the values of liberal democracy, the emergence of a politically plural world signals a long and very diverse list of problems. I have not even begun to list them seriously in this chapter, nor was that my intention. What I hoped to demonstrate is that we may expect many of these problems to be of a contingent nature: there is no logical reason why they cannot be solved, and whether or not they occur depends mainly on pliable circumstances. The quality of democracy, for example, may improve or decrease with the introduction of international cooperative organizations; this depends, among other things, on whether these organizations create room for participation, on the kind of room they create, and on the width of the basic consensus among the participating individuals. The simultaneous introduction of sub-state polities can have the same effects given the same side constraints. However, particularly if we consider the cumulative effect of all types of fragmentation of the state’s powers described here, we have detected three more fundamental and logically prior problems that need to be solved if liberal democracy in a politically plural world is to remain viable: incompossibility, loss of polity and fragmentation of the reference group.9 (All this is not to say that the kind of problems that I called contingent may not be crucial for the real world, or for the survival of liberal democracy.) Incompossibility occurs wherever two systems of rules logically contradict one another, and when meta-rules assigning priority to one system or rule over another are lacking. If we can no longer assume that the state is really sovereign, practically capable of wielding its monopolies on the attribution of rights and the use of force to support it, then (no matter how sovereign it claims to be under international law) the state can no longer guarantee the rights and duties of individuals, the stability of their expectations, the security that allows them to cooperate and live a life of their own making – many of the things we value in liberal democracy for liberal reasons. Unlike other problems, this one is fundamental: without a hierarchy in rule systems, there is no logical solution to the danger of incompossibility. Competing

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authorities with (morally or legally) equally strong claims to supremacy may function as checks and balances on one another (cf. William of Ockham 2005: 323), but a power to obstruct is not the same as a power to create or warrant. The nation-state itself is historically contingent; if it changes shape, it may still in some way retain the form of a polis, a more or less self-sustained and self-sustainable scheme of cooperation (society) with a unifying political structure exactly mapping society. The emergence of political plurality implies a fragmentation of the reference group, the polis. What follows is the mirror-image of incompossibility: the individual’s loyalties to different political entities may clash. In addition, loyalty to democratic institutions may diminish since representatives in political arena X cannot always influence the outcome of the fight in arena Y – in other words, representatives do not or cannot always represent us where and when we want them to. Although democracy (as a voting and decision-making system) remains possible in some form or other, fragmentation offers far less protection for basic liberal values and human rights than we – political theorists and citizens – may find desirable. Note that fragmentation of the reference group applies in two directions. Individuals can, on the one hand, no longer address one clear source of authority and guarantor of justice (cf. Nagel 2005: 115), nor be sure to which polity they belong at any given moment, let alone where and if their neighbour fits in the same ‘polity’.10 On the other hand, political institutions (like, but no longer exclusively, the state) are also affected: they no longer have a clear and distinct polity to address. The state’s tendencies (for instance) to operate as an equal partner of other institutions and as a more or less commercial ‘service provider’ to citizens have not only undermined its standing and authority, making it ‘one of the boys’ rather than the highest authority in society. These and other incarnations of political pluralization have also created a world in which the state, its institutions and its individual representatives, can no longer defend (or believe) a claim to ultimate authority over the distribution of rights in any particular area of social interaction. In the next chapter, focusing on one policy arena only (that of environmental policy), we shall first take a look at the positive side – that is, the possible advantages of political pluralization. It may well be, after all, that the (so far fairly abstract and hypothetical) risks ascribed to political pluralization are, or can be, outweighed by gains made in other areas. The combined power of states could help not only to control economic globalization, but also to reinforce the position of individual states. Political pluralization implies a plurality of policies – which may make policy more effective and efficient, and therefore more digestible and legitimate. Finally, political pluralization may actually rid us of superfluous government interference, putting power and responsibility (both actual and moral) back into the hands of citizens as (for instance) producers and consumers. Regardless of how coping with political pluralization rather than confronting it may

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work out (my conclusions will be rather pessimistic), however, there is a sense in which no amount of advantages can outweigh the disadvantages of political pluralization: advantages do not make the disadvantages go away. As far as liberal political theory is concerned, we can draw two conclusions. For one, problems like incompossibility and reference group fragmentation bring an age-old and almost forgotten issue back onto the research agenda: sovereignty. The easiest, most obvious solution for incompossibility and fragmentation would be to say that a modern world with ‘less’ state still requires an overarching sphere of sovereignty, now to be attributed to a different entity – a new, effective and powerful Hobbesian sovereign. Yet how can this fairly classical solution be morally justified – and hence gain legitimacy and feasibility – in the absence of a basic consensus? Alternatively, we can try to ignore the problem, cope with it and hope that it will go away, and let the disease run its natural course (which is the medieval solution). Or are there, perhaps, ways of creating a stable hierarchy of rule systems, of justifying principles, of negotiating in case of disagreement and of ‘deciding’ (cutting the Gordian knot) where agreement is impossible, without invoking the notion of sovereignty? This question, the question of a proper conception of politics in a politically and morally pluralized world, will be addressed in Chapters 4–7. Secondly, with or without a new sovereign, the family of concepts that we relate today to the concept of the polis – state, nation, nation-state, society, etc. – does not take sufficient account of the economic, social and political fragmentation within and across borders. Our present conception11 of the polis does not suffice in theory, and may not suffice in practice, as the basic composite – the molecule – of the politically plural world of tomorrow. Alternative conceptions of the polis are rare and difficult to (re)construct, however. One alternative that may be germane to future research is the medieval conception of the polis, but it may also be fruitful to consider theorists who tried to escape the medieval framework, e.g. Jean Bodin. In Bodin’s view of sovereignty, the sovereign does not rule a unified polis, but rather creates one out of a politically plural world where individuals are united by what he calls the cité (Bodin 1961). The cité is civil society, made up of interdependent yet (in principle) independent cities and villages, guilds, universities and parishes – any political entity, any body producing and distributing freedoms and opportunities that unite people. It would be interesting to see (as we will in Chapter 8) if we can rethink the emergence of new political entities in a politically plural and ‘global’ world, or even recast liberal theory itself, in terms of the cité – both with and without a sovereign power ‘to rule them all and in the darkness bind them’.

2.6 Other directions This book is built on what may keep the appearance of a counterfactual assumption: the demise of the state’s political sovereignty and its

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replacement by political pluralization. I have tried to show that this alternative understanding of the place, strength and role of the state in present day politics cannot be ruled out as a priori untrue, i.e. as counterfactual. I will, however, remain careful and qualify this hypothesis as a counterfactual but not unreasonable reading of politics. All I ask is that we momentarily suspend belief in the state’s political sovereignty, and endorse the idea that politics also takes place in arenas and through institutions that are not congruent with the nation-state. For the moment, it is not important whether political science will confirm or deny that processes of secession, unification, fragmentation, dehierarchization and so on are actually taking place – what matters is that those processes can and may take place, and can be interpreted as political pluralization. My aim in this book is to assess what our response should be to political pluralization, if we want to protect the liberal-democratic values and practices that the sovereign nation-state ‘used to’ protect. More specifically, I want to investigate whether coping, negotiating or building new institutions (and if so, which ones) can help us deal with three of the most obvious threats: incompossibility of rule systems, loss of polity and loss of identity. This quest will lead us to a new – and I believe more realistic – conception of the polity that offers room for a less megalomaniac conception of the state next to other voluntary and involuntary political associations. The topic, aim and conclusion of this book are easily misunderstood, and it is for that reason that I also need to explain what this book is not about: it is not a defence of the empirical thesis that the state is withering away, and it is not a product or defence of the normative positions of anti-statism, political pluralism or panarchism. The debate within empirical political science on the (assumed) waning of the state has already been discussed above, in Section 2.1. Briefly and once more, firstly my thesis is not that the state is ‘disappearing’, becoming ‘less important’ or ‘less prominent’, or that it is ‘losing authority and legitimacy’, as the withering of the state was sometimes operationalized, but that its power is diminishing: it is no longer politically sovereign (if ever it was, pace Jackson 2007). There is no contradiction between the state losing or derogating power and its becoming more important, prominent, present, even necessary – as we saw for example in Section 2.3: states banding together may increase the power of the collective well beyond the sum of its members’ individual power, while at the same time the members (states) themselves give up power by binding themselves to the conditions for cooperation. Secondly, my thesis is that (it is reasonable to entertain the possibility that) political pluralization is taking place, and to prepare for the worst. The state exists and will continue to exist for quite a while. It claimed legal sovereignty, and will continue to do so. It claimed (but, I assume, cannot sustain a claim to) political sovereignty, to really being the supreme political power within society. Assuming the existence of only one people forming one society ruled by one state is either wishful thinking or an overabstraction. Where

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postmodernists, poststructuralists and post-Marxists will argue that ‘the people’ or ‘society’, as constructions, are being deconstructed and are decomposing as we speak (together with the notion of individual identity), I argue that the one state is coming apart – partly in its legal and formal structure, through internationalization and dehierarchization, and partly for real, i.e. in our hearts and minds; this leaves us, potentially, in limbo. Rather than defending an empirical thesis, this book considers normative positions, responses to political pluralization. It does not necessarily follow, however, that the processes to which these responses are addressed are themselves the topic of normative assessment. I neither defend the state as morally desirable nor oppose it as morally repugnant or inferior – as representatives of anti-statism, political pluralism and panarchism would – nor do I defend or oppose political pluralization. First and foremost, this book is not anti-statist. I may describe the sovereign nation-state as a Leviathan, a snooping, meddlesome, interfering and condescending creature, but that does not mean to imply that the abolition or demise of the state should be cheered. The state is evil because politics – trying to govern people – is by its very nature evil. The most concise and forceful definition of what it means to be the subject of politics, to be governed, was given by Pierre-Joseph Proudhon in this often quoted but never tiring outburst; it: … is to be watched, inspected, spied upon, directed, law-driven, numbered, regulated, enrolled, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, checked, estimated, valued, censured, commanded, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so. To be governed is to be at every operation, at every transaction noted, registered, counted, taxed, stamped, measured, numbered, assessed, licensed, authorized, admonished, prevented, forbidden, reformed, corrected, punished. It is, under pretext of public utility, and in the name of the general interest, to be placed under contribution, drilled, fleeced, exploited, monopolized, extorted from, squeezed, hoaxed, robbed; then, at the slightest resistance, the first word of complaint, to be repressed, fined, vilified, harassed, hunted down, abused, clubbed, disarmed, bound, choked, imprisoned, judged, condemned, shot, deported, sacrificed, sold, betrayed; and to crown all, mocked, ridiculed, derided, outraged, dishonoured. (Proudhon 1923: 293) Politics will not cease with the abolition of the state: politics will be part of our lives as long as there is a ‘we’ – as long as individuals interact on a more than purely accidental, non-repetitive basis. The state is evil, but that does not make it wrong. There is a long tradition of anti-statism in political thought, the substance of which, by the way, indicates that non-mainstream and non-contemporary

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Political pluralization

political theorists are as obsessed by the idea of being or having been assimilated by an all-powerful monolithic entity as liberal political theory since the 1950s has been – only the mood differs. In contemporary political thought, anti-statism can be found among conservatives, environmentalists, feminists, postmodernists, etc. The various interpretations of anarchism of Proudhon, Bakunin or Kropotkin are, of course, the most obvious and familiar historic examples; their liberal cousins within libertarianism, Rothbart, Nozick, Hayek or Narveson, and left-libertarians like Steiner, Chomsky and Vallentyne, illustrate it as well. Early socialists like William Morris (before socialism embraced the welfare state), Marxists inspired by Marx’s picture of post-revolutionary life without a state rather than Engels’ and Lenin’s communist takeover of the state, and even Christian millennialists, all exhibit a conviction that society would be better off without a state. This is exactly where my story deviates from anti-statism. On the one hand, I do not argue for the abolition of the state, nor for the goodness or desirability of a life without the state; I simply assume that the sovereign nation-state is a legal, and increasingly also political, fiction. On the other hand, I question the clearly romantic assumption underlying most anti-statism (perhaps with the exception of libertarianism) that a state is congruent with one society and one society only. Just because social interaction across post-Vienna-Congress political borders tends to be less frequent than within, it does not follow that the web of social relations and connections looks (let alone is) the same for each and every individual within a state. Political pluralization implies societal fragmentation and rearranging. Related to, and partly overlapping with, anti-statism is a second tradition in political theory that, truth be told, flourished mainly in the United Kingdom between 1900 and 1925, and is also remembered almost exclusively there: political pluralism. The most famous of its rare modern heirs is American author William Galston (2005, 2006). David Nicholls (1975: 11) characterizes the three pillars of political pluralism as follows: 1 an insistence that liberty is the most important political value, and that it is best achieved in a state where power is distributed and dispersed, rather than being concentrated at one point; 2 a rejection of the idea of sovereignty; legal, political and moral; and 3 a notion of the real personality of groups. In place of the all-powerful state, then, pluralists defended a state that at best operated as an arbiter, primus inter pares, among the voluntary associations from which individuals could derive their identities and through which they could give meaning to their lives. The political pluralists had quite diverse ideological origins (cf. Hirst 1989) – an illustration of the distinction between political theory and political ideology made earlier. George Cole was a libertarian guild socialist, Harold Laski a democratic socialist, while John

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Figgis, their common source of inspiration, in addition to being a relatively conservative political philosopher, was an Anglican monk fascinated by the question of the relation between state and church. One of the pluralists’ core ideas, the rejection of sovereignty, seems to be reflected in this book. Like pluralists, and in particular Laski, I see sovereignty as a legal fiction and I shall stress the independence, power and legitimacy of voluntary associations against the Leviathan. The rejection of sovereignty creates this freedom for civil society. I concur with William Galston that we should reconsider and reject ‘the understanding of politics ( … ) that tacitly views public institutions as plenipotentiary and civil society as a political construction possessing only those liberties that the polity chooses to grant and modify or revoke at will’ (Galston 2005: 23). Yet, unlike the British pluralists, I do not think that I need the concept of (legal) personality for associations to defend them against the state’s ‘superior’ claims, and, unlike the pluralists, I do not foresee the rise of a tyrannical absolute state, democratic or otherwise (Hirst 1989: 25–26). In their days, the pluralists’ perception may have been right, but today, I argue, the threat of tyranny comes from the fragmentation and privatization rather than from concentration of power. Unlike pluralists and unlike Galston (2005: 40–41; 2006: 120), I do not accept as unproblematic the existence of one united ‘society’ as the steady object of a restructuring of its political superstructure (let alone the desirability thereof). With their roots in the insular ideology of ‘Britishness’, the pluralists virtually ignored (for instance) the existence of Welsh and Scottish ‘societies’, and were remarkably blind to the Irish question. In present day terms, political pluralists would find it difficult to account for the fragmentation and restructuring of social, cultural and economic ties that is sometimes reflected in, and sometimes reflects the processes of, internationalization and dehierarchization. Finally, unlike pluralists, I do not pass judgement on the morality of the state. A third, far smaller and far more obscure ‘tradition’ in political thought is panarchism, which stands for the thought that individuals in a free society should not just be free to choose which shop to buy which goods and brands of goods in, but that they should have the same choice in government – i.e. be free to choose among competing non-territorial service providers, conveniently still called states, in a truly free political market, with you opting for (say) membership of an egalitarian socialist republic and your neighbour for the Ancien Régime (De Puydt 1860). Belgian intellectual Paul Émile de Puydt’s ideas resound in some modern, non-academic versions of libertarianism in chatrooms and on websites on the Internet; this concept is occasionally expanded to the idea of a free market for political institutions offering distinct services rather than, as states do, offering package deals – which comes ever closer to the original anarchist notion of voluntary associations, only without the hidden assumption of the existence of distinct societies. Panarchism is perhaps most similar to the thesis I defend – that a world is emerging in which different individuals are members of, and

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committed to, different and differently overlapping networks of social interaction and political power. Yet again, there are important differences. For one, I do not present this as a desirable future – indeed there is a priori reason to assume that it is not. A politically pluralized world is not a genuinely free market for political services, a world free of exploitation and inequality of power.

3

The need to interfere

3.1 Authoritative interference Do we really need a state? In this chapter, I shall argue that we do, in some form or other, need one thing a state ideally provides: authoritative, decisive interference in, and for the benefit of, mutually advantageous schemes of cooperation. In the absence of truly sovereign nation-states – i.e. in a politically pluralized world – states alone cannot cope with, and we cannot ignore, at least some effects of unrestrained and unorganized social interaction. This raises the questions that will be addressed in subsequent chapters: can we design alternatives to the state, alternative institutions or policies aimed directly or indirectly at the creation of a limited degree of order among competing authorities and rules, and aimed at the creation of some limited sort of reference frame or polity? Can they be legitimized, and if so how? In what kind of world do we live, if not one of sovereign nation-states? I shall begin by offering an argument for ‘authoritative interference’ in society based on one special case, environmental policy, and later generalize the argument by broadening its premises and conclusion. The argument runs as follows: since private actors cannot guarantee environmentally sound behaviour, state interference is needed. The argument also applies under different circumstances, however – the need for authoritative and decisive interference exists in any social and political constellation, not merely within sovereign states, and it exists in areas other than environmental policy. Yet political pluralization by definition precludes the existence of an agent with the necessary clout to warrant the necessary degree of interference. Simply ‘coping’ with political pluralization, simply using the classic tools of the state (including international treaty organizations) is therefore insufficient to guarantee effective and efficient policies, let alone policies that are legitimate in broader senses. To create conditions under which coping might be effective, more is needed: new approaches towards political problem solving and new institutional structures – the issues addressed in the next eight chapters. The initial argument for authoritative interference focuses on environmental politics, a case that requires some introduction and background. Particularly in what we may by now call classical (1970s–1980s) ecological or

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green thought, the cause of environmental problems was sought in a lack of limits to human consumption – hence in the economic sphere – in what I shall refer to as the ‘demand’ side of the equation (cf. Wissenburg 1998). This absence of limits would stimulate consumption of natural resources for the sake of economic growth rather than necessary production only, and consumption of both natural and produced goods for the sake of consumption itself rather than for a human or (less anthropocentrically expressed) greater good. Now definitions of environmental problems differ. For classical and modern radical greens (i.e. radical relative to the other party; I shall refer to them henceforth as ecologists), what we are dealing with is a global crisis which threatens the survival of the ecology, the biological system of which humans are (but) part. For less radical greens (whom I shall refer to as environmentalists) the problem is one of a mismatch between humans and their (separately existing) environment, wherein the latter does not meet the needs of the former. Judgments on what would make a solution desirable differ accordingly. Most classical greens, for example, are unwilling to accept supply-side solutions, i.e. technological improvements in the efficiency of our use of natural resources or in the amount of resources made available. Supply-side solutions do not address human hubris, they do not respect nature (as valuable) in itself, and they only postpone the inevitable: the day when we reach the limits of growth. The same applies to distributive solutions (e.g. a world-wide, fairer distribution of access to resources, wealth, knowledge and technology): they only displace and at best postpone problems. Demand-side solutions necessarily have a political dimension: interference with the parameters and input of economic processes requires political support at least in the form of abstention from interference, and more often direct and active political involvement. The justification of (these and other) policies is a central concern for political theory. Mainstream political theory, however, although acutely aware of the importance of the economic basis for social and political life, tends to black-box the economic sphere of the free market. Its normal approach to economics is to discuss the necessary sideconstraints to, or limits of, market freedom. In other words, mainstream political theory seems interested only in controlling the market from outside, in reining it in. Being strangely conservative in this respect, green political theory (both ecological and environmental) tends to be split along the same lines as mainstream political theory: between libertarians or proponents of classical liberal solutions on the one hand, and all the rest – socialists, social liberals, etc. – on the other. A majority of green political theorists advocate financial and legal (dis)incentives to force trade and industry into ‘greening’ its activities: taxes, subsidies, fines, control agencies, etc. (cf. Dobson 1998, 2000a). Free market environmentalists (e.g. Anderson and Leal 1991, 1994, Oksanen 2003), the libertarians among green political theorists, expound an often extreme faith in the environmentally benign side-effects of private ownership

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of natural resources and ‘hence’ of the free market’s capacity for environmental self-regulation. I shall question both hypotheses: the sanctity of government interference and the sanctity of the free market. I shall first briefly discuss the two hypotheses in Section 3.2. Subsequently (in Section 3.3), I shall argue that, given the conditions under which environmentally benign production and consumption pays off, the kind of payoff structure that promotes green consumerism and producerism does not arise naturally, but rather has to be consciously created. Hence, free market environmentalism has to be taken with at least one pinch of salt. Next, in Section 3.4, I try to identify the factors that determine the payoff structure – as well as the actors who can influence these factors. Section 3.5 discusses whether the creation of environmentally benign payoff structures necessarily requires government interference (coercion) and with which (dis)incentives, or whether there remains room for two other classic forms of social cooperation (self-regulation and coordination). I shall argue that this room does exist (pace mainstream political theory), and discuss some options for self-regulation and for coordination via (dis)incentives originating in civil society, in the shape of moral and positive side-constraints. In Section 3.6, I briefly discuss the ‘greening’ potential of each of these strategies, i.e. with which kind of nature or ecology they could leave us. I also argue that we should not overvalue the borders between political theory, economics and moral theory. There is room for, and a want of, discussions of market and business ethics in political theory, of preference formation in economics, and of rational choice theory within business ethics. The concluding Section 3.7 carries, as promised, the argument for authoritative interference beyond the realm of environmental politics within a sovereign nation-state to politics in general under the circumstances of political pluralization.

3.2 Politics versus economy: the green battlefield I have claimed above that mainstream political theory tends to black-box the economic sphere, seeming interested only in controlling it from outside. It is as if there is no politics in the economic sphere, and no ethics either except that of the rational egoist. As far as the political sciences are concerned, the economy has in fact become the exclusive domain of rational choice theory and related ‘positive’ political theories. There is little or no theorizing on the ethical and political responsibility of ‘the economic beast’, as if economic actors have no sense of morality whatsoever. Given this background, it should come as no surprise that green political theorists have found it rather convenient to blame environmental problems on relatively anonymous economic behaviour and economic structures. Elsewhere (Wissenburg 1998), I have defended the thesis that neither political liberalism nor liberal democracy (nor philosophical liberalism, its theoretical foundation) are responsible for the ecological crisis – if there is

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such a thing. Both have the potential to become green. Green political theorists, however, assert that there are other causes of environmental problems next to liberal democracy – or instead of liberal democracy, since some would agree with my argument, one way or the other (cf. e.g. Achterberg 1993, Jacobs 1994); among these would be economic causes. It is important to stress that liberal democracy and economic liberalism are neither identical nor Siamese twins. Capitalism is not a necessary condition for the political structure and liberties associated with liberal democracy (cf. Lauber 1978). The free (capital) market existed before liberal democracy evolved. Political liberalism is not predestined to take a laissez-faire attitude towards the market (cf. Stephens 1996), nor does it hold that life is all about making profits or the satisfaction of material desires. It sees trade and commerce as one way of life – one means to the realization of a plan of life – among others (cf. Holmes 1993: 212). A critique of economic liberalism must therefore be judged on its own merits, and cannot reflect on political liberalism. Ecologists blame either economic liberalism or industrialism, the latter referring to the economic systems of both the liberal-democratic West and the former communist East (e.g. Bahro 1980). Analyses in terms of industrialism have interpreted state socialism in, roughly speaking, two ways. In some accounts, it was both the product and the denial of capitalism, a system that was forced to compete on all fronts with the one it was meant to replace; in others, it was predetermined to accommodate the same misguided interests of consumers and (most importantly) producers that reigned capitalism. On all crucial points, the first type of analysis can be seen as a special case of the critique of economic liberalism, and the second as a critique of individual preferences. I shall, therefore, at the risk of being incomplete, ignore both here and focus on the ‘Western’ case only. One of the strange aspects of the green critique of economic liberalism is that some see it as the source of most environmental evil, whereas others believe that it is the solution. ‘Leftish’ greens, who on the right side of a map of the world are usually seen as more truly green, argue that private ownership and free market conditions in general – or capitalism and the perpetual quest for economic growth in particular – are at least barriers for a greener society, often a cause of environmental degradation – and according to some, even the main cause (e.g. Smith 1995). On the right, especially in libertarian circles, it is state interference that prevents the free market from developing into a green market (Narveson 1995, Anderson and Leal 1991, 1994). If property and user rights were better defined, that is, attributed to individuals rather than left unattributed by, and reserved for, the state, individuals would be able to defend their rights against polluters and exploiters of (their) nature – and the mechanism of the free market would ensure that no more nor less natural capital than necessary was used for consumption. The first and most important reason why economic liberalism is suspected of causing environmental damage is its expansive nature, its pursuit of

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economic growth (e.g. Opschoor 1993, Achterhuis 1994). It should be noted that there are two kinds of economic growth that are not (or not significantly) environmentally unfriendly. Firstly, imagine an ecofarmer entering the free market and discovering not just a niche there, but actually immense opportunities for growth. Although her prices are higher, and the total demand for vegetables does not increase, she attracts most of her pesticidal competitors’ customers and, within a few years, she has conquered the greater part of the market. The volume of the market is the same, the prices are higher – therefore the GNP has grown – while environmental conditions have improved. Replacing environmentally damaging products or technologies with more benign ones (a cornerstone of the ecological modernization theory, cf. Weale 1992) allows economic growth without environmental damage. A similar observation applies, secondly, to a society of three people where A and B grow food and sell it to C for £100 once a year, while C makes and sells all sorts of utensils, also for £100 annually. Now A and C hire B for administrative work, each paying B £50 – in the old days, B did this for free. The GNP has grown by 50 per cent without increased damage to the environment. Not all economic growth is material; it follows that there is such a thing as sustainable growth (pace Achterhuis 1994). The size of the economy, as measured in money, says little about the environmental effects of economic growth: it is either the type of growth that matters, i.e. whether or not it increases the pressure on the environment, or the tendency for growth as such. Let us pursue the first possibility first. Assume that a company expands – it builds a new factory – and that its growth increases pressure on the environment without actually destroying our collective chances of survival. The company’s products increase our welfare, its expansion decreases it. Two comments are now possible. First, economic actors do not usually take account of the environmental costs they (make or) cause; economic liberalism allows them to ignore these costs, and burden taxpayers and future generations rather than themselves and other beneficiaries, the consumers (Opschoor 1993, Smith 1995, Narveson 1995). Apart from the fact that this is an empirical issue rather than one of principle, and since there are practical ways of taking account of environmental costs – taxes, audits, etc. – this critique misses the point. There is no reason why free enterprise should be the only system that allows actors to sweep environmental costs under the carpet – the same can happen, and actually happened, in countries where ‘collective’ ownership predominates. A libertarian (Anderson and Leal 1991, Narveson 1995) would even argue that, if individuals rather than the collective owned the environment, there would be less room for producers to get away with environmentally harmful behaviour: the state is often blind, whereas individuals will take the greatest care that their bit of the environment is not damaged unrightfully. Although I agree for technical reasons that liberal democracies should attribute all possible rights unequivocally, and that they should be attributed to individuals rather than collectives, I would not want to support the libertarian claim that there

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is too little free market. There is no reason to assume that an individual actor will not be prepared to, say, sell a polluter the right to pollute her grounds and fatally injure a particular biosystem if that is profitable for her, individually and in the short run. Nevertheless, the fact remains that there is no necessary link between the free market and ignoring environmental costs. A second possible comment is that damaging the environment for the sake of material welfare is, or at least can be, immoral. The problem with this kind of argument, even if it were valid, is that it once more has nothing to do with economic liberalism. It applies equally well to state capitalism. What remains, then, is the second objection to economic growth: the tendency for growth as such. I shall deal with this critique in the next section, once more to argue that it is not a necessary attribute of economic liberalism. For now, let us establish that the great majority of green political theorists advocate classic financial and legal (dis)incentives to force industry and trade into greening their activities: free market environmentalists form a minority.

3.3 Green production In this section, I shall investigate the case for green libertarianism. For the free market to promote the green cause, and assuming the free market to be the domain of rational egoists, going green has to pay off. In other words, a payoff structure has to exist that promotes green consumerism and producerism. I shall argue that such a payoff structure is possible but, contrary to what green libertarians sometimes seem to believe, it is not a necessary trait of the free market. In what follows (part of which is an argument developed earlier in Wissenburg 1998), I shall often use generalizations of the ‘other things being equal’ type, as well as rational choice theory-like tables and formulas. Moreover, I shall assume that everything valuable can be expressed in the form of utility or a similar, indiscriminate measure of pleasure. I do this to avoid unnecessary details and lengthy explanations, not because I believe that presentations in this form would not add something substantive to the argument. In Table 3.1, for instance, I begin by assuming a passive role for the customer. In fact, I assume roughly similar interests for the client (A) and the producer (B). Payoffs are represented in the order (A, B), with a payoff of 4 representing the best possible and 1 the worst possible outcome. Table 3.1 Rough identity of client-producer preferences

A: cooperate A: defect

B: cooperate

B: defect

(4,4) (3,2)

(2,3) (1,1)

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The terms ‘cooperate’ and ‘defect’ mean, at least in this table, ‘produce’ (B) or ‘buy’ (A), nor ‘do not produce’ (B) or ‘do not buy’ (A) respectively. Furthermore, I shall for reasons of simplicity assume that all innovation implies environmental degradation (pace the defenders of the ecological modernization thesis) and that there is such a thing as an environmentally benign mode of production. A green payoff structure, made up of financial and other rewards, therefore has to punish growth and innovation (if desired, one may however read ‘stick with or go for the environmentally worse form of production’ in place of ‘innovation’). As argued a moment ago, if there is anything wrong with the free market and private ownership, it must be that the system has an unjustifiable tendency for destructive growth built into it. Whereas (ideally) collective ownership of producer goods and collective decision-making on production targets would result in supply meeting needs as efficiently as possible, private ownership forces economic actors to increase their profits and their share of the market, even if that implies the need to create new needs or supplant (environmentally) superior products and techniques by inferior ones. It is probably true that capitalism as the youngest incarnation of economic liberalism – or even economic liberalism as such – only helps those who help themselves, that is, that it rewards both necessary and unnecessary innovation, regardless of environmental effects. The entrepreneur who does not follow his competitors in introducing ever more ‘improved’, ever more attractive, ever flashier advertised washing powder, will lose customers. The free market can operate as a perverse cooperative game (see Table 3.2). In a two-actor economy where the actors try to avoid the individually worst possible outcome, innovation can be unavoidable. If, in Table 3.2, producer A initiates an innovative strategy (introduces a new type of washing powder), and producer B does not, their gains are (4,1): A wins almost the whole market, whereas B gets the worst possible results. If B innovates and A does not, then A loses. If both refuse to innovate, they will still be worse off than when they both innovate: the rational thing for both to do then is to innovate. Yet it is not the free market as such that should be blamed for effects of this sort. The free market does not create the structure of rewards, consumers do, and the free market does not make one result more desirable than another, producers do. In one alternative world where consumers would not fall into the trap of unnecessary or environmentally harmful innovation, the Table 3.2 A perverse innovation game

A: cooperate A: defect

B: cooperate

B: defect

(3,3) (1,4)

(4,1) (2,2)

Source: Wissenburg 1998: 215, reproduced with permission from Cengage Learning Services Ltd.

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reward structure would look different – defection would actually be rewarded. Such an aggressively conservative market is not a fiction – a fact to which a wellknown soft drinks company has been able to testify ever since it made business history with its catastrophically unsuccessful attempt to change the classic flavour of its product (or the taste of its clients, or both). In Table 3.3, B represents the innovating soft drinks company, A its equally well-known competitor. In a second alternative world, the producers would find it rational to aim for the highest possible gains but be satisfied – for reasons that have nothing to do with profit growth – with the results of defection (provided the production costs still outweigh the profit, e.g. through a rising market share), thus changing the matrix into Table 3.4. Now I shall skip the mathematics and immediately move on to the conclusions that could be proven with the help of a deeper analysis of free market games (see e.g. Kok and Van Deemen 2005). There are many more alternative worlds imaginable where only a part of the consumer population would reward innovation, or where only a part of the producers is more interested in the rewards of innovation than in those of defection. Some of these worlds are in equilibrium – that is, the (non-)innovative producers can serve the market of (non-)innovative consumers. In nearly all of these worlds, the consumer who is interested in ‘new’ brands of washing powder may be immune to the seduction of ‘new’ audio equipment, and vice versa. To complicate matters even further, since trade is an iterated game, we can imagine worlds in which the environmental effects of the non-innovative markets compensate for those on the innovative markets. In a society of this type, the free market can actually be environmentally sustainable without anyone being forced to change her preferences. I would not go so far as to suggest that this is a necessary consequence of a free market – and I really would like to see the libertarian argument in support of it – yet the Table 3.3 Aggressive conservatism

A: cooperate A: defect

B: cooperate

B: defect

(3,3) (4,1)

(1,4) (2,2)

Source: Wissenburg 1998: 216, reproduced with permission from Cengage Learning Services Ltd. Table 3.4 Constrained innovation

A: cooperate A: defect

B: cooperate

B: defect

(2,2) (1,4)

(4,1) (3,3)

Source: Wissenburg 1998: 216, reproduced with permission from Cengage Learning Services Ltd.

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point to note is that the environmentally harmful effects of economic liberalism are ultimately the result of the preferences (payoffs) of consumers and producers. The free market is not a necessary condition for the existence of an environmentally perverse economic rewards structure. Provided we are talking about a society inspired by the ideal of being responsive to the needs and wants of its members, the presence of no more than one economic actor is enough to get the same results: there may always be consumers who crave for the environmentally harmful. As said before, innovative producers in an aggressively conservative free market society will not stand to gain. That individual preferences are ultimately the source of all free market evils is true not only for growth-based arguments against economic liberalism, but also for criticisms of ‘the commercial attitude’. Advocates of this argument refer to the economy as a ‘disembedded’ and ‘imperialistic’ way of life (Achterhuis 1994), and criticize the tendency of economic actors to commercialize every good, from sex and religion to sunlight and clean air, and then create a market for it. This argument is not an ecological original – it is a classic and medieval theme, taken up in this century by communitarians like Walzer (1983) as well. Three things should be said about it. First, it is a highly rhetorical argument. If taken seriously, the remark that businessmen can take any object and squeeze money out of it can only be answered by ‘so what?’ To be a normative statement rather than a statement of fact, one must assume a priori that there is something dirty about commerce, either intrinsically or in specific cases. In the first case there must be walks of life that are more honourable or palatable, but, as long as a society without trade is unimaginable, it merely represents an inconsequential elitist attitude – and a distinctly anti-liberal attitude if it had political consequences. In the other case, we would need further arguments – real arguments – to show exactly which goods cannot or should not become objects of trade. In our case, we need environmental arguments. This brings me to my second remark. As argued elsewhere (Wissenburg 1998), there can be no principled objection to psychologically transforming nature into natural capital – in terms of the anti-trader, to seeing money in everything. Looking for ways to use nature is an indispensable attitude in a world of limited resources and permanent need. Trade being merely a means to help satisfy these needs, there can simply be no sensible objection to the commercial attitude – even assuming it to be a trait of economic liberalism only. What one might legitimately object to is the actual transformation of nature into unnecessary goods, or the unnecessarily destructive transformation of nature into necessary goods – necessity here being defined, for the sake of simplicity loosely, as being unavoidable. Thirdly, the creation of unnecessary goods in the latter sense is in no way specific to economic liberalism. As we saw just moments ago, unnecessary production can occur in any type of economy – it just takes the right (wrong) kinds of individual preferences on the sides of consumers and producers.

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And so we reach the last argument against economic liberalism: the egoistic accumulative attitude that would characterize the world of free enterprise. There are three sides to this – admittedly peculiar – coin. First, there is the pressure of capitalism forcing economic actors to act in their short-term individual interest, and to shift environmental costs on third parties. Although this phenomenon is not characteristic of capitalism only, but apparently something that can occur in any economic system (see above), it is not insuperable. Either a more libertarian free market or more government interference (or both) can limit the extent to which environmental costs are evaded, companies can be made more aware of their long-term interests, and so on (cf. Opschoor 1993). The second side of the coin is that capitalism means big business: it is not about individuals producing and trading goods, but about large firms and international consortia. The human actors within these economic actors may identify as much with the welfare of their company as, if not more than, with that of their society. Forcing companies to conform to environmental standards – either those of governments or those of individual right holders – may just not be enough to prevent firms from moving to other countries, or to ensure that all branches of a firm and all individuals within them conform to official corporate policy. The third side of the coin is that institutional arrangements alone cannot ensure that economic actors will conform to environmental standards. The market (consumers) must reward ‘good’ behaviour, and the individual productive actors must be inspired accordingly. This, by the way, is the point where (an environmentally benign) business ethics becomes interesting for political theorists. The willingness of corporate managers to engage in courses on environmental management and business ethics, and to take up their public responsibilities, should perhaps be offset against the business world’s proclivity to participate in the most absurd management courses, and its consumerist trust in every new management fad and fashion, or (never underestimate the power of the dark side) against the expectation that being perceived as responsible literally pays off. Yet there seems to be room for such an ethics. What needs to be established next is that this space can be filled, i.e. that there can be an environmentally friendly business ethics. As a matter of fact, its basis has already been laid by Aristotle’s analysis of fair pricing and retributive (market) justice in his Ethica Nicomachea (Aristotle 1980). Aristotle in turn inspired late medieval political theorists to attribute merchants a public responsibility for enabling society to find the golden mean between want and extravagance. Allow me to quote one, perhaps not the most brilliant but certainly one of the most readable sources: [T]he merchant class is very necessary, and without it neither the estate of kings and princes nor even the polities of cities and countries could exist. For by the industry of their labor, all kinds of people are provided for without having to make everything themselves, because, if they have

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money, merchants bring from afar all things necessary and proper for human beings to live. [ … ] And for the good that they do for everyone, this class of people – loyal merchants who in buying and selling, in exchanging things one for another by taking money or by other honest means – are to be loved and commended as necessary, and in many countries are held in high esteem. [ … ] These people ought to be well advised in their deeds, honest in their labor, truthful in their words, clever in what they do [ … ] and ought to be well informed about whether there are enough goods and where they are going short and when to buy and when to sell – otherwise their business will be gone. (De Pizan 1994: 103–4) Even to classical liberals like Smith and Mandeville, the idea of fair, ethically responsible trade was not foreign – albeit in conjunction with rational self-interest. Overall then, we may conclude that economic liberalism contains many elements that impede sustainability, but none of these seems invincible – assuming the right kind of preferences.

3.4 Payoffs and incentives The conclusion just drawn is logically equivalent to the thesis that the free market cannot in itself be blamed for environmental problems; it can be, but is not necessarily environmentally benign. The root of environmental evil seems to lie in the individual preferences of and payoffs for consumers and producers. Let us, therefore, now consider the structure of the individual’s payoff. Once more, I shall generalize and perhaps overgeneralize in the interest of clarity. We may assume that payoffs are determined by two factors: money and all other rewards. Yet for different individuals in different roles, these factors will differ and have different weights. Even though I am generalizing, a certain degree of subtlety thus remains necessary. For a producer, we may safely assume that (at least) the following factors determine his or her payoff: V = nondescript: the value of the activities involved in producing, the (nonmonetary) value of the product, the value of the client’s esteem, that of esteem of third parties, the contribution production makes to the realization of the producer’s plan of life, etc. F = the value of the financial rewards of production (through sale). F’ = the financial rewards of production (through sale). O = total sales. T = taxes, fines and incentives. Obviously, F’ = O – T, and the producer’s payoff = F + V. Since not every next dollar or pound has the same subjective value, F can be further divided in (at least):

52 f1 f2 f3 f4 f5

The need to interfere = = = = =

the level of financial rewards securing survival same, securing sustainable growth of the business, minus f1. same, securing surplus growth, minus (f2 + f1) same, securing maximum profit, minus (f3 + f2 + f1) financial loss (always a negative number).

These different components of F being valued differently, using coefficients a-e (
0) to represent multiplication factors, we get: (1) F = af1 + bf2 + cf3 +df4 + ef5 Furthermore, we can make two reasonable assumptions: (2) 0
V – af1 (3) V + ef5  0 Assumptions (2) and (3) constitute the producer’s version of ‘Fodder First Then Morality’ (FFTM) – to use a famous but unpopular expression. Assumption (2) requires that the non-monetary value of production be smaller than the value attached to the amount of profit necessary for the producer to survive. Assumption (3), almost by implication, states that the non-monetary value of production cannot outweigh financial losses. There are two reasons for making these assumptions. Firstly, they are in most cases natural and rational; deviation from the FFTM doctrine implies a selfdefeating, even self-annihilating, fiat iustitia pereat mundus attitiude. Secondly, it is a rational assumption if one wants to ‘green’ production rather than eliminate it altogether. As for the client’s payoff, we have the following factors to account for: V = once more non-descript: the value of the activities of buying and consuming, the value of the product itself, of the esteem shown by and/or felt for the producer, of the esteem of third parties, of the contribution the product makes to the realization of one’s plan of life, etc. C = the value of the costs of a product. C’ = costs, consisting of Cc + Ce. Cc = the client’s equilibrium price, what he or she considers a fair price for the product. Ce = the client’s external costs: information, transport, taxes, risk of fines, etc. P = the producer’s price (demand). I = the client’s income (including possible loans). The client’s payoff = C + V. We may assume that if I-P Using coefficients f-j to indicate the subjective value of these factors, we get: (4) C = I – {fCc + [g(P-Cc if P-Cc < 0)] – [h(P-Cc if P-Cc
0)] – jCe}

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In other words, the value of the monetary aspect of a purchase is determined by the client’s income relative to the value of the sum of the weighted monetary value of the good, the weighted monetary value of the profit or loss made relative to Cc, the equilibrium price, and the weighted monetary value of all external costs. In the case of the client, the FFTM assumption looks as follows: (5) V  fCc $ the product needed. After this long walk through the land of symbols, we can identify the payoff factors that can be influenced by the state and by other actors (to which I shall refer as civil society, with the inclusion of economic actors and individual human beings). Both parties can influence the producer’s and the client’s V, as well as their monetary attitudes expressed by a-j, through information, stigmatization, admiration and tribute, propaganda, etc. In addition, the state can influence the producer’s F (F’) through T (taxes, fines and incentives) as well as (by similar means) the consumer’s I and Ce. Given that the financial aspect of production and consumption plays a key role (expressed particularly in the FFTM assumptions), it may look as if the state’s potential for determining the payoff structure of free market transactions overshadows that of civil society. However, first looks can be deceptive. The relative power of state and civil society depends, ultimately, on the degree to which either one can influence V and a-j. If the state’s influence on these factors is smaller than that of civil society, the state can only override civil society by purely financial (dis)incentives, T, I and Ce – hypothetically to the level where a product becomes by definition too expensive to produce or buy.

3.5 The need for political incentives Environmentally benign payoff structures do not arise naturally: they have to be created (Section 3.3). Both state and civil society can influence the variables and constants that determine the client’s and the producer’s payoff structure (Section 3.4). The next question is: should they? To answer this question, I shall now examine whether the creation of a green payoff structure necessarily requires government interference (hence classic (dis)incentives), or whether there remains room for other solutions originating in civil society. The question can be rephrased as one concerning the coordination of cooperative ventures, a topic dealt with excessively by David Gauthier (1977). In his view, people voluntarily cooperate and accept social institutions (in our terms: accept green values) if, and only if, cooperation makes them better off1 than they would be in a natural state of non-cooperation. He then distinguishes three possibilities, the so-called type I, II and III situations. The situations are distinguished by whether or not they produce stable and generally optimal outcomes. Stability means that no one can bring

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about a different outcome that is better for him or her (but worse for others) by unilaterally changing his or her way of acting – behaviour that roughly coincides with free-riding. An outcome is generally optimal if there is no alternative outcome that any distinct individual prefers. Situation I exists when cooperation results in a non-empty set of stable and optimal outcomes, none of which is worse for anyone than the natural outcome (non-cooperation). Since the solutions are stable, none of these optimal outcomes is strongly dispreferred by anyone to another outcome satisfying the condition of optimality. Situations of type I call for coordination of actions only, e.g. through covenants, contracts or market mechanisms. The introduction of a state, an institution with a monopoly on violence and a monopoly on the attribution of rights, etc., is unnecessary. A simple example of a type I situation relevant to our subject is cooperating to climb a tree and pluck an apple: it makes everyone better off and there are no cooperative alternatives anyone could reasonably prefer. In situations of type II, any possible outcome is strongly dispreferred by at least one person. Type II situations therefore call for bargaining, i.e. compensation for the individual(s) who is (are) relatively disadvantaged by the outcome that is finally chosen. Again, civil society can deal with such situations – e.g. through market mechanisms – so the state is redundant. An illustration of type II situations could be limiting the (by assumption legitimate but) perceptible noise pollution produced in the local environment by a blacksmith. The blacksmith has a cooperative alternative that he will strongly prefer over sound-proofing his workplace, to wit no sound-proofing. If the community compensated him adequately, his alternative will be far less attractive. Situations of type III have no stable outcomes: defection and free-riding are options. Here, according to Gauthier, constraints become inevitable. Constraints can take two forms: they can be internal (conscience) or external (coercion). The first can still originate in civil society, e.g. by means of religious or social norms, or honour and dishonour. Coercion is the last resort, and only the state can make coercion effective without destroying trust, the basis of social cooperation. Examples of type III situations in the economic sphere are omnipresent: large-scale or imperceptible pollution, wasting natural resources through obsolete production processes, and of course Garrett Hardin’s classic Tragedy of the Commons (Hardin 1976). The fact that green political literature abounds with examples of free riders and tragedies of the commons should, however, not immediately prejudice us in favour of state interference. The matter is far less clear-cut than a first glance suggests. For one, empirical data on the number and relative importance of type III environmental problems are lacking; we therefore have no indication of their importance other than the words of (perhaps biased) theoreticians. Secondly, next to solving a free-rider problem with coercive means, it is often possible to rephrase or restructure the problem. Thus, privatization of natural resources can occasionally be helpful, since it

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replaces a collective interest by self-interest – think of pollution vouchers or privatized ownership of medicinal plants (Oksanen 2003). Thirdly, there is another alternative to coercion in type III situations to consider: moral pressure. Then again, situations of types II and III may well necessarily require the presence and activity of a minimal state (pace Gauthier) to protect and guarantee rights, including property and ownership rights. If we focus on the economy and economic behaviour only, we can also safely draw the conclusion that there are actors other than the state who can influence payoff structures, even in type III situations. The question is, however: how much weight can civil society pull, relative to the state? The state has – roughly categorizing; cf. Section 3.4 – seven instruments at its service: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

taxes and incentives, both directly influencing income and the price of goods; fines; non-monetary legal obstructions to undesirable behaviour and non-monetary rewards (honours) for desirable behaviour;2 objective and neutral public information and normative or selective information (propaganda).

Civil society (including individuals and economic actors) has far fewer instruments: 8 9 10 11

non-monetary social obstructions to undesirable behaviour and non-monetary rewards (honours) for desirable behaviour;3 objective and neutral public information and normative or selective information (hearsay).

Then again, civil society probably has a larger, richer set of strategies and techniques to influence the values and norms of consumers and producers: from blame and esteem at the individual level, through the free press, covenants, contracts, demonstrations, strikes, direct action, civil disobedience, down to straightforward violence and terror. More importantly, the weight or force of civil society’s instruments exceeds that of the state: civil society consists of your peers, family, friends, neighbourhood, and is thereby ‘closer’ than the state. When using basically moral incentives (3–5), the state can either add to the weight of, say, popular opinion or majority views in civil society (8–9), or it can try to induce or prevent a change in society’s moral views. In the latter case, especially in liberaldemocratic societies, the state’s position is at odds with that of civil society – that is, with its legal and electoral basis. Its behaviour may easily be seen as too progressive or reactionary, too meddlesome, and too forgetful of its position as the servant rather than leader of the people. As a moral guide in liberal democracies, the state can only be successful in a deeply divided society and in type III situations. In a divided society, where the different

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organizations and actors that make up civil society support different ecological ethics, the state can tip the balance – provided it is supported by the politically more powerful part of civil society. In type III situations, it can only be effective when the members of society as moral beings feel they should accept a new norm, but as rational individuals cannot do so as long as defection remains the rational thing to do. In principle then, the state can add to the moral influence of civil society; it is the latter’s influence that predominates. In the information field, the weight of the state depends, on the one hand, on its perceived reliability and trustworthiness – which tend to be notoriously low, both in totalitarian and liberal-democratic countries. On the other hand, it also depends on the relative weight of the information sources within civil society, which can range from supposedly disinterested academics to supposedly self-interested companies. Totalitarian governments, of course, have a ‘better’ grip on this factor. Finally, the state’s monetary influence (1–2) is extremely strong, but also, as regards taxes, difficult to control: the state has to walk a tightrope here. As long as monetary measures do not raise prices or lower profits to a level where the disadvantages of consuming or producing non-green goods outweigh the V-element of payoff structures, their effects will be limited. Yet once this level of pressure has been reached, another constraint comes in sight: FFTM. Too much financial pressure on the market results in liquidation rather than innovation. One other possible disadvantage of financial (dis) incentives is that they cause a change in behaviour rather than (necessarily) attitude – for many ecologists, this is not enough. In sum then, the pro-state argument needs to be taken with a pinch of salt as well. There is ample room for self-regulation and coordination via (dis)incentives originating in civil society, and what room there is for the state to influence the individual’s conscience (internal coercion) depends on its being in tune with civil society. The state can tip the balance in favour of ecological preferences and payoff structures, but it cannot cause them to exist in the first place. The direct coercive powers of the state are indispensable only in type III situations, and even then only when all else fails.

3.6 A summary At the beginning of this chapter, I announced that I questioned the belief in the need for state intervention and in the self-healing powers of the free market; these doubts were confirmed by subsequent analysis. Environmentally benign payoff structures do not arise naturally: they have to be created (Section 3.3). Both state and civil society can influence the variables and constants that determine the client’s and the producer’s payoff structure (Section 3.4). It is only under very special circumstances that the creation of a green payoff structure necessarily requires government interference (Section 3.5).

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Although we only analyzed extreme cases – a purely free market and fullblown government control – these conclusions would not change if we considered the ‘in-between’ – the world of governance and state-business-civil society cooperation – it would just be less easy to distinguish the autonomous influence of each actor. The analysis presented here understood nature as resources, as environment, rather than as ecology (cf. Section 3.2). One important question has therefore remained unanswered: with what kind of nature, rather than (just) the amount of natural resources, can state and civil society leave us when they set out to create a greener economy? In other words: how green can the free market be? Although the question requires further research, two rough hypotheses can already be formulated here. First, given a divided civil society, the ‘greener’, the more ecologist, preferences are – and the more political support such views gain – the easier it will be for the state to tip the balance of power in society in favour of green economic behaviour (not beliefs or attitudes). ‘Green’ preferences require civil society to consider not only its own direct interests but also the moral claims of future generations, other species, even the biosphere itself; they require nature to be seen as ecology, not as environment. Under those circumstances, nature (the ecology) becomes the kind of ‘passive’ actor that turns cooperative ventures into situations of type III: every other actor can gain by unilaterally defecting. Hence my second hypothesis: only when ecologist preferences gain enough grounds to cause environmental problems to be redefined at the collective level as ecological problems can they create situations of type III which require coercion and ultimately external coercion (i.e. state interference). Finally, a word on academic research as such. Academia is used to dividing itself in disciplines and sub-disciplines, and rightly so: without specialization, our collective body of knowledge would not be what it is today. Yet the analysis made here also points to a disadvantage of specialization: blind spots. Some topics simply do not belong to the discourse of a discipline, to its great disadvantage. In our case, there is reason not to overvalue the borders between political theory, economics and moral theory. There is room for, and a want of, an interdisciplinary exchange of views in at least three areas. For one (see Section 3.3), political theory, both mainstream and green, has a blind spot for market and business ethics: it assumes economic actors to be amoral or even immoral, and to stand in need of colonial control. Economics could gain from further study of preference formation (Section 3.4) rather than assuming preferences to be given. Business ethics (Section 3.5) could gain from changing its perspective on economic actors as rational egoists with a sense of morality, with the framework of rational choice theory, in order to detect further limits to the effectiveness of ethics. Finally, both green political theory and the green or furry things we live amidst could gain from a less distanced understanding of the free market.

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3.7 Conclusion The main conclusion drawn above, which also forms a major premise for the rest of my argument in this book, is the need (under the presumably classic circumstances of a ‘closed’ sovereign state) for authoritative, decisive interference in society, aimed at perpetuating the existence of mutually advantageous schemes of cooperation in some form or other. The validity of this argument is not limited to the case of environmental politics only. It will apply, mutatis mutandis, to any area of social interaction where individual rationality can produce collectively irrational consequences (ending in ‘social non-sustainability’) – classic examples are the labour market and production. In Marx’s understanding of capitalism, it is rational for producers to cut back on labour costs, and rational for workers to sell their labour at any price above starvation level; the result is an impoverished consumer population unable to afford any products, overproduction combined with physical shortage, and economic crises. The point is not that Marx’s prediction of an ultimate total breakdown of capitalism and a glorious revolution (or end of civilization) was wrong – it is that, without government interference in the form of labour laws, trade laws, price control, tax policies, welfare regimes and so on, it might have been right. Social non-sustainability is possible anywhere – in the socio-economic and other policy areas associated with the modern welfare state as much as in those that belong to more classical configurations, like the night watchman state or the pre-modern state, i.e. the maintenance of the rule of law itself. Laws regulating social exchanges (and what others do we need?) are by definition laws that might be advantageous to break; disincentives and authority guaranteeing the effectiveness of disincentives are needed to maintain the law. It does not take Hobbesian anthropology and Hobbesian consequences to understand the undesirability of the alternative – even a society of angels could break down in an instant without laws and without the power to uphold them. Let the angels be perfect altruists: at every road crossing, they will give right of way to one another, and literally nothing will move. As we saw above, many (but not all) problems of collective action can apparently be solved without a sovereign state, without an ultimate and unquestioned power wielding a monopoly on violence – and even those that can be solved can only be solved if contestable assumptions are made. In the best of all imaginable world, situations of type I can exist – i.e. there is no envy and no other reason to begrudge being made less well off than the person who does best (or simply better). In the best of all imaginable worlds, the compensating party in situations of type II will stick to his or her end of the deal and compensate the party that is disadvantaged by cooperation. In the best of all imaginable worlds, a state is not always necessary – but unfortunately we only live in the best of all possible worlds. Here, even rational persons have grounds to begrudge undeserved inequality (situations I and II: ‘why me?’) and rational persons may always find cheaper solutions than

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compensation (situation II: murder comes to mind here). Thus, no society, not even one of angels, is sustainable without authoritative interference. The argument also applies under different circumstances – the need for authoritative and decisive interference exists in any social and political constellation, not merely within a sovereign state. Political pluralization by definition precludes the existence of an agent with the necessary clout to warrant such interference, however. At the level of individuals versus a (nonsovereign) state or other powerful institution, perhaps the latter has what it takes to keep the individual subjected, but at the level of multinationals that would be quite unlikely. Moreover, even if a powerful agent (state or other) has the power to win a one-shot game, it still lacks the legitimacy needed to bring order in incompossible law systems and to constitute a stable polity – for legitimacy is definitely more than force alone. This brings me to the first of two conclusions to be drawn from these first three chapters. Legitimacy is more than effective and efficient government – it also requires good reasons, such as reasons to assume that an environmental policy will actually solve an environmental problem and not (just) a coalition formation problem. States and their equivalents cannot depend on force or majority coalitions only, which distinguishes them from Augustine’s band of robbers, and from some corporations. Force and coalitions are not sufficient to guarantee effectiveness or efficiency, because they do not guarantee lasting loyalty. Whenever a state wants to introduce a policy (environmental or other), it is institutionally and socially forced to explain its reasons and goals, the means chosen, and when challenged (in parliament or court) it has to defend itself extensively, sometimes even clarifying (far less often than desirable) its most basic motivations down to the level of deep philosophy. When producers want to produce or change their mode of production, or robbers want to rob, they do so without debate: their trump card in any possible debate is called ‘profit’. Understood as part of civil society (in an extended sense of the word), producers (like consumers) are only guided in, for example, environmentfriendly directions by two political instruments: direct or indirect coercion (taxes and subsidies, permits and prohibitions) and propaganda (i.e. ‘government information’ – communication in one direction only). Recent literature in environmental political philosophy argues for a ‘third way’, one that avoids the ends-oriented and liberty-hostile nature of the former, and the one-sidedness and insincerity of the latter. This third way of ‘reflexive policy-making’ combines the creation of opportunities for a more environmentally sane life with public debate aimed not at convincing sinners, but at clarifying and developing motives for action. It is to this third approach that the next part of this book will be devoted. One other topic that deserves more attention is that of the limits of the free market, i.e. of government (not necessarily state) interference. Greening the market, for instance, is a collective choice problem, and not all such problems can be solved without involuntary coordination. Coordination may

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be required particularly if only a part of the consumers or producers develop sustainable preferences, creating an unsustainable green corner on the market – an often realistic expectation. Although compatible with liberalism and liberal democracy since it can promote economic democracy and liberty of choice (cf. Wissenburg 1999a), government interference does not necessarily do so. Despite a century of welfare state policy and thousands of years of political interference with the market, the liberal debate on the criteria and conditions for ‘good’ interference is still immature – as is, in consequence, the debate on our topic for Chapters 8–10: political structures and institutions designed to deal with (and not just cope with) political pluralization. We have already discussed, and discarded, one such possible institution in the context of globalization: the treaty organization. Although it goes a long way in the direction I shall take (that of empowering weak political actors and negotiating coalitions), it increases rather than diminishes the degree of political pluralization.

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4.1 Principles and politics In the preceding chapters, we have established a motive (not to be confused with ‘a need’) for authoritative interference (not to be confused with ‘the exercise of power’) in human society: wherever individuals can gain from cooperation, there is room for governance. Undoubtedly, there are more motives than rational self-interest; we will come to those in a moment. Rational self-interest makes authoritative interference necessary – but only under particular circumstances – specifically, where inequality can sensibly be begrudged or where cheaper solutions than compensation of those disadvantaged by cooperation exist: circumstances that may be particular but not necessarily rare. There are, however, also circumstances under which governance is expedient. It is for that reason that I just referred to a motive for interference rather than a need. There are situations in which full and complete cooperation is rational, and defection by rational individuals is not to be expected. Under those circumstances, authoritative interference by governing bodies of whatever kind would, in principle, be purely administrative and facilitating (though, as critics of state interference would say, in practice often rather the opposite). Administrative interference may help to facilitate processes of compensation, reduce the costs of cooperation or help to make up for any procedural deficiencies where conditions of perfect rationality are not met. Abstract as this last condition may sound, it is probably also one of the most vital tasks of administrative institutions in modern societies. It may be perfectly rational for each and every individual to buy into a collective health insurance, for instance, or a pension scheme, an insurance against unemployment, disability, and so on – but as long as it is voluntary, real-existing persons may fail to do the rational thing, simply because they do not have the time, information or physical or intellectual capabilities to do the rational thing. Imagine a society where all these insurances and schemes are available to registered participants, but where each individual has to actively search for all relevant information on each individual insurance scheme offered by countless insurance companies, sift through all this information, assess the

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relative probabilities of his or her possible futures (not to mention the viability of the insurance company) and calculate the consequences of each particular scheme, and then finally make up his or her mind. It is rare to find an individual with enough time and capacities for all of this – and in all likelihood, he or she least needs such securities.1 Rational self-interest, then, gives us a motive to justify some forms of governance as necessary, expedient or both: they can contribute to efficiency and effectiveness in the pursuit of shared individual interests. Yet this motive is totally unsatisfactory: it is based on an utterly inadequate perception of what politics is about. This becomes painstakingly clear when we consider (as we shall do later in more detail) the question of sustainable development. Where the benefits of development for, say, the urban proletariat of a developing country come at the price of exploiting and thereby destroying aspects of nature that are irreplaceable for, say, an indigenous tribe, gains for and compensation of that tribe are both impossible. Rather than seeking cooperation, the submission, exploitation and ultimately eradication of the tribe and their way of life become the only rational option for the other party. The rational thing to do may even be the moral thing to do, considering the short, nasty, brutish and ignorant lives often lived in tribes (we shall leave that question open for debate) – the point is that it is the decision on the shape of the structure of social interaction between both parties that is by definition political, i.e. the choice between peaceful co-existence, cold war, submission or a return of all to nature. In this example, clearly incompatible interests create a political dilemma, but there are more real-world cases in which the rational self-interest explanation is inadequate, e.g. if the rational solution is not self-evident but needs explanation, if one cannot (or does not want to) define one’s rational self-interest in terms of rational self-interest, and so on. Politics is not about calculating the most efficient and effective way to exercise power in the pursuit of a predetermined common goal – that is administration, and administration is only the final stage of the political process. Politics is instead about trying to unearth or create a common goal (or common weal or common good), about properly formulating it if it exists, and only then about translating goals into appropriate means and ends.2 In other words, the legitimate exercise of power is about justifying its use and, more precisely, about justifying both the efficiency and effectiveness of the chosen means, and first and foremost about justifying the choice of goals. Against this background, two important questions rise. The first one concerns the origin of legitimacy: if legitimate exercise of power requires prior justification of a common goal as well as adequate realization of that goal, then how can an institution be legitimate before the goal is realized, hence how can it legitimately exercise power if it is not legitimate yet? In broader terms: how can an institution be legitimate if its chosen goals or means are not (yet) accepted as legitimate? We could consider this a case of the baron

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Von Münchausen pulling himself out of the swamp by his bootstraps, or a classic case of the chicken and the egg, an obvious logical contradiction making legitimacy an empty concept or a mere paradox that can be solved by assuming authorities work on credit. A further analysis of this question will have to wait until Chapter 8. It is the second question I want to address first: how can shared goals – the foundations of cooperation and of possible answers to pluralization – be discovered and justified at all? As argued in Chapter 1, this requires good reasons rather than, or at least in addition to, force or (the threat of force from) majority coalitions; but what constitutes a good reason is a controversial matter. In this chapter, I offer a limited but (for our purposes) hopefully adequate overview of three basic types of answer to this question. I shall outline the basic features of and arguments for each answer, but avoid any deeper philosophical analysis of these arguments, however interesting that might be. The first answer is the appeal to objective ethical truth, the second perceived popularity, and the third is the attempt to find a middle road through controlled deliberation. In later chapters, I shall try to develop an extension of the controlled deliberation theme to policies with regard to foundational principles (Chapters 5 and 6) and, after concluding that there is only limited room for principles in pluralized politics but yet decisions need to be made even in the absence of agreement, discuss the benefits of arbitrary rule (Chapter 7).

4.2 Objective truth Imagine that you and I disagree on whether to do x or not do x. Somehow – by deliberation or revelation – we come to agree that we should do x because to do x is to do the right thing, or the good thing, or the moral thing.3 We have found what we hold to be an absolute principle: x is good. Principles justify action – sometimes in hindsight, sometimes beforehand – and give us the common goals we are looking for. Principles come in all shapes and forms: they are not necessarily of a moral nature but always normative and always justificatory. They serve as the major premises in ethical syllogisms: they describe the reason for acting in a certain way under certain circumstances. Thus, they do not merely justify what we do in private life, public, in politics etc. – they make our behaviour ‘human’ (i.e. reasoned, motivated) rather than unreflective, instinctive, automatic. If we are looking for a common goal, for something to justify politics, political institutions, instruments and rules, then principles are the obvious answer – the only imaginable alternative to having reasons being, it seems, total arbitrariness. To share a common goal, to accept a principle, however, makes sense only when that principle is itself justifiable. We have to be able to believe that it is true, and that presupposes that we must believe that it can be true, i.e. that there can be normative truths. In this section, I shall therefore try to make the strongest case possible for politics guided by absolute ethical truth.

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The idea that there is, or can be, such a thing as objective truth in matters of normative disagreement (of ‘by what standards we should live where alternative paths are open’) has had a rather bad press over the past two centuries. Belief in objective ethical truth is blamed for intolerance, selfrighteousness and single-mindedness (fanaticism), and these three are in turn blamed for religious wars, exploitation of humans and nature, violent and bloody repression, and mass murder – up to and including the Holocaust. Not only would this make ethical absolutes undesirable, even distasteful, their consequences would also make them unjustifiable. Yet it would be a fallacy to blame belief in ethical absolutes for any and all crimes against humanity: it is neither a sufficient nor a necessary condition for intolerance, self-righteousness or fanaticism. I assume though, for the sake of argument, that these three together are necessary and sufficient conditions for crimes against humanity. First of all, it takes belief in at least two absolutes to foster oppression (violence, etc.). On the one hand, what is needed is a belief in an otherregarding or ‘meddlesome’ principle, one that does not (merely) prescribe how one should live oneself but (also) how at least one other should live; not all ethical principles meet this qualification – ‘Thou shalt not open thy eggs at the big end’ does not, for example; but ‘no one should open eggs at the big end’ does. Note that the same applies to humanitarian principles: ‘thou shalt not torture’ is not meddlesome, ‘no one should torture’ is. On the other hand, a second principle is required that prescribes that one should act upon meddlesome principles in such a way as to ensure their realization, or at least non-violation: ‘no one should torture’, ‘no one should open eggs at the big end’ or ‘no fornicator should breathe one more breath’ only become really meddlesome when combined with ‘you must actively see to it that said principle is followed’. In brief, it takes rather special circumstances for belief in ethical truths to become oppressive – the relation is not one of sufficiency. Nor is belief in ethical truth a necessary condition for crimes against humanity; the inability to admit to principles can do the job just as nicely. If omission can be a crime, then hesitating to interfere in a bloody religious conflict when one can stop it merely because one ‘cannot’ take sides is just as criminal. Fanaticism, self-righteousness and intolerance (as much as indecision) may have deplorable effects – none of that proves that moral principles cannot be justified or justifiable. There is, however, a far greater problem of an epistemological nature: how can one prove the truth of an ethical principle in the first place – and does not use of the word ‘truth’ in this connection constitute a category mistake? Proving ‘hard facts’ is difficult enough: ‘all x are y’ is true (if it is) because of a natural law, but that law is accepted on the basis of, on the one hand, contingent and necessarily finite data, and, on the other, compatibility with equally uncertain laws.4 To prove ethical facts, the sceptic would say, we do not even have data. Ethical propositions derived from ethical premises can be valid or invalid inferences, they can be practical or

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impossible to act on – but only a standard for ethical truth can make them true or untrue. Ethical systems, systems of dos and don’ts, are self-contained, ultimately premised on faith in one or more non-reducible foundational principle(s). In other words, the sceptic would conclude, barring contingent social and psychological inhibitions, ethical systems are mere conventions, chosen only on the basis of whims. At this point, a distinction needs to be made between belief in x, an absolute truth,5 and the absolute truth of x itself. In politics, unlike epistemology, how we come to discover the truth of x (if that is possible at all) is immaterial; what matters is how we come to believe that x is or may be true – or how one person can convince others of the truth of x. The epistemological problem can, in other words, be ignored – indeed, the ethical absolutist would say, it must be ignored because we have to believe in absolutes, in ethical principles guiding behaviour and creating common ground for politics. A person may believe that adulterers should die but be unable to prove this. From the inability to prove x, nothing follows – neither a commandment to effectuate x nor one to tolerate dissent. Both require a further normative principle, one prescribing a specific kind of meddlesome behaviour: an action that is respectively an omission to act. The bad press for absolutes then has nothing to do with absolutes themselves – tolerance, humanitarianism, etc. are themselves absolutes; all ethical principles are by their nature, necessarily, absolutes. The bad press concerns only some principles, ones on which we disagree, and we disagree not because we know one or the other to be untrue but (emotional states of mind excluded) because we believe one or the other to be untrue. It is important to keep this in mind, not because it limits the use of absolute truth and supports the sceptic’s point of view (even though it does), but because it highlights the inevitability of the use of ethical principles and the inevitability of the pursuit of truth, even in politics. The only alternative is to deliberately (or instinctively, or out of fear or stupidity or tradition or religion) reject the belief that it matters what we do and choose. If political institutions need to be justified by an appeal to ethical principles, and if such principles are accepted not because they are true but because we believe them to be true, it seems that we find ourselves on the one road the ethical absolutist would want to avoid most: the road to what the classics called democracy – the rule of the strongest opinion. After all, to ensure that ‘we’ believe in a certain principle, each and every member of a political community has to be convinced of it somehow, either directly (‘I believe in x’) or indirectly (‘I believe individual i, who believes in x’). The alternative, to ignore or even suppress deviant opinions while claiming supreme knowledge or exclusive revelation, presupposes the kind of principles that gave absolutism its bad name – as we have already seen, these are not necessarily shared by all absolutists. Plato already pointed out that democracy tends to rule good those reasons that are ‘felt’ to be good by the mob, rather than reasons that are warranted

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by careful deliberation, let alone reasons that are good by some objective standard. Rather than contradicting him, philosophers ever since (absolutists, pragmatists, relativists, constitutionalists, etc.) have shared his fears, to varying degrees, but always perceptibly. Yet despite the deep and justified distrust in democracy, there are circumstances under which the absolutist might be persuaded not to fall back on revelation and oppression. A first argument that could convince an ethical absolutist to accept democracy as the right means of finding common ground would have to be borrowed from political realism: that it is an inevitable consequence of a law of nature. In any other case, the absolutist would find democracy admissible (and defensible) only where the results do not really matter, on issues where no absolute principles could be violated. In such cases, however, democracy is just as arbitrary as tossing a coin – and is therefore redundant. Preferring democracy for prudential or procedural reasons is no option either. Prudential reasons, like democracy being an economic alternative to a war of all against all, would be conditional on an ethical principle, one excluded from democratic opinion polling. Procedural reasons are, ideally, insensitive to all consequences save one: that the people (or the strongest) decide. Again, this makes acceptance of democracy conditional upon a principle overruling democracy, but the absolutist cannot dismiss this argument for democracy as easily, for reasons of inconsistency. If democratic decision-making on guiding principles were defensible on procedural grounds, it would be because of a claim that through some form of democracy we can come to truth – i.e. that it is the only, or the best, instrument for detecting true ethical principles and/or for giving us reason to believe in them. Obviously, this is a hypothesis that still needs to be tested – after all, democracy sceptics have only claimed, not proven, that the popularity of an ethical view is no indication of its truth.

4.3 The principle of popularity In the context of this book, the finest advantage of thinking of politics as guided by principles is that it obviates the whole question of political pluralization: it simply becomes irrelevant – as long as we agree on principles, the structure within which politics is technically turned into policy can be virtually anything. What matters is that we have a (mysteriously pre-given) common goal and aim to realize it. Yet, the critic would say, our argument for politics guided by absolute principles also has a number of serious flaws. Although the use of principles is inevitable, we have been given neither (1) a reason to believe that absolute principles exist (only that we need to believe so), nor (2) an instrument allowing us to actually affirm or believe in a particular principle (true or not) other than irrational revelation or irrational whims. What we have established is that, in order to find common ground, we need to argue – i.e. create, confront and test arguments. We do not even need the category of ethical truth anymore – all we need is to believe that the

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principles or goals in which we believe are the best we can come up with, given the circumstances in which we exist and think. It is all a matter of testing beliefs. If that is true, then democracy becomes interesting again. By definition, finding common goals means finding something we can all believe in. Democracy as (majoritarian) opinion polling does just that: if we are a minority we can often still accept the majority’s decision as tolerable; if not, it is a reason to secede. Democracy thus defines the area of validity (read: belief) in a common goal. If we secede, there is reason to believe the refuted common goal was not argued for convincingly – which includes the possibility that it violated our self-interest because the price for adherence would have been too high. If anything, the democratic approach to the search for common ground helps us understand and appreciate political pluralization: the latter reflects (or would ideally reflect) the reality of discord and concord among individuals. For the absolutist, the only possible defences of democracy on principle are that it is a natural necessity (which can seriously be doubted) or, following the procedural argument, that through some form of democracy we can come to believe in an ethical truth – i.e. that it is the only, or the best, instrument for detecting true principles or for giving us reason to believe in them. The democrat has more arguments in store. She could argue that democracy realizes some principles in which we all believe (such as giving each individual an equal say in everything that concerns her), and what matters is not that these are absolutes but that we believe in them – although justifying democracy on the grounds that it is democratically preferred constitutes circular reasoning. Alternatively, she could give a more subtle defence: democracy realizes certain true principles that we also happen to believe in, principles that cannot be realized by any other process for the identification of common goals. Note that this makes our democrat a special case of the ethical absolutist. It is with this kind of argument that libertarians and semi-libertarians (Rothbart 1973, Nozick 1974, Buchanan 1975, Gauthier 1986, Kukathas 2003, etc.) defend their ideal constitutions. Their choice of words may differ, but in general it comes down to this: if we believe in good and evil, we must believe that it matters what we do and choose. If we believe that, we must believe that each individual’s choices matter (and that these choices should be good). If we also believe that, we must accept that the individual’s choice is ultimately his or her own responsibility, and we should respect that responsibility. Thus, if a group of individuals X chooses a common ground, and chooses to live according to a certain set of principles, we should respect that, no matter how misguided we believe them to be. We cannot intervene on grounds of higher authority or better knowledge, because X accepts neither argument. All we can do is ‘reason’ with them – try to convince them but not force them. Chandran Kukathas (2003) compares this attitude to that of (the better kind of) missionaries in (from their point of view) primitive

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societies: not having any means of exerting power (unless one wants to risk ending up in the tribal cooking pot), all the missionary can do is proffer arguments of the kind and in the form that the ‘primitives’ will listen to. An appeal to higher knowledge, e.g. (as in John Rawls’ case) to what ideal individuals under ideal circumstances would choose, simply disrespects the autonomy and responsibility of individuals. Thus, Kukathas concludes, ‘The missionary position is preferred to the original position’ (Kukathas 2003: 136n). Preferences over the Kama Sutra apart, this is where Kukathas is wrong.

4.4 Controlled deliberation As said above, democracy is not too popular among philosophers, and those defending it have so far usually failed miserably (cf. Steinberger 2004: 267–82). Not only does it not necessarily bring out the best in humans (cf. Frankfurt 2005: 64), its decision-making procedures have also been vetted and found wanting: the simple majority rule (in fact any majority rule, mutatis mutandis) leads to the absurd conclusion that the will of half the electorate plus one must be followed because they outnumber the rest – a very economic and prudent alternative to civil war, but no epistemological guarantee that anything sensible is decided. As an alternative, unanimity is as good as dictatorship – both are equally sound guarantees for a good decision. The execution of democratic procedures has been found to be equally inadequate: rather than honestly polling each individual’s opinion, democracy allows (both as an idea and in practice) that the financially, psychologically or otherwise powerful buy, outcry, intimidate or delude the less powerful. It is at this point that Kukathas’ argument and indeed any argument for unrestrained democracy fails. Not only does the principle of mere popularity offer no help in dealing with political pluralization (though it helps to understand and even justify it), it also does not meet its own purpose – i.e. making people responsible for their own choices. Unrestrained democracy is blind to all initial inequality between individuals in all the relevant senses: intellectual, physical, social, etc., thus allowing both voluntary and involuntary inequality in participation and deliberation. It is, in other words, blind to power; it lets it run free and does not check it in. What rules is the strongest opinion, not the sincerest, the most reflective, the best or even the most widely shared. In other words, it confuses justified belief with mere belief. Different academic disciplines lead us to the same answer to this democratic deficiency. Environmental policy experts, as noted above, argue that producers, like consumers, are usually only guided by direct or indirect coercion, or by propaganda. A ‘third way’ to guide them – ‘reflexive policymaking’ – would combine the creation of opportunities for an environmentally more sane life, with public debate aimed not at convincing sinners but at clarifying and developing motives for action (cf. e.g. Schlosberg 1999, 2004, Smith 2003, Talshir 2004).

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In political science, there is a tradition of research on improvements of democracy on just this point: some argue for an extension of democratic control to pre- and post-decisional politics, and for wider and more frequent involvement in politics (‘participatory democracy’); and some for better rather than more democracy, through improved processes of reflection and deliberation (‘reflexive democracy’, ‘deliberative democracy’, etc.). We find the latter school reflected to some degree in modern political theory and philosophy, in the form of various models for ‘ideal’ deliberation on society’s political foundations. Uniting these models is an appreciation of both absolutism and popularity, and a desire to combine both. Deliberationists, as I shall call them, on the one hand accept the necessity of belief in principles, and on the other accept that such belief must be premised on individual convictions, not on power or claims to authoritative access to truth (cf. Dryzek and Niemeyer 2006). To combine the two, the idea is that public deliberation should be geared towards doing whatever is humanly possible (given limited time and limited knowledge) to approach truth rather than find it – to formulate good reasons rather than final solutions to the riddles of the ethical universe. Taking a more or less realistic perspective and accepting that what moves politics is not being right but being thought to be right, the best we can aim for is reasons warranted by deliberation. A second idea shared by deliberationists is the use of fiction – as will be explained in a moment. Dividing the deliberationists is, of course, the question of method.6 A first tradition follows Jürgen Habermas (1981, 2004) in arguing for a dominationfree discourse (herrschaftsfreier Diskurs) as a means of settling any social disagreement (cf. e.g. Dryzek 1990, Smith 2003). At the basis of this tradition stands the idea that every proposition contains a claim to a shared standard of the truth, the good or the beautiful. If we can ‘think away’ all arguments that are logically irrelevant or inhibitive to reaching agreement on (i.e. to the identification of) these standards – that is, if we exclude all forms of physical, psychological and logical violence – we end up having a dominion-free discourse resulting at least in shared understanding of different assessments, but hopefully also in shared standards and goals. Two other deliberationist traditions focus on politics rather than all social discourse, and add a number of constraints on deliberation. The modus vivendi tradition has become associated with Bruce Ackerman’s theory of social justice (1980), for which he asks us to imagine how we would organize a society if we had to start all over again. Ackerman’s fiction is far more fictional than Habermas’s – he illustrates the basics of his theory with the story of a spaceship, containing a representative selection of humans, that lands on a new planet where only one resource exists: manna, a resource out of which everything else can be made. His most important procedural constraints on deliberation are that all claims to manna must be argued for, and that no argument can make use of the assumption that any person or anyone’s ‘theory of the good’ (view of ethics) is better than anyone else or anyone

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else’s. The resulting distribution is described by both Ackerman and his most important critic, John Rawls, as a modus vivendi: it is based on a compromise among the members of a society, a compromise not on justified or justifiable reasons for the validity of claims to resources, but on tolerating reasons that cannot be refuted with an appeal to Ackerman’s minimal constraints. Where non-refutation and modus vivendi characterize the second strand of deliberationism, the third is characterized by a direct debate on the validity of reasons. The classic in this area is John Rawls’ A Theory of Justice (1973/ 1999a), which is significantly amended in Political Liberalism (1993a), where an overlapping consensus on a public theory of the right (prioritized over private theories of the good) is formulated behind a so-called veil of ignorance under ‘reasonable’ conditions defining the famous ‘original position’. I shall assume that this model needs no further explanation. With all the reservations one may have about the completeness and accessibility of individual authors’ arguments – not to mention the strength of the arguments themselves – the overlapping consensus approach is vastly superior to the other two in at least one respect: sincerity. It acknowledges what others perhaps unwittingly hide: the role of certain substantive ethical principles in limiting the choice of those further principles that in turn define the common goals upon which a polity is to be founded. Anti-dominionists and modus-vivendists seek some form of concord among ‘all’ individual opinions – much like the democratic principle of popularity – but nonetheless disallow some opinions. In Habermas’s model, for instance, the assumption is that any claim to truth (or good or beauty) must be meant to be intersubjectively valid and meant to be defended against others. Ackerman’s exclusion of public debate on most arguments for particular theories of the good (the distinguishing feature between a modus vivendi and an overlapping consensus) implies the exclusion not only of ‘better than thou’ arguments but also of theories of the good that assume that people’s reasons, and ethics and morality as a whole, matter. The overlapping consensus has its disadvantages too – most importantly, as Rawls had to admit in Political Liberalism (1993a) and again in The Law of Peoples (1993b, 1999b), that one cannot presume a worldwide overlapping consensus to actually exist. Certain – let us call them cultural – boundaries can at least momentarily not be crossed. Rawls’ so-called burdens of judgement (Rawls 1993a: 54), for instance – the conditions limiting public deliberation to arguments that can ‘reasonably’ be argued for (that is, without physical, psychological or logical violence) – force him to admit that agreement on political equality will be limited to societies and individuals accepting as self-evident that which a caste society cannot believe: that all humans are born equal. One might be temped to introduce Karl Popper’s notion (Popper 1960: 278) here – that history is a process of liberation, of discovering that certain prejudices (like caste inequality) are taboos that can be surpassed rather than laws of nature that cannot; any attempt to force a

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caste society (or an egalitarian one, for that matter) to perceive its taboo as such, however, would result in the kind of meta-ethical and metaphysical debate that the burdens of judgement preclude. Whether taboo or law of nature, some fundamental ethical principles must be accepted as selfevident – in the sense that they remain evident to those sharing them and ludicrous to those who do not. Where reason cannot go, reasonable debate cannot create a common goal – even though this is a contingent truth, the truth according to the deliberationist paradigm must be that some form of global political division is inevitable. Yet where reason can go, it should go, even by the standards of democrats: if people and their choices matter, their reasons matter and should be taken seriously – i.e. tested, opposed and defended, rather than taken as immaterial tastes on immaterial issues. By trying to neutralize the role of (unjustified) initial differences in power among individuals, albeit through necessarily fictitious constructions like the original position, deliberationists approach an ideal that democrats fail to appreciate: taking people’s beliefs in ethical absolutes seriously. In this sense then, the original position is preferable to the missionary position.

4.5 Philosophical and political liberalism It is time to doff the sheep’s skin a bit further. It was not my aim in this chapter (so far) to argue for one particular mode of justification (absolutism, popularity or any strand of deliberationism), but merely to introduce the basic modes of reasoning used to justify common goals and thereby common political ventures. Each of these modes has its advantages and shortcomings, and none of them can do without further explanation and vindication. Yet some conclusions seem to be inevitable, even without further deliberation. One is that we cannot find common ground if there is no common ground. For absolutists (and there is a bit of absolutist even in the democrat), this must imply that some principles that are worth realizing, yet fail to win support, must be pushed through – which raises the question of the justification of despotism, addressed below in Chapter 7. For democrats and deliberationists, it implies that disagreement on at least the ‘highest’ or ‘deepest’ ethical, meta-ethical and metaphysical principles (for each of them a different set) cannot be resolved – a hypothesis that will be further tested in Chapter 6. A second inevitable conclusion is that there must be room for deliberation since there must be room for belief, that deliberation must be unrestrained by power, and in this sense neutral, but that for fruitful deliberation to take place, we must assume some basic principles to already be shared. In that sense, impartiality or neutrality is impossible. Certain (as yet undefined) principles must be adhered to, or tolerated or if necessary enforced, to create room for ‘real’ politics – i.e. the formulation and creation of common goals. Some of these ‘first principles’ are procedural, others substantive. (Of course

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it should be noted that procedural principles necessarily have a substantive dimension). In this section, I shall argue for a particular set of such principles, a set referred to as philosophical liberalism or (shorter but at the risk of confusion with certain real-existing political practices) simply as liberalism. Not only do these principles reflect what I believe reasonable individuals (accepting both the burdens of judgement and the Popperian quest for liberation) deliberating under neutral conditions would agree to – but they also give us reasons beyond sheer efficiency and effectiveness to be concerned about political pluralization, as well as standards for acceptable solutions. This being said, I do not intend to offer a conclusive argument to convert heathens to liberalism: ‘It is a condition of our freedom that we cannot compel anyone to believe in the premises of a liberal democracy. Either these premises freely convince others or they are useless. They cannot be imposed, and we violate everything we stand for if we coerce those who do not believe what we do’ (Ignatieff 2005: 169). Let me start with a number of procedural principles. The development of preferences is a private affair in liberalism: in principle, governments have no business there – one either takes individuals’ deliberations and ethical choices seriously, or one does not. Yet preferences cannot be taken as given in real life as they can be in theory. They are based on (by definition uncertain) information, on (by definition disputed) moral judgements and (by definition questionable) feelings. Moreover, we humans constantly change and learn, and our preferences at any given moment in time reflect nothing but our accidental feelings at a randomly chosen moment. Much depends in a liberal society on the degree to which individual preferences are considered judgements – among other things the quality of policies including those aimed at the expression of the individual’s plan of life. Consequently, there is good reason for liberal authorities to promote a free and open debate aimed at improving the quality of the input and thereby output of political decision-making, and no reason not to. The question of how such a public debate should be given shape is rather practical, though no less interesting for that reason. Political theory can contribute little to this matter, usually discussed under the heading of deliberative democracy, except by designing criteria of fairness, openness, completeness, etc. Liberal political theory, in particular, would point to and further develop three notions: freedom of information, freedom of debate, and modesty. Freedom of information – the input for every thought process – is essential to the education of one’s preferences. It cannot be guaranteed without an authority protecting the free flow of data, e.g. by blocking press monopolies (Weale 1999) or commercial monopolies on research, but perhaps also by checking a flow of unreliable, redundant or misleading information. There will always be a certain tension between the state’s obligation to keep a distance from the contents of the debate and its responsibility for fair sideconstraints. As one tends to say in Academia, more research is needed here.

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Freedom of debate illustrates this dilemma even more. The fairness and openness of public debate depends not only on the available information, but also on how the agenda is defined and how the information is treated (cf. Sunstein 2003). A perhaps unwelcome, but therefore deliberately chosen, example of a relatively unfair debate is that on smoking (or food, alcohol, coffee or spare time): although the information on the effects of smoking flows quite freely, the agenda is mostly determined by one exclusive and substantive idea of the good life only – health as defined by medical criteria of fitness for combat and wage slavery. Finally, a liberal view on deliberation would stress the need for modest expectations. Deliberation leads to better decision-making and more informed (not necessarily better) decisions. There is, for instance, no guarantee that more deliberative democracy will result in more support for green or sustainable policies. All considered judgements being and remaining provisional, the result may well be that present generations decide not to heed the interests of the next generation(s), in favour of the mere survival of those centuries from now, or that they decide to give priority to themselves and make procreation dependent on the amount of resources left after this generation has taken its part. Gerald Gaus is right when he qualifies ‘a procedure that depends on extensive discussion and consulting a wide number of people’ as ‘not a terrible way to protect liberal rights’ (Gaus 2003: 224) – it is, at least for those invited, present, capable and self-absorbed. Moreover, deliberative democracy works best in laboratory settings (cf. Fishkin 1995) – in real life, debates are usually won by the clever, not the right. In addition to procedural criteria, there are substantive criteria (already shimmering through in the procedural ones). The keyword here is emancipation, without which no sense can be made of any support for deliberative ideals. With this keyword come others like respect, tolerance, fallibility, autonomy, freedom of thought, a long-term perspective on differences of opinion (an attitude of ‘settle now, solve later’) and recognition of the other as other – i.e. similar to, but not the same as, oneself. These are the key values of political liberalism – not to be confused with any liberal parties’ ideologies or practices. They are rather the incarnation of the Enlightenment ideal of emancipation. Liberalism is a means to an end: the end is the affirmation of human dignity, the means the emancipation of the human individual. If one wanted to catch the essence or nature of liberalism in one sentence, then this would be it, but unfortunately one-liners are seldom really informative. The same description could, after all, be given of anarchism, socialism, Christianity and even, in a way, of ecologism. Liberalism distinguishes itself from other political theories through its interpretation of means and end – an interpretation that becomes clearer when we consider the instruments it proposes for the implementation of emancipation. Liberals are united among themselves – and distinguishable from others – by their appreciation of two instruments of emancipation. One

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is the liberty of the individual to pursue a life and a good of his or her own choice and making, mirrored in Frederic the Great’s demand that each should find salvation in his or her own way, or in Brian Barry’s more modern and less paternalistic words, ‘people must be free to go to hell in their own way, provided they stay within the law’ (Barry 2001: 161). The other instrument is equality of opportunity, or more precisely the idea that no arbitrary differences between individuals should inhibit or improve the individual’s perspectives on that good life. Especially in modern liberalism, these two ideas are often associated with the notion of political neutrality: either as a political necessity or as a moral virtue, the state should aim to be neutral with regard to individual ideas of the good life, and embrace the ‘fact of moral pluralism’ – the existence of an irreducible plurality of views on the good life. Thus, liberals distinguish themselves by an interpretation of human dignity as an autonomous life, literally a life ‘under one’s own rules’ – an ideal that is best not interpreted as an end-state but primarily as a process of liberation, a process of discovering that customs and taboos are conventions, not laws of nature nor genetic imprints determining the individual’s identity.7 The liberal good life is a path the individual human chooses individually – i. e. as much as possible without being predetermined by its cultural, social or genealogical background, and without a predetermination to define its good in such a way that it necessarily promotes an abstract social good like harmony. The individual’s fate takes moral precedence over the fate of more abstract entities like family, state or ideals. As with other political theories, there is little beyond the basic consensus that unites liberalism. Different understandings of what liberty and equality should actually mean allow us to distinguish between countless types of liberalism. One very important distinction is that between classical and social liberalism (for others see e.g. DiZerega 1996). Classical liberalism, which can be traced back easily to the writings of John Locke, holds that the state exists to protect the individual’s (natural) rights, in particular rights to property and from interference by others – it stresses negative freedom. On the most radical interpretation of classic liberalism (libertarianism), collective actors like the state can limit individual freedom only when and while the affected individual agrees voluntarily, and even then only when such limitations actually enhance the system of liberty. By implication, the state may catch thieves and murderers. It may not redistribute power, opportunities or income, even if the necessary taxes or legislation had the liberal aim of emancipating individuals – because that would still be theft and still interfere with the individuals’ freedom to direct life as they choose. The social liberal tradition, on the other hand, expects the state to promote the individual quest for the good life – neutrally and impartially, of course. For social liberals in the tradition of Mill and Rawls, negative liberty is only one means of advancing autonomy, next to, for instance, equality of opportunity or redistribution of power and money. In this view, freedom can be limited

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for the sake of autonomy, and a state may even (in perfectionist versions of social liberalism) discourage undesirable lifestyles or promote desirable ones. Finally, it is important to distinguish between liberalism as a ‘pure’ political theory and the practice of liberalism or the practices ascribed to liberalism, such as the free market and liberal democracy. Classical liberalism particularly supports the idea of a free market, as it sees individual property rights, freedom of enterprise and freedom of trade as necessary conditions for the realization of individuals’ plans of life. Yet that does not necessarily mean that each and every existing free market system or each and every effect of free market enterprise is desirable or defensible from a liberal perspective – involuntary exploitation of humans through slavery or rape, for instance, never is. Social liberals in particular share a deep revulsion for freemarket fundamentalism. Likewise, although liberalism as an ideology puts the interests of individuals at the centre of attention, liberalism does not necessarily imply a commitment to democracy or vice versa. There is even a fundamental tension between liberalism and democracy: liberal-democratic regimes combine the protection of certain typically liberal rights and freedoms (freedom of enterprise, freedom of thought, freedom of the press, etc.) with what is typically the greatest possible threat to those liberties – the sovereign right of the people to make and abolish any law it chooses, including any protecting liberal values. All these distinctions within, and subtle varieties of, liberalism should not let us forget the mission that still unites liberals: the promotion of the dignity of the individual human being, by means of an equal liberty for all to pursue a life and a good of his or her own choice and making. It values this above all else. It would be wrong to think, however, that the picture emerging from this mix of individualism and creativity must be that of a Nietzschean superhuman storming the universe, burning whatever is in his way including the forests, impressing his will on history. Liberalism evolved as a social and political philosophy, not as an individual system of ethics or a holistic theory of the universe. It was the Enlightenment’s reply to first religious intolerance and bloodshed, and later to the exploitation, subjection and oppression of ordinary people by the noble and religious estates of the Ancien Régime. Like socialism, communism and anarchism, liberalism was born out of political struggle in a particular political context. It is a political philosophy, and as a consequence it developed a blind eye for everything non-political – including nature – a defect that modern liberals try to repair. One of the main liberal criteria for a good system of rights is that it be as much as possible morally neutral. It should not only accept the fact of irreducible moral pluralism (the existence of multiple ethical theories, multiple theories of a good life, multiple plans of life and hence of lifestyles), but it should also promote pluralism. This means (depending on one’s interpretation of liberal neutrality) that it should either not unjustifiably exclude various theories of the good, or not unjustifiably inhibit their realization in the form of plans of life and lifestyles. The operative word here is ‘unjustifiably’:

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moral pluralism has to respect human dignity and further the emancipation of the individual. One of the implications that neutrality has for the ecology, for instance, is that ecologically destructive lifestyles cannot be excluded on grounds of principle: neutrality prohibits judgements on the ethical worth of different lifestyles. Another implication is that there is little room for ‘deeply’ ecological lifestyles – ecologists who would want to live in a world of harmony between humanity and nature, cannot do so as long as they have to accept the lifestyle of others who do not share their ideals. In more abstract terms, liberalism is open-ended, a collection of procedural ideals for society, whereas ecologism (like communism or Christianity) defends a substantive ideal, demanding definite results (cf. Dobson 1999). No liberal political theory can do without a conception of the human good. For one, without at least some shared interests, the existence of both conflict over scarce resources and the presence of motives for cooperation and mutual benefit would be inexplicable – there would be no need for politics. Liberals therefore have to make certain assumptions about what it is that makes individuals feel life is worth living and worth maintaining. In addition, liberal criteria for a desirable social order necessarily presume a foundational idea of the good life: if, for instance, liberty were a morally neutral or even amoral concept, there could be no grounds for promoting it. John Rawls’ theory (1999a, 1993a, 1999b), which over the past 30-odd years has become the defining statement of liberalism, relative to which all other versions of liberalism are understood, illustrates these points. Rawls presumes that individuals share an interest in what he calls primary social goods – i.e. properties of the physical world like wealth and income, rights and freedoms and self-respect that all humans require to successfully pursue a plan of life – and all individuals will want more rather than less of these primary goods. This so-called ‘thin theory of the good’ explains both why social cooperation is required, and why liberty and equality are desirable. In addition, all political theories (including liberalism) necessarily contain ontological hypotheses – i.e. assumptions about how the real world works, and how it restricts political and ethical desires. These hypotheses may concern human psychology (such as Rawls’ idea that humans have plans of life, want to realize them, etc.), but they can also include environmental factors – such as the notion that some resources can be objectively scarce. Together, these ethical and ontological assumptions necessarily limit neutrality. Neutrality is not absolute and was never meant to be absolute: its aim is to minimize the moral prerequisites that are required for social cooperation, and at the same time maximize social consensus (which comes down to a balancing act).

4.6 Conclusion Political institutions, instruments and policies need to be more than merely efficient and effective. They need to be supported by good, substantive

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reasons – at the very least to define the goals they would serve efficiently and effectively. Without good reasons, neither political pluralization nor any solution strategies can be assessed, preferred or rejected. While carefully circumventing the philosophical question of truth in ethics (and thereby the ultimate foundation of good reasons), this chapter has discussed three ways to generate belief in good reasons: ethical absolutism, popularity and controlled deliberation. I then introduced a series of reasons that I believe to be ‘good’: liberal principles that would be shared by individuals deliberating under neutral conditions, principles that will also help us both interpret political pluralization (assess why we should be worried by it, and why not) and evaluate political institutions structuring common ventures. Incidentally and between the lines, I have thereby also introduced a number of factors explaining political pluralization, factors that represent necessary conditions, although I would not dream of calling them sufficient. Firstly, the limits of reason that are part of the burdens of judgement explain (in part) the existence of an irreducible plurality of plans of life, theories of the good, moralities and ethics. Secondly, this condition of moral pluralism is an important factor in helping to explain on the one hand how political pluralization rather than a global total state is the ‘natural’ condition of humanity (the latter would require universal agreement on good reasons), and on the other which distinct roles power has in processes of political cooperation and non-cooperation. Power is present both in the deliberative processes where shared interests or values are formulated (or rather, it is a factor constraining and obstructing deliberation) and in the execution of the resulting common ventures. The liberal principles introduced in the previous section give us a set of standards for the legitimacy of political rule, but no methods for selecting legitimate political constellations or for dealing with illegitimate ones. Even the most popular of the deliberative theories discussed in section 4.4 (e.g. Rawls’ or Ackerman’s) cannot help us here as much as we would like. Empirical political science and normative political theory have in the past confused the attraction of an axiomatic sovereign nation-state built on an exclusive ‘common good’ with the realities of political life – i.e. the absence of any necessity that there be this one set of aims and goals and values happily uniting one group of people who also happily happen to share a culture, history, language, gene pool and territory. Controlled deliberation may help to justify the existence of one series of political institutions regulating traffic codes, trade codes, production standards, rules of sexual engagement, health codes, paths to salvation, etc. that are or should each separately be supported by the exact same group of individuals – but there is no a priori reason to believe that this would be little more than sheer coincidence. In the absence of substantive reasons for the necessary (rather than contingent) existence of a state or states, all that would be left to prefer states over the presumably total anarchy of political pluralization is prudence:

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efficiency and effectiveness. By bringing several political tasks (and thereby values and goals) under one heading, one might argue, mutually beneficial trade-offs become possible: one sacrifices, for instance, a little of one’s desired material prosperity to support the weak or poor, and in return gains a degree of liberty unavailable in a state of nature. Yet even if – a big if – an appropriate overlapping consensus on more than one value (of the Rawlsian substantive kind or the Ackermanian superficial kind) may be presumed, the result is still and remains a contingent justification for a trade-off system for a finite set of values only. Efficiency and effectiveness might just as well make a politically pluralized world the more prudent option. Thus, what matters is that political structures of any shape and kind in whatever constellation make room for the procedural and substantive liberal criteria introduced above, not that the world be rebuilt (as if it was ever built that way) into a neat structure of perfectly sovereign nation-states, or indeed into any neat structure. It is of course possible to redesign existing political theories to suit this programme. For example, a revamped original position, where plural overlapping consensuses on various elements of individuals’ theories of the good are presumed, rather than one universal overlapping consensus, could give us brilliant new perspectives on political order. The result might be a recipe for a functionally rather than territorially or culturally partitioned political order, or one for a world government, or one for a return to tribalism – or anything – but it would in any case be a more realistic moral mirror for the real-existing world of political pluralization. Redesigning mainstream political theory in such ways is, or should be, one of the highest priorities for 21st Century political theory. There are, however, more strategies to be considered than those presuming partial coincidence of theories of the good. In the next three chapters I shall explore three such strategies: agreement on action rather than principles (Chapter 5), foundational agreement (Chapter 6) as an alternative to moral pluralism, and enlightened despotism (Chapter 7) to settle disputes where no common ground can be found. In a world of political pluralization, good reasons are of vital importance; there is, by definition, no longer one unitary overpowering actor that is able to harmoniously implement decisions that are not perceived as legitimate (or desirable, or effective and efficient) by all the parties that make up a polity – be they reasonable or not. Under such circumstances, the possibility of political rule, let alone legitimate rule, is predicated on the possibility of what is nowadays often called multilevel governance: coordinated action by all factions, groups and political actors who have at least ‘obstructive power’ – the power to thwart or nullify the actions of others. The conclusions reached so far are rather disconcerting: the solutions that political philosophy ‘normally’ offers for discord focus on agreement on the principles underlying action, and the procedures for reaching that kind of agreement will only work effectively under very special conditions. In real life, consensus, or at least an adequate agreement on good reasons behind which

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parties can unite, can seldom be reached at this abstract level – even assuming that it would be sufficient to solve disagreements on the practical (policy) implications of shared principles. The alternative that I want to explore next seems to form a necessary condition for any successful solution strategy: policy teloi. No solution in terms of new institutions or rules can be successful, it seems, unless we agree on the interpretation of rules, yet cooperative ventures are possible even when we disagree on the principles they serve. Cooperation is then guided not by a shared policy goal but by what I shall call a policy telos, a consensus-supporting idea with a quasi-Aristotelian function: by leading and directing action, it causes its own realization, and in a way its own existence.

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Sustainability as a policy telos1

5.1 Policy teloi Efficiency, effectiveness and good reasons are key elements of legitimate rule. Political theory, as we saw in the previous chapter, tends to look for good reasons at the level of principles; in a world of political pluralization however, an overlapping consensus on basic political principles is – almost by definition – absent. In this chapter, I therefore want to consider another foundation for legitimate political cooperation based on good reasons: the policy telos. A policy telos is a policy aim that more or less causes itself to come into existence – hence its status as ‘telos’ – cf. Rawls’ (1999a) notion of a just society practically ‘inventing’ itself. Rather than defining precisely what the goals of policies are and by what criteria (shared principles) the results should be assessed, the role of policy teloi is to unite stakeholders and actors on particular policies, regardless of the aims each one hopes to reach. Thus, for instance, ‘sustainable development’ has in practice been used as such a telos. The parties involved in environmental policy do not agree on what it is they hope to achieve: there are many mutually exclusive conceptions of a sustainable society, and the added notion of development only further complicates any discussion. Yet on a practical level, these same parties could and often did agree on the policies to be pursued. Policy teloi are not a ‘cure’ for political pluralization; they only add an extra instrument to the toolbox of philosopher and politician. The concept is useful only under specific circumstances, including rough equality of power among all parties involved, parties being involved (having a stake) in the first place, and substantive disagreement on principles. I shall illustrate both the benefits and disadvantages of a policy telos, using sustainable development as an example. In doing so, I have to make several assumptions, some purely for the sake of simplicity, others because they define the circumstances under which a policy telos can be effective. I assume political pluralization (globalization and dehierarchization) to have resulted in an international ‘society’ made up of institutional actors, though not in the context of an international Hobbesian anarchy. I assume these actors to have varying degrees of relative autonomy and independence,

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varying degrees of claims to formal-legal sovereignty, and to have moral, economic, legal and other ties of varying strength among one another – states, NGOs, inter- and supranational organizations, mobile, regional or global economic actors, etc. Despite their claims to sovereignty, and despite the different capabilities they may have (alone or in combinations) over other actors, I assume states to be actors with powers roughly equal to that of others. This is partly for technical reasons (the arguments can be adapted to fit a more complicated international ‘society’, but complications are not what we need at the moment), partly for normative reasons (which will be explained in a moment), and partly because I believe it is a realistic condition. Weaker parties can form coalitions, can sometimes block agreements or unilateral policies by stronger actors, etc.; in the long run, the ‘powerpoor’ still have instruments to block the ‘power-rich’ or even to have their own way. Voluntary political cooperation is highly problematic, and can even be impossible under conditions of moral pluralism and equal distribution of political power between actors. A policy telos can, other things being equal, generate or sustain political cooperation in such a pluralistic non-hierarchic political reality. Stable political cooperation is based on two kinds of agreement: substantial and strategic. The (‘reasonable’) idea of substantial agreement assumes political actors to be moral agents who act on their authentic moral beliefs. It therefore requires a shared normative standpoint. This is a non-hierarchic type of solution, which is typically designed for the problem of moral pluralism. The (‘rational’) idea of strategic agreement assumes that people are rational instrumentalists who maximize their selfish interests. It therefore seeks to establish a possible convergence of rational self-interest on a certain policy. This type of agreement is more traditional, and rests on the full comparability of alternatives. It assumes the irreducible plurality of actors, but not necessarily a plurality of conceptions of the good. An effective policy telos can generate or sustain one or both of those types of agreement. A combination of them is theoretically inconsistent, but realistically possible: political action can be interpreted from, and (though not at the same time by the same actor) inspired by, both perspectives. The condition of moral pluralism suggests that the source of the problem of political cooperation lies in the fact that political actors will generally find it very difficult (or even impossible) to agree on the policies that (actors within) the international ‘society’ ought or ought not to pursue, and on the way in which they ought to be pursued. If we assume actors (individuals, states, NGOs, etc.) are driven by, and act on, their authentic moral beliefs, then for political cooperation to arise there must be at least some level of agreement on the reasons for pursuing certain policies (problem definition), on the goals they should realize (solutions), and on the way in which they ought to be pursued (the rules of the ‘game’). Such an agreement is defined as substantial consensus. The three dimensions together define the political meaning of a general concept like sustainable development.

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Substantial consensus can take many forms, from a utopian vision of a good and green international society satisfying unequivocal principles and meeting unequivocal ends (cf. De Geus 1999), through a set of sideconstraints on the development of international society (dos and don’ts defined by undesirable results), down to an open-ended agreement on procedures only. In the case of a policy telos, the extremes are excluded: agreement on a green utopia contradicts the chosen context of moral pluralism, whereas agreement only on procedures brings us no closer to solving the issue that really needs to be addressed: that of the goals of policies and procedures. Hence, a policy telos requires agreement on a problem definition, and on criteria for ways in which, though not necessarily the exact way in which, that problem should be resolved. What it does not, and cannot, require in the context of moral pluralism, pace Rawls’ (1993a) overlapping consensus, is similar reasons, convictions, theories of the good, etc. behind the problem definition, which justify that definition. A policy telos is less restricted than a Rawlsian overlapping consensus: it does not presume that collective action is possible only where, and in so far as, the substantive moral goals of diverging theories of the good coincide. The idea of a policy telos does to some extent draw on Rawls’ later work, like Political Liberalism. Like Rawls, I examine the problem of political stability within the context of moral pluralism, and try to identify practical solutions to political problems that can be sustained by the various conflicting doctrines that make up modern societies. Rawls’ approach is far more theory-oriented, and stops long before practical problems arise that demand further interpretation of the ‘basic’ consensus. My approach ‘skips’ the theory: it does not aim to specify general moral principles, but rather asks directly what (in this case) sustainable development should mean in practice if it is to be stable against the ‘pressures’ of moral pluralism. We may compare the situation in which a policy telos evolves to a relationship: your love and you may have different reasons for wishing the kitchen to be clean, say – e.g. health and aesthetics respectively – but your problem definition is the same: the mess in the kitchen. The two of you may be able to reach criteria for non-messiness without having to agree directly and by logical implication on, say, who will clean what, when and how. Strategic agreement (as distinct from substantial agreement) is based on rational self-interest. Assuming actors are committed to cooperation (i.e. there is mutual benefit in cooperating), they can agree to a cooperative scheme X simply because they prefer X to an alternative scheme Z which would otherwise be chosen – even though, purely morally speaking, they would prefer scheme Y to X. We say then that actors agree strategically instead of in a substantially rational manner. Strategic agreement is contingent on the actor’s expectations of what the other actor would choose, while substantial agreement is purely based on the actor’s moral commitment to cooperation itself or to some outcomes, regardless of what others may choose to do. Thus, cooperation does not only depend on some level of

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substantial consensus or shared beliefs, but also on the willingness of actors to act cooperatively – i.e. to voluntarily make the individual costs necessary for realizing those policies which they accept as worth pursuing. Spontaneous cooperation based on self-interest embodies two problems that must be clearly distinguished: the collective action problem and the bargaining problem. The central question that underlies the collective action (or ‘free riders’) problem is whether it is rational for actors to act cooperatively in a specific situation. Bargaining is about the rational distribution of the burdens and benefits of mutually beneficial cooperation. The free riders problem usually arises in situations in which it is better for all players if all players cooperate, yet it is better for each player not to cooperate if all other players, or at least enough other players, do cooperate. The dominant strategy for each individual actor here is to act non-cooperatively, so that rational self-interest can result in a failure to cooperate even though all players prefer universal cooperation. Free rider problems and the prisoner’s dilemma are extremely popular images in political science: they are easy to understand, easy to apply, suggest simple and clear solutions, and always charm the audience. As a consequence, they are also frequently misapplied. It has, for instance, often been said that solving environmental problems may be a collective action problem (cf. e.g. Henley and Folmer 1998, Ward 1987). Yet environmental problems are not necessarily collective action problems: their logical structure is frequently that of coordination or chicken games, in which it is rational (or at least not by definition irrational) to cooperate. Moreover, even environmental problems structured like the prisoner’s dilemma can be seen as repeated games in which cooperation pays off. Environmental problems like sustainable development, however, always contain a bargaining component. Rational actors are not indifferent to the possible sustainable cooperative schemes: these imply different distributions of burdens and benefits. Bargaining problems can be solved. Perhaps the most popular general solution concept for bargaining problems, the Nash arbitration scheme, for instance, selects the arrangement that maximizes the product of the utility gains from the final agreement of the two bargainers, relative to the conflict point (the status quo where nothing happens). The parties’ utilities would, in this example, be defined by their respective conceptions of sustainability, development, naturalness, etc., and their overall conception of the desirable form of sustainable development.

5.2 Sustainable development: ecology versus environment There is, at first sight, sufficient reason to believe that sustainable development can be an effective policy telos. From a theoretical perspective, the concept of sustainability itself may be contestable,2 but it has a positive connotation, making consensus desirable: why would anyone want to live an unsustainable life? Moreover, the most common understanding of sustainable

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development, the Brundtland definition,3 which refers to the needs of present and future generations, is either a minimum condition for virtually all advocates of sustainability, or included in their conception of sustainability.4 Again, a moral defence of Brundtlandian sustainable development can be formulated in terms that should convince even a rational egoist (Wissenburg 1999b). In short, a theoretical consensus on sustainable development seems possible. In practice, we see this consensus actually taking shape in the form of national and international environmental regimes and treaties, even in forms of cooperation between environmental pressure groups and companies – also cf. Arts and Van Tatenhove’s (2000) discussion of ‘policy arrangement’ to characterize a new type of real-world environmental policies, quite similar to the theoretical concept of a policy telos. Yet there are also very strong reasons to believe that whatever consensus may exist, or may come about in the future, is more limited, frailer and less lasting than this first sight might lead one to expect. Some of these reasons have to do with the specific political context in which sustainable development would have to serve as a policy telos – an issue that will be discussed in the next section. Other reasons, the ones I shall discuss now, have to do with the fact that sustainability itself is (not a contested but) a contestable concept.5 It may be as clear as pregnancy, but it is also as vague in its origins: there is a fundamental difference of opinion among advocates of sustainability on what is worth sustaining and for whom. In these two categories lie the roots of most controversies and divisions among environmental groups and theorists, as well as of widely diverging conceptions of sustainability. Elsewhere, I have tried to develop a detailed taxonomy of ‘green ideas’ (Wissenburg 1997, 1998), theoretically allowing distinctions between (literally) millions of conceptions of sustainability. Perhaps that is not the level of subtlety desirable here. Instead of repeating myself then, I shall try to describe a rough categorization of positions on the two most important points of debate (‘variables’: what and for whom) among environmentalists and their opponents, resulting in three scales measuring sustainability and four main schools of thought on the subject. One should bear in mind at all times that this is merely a first attempt at a rough categorization by a theorist: no empirical validity or applicability can be guaranteed. As to the ‘for whom’, the classic modes of thinking among environmentalists and non-environmentalists alike are that only humans count (anthropocentrism), or, if humans count because of their special intellectual capacities, then all creatures capable of learning and understanding are also included (intellectualism). It is this approach that supports most interpretations of sustainability and sustainable development, in particular the Brundtland definition, as well as most environmental actions and policies. The health risks of pollution, of ozone depletion, of genetic engineering, etc.; the risk to civilization and the economy of the greenhouse effect; the danger that reducing biodiversity poses for human welfare; the welfare effects of deforestation and surface erosion; the potentially beneficial role that as yet

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unknown rain forest plants can have in developing medicines – all these are arguments for sustainability based on human interests only. One step beyond anthropocentrism and intellectualism lies the defence of animals as moral subjects, based on the rejection of speciesism, the discrimination of animals on what are argued to be morally irrelevant grounds (cf. racism; DeGrazia 1996). Its advocates may, but need not, be vegetarians (and vice versa); vegetarianism is often defended in purely anthropocentric terms like health, the efficiency of land use for agriculture versus livestock, and the (rhetorical) comparison between eating dead animals and cannibalism. One form of anti-speciesism recognizes some animals (mammals, reptiles and fish usually) as morally relevant due to their capacity to experience (sentientism or pathocentrism; Singer 1975). It is a capacity they share with humans, and also the one capacity (at least according to, for instance, utilitarian philosophers) that made humans morally relevant and worthy of equal treatment in the first place. A more radical version of the same doctrine is zoocentrism, which attributes value to all animals. Note that anti-speciesism sits quite uncomfortably with Brundtlandian sustainability: on the latter account, animals are implicitly treated as resources only. An important issue that divides anthropocentrists and (in practice to a far lesser degree) anti-speciesists concerns the place of future generations. Although environmentalists and advocates of sustainability distinguish themselves from others by insisting on our moral obligations towards future generations, they are internally divided on the question of the time span over which this responsibility stretches. Some argue that all generations count equally, others point out that a limited amount of resources divided over an infinite number of generations leaves nought for anyone, and therefore argue for a discount rate, which has in turn been criticized for being too mathematical and cold – as well as incapable of accounting adequately for questions like nuclear waste disposal. The third and most inclusive party in green political theory defends biocentrism, attributing intrinsic and (in principle) equal value to all (forms of) life, or ecocentrism, attributing value to all of nature. These positions almost define what is known as ecologism (or capital-G Green, or deep ecology), the Real McCoy version of environmentalism. Bio- and ecocentric greens – in particular the animal rights defenders among them – are further divided on the question of whether it is species or individuals that should be protected. One other question that divides advocates of sustainability is what it is that should be sustained: is it nature as economic resources – i.e. as capital – or nature as nature, as natural capital that cannot, or can only to a degree, be replaced by artificial capital, or finally is it (Goodin 1992a) virtually impossible to substitute nature by artificial things? The positions on this issue range from what is usually known as strong to weak sustainability. A perhaps more precise description for strong sustainability is absurdly weak substitutability (arguing for the relative uniqueness of things and the impossibility of replacing e.g. one forest with another), with strong substitutability standing for weak sustainability – i.e. the idea that real trees can in principle

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be replaced by plastic trees or even machines, provided they perform the same functions. Note, first, that the Brundtland definition of sustainable development is (in theory) compatible with each of these positions. Secondly, it is worth noting that any position chosen on the two dimensions discussed here (what and for whom) have further implications for the position one can, or must, take on the issue of (sustainable) growth and/or development: the less substitutable nature is, and the wider the circle of moral concern, the less room there will be for economic and population growth. Given these dimensions, it is possible to specify several schools of thought in sustainability theory. For the sake of simplicity, I shall distinguish only four schools: the most radical type (ecologism; cf. Holland 1999), a more mainstream version (environmentalism; cf. Jacobs 1999), an intermediate position (ecological pragmatism6) and, as a base of comparison, a radical nongreen, non-sustainability-oriented train of thought (‘grey’). (See Table 5.1.)7 By now, it will be clear that there is no single, unique interpretation of sustainability shared by all advocates of development, sustainability and nature. They are, basically, hopelessly divided between defenders of nature (interpreting its as ecology) and humanity (interpreting it as resources, as our environment). The further divisions can, I would argue, be represented in the form of three scales: inclusiveness, substitutability, and growth. Table 5.2 gives a rough idea of what these scales could look like. Though they are often linked in practice, none of the positions on any one of these three scales necessarily commits one to any specific position on another. Hence, an egoist caring only about herself could theoretically prefer a world with a shrinking economy and population, combined with minimal Table 5.1 Four types of political concern for the environment ‘grey’

Ecologism

Pragmatism

Environmentalism

For whom

Nature, Ecosystem

Environment of humans, animals, future generations

Environment Humans of humans and future generations

Why

Holism, ecocentrism, biocentrism

Zoocentrism, sentientism

Anthropocentrism Anthropocentrism

Room for substitution (what)

Absurdly weak

Weak

Strong

Complete

Human sustainability, ‘sustainable growth’

Technical sustainability of humankind

Social Sustainability Ecological sustainability, sustainability: ‘zero growth’ harmony between needs of humanity and nature

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Table 5.2 Scales representing types of sustainability Inclusiveness (sustain ecology/environment for whom?) oneself - one’s own circle - relations (e.g. clients, consumers) - one’s country - one’s hemisphere (West, South, etc.) - the world of presently living humans - future humans at a discount rate - all future generations - present animals - future generations of animals - life - nature Substitutability (sustain what?) complete substitutability - limited substitutability - substitutability of non-unique nature only - perfect insubstitutability Growth no limits to economic and population growth - limits to population growth only limits to both - limit to economic growth, zero population growth - zero growth - zero economic growth, reduction of population - reduction of the economy, zero population growth - reduction of growth

substitutability – thus scoring like the most radical champion of ecologism on two out of three counts. This has important practical consequences for the role that sustainable development can play as a policy telos in dealing with the incompossibility problem. The thing to remember about policy teloi is that even though they may be introduced, defended or guarded in the first instance by one distinct section of society (say, in our case, the environmental movement), they can only function as policy teloi if they have an impact on all of society, that is, on actors in civil society as well as on those in the economic sphere and in the relatively autonomous sphere of the state. Hence, for one, the primary guardian of a policy telos may have a quite different interpretation of it than (the rest of) civil society. Thanks to the impact of a policy telos on all sectors of society, its influence on the design of policies or the structure of political cooperation may be far deeper than one might expect, given, say, a low degree of organization or a generally weakly developed civil society. Even more important is the fact that, since a position on one scale is not intrinsically related to a specific position on others, compromises become possible. Without, for example, discussing the issue of growth, actors from state, civil society and the economic sphere may well find it possible to agree on the desirable degree of substitutability of natural resources like the ozone layer, CO2, rain forests, fertile soil, etc. In other words, although disagreement on the interpretation of sustainable development is by no means unlikely, it not necessarily impossible to reach incidental agreement, and in that limited sense let sustainable development operate as an effective policy telos. A further implication is that there is no reason to assume beforehand that the primary guardians of a policy telos, like the defenders of sustainable development, must necessarily operate through the channels of civil society and expect actors in the economic sphere to be their opponents. It is by no means impossible that the interests of economic actors may coincide with the

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aims of environmentalists, yet deviate from the preferences of civil society. An example is offered by the theory of ecological modernization (Weale 1992), according to which economic growth can be attained by producing in an ecologically more sane way – a result that makes no immediate difference for civil society or the state. To put the point more bluntly: when it comes to sustainability, the bad guys are not necessarily found in the economic sector. The absence of implication between positions on these three scales can not only help us understand compromise and the chances of success for sustainable development as a policy telos, it can also help to identify the sources of resistance to different (deviating) interpretations of the concept, and help explain disagreement itself. Finally, our scales help us understand why sustainable development can never be the perfect answer to the quest for a policy telos. In the final analysis, environment and ecology, mainstream environmentalism and radical ecologism, represent irreconcilable interests. Whatever consensus may exist at the level of distinct policies aimed at environmental protection or sustainable development is bound to break down once the supply of topics on which compromise is possible has been depleted. The idea of sustainable development can, therefore, never unconditionally solve the incompossibility problem; what it offers is room for coping with it. That is the bad news; the good news may be that it can help us to cope quite adequately – but that remains to be seen in the next section.

5.3 Same telos, different place: liberal versus non-liberal societies The contestable status of sustainable development is one reason (or cluster of reasons) why it may have only limited use as a policy telos; as said above, the specific political context in which it would have to serve as such is another. To assess the merits of the sustainable development policy telos in this respect – i.e. not in comparison to other solutions for incompossibility, but as a solution in its own right – we should take this ‘specific political context’ broadly. The phenomenon of dehierarchization is probably typical of liberal-democratic, quasi-liberal-democratic and ‘liberalizing’ societies, where specific structures of interaction (come to) exist between the mutually relatively independent spheres of state, economy and civil society (see also Chapter 2 and Section 4.5). The more general occurrence of political pluralization, and thereby incompossibility, is not necessarily limited to those societies; policy teloi like sustainable development could also work there. I shall therefore try to investigate (at a purely theoretical and quite abstract level only) whether sustainable development can serve as an effective policy telos in both liberal and non-liberal societies. For a social system to qualify as a liberal democracy, at least four distinct developments must taken place: economic and political democratization and liberalization. Recent developments in Eastern Europe may illustrate what this can mean. Firstly, most of the countries there experienced a process of political liberalization, a development towards more individual rights and

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freedoms, in particular in terms of negative freedom. Secondly, there was political democratization in places, in terms of parties, voting systems, cabinet formation, public debate, etc. Thirdly, we saw a process of economic liberalization, i.e. the creation, or expansion, of freedom of enterprise, of property rights, of competition in a very specific sense: as the (negative) freedom to buy and sell, possess and consume, provided no one else’s freedoms in this area are violated. Finally, there was economic democratization, both in the sense that the market, i.e. the consumers, began to define demand instead of the state’s planners, and in the sense that (at least ideally) the public could become producers, owners, shareholders. What the case of Eastern Europe further illustrates is that neither economic and political ‘liberalization’, nor liberalism and democracy, necessarily go hand-in-hand. We can represent the process of evolution towards liberal democracy in the form of a decision tree (see Table 5.3), starting with a fictitious state of nature as a war of all against all, and moving through four decision phases: whether or not to become politically democratic (PD, ¬PD), politically liberal (PL, ¬PL), economically liberal (EL, ¬EL) and economically democratic (ED, ¬ED). Note that this decision tree is merely a heuristic device: it is a systematic not historical representation, reflecting my (voluntarist) prejudice that decisions on decision mechanisms precede further choices in less general areas. By itself, it is a very unfair way of representing the political choices in real life. For one, it puts all systems other than liberal democracy under one heading, that of the ‘not’ sign, ¬. Secondly, it does not reflect the absence of consensus among liberal democrats on more detailed interpretations of economic and political liberalism and democracy – it puts philosophers like Hayek and Nozick in one category, for example. Thirdly, the tree has been constructed in such a way that two particular systems end up as radical opposites on the left (PD, PL, EL, ED) and right (¬PD, ¬PL, ¬EL, ¬ED). A different construction would have made them neighbours. As it is virtually impossible to discuss the policy telos role of sustainable development in all 16 possible constellations listed here, at least in the Table 5.3 Decision tree from liberal democratic perspective

( (

(

EL

¬EL

(

( (

¬EL (

(

¬PL

(

(

( (

EL (

(

¬EL (

(

PL

(

(

( (

EL

(

(

¬PL

¬EL (

(

EL

(

(

PL

¬PD

(

PD

(

(

(

Political choices

ED ¬ED ED ¬ED ED ¬ED ED ¬ED ED ¬ED ED ¬ED ED ¬ED ED ¬ED 1&2 3 4 Note: PD represents a choice for, ¬PD one against political democracy. PL, EL and ED represent respectively political liberalism, economic liberalism and economic democracy.

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context of this article, I want to highlight only a few interesting cases: the (pseudo-)extremes. The first of these (PD, PL, EL, ED) has been denoted as 1/2 in Table 5.3, a second (¬PD, ¬PL, ¬EL, ED) as 3, a third (¬PD, ¬PL, ¬EL, ¬ED) as 4. Since it has been argued (Schmidt 1999) that the strength of civil society makes a difference for the degree to which sustainable development can serve as a policy telos, whereas I have argued (implicitly to the contrary) that economic actors can have an interest in sustainable development that civil society and state do not necessarily share, we also need to consider the relative contributions of civil society and the economy to the success of this policy telos. The number 1/2 therefore represents two cases: a constellation with a strong (1) and one with a weaker (2) civil society. Since referring to such abstract cases in such abstract terms can be very tiring, let us give them labels: 1 2 3 4

PD, PL, EL, ED, strong civil society: Germany. PD, PL, EL, ED, weak civil society: USA. (¬PD, ¬PL, ¬EL, ED): Chile in the 1970s. (¬PD, ¬PL, ¬EL, ¬ED): Cuba.

Note that we are still discussing purely theoretical cases. The labels serve merely as illustrations: I do not claim that each country fits the description exactly. Limiting ourselves to these four cases is not enough by far, however. To assess the relative contribution of sustainable development policy teloi to solving the incompossibility problem, we would in principle also have to take account of all different interpretations of sustainable development (assuming they are all possible in real life). Even the use of only the three scales Table 5.4 Decision tree including conceptions of sustainable development

(

ED or ¬ED (

strong civil society or ¬ (

12 choices (yes or ¬) on inclusiveness (

4 choices (yes or ¬) on substitutability 8 choices (yes or ¬) on growth

( ( ( (

(

EL or ¬EL

(

(

PL or ¬PL

(

(

PD or ¬PD

(

(

(

Political Choices

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constructed in the previous section, which are already oversimplified representations of the diversity of opinions in the field, would generate a decision tree of enormous size (see Table 5.4), and an equally large number of cases to be analysed: 229 = 536,870,912. I shall therefore instead try to indicate to which degree and in which areas one might expect consensus on sustainable development as a policy telos to be possible. Turning to the first of our four fictitious cases, Cuba, we can observe that societies of this type do not need to develop an incompossibility problem, at least not in formal terms: the state rules supreme in all areas of social life, and its rules will overrule those of any sector, sphere or segment. Even though there is no real need for policy teloi in these circumstances (since there is no formal incompossibility problem) there is yet room for them. Whatever conception of sustainable development can, or would, be introduced in a society like this can, it would seem, serve quite effectively as a policy telos. Two remarks are in order, however. Firstly, an important and unrealistic assumption has been made when I put all systems deviating from liberal democracy under the same headings (see above), namely that all economically and politically undemocratic and illiberal societies are communist dictatorships. Secondly, and more important, the incompossibility problem relates to differences between codes of behaviour, between political norms, and not just contradictions between (quasi-)legal codes. In the case of a dictatorship, the informal rules of civil society and the economy may still contradict the formal rules of the state, resulting in a general state of corruption or hypocrisy, e.g. in the form of an expressed belief in an official state ideology combined with a widely shared but silent disbelief. In short, our first impression was wrong: there is all the room in the world in dictatorships of this kind for informal processes of political pluralization, and hence for a policy telos like sustainable development. In our Cuba, the political structure dictates that a policy telos must ultimately be imposed from above, i.e. by the state. Although the ruling ideology is anthropocentric – i.e. interested in the well being of humans only – it stands to reason that the official state ideology can absorb a considerable degree of environmental concern. For one, the elite’s interest in the continuation of its rule can be squared easily with an interest in the well being of future generations. On scales 2 and 3, substitutability and growth, adoption of even more radical positions, all in the interest of humans, is imaginable. In other words, even rather revolutionary versions of sustainable development could serve as policy teloi in socialist dictatorships. Whether they actually can depends on (1) the degree to which the overarching and overruling state ideology itself serves as a genuine, i.e. broadly shared, policy telos, and (2) on whether, despite discrepancies between official faith and actual scepticism, the official version of the sustainable development policy telos will command support of its own accord. In the first case, sustainable development is in fact redundant; in the second (and more probable) case, its success depends on

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whether (the equivalent of) civil society and economic actors can interpret the official version of sustainable development as being in their interests. In absence of an arena for open and fair public debate, it seems unlikely that a policy telos deviating too much from perceptible short-term human interests will fit that description. For our 1970s Chile, the same observations and expectations apply, with one amendment. Under this constellation, a free market exists that, due to the market mechanism, offers room for some of the most effective forms of environmental action: green consumerism (i.e. preferring environmentally sane products over more hazardous products) and green producerism (i.e. producing those goods). Even in absence of a civil society and full civic liberties, therefore, environmentalists could (in theory) force both the economy and, as a consequence, the state to accept some form of ‘non-grey’ sustainable development as a policy telos. Unfortunately, this requires a certain degree of freedom of organization and expression, which brings us back to the restriction that a conception of sustainable development must fit the official state ideology (if there is one). All in all, we may expect sustainable development to have a slightly better chance at success in economically democratic societies than in cases like Cuba – but only slightly better. Liberal-democratic societies offer far more room for policy teloi – as a rule; the theoretical exception being dictatorships where the official ideology is generally accepted and adhered to. One reason for this is the liberalization of the economy, in the sense used here – i.e. as the (negative) freedom to buy, sell, possess and consume provided no one else’s freedoms in this area are violated. A liberal economy in this sense puts limits to the concentration of capital and the monopolization of property and trade, creating a more free market, and thus offering more room for green consumerism and producerism. More importantly, the existence of a state-free protected public sphere, civil society, and of a constitutional structure protecting individual liberties opens the road for new ways of incorporating sustainable development in society and state. (Note, however, that NGOs are not necessarily proenvironment.) Some of these ways are democratic, in that they reflect popular preferences in policies; others are constitutional, involving changes at the structural level of institutions. More room for the creation of a policy telos does not necessarily mean that it will also be a stronger policy telos, however. Liberal democratic societies are, after all, predicated on the creation of consensus, and – especially in times of dehierarchization and political pluralization – they must be predicated on consensus to protect the liberal democratic heritage. As a consequence, sustainable development can only become a lasting and effective policy telos if its meaning is open to a fair, thorough and informed debate. Hence (in part) the stress so many advocates of sustainable development put on improving the quality of public debate, and on the transformation of liberal democracy into liberal deliberative democracy (cf. e.g. J. Barry 1999, Dobson 1998, Barry and Wissenburg 2001). The consequences of

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allowing (or creating) a truly deliberative debate on sustainable development, in turn, are first of all that although a higher degree of inclusiveness can perhaps be reached (moving beyond future generations as is already happening in many EU countries) due to e.g. well-founded appeals to the sympathy of the public for vulnerable creatures, scores on both other scales will be lower than in non-liberal-democratic societies. Having to create a real consensus on policies that are not necessarily in the short-term private interest of citizens and companies is simply more difficult than imposing such policies. Secondly, in order to reach a stable and lasting symmetry in the codes, the rule systems, of state, economy and civil society, sustainable development has to be more than just a policy telos. It has to have an overarching role, to serve as a basic consensus that is respected no matter what other political differences and social divisions may exist, if it is not to fall victim to the absence of consensus on issues like the borders between civil society and economy, between commercialism and public interest, or like emancipation, public security, etc. In that respect, we may expect a wellorganized civil society that highlights the conflicts between itself and the economic sphere to be a disadvantage rather than an advantage when it comes to ensuring the stability of a sustainable development policy telos.

5.4 Perspectives In this chapter, I discussed the question of whether sustainable development can serve as an effective policy telos in tackling the problem of incompossibility, i.e. the existence of mutually exclusive rules or behavioural codes applying to one and the same individual (or within one society). To answer this question, I had to allow far-reaching simplifications of both green political theory and liberalism. Furthermore, I focused only on the rights structures of societies, neglecting both the possibility that incompossibility, as an expression of political pluralization, could have other origins than dehierarchization (e.g. derogation of power, internationalization, etc.), and the fact that political pluralization can have more effects than incompossibility. All of these omissions are relevant to the more general question of whether sustainable development (or any other concept) can be an effective policy telos in times of dehierarchization and political pluralization. As the cliché goes, further research is needed. Yet overall, we can draw several conclusions that will probably temper our initial enthusiasm for sustainable development as a policy telos fit to solve the incompossibility problem. First of all, we have seen that sustainable development is not a clear, simple, unambiguous idea. It is a contestable concept, in that it has to be specified beyond the purely non-normative notion of ‘sustainability’: we need to know (for instance) what to sustain and for whom. Its effectiveness as a policy telos therefore depends on the creation of a strong and broad consensus on its interpretation: consensus cannot be taken for granted.

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Furthermore, we have seen that liberal-democratic societies have three arenas in which a policy telos can be promoted, three different filters through which demands may seep into all three arenas. They thus create – if I may use this term – an opportunity structure for the advocates of the environment, of sustainability and of sustainable development, that is far superior to other systems: there is more room to voice demands, more room to persuade and convert, more room to assess ideas and policies, and more room to implement them. Yet non-liberal-democratic societies are not necessarily bound to have less effective or less far-reaching conceptions of sustainable development. As we saw, the economic sphere still offers inroads and opportunities for the advocates of sustainable development. Also, it is theoretically possible that an overarching ideology is shared widely enough to be at least as effective and radical as consensus in a liberal-democratic society can be. Unfortunately, a related observation can be made about liberal democracy: for sustainable development to become a stable and effective policy telos, the divided and divisive nature of liberal democracies makes it necessary that it is an overarching value beyond debate, a side-constraint upon political decision-making and the development of society. The two next general observations will therefore come as no surprise: regardless of the type of society, the weaker the demands of the advocates of sustainable development are, the more likely it is that they will succeed; and the lower a shared conception of sustainability scores on the inclusiveness, substitutability and growth scales, the likelier it is that it can serve as a stable and effective policy telos.8 Thus, even when (a particular consensus on) sustainable development can help us cope with incompossibility, this is still no guarantee that it also helps us cope well enough with environmental problems. Perhaps there could even be an inverse relation between the degree to which a shared conception of sustainable development promotes social and political stability, the symmetry of prescriptive codes, and the degree to which sustainability is ‘objectively’ served. Secondly, as the still unconvinced ‘radical green’ – who may even feel accused of irrationality by us – will argue, even when (a particular consensus on) sustainable development can help us cope with incompossibility, this is still no guarantee that it also helps us cope well enough with environmental problems. Perhaps there could even be an inverse relation between the degree to which a shared conception of sustainable development promotes social and political stability, and the symmetry of prescriptive codes, and the degree to which sustainability is ‘objectively’ served – analogous to an agreement on ‘an eye for an eye’ as a rule of justice, a principle that would supposedly leave the whole world blind.. A final conclusion concerns the problem-solving potential of policy teloi in general. The case of sustainable development illustrates that policy teloi are neither sufficient nor necessary conditions for solutions to the problems of political pluralization. If a policy telos is to work in a liberal-democratic

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society, its interpretation has to be beyond dispute, it has to operate as a morally substantive basis of liberal-democratic institutions and rules – which contradicts at a fundamental level the commitment of liberal democracy to the recognition and preservation of dissent, of moral pluralism. In terms of political philosophy, this means that communitarianism cannot solve the problems of liberalism in a pluralizing world without sacrificing liberal democracy. In more practical terms, it means that dealing with political pluralization inevitably still requires institutional solutions (rules to synchronize rule systems and to limit political pluralization) based on a neutral commitment to moral pluralism and open debate. It is equally inevitable that the political decisions taken in liberal democracies sometimes promote one ideal, e.g. one interpretation of sustainable development, full employment, care for the elderly, etc. over others – but the decisions do not have to be justified with an appeal to one morality at the exclusion of others.

6

Beyond political principles

6.1 Foundational principles Political pluralization has the potential to disrupt societies: it creates or can create problems of coordination, efficiency, effectiveness and more generally legitimacy. In our search for answers we have focused, so far, on types of arguments in support of cooperation among individuals – only to find that, in most cases, the solution creates more problems than it solves. Up to this point, we have discussed eight such types of argument. Two rational choice arguments were mentioned only in passing: (1) purely spontaneous, accidental cooperation without communication, and (2) reasoned but still uncoordinated cooperation – both are versions of the invisible hand explanation for cooperation, as in the case of the free market. Neither of these addresses the issue of legitimacy beyond the level of efficiency and effectiveness; both offer only contingent and unstable reasons for cooperation. We have also discussed: (3) ethical absolutism and (4) popularity as forms of agreement on political principles in more detail. Both offer a more extensive account of legitimacy, even though popularity mimics the rational choice arguments, merely extending the range of goals on which agreement would be possible; yet both were also found wanting: they offered no reasons to believe in political principles. We therefore turned to three different formats for public deliberation: (5) non-dominated discourse, (6) modus vivendi and (7) overlapping consensus; again, each one had its disadvantages, most importantly in terms of limited applicability. Finally, in the previous chapter, we discussed (8) policy teloi as an addition to deliberative solutions: agreement below the level of principles, agreement on a common course of action inspired by different aims converging in the realization of a shared goal that spontaneously develops in the course of the cooperative process. None of these eight types of argument has provided us with universal solutions for incompossibility, loss of polity and loss of identity or unequivocal support for one particular type of political institution that would create order and cohesion – neither the sovereign nation-state, nor anything else. Nor did our types of argument generate a complete and clear refutation of political pluralization; in fact, they actually lend support to the idea of

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political pluralization – to varying degrees, but support nonetheless. They support cooperation where cooperation is possible or desirable – not ‘as a rule’, but more as exceptions to the rule; they also support cooperation between the individuals to whom, and on issues where, conditions for cooperation apply – not ‘as a rule’, i.e. not for all aspects of life for one clearly delimited, constant group of people like a society, nation or nation-state. In so far as they offer reasons for cooperation, the arguments depend for their validity (unsurprisingly) on shared premises – shared belief in (often moral) principles that we cannot expect humans to necessarily share. In this chapter, I add a ninth solution strategy to this list: agreement on foundational principles. Where the previous chapter addressed options for cooperation below the level of the shared political principles defended by deliberationists, this one looks for sources of agreement at a higher level, that of the various ethical principles from which various political ones are (ideally) derived. One should not confuse agreement on foundational principles with ethical absolutism, which has already been dealt with in Chapter 4. Rather than seeking grounds to impose pre-given principles, the search for agreement on foundational principles is a matter of bottom-up constructivism, of trying to assess if agreement on principles beyond political ones is possible. That – the possibility of supporting belief in higher principles – is something we have not discussed in Chapter 4 or anywhere else. In Chapter 4 we have asked ‘how to come to believe’ in principles, and then immediately focused on political principles. In other words, we followed the trodden path in political philosophy, the idea that there is naught but overlapping consensus (or modus vivendi), and simply assumed that agreement on higher principles is irrelevant, impossible or undesirable. One of the disadvantages of this assumption is that we found agreement on political principles to be necessarily limited to people already meeting questionable requirements, e.g. a shared faith in the liberal mission of emancipation. One reason, then, other than the sake of completeness, for looking into the possibility of agreement on foundational principles is to find out if wider, non-contingent support can be created for ideas like human rights or even for the liberal mission outlined in Chapter 4. In the next section (6.2), I shall present the elements of a hypothetical ‘impartial’ structure for deliberation on foundational principles, initially, but not ultimately, building on Rawls’ original position. I call this structure ‘archpoint’ – brief for ‘Archimedean point’. Section 6.3 discusses one example of a principle on which foundation-level agreement can be reached; Section 6.4 addresses the (hardly hidden) assumption behind the archpoint, that a degree of impartiality (and tolerance) is required. Section 6.5 concludes that all models for building agreement on cooperative structures are flawed in one important respect: they (still) fail to take politics seriously – a matter further addressed in the following chapter. So as not to get hopes up too high, a few words of caution must precede these sections. It is already obvious that an agreement on foundational

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principles does not have to help us deal with, let alone help us reject, political pluralization. Firstly, agreement on foundational principles does not imply agreement on their interpretation – i.e. it does not imply unity at the levels of political principles, policy teloi, goals, or even action. Secondly, some principles are logically incompatible; since we are trying to establish grounds for belief in principles, not their truth, we may come to believe in two incompatibles, and be unable to find good reasons to refute either one. The atheist and the Christian zealot, for instance, will never agree on whether God exists or not, nor will they agree on the first and second commandment. A principle such as ‘no human life should be voluntarily taken that does not really deserve it’ conflicts with ‘no one should live a life not worth living if it cannot be helped’: the latter implies at least a certain level of material welfare, hence physical action (the use of instruments), hence risks, hence statistical deaths. Finally, there is no guarantee that a foundational agreement (if possible at all) will be built on substantive principles. Unlike an overlapping consensus on a thin or thick theory of the good or the right, the result may be an agreement on mere procedures instead.

6.2 Beyond the original position: the archpoint1 Reaching agreement on foundational principles is impossible without discord: either two parties must first disagree on the criteria for the good life, assess the quality of the arguments for either view, and come to the same conclusion, or parties who already agree must simulate disagreement or scepticism and walk the same road to reach (reasoned) agreement rather than coincidental conformity. To assess the quality of arguments, a point of view must be invoked. I shall assume that this needs to be an impartial point of view, i.e. a position that John Rawls called ‘the Archimedean point’ (Rawls 1999a: 230) which I have shortened to archpoint. In section 6.4, I shall inquire whether this assumption can be supported; for now, I offer only a negative and severely flawed argument: were one party to arbitrarily impose its private notion of the good as the standard for all other theories, no agreement would be possible. If no view of the good can be prioritized arbitrarily, then all should be given equal consideration, and that is possible only when one remains impartial. Now obviously there is one thing that impartiality cannot mean: 100 per cent, complete, radical impartiality. Moral judgments, even a judgment to postpone judgment, presuppose that there is something on which to judge and something with which to judge – in other words, that there are standards, and sides to be chosen. One important consequence of the impossibility of radical impartiality is that the procedures that are required to ensure an impartial choice of foundational principles will themselves need a further justification, one that cannot be more than impartial in a sense. If we want to prefer one principle

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to another, or want to defend it, or even abstain from preferring, we need reasons to do so – including ethical reasons, at least if we want to convince ourselves of the rightness of principles, and not merely of their empirical inevitability. Notice, by the way, that so far no particular type of justification procedure has been required or promoted. The problem of defending moral choices is relevant to deductive moral theories (those involving contracts, invisible hands or ideal observers), inductive theories (those based on shared understandings, etc.), and any other imaginable type of theory. If every conception of impartiality itself entails an ethical choice, how can impartiality be the cornerstone of impartial deliberation on foundational principles? A first answer is trivial: justification procedures should be impartial or neutral2, or non-biased to assure that they measure (or justify) what they are supposed to measure. In this sense, original positions and the like must be technically ‘fair’ – i.e. logically consistent with their aim. If they should measure justice, they should measure justice and not the temperature. The second answer is more informative: there are material reasons why particular principles are preferred to others, and why they are preferred as just or good principles. Instead of being neutral in all possible respects (radical impartiality), the justification procedure should be justified by neutral reasons or ideals, and it should be scrupulously neutral with regard to the plans of life that are allowed or promoted by the principles it justifies. To give reasons for principles – to judge and justify them – we seem to have, in essence, only two alternatives: the low road of moral relativism in all its subtly differing forms (nihilism, pluralism, subjectivism, conventionalism), and the high road of moral absolutism, again in many forms (naturalism, realism, revelation, historicism, etc.). The view that moral theory is ultimately an either/or matter – either absolutism or relativism – is shared by many.3 Of course, in the real world of moral theorizing, the extremes are rare to say the least. The interesting thing about modern analytical political theories (mostly liberal theories of justice like Rawls’) is that, despite their variety in positions, they try to build on a third way next to, rather than create another mixture of, the high and the low road to morality. In this third way – deliberationism – the source of valid moral arguments is the human capacity to be impartial. This material role of impartiality can be described both negatively and positively. Negatively, it differs fundamentally from absolutism in denying the moral relevance of the natural order of the universe, divine commandments, etc., whether such an objective order exists or not. Impartiality must also be distinguished from relativism. Parallel to the fact that a judgment from the point of view of impartiality will only accidentally agree with one from nature, it will also only accidentally agree with the judgment of normal persons in actual, non-reflective circumstances. Impartiality is independent of whatever makes a moral view ‘relative’: our present culture at this or any point in time and space, and the social, political, economic or personal circumstances in which we actually live, work and act.

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A positive statement of what impartiality is about is more difficult, as it is essentially a negative concept: non-partiality. It can only be done if, first of all, absolutism is so defined as to exclude general characteristics of man or human nature (e.g. equality, freedom, a sense of morality or, most of all, rationality) from the realm of the laws of nature, the kingdom of ends – and, secondly, if relativism is so defined as to exclude that same area of what is common to humans. Positively stated then, the point of impartiality is to transcend contingent society, persons and personal views, and thereby take a detached view on man sub specie aeternitatis – Spinoza’s phrase, taken over by Rawls (Rawls 1999a: 514). Impartiality contains elements of both relativism and absolutism. On the one hand, it is still the human mind and not universal reason that dictates the moral law, but, on the other hand, this is humanity at its most absolute. On the one hand, the outer world of facts and contingencies is irrelevant – in the sense that no is outside the human mind can ever justify an ought within – yet, on the other hand, it is nothing like universal voluntarism: the physical laws cannot be, and are not, transcended – should is limited by could. Impartiality is a negative but not a nihilistic notion. We are morally and intellectually situated, like it or not: we all have an evaluative point of view, even Camus’s étranger. The aim of introducing impartiality is to allow us to step away, as far as possible, from these particular points of view, without excluding their existence or denying partiality, particularity and contingency. This demands, on the one hand, subjective impartiality – i.e. giving equal relevance to individual plans of life or constituent parts thereof; on the other hand, it demands objective impartiality: in Rawlsian terms, the inevitable thin theory of the good should be reasonable. Giving equal relevance to theories of the good, then, does not imply accepting or tolerating them all: the thin theory will exclude some. To help us imagine (it must clearly be a thought experiment) an archpoint uniting subjective and objective impartiality, think of Rawls’ original position. Any other deliberation procedure – Habermas’s domination-free discourse, Ackerman’s spaceship or Nozick’s state of nature – could serve just as well, but Rawls’ theory is simply the most widely known. Our point of departure is the ‘original’ original position – the 1973 version – which still aims for objective impartiality. In later revisions of his own theory, Rawls argued that his two principles of justice are reasonable (read: realistic or feasible) assuming that there is a ‘basic consensus’ on fundamental values among us. It is the purpose of the dialogue between our considered judgments and the judgments of people in the original position to let us develop a rational reconstruction of this consensus (Rawls 1993a: 28, 38–39, etc.). At the moment when both views on justice are in agreement, and the basic consensus becomes visible, we have reached a state known as reflective equilibrium. Rawls thus explicitly allowed for the possibility of a just society based on another basic consensus than the one he discerns in his own. (Imagine, for instance, a society where private property is considered unimportant or even

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dangerous – e.g. among Kalahari bushmen.) Agreement in moral matters thereby comes to depend on a contingent feature – the culture of a particular society at a particular moment – making his justice as fairness the alter ego of a rather than any society. A thin theory of the good for an archpoint from which to assess the possibility of foundational agreement would have to be objectively impartial. It cannot, for instance, be based solely on David Hume’s distinction between fact and value, according to which ethical judgments cannot be derived from empirical premises. Hume’s axiom can be applied in two ways: (1) we may believe there is an ethical truth that is independent of facts and start looking for it; or (2) we may give up the search for an absolute ethical truth that is independent of the tangible world – e.g. because we come to believe that ethical propositions and convictions are, as states of mind, simply another type of empirical fact. Each of these possibilities opens up the way for innumerable moral codes, but there is more. Let us assume that ethical propositions can in fact be derived from states of affairs (as naturalists do). If a view like were this correct, it might be possible to formulate (or rather, discover) an absolute ethical truth that is acceptable to all rational beings, all beings capable of knowing and understanding – if only there were no people firmly convinced of the truth of Hume’s axiom. Let us add to this list views like Buddhism – views denying the value of anything other than reaching Nirvana, and the appreciation of the meaninglessness of everything. For an archpoint to be objectively impartial, each of these metaphysical views must be accepted or rejected for good reasons. Given our limited intellectual capacities and the suspicion that it may not even be possible to have a meaningful debate on metaphysics, this seems unreasonable to hope for. There is, however, an alternative to what seems to be the inevitable conclusion, namely that moral philosophy has no other task than clarifying language games without further pretensions. Objective impartiality at the archpoint can be conceived of as a combination of three ideas: the sceptical notion of postponing judgment (what else can we do?), a set of things to postpone judgment on, and a wafer-thin theory of the good. The last consists of one simple axiom: that it is good to be rational in a weak sense – i.e. reject fallacies and accept logically sound arguments – and that in fact we are rational in this weak sense. There is no rational way to account for rationality: an argument to that effect would presuppose the conclusion (Popper 1960: 232). The one – and only – thing on which judgement needs to be postponed is what I call ‘full reasons’. Some of our reasons for acting, or judging, as we do are basic (cf. Sen 1970: 59ff., see also Brandt 1979: 149ff. and Brandt 1998). They cannot be reduced to other more fundamental moral propositions, nor to empirical propositions. Other reasons are, to abuse a Kantian term, hypothetical: they can be partly reduced to basic moral propositions, and the remainder depend on non-moral, empirical observations, estimates and rules. Being hypothetical, they can be criticized, accepted, rejected or improved. There is no need to be sceptical about the latter.

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There is a deeper distinction within the category of basic reasons: some of them are full reasons. These reasons function as the foundations upon which other reasons and convictions rest: they are the ultimate grounds for those reasons and the last resort in their defence. About other basic reasons, our conscience is more lenient: as compared to full reasons, they are conditional. We may, for instance, sincerely believe that every human life is inviolable, and that therefore killing is wrong – no matter why, by whom, or in whatever circumstances. Yet in a life or death situation, we may act differently. Full reasons are purely local, even purely personal and subjective, in that they form a person’s subset of the culturally and intellectually available ‘virtues’.4 Like virtues, full reasons are constant and stable: like all dispositions, they are hard to come by and hard to change. Most often, they are the product of education and socialization, and sometimes the result of dramatic experiences (in the words of Martha Nussbaum (Nussbaum 1988: 38): ‘grounding experiences’) that shock or evoke belief in a full reason. Full reasons are undeniable to oneself – that is, one cannot think of any good excuse (in one’s own eyes) when acting against them. They may be characterized as ethical, egoistic, perverse or decent (all in the eyes of others), and they can, as a set, be internally inconsistent, intransitive, cyclical, or whatever. Full reasons are not distinguished by their moral stature (we have to postpone any judgment on that issue) or their practicability, but by the firmness and stability of our belief in them. One of the traits that they do not share is that virtues – unlike full reasons – derive their meaning, their moral import, from a social context. Virtues (or supposed virtues) can be criticized within a society by relating them to a local or universal conception of the good; full reasons are exempted from that kind of critique: we have no higher standard to judge them by – all one can say is ‘I can do no other’. The decision to postpone judgment on full reasons does not imply that critique on less fundamental reasons has become impossible – quite to the contrary. To judge the latter, we still have standards like rationality, appropriateness, or consistency with known facts, as well as methods to incorporate those standards (e.g. a modified version of Richard Brandt’s (1998) cognitive psychotherapy). One final remark: I have sketched my archpoint as if it were a revamped Rawlsian original position, limited to scepticism, full reasons and equal consideration. It is important to remember that justification procedures like contracts and invisible hands serve a simple heuristic end: wrapping up the ethical propositions demarcating an archpoint sufficiently to bridge the gap between justification and legitimization, between being right and being put in the right. What matters is the substance of the arguments, not the form in which they are presented. If the archpoint really had to be developed through an adaptation of Rawls’ original position, more would have to be changed than the few premises discussed here. This, however, is not the place to do so (cf. Wissenburg 1999b for a better reply) – my aim in this section was merely to show that, given reasonable assumptions, circumstances are

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imaginable under which the possibility of agreement on principles ‘higher’ than politics can be investigated. The next question on our agenda is a simple: so what?

6.3 The restraint principle Philosophers cheat, and I do not intend to become an exception to this rule. In John Rawls’ theory, people in the original position do not have to derive principles of social justice from more general ethical theories, nor do they have to catalogue all imaginable ethical positions and ensure that the catalogue is complete. Rawls simply slipped a note under their door with what he argued was a representative and more or less complete list of more or less reasonable principles of justice (Rawls 1999a: 107). Robert Nozick (1974), Bruce Ackerman (1980), William Galston (1980, 1991), Brian Barry (1989, 1995) all did the same. The context of discovery, the process of actual deliberation, is deleted: what remains is the context of justification. The end result: a heavily stylized formal argument in support of a choice of particular principles. Cheating of this kind is an elegant way to avoid distraction, and it would be perfectly acceptable if we could be sure that, for instance, Rawls’ list of principles was not rigged or biased – which we cannot, of course. Nevertheless, I intend to cheat too. Rather than trying my hand at writing the ultimate adventure novel on how people at the archpoint come to formulate and choose moral and political principles, I want to simply jump to the conclusion and discuss (the argument in support of) one of the principles they would choose. It saves time and space.5 Elsewhere I have argued that people who find themselves at an archpoint will find principles on which they can agree. Among these is a recycling principle: Conditional rights are to be distributed as rights that are limited by a recycling principle: the object of a conditional right should not be destroyed unless that is unavoidable; if it cannot be used without destroying it, it should be replaced by an identical object; if that is impossible, an equivalent object should be made available; if that is also impossible, a proper compensation should be provided. (Wissenburg 1999a: 207) Conditional rights, to explain the terminology, are rights that can be overruled by the (basic) needs or by more stressing (further) wants of others. In another context, an application of this principle to environmental issues became known as the Restraint Principle: No goods shall be destroyed unless unavoidable and unless they are replaced by perfectly identical goods; if that is physically impossible, they should be replaced by equivalent goods resembling the original as

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The reasons why ‘archpointers’ would accept this principle (Wissenburg 1998:123ff.) are straightforward. Like the restraint principle, the arguments are expressed in terms of rights, but different terminologies are equally possible. The attribution of rights is a matter of arguments: we need reasons to acknowledge one another’s rights to goods, otherwise a distribution scheme would be arbitrary, accidental and (since it would be as good as any other) extremely temporary – in absence of good reasons in favour of one distribution, there is no reason why it could not be replaced at any moment by any other. Claims to rights can be compared, evaluated and ordered – even in the absence of competing claims, a claim need not become a right. It is the strength of arguments that determines whether we should agree to a particular distribution of conditional rights, or to a principle of distribution. In the absence of a yardstick for the ultimate truth or validity of principles, and bound by the agreement to respect scepticism and objective and subjective impartiality, we have to accept, first, that any conditional right (any good) that can physically be withdrawn (alienated) can also morally be withdrawn should a stronger argument come along, and, secondly, that a right to x is not a right to x-plus – a right to pluck apples is not a right to cut down apple trees. The things we call rights in everyday life, e.g. the ownership right to a forest, are in fact very complex sets of permissions, duties and prohibitions relating to distinct actions – what one might call ‘molecular’ permissions, describing what one may and may not, should and should not, do at any time with each of the elements of which the forest is made up. The recognition of a right to each such distinct act requires, in principle, a separate argument. A case can be made for the thesis that there is at least one such right that can never be granted: the absolute right to destroy the object of x, thus turning ownership rights into rights to use rather than (absolutely) possess x – making us ‘custodians rather than owners of the planet’ (Barry 1977: 284). Conditional rights depends on reasons, but reasons are as fallible as those who articulate them. The soundness of reasons may change over time, or depend on the information we have available. We may believe that asbestos is safe, and grant the right to use it in houses, until experience and research prove us wrong, thus forcing us to withdraw our earlier decisions. Alternatively, other people may turn out to have better claims to goods than I have – they merely have not yet made those claims, have not been able to do so, or have not been heard. They may even be unaware of their own good reasons, as it takes time to grow up and develop or discover one’s plan of life. A first-come or finders-keepers principle is not a warrant for justice here – my claim may be prior in time without being prior in terms of desert, urgency or need.

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Following a general duty not to destroy anything is absurd: we would starve or freeze to death. Although necessity therefore overrules the duty to restraint, it does not annul the rights and claims of others whose options we limit by turning x, say, Yellowstone Park, into farm land. In general, your valid claim to x does not make it a duty for us to make an alternative for x available to you, yet it does not prohibit it either: we are, in principle, free to replace Yellowstone Park, but not obliged to. If we may reasonably expect someone could that some day make a stronger claim than ours to Yellowstone Park, however, then the freedom to replace x turns into a duty to replace (and compensate, etc.) – with the same proviso: unless necessity prohibits it. Additional arguments in support of the recycling and restraint principles come to light (at least in some cases) when their apparent weaknesses are assessed. There is obviously, first and foremost, the question of precision: what exactly is a need, what counts as destruction, when is destruction unavoidable, and what counts as appropriate compensation (Dobson 2000a: 171, Beekman 2001: 82–83, Wallack 2004: 175)? These are legitimate questions, yet although more precision is certainly possible even under de-contextualizing conditions like those at the archpoint (for details see e.g. Wissenburg 1999a), these same objections can be raised against probably every prescriptive political theory. Wherever each ought to be given his (her) due, wherever a measure of inequality or equality in possession or distribution of goods, rights or benefits is defended, wherever any distinction between any two individuals is made, a criterion is introduced – and any criterion is vulnerable to suspicions of vagueness, if not in its formulation then in its foundation. A second, more interesting, critique focuses on a premise of the restraint principle that has so far not been mentioned: it applies to existing generations only. What of future generations (Wallack 2004: 176)? Should there not be some form of compensation, preferably just, if our generation decides to deplete any or all natural resources? Contrary to popular opinion, however, I do not believe future generations belong in a theory of justice, environmental or other. They exist to the same degree that Peter Pan and Santa Claus do, and we owe those two nothing; what distinguishes them from Peter and Santa is that, as individuals not generations, those already existing can bring about their existence. If we owe anything to future generations, it is to provide them with a decently equipped future before we decide to procreate, or else not burden them with an insufferable existence in the first place. Not only do future generations not belong in a theory of justice, at least in the case of the recycling and restraint principles, they do not need to be around either. Since ‘finders, keepers’ was rejected, both principles imply that the (existing) newly born have an equal claim to at least the same set and value of resources as those who are about to leave. Then again, the restraint principle allows destruction, and – regardless of how strong and precise the demands for compensation may be – some goods are really irreplaceable: there is no way we can compensate for

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their loss (Wallack 2004: 177). There is only one oldest tree in the village, only one original throne of Otto the Great, only one Scream by Munch, only one species of Siberian tiger, etc. Granted that the best possible compensation for destroying the irreplaceable may well be (necessarily) imperfect, granted that such acts of destruction – even when well-considered6 – will be painful, and assuming that sometimes an irreplaceable good has to be destroyed, perhaps the premise of this argument is really not as strong as it appears to be. Do we really miss the woolly mammoth, the sabre tooth tiger, the dodo, or our Neanderthal cousins? Will we really suffer the insufferable when the last panda bear dies, and will those born today miss the Twin Towers? Several critics of the restraint principle have also argued that it is not so much the principle itself that would not be satisfactory – in Beekman’s words (2001: 98), it would offer only the ‘minimal requirements for environmental survivalism’ – but rather its foundation, the archpoint. The crucial assumption of an impartiality that goes even beyond that of a Rawls or Ackerman7 would bias the whole theory in advance against certain lifestyles and plans of life – in the case of environmental politics, for instance, against a substantively ‘green’ lifestyle (Dobson 2000a: 171). Like Rawls, Ackerman, Brian Barry and virtually all other liberal political theorists, my archpoint ‘black-boxes’ the formation of preferences: it takes them as given (Stephens 2001a: 9). As a result, the restraint principle presupposes and rewards (or even incites the evolution into) humans as ‘wanting things’ on one side of the subject–object divide – egoistic and disconnected individuals who see only instrumental value in their environment (Stephens 2001b: 46). From a slightly different perspective, Simon Hailwood (2004: 131–37) argues that the restraint principle reduces all value to subjective, instrumental value, excluding the experience of non-instrumental things like ‘nature as truly other’. At first sight, a theorist who values impartiality will be inclined to reject such critiques as misguided or unreasonable: the critics all seem to argue that a substantive (green) theory of the good should replace strict impartiality, or that reasonable humans must necessarily embrace one rather than another theory of value. On second thoughts, however, there really is something wrong with the restraint principle if it results in the a priori exclusion of theories of the good that are not necessarily incompatible with others practicing other theories of the good. No liberal theory aims for neutrality of outcome – i.e. all individuals being satisfied to the same degree in the execution of their plans of life – but they do aim for initial neutrality – i.e. an equal and fair chance of executing one’s plan of life that is compatible with an equal freedom for others. Although the recycling and restraint principles do not preclude non-instrumental values, and therefore do not need to be revised, they do pre-empt the set of possible worlds in which each individual could live. A corollary, the Life Environment Principle, needs to be formulated:

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There is to be a maximum set of life environments compatible with a similar set for others. (Wissenburg 2006: 435) In this case, life environment stands for the sum total of cultural, social, economic and natural environments in which an individual exists. Two further objections are possible here. One is that this principle does not obviously exclude the existence of shantytowns, slums and slavery. I would argue, however, that it does (through the proviso ‘compatible with’) – but it thereby also excludes the short, nasty and brutish lives of many indigenous peoples, exactly those peoples whose ‘noble savage’ lifestyles are valued by so many, and exactly those peoples whose ‘secret knowledge’ of, for instance, the medicinal potential of their environment is so (rightly) appreciated by at least as many. If one wants to save those lifestyles, and if (as has so often turned out to be necessary) one wants to protect them against corrupting influences from the civilized world – one will probably need an argument for some form of paternalism. The crux, then, is in the ‘compatible with a similar set’ part. Without that, it remains a maximizing principle – with all the known disadvantages of utilitarianism. Yet even a libertarian will admit that any human’s freedom is limited by that of every other. This leads us to the second objection: the life environment principle definitely protects the ecology, possibly in particular against our desire (justified or not) to meet the needs of future generations at the expense of nature, since it presumes (and implies) the restraint principle. Yet what the life environment principle does not protect is all existing human ways of life. If we reject paternalism, we need to accept that certain life environments will still disappear, at least as cultures – though not necessarily by implication as bits of nature. In other words, the life environment principle offers initial neutrality, but not neutrality of outcome; therein also lies the answer to this objection: although we should have a fair opportunity to test lifestyles, the test would be useless if we were not also allowed to reject some. In this context – the more or less ‘natural’ struggle for the survival of the fittest culture – we cannot avoid admitting that liberal political theory has so far paid (too) little attention to the structural processes that predetermine choice, such as the economy – processes that ‘undeservedly’ benefit one life environment over another. Much more needs to be said about the life environment principle (apart from ‘what exactly is a life environment’): should life environments be the subject of a Rawlsian first, second, or other type of principle? Is it not too anthropocentric and too resourcist, given the typically liberal focus of the idea of a life-environment on the individual? All such questions will, however, have to be answered elsewhere. This section’s aim was not to formulate any specific principles, or defend them in all details, but merely to show that, without adding conditions other than those defining the abstract archpoint, it is possible to reach an agreement on principles ‘above

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and beyond’ politics from which, despite their abstract nature, further principles with political implications can still be derived.

6.4 Beyond the archpoint There will always be (hidden or visible) assumptions on which the possibility of agreement on both political and higher principles is founded. One of the most obvious assumptions made so far is that impartiality is at least a necessary, and at best a good, thing. The only defence given for this assumption was a negative one: there seems to be no alternative. Unfortunately, most arguments in favour of (subjective) impartiality or, more specifically, tolerance share this tertium non datur structure – a flawed structure. As Brian Barry argued, from the inability to prove that a theory of the good X is no better than theories Y, Z, etc., nothing follows: ex nihilo nihil fit (Barry 2001: 133). First of all, there are alternatives to tolerance: tolerating X, Y, and Z, or being equally impartial between them, must be based on the premise that toleration is better than arbitrarily preferring X, Y or Z, or arbitrarily preferring X and Y (remaining impartial between these two) over Z, or X and Z over Y, etc., etc. Secondly, in those rare cases where philosophers (openly or covertly) admit the existence of equally arbitrary alternatives, the argument formulated in support of the ethical superiority rather than (unproven) exclusivity of tolerance calls upon our acceptance of the burdens of judgement (to use Rawls’ modern term) – the acknowledgement that it is rational to refrain from further debate on, or action against, normative claims where no objective or mutually acceptable proof can be given. Accepting the burdens of judgement, however, presupposes at least certain assumptions on (if not a complete theory of) the good, next to which alternatives exist (e.g. subjection to the revealed truth of a holy book, throwing a dice, dreaming the answer, etc.) – and to prefer one over the other must be either arbitrary or based on circular reasoning. There is, in fact, no alternative to an appeal to the burdens of judgement if one wants to defend tolerance. Consider an argument for tolerance that is structured as follows: neither conviction X nor conviction Y can be proved, a conviction that cannot be proved must be tolerated, therefore X and Y must be tolerated. Enter a person with conviction X, who claims: ‘My god is a blue cheese, he spake unto me and said “go out and kill all tomato-eaters”’. Our moral intuition tells us that it would be absurd to tolerate this view, at least the practice of that faith – but the blue cheese zealot feels differently, and will not be persuaded by our gut feelings, which he may well blame on indigestion. If we adapt the argument to say that faiths that cannot be disproved must be tolerated, we end up with the same result. The operative factor in both cases is not moral intuitions but the appeal to proof: the blue cheese zealot must be (or should ideally be) convinced that his conviction is irrational or unreasonable, otherwise (1) not tolerating him would be based

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on arbitrary gut feelings, or (2) tolerating him means that we give precedence to the burdens of judgement over moral intuition. Bruce Ackerman’s assumption of tolerance (to give one final illustration) also requires prior acceptance of the burdens of judgement. If no one can claim that his or her theory of the good is better than any other, only that it is ‘at least as good as’ others, what follows is not that other views must be tolerated, but (by transitivity) what follows is that if x is at least as good as y and y at least as good as x, then x and y are equally good and therefore equally arbitrary. To tolerate rather than arbitrarily (or based on a person’s gut feelings) prefer one over the other requires the assumption that it is better – i.e. good – to refrain from further debate on, or action against, normative claims where no objective or mutually acceptable proof can be given. Must we therefore cast off the burdens of judgement, since they cannot be reasonably supported, and cast out tolerance? The answer is no, we ‘must’ not, but we can, and doing so is not illegitimate: at worst, it can sometimes be inconsistent. Note, first of all, that this is not as large a step away from civilization as it may seem. Even accepting the burdens of judgement does not imply complete tolerance – or complete subjective impartiality. Tolerating principle x because of those burdens does not mean that all consequences drawn from x must be accepted. If any duty follows from the burdens of judgement, it is the duty to test each and every principle, and each and every inference. Thus, we cannot infer from ‘we must believe the Bible’ that dinosaurs cannot have existed, that the universe is 6,000 years and a few days old, and that evolution is a lie: such inferences can be tested, qualified and ultimately refuted. In terms of full reasons (Section 6.2), there is no need to remain silent about reasons for action that can be criticized, accepted, rejected or improved.8 Secondly, the universal argument for equality lends some support to the burdens of judgement. According to this argument, it is irrational to discriminate against one individual (or interest, or right, or view, etc.) to the advantage of another, unless a relevant difference between the two exists. The conception of rationality invoked here is that of minimal rationality, as explained above; no ‘thicker’ conceptions are needed. In our case, the argument for equality implies that, where two or more theories of the good cannot be proven or disproved, we have only two options: tolerating all equally, or total nihilism. The burdens of judgement, tolerance and subjective impartiality cannot be defended any further; there are no deeper (let alone universal) grounds. Converting the unconverted is possible not with arguments, but only by pointing out the advantages as a tactical compromise inspired by something as fickle as, for instance, rational self-interest. There may be convictions in which tolerance is an absolute principle rather than a mere compromise, but they can only be characterized as faiths, and defending such faiths on principle is preaching to the choir.

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6.5 Conclusion In this chapter, we have seen that agreement is possible on principles that are even higher than purely political ones, and that such an agreement can have practical consequences: it justifies, and can thereby help support cooperation. We have also seen, once more, that cooperation is possible only where prior principles are already shared. Where that is not the case, the map of the political world indicates hic sunt dracones. None of deliberationism, nor policy teloi, nor an archpoint provide us with definite criteria for cooperation or non-cooperation, let alone with a definite reason to reject political pluralization. At this point, the critic of liberalism has already long lost patience: from page 1 onwards, my hidden assumption has always been that the weal of individuals is all that matters – it is for that reason, and no other, that we were unable to find reasons to support our initial distrust of political pluralization. There is, after all, an old and widely supported alternative to liberal individualism. On that view, values like cultural identity, nationality and common heritage offer compelling reasons to overrule any appeal to the rationality and reasonableness of individuals cooperating in or seceding from various and sunder constellations, and to ‘force’ a return to the happy (though imaginary) world of sovereign nation-states. This (essentially communitarian) response invites us to reconsider what justifies borders in the first place, scepticism about borders in the second, and the sincerity of putting the onus of proof on communitarians in the third. The invitation will be accepted, but not until we reach Chapter 8. In the next chapter, I first want to address the more pressing question raised both by the communitarian critique and by the failure of the individualist perspective to come up with definitive rather than fuzzy answers to political pluralization: what to do when agreement is impossible? What to do when real politics is needed?

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7.1 Cutting a knot In political science, the most popular definitions of politics are Laswell’s ‘who gets what, when and how’ (Laswell 1936, cf. Laswell 1948: 7), and his student Easton’s ‘the authoritative distribution of values over a society’. Definitions are, like models, simplified representations of the real world – which makes them only quite useful, and also necessarily flawed. Laswell and Easton’s definitions, for instance, presume too much – in particular the prior existence of a ‘society’ and of authority; the phase of reflection on the need for, and form of, social cooperation as in e.g. classic contract theories, which precedes the formation of state or society, is thereby excluded from politics, as is any form of decision-making for a ‘bunch of folks’ (to use George W. Bush’ definition of groups of individuals) in circumstances where words like tribe, community or planet would be more appropriate than ‘society’. There is also, at least in Easton’s case, a risk of circularity: if authority depends for just the least bit on performance, i.e. on results, it cannot really precede decisionmaking; so no decision on who gets what can be called truly authoritative or political, except in hindsight. More important is the fact that Laswell and Easton conflate two more or less distinct human practices (cf. Warren 1999: 203). One of these is perhaps better described as ‘government’, ‘governance’ or ‘policy-making’, and relates to decision-making on how, rather than whether, a ‘bunch of folks’ should get whatever it gets. If we reflect for a moment on the nature of the arguments for cooperation that were discussed in the preceding chapters, we may come to realize that they seem to presume exactly this conception of politics as government: all were geared towards finding common ground somehow and somewhere, whether in absolute ethical principles or in an overlapping consensus, a policy telos, a popular conviction or enlightened self-interest. For political philosophers in these traditions, the fundamental question of politics seems to be how to justify cooperation, and, once this question is answered, all that remains are technically rather than normatively controversial issues of procedures and structures.

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There is, however, a second tradition in political philosophy, addressing a radically different conception of politics. Although Heraklitos of Ephesus (for want of an earlier source) should be credited for its first formulations,1 politics understood as a continuation of war by other means has been described most explicitly by authors like Niccolò Machiavelli, Karl Marx2 and Carl Schmitt – three of the most ill-famed political thinkers of all times. It is on this tradition that the present chapter will focus.3 There are circumstances under which no agreement is possible – perhaps for philosophical, but certainly for practical reasons. Here, no basis for cooperation exists for an agreement on who gets what, when and where (let alone why) that is generally or ideally (as in an original position) recognized as legitimate. Just one example of this type of dissent: ‘Many of the group rights that we prominently defended in contemporary politics – and also in political theory – threaten to perpetuate the subordination of half the world’s population, namely women’ (Gutmann 2002: 553). In real politics, a decision often needs to be made or implemented, or else it will be done for you (and then usually to the disadvantage of the indecisive party): practices like veiling, locking up, abusing, circumcising and exploiting women will continue and grow. Making a decision under such circumstances necessarily means forcing your way upon others, exercising power.4 Even where cooperation is possible in accordance with any of the methods sketched so far, not all those ideally involved in a cooperative venture will agree; from their subjective points of view, making them cooperate is perhaps tolerable, but never anything less than coercion. Either way, real politics involves a choice between deadlocked incompatibles: a choice by force not argument – it requires cutting a Gordian knot. Since the great Alexander has become the ultimate example of a decision-maker, we might as well call this aspect of politics Alexandrism.5 Yet just as evil is not merely the absence of good, discord is not merely the absence of concord. There are different forms of discord, different circumstances under which and reasons why different limits to, delimitations of and exclusions from cooperative ventures exist, different reasons why politics as governance may be impossible. It is these circumstances that explain, on the one hand, why we do not form a perfectly harmonious world of peacefully co-existing clones whose mutual benefits from social cooperation flawlessly coincide. On the other hand, it is these circumstances that are indispensable for understanding why and how (where cooperation can be justified) so many different forms, shapes and aims of cooperation exist next to each other – thus, why we have nonetheless not disappeared in a total war of all against all. If we want to understand political pluralization in all its shapes and – still assuming its undesirability – learn how to deal with it, then we need to know not only when cooperation is possible but also when it is impossible, and where (if at all) Alexandrism may offer a way out. When we discuss Alexandrism, we leave an ideal world of legitimacy and morality behind us, yet these concepts are relevant and indeed indispensable,

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even in a less ideal world. Without standards (like these) there can be no better or worse in politics – only indifference, since no political order meets the standards of Utopia. Moreover, without a normative bias, a reason to care about decision-making on irreconcilable positions, an analysis would not be worth undertaking in the first place. By definition, Alexandrian methods of decision-making lack perfect legitimacy, but they may nonetheless be more or less efficient, effective and justifiable on a liberal view, relative to one another and relative to the type of discord to which they are applied. Rather than trying to do the impossible, i.e. find a justification for the unjustifiable,6 my aim in this chapter then is to go out on an exploratory mission and assess if there are ‘lesser evils’ than political pluralization. We can distinguish types of discord by their cause – i.e. the type of agreement that is absent – and by the form of Alexandrism – i.e. specific solution methods. I shall introduce the latter in the next section; the former can be summarized as the negation of the conditions under which different forms of agreement are possible.7 The list (given more extensively in Section 6.1) looks as follows: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

purely spontaneous, accidental cooperation reasoned but uncoordinated cooperation ethical absolutism popularity deliberation in non-dominated discourse deliberation on a modus vivendi deliberation on an overlapping consensus deliberation on policy teloi deliberative agreement on foundational principles.

7.2 Swords, axes and tweezers The classifications of types of war used today find their origins in classics like Sun Tzu, Caesar and Clausewitz, although changes in technology and progressed experience often obscure these roots. No such classics are available for cataloguing forms of political discord – Machiavelli being hopelessly incomplete and disorganized on this topic, and Robespierre remaining disturbingly euphemistic: ‘Revolutionary government needs extraordinary activity ( … ) subject to less uniform and less rigorous rules’ (Robespierre 2007: 99). The categorization I propose here is, therefore, not only open to improvement; it is also based on disputable premises, fitting the purposes of this book rather than being aimed at universal application – for instance, it does not include what used to be called ‘structural violence’ (cf. Lukes 2005), the existence of customs or social structures forcing individuals to act against their best interests, while (or in part by) preventing them from even assessing where their interests lie.

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The forms of Alexandrism can be distinguished by their increasing depth and density – i.e. the degree to which a deciding party cares about the issue at hand (depth), and the degree to which a party cares that the ‘right’ solution be chosen (density). The extremes of maximum depth and density (the war of all against all) and minimum depth and density (total indifference) will be ignored here. Although their names speak for themselves, some clarification is nonetheless required, but a weak stomach or unstable temper will be a disadvantage in the next few paragraphs. Politics always involves interference in other people’s lives, yet some methods for doing so are less grizzly than others. Remember that the aim of this catalogue is not to judge but merely to bring order. Type 1, murder, obviously represents political homicide: tyrannicide, genocide, the elimination of political opponents or otherwise dangerous individuals, etc. Examples range from the assassination attempt on Hitler’s life in July 1944 to the Holocaust, with anything in between: the massacre of the Tutsis, the defenestration of Czechoslovak Foreign Minister Jan Masaryk, the decapitation of former kings and queens, the elimination of Palestinian terrorist leaders, the murder of Rasputin, the execution of the Ceauscescus, 9/11, the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the contents of Idi Amin’s refrigerator, etc. Apart from being a widely used and wildly popular political instrument, and apart from being virtually absent from all political philosophy since the Middle Ages, the distinguishing feature of this form of Alexandrism is that it radically eliminates one party that causes discord. In addition to serving its own direct purposes, political murder can also have side effects when used to torture or threaten other parties. Torture, type 2 of Alexandrism, does not necessarily aim to eliminate the opponent; in general, its purpose is to either change or to decrease the depth or density of the opponents’ preferences. Physical torture is the classic example, having family and friends disappear or turn up dead may count as psychological torture, as might Stalin’s habit of calling up Party members, seconds before the Secret Service would knock on their doors, to express his concern about their health. Perhaps the omnipresence of the state in Orwell’s 1984 could count as an example of a third form of torture: ideological. This book also gives us a clue to the mindset of the torturer (or the party ordering torture): the motivation for torture is not necessarily one of pathological sadism or total instrumentalism, as some disciples of the former Chilean dictator Pinochet declared, their ‘true’ intention – at least on occasion – was rather to show the victim the error of her ways ‘for her own good’.8 Type 3 Alexandrism, threats, can serve the same purposes as torture – the line between psychological torture and threats is obviously a thin one. In adding disincentives at very low cost, threats raise the price of dissent or (in Hirschmann’s (1970) exit-voice-loyalty triangle) that of the exit-option, making them quite popular instruments for dictators, absolute monarchs, trade unions and employers. Apart from the classic straightforward threat to one’s personal property, health, physical integrity, etc., or to that of loved

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ones, it is worthwhile to distinguish strategic threats from threats built into the structure of institutions. Well-known examples of strategic threats are the awareness, when following a tit-for-tat strategy in a game, of the consequences of defection, or knowing (on either side of the negotiation table) that some disgruntled groups will always aim for what is known as Palestinian Pareto-optimality: making other parties at least as bad off as oneself. Structural threats are – in a logical rather than political sense – unnecessary risks imposed on a party to induce ‘appropriate’ behaviour, e.g. the threat of cutting off the unemployment benefits of those doing voluntary work, the threat of being fined for crossing the speed limit, etc. Rather than actively solving a problem of cooperation (cutting the knot oneself), the task can also be delegated, for instance, as in type 4 Alexandrism, personalism, to a particular individual who for some mythical reason is expected to choose the substantively right solution, whatever that may be – and perhaps the mere fact that he or she chooses is sufficient to make it the right choice. The classic example here is the Führer. Referring to parliamentary democracy, he argued for ‘the truly Germanic democracy characterised by the free election of a leader and his obligation fully to assume all responsibility for his actions and omissions’ (Hitler 1992: 83). Hitler was no exception, though: even the briefest list of examples should at least include dictatorship based on a personality cult (Stalin, Mao), the enlightened despot (Frederick the Great), tribal chiefs, and theocracies giving a central role to authoritative interpretation (Calvin’s Geneva, Van Leyden’s Münster; shi’ite Iran under Khomeiny; David Koresh’s Waco). Note that the cult of the leader seems to go hand in hand with an almost equally strong belief in the fallibility, or even unworthiness, of ‘ordinary people’. Where personalism solves the irresolvable by putting absolute faith in a person, type 5 of Alexandrism does the same through absolute belief in the intrinsic goodness of a procedure. A limited list of examples: reliance on dreams to contact the ‘dream time’; theocracies based on literal commandments rather than interpretation; tribal chiefs consulting the ancestors (and this may include judges applying common law or adat); and trial by ordeal. The most important example of proceduralism in our context, though, is democracy, both majoritarian and consensual: when relied on for reasons other than strategy (i.e. as a more cost-effective solution than civil war), it is only the procedure itself that seems to be relied upon – for there is no reason why simply being the larger group makes one group’s views right. Type 6 is the pure lottery, where almost perfect indifference as to both outcome and procedure rule, the two flaws that make it only ‘almost’ perfect being the conviction that a decision needs to be made regardless, and that the procedure used is not biased in any way (i.e. that it cannot, except purely accidentally, reflect any preferences), thereby also excluding the first five types of decision-making. Note that the lottery is anomic, whereas procedural methods are considered to be good in themselves. The classic example

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here is the referee tossing a coin to choose the team that kicks off, but it is rare to find equivalent examples in everyday politics. In political philosophy, though, we find Barbara Goodwin drawing the ultimate conclusion from the widely supported premise in social justice theory that anything an individual gains thanks to undeserved (arbitrary) biological or other advantages is itself undeserved (cf. Rawls 1999a): as a thought experiment, she tried to imagine a society where all positions, services and goods, independent of one another, were distributed and regularly redistributed using a pure lottery (Goodwin 1992). A few general remarks need to be made in conclusion. The six types distinguished here are crude in both senses: not only may some find it offensive to see e.g. democracy equated with ancestor worship and trial by ordeal, but there may also be impersonal reasons to make more precise distinctions. The list of categories is not even complete – I have, for example, excluded biopolitics (human bio-engineering, eugenetics, genetic modification, etc.) even though preventing the rise of discord in the first place by creating the population which a government or ruler chooses (rather than the reverse) ought to be considered a form of Alexandrism. Notwithstanding possible amendments, the list suffices for our present purposes. Further questions that have not been addressed are how one chooses, or should choose, between these different decision-making procedures, although obviously elements like power structure and the costs of secession will play a role here; and whether it is possible to make a rational or reasonable choice here at all. I hope to provide answers to these questions in the next five sections, where the different forms of Alexandrism will be briefly assessed in terms of their degree of legitimacy and their contribution to managing political pluralization. The assessment has to be brief because – as the example of the only slightly deeper analysis of political murder will illustrate – the terrain that would have to be covered for such an assessment to be complete is far too vast. Moreover, the ‘relative’ legitimacy of Alexandrian methods depends to a large degree on contingent circumstances, the analysis of which requires the empirical political scientist’s toolbox rather than the philosopher’s.

7.3 Murder as a political tool In our context, murder as a political tool would be aimed at the elimination of an individual, or individuals, who create(s) an obstacle for political concord and cooperation. ‘Louis must die, because the homeland has to live’ (Robespierre 2007: 64). If the aim is to remove the obstacle but not the individual, murder is the wrong instrument to choose – it would then be selfeffacing or self-denying. Apart from this minor proviso, there can be no question about the effectiveness of political murder in itself, yet effectiveness is not the only standard an Alexandrian resolution method has to meet. Murder is a means, not a goal in itself: ultimately, the aim is to ensure cooperation. This brings us to other standards – efficiency in the strict sense

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of the most advantageous cost/balance ratio first, but others follow in the wider context of the question of political pluralization. In addition, then, to effectiveness and cost/benefit efficiency, any form of Alexandrism has to contribute to either increased or decreased political pluralization, depending on what is desirable (cf. Ignatieff 2004: 24). Despite our inability, so far, to uncover reasons why political pluralization would always and everywhere be undesirable, we do have two sets of other criteria. Firstly, the preceding three chapters have given us an insight in ‘criteria for criteria’ – i.e. criteria that the distinct procedures for the justification of cooperation ought to satisfy. One example: if political murder were to be used as an instrument to secure cooperation under a modus vivendi consensus, it would have to be consistent with (1) the substance of the modus vivendi as well as with (2) the initial conditions under which a modus vivendi is possible. On Ackerman’s account, a modus vivendi initially requires (re: 2) that all the parties aiming to cooperate accept that they cannot claim that their particular theory of the good life is better than anyone else’s (Ackerman 1980: 11). Technically speaking, killing the Nazi who not only makes that claim but acts upon it does not violate this requirement – and it makes cooperation among the rest far easier. The substance of the modus vivendi, however, excludes murdering the Nazi: it defines a universally right set of social ideals, not one applicable only to those who adhere to them. Ackerman argues that parties who accept (2) must also accept that no individual should be prevented from pursuing his or her plan of life as long as, and in so far as, it does not violate (2) – not the Nazi, not Mother Theresa, not any person present or future. The Nazi may be prevented from (and should certainly not be helped in) killing Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and anything else with a brain, but not from believing that this would be the right thing to do, nor from performing other acts consistent with his faith that do not violate (2), such as walking around in uniforms, designing and erecting grotesque buildings, celebrating Midsummer or singing by a campfire. Murder would raise a technically rather insurmountable obstacle for all of this. If this means that the Nazi cannot join the deliberations on a modus vivendi, or cannot accept the results, then tant pis: the conclusion will then simply have to be that living together with the Nazi is impossible. An analysis like this would have to be performed for each of the nine types of concord listed above. Each of these analyses would, moreover, have to be far more extensive than the one in this example: rejecting Ackerman’s ‘no better than’ proviso is not the only imaginable reason why deliberation on a modus vivendi could fail, and, by the same token, each of our nine types of concord depends on far more than one condition for failure or success. The second set of criteria for the (let us call it) appropriateness of political murder is slightly easier to handle: it concerns the reasons why we should be concerned about political pluralization. At the very beginning of this book, I mentioned three such reasons: the risk that political pluralization creates polities with overlapping but incompossible rule systems, and the dangers of

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loss of polity and loss of identity. None of these would matter one bit, however, if there were no underlying reason to see each of these three facts as problems. In Section 4.5, I presented one such complex of reasons: political liberalism requires that what we should care about in politics is that human individuals are offered a chance, and the necessary means to emancipate themselves. Combined, we get the following five criteria for the appropriateness of the different forms of Alexandrism, including the one at hand: 1 2 3 4

is this procedure effective? is it efficient: does it have most advantageous cost/balance ratio? does it improve (faith in) the kind of cooperation aimed for? does it lead to better coordination of rules, thereby reducing (the risk of) incompossibility? 5 does it contribute to the building of a polity? 6 does it contribute to the creation of the individual’s identity as member of a polis? 7 does it contribute to human emancipation?

Whether or not the particular form of Alexandrism that is now under consideration is appropriate can be determined in some detail, but not in full. We can, and I shall, make some general observations on political murder as an instrument in creating various types of cooperation, but ‘murder as a political instrument’ is still a very crude and broad category – ultimately each political murder is different. I shall, therefore, discuss only one example in detail. Our times are no different from the Middle Ages of Machiavelli or John of Salisbury (1990): discussing recent cases of political murder, or worse, suggesting future cases where political murder might be appropriate, is costly due to lawsuits and less healthy than smoking. I shall therefore choose a more classic case: the execution of Sir Thomas More (1478–1535) (Ackroyd 1998). More abdicated as Lord Chancellor in 1532 because he could not support King Henry VIII’s schemes, plots and policies to rid himself of a wife who would not produce an heir and of a Church that would not allow him a divorce nor grant him the authority to rule the Church in England as he saw fit. More, a man of the cloth, a loyal subject to his majesty and a personal friend of the King’s, hoped he had found a way out his dilemma by withdrawing from politics. When Henry VIII, in a later phase of his conflict with Rome, demanded that More nonetheless swear allegiance to the Act of Supremacy (which put Henry at the head of the English church), More refused and lost his head. We may assume that More was killed for political reasons; legally, his death could have been prevented and there is no indication that his conflict with Henry VIII was purely personal from either one’s point of view. Nor was More simply a collateral victim of a personal conflict between one particular king and one particular pope. The king’s ‘natural duty’ to produce a

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legitimate male heir of course played a key role – ‘natural’ in that the idea to reject the noble duty to maintain a House, let alone the Christian duty to procreate, would never enter the medieval mind. Producing an heir is, however, not a purely personal motivation. With an indisputable heir about, the king – head of a House that was not yet stably seated on the throne – would not only be able to increase his chances of enjoying a relatively undisturbed old age, free from fear of assassination and conflict with, and among, competing families; an heir would also serve the short- and long-term social, political and fiscal stability of the realm – and its international security. The Church’s conservative position on divorce, however, before and after often interpreting the conditions of marriage far more leniently than in Henry’s case, pushed the primarily local, mostly feudal, dimensions of a problem of fertility into something completely different: a new instance of the centuriesold conflict on the authority over the worldly powers of the church, respectively the religious authority of worldly powers. In more material terms, the vast possessions of the Church physically and financially limited the king’s freedom; its legal autonomy interfered with and obstructed the king’s. More’s death served, or should have served, a political purpose, therefore, one that can be interpreted as a contribution to the creation of a modus vivendi agreement on the constitution of England. Other forms of cooperation, concord and discord clearly offer no appropriate explanations. Henry’s claim to supremacy over the Church in England was certainly not the result of an uncoordinated – let alone spontaneous – process. Rather than rallying parties behind an absolute ethical principle, the conflict was at best one about the interpretation of such a principle (to give the emperor his due, and God God’s). If anything, the Church’s monopoly on absolute moral truth remained unchallenged. Since the supremacy question divided the country (including the two parties that truly mattered: the nobility and the cities, both of whom might fear the king’s tighter grip on domestic affairs), popularity was at best a secondary consideration. There is no indication that a non-dominated deliberation on the underlying rationality of the parties’ claims to insight in the true and the good was sought for, and an overlapping consensus was impossible, given the deep divisions on political principles between church and king. The nature of the conflict made the idea of formulating a policy telos irrelevant – agreeing to disagree and get on with business as usual was simply not an option. Finally, since force and deliberation tend to exclude one another in any case, imposing the Act of Supremacy cannot have been intended to induce deliberative agreement on already conflicting foundational principles. Henry’s intention was not to impose a ‘secular’ or feudal morality on the English clergy, let alone to impose the papal view of the good society on secular England; the Act of Supremacy seems rather to have been an attempt to respect both (consistent with Ackerman’s ‘no better than’ proviso), yet reach an agreement on the more practical matter of how both moralities could be practiced. Undoubtedly, Thomas Hobbes had the Act of

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Supremacy (among others) in mind when he gave the sovereign the right to control every ‘worldly’ (social, visible) action of his subject, while leaving the subject’s mind (belief) beyond his grasp. More became an obstacle to the king’s formulation of the modus vivendi when it turned out that he (and others like him) could not be persuaded to accept a tactical compromise; since the original obstacle (More’s dissenting opinion) could not be removed, the new obstacle (More himself) was. Measured by the criteria given above for the appropriate form of Alexandrism, his death was certainly and obviously effective. It was probably also efficient, at least in the short term – not only had less radical solutions turned out to be impossible, the side effects included a clearer identification of the king’s enemies, persuading opponents whose preferences were less strong, and division and conflict laming the power of the Church. In the long run, Henry probably got more than he bargained for – in the next centuries, the conflict between Rome and England brought not only civil and religious wars and a broader English identity (including not only shared land, goods, law and blood, but also faith), but also the horror of an increasing political importance of commoners. Back to More’s execution: at that particular time, it actually contributed to cooperation: in helping bring the church under the rule of worldly law it offers one of the clearest examples of reducing the risk of incompossibility ever, and also of building a consistent polity and (by making the church English) creating a shared identity. The one criterion on which it scores worse is emancipation. Both More’s death and the Act of Supremacy had emancipative effects, but these were not intentional. More became a moral hero, even for those who feel (as I do) that he stood for several wrong causes at the wrong time, and perhaps chose the wrong means: an example of a man of virtue and strength fighting and ultimately dying to oppose the subjection of the good of the individual to the dark interests of the state. (Surely this is a modern interpretation – as a Platonist, More himself cannot have believed this.) The Act of Supremacy was one of a series of political actions that would, in due course, widen the community of those reflecting on religion, state, and their place in (and responsibility for) either. All in all, executing More was prudent and served its purpose from a politically realist perspective – that of a Bismarck, probably a Henry VIII, and a Machiavellian (though not Machiavelli himself). From Machiavelli’s perspective, in whose mind the state does not exist for its own sake but for the common good of peace and tranquillity, it was still the lesser evil and overall the best thing to do. From our liberal emancipative perspective, the question remains open to debate – to introduce a foreign element, the appropriateness of More’s death is ‘not proven’. This discussion of just one example makes two things clear. Firstly, since none of the criteria for appropriateness (by definition) excludes that any form of Alexandrian knot-cutting may (under circumstances) be an appropriate solution to discord and contribute to cooperation: no general rules can

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be given, each case has to be assessed on its own merits. Secondly, it has shown that not everything goes. Some political murders may be understandable, prudent, excusable, the lesser evil in a world where doing the perfectly right thing equals fiat justitia, pereat mundus – but there are criteria and reasons to disapprove of some murders, and ethical considerations are a necessary part of those reasons. There are precious few instances where political murder can serve the emancipation of the human individual.

7.4 Torture, threats and the reign of terror The following is a summary of an interview given by a Tutsi woman who survived the troubles in Rwanda, one story from among tens of millions of similar ones from the 20th Century. Hutu soldiers entered her village and started executing the men; the woman’s husband was shot before her eyes and those of her three-year-old son. Since the soldiers announced they would come back for the women later, she left her boy with her neighbours and fled into the fields. To no avail: she was raped so savagely that, when it was all over, she could not close her legs anymore. Other women had to drag her to what was left of the hospital. When she returned home weeks later, it was to discover that her Hutu neighbours, with whom she had grown up and been friends all her life, had – immediately after she had fled – taken her son, chopped off his limbs, cut the rest in parts and fed it all to the dogs. Torture as a political instrument can be more cruel than murder. It needs to be if it is to do its primary job: to change the tortured individual’s preferences, or change the weight attached to them. The massacre itself removed people with whom one part of the Rwandan population no longer wished to share a world, and incidentally forced non-participating Hutus to choose sides. Torturing civilians and deliberately letting them live, however, does more than merely remove obstacles. Even if having been raped had not made an outcast of the woman whose story you just read (as so often happens to rape victims), any desire she might have had to participate and cooperate in a society with Hutus, or with any individual Hutu, was extinguished. She, and other surviving victims, served a secondary purpose: by telling the story, her torture becomes ours, and the message is spread – you could be next. Horrid as the Rwandan woman’s story may be, it is not a perfect illustration of the potential of torture – precisely because it is so horrid. Notwithstanding their success in spreading terror and demoralizing opponents (probably as part of a reasoned overall strategy) the individual acts of the Rwandan Hutu rebels – like those of rebels in Sierra Leone and virtually every conflict with an ethnic or racial dimension – seem to be, first and foremost, a sick form of masturbation, rather than deliberate, reasoned, planned actions. Torture in itself, i.e. without taking side effects on other individuals into consideration, is costly and risky. It takes time and effort to find or educate a reliable torturer, to organize and execute, to supervise, and to control any

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later consequences or repercussions. It can only be effective if either the subject’s cooperation after the event is irrelevant or if s/he can be kept under control. If the aim is to overcome the obstacle of one individual’s conviction or preferences undermining a cooperative venture, murder is usually cheaper and easier to organize. Paradoxically, torture in itself seems to be cost-effective only when the value put on the life, and maybe support, of the tortured subject is relatively high, in which case there may be a breakeven point where too much torture becomes counter-productive. Think of Torquemada’s unfailing commitment to the cause of saving Jewish souls – there comes a point where saving the soul through fire becomes a viable alternative to saving both body and soul. The efficiency and effectiveness of torture, taken on its own, seem to be questionable. It also fails as a political instrument:9 the only kind of deliberative agreement it may promote is one on a modus vivendi, but the viability of such an agreement seems to be limited, and the quality of the deliberative process is dubious to say the least. It has little or nothing to do with building a polity or creating an identity, let alone emancipating individuals. More often than not, torture is combined with threats – thereby increasing its political usefulness – and, by the same, token threats without the possibility of consequences are empty and useless (cf. Walzer 2004: 51, Ignatieff 2004: 140ff.). Remember that we described threats as adding disincentives at very low cost, thereby raising the price of dissent or secession. Criminal law fits this description just as well as the Rwandan genocide. The relevant difference between the two in this context is not to do with ethics; remember that, no matter how much the one party may think its actions are ethically justified, from the point of view of the other cooperation or subjection is involuntary. The relevant difference here is that the Hutu rebels tried to exclude all possibility of future cooperation with Tutsis, whereas the aim of criminal law is to promote cooperation, on the one hand between society and criminals after they have served their penalty,10 and on the other hand within society by demonstrating the consequences of violating the rules of cooperation. To compare the fate of a Rwandan Tutsi with that of a common rapist or murderer, and to put both under the heading of torture and threat is offensive to anyone with a heart, but it is also unavoidable. Firstly, comparing is not the same as equating: there are degrees of difference in humanity, humiliation and harm between Rwandan terror and doing time in prison. Secondly, criminal law is not innocent. It has been used to put rapists and murders behind bars (or kill or maim them), but also people who refuse to kill (think of the draft), people who had sex in any other position than missionary with anyone other than their legally approved partner, people who are atheists or religious, people who sit on the wrong side of the bus, people who disagree with others and people who open their eggs at the wrong end. The law in general is not innocent, nor is politics as a whole: any rule discouraging deviations can be and has been used and abused. Thirdly, criminal

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law and Hutu terror are equal, in that in both cases one party uses physical and psychological coercion to force other parties (the tortured and the threatened) to do as the coercer desires. Finally, if we ever want to be able to reject the one and consent to the other, we have to determine where the line should be drawn, and why it should be drawn there. In the context of our discussion of political pluralization, threats and torture can quite often be appropriate. Anyone who is out to promote a form of ethical absolutism may find a degree of threats and torture appropriate – the prospect of liberation through faith rather than keys has converted many a prisoner. Where cooperation is based on the simple popularity of values, threats and torture may not be likely to convert the victims, but it is not unheard of that the (further) general public, appreciating decisive action, subsequently embraces values it did not (consciously) share before. Not only are these same methods obviously well-suited to generating cooperation under a modus vivendi agreement and cooperation on a policy telos, under some circumstances they may also contribute to a deliberative agreement on an overlapping consensus or foundational principles, provided conditions are created under which reasonable deliberation is possible. Thus, for instance, the idea that prisoners should not just be jailed but be allowed to read, develop and even get an education can be interpreted as a way of forcing criminals, thanks to, rather than despite, the walls and the strict regimen of a prison,11 to reflect on their values and virtues, and to generate ones that are better supported. The discovery that a Rawlsian approach – among others – to justifying social cooperation is compatible with forms of Alexandrism including ‘a degree of ’ threats and (psychological) torture should not come as a surprise, firstly because Rawls himself admitted a need to extend the theory of justice to cover criminal and not only social justice (1999a: 15), secondly because, even in the field of social justice, Rawls’ approach is not one of extreme tolerance or of anything goes – there are limits to civil disobedience, for instance, and governments are allowed to take action when the line is crossed (Rawls 1999a: 319ff.). Obviously, Rawls will want his two principles to apply to the treatment of ‘non-cooperatives’ (criminal or political) in so far as that is possible – but unfortunately it was, nor is, a ‘hot issue’ in political theory – not for Rawls and not for others. Until the 1990s, the issue of social justice dominated the agenda of political theory, and multicultural justice has done so until this day. Where abstract political philosophy needed to be turned into ‘concrete’, communicable political theory, it was these issues that were picked as illustrations – at the expense of the question of non-cooperation. At least on this point, then, Chandran Kukathas’ rejection of the paternalistic original position in favour of the missionary position (Kukathas 2003: 136n) touches a sensitive nerve. The rub is in the emancipation aspect of threats and torture – a problem not just from the perspective of Rawlsians and most, if not all, deliberationists, but also for the justification of involuntary cooperation as a means of tackling political pluralization. Their use may not necessarily be inspired by a totally

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instrumental view of the subject; in fact, prison, compulsory therapy and the like12 have often been defended as means to the end of rehabilitation or personal improvement – yet the smell of paternalism cannot be washed away. Any defence of paternalism (the root ‘pater’, father, is not accidental) must presume that the ‘fathered’ subject – like a child – cannot, on her own, assess what is good for her, and must – for her own good – be ‘helped’. Developing a ‘maternalist’ alternative to paternalism – whatever that may consist of – may make paternalism more humane, but it will not take away the ultimate claim to the authority of the ‘parent’. To avoid circularity in the defence of this authority (an appeal to values that the ‘child’ will understand only later, after indoctrination), the only defensible result of forcible re-education would have to be the creation of a truly emancipated subject, a subject able to assess the (grounds for) the values that originally inspired her re-education – i.e. not only to assent to them, but also to reject them and, if wronged, receive retribution. Theoretically, this is possible – just like first learning how to shoot a gun, then rejecting the use of guns and suing your parents for causing emotional harm.

7.5 The enlightened despot Previously, I described personalism as delegating decision-making to one particular individual, whom one trusts to make the right decision. Perhaps this makes the distinction with proceduralism too artificial – delegation to a ‘committee of wise men’ (women increasingly included) has the same grounds: trust – not primarily in the decision-making procedure, but in the qualities of the decider(s) – and reliability – not in that the decider(s) keep prior promises but in the substantive rightness, goodness or correctness of the final decision. Ideally, the personalist decision-maker is an enlightened despot: one who, purely on his own authority, makes a binding and final – and therefore despotic – decision, based on the best possible consideration of the best available data in the best interest of humanity – therefore an enlightened decision. The model of the decision-maker that comes closest to this in modern political theory is the noumenal self choosing principles of justice in Rawls’ original position.13 Without losing further time on a discussion of examples and illustrations – no matter how educational comparisons between Mandela and Castro, Hitler and Peron, not to mention Plutarch and Suetonius, might be – the key issue is not whether there are, but whether there can be, enlightened despots who are capable of promoting cooperation without increasing the disadvantages of political pluralization. The concept of an enlightened despot seems to be based on one of the most common and classic logical fallacies of all: the appeal to false authority. Yet not every appeal to authority is necessarily false: if your physician tells you that you will die of cancer within two months, you will (despite all wishful thinking) trust that judgement more than the results of an opinion poll among a representative proportion of the

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general population. A despot’s decision may actually be based on real expertise, and expertise is a very reasonable excuse in everyday life for delegating tasks to a trustee.14 In our times of mass democracy, participation and accountability (the waning years, if political pluralization remains unchecked), the appeal to expertise in politics is not popular, and that for good reasons: the ‘wise men’ to whom sometimes decision-making on extremely complicated issues involving scientific data from various disciplines are delegated, are, in the end, only human – their estimate of the weight of risks and chances tends to be as subjective (i.e. as much defined by the individual’s theory of a good life) as anyone else’s, a fact they easily ignore (see Chapter 2). The role of ethical considerations in risk assessment is just one illustration of the epistemological error that fosters delegation to experts (i.e. the appeal to false authority): what Ulrich Beck would call the technocratic lie (Beck and Grande 2004: 43), the idea that moral controversy is irrelevant, that procedures, rules and regulations – no matter how complicated and unintelligible they may turn out to be – are effective and efficient in depoliticizing (defusing) all controversy. It is this same attitude that is reflected (pace Beck and Grande) in the rejected proposal for a constitution for the EU, an article establishing the tyranny of the majority (in this case, among bureaucrats) in the name of efficiency and efficacy: Under the principle of subsidiarity, in areas which do not fall within its exclusive competence, the Union shall act only if and insofar as the objectives of the proposed action cannot be sufficiently achieved by the Member States, either at central level or at regional and local level, but can rather, by reason of the scale or effects of the proposed action, be better achieved at Union level. (EU 2004: article I-11.3)15 What is as problematic as depoliticization in itself is that an expert opinion cannot in practice become an authoritative decision if (1) it remains expert, i.e. if it cannot be explained afterwards to at least moderately intelligent unsuspicious citizens, or if (2) prior expert decisions do not inspire faith (in any of the meanings of that word) in the expert’s expertise. Personalism may (or may not) be a good approach to deciding, yet – when it comes to implementing cooperation – will again have to be based on one of the forms of concord described earlier, i.e. on a guarantee, or at least expectation, of a substantively good outcome. This is an important proviso, making enlightened dictatorship least suited to create exactly the types of concord for which it has been used most: spontaneous cooperation, cooperation based on popularity of ideas and cooperation based on absolute principles. Paradoxically, enlightened despotism seems to be more compatible with cooperation based on deliberation, provided there is an element of accountability, which takes the greater part of the sting out of the term ‘despotic’. Thus, to be an efficient and effective despot, to impose clear and consistent

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rules, to create a cohesive polis and to promote identity-building, the despot needs to be not just enlightened but also enlightening – which ties in nicely with Bernard Crick’s (2000) observation that processes of accountability and consensus-building are part of any healthy political system rather than unique traits of representative mass-democracy.

7.6 Proceduralism Where personalism relies on the qualities of an expert to reach a substantively right decision, proceduralism relies on the normative appropriateness of the properties of a choice system to reach a decision – whatever decision. But what makes a procedure the right procedure, if not that it leads to the choice for the right thing to do? What makes, for instance, the course of action preferred by a majority of 50 per cent plus one vote the right thing to do? Since there is no reason to assume that majorities by definition have exclusive access to an ultimate truth (barring divine intervention), the redeeming quality of majoritarianism (or any other such decision-making procedure) must indeed lie in (1) the fact that a decision is made, and/or that (2) it is made in a particular way. Both these explanations are begging the question, though. To rely on a procedure simply because it results in a decision (1) presumes either (1a) that decisiveness itself is an unconditional absolute good, which apart from being absurd is not helpful in building a polity or a civic identity, let alone that it could contribute anything to emancipation; or it presumes (1b) that decisiveness is good because it makes cooperation possible, where cooperation would in turn either have to be (1b1) intrinsically16 good or (1b2) conducive to some still higher good. Cooperation would be (1b1) if it were good as such (which really gives us no reason to accept any decision we dislike even the slightest bit, making the procedure ineffective) or if it were good for humans ‘as such’, which would imply that no (number of) private interest(s) endangered by any particular decision or policy could ever outweigh the good of cooperation – not even the survival of humanity. Incidentally, it would also imply that political discord is by definition irrational, hence that politics – and in fact any decisionmaking procedure – is a waste of time. If (1b2) cooperation served an even higher good, and if we may assume there is no regression ad infinitum of ever higher reasons, the objections raised against cooperation as an intrinsic good would now have to be raised against that higher good. If, however, the argument for a particular procedure were (2), then this would have to be either because (2a) it is the best way to decide on issues we do not care enough about to decide on merits, or (2b) because it is the best way to realize a particular purpose. Argument (2a) is an argument in favour of a perfect lottery (see the next section); it would be self-contradictory if used in support of any other procedure, i.e. any procedure that might in any way be biased in favour of any particular type of outcome – such as majoritarianism

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(where the status quo is favoured in cases of indecision), ancestor worship or common law (ancestors and legal precedence favour tradition). Argument (2b) is, in a way, context-sensitive: the purpose served would have to be characteristic of a particular society, time and place, and better served by procedure X than by other methods of decision-making available there and then. If it were not context-sensitive, (2b) would be reduced to arguments of type (1b), and if it were to be applied without reference to a purpose, all methods of decision-making, and all forms of Alexandrism, would be equally good, therefore proceduralism cannot be better – since we do not really care which decision is made. The context-sensitive purpose may be cooperation (etc., see (1b) above), but it may also be total welfare (the ‘cheaper-than-civil-war’ argument), or (as in majoritarianism and ancestor worship) all relevant parties having an equal effect on the outcome, so as to best reflect their equal importance. Regardless of the purpose, what matters is that on (2b), arguments on merit are at best voiced but not heard or weighted: they do not count – which is consistent, of course, with the assumption that we do not care about the content of the decision, but which also reduces any particular procedure to mere ritual display. Applying a procedure in a situation of discord will only work if the desired result is (because it can only result in) spontaneous and accidental cooperation: it offers no room for deliberation, or for any reason to care about the results of the decision-making process. When the result does not really matter, proceduralism can be effective and efficient, and it can improve cooperation (anything is better than deadlock). There is no guarantee that it will reduce the risks of incompossibility, since there is no requirement that each new decision be consistent with previous ones; but due to its ritual properties, proceduralism is likely to contribute to the building of polity and identity: since arguments do not matter, enlightenment and emancipation play no role. There is, then, good reason for advocates of democracy to defend it because of the way it allows for, and promotes, deliberation, not because of the merits of the decision-making procedure itself. Yet the deliberative function of democracy, no matter how well structures and conditions may help realexisting democratic forums approach a philosophical ideal of deliberation, sits as uneasily with majoritarianism as it sits with any other procedure unless a full and complete consensus is reached. In the end, it is the number of votes (rather than the weight or message of the voices) that carries the decision. It is only by virtue of the contingent fact that other things (cooperation and coordination, threats, fines and bribes) matter more than majority decisions individuals judge to be unwise or undesirable that democratic societies do not succumb to secession or widespread disobedience.17

7.7 Lottery We can be very brief indeed about lotteries: they can be effective and efficient only where we are completely indifferent between alternatives, and only care

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that the decision procedure used perfectly reflects that indifference (decisionmaking under complete uncertainty is a special case of the lottery). Given these side-constraints, a lottery can only contribute to cooperation on a purely spontaneous and accidental basis, and it obviously increases the risk of incompossibility, but (like other procedures) may contribute to polis- and identity-building. It neither impedes nor promotes emancipation of any kind. Barbara Goodwin’s thought experiment (1992) of a society where any individual gains made thanks to undeserved biological or other natural advantages – including ambition – are deemed undeserved, and are therefore made the object of a social lottery, illustrates why lotteries are so rare in politics: when you can wake up one day being an orderly in a mental hospital, the next a patient, the next a man on death row, the next a millionaire – life has little meaning. No plans of life can be executed, no theories of the good can be tested and lived – not even that of a stoic, officially impervious to all heteronomy, but under such circumstances prohibited from even developing a stoic identity or determining how impervious s/he is: we can only judge how we live in relation to what we can do. We care about our lives, and we care that what we get out of it is due to our own decisions and reasons. We care enough to not not care.

7.8 Conclusion In this chapter and the three preceding, I have distinguished and discussed some ten categories, and numerous varieties of reasons, for social cooperation, categories ranging from pure spontaneity through conviction, fad and deliberation to nolens volens cooperation, Alexandrism. A discussion of the substance of these reasons has deliberately been avoided, so that we could focus on their structure. Assuming that the reasons given by political theorists (or in the real world by politicians) are good reasons, based on valid and sound arguments, the first nine categories can help us to understand why and when cooperation is possible, and why it takes (or should take) the form it does – and also why cooperation in one form or other is sometimes impossible, in which case varieties of Alexandrism can (but do not necessarily) succeed in maintaining or creating a cooperative structure despite opposition. Alternatively framed, we have seen why we may expect cooperation to be rare and limited, even when raw power is brought in as back up where argument or preference are insufficient. We set out looking for answers to the problems of political pluralization and for legitimate grounds for (in)voluntary cooperation. We found a mixed bag of goods making cooperation the exception rather than the rule, and congruence of social cooperation and matching political structures even more unlikely. We end with the conclusion that there is not even a universal, prima facie justification for a rejection of political pluralization. There is, to the contrary, reason to suspect that the more social benefits and burdens a political structure encompasses, and the larger the constituency it covers, the

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weaker and more temporary it will be, and the more it will have to depend on Alexandrian methods for its continued existence. The tendency towards chaos that, according to thermodynamics rules, the universe seems to rule politics as well, making entities like the Roman Empire and the sovereign nation-state rare exceptions, and a total world state either the unlikeliest of desirable worlds or an outright nightmare. All of this raises the question of what (if any) good we can expect from a politically pluralized society. Political pluralization – complete secession of a group, partial secession of a cooperative scheme, or simply the non-occurrence of cooperation – seems to reduce the amount and risk of tyranny in the world. But does it really? Does it not instead, by making us fragment and finally lose control over our fates, make the tyrants less visible, less approachable, less accountable and less reproachable, than a world of sovereign nation-states where only some are coerced all of the time and all some of the time – yet where, overall, most cooperate voluntarily? It is trite to argue that ‘everything is connected to everything else’ – but it is also true: one’s education influences one’s economic chances; economic opportunities influence the extent and meaning of non-materialistic liberties; liberty relates to well-being and health; environmental and ecological conditions influence all and are influenced by all. To allow, as a matter of principle, that each and every aspect of life, and each sphere of social interaction, may be organized through separate schemes of cooperation is to allow not only fragmentation and incompossibility of rules, loss of polity and loss of identity, but also, at a deeper level, to create conditions under which emancipation through liberty of life, i.e. the development and execution of individual plans of life, becomes harder and ultimately impossible. We can interpret the Münster Kingdom of God, the grand Empires and the sovereign nation-state as coordination formats aimed at controlling (subjecting, not be subjected to) the aspects of life that in the particular historic circumstances are considered relevant to the realization of this liberty of life. Some modern forms of political pluralization may actually be designed to strengthen the nation-state, as argued above, yet they undeniably change the political landscape: it is no longer purely one of nation-states (if ever it was). Not only are formats like the nation-state historically contingent, their justification is also contingent – from the liberal point of view defended here, secession and political pluralization are preferable to coerced cooperation, unless fragmentation inhibits the emancipation of individual humans and humankind (cf. also Ignatieff 2004: 92). In other words, both in terms of the fact of political pluralization and in terms of its moral status, the sovereign nation-state cannot remain the ‘natural’ assumption and point of departure for western political philosophy and science. We need a new conception of the ‘basic’ political molecule if we are to make sense of political coordination in our time, a conception that focuses on the eternal substance rather than the contingent form of political cooperation.

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8.1 The peppermill Political pluralization is defined by a collaboration of economic globalization, counter-globalization by nation-states, related and unrelated forms of regional, trans- and international cooperation, delegation and derogation of powers, dehierarchization and governance. Political pluralization is expected to lead to incompossibility, loss of polity and loss of identity. These three phenomena become problems rather than merely facts when they inhibit the realization of schemes of good or just social cooperation for mutual advantage, where good or just are understood here in terms of liberal-democratic values. In the preceding chapters, we have discussed two main responses to political pluralization: coping with it (which we rejected as insufficient) and solving it through different forms of coordination and cooperation. The premises on which the ten types of cooperation are based were analysed from one perspective on the good life only, an Enlightenment, or broadly liberal, commitment to human emancipation. Generating a categorization of the foundations of cooperative schemes that may be useful in explaining patterns of cooperation and non-cooperation, this analysis also prepared us for two conclusions: that political pluralization is a normal rather than exceptional phenomenon, and that it is not the existence of multiple, interfacing, overlapping, even counteracting cooperative schemes that is prima facie morally suspicious, but rather any form of coerced cooperation, including the sovereign nation-state, and including any attempt to control or abate its fragmentation. This is not to say that the state and other forms of forced cooperation are necessarily immoral – rather that the onus of proof now rests on the advocates of unity. From a liberal perspective, confusion about contradictory rule systems, no matter how awkward, does not by itself offer a prima facie reason to promote cooperation and reject political pluralization. Loss of polity and loss of identity have to be re-interpreted: rather than obstacles to human emancipation, they may well express the liberation and emancipation of humans from structures – e.g. the state – that have become oppressive. Yet just as forced cooperation is not necessarily immoral, the fragmentation of the sovereign nation-state is not necessarily a good thing. Whereas involuntary

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cooperation and coordination may be (or may be seen as) infringements on individual freedom and threats to autonomy and emancipation, their absence may have a similar effect: the creation of powerless individuals, subjected to rather than masters of political and economic structures. Economic globalization and its effects on the state’s freedom of economic governance is a classic example, to which the classic answers are to reinforce the state – voluntarily or not, unilaterally or not – by creating more rules to repair the state or by creating new political structures next to or above the state. Even when justified and justifiable (as we saw in Chapter 7, this is a very complicated question), the classic response may be counterproductive. The problem with this, what I would call institutional, response is similar to what Herman van Gunsteren, speaking off the record at a conference on planning strategies, once described as the idiot with the peppermill: the idiot, noting that a little pepper made his food taste better, decides that adding ever more pepper will make his food ever tastier. In fact, the idiot in this example may well be more rational than the politicians or bureaucrats trying to ‘save’ the state – in the latter case, institutional solutions are also used where there is no a priori reason to suspect they will work (cf. also Van Gunsteren 1987: 19). The institutional answer to e.g. logrolling, suspicious contributions to election campaigns and other deficiencies of representative democracy is to create more rules, which in turn evokes new ways to evade them, which leads to new rules, etc. The more rules, the more loopholes, exceptions and dodging – and this is just one of countless similarities between institutional answers to loss of (or the quest for) political control in general, and the disastrous overestimation of the potential of planning specifically (for more on this, see Van Gunsteren 1987). Politics cannot, and should not, be reduced to the wielding of one instrument for all purposes, be it a hammer or the law; there is more to it. Chapters 10 and 11 will address this in more detail. Rather than focusing on form, they discuss substance: without for a moment wishing to deny that institutional measures can contribute to political control and even – more importantly – to individuals’ control over their lives, fates and autonomy, I want to draw attention to the representation of individuals’ interests in a world where individuals (as citizens, workers, etc.) are necessarily unevenly and unequally in control of political structures. Yet first we have to establish exactly what kind of world this would be. The liberal perspective defended so far turned out to be far from incompatible with – and is even theoretically supportive of – a fragmented political world. That leaves political philosophy and political science with little more than the individual as the ‘atom’ of politics; ‘molecules’ like the state or the olden time polis cannot be qualified as ‘natural’ or necessary, nor serve as natural points of reference in both disciplines. There is, however, a totally different perspective on political pluralization – one already hinted at in previous chapters. From a (broadly) communitarian perspective on the good life, political pluralization would be unequivocally

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rejected; the ‘community’ is seen as a necessary condition for the existence and evolution of the individual; and humans can only evolve into genuine individuals if their theories of the good harmonize with the community’s good. Although community and nation-state are different things, this is as close as political philosophy comes to offering a ‘political molecule’ as an alternative to liberal-Enlightenment atomism. To argue that communitarianism offers a viable and preferable alternative to liberal emancipation because it better appreciates the problems caused by political pluralization is circular reasoning: it is the theory of the good that defines problems in the first place, i.e. qualifies facts as valued in a specific way.1 Yet communitarianism is worth looking at: our born-again politically pluralized liberal perspective, with its focus on the contingent moral justification of cooperation, gives us no reason to expect what has allegedly happened in the real world: the thousand-plus years persistence of e.g. the Roman and Chinese Empires and the Church of Rome, or the centuries that the model of the nation-state has survived. May there not be, after all, more that is eternal – and perhaps necessarily so – than the individual? Something that makes the foundations and thereby the whole of the liberal perspective flawed, politically irrelevant? It is this question that I hope to answer in the present chapter, first by questioning the real existence of, and the ontological basis for, the nation-state, then by developing a model for social cooperation that is sensitive to three ‘facts of life’: the communitarian claim that individuals cannot exist without a social setting; the liberal claim that no cooperative scheme can be justified unless it serves human emancipation, and the reality of a post-nation-state world made up of global and local communities and anything in between – a metropolis.

8.2 The myth of the state There is a popular myth (see Section 2.2) that has the modern sovereign nation-state invented in the 1645–48 period and up and running by 24 October 1648 – the day the Peace of Westphalia was signed. It was, so the myth goes (e.g. Bueno de Mesquita 2000: 349), the first major treaty to be negotiated and ratified by states alone, formally and mutually recognizing one another’s existence for the first time. This landmark in political history signalled the end of fuzzy medieval political structures, and the self-creation of the state as a sovereign entity independent from other powers, and as the sole legitimate actor in ‘international’ politics. From 1648 onwards, nothing existed where states did not exist, and where none previously existed but actors were needed, states were created (cf. Caporaso 1996, 1997). The political actors of the preceding period were (at least in legal terms) subjugated: the universities, the Church (or rather, by that time, churches) and city councils were placed under the authority of the state; guilds, merchant organizations and the Hansa were replaced by state-based and statefunded companies and organizations. For all practical purposes, non-western

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nations and societies were either identified as states and encapsulated in the international legal, political and economic system, or denied that status (temporarily or perpetually) and subjugated as colonies, protectorates, etc. Old dominions, on gaining independence in the course of the 20th Century, were given the structure of states. The state claimed for itself a monopoly of the use of violence and (violence being the last resort in their implementation) a monopoly on the attribution and recognition of rights. Remnants of old laws, customs and authority in all spheres of society were absorbed by state institutions, adapted (marital laws) or tolerated for the time being (many of the rights of churches). The state was (legally and theoretically) sovereign. Despite the fact that the decolonization process saw more states created than ever before, in the second part of the 20th Century the state system began to show cracks (Offe 1996, Pogge 1990, Strange 1995, Beck 1997). The establishment of the UNO gave a new impetus to the development of an international system of law, on the one hand binding nation-states’ sovereignty in practice (legally, a sovereign state can always opt out), on the other hand increasingly and substantively recognizing actors other than the state, in particular native peoples. The evolution of Europe (ECSC, EEC, EC and EU) implied that legislative and executive powers leaked away from individual states to Brussels. Again, states can legally opt out of each or all European obligations – but the more legal, economic and social systems become intertwined and interdependent, the more suicidal the exit-option becomes. Many more such ‘leaks of sovereignty’ – or rather, since the doctrine of legal sovereignty is rarely disputed, leaks of power – have been recorded. The result is by now familiar – a politically plural world, where constellations other than the nation-state fill the cracks between the state’s theoretical sovereignty and its actual power. Regardless of whether this description of the myth of the (sovereign nation-) state is correct or not, political scientists have at least three reasons to be interested in political pluralization. To begin with, political science is (by its nature) interested in describing and interpreting political structures and political change – fragmentation of sovereignty being one of the most profound changes possible. Moreover, current political science is almost predicated on the phenomenon of the nation-state. Sub-disciplines in political science have been divided along the lines of ‘national’ and ‘international’ politics. The authoritative and binding allocation of values (Easton), the question of who gets what, when, how (Laswell) and perhaps also why – these and other conceptions of politics have always implicitly taken the state as the point of reference for the idea of politics. ‘Politics’ in other contexts, recently described as solving problems for which no prior rules exist (Lieshout 1995), was considered to be of secondary interest – and often of more interest to other disciplines: anthropology, sociology, economics, history. If the state’s powers are fragmenting, the political structure and agents will change; political scientists would therefore need to develop new basic premises and concepts.

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A third, deeper reason why fragmentation of the nation-state’s power (or the ascent of political plurality) is of special interest for political science is that, in the sub-discipline of normative political theory, the nation-state is seen as the guardian of the ‘first virtue’ of liberal-democratic societies, social justice; social justice is in turn understood as a necessary condition for the preservation of social cooperation (Rawls 1999a, 1993a, 1999b, Ackerman 1980, Barry 1995 and countless others; cf. Shapiro 1996, Canovan 1997). Once seen as its antithesis, the nation-state has come to be seen as a necessary condition for the existence of liberal democracy. (Note that this does not in any way negate the equally crucial role of citizenship, freedom of opinion, etc.). Other actors and institutions on both the international and the national political scene are understood as supplementary, potentially inhibitory or beneficial, conditions: civil society, the citizen, the economic sphere, etc. Once the existence of a sovereign, unified and unifying state is perceived as contingent, the question naturally arises of who can warrant social justice if the state no longer can – and, as a direct implication, whether cooperation and social justice necessarily require a classic state. Unlike the two other reasons mentioned, this one has so far given rise to little or no research (see Section 2.1). These three reasons are, in themselves, sufficient to justify the question of which concept (if any) can replace that of the sovereign nation-state in political science and political philosophy. But there is more: there is good reason to believe that the sovereign nation-state is a myth – to be more exact, a scientific model (modelling being in itself a perfectly valid technique of reducing a confusing reality to its simplified essence) reified, i.e. an experimental concept elevated to the status of a real-existing entity. Let me illustrate this with a historical note. The origins in the Treaty of Westphalia of the sovereign nation-state are a myth (cf. Beaulac 2004, Prokhovnik 2007: 60ff.). Of course, virtually every political scientist or historian will agree that the modern state is the result of a long process of evolution in which landmark events are best recognized in hindsight only (see e.g. Skinner 1978 for a more balanced history of the early state) – but this one crucial landmark turns out to be no landmark at all, on closer inspection. Firstly, it was not a treaty but a set of treaties. Secondly, it was not a treaty between states as we know them, but between feudal parties. The most famous of the Westphalian treaties is concluded, for instance, between two feudal overlords: … the most Serene and Puissant Prince and Lord, Ferdinand the Third, elected Roman Emperor, always August, King of Germany, Hungary, Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Arch-Duke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy, Brabant, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola, Marquiss of Moravia, Duke of Luxemburg, of the Higher and Lower Silesia, of Wirtemburg and Teck, Prince of Suabia, Count of Hapsburg, Tirol, Kyburg and Goritia, Marquiss of the Sacred Roman Empire, Burgovia, the Higher

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and Lower Lusace, Lord of the Marquisate of Slavonia, of Port Naon and Salines, with his Allies and Adherents on the one side; and the most Serene and most Puissant Prince and Lord, Lewis the Fourteenth, most Christian King of France and Navarre, with his Allies and Adherents on the other side. (Avalon Project 1996, Preamble) The treaty between ‘his Sacred Imperial Majesty’ (of the Roman Empire) and ‘his most Christian Majesty’ (of France) defines borders – roughly those we know today between France and Germany – but it does so accidentally, by mutual recognition and swapping of pre-existing feudal titles. It does not do away with the medieval problem of feudal lords other than king and emperor with titles in both realms, thus owing allegiance to two overlords – while the problem itself is not mentioned, the assumption is that double allegiances should be allowed to continue to exist: article after article, individual nobles are called upon to swear allegiance to their king or emperor in their capacities as feudal lords with titles to particular bits of land. Both sovereigns keep rights to titles or lands within the other’s dominion. There is of course no mention of an identity of state and nation (nationalism being a Napoleonic invention), but there is also nothing to indicate a modern conception of legal sovereignty. The treaty, for instance, acknowledges the independence and rights of the individual German princes and states, as well as the rights of French princes, dukes, counts and so on – not as royal or imperial grants, but as feudal agreements with the sovereigns; at the same time, there is no mention anywhere of a principle of non-intervention in the other sovereign’s ‘domestic’ affairs. It mentions the titles of churches, and assumes the emperor and king will act as protectors of these rights, yet the question of the constitutional status of churches (particularly that of Rome) is completely ignored2 – not to mention that no claim is made anywhere to sovereignty over the University or any border-crossing trade organization.3 And, pace Bueno de Mesquita (2000: 350), it is not ‘the state’ but the feudal ruler who, in Articles LXV and LXVII, decides on treaties and the choice of religion. Far worse than the treaties of Westphalia being purely medieval legal texts, and the landmark event of 1648 being memorable as a peace not as a political feast, it is extremely difficult to find proof for the existence of sovereign nation-states anywhere in history, other than in international legal jurisprudence. States rarely enclose one nation (however defined, other than ‘the citizens of a state’), let alone individuals who perceive themselves as one nation first and anything else second; nations (however defined) can be split between two or more states. States rarely claim internal sovereignty except when outsiders (states, NGOs, individuals) threaten to interfere in ‘domestic’ affairs; rather, they avoid any internal debate on their claim to sovereignty and act on a modus vivendi – witness the Concordats with the Vatican, witness the non-interference of most governments in substantive standards for

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good scientific research, witness the virtual non-existence of laws on proper table manners. Finally, states themselves are often merely legal façades: the real allocation of values being performed by heads of clans or tribes or by clerics. If political science should study politics on the basis of the distribution of real power rather than legal priority, one could even argue that Western liberal democracies, the classic examples of sovereign states, are in fact ruled by post-feudal (and sometimes not so post-feudal) economic elites who are only marginally hindered by limits the state imposes, and far more by what the general public suffers them to do. The sovereign nation-state is a fiction, and always has been. If we need a model that allows us to generalize about politics in any society, one so close to reality that reifying it cannot be too harmful, we will have to look elsewhere for one.

8.3 Conceptions of the polis Very conservatively put, political pluralization indicates that the sovereign nation-state cannot be presumed to be the only form of political organization in human life; it is less than a historically contingent form of organization – it is only a model, a simplification of politics in the modern age. Again in quite conservative terms, there is reason to suspect that (at present) the model is not necessarily adequate for the purposes of political science or normative political philosophy. If we abandon the concept altogether, however, we are left with nothing but the very general observations that where different individuals shared interests or aims, different forms of cooperation can emerge, that such an apparently random diversification of cooperative schemes is more likely to exist than any long-term, multi-purpose structure like the Empire or the nation-state, and that this diversity is prima facie morally preferable to any more lasting and overarching structure. A libertarian or anarchist would be happy to leave it at this, and would explain the existence of more lasting structures by the unjustifiable exploitation of the power of some over others. Unjustifiable or not, communitarians would argue – and non-libertarian liberals would accept – that humans cannot exist in total anarchy, i.e. without a stable social context, a basis of trust and expectation (cf. Scruton 2004: 8), a social and cultural background at least defining one’s identity, purposes and place in the universe, at best (on the liberal view) serving as a point of reference for emancipation, i.e. for recognizing and developing alternative backgrounds and evolving an autonomous view of the good life. The history of political philosophy has generated an almost infinite list of allegedly stable, overarching forms of cooperation, of which the sovereign nation-state is but one. I shall refer to these conceptions as conceptions of the polis. If we want to settle the dispute on stability versus contingency, that list needs to be inspected carefully, and tested on two criteria: one ontological, the other ethical – first, is there any conception of the polis that can be

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characterized as a necessary condition for human existence; second, is there any such conception that can count as necessary for a desirable human existence? As we shall soon see, virtually all conceptions of the polis score miserably on the first criterion, whereas the second turns out to be questionbegging. Without pretension of completeness (even if we could assume Western political philosophy to have covered all conceptions of the polis throughout global history), I would argue that virtually the whole set of conceptions of the polis can be put under three different headings: pre-modern interpretations and reinterpretations of the classic Greek polis, early modern renderings of the polis as republic, and late modern poleis as absolute states. If we call the anarchic-libertarian view of human life – i.e. as apparently merely contingent and fragmented forms of cooperation – post-modern (with the post-modern warped sense of time frames implied by something being beyond ‘now’ yet not ‘future’), then the alternative that I shall offer in the next section should be called neo-modern. Aristotle made the original Greek polis immortal: the terms and relations he defined have shaped the vocabulary and encyclopaedia of all Western political philosophy, without one single exception. In the philosopher’s view, the polis is identical to that unit of human organization that hits the exact mean between too much and too little: it contains everything individuals need to lead a flourishing life as humans (i.e. to realize their potentials) and nothing that is superfluous, and every human individual the polis needs to perpetuate its existence, and no more. Humans need the polis: it is an ontologically necessary condition for their existence, and barring outside interference we cannot help but realize its existence. As individuals, humans are helpless (assuming they could survive for more than two days after birth) and unable to procreate: if we retreat from society and choose the wild life, all our days will at best be spent as unthinking animals, hunting and gathering and hiding from larger predators. When we grow too old or infirm to run and hunt, we will be reduced to vegetarianism, not as the commendable free choice of an ethically conscious being, but as the miserable fate of the lowliest and saddest of creatures. Humans cannot help but form families, where cooperation ensures reproduction and continued existence. Yet family life alone may suffice for some animals but not humans: their needs and desires force them to band together in ever larger cooperative schemes – first villages, where a degree of specialization in human excellences becomes possible, and through specialization the creation of more sophisticated tools and goods, to the polis; in the polis, human excellences can truly flourish, and humans themselves can be truly autonomous, since now they no longer merely choose their meals or the instruments for collecting and preparing meals – now they can actually shape their societies as well (Aristotle 1981: 1252a24ff.). On Hannah Arendt’s (1958) interpretation of Aristotle, this socio-geographic evolution is further elucidated by stressing Aristotle’s economic version of the story: while families and

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villages offer room only for production – respectively reproduction, work and labour – the polis offers room for real creation: poetry, art, philosophy, and foremost politics. It is only in the polis that the featherless biped that distinguishes itself from other animals by self-consciousness, language, a sense of time and thereby, as Rawls would later call it, the capacity to develop and execute a plan of life, can flourish. As usual, it is important to distinguish between form and substance. Aristotle’s claim was never that the Athenian polis, or the Lacedaimonean, Theban or other, defined the ideal way of life for all humanity. As one of his greatest research projects – the cataloguing and analysis of Greek constitutions (of which only one text survived: Aristotle 1984) – illustrates, environmental conditions, including anything from climate and soil to culture and history, make it not only understandable, but also necessary, that poleis take different forms for different peoples. The prudent thing is not to copy the Athenian example, but to adapt the form of the individual-family-villagepolis foursome as best as possible to harmonize with the total human environment, to find a balance that reflects the substance of the polis: its being the necessary precondition for the realization of each individual human’s potential as a creative and autonomous featherless biped. It is the assumption that the ideal polis needs to be environment-sensitive, or – as communitarians would say – context-sensitive, that made Aristotle’s model immortal: it makes it so flexible that it can be (and has been) used as a model for virtually every political constellation anywhere. Its flexibility is, however, also the reason why its use in prescriptive political philosophy is necessarily limited. None of its original (Greek) elements (except for the individual) are necessary features of human existence even as a social being. The family, for instance, does not have to be the Athenian household of outgoing father, veiled wife living in a secluded area, children, servants and slaves – there are places where all the women of the village raise children collectively as mothers, and others where a core family of only two generations live together without servants. In fact, Plato’s utopian vision of procreation by lottery and education by the collective indicates that we can at least imagine the complete abolition of the family, and there is nothing to indicate that this would be physically impossible. By the same token, none of the natural laws known to us force us to live in villages or unite in, say, 100 km2 areas around a walled city. Note also that there seems to be no good reason for the existence of political borders or other forms of exclusion: there is, for instance, no reason why two ‘perfect’ poleis (qua size, laws, resources, etc.) should not have one context-sensitive legislative institution, administrative service or bakery in common, or why there should be more than one polis in the world. In more general terms: each of the elements of the classic Greek polis is contingent to such a degree that there is no respect whatsoever in which we must accept that humans must necessarily live in something like a polis. If one would want to argue that the polis is a necessary condition for humans to flourish, and that the ontological necessity has been removed, all

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that remains is an appeal to ethical necessity: it must be good that humans live in this way rather than another, since that is the best or only way for them to flourish. What defines this ‘goodness’ is a vision of the good human life, more precisely the good person or personality (the term ‘individual’ may be too tainted by liberalism), but (having removed ontological necessity) an argument to that effect would be at least question-begging and at worst circular. If the good polis were good because it best accommodates good personalities, then the latter would have to exist first if they are to be accommodated – the argument becomes circular. If it were good because it allows the development of good personalities, then we have to ask why one personality or life is better than another one, and why it is good to create (and accommodate) good personalities. Why is a heroic but short, nasty, brutish life worse than a long, quiet, prosperous and utterly boring one?4 Why should any human potential be realized in the first place? Although Aristotle’s model does not have any prescriptive power beyond the hypothetical (‘if you want to flourish under conditions x, y, z, and if flourishing means realizing capacities a, b, c, then polis 1 is preferable to polis 2’), its descriptive powers have been well exploited ever since. Thus, Roman philosophers somehow managed to interpret the Empire as one universal and eternal polis – one might argue in legal terms that it still exists today; it is just that the throne is empty. The Empire as polis is one possible consequence of the recognition that Aristotle could not definitively justify exclusion and borders – or of the empirical claim that time, culture and technology had made borders redundant. In the medieval representation of the polis as a body politic, with the king as head, army and law as arms, etc., a disturbing new thought surfaces – perhaps a delayed reaction to the breaking-up of the Carolingian Empire, and oddly enough first voiced (c. 1155) by an Englishman, John of Salisbury. Having first made similar observations on nobility, church, army and law, he finally remarks about the common people in the body politic: The feet are the name of those who exercise the humbler duties, by whose service all the members of the republic may walk along the earth. In this accounting may be included the peasants, ( … ) the many types of weaving and the mechanical arts ( … ), and also the servile forms of obedience and the many ways of acquiring nourishment and the sustenance of life or enlarging the dimensions of family possessions ( … ) [T]hey are not to exceed the limits, namely, the law, and are to concentrate on the public utility in all matters. For inferiors must serve superiors, who on the other hand ought to provide all necessary protection to their inferiors. ( … ) The health of the whole republic will only be secure and splendid if the superior members devote themselves to the inferiors and if the inferiors respond likewise. (John of Salisbury 1990: 125)

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The disturbing new thought expressed here is that the ‘parts of the body’ may try to go it alone, either unconsciously by paying attention only to their own interests, or consciously by seceding. That would be ‘unhealthy’, and it would make the body ‘sick’, possibly to death – only the body politic is a simile, and the simile loses its similarity to the human body where illnesses are attributed to it. As a model for descriptive purposes, the simile may work well, but it can offer no reasons other than hypothetical parallels to accept them when it comes to prescription. If the arm is not an arm, therefore, there is no reason why an arm(y) should not sever itself from the body and join another; no reason why the feet should not cut off the rest and sprout heads of their own – or flowers for that matter – no reason why there should be two arms and one heart (church); John himself admits that the simile has its limits: the multitude of ‘humbler duties’ makes the body politic a centipede rather than e.g. a biped. Underlying John’s fear is a development that would lead to a substantively new conceptualization of the polis in the Renaissance: the polis as republic. Although the word ‘republic’ had been used since Roman times (as a rough interpretation of the Greek word polis), it gets a new meaning in the times of Machiavelli and since, doubtless due to the developments of strong and relatively independent cities within kingdoms and Empire – strong not because of their military might or their capacity for autarky, but because of their economic power: trade, commerce, manufacture, guilds, etc. The (post-)Machiavellian republic is characterized by an increasing disintegration of the polis into at least two ‘communities’: one political, the other civil. The ‘private sphere’ of ‘civil society’ is born.5 The role of the political sphere becomes that of a servant enabling civil society to remain undisturbed, rather than that of a manager ordering it to fulfil goals. (For the record: like the Aristotelian polis, the republic may be an adequate model for the description of reality but it contains no elements that make it ontologically or ethically necessary – except in the hypothetical conservative context of maintaining that what is for its own sake.) Finally, political philosophers since Rousseau – notably Hegel and Marx – sought a reconciliation of the polis, more precisely a reintegration of public and private spheres, in the form of an absolute state often evolving through ‘historical necessity’. Without going into further detail here, the point will by now be clear: the absolute state also lacks prescriptive power. All the conceptions of the polis discussed or implied in this section satisfy the communitarian demand that they provide some sort of social context to individuals, but none give us reasons to prefer one over the other: all aim to offer room for human flourishing or, in the terms used in this book, emancipation, but none give reasons to prefer a polis over no polis; and none seems to be able, as yet, to accommodate the reality of a politically pluralized world.

8.4 Metropolis If the preceding overview of models of politics has made anything clear, it is that politics, however defined, is a more general phenomenon than the polis.

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None of the models discussed above seems impervious to time and context, and none give us reason to believe that there is such a thing as ‘the’ political molecule. Nor can we say, merely on the basis of how humans actually organize themselves (or rather, how this can be represented in models), how they should organize. Some models will fit better in some contexts than others, in the sense that they will be more stable and lasting than others – the original Greek polis would not last long in 21st Century Europe, for instance – but stability, security, predictability and similar criteria for fittingness are of course themselves deeply political, deeply normative, and therefore open to debate. We are stuck with two very general and abstract conclusions: firstly, that any form of social cooperation can be justified if it meets the criteria of the type of agreement on which it is allegedly founded (with or without Alexandrian persuasion); secondly, that humans organize (deliberately or not) for purposes, whatever those purposes may be – the realization of an aim, the performance of a practice, etc. Every form of cooperation therefore is, or becomes, political – and purely accidental. Against this background, it seems impossible, other than as a mere (and unlikely) coincidence, to justify the existence of long-lasting, stable overarching institutions – organizations of organizations – like the state, let alone a sovereign state claiming the supreme power to direct all forms of cooperation within its borders, a power that in normative terms rests and remains in the hands of individuals only. Yet a creative misinterpretation of Jean Bodin’s conception of sovereignty may help us out here. Bodin’s Six Livres de la République (1583) is, at first sight, the classic illustration of the polis as a republic. ‘Repvbliqve est vn droit gouuernement de plusiers mesnages, & de ce qui [l]eur est commun, auec puissance souueraine’ (Bodin 1961: 1) – ‘Republic is a right government of a number of households, and of that which is common to them, with sovereign power’. The republic, he writes, is made up of families (represented as households with parents, children, servants and slaves), who are themselves already living together in villages, towns and cities; the republic unites the latter. It takes at least 15 individuals to form a people and a republic (Bodin 1961: 11) – otherwise neither families nor the republic could realize their telos: the continuation of the people. Sovereignty, Bodin says, is ‘la puissance absoluë & perpetuelle d’vne Republique’ (Bodin 1961: 122) – the absolute and eternal power of a republic. Whoever governs – monarch, aristocracy or people – governs absolutely: all subjects owe it complete obedience. So far, Bodin contains no surprises for the modern reader. Yet his further analysis of the city (cité) and the justification of sovereignty allow both a classic interpretation based on the spirit of the text, and a fresh interpretation based on the letter of the text – a misinterpretation, obviously, but a creative one. Firstly, there is diversity within the republic: ‘ … ainsi dirons-nous de la cité, qui peut auoir plusiers villes & villages qui vsent de mesmes coustumes ( … ) & la Republique peut auoir plusiers cites & prouinces qui auront

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diuerses coustumes’ (Bodin 1961: 72) – the cité can consist of several villages and towns with shared customs, the republic of several cités and provinces with diverse customs. The subjects of a republic may be citizens with rights specific to the city, bourgeois with rights specific to a particular class of fortified settlement, simple villagers with villager’s rights, or parishioners with parish rights (Bodin 1961: 76). A cité may even consist of a union of formerly independent entities: two towns and a university, as the example of Bern and Fribourg (Bodin 1961: 77) illustrates. The subjects themselves are in places divided in three estates (church, nobility and people; Bodin 1961: 100), but there are countless other divisions and subdivisions, each group having its own set of rights against others. In brief: a republic is a union of cités, each of which may constitute different and overlapping cooperative schemes: church parishes, guilds, universities, councils, etc. There is no one single authoritative model for politics. Secondly, sovereignty is not as bad as it seems. It is based on a contract – a Hobbesian contract in that people subject themselves for a purely rational reason (coordination) to a sovereign whom they promise to obey absolutely, but who himself stands above the law (Bodin 1961: 85, 128). Yet the contract remains valid only as long as it serves its purposes. Empires fall not because they are unjust or inhumane, but because they fail to do their job: coordinate social interaction – sovereigns fall not because their power is no longer legitimate, but because it has left them. In other words (not Bodin’s, of course), legitimacy has little to do with the survival of government or with secession – it is a mere matter of facts: does the sovereign still do what he was asked and is supposed to do? With (pseudo-)Bodin’s concepts of the cité and of sovereignty in hand, it becomes possible to understand how superstructures like a state are possible in a world where people do not live as unconnected, unembedded individuals in a state of nature, but already always co-exist in voluntary cooperative structures. Like those ‘basic’ structures, superstructures are based on agreements – spontaneous, deliberative, culturally or historically evolved or other – and they last as long as the foundation of the agreement lasts. The difference is that superstructures cover several cooperative schemes, and in so far as the latter overlap the same individuals (and their interests or reasons for cooperation), those individuals have more at stake, more to gain and more to lose, the more cooperative schemes a superstructure covers – with the consequence that a superstructure tends to be more stable than its constituent parts. Other things being equal – e.g. the capacity to actually coordinate more and more forms of social interaction – the more ‘reasons for cooperation’ or, in Michael Walzer’s terms, the more social spheres a superstructure covers, the more stable it will be. Individual allegiance to a superstructure is therefore a matter of (very broadly speaking) a cost-benefit analysis: the disadvantages of an income tax for a worker may outweigh the advantages that same individual gets as respectively a commuter, living organism, parent and citizen from the roads,

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hospitals, schools and legal systems that the tax helps to build. I use the term cost-benefit analysis loosely: the factors determining allegiance are not simply costs and benefits measured by one single standard, but consist of all the different types of reasons on which the different types of cooperation rest, and the kind of value attached to each of those reasons. The prospect of being ruled by a heathen or heretic – no matter how beneficial that ruler may be in all other respects – is often incompatible with the agreement on absolute principles on which religious communities are based; a shared religion, a shared ethical conviction, a shared dietary preference even (think of radical ecologists) may be a conditio sine qua non rather than merely a gain for cooperation with the principled. Note that the possibility of legitimate stable superstructures does not automatically imply the inevitability, necessity or even overall advantage of the existence of a (sovereign) state. On the pseudo-Bodin view, cooperative structures and superstructures (cooperative structures of cooperative structures) are justified bottom-up, by the structures of social cooperation among individuals (see Figures 8.1 and 8.2). Nothing excludes that one individual joins multiple superstructures or accepts them as authoritative in one area but not another; nor that a set of individuals participating in several but not all cooperative structures within that set share the same superstructure(s); nor that a cooperative like a cité or a university participates in two or more superstructures and recognizes neither as absolute; nor, finally, that superstructures will form a state. Individuals participate in cooperatives, cités and superstructures, together forming one gigantic metropolis including all but hermits – yet the links between cooperatives can be structured differently for each single individual. Both in theory and in practice, the state’s tasks can be performed by distinct agencies: legislation and adjudication can be split, as can the execution of security policy, economic policy, health policy, etc.

Figure 8.1 Classic sovereign nation-state. Note: Arrows up represent demands, arrows down commands

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Figure 8.2 Metropolis. Note: Fictitious example of the associative links among individuals in the metropolis. On the X-axis: nine random individuals. On the y-axis: 15 random voluntary and involuntary associations. Lines represent association membership shared by individuals. A represents Greenpeace (part of a cooperative superstructure with H); B the Elvis fan club; C a home owners association; D an alumni association; E membership of Islam (associated in a cooperative superstructure with F and G); F a Humanist society (associated with E and G); G membership of the Roman Catholic Church (associated with E and F); H participation in the alterglobalist movement (associated with A); I a trade union (associated with J); J an employers association (associated with I); K the traffic laws of the country of Zenda (associated with O); L being subject to Moroccan family law; M the Zenda health insurance scheme (associated with I); N family relations; O being subject to Zenda family law (associated with K).

There is no intrinsic reason why a statish superstructure could not privatize its army or even its whole civil service, nor why the same institution that collects taxes should also spend them, nor why the same agency that collects and disposes of household garbage should also support the arts. There is no need even to think of actually existing states, let alone societies, as monoliths – it would be more accurate to think of them both as multi-dimensional interconnected networks. Superstructures are tradeoffs between the separate interests and considerations of individuals, as well as between those of cooperative schemes made up of individuals. Throughout most of history in most places, they were built and sustained with Alexandrian methods: where agreement played a role, it was mostly in the form of a traditionally shared faith, popularity, myths like blood and soil or tribe/nation and xenophobia, or simply the absence of all means and opportunity to critically reflect on one’s life. In

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some places though, like modern liberal-democratic societies and societies touched by an enlightened form of communitarianism, people matter. The inevitable result of cooperative schemes, especially of the creation of superstructures, is an uneven distribution of power among people and their associations (cf. Beck and Grande 2004), hence uneven starting positions in the pursuit of a plan of life. Differences in intelligence, education, health, economic and social capital, and simply available time, inhibit participation and adequate representation. Ideally, a truly sovereign – i.e. all-coordinating – nationstate can circumvent this problem, but only when it is a direct democracy in which all members are at least equally rational, equally intelligent and equally well informed. Reality does not offer this option: alternatives for a politically pluralized world are needed here. As long as superstructures allow or promote the execution of plans of life, and as long as individuals are presented adequately, they will command allegiance, while loss of the fetish polity, loss of one’s herd identity and incommensurability will at worst be minor problems. How is that possible without introducing yet more cooperative structures, more rules, however – without letting more idiots with peppermills or hammers loose?

8.5 Conclusion A few years ago, Michael Ignatieff (e.g. as one of the main authors of Evans and Sahnoun 2001) argued that sovereignty is not a right in the interest of a people, but a duty; fulfilling that duty only can turn the claim-right to sovereignty into a real, recognized right. Rather than having the permission to rule supreme in its internal affairs and be spared interference from outside, a sovereign state is obliged to actually act in the interest of its people by offering peace and security, justice and opportunity, or lose all legitimacy and in the worst case – e.g. civil war or genocide – legitimize intervention. Ignatieff’s argument lacks one element, though: it never defends the presumption that states should exist in the first place – that there is no better way of serving a people’s interests. In a world of nation-states, Ignatieff’s criterion is a useful instrument in assessing the validity of a claim to sovereignty, but we need to broaden it in a politically pluralized world where even the notion of a people must be considered an incomplete and inadequate characterization of what makes individuals tick – not to mention that it is ultimately a social construction, thus open to replacement. Individuals cooperate for reasons that cannot be generalized in structures and superstructures that are shaped in accordance with the kind and strength of the reasons for cooperation. Superstructures, even in the shape of a state, can be legitimate, but only in so far as they promote the interests of their ‘subjects’. The exercise of legitimate authority, not sovereignty, is the basic duty of political institutions; to earn the allegiance of individuals is their basic task. Thus we find that there is a middle ground between the selfcontradictory libertarian perspective where individuals voluntarily cooperate but

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apparently cannot voluntarily choose a cooperative superstructure, and the equally self-contradictory communitarian perspective that tends to define the good life as the life others already live. Where cooperation can be based on the passing glory of popularity, or on deliberative, cultural, religious or other reasons, consultation and negotiation are permanent necessary features of all cooperative structures. Additional cooperative structures allowing fair and effective consultation – the inspiration behind representative democracy, deliberative democracy, participatory democracy, etc. – may not only complicate cooperation by adding new institutions on which agreement must somehow be reached,6 they may also simply not be available in a politically pluralized world, or they may offer insufficient guarantees that they will actually have an impact on the behaviour of a (super)structure. A classic example is the multinational corporation consulting its ‘stakeholders’: as long as the latter are powerless, consultation only adds to the legitimacy of the corporation’s decisions, even when it rejects stakeholders’ opinions. New forms of cooperation, representation and consultation are at best meaningless and at worst counterproductive if the substance lacks the willingness to mutually defend and test one another’s reasons and arguments by confronting the other’s opinions, and revise them if necessary. In the next two chapters, I shall therefore focus on substance rather than form.

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Citizenship in the metropolis

9.1 Introduction From a politically correct point of view, this chapter may again be considered to contain strong language. What I am about to offer is an argument against the holiness of one of the 20th Century’s holy cows: mass democracy as we (still or yet still) know it. Between the lines, I argue that we did not and do not even ‘know’ real mass democracy in the form of equal and universal access to power. It was never wholeheartedly brought into practice, never truly an ideal of the 20th Century, but at best a noble lie. Yet there are ideals behind it: mass democracy understood as equal and universal access to decision-making is a means to an end, the end being defined – slightly rhetorically – by what I shall call the Bush criterion for civilization. The Bush criterion demands representation of all, but representation is a complex concept which allows multiple interpretations. Examining the reasons why the two most prominent conceptions of representation – substantive and descriptive – would be valuable, I claim that we can only make a direct case for substantive representation, only in the context of mass democracy, and only in the sense that mass democracy is one possible environment in which substantive representation may be possible. Finally, I argue that the political basis of mass democracy is disappearing due to processes of political pluralization, and that cures for the defects of political pluralization cannot, except with considerable imagination, be construed as new versions of mass democracy as defined here. I end by suggesting two ideal types of more practical interpretations of the ideals behind mass democracy.

9.2 The rise and fall of mass democracy ‘Ein Gespenst geht um in Europa.’ At the dawn of the 20th Century, few foresaw the rise of mass democracy. Even fewer would have believed that a political decision-making procedure based on a widely dispersed right to elect representatives and be elected as a representative could survive until the end of that century – particularly not if a long series of (at that time unlikely) conditions for participation in the democratic process were added: one

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man, one vote; universal suffrage for men, even illiterate uneducated nontaxpayers; universal suffrage for, God forbid, women; the organization of representatives along the lines of hostile parties and ideologies; and electorates measuring millions, tens of millions, even hundreds of millions of people. Previous experiments in democracy had, after all, produced nonsense at best and disaster at worst – a democratically chosen State Congress in one of the former British Colonies had democratically decided that p (pi) should henceforth equal 3, and democracy had killed Socrates, not to mention democracy’s share in the countless victims of the tyrannies to which democracy apparently by force of habit gave rise. If we look for factors that may explain this improbable success story, we shall probably find that one idea had very little to do with it: a sudden belief in the universal and equally distributed goodness and rationality of all humankind. Other explanations are more likely: the extension of the right to vote in response to threats of social disorder, even revolution, from the side of those previously excluded; extension of suffrage even as a counterrevolutionary act – e.g. where conservatives supported the women’s right to vote, expecting women to be more pliable than hot-headed socialist working class men. More important, two systemic factors are involved: constraints and limits to democracy. Democratic decision-making systems operate under a long series of formal and informal constraints which inhibit the direct translation of non-reflexive immediate preferences into policy: representation rather than direct democracy,1 selection of ‘fit’ representatives by parties, general elections every three to 10 years rather than referenda for every single issue, constitutional rights, qualified majority constraints on constitutional change, legal constraints on anti-constitutional parties, etc. In addition, there are limits to mass democracy – areas where democracy was never introduced, from the choice of the ruling coalition to suffrage for the young, for non-nationals, for neighbours across the state border whose lives are affected by what happens within a country’s borders, etc. How important each of these factors (or any other) is in explaining the emergence and survival of democracy is an empirical question, and in our context an irrelevant one as well. What matters is, firstly, that democracy cannot be explained by a sudden Kingdom Come faith in universal wisdom – perhaps another empirically testable hypothesis, certainly one that should be tested, but also certainly one of which we have every reason to expect its confirmation. Secondly, what matters is that there is reason to believe that ‘mass democracy’ is more wrapping than gift, more rhetoric than substance. Mass democracy appears to be less massive and less democratic than the term suggests. There are, admittedly, many definitions and interpretations of the term democracy, from the formal, which focuses on pure majoritarianism only, to substantive, which focuses on deliberation or legal-constitutional protection of the physical and spiritual preconditions for majoritarian decision-making. Yet all share two ideals: those of universal and of equal access to power, thus distinguishing democracy from feudalism,

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tyranny, monarchy, elite, mob rule, etc. If we then compare the theory of mass democracy to practice, there is good reason to no longer be surprised by the rise of democracy. The ideal of equal access to power is realized only once every few years, during the hours of a general election – the ideal of universal access to power has never been realized. Not only is the rise of mass democracy relative, its demise seems immanent. Democracy presupposes a polity and a locus of power: a domain over which democratic rule is established, and a centre from which democratic control emanates. Domain and centre can take many shapes – from football club and the club’s board to a worker’s cooperative and its general meeting. For mass democracy, the domain is traditionally the nation-state, the locus of power the sovereign institutions of the state. But the political landscape is no longer what it used to be. Political pluralization as described in previous chapters, the emergence of polities other than and in addition to the state, means that the classical polity of the nation-state with its firmly controlled borders and sovereign ruler has disappeared – assuming it was not a mirage in the first place. No one clearly distinguishable ‘superpolity’ has taken its place; even if it had, it would at best be a necessary, not a sufficient condition for the re-emergence of mass democracy. Two other necessary conditions are (also) still not satisfied: the existence of a centre of power, and that of a supra-national society that is at least willing to prioritize the right over the good (Rawls 1999a), let alone be democracy-minded. The meaning of general elections – those scarce moments of equal and almost-universal access to decision-making, as visible tokens of real-existing mass democracy – is thereby diminished even further. It may or may not be true that, in empirical terms, elements of (mediated) popular control still seep through the canals and streams of the fragmented political community. Facts and doubts aside, however, the idea of equal and universal access to political decision-making is increasingly just that: an idea. There is reason to deplore this conclusion. Democracy may be a spook to some, and mass democracy may be a phantom in reality, but it was once, and still is, defended as an ideal. Democracy as equal access to power is, for one, the rule rather than the exception in a non-normative, logical sense: to count as rational, it is the deviation from equality, e.g. access to power, that requires a defence – a proof that relevant differences between individuals exist. Democracy is, in addition, closely connected to the classic, even ancient Stoic, Christian and liberal half-normative, half-positive ideal of fundamental human equality and our equal potential for reason. Finally, democracy is linked to basic moral values like responsibility and accountability. Contrary to overoptimistic rational choice analyses, we can hope but not expect that no one ever suffers from social cooperation, and hope but not expect mutual advantage in every individual exchange and project – but we can believe that no one deserves not to have a say in what touches his or her life, that no one deserves to be unheard or to be sacrificed or injured without proper explanation.

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In the remainder of this chapter, I shall pursue three ideas: firstly that mass democracy is a means to an end or a series of ends; secondly that it has proven to be an unpractical means, since equal and universal access to power appear to be infeasible; and finally that it is worthwhile to consider alternative means. To describe the end(s) of mass democracy, I shall use the Bush criterion, after George W. Bush’s contention in his first Inaugural Address ‘that no insignificant person was ever born’ (Bush 2001 – but the words could have been Ortega y Gasset’s (1932)). Asking whether there are ways other than mass democracy in which political constellations can meet the Bush criterion implies asking for other ways in which the voice of each of us can be made heard – i.e. asking for other modes of representation.

9.3 The complex concept of representation We owe to Hannah Pitkin a standardized language of (political) representation. In her seminal The Concept of Representation (1967), she firstly pointed to the surprisingly close connections between political representation and other forms of representation (in law, literature, art, thought, etc.). To avoid confusion, I shall from now on use the term ‘representation’ to refer to political representation only, unless explicitly indicated otherwise. What follows is, by the way, not an accurate summary of Pitkin’s ideas but an impressionistic representation of it, which focuses on the items most relevant to my present quest. From the point of view of political scientists and theorists, Pitkin’s most important contribution is her description of three conceptions of the concept of representation: descriptive representation and symbolic representation as ‘standing for’, and representation as ‘acting for’ – which I shall call ‘active representation’. The basic distinction is that between standing for and acting for: in the first sense, the representative physically ‘reflects’ the represented; in the second sense, representation is reflection of ideas instead. The further distinction between symbolic and descriptive representation is based on what the representative (flag, king or MP) stands for: the represented itself, or information about the represented (Pitkin 1967: 99) – the ‘meaning’ of that which is represented. One might say that Pitkin also introduces a fourth conception of representation, in arguing for an understanding of active representation as acting in the best interest of the represented (‘representation of interests’, substantive representation), rather than on the direct preferences of the represented (representation of preferences) – although Pitkin herself thinks of this distinction as one between a valid and a non-valid interpretation of the concept. In addition to her taxonomical contribution, Pitkin offers at least two other important ideas of a more normative nature. Firstly, there is the argument just referred to in favour of substantive representation and against that of preferences. Pitkin sees this distinction as more fruitful and realistic than

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the classic free/constrained agent scale (or mandate/independency controversy; cf. Pitkin 1967: 144). Here the constrained agent is a mere delegate, the arm of the represented, his actions owned by the represented, his behaviour governed by the represented – in sum, a mere extension of the represented; the free agent, at the other extreme of the scale, is as fully autonomous as possible – think of the guardian of a severely mentally handicapped person. In the end, she argues, the question is not which type of agent is the ‘best’ representative – i.e. what is the best interpretation of representation – but rather what it is that should be represented. The free/ constrained agent dichotomy tends to obscure that what is at stake is in fact two questions rather than one: that of the meaning of the concept of representation, and that of fleshing out a particular conception. Pitkin does the latter by arguing that representation, as making present what is somehow not present (cf. ibid. 92ff.), is only taken seriously when the representative takes the represented seriously as a human being endowed with moral capacities, reason, etc. Only then can the representative be truly responsive, truly in discourse with the represented and his or her claims. Secondly, Pitkin offers a forceful argument in favour of active representation as the politically most important (normatively best) conception of the concept. While admitting the relative merits of descriptive and symbolic representation, she maintains that it is active representation that catches the deeper meaning of representation. Ultimately, disputes about the nonrepresentativeness of a legislature relate not to the legislature as a symbol, nor to its composition in terms of sex, age, colour or creed, but to ‘nonresponse’, to the voice of the represented remaining unheard: to their interests and ideas being excluded. At this point, the reader should note one possible implication of this perfectionist line of thought: since it is substantive exclusion that matters, not formal exclusion, the actual degree to which e.g. a legislature reflects the composition of the electorate is in itself irrelevant to any question of good representation. Even a plea to limit the class of potential representatives (e.g. to adults, adult males, wise old men, anyone with a university degree, the nobility, etc.) can be consistent with good (substantive) representation. Over the course of the years since The Concept of Representation appeared, both Pitkin’s categorization and her normative theses have been the subject of intense debate – with good reason. Her three or four conceptions of representation, for one, are less clearly distinct than they appear to be. For instance, the conceptions of descriptive and symbolic representation only seem to make sense against the background of the third – active representation. Consider the political symbol of symbols: a flag hanging in a legislature. Contrary to Pitkin, one could argue that a flag either does or does not carry information: it either sends out a call for unity, a message of shared culture and history – or it just hangs there. In the first case, it reflects the composition of a country, it perhaps even represents substantive ideas; in the second case, it just hangs there as a piece of colourful cloth which may

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hide an ugly stain on the wall, but does not make something present that is not somehow present. From another direction, one could argue that Pitkin introduced descriptive representation as a kind of straw man, merely to be aimed at and shot down in the end as a confused mix of two more really distinct ideas – symbolic and active representation. As for Pitkin’s normative theses, since the sheer amount of literature on political representation makes an adequate overview of the critique impossible, I shall limit myself to three (for my purposes) interesting lines of comment. I shall not, for instance, discuss objections from the side of empirical political science, to the effect that Pitkin’s categories are virtually impossible to operationalize and therefore of little help to empirical research into the quality of democracy. Perhaps this says more about the theoretical relevancy of empirical political science than the other way around. First, there is George Kateb’s (1981) discussion of direct versus representative democracy, where he argues that to construe these two as opposites, as if only direct democracy is truly representative and representative democracy basically exclusive, is to misconstrue representation. The real opposites are representation and exclusion. In a representative democracy, the represented are not excluded – but, to use Pitkin’s phrase once more, made present where they are not present – and, in fact, cannot be present: modern democracies are often too large to let the whole electorate gather under a tree. Direct democracy is just one mode and method of representation among others – the real question is which of these methods can best reflect what truly matters about people: their mere presence, or their ideas. Secondly, and predictably, a large number of theorists have pointed out that Pitkin too easily, too optimistically, discards descriptive representation. Protest by groups that feel excluded (non-represented), like pensioners who see their pension decrease year after year, or people with disabilities who feel persecuted by social security agencies, may signal ‘bad’ representation, yet cannot be seen as arguments against the possibility of adequate active representation. But there is more. For one, as e.g. Anne Phillips (1995) argued, the constant and systematic exclusion of one group from among the representatives (people of colour, persons of the other gender) may justify protest even when the represented would be meticulously precise and sincere in representing, and even championing, the interests of the excluded. Exclusion from representative functions – whether formal or informal – signals exclusion from full membership of the community: it is like, or perhaps is, being classified among the infants, the insane, the feeble-minded, cattle and other ‘things’ that apparently cannot speak for themselves. A further reason to distrust Pitkin’s dismissal of descriptive representation is that the chosen few may not even be capable of representing the excluded, simply because they do not live their lives, do not share their experiences, do not know their perspective on life: as the song goes, ‘it’s different for girls’. Although this argument is dangerous (it’s also different for bald, big-bellied,

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beer-gulping illiterate worshippers of Mammon – it’s different for everyone, whatever ‘it’ may be), it is not without merit. Finally, the most obvious comment of all must be made: Pitkin’s model has too few dimensions. She recognizes (but does not solve) the mandateindependency dilemma, although translated into terms of the best interpretation of substantive representation, but silently passes over e.g. the problems involved in representing diverging opinions of different individuals on separate subjects, or those in representing one’s own voters versus a nation, platform, ideology or party. Moreover, her interpretation of representation remains coloured by its background: mass democracy. She offers no analysis as to who is, or should be, or can be, represented – a question that may make all the difference in the world for the substance of substantive representation. Returning to the question of alternatives to mass democracy, representing all and denying no one’s significance, we face a problem: the absence of one unique clear-cut criterion of good representation, even if we throw out symbolic representation – considered by many to be a red herring in the school of conceptions of representation. We have a choice to make between (further) conceptual reductionism and pluralism. The first comes down to claiming that there can either be only one correct interpretation (conception) of the concept of representation (monism), or that where two conceptions contradict one another, at least one or even both must be false. Note that this does not necessarily imply realism or neoplatonic idealism: the claim is epistemological not ontological. The alternative is pluralism: two or more conceptions may contradict one another without any of them necessarily being wrong. On this view, the overarching concept is complex. I shall argue here that representation is such a complex concept – hence that different conceptions of it are possible, and that they can be valid interpretations of the concept. I shall then argue, though, that valid conceptions are not necessarily appropriate. According to Temkin (1993), a complex concept is one that allows different but equally valid interpretations (conceptions of a concept) to be mutually contradictory and yet consistent with our considered judgements (i.e. tested intuitions). Note the term ‘allows’. Different interpretations of a concept can but need not always be incompatible. One can stand for all while acting for one party, as the Bush administration tries to, or stand for a class yet try to act on behalf of all, as Caesar, Brutus and Marc Anthony – all honourable men – tried to do. Let me illustrate the complexity of representation with an example derived from Temkin’s analysis of the complex concept of equality (Temkin 1993). Imagine God and the devil discussing Job’s faith. Rather than testing one Job, God suggests three Jobs for a fair test: Job1, Job2 and Job3. Job1 is miserable all through his eight decades of life: physically handicapped, covered with sores and dirt, dressed in rags, and generally unattractive. Job2 is doubly miserable during the first half of his life (more handicapped, more dirty, poor, unattractive, etc.) but has a life of bliss for the remaining forty

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years. Job3 is the reverse image of Job2: blissful until he hits forty, then twice as miserable as Job1.2 Job1 is socialist, as is Job2 until he is cured; Job3 is irreversibly liberal. Job2 and Job3 are politicians, Job1 an ordinary voter. Jobland being a three-person state with a one-person parliament, Job1’s vote is crucial for the Sanhedrin elections. For a long time, Job1 votes for Job2 – that is, until liberalism takes over Job2’s body and he no longer voices Job1’s concerns. At that moment, Job1 changes his vote and elects Job3 to the Sanhedrin: Job3 may be a liberal, but is at least someone with whom Job1 can identify – and hope that, being new to being cursed, Job3 will at least understand Job1’s plight, whereas Job2 is now likely to forget (being by definition in a state of eternal bliss) – occasionally, Job3 may even voice some of Job1’s anxieties. Job1 chooses substantive representation for the first forty years, followed by descriptive, or perhaps symbolic, representation for the rest. The two (as personified by Job2 and Job3) are mutually exclusive. Job1’s reasoning is reasonable – we can understand it, we can identify with it, we can accept it. In other words: we can accept both types of representation as valid and consistent with our intuitions, yet the two are incompatible and lead to different results. Representation, then, even when modelled in a simple example as this, is a complex concept. One of the nasty implications of representation’s complexity is that, in so far as its conceptions are logically incompatible, no defence of one conception necessarily supports the validity or desirability of another conception.

9.4 Mass democracy and representation Can we defend descriptive and substantive representation, resulting in equal and universal access to power of all – and if so, how? As we just saw, each separate conception of representation requires a separate defence, and for each defence we have three options: (1) intrinsic value; (2) categorical value given a context or object (to be represented); and (3) hypothetical or instrumental value given a domain and context. (I assume a fourth possibility, hypothetical value given a context, to be included in the third option.) In only slightly clearer terms, given our present context of representative democracy, both descriptive and substantive representation may be: 1 intrinsically valuable, i.e. ethically desirable ‘as such’, meaning that standing for or acting for are ‘absolute’ goods; 2 categorically valuable, i.e. desirable against the background of mass democracy, but not in e.g. a theocracy; and 3 hypothetically valuable, i.e. desirable within representative democracy, but not always – only under circumstances, only where it is ‘fitting’ (cf. Cupit 1996). I shall take representative democracy in a very broad sense as majority decision-making by elected representatives, with or without all possible extra’s like qualified majorities, deliberation, feedback loops, etc.

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Is representation intrinsically good, good as such, an absolute good? The fact that it takes three non-synonymous expressions to pose this question already indicates how complicated the question is – particularly because of the complexity of and confusion surrounding ‘intrinsic value’. It may indicate value regardless of valuers, value regardless of being actively valued, value independent of its results or effects, and a long series of other things (cf. Wissenburg 1998, Van Hees 2000). An important aspect that all these conceptions share, however, is that they describe a kind of final value. If x is intrinsically valuable in whatever sense, then there is no room for further argument – what makes x intrinsically valuable is by definition not something that is in turn valuable for a deeper reason.3 By implication, x’s intrinsic value must be beyond dispute – if x were a person, x would have to be ‘of impeccable character’. Representation, whether substantive or descriptive, is not an x of that kind: representation has a bad reputation. Representation, if we may believe Plato (cf. Lock 1990), is falsification, cheating, insincerity; it is second-hand presence, pretending to be what one is not; it is acting – in the way an actor in a play does, or a child denying guilt after committing a transgression. One may disagree with Plato and the general tendency in philosophy to distrust all non-philosophers’ attempts at reflecting reality. Yet his objection is a forceful one, in that it reminds us of several ways in which representation may be undesirable, and by implication of several criteria that forms of representation have to meet before they can be qualified as desirable or even tolerable. Representation hides the truth: the representative’s own identity, for one – how can it be ‘intrinsically’ good to hide one thing and create the illusion of another? Representation plays the truth: it is not whatever is represented, but rather interprets it – what is wrong with the represented that it needs representation; what aims, therefore – or whose aims – does representation serve? Perhaps we do not even need Plato to cast doubt on the impeccable moral character of representation. Ordinary language already indicates that we distrust representation: we can use the adjectives ‘good’ and ‘bad’ for it – qualifications which indicate that representation is a means to an end, not an end in itself. Imagine, for instance, a national-socialist bureaucrat who argues that the Jews hate themselves, and that it is the wish of the Jews to be gassed. There is no account or interpretation of ‘acting for’ that would qualify this as ‘good representation’, nor any according to which the mere fact that the Jews are represented here can be interpreted as good. Similar arguments can be made, mutatis mutandis, for descriptive representation. However good the performance, the act of representation, may be, it remains a representation; it must always be defended (if that is possible at all, given Plato’s critique) and measured against the real thing for which it stands. In our case, this means that we cannot defend representation except in the context of the desire to warrant universal and equal access to power. Moving on to the possible categorical value of representation, then, we should note that neither substantive nor descriptive representation is

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necessarily linked to mass democracy. Neither form of representation is a necessary or sufficient condition for equal and universal access to power, nor does either one necessarily serve equal and universal access to power, nor, finally, is equal and universal access to power always desirable. Hence, neither one can be a categorically desirable instrument of mass democracy. Consider first substantive representation. There are ultimately two categories of reasons why substantive representation of all (and all equally) might be desirable: because it may contribute to good government – however defined – and because it may contribute to stable government. Let us start with the former argument. Over the ages, the critics of democracy may have failed to prevent its rise, but their arguments still carry weight: democracy (or universal and equal substantive representation) and good government are not synonymous. A benevolent despot’s policies can be as good (and a tyrant’s policies as bad) as the democratic reflection of all substantive interests – in Mill’s book, democracy might even do worse. If substantive representation and equal and universal access are connected by ties of necessity, then neither one is necessarily desirable. But they are not: equal and universal access to the tyrant or the benevolent despot, who may or may not desire to be a substantive representative of the people, is as imaginable as, say, representative democracy, and is just as much a necessary or sufficient condition of good government. Finally, substantive representation is not sufficient to guarantee equal and universal access. It can, after all, be interpreted as any reflection of ideas, from a necessarily selective representation of opinions and (best) interests that matter (i.e. that meet a certain standard of substantive quality) to ‘unreflective’ mirroring of actual preferences at any given moment in time. Not every one of these interpretations guarantees either equal access, or universal access, or both. Representation as acting for, secondly, might contribute to stable government. It is not impossible that a defence in terms of stability will eventually boil down to a particular interpretation of good government: the survival of the body politic can be desirable because it contributes to further, substantive goals like the effectiveness of government, a stable basis of expectation, peace and security, etc. What matters here, however, is the Machiavellian or realpolitische interpretation of stability, of an equilibrium of powers, as a goal in itself. From this positive as opposed to normative perspective, substantive representation turns out to have equally contingent ties to mass democracy. It can, for one, be used to represent weighted substantive interests, weighted relative to the power of political forces. Mass democracy, with its ideal of equal and universal access, attaches the same weight to each individual, reflecting the popular notion in contract and bargaining theories of ‘roughly equal power’ (cf. Rawls 1999a) in a potential war of all against all. The assumption here is that individuals can form coalitions to counter domination, and that every possible coalition can be blocked by another coalition, hence that no coalition or individual can ever

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dominate in politics for more than a limited period of time. It is against this background that the rise of mass democracy can be explained as Realpolitik: once one coalition discovered the politically non-represented masses, managed to organize part of it and proved its power, the dynamic of mass organization ultimately made inclusion of every individual both expedient and inevitable. The contractarian assumption of roughly equal power is incorrect, however, particularly in a world where borders are porous: it is, for instance, and regardless of legal, political and economic obstacles, always easier for employers to move to another country than it is for the employed (cf. Wissenburg 2001a). Where the contractarian assumption is invalid, where some coalitions are less easy to block than others, the stability of the polity is better served by a system of substantive representation that reflects these differences in power – financial, technological, spiritual, etc. It follows that substantive representation is not sufficient to guarantee, nor indeed necessarily serves, equal and universal access to power. In conclusion then, substantive representation does not necessarily imply equal and universal access to power; since equal and universal access through substantive representation does not necessarily contribute to good or stable government, it is not necessarily desirable; and we can imagine alternatives to mass democracy that guarantee substantive representation. Substantive representation through mass democracy is not categorically desirable. Similar lines of argument can be brought in against descriptive representation. Descriptive representation can, but need not, guarantee equal access to power: if properly interpreted, it should include representation of differences in power. It (obviously) does not necessarily or sufficiently contribute to good government, unless (a petitio principi) good government is defined in purely formal terms as descriptive representation and nothing more. Finally, and for the same reasons that substantive representation fails to do so, descriptive representation need not contribute, and is insufficient, to guarantee stability. To see this, it is enough to imagine a divided society: Catholics in a Protestant nation, Muslims in a Christian or secularized nation, serious academics on a bible belt school board, women in an 1840s parliament, etc. – their presence may be an affront to, or at least undesirable for, the rest. If substantive and descriptive representation through mass democracy are valuable things, therefore, they are so only hypothetically, i.e. under the right circumstances – say, when no majority wants anything immoral, and when the will of the majority poses no threat to the survival of the polity. In the remainder of this section, I shall try to give a more positive swing to this observation by formulating more definite criteria for the desirability of both forms of representation. Starting with descriptive representation, I have already introduced a few reasons why Pitkin’s conclusion that descriptive representation can be

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replaced by substantive representation would be flawed (see Section 3). ‘Non-descriptive’ representatives may be physically unable to identify with the represented, it was argued, and their existence may create the impression that the non-represented are denied full membership of the polity. As argued earlier in this section, moreover, if the two were interchangeable, then the descriptive representative would by definition be a good substantive representative, and vice versa – which is also a good reason, by the way, for rejecting the counterhypothesis that substantive can be replaced by descriptive representation. Yet in defence of Pitkin it must be said that these objections are less strong than they appear to be. The argument from experience is ultimately an argument in favour of a more adequate representation of ideas and interests; the argument from membership one in favour of the representation of a group’s legitimate claim to full membership, i.e. another idea. They are neither arguments directly in favour of ‘standing for’, nor directly against ‘acting for’ – rather, they are arguments based on belief in the principal desirability of ‘acting for’, pointing to practical obstacles for the adequate or effective representation of ideas. These two are only examples, of course, of what could well be an infinite number of normative arguments pointing to the practical limits of the (by prior assumption) theoretically desirable conception of representation as acting for. By the same token, we could introduce a long series of (in e.g. parliaments) descriptively non- or underrepresented categories of a population (non-academics, non-whites, Muslims, homosexuals, etc.). The point, however, is that ‘representativeness’ as such – i.e. the degree to which representative bodies sociologically reflect the composition of a polity – is utterly irrelevant from a theoretical perspective.4 The degree of reflection becomes interesting only when it becomes a political problem – when discomfort about non-representation surfaces. As arguments in favour of ‘standing for’, all these objections derive their force from the practical shortcomings of substantive rather than descriptive representation. What would be more helpful is a normative argument to straightforwardly defend descriptive representation. There is good reason, however, to fear that there are none, that there can be none: normative arguments necessarily refer to the value of things, not the things themselves. Values are ideas, the substance to which the notion of ‘substantive’ representation refers. If there are any positive arguments in favour of descriptive representation, they will be of a political-realist nature, arguing for representation that properly reflects the composition of a polity – though most likely not in terms of any sociological characteristic other than (ultimately) power. Since power is not distributed equally, we cannot expect this line of thought to result in support for mass democracy as we knew it. This leaves us with the final question for this section, the last remaining possibility for an affirmation of mass democracy: under which circumstances is substantive representation through mass democracy desirable? The answer,

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of course, takes a Paretian form: if it is at least as good as, or better than, alternatives; and, when there are more criteria, if the advantage on one score outweighs the disadvantage on another. So when is substantive representation through mass democracy ‘better’? We may, again, expect little help from realist arguments: there, the representation of ideas is only interesting if it contributes to stability. Whatever arguments in favour of substantive representation that goal may support will be arguments in favour of representation of relevant voices and ideas only (i.e. the powerful). The powerless are of no consequence; hence universal and equal access to political decisionmaking is redundant. What remains are normative arguments. Textbook defences of (mass) democracy mention hosts of ‘functions’ of democracy: adequate information on the preferences and desires of citizens and on alternative policies, the creation of legitimacy and legitimate authority, opportunities for accountability, etc. However, functions and arguments are not the same. The functions just mentioned can be equally well performed by systems other than mass democracy – again, the powerless are of no consequence and universal and equal access is redundant. What we need is a reason why the powerless would matter, in particular, why their opinions and ideas matter. And this takes us back to the Bush criterion: why is it that no ‘insignificant person’ was ever born? The Bush criterion reflects two philosophical traditions dating back to Stoicism: (inclusive) egalitarianism and (exclusive) anthropocentrism. Egalitarianism is the belief that (in the relevant respects) humans are equal (which calls for a defence of equality); or, formulated more carefully, that since it is rational to treat like cases alike, it is artificial inequality that needs to be justified. Anthropocentrism argues that not everything is equal: there is a relevant and fundamental difference between human beings, on the one hand, and rocks, trees and animals on the other – a difference that makes humankind superior and turns the non-human world into means to human ends. Ever since John Stuart Mill, we refer to the combination of egalitarianism and anthropocentrism as ‘the plan of life’, shorthand for selfconsciousness, rationality, sense of future, sense of good and bad, sense of pleasure and pain, and other reasons for moral concern, the mix of which would be typical of humans only. In an enlightening discussion of the plan of life doctrine, Robert Nozick (1974) showed the combination of the two theories to be inconclusive in one important respect: if we humans believe ourselves to be morally superior to the rest of nature due to one or more characteristic – characteristics that, since we share them, make us humans fundamentally equal – then an alien creature could claim moral superiority to us in virtue of a further, as yet unidentified, characteristic; and in fact, this – or arguments very much like it – is precisely what kept philosophers from defending mass democracy until, in the course of the 20th Century, reality had long overtaken them. On one version of the anti-democratic argument, humans may be equal in their

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capacity for having a plan of life (if we may reinterpret e.g. classic liberalism in such Millian terms), yet they differ in their abilities to realize this potential. Hence, women, ruled as they are by dark passions, children, not yet grown to full rationality, and dependents, whose careers and lives are not of their own making, differ sufficiently from independent grown men to justify the political exclusion of the former to the advantage of the latter. The second, older version of anti-democracy argues that humans naturally differ among themselves: some are born to rule, others to grow potatoes – in other words, a special natural capacity for politics exists, which either cannot be changed from potential into actual in some people, or which simply lacks in them.5 The philosophical debate on (representation in) democracy, then, is inconclusive: although modern science has shown most obstacles to universal political participation to be contingent (if existent at all), and although political reality in Western liberal democracies has invalidated the old discussion, support for universal and equal access to political decisionmaking remains contingent on the absence of convincing arguments for ‘relevant’ intra-human inequality – and for admissible alternatives to equal and universal access. The least we can argue for, on the basis of the plan of life doctrine, is equality of respect, ‘one man, one voice’: a universal and equal right to speak for one’s interests, and an obligation on the side of the rulers to listen to that voice. To argue for equality in more respects – guaranteed influence, a real vote, an equal number of votes, etc. – requires proof that one qualifies to argue for more universality requires proof of equality. The plan of life doctrine, in brief, offers no specific support for mass democracy – it does not exclude it as (onto)logically impossible or ethically objectionable, but neither does it offer clear principles for the circumstances under which it would be possible or desirable. The doctrine is, and remains until proof to the contrary is formulated, equally compatible with the existence of a ruling class of Nozickian aliens from outer space, or a benevolent aristocracy or despot. The plan of life doctrine does, however, support the idea of substantive representation as such – and that is what we were looking for in the first place: an argument in support of a form of representation given representative democracy, an argument to the effect that majoritarian representative decision-making is a context in which substantive representation is ‘fitting’. Since what matters about humans, what differentiates them from the rest of creation, is their capacity for a plan of life, it is the plans of life that need to be represented, more (and rather) than the individuals themselves. Note, however, that even here the victory for mass democracy is limited: if it is plans of life that matter, even those of the powerless, then their preferences as such do not matter since they do not necessarily express what is ‘really’, on reflection and after due consideration, in the best interest of an individual’s plan of life. Obtaining adequate information on preferences may, on the one hand, be a function of (mass) democracy, what makes it ethically

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admissible is not the reflection of those preferences but the system’s ability to on the one hand translate them into ‘real’ interests, and on the other hand shape real-existing preferences to conform to these interests, to what individuals’ plans of life are really about. Note that, despite the rather unfamiliar choice of words, this reflects some of the ideals of deliberative democracy as opposed to purely ‘formal’ democracy of the general election type, the former being more ‘fitting’ to guarantee equal and universal access of ideas to the decision-making process.

9.5 Universal and equal access There are theoretical-normative grounds for not taking the ethical desirability of mass democracy for granted; there are also ontological, quite practical reasons to fear for its viability. The appropriate context for mass democracy, the sovereign and relatively self-sufficient nation-state, has disappeared (if ever it existed) in favour of a context that George W. Bush would probably describe as one of ‘fuzzy politics’ (a term he used during his 2000 presidential election campaign). Political power has become fluid, uncontrollable, and democracy is not an appropriate means of regaining control. A direct consequence of fuzzy politics in the metropolis is that, even in formal terms, equal access to power for all has ceased to exist, and that there is no longer universal access, access for all, neither directly nor indirectly, to all the forums and political arenas where our future, our freedoms and our options are determined. In fact, there no longer exists one unique clearly identifiable forum where the democratic formulation and ultimate assessment of policies takes place. Universality and equality have disappeared. Given that what matters on the Bush criterion is the representation of ideas – i.e. substantive representation – this is not necessarily a disaster – provided the new decision-making processes are representative in this latter sense. Political pluralization, fuzzy politics, works flawlessly only where win-winsituations can be created – situations in which everyone, or at least enough actors with enough power, can profit from the same policy. A classic example is the environment: environmental policies are most successful where ecology and economy both profit, where e.g. cleaner production goes hand in hand with cheaper production. Unfortunately, like coal and oil, win-win-situations are a finite resource. When they are gone, what remains are the real political conflicts in which interests are diametrically opposed, and any solution will produce losers. This forces us to look at worst-case scenarios for fuzzy politics: what can happen in the worst case – what does it mean to have lost grip on power (see the preceding chapters) but more importantly, how to get a grip again? If we ask ourselves if any of the possible solutions discussed so far offers a democratic grip on power, the answer must be negative. Equal and universal

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access to power requires either one forum or a clear and distinct hierarchy of forums where ‘the voice of the people’ can be expressed; without such clarity, access will again be distributed unequally and incompletely. None of the realistic solutions just sketched offers this kind of clarity. As an alternative to institutional solutions – i.e. more and better forms of consultation – one might suggest instead that citizenship offers more hope: it is, after all, not the formal and informal structures, but rather how one uses them, that determines whether individuals have a grip on power (for more on this, see Wissenburg 2004). Ever since Alfred Marshall (cf. Marshall 1997, see also Benhabib 2002), it is customary to distinguish between three forms (political, economic and social) and two types of citizenship (liberal and republican). Ever since Dobson (2000b, 2003), green political theorists have added ecological citizenship to the list of forms – and they will soon add post-cosmopolitan citizenship to the types. There is a substantial difference between the first three conceptions and the fourth. Marshall’s citizens are constitutional citizens: they have rights against a government, whereas government has duties to protect, but not interfere with, the private sphere. Political pluralization is both good news and bad news for the Marshallian citizen, but the bad news completely outweighs the good news. On the one hand, individuals and (thereby, for instance) environmental associations can profit from a divida et impera approach to political pluralization. It may become easier to influence distinct political institutions in a fragmented political landscape by playing them against each other, or by threatening their (relatively more sensitive) power basis among a population. Yet the disadvantages outweigh the advantages. Political pluralization gnaws at the borders between the public and the private – the foundations of Marshallian citizenship rights. It brings diffusion not only of powers but also of responsibilities – hence, there is a risk that no party can be singled out who is accountable to the public, or responsible for, or even capable of, listening to and answering citizens’ demands. Divida et impera also cuts both ways: parties involved in a game where no clearly dominant player exists can best reach (or approach) their objectives by creating minimal winning coalitions, coalitions that guarantee, on the one hand, sufficient power to effectuate the coalition’s demands, and on the other hand sufficient stability to keep the coalition together. It is rational to economize as much as possible on the representation of citizens, hence to exclude as many as possible. In other words, political pluralization may formally offer opportunities for citizens to raise their voice, be heard and have influence – but no incentives, only disincentives. Constitutional rights have a fairly limited role; it is the citizens themselves who will need to become more reactive, proactive and, at the very least, defensive about their rights. In green political thought, topics like deliberative, participatory and direct democracy, environmental awareness, individual responsibility, the green consumer, the role of NGOs, etc. are ubiquitous. It is only fairly recently that Andrew Dobson combined these and similar topics under one heading

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(Dobson 2000b): post-cosmopolitan citizenship. Post-cosmopolitan citizenship differs fundamentally from republican and Marshallian citizenship by – among other things – including the private sphere, by rejecting territoriality as a basis of citizenship, and by regarding the obligations of citizens not as contractual but as ‘historical’ – i.e. determined by the capacity to influence others’ existence. Yet post-cosmopolitan citizenship, apart from other disadvantages (cf. Wissenburg 2004), is at odds with moral pluralism and the liberal perspective on emancipation as defended here. One may question whether the virtues that post-cosmopolitanism would install in the minds and hearts of citizens are desirable, and whether it is desirable to prescribe any virtues at all (thus immunizing them against critique). This question touches on a classical argument in favour of political pluralism: the real existence and irreducibility of a plurality of views on the good life (cf. Rawls 1999a, 1993a). It also raises the question of why citizens should do the ‘right’ thing only for the right reasons (i.e. out of the correct virtue), rather than to leave room for ‘deviant’ motives (cf. Wissenburg 2001b). The argument applies to the value of citizenship in itself as well: one will not be the active and concerned citizen of the republican polity if one does not have to be – i.e. if it was not a necessary condition for the flourishing of community and (sic) individual. Like other Arendtian interpreters of Aristotle, republicans thereby tend to rank political activity as a more worthy, more valuable existence than other occupations – not just other ‘creative activities’ (cf. Rawls 1993a), but also and foremost the work of the common man and woman, toiling to make a living from dawn to dusk. By definition, this makes the lives of all those who make society run less worthy: on any conception of the good life other than Arendt’s, an unwarranted attack on the dignity of humanity. Yet all is not lost: there are still ways to satisfy the Bush criterion. Mass democracy may be about to become a 20th Century fossil, universal and equal descriptive representation a chimera, but the ideal of substantive representation can still be served in other ways – as can other 20th Century ideals like deliberation, emancipation and protection of fundamental human rights. Substantive representation, after all, does not require equal and universal access to power for all individuals or all preferences. In the context of a politically plural world, where equal and universal access to power have disappeared, we can no longer (at least technically) call whatever system of substantive representation that emerges a democracy – but neither was the medieval city with its guilds democratic, and yet it had the potential and sometimes even the practical courage to let each opinion be voiced and each interest be taken into consideration. Fuzzy politics by no means principally excludes substantive representation.

9.6 Two futures for substantive representation Let me briefly summarize the preceding argument. I have argued that mass democracy understood as equal and universal access to decision-making is a

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means to an end, the end being – slightly rhetorically – defined by the Bush criterion. The Bush criterion demands representation of all, but representation is a complex concept which allows multiple interpretations. Examining the reasons why the two most prominent conceptions of representation – substantive and descriptive – would be valuable, I claimed that we can only make a direct case for substantive representation, only in the context of mass democracy, and only in the sense that mass democracy is one possible environment in which substantive representation may be possible. Finally, I argued that the political basis of mass democracy is disappearing due to processes of political pluralization, and that cures for the defects of a politically pluralized metropolis cannot, except with considerable imagination, be construed as new versions of mass democracy as defined here. If we care about substantive representation, about representing the plans of life of all (by definition significant) persons in a world where no sovereigns rule supreme, we need to devise new representative institutions and new systems of representation. Among the side-constraints for such institutions and systems are, apart from (1) a focus on acting for, (2) the exclusion of no one, and (3) recognition of the significance of every individual, two more controversial conditions: (4) they must not require the existence of state or polity (with incorporated ideas like e.g. territory and hierarchy), and (5) they must be operational wherever power is exerted. At the end of the previous section, I claimed that such institutions are not logically impossible; in this final section, I want to support this argument by introducing two models that may be chosen in future attempts to develop post-mass democratic forms of substantive representation. Before I do this, however, I shall first discuss a – from the perspective of the Bush criterion – worst case scenario. In (political) realistic terms, we would not expect the rise of new forms of substantive representation, but rather a continuation of classic power politics in the new context of fuzzy politics. As Bernard Crick (2000) argued, politics without equal and universal access is not necessarily politics without any form of representation. It is rational for any ruling elite to consult experts, powerful supporters and powerful opponents – they can provide the information needed to ensure the physical and political viability of policies. Moreover, rational rulers will be open to a dialogue with these parties, both in the hope of gaining support and in the knowledge that the dialogue may result in change or even abandonment of the original plan. This consultation model is compatible with (read: not by far necessarily identical to) what John Rawls (1999b) calls a decent society: a basically just society that nevertheless lacks equal access to power. With its stress on serious consultation, it is also compatible with (but again not necessarily identical with) deliberative democracy. Since in a context of political pluralization it remains rational to gather as much relevant information as possible and to be open to good suggestions – the Crickian consultation model will lose nothing of its relevance. Yet since it does not meet the Bush criterion, since it does not guarantee substantive representation – and that still demands (in a

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way) equal and (in a way) universal access to the ears of the rulers – it can hardly count as a post-state alternative to mass democracy. A first way to meet this criterion and avoid the exclusiveness of political realism is to formalize processes of consultation and deliberation and extend participation to the powerless – i.e. to translate deliberative democracy into the new context of political pluralization. In practical terms, this model would suggest more direct public control of international organizations (instead of control through representatives of states), more openness in the processes of preparation of, decision-making on and implementation of policies, public debates and opportunities for consultation, responsiveness and accountability of global economic and civil actors, dialogues between NGOs and corporations, etc. Obviously, a development in this direction will keep the classic problems of deliberative democracy theory unsolved, such as how to guarantee public interest and universal participation, how to ensure a quality of deliberative procedures sufficient to transform preferences into considered judgements, how to prevent domination by the rhetorically superior, how to reconcile political consensus as regards wishes, means and goals with viable, effective and efficient policy (cf. Talshir 2004). In the new context of fuzzy politics, attempts at substantive representation through deliberation will also encounter a new problem: that of coordination. Nothing except a highly suspicious faith in an objective good guarantees that a deliberative consensus reached in one policy arena – say, Mediterranean trade – will concur with that reached in another – say, European environmental policy. Unlike the deliberative strategy, the second path to substantive representation, that of consultative elitism, does not try to equate equal and universal access to power with equal and universal distribution of power. Consultative elitism is more economic in terms of formalities and institutional reforms: its only demand is that existing political institutions and those developing as a result of political pluralization extend their consultation processes as much as is needed to include anyone who is potentially excluded. It sees the existence of potentially excluded groups and ideas as a political reality and can use its willingness to represent the actually and potentially powerless as an ethical recommendation. There is also a rational motive behind this noblesse oblige attitude – in other words, it is not totally non-self-serving: now that the 20th Century has unleashed the power of mass organization, it has become impossible to drive the spirit back into the bottle (cf. Ortega y Gasset 1932). Wilfully neglecting any group will be suicidal: it may induce them to organize (in the times of internet, even a small organization can cause a lot of trouble) or drive them into the arms of opponents. The first politician or elite who manages to associate with an excluded but potentially powerful group usually has an advantage (albeit temporarily) over others, but also has to beware of second parties mobilizing other nonrepresented groups – hence, it usually pays for all rulers to include rather than exclude.

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In this model, consultation is not the standard operational procedure of political institutions; the initiative for consultation can also lie with the ruled and potentially excluded. This may give consultative elitism an interesting psychological and strategic advantage over the deliberative strategy: in line with Machiavelli’s views on opposition, it cherishes and – to a degree – fosters protest, rather than filtering and perhaps suppressing it by imposing the demands of reasonable and rational debate. The two models presented here are archetypes, and, as extrapolations of existing strategies (cf. for instance current debates on the democratization of the EU), they are inherently imperfect: they sketch options for the 21st Century, not existing realities or historical necessities. Our sympathies may lie with one or the other, but for reasons that go beyond the value we attach to substantive representation and the Bush criterion. What matters, in the present context, is that both satisfy the latter criterion, that both offer viable alternatives to the brave new world of political realism on the one hand, and to the unsatisfactory side of mass democracy on the other. What I want to suggest, then, is not that we develop a new perspective on citizenship under conditions of globalization and fragmentation, but instead that we look at another aspect of citizenship itself (that in modern times is often ignored): the ruler as citizen. In a politically pluralized world, rulers can sometimes be as difficult to identify as they were in medieval times, if not more so – they may not even recognize themselves as such. The ruler’s responsibilities towards the ruled used to be one of the main topics of debate in political philosophy – as the existence of the Mirror of Princes genre testifies. In democratic times, however, it has become unusual to think of politicians, ministers, governors, high-ranking civil servants or administrators of regimes or supranational organizations as ‘rulers’. They are considered ‘ministers’ in the old sense of the word: servants, executioners of the (democratically determined) general will. Any debate on the responsibilities of rulers is usually translated into a debate on different conceptions and degrees of representativeness and responsiveness. It is acknowledged that rulers have other criteria to meet – but with the ruler turned into an employee of the people, this is seen as a matter of professional ethics. In fact, in olden times as much as today, the princes of industry are usually not thought of as political actors even though they also determine who gets what, when and how. If they are seen as ministers at all, the people they administer are first and foremost the shareholders, although modern business ethics also acknowledges their responsibilities towards stakeholders like workers, environment and society as a whole – a point raised before the rise of capitalism as well (De Pizan 1994). Yet the ruler still exists. No one in a position carrying political responsibility meets his or her supervisor (the people) more than once every four years or so; most never do but only meet the relatively independent delegates of the people, or the delegates’ delegates. People in power wield their power autonomously most of the time – even more so under conditions of

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pluralization and fragmentation, conditions under which no clear structures of responsibility or control exist. The ruler is a citizen too, even if in a pluralized world it will often be unclear what s/he is a citizen of. He or she is a very special citizen: one in whom powers have been vested which no ordinary citizen has, and which most will never have. With power comes responsibility; the citizen as ruler has a much more extensive opportunity structure than, but is as morally accountable for his or her actions as, any other citizen. I have sketched a dark picture of the future of citizenship. If uninhibited, political pluralization will result in a ‘realistic’ approach to the representation of ordinary citizens by citizen-rulers – i.e. to the exclusion of the powerless, and therefore of inconsequential interests. Of the two alternatives to realism that I discussed, I indicated that institutionalizing new deliberative processes stands a far worse chance of success, and of drawing the realist rulers’ interest, than consultative elitism. This is admittedly a pessimistic scenario – and that is exactly what a worst-case scenario is meant to be. It is also only part of the picture. One conclusion that I did not draw is that citizenship is not valuable – merely that it is difficult to defend in a new and politically pluralized context. Nor can we infer that, even if citizenship in its present form(s) cannot be saved, its core cannot survive either: representation, and, behind that, the idea ‘that no insignificant person was ever born’. There are two things worse than a worst-case scenario. One is a truly and thoroughly pessimistic scenario offering no alternatives whatsoever. Although idealism itself is a prerequisite of survival, the other is any idealistic scenario that ignores that (some) humans are not angels. Prescriptive political theories that do not prepare for the worst – their refutation – can never help bring better futures closer.

10 The princes of industry

10.1 Two kinds of proactive citizen The previous chapter discussed one of the most visible consequences of political pluralization: the diminishing role of mass democracy. Relative to the model, the fictitious world, of sovereign nation-states, political pluralization means that, on the one hand, states cover less political ground, no longer cover it exclusively, or cover it jointly with others; on the other hand, it means that the conglomerates of cooperative superstructures ‘replacing’ the state gain a degree of relative autonomy. As a result of the latter development, the link between a population that is at least theoretically in ultimate control and the elite that governs it on its own behalf is weakened. Both these non-elected elites and the ‘old’ state elites who must operate ever more as agents and ever less as delegates (in so far as they aim to remain representatives) nevertheless remain citizens of a politically pluralized metropolis: citizens of all sorts of cités trying to create coordinating superstructures, the legitimacy and authority of which remains derived from the allegiance or – at its most inactive – sufferance of the individual members of individual cooperative ventures. The elites may be rulers, but they remain citizen-rulers. As citizen-rulers, they can make a difference for other citizens who are not – or are no longer – directly represented, not to mention for the stability of the cooperative schemes of which they remain members. That elites would need to be actively consultative elites is one thing; whether such consultative elitism is feasible is a totally different matter. Why should elites bother to do more in terms of consulting, answering and voluntarily representing than the bare minimum required to stay in power? The next sections explore this question by looking at one case of a cooperative superstructure (cité) operating within a larger context: the elite within enterprises. First, the present section gives a more general, less detailed picture of the kind of citizen a citizen-ruler is (not) forced to be. Political pluralization is an in itself understandable and justifiable process of fragmentation and realignment of cooperative structures. In theory, it reflects changed needs for cooperation and changed preferences for types of cooperation. In that sense, it contributes to human emancipation, offering a

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more demand-sensitive diversification of what Will Kymlicka (1995: 82) calls the ‘contexts of choice’. That it also implies that, as a citizen, a member of cooperative superstructures, the individual has to become an Arendtian rather than a Marshallian citizen, i.e. more proactive and less rights-consumptive, is not necessarily a disadvantage – again, in theory – because proactive citizenship can be interpreted as contributing to both personal development, to building communities (cités and polities) on genuine, personal commitment, and to tearing down the walls between the traditional, non-chosen, mono-cultural and inherently xenophobic and bloodthirsty national communities of the past.1 In practice, political pluralization confronts one class of citizens, ordinary citizens with limited resources, pursuing plans of life in which political activity plays an at best minor role, with an increasing number of often unpredictably interconnected polities in which they need to participate more often, more proactively and more informed than before – while another class of citizens is more and more free of the constraints of peer control. The former group will increasingly depend on the latter to represent its interests, but like love, representation has to come from two sides. Political pluralization also means the tearing down of walls between the political and the private: the processes of social interaction within cooperative schemes are no longer designated by, and derived from, a sovereign authority, the context defining the cooperative scheme’s sphere of interaction – i.e. cité and polity – are more and more created, or even chosen, and less superimposed than before. A classic illustration of this is the role of the enterprise in society: it does not just buy resources, transform them into something else and sell the product, it also transforms the communities from which it gets its resources – for better and for worse – the communities where it locates and performs its transubstantiating magic, and the communities where it leaves its products (not to mention waste by-products). A small enterprise in a world of sovereign nation-states does not have to concern itself with politics: it operates within a framework of laws and customs defining its role and potential. A large company in a politically pluralized world can, and often must, define its own context: if politics is the development of rules of engagement for situations where those rules do not yet exist, then a company becomes a political actor the moment it introduces foreign trade in a previously closed society, offers health services to its workers, builds their homes, buys or sells a subsidiary providing a service to a community, builds roads and opens up mines in underdeveloped regions, etc. The enterprise is not alone, though, in influencing, shaping or even defining its socio-political context. The same applies, albeit to differing degrees, to every cooperative scheme in a pluralized world: the local football club, the regional theatre, the labour union, the global genealogists’ network – all of civil society. They – more specifically their controlling or executive elites – have become political actors, with varying degrees of responsibility as citizen-rulers. It stands to reason that a ruler, no matter how small his or her

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realm, needs a plan: some idea of the goals that ought to be achieved and of feasible and permissible ways of achieving them. Unlike the passive Marshallian citizen, the post-cosmopolitan citizen has exactly such a plan, and the post-cosmopolitan conception of citizenship seems to suit a politically pluralized world very well: it rejects borders between states and between public and private, and insists that citizens have a positive duty to better the lives of their fellows. Although I have already briefly indicated above where the flaw lies in the argument for post-cosmopolitan citizenship (ultimately, in the incompatibility of its positive conception of freedom with moral pluralism and human emancipation), it is worthwhile to highlight one aspect of this flaw in detail, because it sheds a revealing light on the role of the plan, the inspiration, of the citizen-ruler. Like many political theories, post-cosmopolitanism demands sincerity: political agents are expected to believe in a social ideal and act upon it. Apart from classic jokes about the ontological incompossibility of politics and sincerity, there are also moral reasons to reject sincerity as a necessary condition for good political agency – including good governance. This is not to say that sincerity in politics may not be commendable at times, or even in general, or that it may not be prudent; it is just not something we should demand of citizens in general, and of citizen-rulers in particular. Sincerity as a conditio sine qua non of politics is both oppressive – i.e. illiberal – and imprudent. As for political sincerity being illiberal, the best way to present this argument is by summarizing an argument I made elsewhere (Wissenburg 2001c) on sincerity in ecologism. Ecologists have argued that liberalism is fundamentally incompatible with a greener world – i.e. a world where a substantive green morality is adhered to – because of its preference for impartiality. It would fail to give a reason to ‘virtuously’ care about nature, and even fail to support any reason at all for caring about nature. The same argument can be made and has been made, mutatis mutandis, for reasons to care about equality of opportunity, drugs, alcohol and tobacco, religion – in brief, everything that could be part of a citizen’s plan for the good society. It is true that liberalism – or at the very least modern liberalism – tries not to support any particular theory of the good. Liberalism offers code of behaviour for the public sphere designed to allow individuals to coexist in whatever walk of life they choose – vegetarians, fetishists, shopkeepers, etc. – provided they share (not: believe in; just: share) a minimum of public rules. Private convictions can be of two types: obligations (prescribing that one should act in accordance with virtue or rule X) or personal motivations (prescribing that one should act according to X and believe X). To realize X – say, a sustainable society – we need only the former. Liberalism contains no necessary, let alone sufficient, conditions for the creation or evolution of virtuous, green, or virtuously green individuals. Liberalism only cares about (and may interfere with) personal convictions if they harm others, if they illegitimately infringe on their freedoms and lives,

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and convictions cannot do that unless they are translated into practice. At least in principle then, liberalism only interferes with practices, which is enough: just as we do not need to become Christians to follow the rule that ‘thou shalt not kill’, we do not have to become vegetarian Gaia-worshippers to save the earth. What liberalism excludes is not the existence of a world that scores perfectly on its being organized according to any specific substantive good; it excludes a world in which each and every individual is forced to believe that ideal uncritically. If we want to be sure that people do things for the right reasons – or at least not for the wrong reasons – we have to influence the genesis of preferences and not just the exercise of rights. To allow this would be to deny that human reasons are based on fallible knowledge and ever-questionable moral convictions; it would take us back to the dark ages before the Enlightenment. Not only does influencing preferences in a ‘right’ direction presume an outdated epistemology, it requires questionable techniques. To ‘turn’ people ‘green’ for instance, it is not sufficient to offer them the option of a green life as an alternative to its absence (‘you don’t know what you miss until it’s gone’) or even the experience of such a life; such a strategy would only work if it were accompanied by an ideological offensive promoting one view of the good over all others, pre-empting any public debate on the good life by framing it. Demanding, rather than merely hoping, that citizens sincerely believe in what they do is not only illiberal, it is also, for a far more simple reason, imprudent: if each and every individual stuck to his or her beliefs religiously, deliberative agreements on a modus vivendi, a policy telos, let alone an overlapping consensus, etc., would become impossible. Since members of elites must be politicians but do not have to be sincere, let alone be sincerely inspired by an ideal of the good society, they can be machiavellian – which gives us all the more reason to ask why they would bother about actively consulting and representing a ‘constituency’ and showing ‘social responsibility’. As we shall see in a rather tough case – the princes of industry are, after all, often believed to have but one aim in life: money – there is a better argument than noblesse oblige (cf. Barry 2005: 144) or sincere belief in the intrinsic goodness of a well-ordered world: the ever-popular enlightened self-interest.

10.2 A political history of the economy Each era has its buzzwords – popular phrases, used with more or less commanding implications, that denote but do not really describe something that popular opinion (whosever that may be) seems to think of as ‘a public good’. In our days, the buzzwords include sustainability, globalization (or antiglobalization, depending on you point of view), anti-fundamentalism, and ‘the social responsibility of the enterprise’. Buzzwords denote, but do not actually describe. One therefore suspects that there is a lot of rhetoric behind them – that they may well be empty words, hot air. In this chapter, I hope to

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show that ‘the social responsibility of the enterprise’ does not have to be an empty phrase. Since the analysis of the social environment of the enterprise is not one of the strong points of economy or business ethics, a more comprehensive perspective seems more appropriate: that of the political philosopher. Entrepreneurship is not one of the hottest issues in political philosophy, however. In modern political philosophy, commerce and entrepreneurship are in fact virtually ignored. Even in Marxist thought, the role of the economy and of economic actors in the preservation of the existing and creation of a new, possibly better, social order is analysed only at a very general, abstract, macro level. In classic liberal thought, the analysis is usually limited to that macro level as well – there is, it argues, an invisible hand governing the free market, so that both a physical and a financial equilibrium between demand and supply is reached, provided the free market is really free from, in particular, political interference. The exclusion of the economy from political philosophy is a reflection of, and historically speaking, to a degree even a cause of, the distinction that we make in the real world between the public and the private sphere. Now these two expressions are rather confusing because we also use them in different senses: there are contexts in political discourse where the private sphere means family life and the public sphere means the economy, and there are contexts in which the expression ‘private sphere’ denotes our individual internal existence, the individual’s thoughts and ideas, his or her ‘self ’, or – if one can still use that word in philosophy – soul. For the purposes of my argument, however, we shall ignore these alternatives. By public sphere, I shall simply mean the sphere of politics, by private sphere that of the economy. There is a reason why these two spheres are distinguished, and why the economy is excluded from political philosophy. It has to do with the dominant modern interpretation of Aristotle, the father of political philosophy – where some argue that all philosophy can be reduced to footnotes to the work of Plato, I would argue that all political philosophy can be reduced to footnotes to Aristotle. The distinction between the public sphere of politics and the other spheres of economy, family life and internal life goes back to Aristotle: we find its birth, in particular, in the fifth book of his Ethics (Aristotle 1980). There he discusses justice, the most important of all virtues, and argues for a distinction between distributive justice and justice in exchange. Distributive justice is hierarchical, top-down: it concerns the attribution of goods or rights and duties by the ruler to the subjects. This is what we now know as the public sphere, the sphere of politics: it presupposes the existence of a stock of goods owned by the ruler or by the community as a whole. Justice in exchange, on the other hand, is non-hierarchical – it is the sphere of justice between equals, i.e. either the just price agreed by free and equal individuals in a free market, or the just compensation, as determined by a judge, for an involuntary exchange – in other words, retribution for crime. Here we see the roots

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of our modern ‘private’ sphere of the economy. Aristotle adds that the family can be compared to a state (polis), hence that the concepts of distributive justice and justice in exchange can be applied there as well – to a degree. In a metaphorical sense, the individual can even treat himself justly or unjustly – hence even in this sphere the concept can be used, metaphorically only, of course. The important thing to note here is that, for Aristotle, the good society must be both just in distribution and just in exchange. Politics and economy are both part of one great public sphere. To be more precise, a well-functioning economy is a necessary precondition for a well-ordered society. Humans are not ethereal entities but animals: they have physical needs – they need food and water, for one. Unlike other animals, though, humans need more than just that if they are to lead a satisfactory life and feel satisfied, if they are, so to speak, to flourish, to realize their potential, to become who they are in essence. Hence humans collaborate, they divide tasks and make instruments: to work, the animal activity of gathering food and reproducing, humans add labour – the reproduction of instruments and of the conditions for cooperation. But even that is not enough for the politikon zoon (Aristotle 1981). To fully flourish, he (or she) needs an environment in which creation is possible, work not for the sake of reproduction, not for the sake of enabling herself to work again the next day, and the next, and the next – but activities that are valuable for their own sake. Those creative activities alone allow humans to rise above animals, to live a satisfactory life, to become who they really are: activities like music, literature, poetry, philosophy – and most of all politics. Two conclusions follow from this. One is that – as said before – work and labour are necessary preconditions for the good life. The other is that work and labour are less valuable since they are, in essence, animal activities; Aristotle could apparently not appreciate the possibility that the mason’s work as a whole can be meaningful and creative even though no single act of brick-laying is. Trade and commerce are subhuman activities – and trading in money is even worse: it is outright parasitism; hence, in the Middle Ages, it was the only domain where one could allow Jews to be active. In the modern perception of politics, illustrated at its clearest by Hannah Arendt in her The Human Condition (Arendt 1958, see also Arendt 1990), it is this latter idea that has become dominant – the idea that the economy is an inferior sphere, distinct from politics, and that it is almost irrelevant to the good life. The good life is a life of creative activity, not one of work and labour. The designation of economic activity as less worthy is certainly not a modern idea – political philosophers since Aristotle have all hated commerce. But the outright exclusion of the economy from political philosophy is a distinctly post-medieval phenomenon. In the Renaissance, the time of the budding free city and of newly found independence and pride for merchants and merchant cities, political philosophy could have taken two courses. One would have been a re-appraisal of Aristotle’s observation that a healthy

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economy is a necessary condition for the good life. This is the road taken by, for instance, the French and first modern female philosopher, Christine de Pizan (see the quote above in Section 3.3). Hers is one road political philosophy could have taken: it could have upgraded the status of merchants and producers, seen them as a vital part of the flourishing society, as the source of prosperity and growth, without which all dreams of higher activities would be just that – dreams. But Renaissance philosophy rejected all of Aristotle, including his politics, and instead ultimately embraced the Cartesian mind-body dichotomy. Politics and philosophy became the realms of the higher activities of the intellect; the economy, like sex and bowel movements, belonged to the inferior body. Political philosophers owe a lot to 19th Century political economists, in particular to Karl Marx – starting with his appraisal of the worker as more than sheer livestock, and of the good economy as a necessary component of the good society. It is thanks to him, thanks to labour movements and of course also to counter-movements like corporatism and social liberalism, that the social responsibility of businesses and corporations is a legitimate and important topic of debate today. But, as I shall argue, we still fail to properly connect this social responsibility to politics itself.

10.3 Social responsibility: fields and questions Let me start my analysis of the enterprise’s social responsibility with a touch of scepticism – from what I have said so far about political philosophers and their lack of interest in or love for economic affairs, one would not expect a political philosopher to do anything different. Let me start then by saying that there are a lot of reasons to doubt whether there is any use in talking about enterprises’ social responsibility. We do of course talk a lot about ‘the social responsibility’ of enterprises and entrepreneurs these days. But ‘social responsibility’ can mean many things. From a moral point of view, any potentially voluntary act that affects the lives of others carries responsibility. Entrepreneurs therefore have responsibilities to shareholders, investors and their staff. As providers of goods and services, they have a responsibility – so nicely expressed by Christine de Pizan – for their clients and at the same time for their clients’ welfare (the two are not identical). As producers, polluters, buyers and users of resources, they have responsibilities not only to shareholders but also to stakeholders. In the strictest sense of ‘social’, their actions affect their social environment, implying a social responsibility for the enterprise’s local, national and international social and physical environment. That is a lot of responsibility – and I am sure my catalogue is not complete – and it implies a lot of problems, since obviously not all of these responsibilities are compatible. They can (and often do) contradict one another in practice. Potential clients want cocaine, pornography and hamburgers; those same clients in their role as citizens usually do not; shareholders want minimal costs

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and maximum profit; stakeholders want less pollution and more social stability, etc. As soon as we mention ‘the enterprise’s social responsibility’, then, we face two problems that make it questionable whether it can be put into practice. The first is that there are different conceptions of social responsibility that contradict one another, the second is that the obligations derived from those conceptions can contradict one another. Yet these problems, although they may be philosophical at base, are not necessarily fatal. Different possible obligations tend to contradict each other in every field of life, not just in the entrepreneur’s life. Obligations to one’s wife and one’s mistress can be equally incompatible, and we cannot always create win-win situations. Nor should one, at least not necessarily: which potential obligations and responsibilities one should meet, and which not, depends on the appropriate morality, on a system of principles that gives us good reasons to do certain things rather than others. The real philosophical problem with the social responsibility of business is therefore that of formulating a proper moral theory for the actions of businesses and entrepreneurs. But moral theories are appropriate only when action is voluntary. We cannot help but breathe, and no sensible person will say that it is good or bad to breathe – not in the sense in which we might call an assassination good or bad. If we want to call the behaviour of businesses and businessmen and -women good or bad, or socially responsible or irresponsible, then there are more difficult obstacles to conquer than ethics, obstacles of a far less abstract nature.

10.4 The impossibility of responsibility The problems just referred to, the problems that are worse than theoretical problems, can best be described as ‘real world obstacles’. I shall discuss three: the law, the lack of control individuals have over (especially larger) corporations, and of course the logic of the free market that so often punishes ‘moral’ behaviour. First: the law. The law is an incarnation of many things, most of all power, and perhaps least of all morality. The law either specifies whether something is good and bad, or it is silent – and where the social responsibility of enterprises is concerned, it is still usually silent. When the law speaks, however, on this or any subject, it reflects a dominant morality, an unfocused morality or an inbred morality. It reflects a dominant morality when it is dictated by the powerful, like a parliamentary majority, a number of guns or a popular craze. It reflects an unfocused morality when the rules it sets are a compromise between parties or factions, each guided by their own principles, resulting in different interpretations of the spirit of the law when interpretations are necessary. It reflects an inbred morality, particularly in common law systems, but also in any system where precedents are considered relevant, when it allows the alleged wisdom of the ancestors or that of yesterday

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to co-determine the interpretation of the law. In most cases, the law is all of this: a mix of dominant, unfocused and inbred moralities. We may not have anything better – the law, like democracy, may be the least undesirable answer to the problem of social order – but even (and especially) when we appreciate social order, we should not close our eyes to its shortcomings. The law, then, is an incarnation of many things, but it can never be the incarnation of an eternally justified morality – for there is none, at least none that can be sold to each and every group, faith, belief, conviction, theory, etc. that makes up the morally plural societies in which we live. The efficiency and effectiveness of the law are certainly determined by power rather than belief, but power is not necessarily an anonymous force – it is often in the hands of visible and controllable lawgivers. When we design the law, we can try to give it a moral swing, and we can try to justify that move, and hence we can create room for responsibility. Laws today often do not prescribe responsible behaviour – indeed often even obstruct responsibility – for instance towards stakeholders for the benefit of shareholders. But neither those facts, nor the facts of dominance, lack of focus and inbreeding, necessarily exclude the possibility of new and better laws tomorrow. Of course this is little help for those who want companies to act socially responsible now – and some of these people are owners, producers, captains and princes of industry and trade themselves. I use the word ‘princes’ here deliberately, and deliberately in a medieval sense: they are leaders of men, determining the fate and well being of their subjects, commanding vast resources, surrounded by equally powerful hostile princedoms. Even a captain of industry is more than a captain on a ship: not a suzerain but an almost sovereign prince. Many of these princes, captains and ordinary entrepreneurs, down to your local grocer, reflect on their lives and work – in most of their lives there seems to come a moment when they ask themselves if they are only in it for the money, or if instead they can be useful to others than their legal heirs alone. And many feel powerless – especially those in high places. Rather than feeling princes, they feel they are being pushed and shoved, or even overruled and outplayed, by boards of directors, commissioners, shareholders and competing firms (whose captains obviously have the same feeling of alienation). Here, then, is a second real world obstacle to entrepreneurial social responsibility. We should be careful, though, not to conflate too many factors into one. There are several distinct reasons why businessmen and-women feel powerless, and not all of these perceptions are necessarily correct. One is that, within the structure of modern firms, just like modern states, the formal and actual power of any individual is limited by that of others and other institutions. The firm is no longer what it was, at least in popular fiction, in the 19th Century: the equivalent of a Khanate, a band of warriors roaming the world (the free market) for opportunities (for plunder or profit) under the guidance of an absolute leader. Henry Ford is dead; today’s prince of industry needs ministerial qualities like statesmanship, diplomacy, prudence and a detached

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perspective. None of these exclude the existence or exercise of power – power is just wielded in a different way under different conditions. A second (and closely related) problem is that, to the degree that the perception of loss of control is correct, to the degree that the khan has been forced to make room for the minister, individual responsibility has indeed been traded in for corporate responsibility. In other words: some actions of firms – decisions on what to buy, what to sell, how to produce and where – are the result of long series of individual actions that in themselves do not seem to relate to these ‘big’ questions, and often these actions do not even feel like ‘actions’ (decisions with responsibility attached to them) but like necessary reactions. The question of corporate responsibility is an important one, and it may not be possible to create room for perfectly controlled responsibility (real responsibility), either by statesmanlike directors or by organizational changes. Yet this makes little difference to our topic: whether responsibility for the actions of an enterprise lies in the hand of an individual or a collective – the point is that it exists. A third and final reason why princes of industry sometimes feel powerless is also the third real world problem I mentioned above: the logic of the free market. Assume that a company really has control over its actions – either because a khan guides it, or because it has effective forums and mechanisms for self-control; and assume that the company wants to act socially responsible in the sense that it wishes to offer a product that is e.g. more environmentally friendly than what it produced up to that day. Clients may or may not buy the product; competitors may or may not follow the innovator. In practice, the free market often punishes the innovator, thus discouraging socially responsible behaviour. Yet as we saw above (Section 4.3), it would be more correct to blame the pay-off structure of innovation. One of the actors who determine pay-off structures is the government – hence, one of the reasons why the social responsibility of enterprises is a political responsibility is that innovative companies have a (potentially legitimate) interest in what happens in politics. We have to formulate a proviso, however. I have assumed, and will assume, that the overall and primary concern of every enterprise is to make a decent buck. It has to make a profit to cover its costs, to afford renovation, research and development and innovation, and particularly the entrepreneur as an individual needs an extra bit of money to make working worthwhile.2 There is also a second, more perverse money game going on, however: beyond the needs for ‘sufficient’ profit, there is the contest for investors through the value of shares, which is in turn ruled by maximizing profit rather than by ‘sufficiency’ – investors are greedy, and there seems to be (at the level of executives) a kind of kick and sexual power in maximizing profit and winning from competitors. This maximization game is a classic example of an in itself (in this case economically and socially) useless contest – for which the Americans use the vulgar (but quite revealing) term ‘pissing contest’. Maximization has a logic of its own, where the boosting of self-image

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is possibly as important as the greed of investors – and it is a logic that no law or norm can easily control. Whatever optimistic ideas we may have about corporate social responsibility – we shall have to temper our enthusiasm and realize that there really are limits to the exercise of social responsibility.

10.5 The civic role of enterprise What I have argued so far can be summarized in three sentences. There are theoretical, philosophical problems with the idea of the social responsibility of enterprises, but none that make it irrational to think that enterprises can act socially responsible. There are also very serious practical obstacles for socially responsible behaviour, not the least of which have to do with the peculiarities of the free market – but none of these make socially responsible behaviour infeasible. It all depends on the payoff structure of consumers and producers, on what they get for their money and what they get for their products, respectively. It is here that politics comes into the picture, it is here that the social responsibility of the enterprise turns out to have a civic dimension. We must make one important assumption here, and that is that enterprises or entrepreneurs should like to act socially responsible. I am not saying here that they would like to – let us be honest and admit that many entrepreneurs do not care one bit about morality. Nor am I saying that they should act socially responsible – since socially responsible production can be self-defeating (as we just saw), i.e. since the consequences can be negative, this would be a proposition that can only be defended from a non-consequentialist ethical point of view, the kind of view that argues that actions are good or bad ‘in themselves’, i.e. only because of their intrinsic properties and not because of their consequences. I do sympathize deeply with this view, but, as I argued above, in our morally plural world it is difficult and perhaps impossible to defend one kind of ethics, one kind of theory of the good life as the one and only true theory. Especially in the context of economics, where results do seem to matter, it is hard to present the non-consequentialist view convincingly. Hence, so as to make room both for consequentialist ethics and the deontologist alternative, I formulate my assumption in the form ‘should like to’. Whatever the reason may be, we must assume that entrepreneurs should have a reason to act socially responsible. If entrepreneurs should like to act socially responsible, then, they will want to operate in a world where this is actually possible. They will want to operate in a world where consumers’ and producers’ payoffs do not inhibit socially responsible production and trade. For that to happen, payoffs must include more than the money a producer receives and more than the financial benefits that the consumer derives from a product. Examples of such extra elements in payoffs are easy to give: in real life, payoffs are also determined by the status one derives from owning something – the latest car, the most technologically advanced TV or audio set, a really expensive suit. Vice

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versa, shame or loss of face diminishes the payoff one gets in some cultures from buying or selling fur coats, cigarettes or viagra. Payoffs are also determined by costs: the risks of fines or prison sentences can detract a lot from the pleasure derived from stigmatized goods like drugs or sexual favours, whereas rewards in the form of tax deductions or privileges increase the payoff. In addition to ‘pure’ financial elements, payoffs are therefore determined by two other factors: legal and moral costs and profits. These two factors are determined by, or in, the public sphere of politics – where public opinion and laws are formulated. Hence, if an entrepreneur should like to act socially responsible, he or she should also like politics to create the circumstances under which that is possible. Now if you want the end, you want the means. If you want to act socially responsibly, or would like to or should like to or ought to, then you also want to (or would like to or should like to or ought to) create the circumstances under which that duty or desire can be practised. Part of being a socially responsible entrepreneur is therefore, necessarily, that you involve yourself in politics, so that your moral obligations can be fulfilled. Very briefly then: the social responsibility of enterprises requires that they also operate as political actors. A moral enterprise is a politically active enterprise. Yet how is one to give shape to this idea of the politically active enterprise? One could argue that there is no need to change anything to specifically accommodate economic actors. In liberal-democratic societies, entrepreneurs are citizens just like everyone else; in non-democratic countries, they are disproportionately represented (either excluded or strong powers behind the throne) and the problem is not one of their representation but of equal and fair representation for all who have an interest in morally responsible behaviour in any walk of life. And yet, if sheer citizenship were sufficient, civil society would not exist, certainly not as it exists today. Civil society consists of organizations of or for individual citizens involved in mutually beneficial action. Civil society today consists of organizations that represent their interests in politics through means and channels other than those of formal politics – i.e. as organizations rather than individuals through advisory, consultative or protesting forums, through legal actions, through campaigns, etc. In many countries, civil society organizations even operate public services, tasks delegated to them by the political authorities – think in particular of social services. The Greeks of Aristotle’s time did not have a civil society of this sort – at best, they had the equivalent of local football teams. We can only explain the rise of modern civil society if we recognize that over the past 20-plus centuries, the ideal of a good society has changed. Two changes seem most important. Firstly, work and labour are no longer more or less ‘natural’ activities following unchanging natural laws – the circumstances under which production and trade take place have become malleable, thereby a matter of

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collective choice, and thereby a political topic. Secondly, the higher (or at least ‘creative’) activities have come within reach of more than the happy few of Athens – and they compete for time and resources with labour and work. They too have become matters of choice; hence they now have a political dimension too. What once were natural, necessary activities and individual free choices, respectively, are now interests. The Aristotelian world on which our model of politics as the realm of involved individual citizens is based, citizens who impartially participate in politics to contribute to the common good of a stable system of law and order – this model has difficulty accommodating interests, and specifically the organized and opposed interests expressed in modern civil society. As a consequence, the political activities of civil society take place outside of the classic structures of public debate, decision-making, responsibility and accountability. The question of representing enterprises rather than entrepreneurs is, therefore, part of a much broader question: that of the politicization of civil society as a whole, of its embedding within clear and open structures where they too (like politicians) can be held accountable for their actions, and where they too have an opportunity to act socially responsible. Political philosophy today does not offer much of an answer – as said before, with the exception of Marxism it ignores political-economic issues, and with the exception of fascism and corporatism it ignores civil society. We may even ask if it can give us any answers – according to some, political philosophy is more reflection that creation: it reflects on political structures and developments, perhaps in creative ways but nevertheless after the fact. Two things we can nevertheless say about the enterprise: it too (just like the individual entrepreneur) has a duty to act as a citizen, at least within civil society, and it too (just like other members of civil society) has a duty to create a political environment in which civil society organizations operate in the open, rather than behind the throne. We do not live in old Athens anymore – the economy is part of the common good, not a precondition of it.

10.6 Conclusion Let me summarize. We have determined, first, that the social responsibilities of enterprises and entrepreneurs (although they may be politically ‘hot’) are not among the central concerns of political scientists and philosophers, with few exceptions (e.g. Barry 2005). I have argued that this is perhaps the result of a more or less elitist interpretation of the Aristotelian conception of society as a cooperative venture aimed at a common good (and the good of every individual). We have, secondly, asked if there is any sense at all in talking about the social responsibility of enterprise. There has to be, or otherwise there would be no sense in saying that political philosophy should no longer ignore the role of enterprises and economy. What I did, then, was argue that there really are limits to entrepreneurial social responsibility. I have mentioned eight:

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1 there are different and incompatible conceptions of responsibility; 2 from these conceptions, different and contradictory duties and obligations follow; 3 we lack, at least at this moment, a moral theory of social responsibility that can settle the two problems just mentioned. These three problems together, I argued, may be annoying but do not imply that enterprises cannot act socially responsible. The practical obstacles to social responsibility are more disturbing: 4 the law is often silent on responsibility, often even an obstruction to it – and difficult to change. But the law can be changed; 5 the larger the firm, the more it seems that no one is in control, hence, that no one can be held accountable or act responsibly and make a difference. I have argued that this obstacle to responsibility in fact brings three distinct control problems under one heading. One has to do with the style of leadership – in large enterprises, qualities associated with statesmanship are needed to guide and steer an enterprise. Individual responsibility on the part of the entrepreneur is still possible – it just takes a new form, and its results will be less visible. 6 the second control problem is that one has to acknowledge that in large firms collective responsibility does nevertheless exist – to control it, organizational changes may be necessary; 7 the free market is not necessarily a friendly place for the socially responsible enterprise – it often punishes ‘responsible’ innovation and rewards ‘irresponsible’ innovation. The crucial factor here is the pay-off structure: a socially responsible enterprise can only survive if (1) its products are sufficiently appreciated by a sufficient number of consumers, where we assume that ‘appreciation’ is determined not only by price but possibly also by other qualities of the products. Furthermore, a socially responsible enterprise will survive only when (2) its own preferences, its own pay-off, is not determined by maximizing profit alone. And at this point I briefly discussed a last obstacle: 8 an apparently self-sustaining dynamic that controls the money market: although there seems to be no sound economic reason for individual enterprises to do so, the share market at the macro-level and – probably – a perverse inclination towards winning regardless of the consequences at the micro-level keep pushing enterprises away from an economy of sufficiency, and towards profit maximization and growth maximization.

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This is not supposed to be an exhaustive list of obstacles for the enterprise’s social responsibility. We could add globalization, for instance. The more globalization, the less anyone can control anyone else, and the more the enterprise can – and under free market conditions must – act as a grasshopper or a ravaging Mongol horde. Yet more illustrations would not, I think, add anything substantive to the argument – the conclusions would remain the same. Despite these obstacles, socially responsible production and trade are possible if and when the pay-off structures of both consumers and producers allow it. This is where politics comes in – i.e. where the social responsibility of the enterprise turns out to have a civil dimension. If one should like to act socially responsible, one must want to operate in a world where this is actually possible, and those possibilities – particularly the moral and legal elements of payoffs – are determined in the public sphere of politics. In a modern world where interests are represented through civil society, this implies that enterprises and not only entrepreneurs should act as citizens – their highest priority being the creation of a fitting political environment for their citizenship, since that does not exist yet. One final question remains: what motivates a company to want to act socially responsible? An opposition of self-interest versus ‘higher’ moral interests – or more bluntly: rationality versus morality – usually dominates discussions on this question. If the primary aim of the company is to maximize profit, not to survive and protect long-term interests, then moral behaviour can remain irrational and can never be guaranteed. Perhaps the only way out of this dilemma is by remembering what politics (in the Aristotelian and Arendtian model) is really about: creating the environment in which one wishes to operate, bounded by the natural limits of the universe – an environment in which all can flourish, for if only some can flourish in the end few will be left. The more anarchic the world in which a company operates, the more it can and must operate as a grasshopper, just like its competitors – the result being a war of all against all. Companies have an interest in order, for instance to ensure good education, social security or adequate information on clients’ preferences – and therefore also an interest in a flourishing civil society.

11 Harmony and political pluralization

11.1 A political history In the first two chapters of this book, I identified two clusters of reasons why political pluralization might be characterized as a problem. The first one consisted of typically political problems – incompossibility of rules, loss of identity and loss of polis – and I shall return to it in a moment. The other cluster, on which I shall focus first, was the loss of a point of reference for political science and political philosophy, academic disciplines that, at least in our times, seem to be predicated on the existence of a sovereign nationstate. Where the presence of sovereignty is presupposed, current academic debates on international justice between North and South, on global and environmental justice, on failed states, multiculturalism, terrorism, fundamentalism, ius in bello and ius ad bellum and deliberative and participatory democracy all risk missing a fundamental connection with political reality. Political pluralization implies that, at least in those respects and in so far as the sovereign state ever existed, and in those respects and in so far as it is disappearing, the disciplines need to designate or define a new environment for their object of research, politics. In Chapters 8 and following, I have tried to present such an alternative in which deviation from sovereignty, order and structure is not the exception but the rule: metropolis, a configuration of individuals participating in at least 10 types of cooperative venture, ventures that may in turn participate in different cités, and cités that may be united by further superstructures. Three traits of this alternative model need to be stressed. Firstly, the model has no set form or limits to form. Even more than the Aristotelian polis (which still presumes a sedentary lifestyle), it is meant to be a model that fits all real-existing and imaginable forms and constellations of political cooperation. The more a group of individuals’ networks of participation in cooperative ventures coincide, the closer their structure of cooperation will resemble – depending on the type of cooperative ventures – a night watchman, welfare or totalitarian state, a theocracy, a tribe, a people or a cosmopolis. The utopian or dystopian model of sovereign nation-states, co-existing in an international anarchic system and made up of one public and several

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private spheres is merely one of the infinite number of political constellations that fit within the model. Secondly, the picture I sketched was one of extremes, one in which the processes defining political pluralization (apparently inevitably) imply a development away from a constellation of self-proclaimed sovereign nationstates towards one that can at best be described as a virtual anarchy in which each single individual human is a part of, and in fact defines, a different political constellation. The processes characterizing political pluralization – internationalization, globalization, dehierarchization, governance, etc. – are however contingent empirical phenomena. In the discussion of types of cooperation (Chapters 4–7), I examined various reasons that could explain cooperation or secession, but I did not claim that there is a cosmic law of nature dictating that those reasons will necessarily result in any or all of the processes of political pluralization described, let alone that cooperation and secession always happen for reasons, i.e. as a consequence of deliberation and design. Nor, finally, did I claim that all voluntary associations and all superstructures of such cooperative ventures will be equally important in determining the lives and opportunities of individuals. In fact, models like the not-so-sovereign state or the far-from-perfect theocracy probably describe reality far better than the extremes of Leviathan and anarchy. ‘Fuzzy politics’ is just one among an infinity of possible futures – as is a ‘restoration’ of the sovereign states system or the creation of a global sovereign. As Peters and Pierre (2005: 221) observed: ‘rumours of the death of the state are exaggerated’. Finally, the metropolis concept of the polity is not only more ecumenical than the sovereign state model, it is also preferable for the type of moral reasons that attracts (or should attract) academics: it is politically more neutral. Both pluralization and concentration of power (up to the point of sovereignty) may occur for reasons, i.e. be the consequences of consideration and design, rather than be involuntary consequences of inescapable causal processes. A political science or political theory that builds itself on the foundations of abstract entities and processes like states, institutions, capital flows and cultural changes, that puts the question whether instances of association or disassociation are voluntary or involuntary processes between brackets, automatically reduces humans to objects while ignoring their potential to become subjects. It thereby misses the opportunity to identify processes of submission and liberation – or perhaps more neutrally put: to observe processes of bottom-up rather than top-down creation of the polity. From a liberal point of view (though that should be irrelevant to the academic) one might even say that a bias in favour of the sovereign state as the best representation of humanity is a denial of the dignity of the human being. The metropolis scenario was not developed to predict a particular future: as far as predicting goes, it merely helps delineate a range of possible futures. It is there to help deselect and prescribe possible courses of action – and now

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I turn to the other, political rather than scientific, cluster of problems associated with political pluralization. Political change and stability, the continued existence of old institutions, or the creation of new ones, cannot be legitimate without an appeal to good reasons. Among these are moral reasons, arguments in terms of a desirable, better or good society. The view of the good defended in this book was a liberal one, i.e. it presumed that enabling critical reflection (enlightenment) on one’s values and goals is a good thing, and that (in general) liberating humans from the bonds of physical, legal or intellectual slavery is a good thing. What I have tried to show is that political pluralization can be a good thing if it contributes, firstly, to the creation of institutions based on deliberation rather than fear, popularity, tradition or taboo; and secondly if the resulting institutions themselves contribute to human emancipation. Other conceptions of the good society will obviously result in different assessments of the good of political pluralization, and of the conditions under which it can be or is good. Students of politics having to abandon the sovereign nation-state model of the polis in favour of something else is a minor discomfort compared to the disadvantages political pluralization was expected to have for the lives of all individuals: incompossibility of rule-systems, loss of polity and loss of identity – in sum, the loss of Steinberger’s ‘structure of intelligibility’ (Steinberger 2004: 13). When we investigated the grounds for human cooperation, grounds that ought to have justified our characterization of this threesome as disadvantages or problems, however, we discovered that ‘it all depends’. Loss of polity and identity, even incompossibility, are problems only when we make them problems, specifically: when they turn into obstacles for the realization of a good life. They become real problems only when one adheres to an (ultimately) communitarian theory of the good in which unity, stability and order are goals in themselves rather than, under circumstances, possible conditions for the well-being and well-living of individuals.1 If one ultimately cares about individuals, then loss of polity and identity or incompossibility cannot be more than accidental problems. We therefore ended up affirming rather than rejecting political pluralization as an a priori valuable process expressing human emancipation, provided – among other things – that instances of political pluralization actually do contribute to the emancipation of humans. If we forget about the extremes for a moment, and think of political pluralization not as a development towards a utopian anarchic goal but simply as a process of devolution and reorganization of authority (the dismantling of the sovereign nation-state) in which relatively stable superstructures can still unite cités and cooperative ventures, in which even states of sorts are possible, we seem to come a lot closer to what students of the various forms of political pluralization believe is happening in today’s world. To make sense of the multi-interpretable character of this process, many an author has felt the need to look for historical comparisons. Some, for instance, have argued that we are entering an era of ‘new Medievalism’ (Bull

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2002, see also Chapter 2 of this book). Since history rarely repeats itself repeats itself, the medieval model is only a simile, highlighting interesting resemblances but also obscuring relevant dissimilarities – such as the nonexistence today (except in legal fiction) of Roma aeterna or (except in religious fiction) of a universal Church. Instead of a new medievalism, I would like to offer a different simile – with of course a similar word of warning on dissimilarities – to indicate where political pluralization may lead us. One could argue that the present global political system, regional systems like the EU and even individual states themselves show striking resemblances to the Dutch Republic of 1572–1795,2 famed by Locke, Descartes, Bayle and countless others as an example to the world in liberty, equality, tolerance and justice.3 The Republic consisted of seven provinces united by a very limited number of institutions, such as the States General left over after the Provinces seceded from their Habsburg overlord (the king of Spain), and an even more limited number of newly designed national institutions. Each of the provinces had its own unwritten constitution and its own States (parliament) with representatives of the nobility and the cities, each of the States being composed in accordance with provincial law, the members elected in accordance with local law; each province had its own legal and tax systems, each its own armies, each its own rules for religious tolerance (or absence thereof), each its own system of land ownership and definitions of nobility. The same applied to the cities and communities: each its own degree of autonomy, each its own rules and definition of citizenship, etc. Over time, some but not all provinces or cities shared institutions. The provinces of Utrecht and Holland, for instance, shared the same chamber of accounts, and some but not all accepted the same person as stadhouder, i.e. commander in chief of the army and acting head of state (read: province)4 – or from time to time some or all eliminated the position of stadhouder altogether. The similarities between the old Dutch Republic and today’s political reality are interesting and perhaps even striking, but the reason why I introduced this simile is not the Republic’s rise or greatness, but its fall. In 1795, after barely surviving a liberal revolution eight years earlier, the highly politically pluralized Dutch system finally collapsed, to be replaced first by a revolutionary liberal, centralized sovereign nation-state, the Batavian Republic, and (after an interlude under Napoleonic rule) subsequently by a kind of Ancien Régime restoring old elites and institutions within the framework of a centralized monarchy. The reasons why the Republic and its successor fell may shed some light on the prospects for political pluralization today. As usual, the reasons are many, some are less public or obvious than others, they are all intertwined, and their relative impact is open to debate. I shall limit myself here to those that one finds more or less clearly expressed in the Constitution of the Batavian Republic of 1798 (Van Hasselt and De Hartog 1909, Rosendaal 2005). The most striking feature of this constitution is the very first sentence,

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in which ‘the Batavian People’5 constitute an indivisible state – no talk of provincial identities there. This was a response to what the revolutionaries saw as the inability of the Provinces to protect and promote the shared Dutch (Batavian) values expressed elsewhere in the constitution – enlightenment values like liberty, equality, religious tolerance and careers and opportunities open to all. In the years before 1795, the revolutionaries (then called Patriots) had already tried to overthrow the ruling coalition which consisted of an ever weaker Orange dynasty,6 economically ever less important provincial nobles and an increasingly intolerant Protestant clergy. The 1798 constitution banished the Oranges and their supporters, abolished aristocratic prerogatives, separated church and state, gave equal rights to Catholics, Jews and Protestant dissenters, and even implicitly made room for atheists. It also redrew legal borders: the various constitutions of provinces and cities were abolished, provinces and communities themselves replaced by departments and cantons operating under one national government. Representatives were now chosen by all tax-paying citizens rather than by those whose local position gave them the medieval prerogatives of nobles or burghers. The Batavian revolution is the exact opposite of political pluralization – i.e. it was political standardization and centralization – but it still fits the description of a cooperative venture (in this case, cooperatives including superstructures) based on a deliberative overlapping consensus and aimed (explicitly) at human emancipation; the liberal values expressed in the constitution are easily interpreted as expressing the reflective equilibrium among reasonable individuals at the time. As compared to the latter-day Republic, its institutions promised not only emancipation of the oppressed and exploited, but also more efficiency and effectiveness. Both the chaotic history of the Batavian Republic, where elites had been restructured but not replaced, and where they organized counterrevolution upon counterrevolution, and the post-Napoleonic restoration of 1813, supported by the victors over France, show that power and reason are different things, however. In the 1814 constitution, the old prerogatives of nobility and patrician burghers and the old borders between provinces were restored, a Protestant state church was (re-)established and other faiths again excluded from public service, general suffrage was abolished and all references to human rights were deleted. Only the Batavian centralization of (now monarchical) authority at the level of the nation-state was maintained, although the States General were split into a House of Lords and a House of Commons in 1815. It took almost two centuries of slow but steady reform for the liberal values of 1798 to be almost7 restored: since 1983, the Dutch constitution once again affirms the equality of all and separates church and state. Unlike the constitution of 1798, the 1814 constitution is a clear case of political pluralization – one that, however, does not qualify on the emancipation criterion. It expressed a modus vivendi, particularly between old and

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new elites, rather than an overlapping consensus. Even so, the modus vivendi was based more on the relative power of the old elites (backed externally by the Vienna Concert partners and internally by Orangists and low church Protestants) than on a deliberative agreement on basic values; unlike the liberal revolutionaries of 1795, the Orangists did not confuse (constitutional) form and substance (i.e. the actual distribution of power). The corruption and demise of the Dutch Republic, and the history of its successors, illustrate a number of points that have been mentioned before, but perhaps have not been stressed sufficiently yet. First and foremost: political pluralization may be a priori legitimate, it is not necessarily legitimate. Whether or not political pluralization is commendable depends not just on whether it implies an improvement in the administration of cooperative ventures relative to the status quo ante, but also on the point of view from which improvement is defined. It depends, in other words, on political feasibility on the one hand, and moral superiority on the other. Each case of political pluralization will be assessed differently – not only in its specific context but also depending on the assessor’s specific theory of the good society. Secondly, a reorganization undoing political pluralization is, by the same token, not necessarily undesirable, though it turns out to be no more of a guarantee for basic human rights or other emancipation values than a ‘fuzzy’, politically pluralized constellation.

11.2 Legitimate political pluralization In the preceding chapters, several conditions were formulated under which political pluralization would be legitimate, and several types of grounds for cooperation were distinguished. This section provides an overview of those conditions and translates them into terms for legitimate cooperation. Since political pluralization is not a process that is predestined to result in one particular state of affairs, the conditions will be expressed dynamically as steps away from a preceding status quo. I shall first list the conditions for legitimate cooperation ‘in itself ’, and then move on to overall legitimate cooperation. The distinction will become clearer as we go. Assuming a broadly liberal, emancipation-focused view of the good life like the one expressed in this book, and any view supporting at least efficiency and effectiveness as bases of legitimacy, social cooperation is ‘in itself ’ justified if it meets four necessary and (only) together sufficient conditions: 1 cooperation must be based either on voluntary choice or on the use of force of a type and intensity consistent with the promotion of emancipation; 2 a cooperative institution should reflect in its structure and actions the basis for cooperation on which it is founded, and no more: a it should perform the task its members have set for it; b it should not arbitrarily exclude any potential members for whom it could perform the same task; and

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c

it should regularly check its efficiency, effectiveness and support in terms of the basis for its existence through some form of at least substantive representation – and adapt accordingly; 3 a cooperative institution should be superior in efficiency and effectiveness to any alternative that could have been chosen, given conditions 1 and 2; and 4 a cooperative structure should at least not inhibit further emancipation for any of those whose lives it touches. The greater part of these conditions will need no further explanation, since they express interpretations of the foundations of cooperation, of efficiency and effectiveness, and of emancipation discussed at length in preceding chapters. One element may appear to be new, however: the restrictions on exclusion in conditions 2b and 4. They are nonetheless implied by the rest. Crucial elements in the justification of cooperation are that cooperation is based either on voluntary agreement on a purpose, or on the forced cooperation of those who – morally speaking – ought to agree voluntary and would agree under the right circumstances. It is the purpose that defines potential membership, not the other way around, which makes any other limit to membership (2b) irrelevant and arbitrary. It is (the non-obstruction of) emancipation that makes the purpose of cooperation worthwhile and justifiable, i.e. a universal human good, not the betterment of some to the possible disadvantage of others. Limiting assessment of the effects of cooperation to participants in the scheme only defies the nature of emancipation. The four conditions above summarize what makes cooperation legitimate in itself, but apart from indirect links through the issue of exclusion and through references to effectiveness and emancipation, they take no heed of the environment in which a cooperative scheme has to exist. Cooperatives do not, however, exist for their own sake, but rather to further the interests of individuals, and individuals are usually members of more than one cooperative venture (cf. Steinberger 2004: 21, 141). A new cooperative has to fit in its environment somehow if it is to serve individuals: there has to be a degree of overall harmony (to use an Aristotelian expression) in the metropolis. This brings us to three further conditions (each necessary, together sufficient): 5 relative to other possible cooperative schemes serving the same purpose as X, a cooperative structure X should maximize efficiency and effectiveness and maximally reflect the bases for cooperation on which it is founded in any superstructure in which its members participate; 6 relative to other possible cooperative schemes serving the same purpose as X, a cooperative structure X should maximally ensure (and never inhibit) the continued existence of other cooperatives in any superstructure; and 7 relative to other possible cooperative schemes serving the same purpose as X, a cooperative structure X should not (through its existence and actions or inactions) cause other cooperative ventures to violate conditions 1–4.

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The impartiality expressed in e.g. the non-exclusion clauses in conditions 1–4 is reflected in conditions 6 and 7 by the clause ‘in any superstructure’; it is absent in condition 5 for a simple reason: whereas we may assume that individuals participating in X will want the other cooperatives in which they participate to meet conditions 1–4 as well, we cannot beforehand assume that other individuals outside X are members of equally justifiable organizations. The effects that, say, the foundation of a human rights organization in Luxemburg has on the social lives and prospects of its members are morally and politically relevant; the effects the groups work has on the fabric of, say, North Korean society are not – with two notable exceptions, covered by conditions 6 and 7. Where condition 5 expresses a need for overall political harmony, condition 6 covers (among other things) what one might call environmental harmony, fit between a cooperative scheme and the natural resource basis upon which human existence depends. Condition 7 covers social harmony, i.e. social justice. Both are similar to the Pareto-condition: in essence, they demand that no-one be made worse off in terms of resources and justice, and that at least one individual be better off.8 Utilitarians would probably not agree, and would appeal to Dostoyevski’s classic dilemma of the Chief Inquisitor: if, by torturing a young, innocent child in the most ghastly way imaginable, you could ensure maximum bliss for all of humanity in all eternity – would you not do it? Hard as the choice may be, and understandable, even excusable, as any choice in real life for the evil act serving the greater good may be – it is, on a liberal view, an unjustifiable choice unless the evil act could be a proper retribution for past injustice. If one does not take the emancipation of even one human seriously, one does not take humanity seriously. Both special conditions (6 and 7) express particular views of sustainability and justice, respectively. The environmental harmony condition seems to imply a view of nature as resources rather than as valuable in itself or as potentially irreplaceable – environmentalism rather than ecologism. It is, however, an inclusive rather than exclusive condition: it is and remains compatible with deep green convictions and preferences, although it does prioritize human needs and survival over anything for which survival is a necessary condition (cf. Chapter 7). The social harmony condition is remarkable more for the fact that it supports no particular principles of justice than for the fact that it advances liberal or Enlightenment types of theories of justice and the good life. Given the point of view defended in this book, the latter should come as no surprise – which is why it is more interesting to take a look at what this condition is silent about: particular conceptions of justice.

11.3 Justice A complete theory of social justice attends to rules for the distribution of benefits and burdens ‘owned’ by society (distributive justice), rules for the

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exchange of privately owned goods (commutative justice), rules for the correction of violations of those rules (retributive justice) and ‘rules’ for justifiable deviations from rules (equity). Developing such a theory is a demanding job; not even John Rawls felt up to it. Although lack of sufficient physical and intellectual resources is a valid excuse, a philosophically more sound reason not to develop a theory of justice fit for a ‘metropolis’ rather than a ‘society’ is that it is (in the context of this book) simply impossible. No data have been discovered, no theorems formulated, on the basis of which a distinct theory of ‘metropolitan’ justice could be developed. The reason is simple: our topic was not justice but the legitimacy of structures through which principles of justice might be realized. Some of those structures will be more and others less conducive to the realization of particular types of justice, but there are no grounds of principle to a priori exclude any particular constellation of cooperative ventures as unjust; there are only side-constraints that limit the range of legitimate social orders and, by implication, the range of compatible and feasible theories of justice. Let me indicate here a few directions for future research. First, the more pluralized the metropolis becomes, the more prominent will be the role of justice in exchange. Although we can still think of the purpose of a cooperative venture in terms of the production of a good owned collectively by the members – and therefore at least in theory allocated in accordance with a principle of distributive justice – that same good cannot be considered the collective property of any overarching superstructure in which perhaps only some members participate. Hence, for instance, both justice between (in)voluntary associations and the question of international justice will be better addressed by framing them in terms of fair trade, exploitation and compensation than by framing them as matters of distributive (in)justice; the latter would imply that third and fourth world nations have no specific rights to their natural or intellectual resources. Interpreting political cooperation as taking place in a politically pluralized metropolis thus complicates the (perhaps so far oversimplified) debate between cosmopolitans and nationalists on whether natural resources are the common heritage of humanity or that of a nation or people. Both parties in that debate assume, without clear argument, that resources – and consequently benefits derived from their use – also belong to those who do not develop them; a ‘metropolitan’ commutative justice perspective, by contrast, highlights the special and perhaps stronger claims of those who actually contribute to the creation of those benefits. Dinosaur juice may be common property of a people or of all of humanity, the useful fuel ‘oil’ is only created by mixing it with the initiative, inspiration and perspiration of hard-working individuals and associations. In a pluralized metropolis, the need for retributive justice will grow hand in hand with that for commutative justice, yet – in the absence of appropriate institutions uniting cooperatives and cités – it will be less easy to enforce. Justice becomes more an individual virtue of responsible and (pro)active

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citizens, and less passive submission to the rules and laws of (particularly distributive) institutions. This too implies a need to shift attention in research on justice from the design of institutions and principles to the question of the proper subject of justice, the ‘client’ of justice theorists. Next, even though a metropolis bears a passing resemblance to Michael Walzer’s idea of society as a set of individuals united by participation in various social spheres of interaction and by their adherence to the distributive principles applied there, we cannot defend as Walzer could a contextual justification of principles of justice. Not only would that bring us back to the internal contradictions of communitarianism – specifically its failure to justify borders between societies and communities – but it would also contradict the role of emancipation defended here. Embracing emancipation implies a distinct considered preference for deliberative principles of justice over principles based on tradition, popularity or ancestral or divine command, and a distinct considered preference for principles based on (at least) a serious attempt to reach substantive ethical agreement rather than settle for prudence, as the modus vivendi approach would have us do. In spite of the fragmentation of both polity and society, political pluralization gives no reason to believe that neutral and universalizable principles of justice will be less easy to formulate – instead, it only gives us reason to believe that practicing them becomes more dependent on an internalized commitment to justice than, again, unreflective submission. Although contextually justified principles of social justice must be rejected, context-sensitivity in the application of justice is inevitable. It is only those who have never really read Rawls who try to apply his two principles of justice directly to real-life cases, and then criticize Rawls’ principles for being abstract and inconclusive. As Rawls affirmed when he introduced his four-stage sequence for the translation of principles into constitutions into laws into adjudication (Rawls 1999a: 171), it is simple common sense that general principles need to be interpreted if they are to be applied fruitfully. The important thing is to develop proper procedures for their interpretation. Again, replacing the popular conception of a sovereign nation-state or a closed autarchic society by the more realistic image of a metropolis is not very conducive to simplicity and clarity in describing those procedures: they too will be context-sensitive, and will ultimately reflect the plans of life and the preferences of the cooperating individuals – ideally, deliberative and substantively sound preferences; realistically, perhaps, only slightly more self-critical, unassuming and modest preferences. As said before, the development of preferences is not an area that liberal political philosophers are keen on entering, despite the commitment of some of them to the education of individual preferences and to their transformation into considered judgements based on sound and sufficient information, self-reflection and weighted feelings. Nevertheless, the three virtues of a liberal social order supported by this commitment (freedom of information, freedom of debate, modesty of expectations) require the promotion of one

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more virtue: courage. When our ancestors discovered that no laws of nature bound them to trees, they bravely descended and faced new freedom; taboo after taboo has been discredited since. Globalization, dehierarchization and all the associated phenomena prove that there is no law of nature binding us to the state, nor to the borders it imposes on our lives, our loves, our joys and our futures. It is a new world we are entering – let us be brave and face it.

Notes

1 Introduction 1 Reflecting this dichotomy, political scientists include the feel-good factor in their definitions of legitimacy, whereas political philosophers usually understand legitimacy as supported by substantively good reasons, regardless of popularity (cf. Barker 1990, 2001). A third perspective on legitimacy, seeking to bridge the gap between normative and positive legitimacy, as David Beetham defended (cf. Barker 2001: 12), fails to convince political philosophers. 2 I do not apologize for the paternalistic implications of this term. I do not adhere to any view that would allow cultural diversity to turn into a justification for murder, torture, rape or more generally the mutilation of beings endowed with reason, or their permanent subjection to any will but their own. 2 Political pluralization 1 There is a subtle distinction between debates on global justice, which focus mainly on environmental and socio-economic justice in North–South relations, and those on international justice, which focus more on constitutional, military and international law aspects of relations between states. 2 Often ignored by liberal authors – there is a tendency to equate liberal democracy with liberalism (cf. e.g. Jagers 2007: 81) due to the quest for morally legitimate political principles, i.e. legitimate regardless of actual popularity. 3 Although this particular phrase has disappeared, the gist of Miller’s argument survived to become Chapter 12 of his Principles of Social Justice (1999). 4 For an overview of empirical research and political thought on the intra-border and cross-border changes in the (role and power of the) state, and in the limited integration of these two issues, see e.g. Strange (1996), Caporaso (1997), Benhabib (2002), Gutmann (2002), Kahler (2002), Ilgen (2003), Walker (2003), Sørensen (2005), Peters and Pierre (2005) and Flinders (2005). For enlightening assessments of the role of sovereignty in this debate, see Bartelson (2006) and Prokhovnik (2007). 5 In specific contexts, internationalization may be interpreted as more than just power crossing borders. Thus, Ulrich Beck and Edgar Grande interpret the process of internationalization and institutional restructuring among European nation-states as the rise of a new type of Empire, a ‘cosmopolitan Europe’ (Beck and Grande 2004), structured and organized in a way that is quite similar to what I shall describe later as a ‘metropolis’. The difference between their interpretation of political pluralization and mine is not just one of scale: Beck and Grande are unequivocally enthusiastic about the process.

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6 There are historical precedents: in pre-Carolingian Germanic Europe, for instance, criminals were tried and punished according to the laws of their land of origin, regardless of where the crime was committed. 7 For reasons of simplicity, I usually refer to processes of political pluralization within the context of the classical nation-state, ignoring border-crossing, supraand international developments. The arguments made are, however, (mutatis mutandis) applicable to these as well. 8 At a price, of course: an immeasurable amount of bloodshed. Note that the ultimate cause of medieval incompossibility problems, the conflict over supreme authority between wordly Imperium and otherwordly Sacerdotium, remains unresolved to this day. 9 Raia Prokhovnik (2007: 2) lists an almost identical (in effect though not formulation) set of problems for the sovereign nation-state: political identity, political stability and the meaning and boundaries of political practices. 10 The notion of reference group fragmentation should be distinguished from the hypothesis that individuals are themselves increasingly fragmented, that is, no longer part of a unified social order with rules that more or less consistently guide every social interaction (if such a society ever existed), but rather in their different and distinct roles – as citizens, parents, employees, football players, environmentalists, consumers, etc. – subjects of different and sometimes mutually exclusive (contradictory) discourses. For various analyses of this postmodern interpretation of fragmentation, see e.g. Laclau (1996) and Connolly (2005). Although fragmentation of the self adds an interesting dimension to our problem, I shall ignore it here: the relevant political effects of this kind of fragmentation (if it is really as radical, new and destructive of identity as claimed) are already covered by the concepts of reference group fragmentation and incompossibility. 11 I use the word conception to indicate an admissible interpretation of (that is logically consistent with) an overall concept (cf. Rawls 1999a on the concept and conceptions of justice; cf. also Gray 1980), while ‘concept’ serves as a general, underdefined shared understanding of a phenomenon. Hence, our interpretation or conception of the polis differs from that of the Greeks, the Romans, medieval political theorists and so forth, for example in their respective constructions of the private sphere(s) – yet they are all interpretations of the same basic idea: the ‘molecule’ of politics. 3 The need to interfere 1 We can complicate matters, if so desired, by interpreting ‘better off’ as ‘better off in terms of justice’, or ‘better off for people as they should be’, thus introducing the justice motif in place of ‘mere’ self-interest. Note that, however, on the one hand, self-interest can be altruistic and thereby already involve ethical motivations. On the other hand, the real-world difference between the power, motivations and interests of enterprises and individuals can help explain why the state may (feel obliged to) interfere in negotiations aimed at cooperation (read: the market) even if cooperation were possible without its interference – what Gauthier would call non-type III situations. Agreements reached in bargaining games can be both rational and just, but there is no assurance that they will be. Thus, if we add a justice motif to the environment motif in this section, the argument for state interference will be stronger. What interests me here, however, is purely whether environmental considerations can by themselves justify state interference. 2 For the average rational egoist, the ‘real’ price of fines and other obstructions and rewards equals the costs or utility multiplied by the chance of being caught or recognized.

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3 For the average rational egoist, the ‘real’ price of social approval and disapproval equals the costs or utility multiplied by the chance of being remarked; cf. previous note. 4 Principles, discord and concord 1 In addition to the advantages in terms of ease and of economies of scale, a further advantage of administrative interference over private initiative is that the former does not have to be motivated by a desire or need to maximize profit (an advantage for the ‘consumer’); as the critic of government interference would add, however, this also entails that there is no motive for costs reduction (a disadvantage for the contributor). 2 Two remarks. First, if one represents policy-making as a cyclical process, there is of course no truly final stage – after implementation, there is assessment of effects, feedback and the development of new or amended policies. Expressed in those terms, administration is the final stage of each turn of the wheel. Secondly, there can be politics even in the execution and implementation of policy: political common goals are hardly ever so well defined as not to allow for different interpretations, therefore different forms of implementation. Neither of these two amendments however changes the basic fact that politics is about creating a common goal rather than pursuing a pre-given goal; rather, they affirm that observation. 3 I take the moral (meaning: how creatures with (the illusion of) free will should behave towards one another) to be part of the ethical (how creatures, etc. should behave, full stop), just like the highly underappreciated issue of etiquette (‘small ethics’: how to behave ethically in form not (just) substance). Ethics, in turn, is a special case of normative analysis, i.e. the design of standards and measures. The right, finally, is the moral for a second-best world: what rules should be followed in an environment where irreducible moral pluralism exists. 4 Of course, disproving a proposition or law is far easier – but we want to know more than that we know what we do not know. 5 This is not a pleonasm. It is only in first-order predicate logic that proposition x is either true or not true. In systems of logic that allow truth-values (‘more’ or ‘less’ true), x can be true without being the absolute truth. If Ann is the mother of five children, then it is true that she is the mother of four children; both propositions are true, one is just more true than the other. To have five children, it is a necessary (but not sufficient) condition that one has at least four children, and to have at least four children it is a necessary condition that one has four children. Even in this kind of fuzzy logic, there are absolutes, though: it is absolutely untrue that Ann has six (or more) children, and that she has no children. 6 The division made here, combined with ‘the principle of popularity’ in the last section, reflects a similar division as that proposed by Dryzek and Niemeyer (2006). 7 If autonomy were constructed as the desirable end-state par excellence, as a ‘thick’ moral ideal, it would be prejudiced against – mostly religious – theories of the good affirming values like belonging, loyalty, faith, trust and submission. As Brian Barry rightly observes, few liberals actually embrace such a ‘liberalism as autonomy’ (Barry 2001: 118ff.) – but one cannot be a liberal without at least demanding that the good an individual strives for be in some sense a deliberate choice, a considered judgement. 5 Sustainability as a policy telos 1 This chapter is based on (but deviates from) several conference papers and two published articles. Some of these papers and one of the articles (Levy and Wissenburg 2004a) were joint ventures between me and Yoram Levy. Although

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this chapter contains my present interpretation of the ideas we then shared – so that I must take full responsibility for the chapter’s deficiencies – little of it could have been written or even conceived without Yoram Levy’s brilliant work. I prefer ‘contestable’ to Michael Jacobs’ ‘contested’ (Jacobs 1999). By itself, sustainability is as equivocal as pregnancy or being headless: one is or one is not – likewise, an ecosystem is sustainable or it is not. The devil is in the applications and interpretations of the concept, i.e. in the conceptions: sustainable for how long, sustainability of what elements, etc. That is, development which meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs (WCED 1987). Cf. e.g. Jacobs (1999), Dobson (1999) and several other contributions to the same volume; see also Achterberg (1993) and Barry (1996). Even when (as here) one only focuses on the environmental aspect of sustainability and ignores the aspects of economic development and transfer of knowledge and technology. E.g. Norton (1999). Ecological pragmatism should not be confused with philosophical pragmatism. The defining characteristic of ecological pragmatism is its ‘pragmatic’ idea that the demands of ecologism can be sufficiently satified by putting an amended version of environmentalism into practice. For a detailed discussion see Wissenburg (1997, 1998); for an alternative but comparable classification, see Dobson (1998). Cf. Levy and Wissenburg (2004a) for an extended argument in favour of the interpretation of sustainable development as sustaining so-called critical natural capital (CNC). Although CNC can be defended as a reasonable and rational policy telos, it does come at a price: it presumes the rejection of various typically ecologist ideas as irrational and/or unreasonable.

6 Beyond political principles 1 The contents of this section are a summary of key elements in Wissenburg (1999a). 2 I use the term neutrality to refer to aspects of impartiality. Note that other authors use them often either as synonyms or as conceptually distinct terms. 3 See for example several of the contributions to Copp and Zimmerman’s Morality, reason and truth (1985): Copp (1985: 5ff.), Harman (1985: 27), Sturgeon (1985: 50), and Zimmerman (1985: 79); see also Jackson (1988: 312) and Galston (1980: 5). 4 Examples are honesty, authenticity, reciprocity, mercy, obligation, fraternity, patience, honour, humour, humility, as well as justice. Full reasons do not need to be virtues or potentially ‘substantive’ ethical ideals, though – more typically liberal full reasons could be described as Kantian categorical imperatives, or as the desire to do the moral thing or discover what the morally correct course of action should be. 5 See Wissenburg 1999a, where the argument is given in more detail. 6 As opposed to e.g. the wanton destruction in 2001 of the Buddhas of Bamiyan, Afghanistan, by the Taliban – tantum religio … 7 Which provoked Hay (2002: 196) to characterize me as ‘the most “orthodox” of our ecologically minded liberal theorists’. 8 Obviously this duty would be limited to issues that are not indifferent, with Melanchton’s term adiaphora. 7 Alexandrism 1 E.g. ‘The people must fight for their laws as much as for their walls’ (Heraklitos 1995: B44, my translation).

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2 Marx’ birth certificate (Gumbrell 1983: 99) gives his name as ‘Carl Marx’; ‘Karl’ and ‘Karl Heinrich’ are merely the artist’s pennames. 3 A political scientist’s definition of politics that is more sensitive to both traditions is Lieshout’s ‘solving problems for which no prior rules exist’ (Lieshout 1995). It is worth noting that Laswell (1948: 7) calls ‘the study of influence and the influential’ the ‘most inclusive definition of political science’. For further discussion of definitions of politics, see Warren (1999), who defines politics as present anytime conflict and power meet (p. 218). 4 Power in this sense (potentia) obviously includes the use of violence. On a more economic interpretation of power as potestas (legitimate power, authority), violence is its opposite: violence (might) is used where the party that wields it lacks power, i.e. when the mere threat with violence no longer works, or when others think the odds are too close to call. 5 ‘Salomonism’ is not an alternative: Salomo did not need to cut any knots; he used the threat of force to reveal a hidden moral consensus. 6 Robespierre would disagree here. Referring to the laws applied by a revolutionary government, he wrote that ‘those who call them arbitrary or tyrannical are stupid or perverse sophists’ (Robespierre 2007: 99), and that revolutionary government (read: terror) is supported ‘by the holiest of all laws: the salvation of the people’ (ibid.: 100). 7 This should not be read as ‘discord is merely the absence of concord’. The negation of any particular reason for cooperation can take many forms. 8 For the sake of completeness we should also mention the existence (and extreme popularity) of forms of ‘negative torture’: bribery. Being bribed, or having the prospect of a bribe, is usually more pleasant than being put under pressure or being threatened with pressure – but most of the observations on torture and threats in this chapter apply to bribery as well, so there is no need here and now to discuss the latter in further detail. 9 The use of torture in resolving crimes is not, strictly speaking, a political act; cooperation other than ‘helping the police in their inquiries’ is irrelevant there. Similar observations can nevertheless be made about its strategic use and moral quality. 10 The death penalty and life imprisonment are obvious exceptions. 11 These side constraints make threats (and torture) by definition incompatible with a non-dominated discourse. 12 I have deliberately ignored the oldest and most popular form of retributive punishment: the fine. Like a bribe, a fine (or the chance of a fine) puts a price on preferences. In all relevant respects, fines can be characterized as threats or torture (though featherlight for the rich) – but in affirming (and even stimulating) a trade-off mentality, they appear to be fundamentally unfit to induce rehabilitation, re-education, reflection and moral deliberation. 13 The presence of more than one individual in the original position, creating the appearance of a social contract, is superfluous except as a heuristic device, as Rawls himself admitted (1999a: 514). 14 Expertise, and thereby enlightened despotism, thus tends to be efficient and effective where relevant data are missing or difficult to access or assess, and where the delegating party lacks the necessary skills or opportunity to perform a complex analysis. 15 The exact same text has survived as Article 5.2 in the ‘Treaty amending the Treaty on European Union and the Treaty establishing the European Community’, signed on 13 December 2007. 16 Perhaps the term ‘non-instrumentally good’ (Korsgaard 2003) would be more appropriate here – but it would make little difference to the argument. 17 The interpretation of democracy defended here – roughly: the cheapest and most effective alternative to civil war – links up with Ian Shapiro’s realistic assessment

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of democracy as ‘the legitimate management of power relations’ (Shapiro 2002: 235). Apart from the choice of words, Shapiro is perhaps more cynical – by rejecting the interpretation of democracy as aimed at a substantive common good, he leaves little room to take reasons for disagreement and dissent seriously. 8 The new polis 1 For a similar argument on democracy rather than community in the context of globalization, see Nasström (2003). 2 To this day, the Roman Catholic Church’s position towards secular governments’ claims to sovereignty is ambivalent; there are ‘concordats’ between Rome and several nation-states defining a modus vivendi, but no straightforward recognitions of any secular claim to sovereignty – cf. e.g. the characterization of the Vatican euro as coined ‘in accordance with the law common to all countries with which we have now been living for some time’ (Vatican City State 2004). 3 Multinationals did already exist in 1648; the first one, the Dutch-based but internationally funded and staffed Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC) was founded in 1602. The Honourable East India Company (founded 1600) was, technically, not a multinational in that its shares were not for sale (see also Jackson 2007: 303). 4 Note that communitarian Michael Sandel’s epistemological argument against Rawlsian liberalism, to the effect that we misrepresent humans if we represent them as ‘unencumbered selves’ (1998) can therefore not be used as an ethical argument proclaiming the perversity of liberal individualism. 5 The term ‘private sphere’ is used by different authors in different contexts to mean the most different things: the individual mind or inner life (the private sphere to which freedom of consciousness applies), the family, the economy (supply and demand of labour and resources), relations between individuals and organizations of individuals. ‘Civil society’ is used in equally confusing ways to denote all organizations of individuals from football club to political party (as I use it here), those organizations only that participate in politics, or the same minus organizations of economic actors. For more on this distinction, see Section 10.2. 6 Pace Ulrich Beck’s optimism about Europe’s developing into an network-based ‘Empire’ (Beck and Grande 2004), a superstructure of structures not unlike the model of a metropolis introduced here, the more complicated a network becomes, the more chance there is that it develops into a cobweb, impossible to move in and impossible to escape from. Cooperation is not a good in itself. 9 Citizenship in the metropolis 1 Note that the representative has more access to power than the represented. Representation may not be the opposite of exclusion (as George Kateb (1981) rightly observed, arguing against an interpretation of representation as exclusion since it would be opposed to direct democracy), but that observation is irrelevant for the moment. 2 In Temkin’s version, the devil, with fiendish sense of humour, tells God: ‘you truly are the Master’. 3 Although there may be other reasons why x is valuable, as well as reasons why that-which-makes-x-intrinsically valuable is also valuable for other reasons – but the also is a contingent factor. 4 Nevertheless it seems to be a fetish for empirical political science, and a reason why some political scientists complain that Pitkin’s conceptions of representation are – to put it mildly – unhelpful (cf. e.g. Van der Kolk 1997). Perhaps it would be better to say that empirical political science is ill equipped, far less so than social

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and political psychology, to address the theoretically more interesting problems surrounding representation, e.g. those relating to the actual and expressed interpretation representatives give to substantive representation. 5 It is interesting to note that arguments for both political inequality and fundamental human equality can all be traced back to one source: Socrates, who in his dialogue Meno (Plato 1978: 82b) proves that a slave, despite his lack of education, knows and understands Pythagoras’ theorem (support for rational equality and social obstructions to actual equality) – and in the Politeia (Plato 1974: 412b) argues that some are by nature more capable of realizing their potential for philosophy (rule) than others. 10 The princes of industry 1 ‘The past’ is a relative concept. 2 For ‘profit’, read ‘maximization of value for shareholders’ in the case of modern, large companies. 11 Harmony and political pluralization 1 To quote Benjamin Barber: ‘The human yearning for union and for communion cannot be “demythologized” away. It is real and must be answered responsibly by nourishing nontoxic forms of democratic community if it is not to be answered by deformation of the human spirit.’ (Barber 1984: 112). Replace ‘democratic community’ by ‘chosen forms of cooperation’ and we agree. 2 In what is perhaps the most intelligent and creative analysis of sovereignty for decades, Raia Prokhovnik (2007) discusses the similarities between the Dutch Republic and the EU at length in the context of Spinoza’s analysis of sovereignty (who was in turn inspired particularly by Dutch practice). Prokhovnik sees in Spinoza’s work a reason to believe in the continued viability of the concept of sovereignty. Sovereignty in Spinoza’s republic is what it could also be in the EU: shared sovereignty, shared by seven roughly equally powerful and in a way internally still sovereign and relatively independent provinces. I disagree with her on three points. Firstly, neither the Republic nor the EU are made up of roughly equally powerful partners. In the Republic, Holland dominated – to the degree that even more than 200 years after the demise of the Republic, Germans, French and Anglo-Saxons alike all equate ‘The Netherlands’ with ‘Holland’, to the great annoyment of Frisians and other ‘minorities’ who make up three quarters of the population. Spinoza’s representation of the Republic as a harmonious sharing of power among equal partners merely reflects the dominant ideological discourse in the Province of Holland. Secondly, politics in our days tries to rule education, economics, welfare, health care, environment, town and country planning, etc. – unlike politics in the 17th Century. Not only does this seriously blur the boundary between public and private, a boundary that plays a key role in Prokhovnik’s argument for the continued relevance of the concept of sovereignty, but it also means that states interact with far more – and far more diverse – non-state actors than, say, the Republic. Last but not least, and in the light of these two points, if ‘shared sovereignty’ can make sense at all in the present-day context of the EU or the whole planet, it would have to be as sovereignty shared by fluid, unstable and ever-changing coalitions of diversely powerful actors in diverging and sometimes overlapping policy fields and arenas – which seems to make sovereignty a redundant concept. 3 Being exemplary does not imply perfection. The Republic at least excluded and sometimes oppressed and persecuted Jews, Catholics, deviant forms of Protestantism, women, homosexuals, non-whites, etc.

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4 Usually, but not always, the stadhouder was a member of the Orange family, which slowly developed into a dynasty; the provinces finally made the position of stadhouder hereditary. For a classic history of the Republic, see Israel (1995). 5 The term refers to a Germanic tribe whose capital forms the heart of the present city of Nijmegen. Since the early 17th Century, progressive Dutch historians presented them as the mythical ancestors of all the (Northern) Dutch, thus creating an identity above and beyond provincial allegiances. See e.g. Smetius (1999). 6 Though it had strong foreign supporters. Robespierre (2007: 84) aptly described William V, the last stadhouder, as ‘not so much the prince of the Batavians as the subject of his wife, and consequently of the Berlin court’. 7 The position of the head of state is still hereditary. The one true gain on the 1798 constitution is the explicit recognition of the existence of women. 8 They are also dynamic translations of the non-exploitation demand defended in modern Marxist theories of justice (cf. Roemer 1982, Cohen 1988).

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Index

absolute power 1–2 absolute truth 65, 196n5 abstract concept, political pluralization as 8–9 academic disciplines 11, 68, 183 academic research 3, 57 Achterberg, W. 44, 197 Achterhuis, H. 45, 49 Ackerman, Bruce A. 17, 69–70, 77, 78, 100, 103, 106, 109, 117, 134 Ackroyd, P. 118 active representation 150, 151, 152 adaptational abilities of politics 14–15 administrative interference 61–62 agreement through reasoning 98–103, 110 Alexandrism 7, 111–29, 141; connectedness 129; cooperation, decisiveness and 126; cooperation, delegation of 115; cooperation, involuntary 128–29; decision-making 111–13; densities of 114; discord 112– 13, 116, 127; enlightened despotism 124–26; ethical considerations in risk assessment 125; force, power and exercise of 112; forms of 113–14; Gordian knot, cutting of the 111–13; implements of 113–16; irreconcilable positions, decision making on 112–13; legitimacy 112–13; lotteries 115–16, 127–28; majoritarianism 126; morality 112–13; murder 114; murder as political tool 116–21; Nazism 117; paternalism 124; personalism 115; political pluralism, involuntary cooperation and 128–29; proceduralism 115, 126–27; Rwandan genocide 121, 122–23; social cooperation, categories of 128–29; terror, reign of 121–24; theocracies 115;

threats 114–15, 121–24; torture 114, 121–24; women, subordination of 112 allegiance 8, 12, 142–43 altruism 58, 195 Amin, Idi 114 anarchism 38, 39, 73, 75, 136 anarchy 77, 80, 136, 184 Anderson, M. 32, 42 Anderson, T. and Leal, D. 42, 44 Antarctic Treaty System 21 Anthony, Marc 153 anthropocentrism 11, 42, 84–85, 86, 91, 107, 159 anti-speciesiam 85 anti-statism 36, 37–38 archpoint (‘Archimedean point’) 97; archpont impartiality 98–103, 104, 105, 106, 107–8, 110 Arendt, Hannah 137–38, 163, 173; Arendtian model of politics 182; citizenship concept of 169 Aristotle 4, 7, 50, 137–39, 140, 163, 172–74; world of 179–80, 182, 183 Arts, B., Van Tatenhove, B. and Leroy, P. 84 associations and state 39 authoritative interference 41–43, 56–57, 58–59 authority: devolution and reorganization of 185–86; internal, undivided and absolute 1, 12; state authority constructed as desirable 14 autonomy 19, 31–32, 68, 73–75, 131, 168, 186, 196; legal autonomy 119 Avalon Project 134–35 Bahro, R. 44 Bakunin, Mikhail A. 38 Barber, Benjamin 200

Index bargaining games 195 bargaining in voluntary cooperation 54, 55 Barker, R. 194 Barry, B.M. and Goodin, R.E. 17 Barry, Brian M. 9–10, 11, 14, 17, 74, 92, 103, 104, 106, 108, 134, 171, 180, 196 Barry, J. 92 Barry, J. and Eckersley, R. 14 Bartelson, J. 194 Batavian Republic 186–87, 201 Bayle, Pierre 186 Beaulac, S. 134 Beck, U. and Grande, C. 20, 125, 144, 194, 199 Beck, Ulrich 32, 125, 133, 194, 199 Beekman, V. 105, 106 Beetham, David 194 Benhabib, S. 162, 194 biocentrism 85 Bismarck, Otto von 120 Bodin, Jean 8, 35, 141–42 Brandt, Richard 101, 102 bribery 198 ‘Britishness’ 39 Brundtlandian sustainability 84, 85, 86 Brutus 153 Buchanan, J. 67 Buddhas of Bamiyan 197 Bueno de Mesquita, B. 132, 135 Bull, H. 185–86 Bush, George W. 111, 150, 161; criterion for civilization 147, 150, 159, 161, 163, 164, 166 Cable, V. 31 Caesar, Julius 113, 153 Caliphate 29 Calvin, John 115 Camus, Albert 100 Canada 28–29 Canovan, M. 17, 134 capitalism and economic liberalism 44, 47, 50 Caporaso, J.A. 132, 194 Castro, Fidel 124 Catholic Church, claim to sovereignty 199 Ceauscescu, Nicolae and Elena 114 centralization 186, 187 chaos 4–5, 129 Chile: European Union (EU) Association Agreement with 26–27, 30; society in 92

213

choice: contexts of 169; structural processes determining 107–8 Chomsky, Noam 38 Christianity 73 cité, civil society and 8, 9, 35, 141–42, 143, 168–69, 183, 185, 191 citizenship: citizen and 7–8; citizen-rulers 166, 168; constitutional citizens 162–63; future of 167; liberal democracy and 17; post-cosmopolitan 163, 170; responsibility, lack of structures of 166–67; ruler as citizen 166, 168; value of 163 citizenship in the metropolis: decisionmaking, equal and universal access to 147; descriptive representation 147; equal access 161–63; mass democracy, representation and 154–61; mass democracy, rise and fall of 147–50; power, equal and universal access to 147; representation, complex concept of 150–54; representation and mass democracy 154–61; substantive representation 147; substantive representation, futures for 163–67; universal access 161–63 civil society 199; composition of 179; in idealized model of politics 179–80; influential instruments of, weight of 55–56, 59; sustainability and 87–88 classic sovereign nation-state 14–15, 143 classical liberalism 74, 75 Clausewitz, General Karl von 113 CNC (critical natural capital) 197 coalition 2; mass democracy and 156–57 codification and coordination in democracy 18 coercion and voluntary cooperation 54–55 Cohen, G.A. 201 Cole, George 38 collective self-determination 29 commitment to values of democracy 33, 36 communion, human yearning for 200 communitairianism 132 community, constituent parts 7–8 commutative justice 191–92 concept: conception and 195; of polis (polity) 7, 35 conceptions: contradictory conceptions of social responsibility 174–75; of cooperation 136–37; human good, conception of 76; of nation-state, good reasons for 4; of polis (polity)

214

Index

136–40; of sustainable development 90–93 conditional rights 103–4 connectedness 129 Connolly, W.E. 195 conscience, constraints of 54 consensus 82; overlapping consensus 70, 78, 80, 82, 96; political pluralization and 6, 7; requirements of 23 constitutional citizens 162–63 constructivism, bottom-up 97 consultative elitism 165–66, 168–69 context: context-sensitivity, Aristotelian perspective 136–38, 139–40; principles and 10–11 contract and sovereignty 142 contractarian assumption 156–57 contradiction in treaty culture 27–30 controlled deliberation 77; judgment, burdens of 70–71; modus vivendi tradition 69–70, 96; principles 68–71, 77; validity of reasons 70 controlled responsibility 177 cooperation 18, 96, 97; conceptions of 136–37; cooperative functions of sovereign nation-state 136–37; cooperative schemes of industry and enterprise 169–70; decisiveness and 126; delegation of 115; European Union (EU) and 199; forms of 183–84; functional cooperation 8; under political pluralization 7–8; power and 20; rationality in 61–62; spontaneous cooperation 83, 96; supranational cooperation 20; see also social cooperation; voluntary cooperation coordination and control 129, 130 Copp, D. 197 Copp, D. and Zimmerman, D. 197 courage, promotion of 192–93 creativity and innovation and 173, 181 Crick, Bernard 126, 164 Cuba, society in 91–92 cultures 18, 23, 30, 77, 99, 101, 107, 138, 139, 151, 179; dominant culture 14; minority cultures 14, 17 Cupit, G. 154 De Geus, M. 82 De Pizan, Christine 50–51, 166, 174 De Puydt, Paul Émile 39 decision-making 7; Alexandrian 111–13; equal and universal access to 147

decolonization 133 defection from voluntary cooperation 54–55 defenses of democracy 67 DeGrazia, D. 85 dehierarchization 37, 39, 184; liberal democracy, consequences for 30–31; political pluralization 30–32, 39; power, depoliticization of 31; power, fragmentation of 30–31 delegated rights 1–2 deliberationsim 70, 71, 73, 99, 110, 164–65 demand-side solutions 42 democracy 198–99; arguments for 67; codification and coordination 18; debate on representation in, inconclusive nature of 160; defenses of 67; direct democracy 144, 148, 152, 162, 199; direct v. representative 152; exclusion from representation 152; institutions of 18; and liberal values 18, 33, 36; liberal values and internationalization 22–23; opinion polling 67; ‘participatory democracy’ 69; power locus and 149; preference for, reasons for 66; quality of 33; research on improvements to 69; ‘standing for’ 158; unrestrained 68 deontic logic 24 depoliticization 32 derogation of state power 36–37 Descartes, René 186 descriptive representation 147, 150–52, 154, 155, 157, 158, 163, 164 detachment and impartiality 100 direct democracy 144, 148, 152, 162, 199 discord 112–13, 116, 127, 198 distributive justice 190–91 Dittgen, H. 2, 8 divided loyalties 4–5 DiZerega, G. 74 Dobson, Andrew N.H. 42, 76, 92, 105, 106, 162–63, 197 Dostoyevski, Fyodor 190 double face of political pluralization Dryzek, John S. 31, 69 Dryzek, J.S. and Niemeyer, S. 69, 196 Dutch Republic 200; as example of prospects for political pluralization 186–88; stadhouder in 201 duty and sovereignty 145 dysfunctionality of the polis (polity) 15, 130

Index East India Company 199 ecofarming 45 ecological crisis, interference and 43–44 ecological modernization 45 ecological pragmatism 86 ecologism 73, 76, 86 ecology and environment 83–88 economic globalization 21; treaty culture and 25–26 economic liberalism: capitalism and 44, 47, 50; egoistic accumulation 50; environmental costs and 45–46; environmental degradation and 44–45; fair pricing and retributive justice 50–51; FFTM (‘Fodder First Then Morality’) 52–53, 56; free market and 42–43, 44–45, 46–50, 51, 53, 56, 57, 59; growth, tendency towards 45, 46; institutions and standards, application of 50–51; merchant classes, necessity of 50–51; natural capital 49; rewards structures 47–48; standards, conforming to 50–51; unnecessary production 49 economy: economic activity, worthiness of 173–74; political history of the 171–74; societal order and 173 egalitarianism 159 egoistic accumulation 50 emancipation 73 empirical research 15 Engels, Friedrich 38 enlightened despotism 124–26 enterprise: civic role of 178–80, 182; and commerce, absence from political philosophy 172; creativity and innovation in 173, 181; industry and 168–82; profit motivation for 177–78, 182; representation of 180; social responsibility and 174–75, 176, 178– 79, 179, 180–81; work and labour, preconditions for good life 173; in world of sovereign nation-state 169 environmental concerns, multi-interpretability of 11 environmental costs 45–46 environmental degradation 44–45 environmental politics: and green political theory 9–10; political pluralization and 8–11; relevance of 11 environmental problems 11, 42, 43–44, 51, 54, 57, 59, 83, 94 environmentalism 86; free market and 42–43, 44–45, 46–50, 51, 53

215

equal access 161–63 Ethica Nicomachea (Aristotle) 50 ethical absolutism 65–66, 96 ethics: ethical considerations in risk assessment 125; ethical necessity 138–39; morality and 196 Ethics (Aristotle) 172 European Union (EU) 19–20, 25, 26, 125, 198, 200; Association Agreement with Chile 26–27, 30; cooperation through 199; evolution of 133; and sovereign nation-state 25 Evans, G. and Sahnoun, M. 28–29, 145 evil state 37 exchange, role of justice in 191 exclusion from representation 152 expedience 61 expertise, enlightened despotism 198 external independence 1 fair pricing and retributive justice 50–51 fanaticism 64–65 feudalism 4, 7, 23, 119, 134–35, 148 FFTM (‘Fodder First Then Morality’) 52–53, 56 Figgis, John 38–39 fines 198; ‘real’ price of 195 Fishkin, J. 73 Flinders, M. 194 force, power and exercise of 112 Ford, Henry 176 foundational principles: agreement on, reaching 98; archpont impartiality 98–103, 104, 105, 106, 107–8, 110; deliberationsim 99, 110; detachment and impartiality 100; ‘full reasons’ 101–2; impartiality, ethical choice and 99; impartiality, negative but not nihilistic 100; justification procedures 102–3; moral absolutism 99; moral relativism 99; objective impartiality 101; preference for principles, material reasons for 99; principles 96–98, 110; subjective and objective impartiality 100–101 fragmentation 166–67; group fragmentation 195; of sovereign nation-state 130–31; of sovereignty 133–34 Frankfurt, H.G. 68 Fraser, N. 14 Frederick the Great 115 free market: economic liberalism and 42–43, 44–45, 46–50, 51, 53, 56, 57,

216

Index

59; environmentalism and 42–43, 44–45, 46–50, 51, 53; limits of 59–60; logic of 177; self-healing powers of 45, 48, 56 free rider problems 83 freedom: of debate 73; discredit of taboos and 193 ‘full reasons’ 101–2 functional cooperation 8 fuzzy politics 12, 110, 161, 163, 164, 165, 184, 188 Galston, William A. 38, 39, 103, 197 Gaus, Gerald 73 Gauthier, David 53–54, 55, 67 Gilbert, P. 19 global justice 194 globalization 166, 184; economic globalization 21, 25–26; political pluralization and 5, 8; treaty culture and economic globalization 25–26 goals in politics 62 Goodin, R.E. 23, 85 Goodwin, Barbara 116, 128 Gordian knot, cutting of the 111–13 governance 57, 61–62, 111, 130, 131, 170, 184; government interference 196; multilevel 6, 78; without government 21–22 Grande, Claude 194 Gray, J. 195 Great Lakes International Joint Commission 21 Greece 14 ‘green ideas,’ taxonomy of 84 green issues, politics v. economy 43–46, 57, 59–60 Green Party 9–10 green political theory 9–10, 11, 42–43 green production 43, 46–51, 57 group: group fragmentation 195; personality of 38, 39; reference group fragmentation 33, 34, 35 growth: sustainable growth 45; tendency towards 45, 46 Gumbrell, C. 198 Gunsteren, Herman R. van 131 Gutmann, A. 112, 194 Habermas, Jürgen 14, 31, 69, 70, 100 Hailwood, Simon 106 Hanley, N. and Folmer, H. 83 Hardin, Garrett 54 Harman, G. 197

Hawkesworth, M. and Cogan, M. 16 Hay, P. 197 Hayek, Friedrich A. 38 Hegel, Georg W.F. 140; state as described by 1 Helm, C. and Simonis, U.E. 14 Henry VIII 118–20 Heraklitos of Ephesus 112, 197 heterarchy 24 Heydrich, Reinhard 114 Hirschmann, A.O. 114 Hirst, P.Q. 31, 38, 39 Hitler, Adolf 114, 115, 124 Hobbes, Thomas 9, 119–20; anthropology and consequences of 58; Hobbesian contract 142; sovereignty, Hobbesian concept of 35 Holland, A. 86 Holmes, S. 44 Hout, W. and Dhian Ho, S. 21 The Human Condition (Arendt, H.) 173 human dignity 74 human good, conception of 76 Hume, David 101 Hyland, J.L. 16 Ignatieff, Michael 14, 72, 117, 122, 129, 145 Ilgen, T.L. 2, 194 impartiality: ethical choice and 99; negative but not nihilistic 100; objective impartiality 101; on restraint principle 106; subjective and objective impartiality 100–101; subjective impartiality 108 incompossibility 96; irreconcilable positions, decision making on 112–13; liberal democracy and 33–34, 35; problem in sustainability 87–88, 90–91, 93, 94; of rights and internationalization 24 individual freedom of action, power and 20 individual interaction, nature of 37 individual interests, representation of 131–32, 145–46 industrialism 44 industry and enterprise 168–82; cooperative schemes 169–70; economy, political history of the 171–74; enterprise, civic role of 178–80, 182; free market, logic of 177; power, exercise of 176–77; proactive citizenship 168–71, 182;

Index responsibility, impossibility of 175–78, 180–81; social responsibility 174–75, 180–82 instability of expectations 23–24 institutions: of democracy 18; institutional responses of polity 130–31; rule within state through 4; and standards, application of 50–51 intellectualism 84–85 interference: administrative interference 61–62; authoritative interference 41–43, 56–57, 58–59; demand-side solutions 42; ecological crisis and 43–44; government interference 196; green issues, politics v. economy 43–46, 57, 59–60; green political theory 42–43; green production 43, 46–51, 57; payoffs and incentives 43, 51–53; political incentives, need for 43, 53–56, 57; social desirability as justification for 41–42; state 5 internalization 18 International Air Transport Authority 21 international community 18 internationalization 21, 37, 39, 184, 194; democracy, liberal values and 22–23; developments and liberal democracy 20–22; heterarchy 24; incompossibility of rights and 24; instability of expectations and 23–24; political pluralization 19–24, 39; stability of institutions and 23 intervention in regional conflict, legitimacy of 28–29 intolerance 64–65 Israel, J.I. 201 Jackson, M.W. 197 Jackson, R.J. 21, 23, 36, 199 Jacobs, F. 44 Jacobs, Michael 86, 197 Jagers, S.C. 194 John of Salisbury 118, 139–40 judgment, burdens of 70–71, 108–9 justice: context-sensitivity in application of 192; political pluralization 190–93 justification 5–6; procedures of 102–3 Kahler, M. 21, 194 Kanger, H. and Kanger, S. 1 Kant, Immanuel: categorical imperatives of 197; philosophy of 10 Kateb, George 152, 199 Khomeiny, Ayatollah Ruhollah 115

217

Kok, R.A.W. and Van Deemen, A.M.A. 48 Koresh, David 115 Korsgaard, C. 198 Kropotkin, Pyotr A. 38 Kukathas, Chandran 67–68, 123 Kymlicka, Will 14, 17, 30, 32, 169 Laclau, E. 195 Langhelle, O. 14 Laski, Harold 2, 38–39 Laswell, H.D. 111, 133, 198 Lauber, V. 44 The Law of the Peoples (Rawls, J.) 70 League of Nations 24 legality: cross-border expansion of legal domains 20–21; law and responsibility 175–76, 181; legal authority of sovereign nation-state 33; sovereign nation-state as legal and political fiction 2, 25, 38, 136, 168 legitimacy 194; Alexandrism 112–13; legitimate political pluralization 7, 188–90; origins of 62–63; in power of state 1; social cooperation and, conditions for 188–90; in structure of political pluralization 5 Lenin, Vladimir I. 38 Levi, M. 13 Leviathan state 1, 4, 37, 39, 184 Levy, Y. and Wissenberg, M. 196–97 Levy, Yoram 196–97 liberal democracy 44, 88–89; commitment to values of 33, 36; consequences of dehierarchization 30–31; developments for qualification 88–89; evolution towards, processes of 89–91; incompossibility 33–34, 35; internationalization developments and 20–22; liberalism and 16–17, 194; polis (polity) 134; polis (polity), loss of 33, 34, 35; reference group fragmentation 33, 34, 35; societies within, policy teloi and 92–93, 93–94; state and rise of 4 liberal political theory 72–75 liberalism 130–31; citizenship and liberal democracy 17; classical liberalism 74, 75; code of behaviour of 170–71; deliberation and 73; democracy and liberal values 18, 33, 36; human dignity and 74; human good, conception of 76; liberal democracy and 16–17, 194; ‘lowest

218

Index

common denominator liberalism’ 21–22; means and end, interpretation of 73–74; moral neutrality and 75–76; moral pluralism and 75–76, 77; nation-state and liberal democracy 17; philosophical and political principles 71–76, 77–78; as political philosophy and as ideology 15; political value of political pluralization 38–39; practice of 75; preferences, development of 72; principles of 16; social liberalism 75; sovereign nation-state as central unit of politics 18–19; stability and liberal democracy 17; sustainability in liberal and non-liberal societies 88–93; varieties of 74–75 libertarianism: individual choices 67–68; libertarian state 13–14 Lieshout, R.H. 133, 198 Life Environment Principle 106–7 Lock, G.E. 155 Locke, John 74, 186 logic: fuzzy logic 196; truth and 196 lotteries 115–16, 127–28 loyalty to state 4 Lucas van Leyden 115 Lukes, S. 113 Lukes, Steven 20 Machiavelli, Niccolò 112, 113, 118, 120, 140, 166; Machiavellian stability 156 machinery of state 14 majoritarianism 126 Mandela, Nelson 124 Mandeville, Bernard 51 Mao Tse Tung 115 Marks, G. et al. 20 Marshall, Alfred 162; citizenship concept of 162–63, 170 Marx, Karl 38, 58, 112, 140, 174, 198 Marxism 172, 180 Masaryk, Jan 114 mass democracy: coalition and 156–57; contractarian assumption 156–57; plan of life doctrine 44, 51–52, 72, 76, 104, 106, 117, 138, 144, 159, 160–61; representation and 154–61; rise and fall of 147–50; substantive representation and 163; textbook defenses of 159; see also democracy means and end, interpretation of 73–74 meddlesome principles, action on 64 meddlesome state 37

medieval body-politic 139–40 Melanchton 197 Meno (Plato) 200 merchant classes, necessity of 50–51 metropolis 12, 183, 184–85, 194; citizenship in the 147–67; polis (polity) 140–45; and popular conception of sovereign nation-state 192 Mill, John Stuart 74, 156, 159–60 Miller, David 14, 17–18, 32, 194 modus vivendi tradition 69–70, 96 moral absolutism 99 moral neutrality and liberalism 75–76 moral pluralism 7, 33, 81; liberalism and 75–76, 77 moral relativism 99 morality 112–13, 197; ethics and 196; and responsibility 175–76 Morality, reason and truth (Copp, D. and Zimmerman, D.) 197 More, Sir Thomas 118–20 Morris, William 38 multiculturalism 14, 17, 123, 183 multilevel governance 6, 78 multinationals 59, 145–46, 199 Münchhausen, Baron Karl F.H. von 63 murder 114; as political tool 116–21 myth of sovereign nation-state 132–36 Nagel, T. 14, 20, 34 Narveson, J. 38, 44, 45 Nasström, S. 199 nation-state see sovereign nation-state nationalism 17, 31, 135 NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) 19 natural capital 49 Nazism 117 neutrality 197 Nicholls, David 2, 3, 38 1984 (Orwell, G.) 114 non-dominated discourse 96, 113, 119, 198n11 non-sustainability, orientation towards 86 North-South relations 194 Norton, B. 197 Nozick, Robert 38, 67, 100, 103, 159–60 Nugent, N. 20 Nussbaum, Martha 102 objective ethical truth 64 objective impartiality 101 obligation and social responsibility 175

Index Offe, C. 133 Oksanen, M. 42, 55 opinion polling 67 Opschoor, H. 45, 50 origins of sovereign nation-state 132–35 Ortega y Gasset, J. 150, 165 Orwell, George 114 other-regarding or ‘meddlesome’ principle 64 ‘ought implies can’ axiom 10, 14–15 ownership rights 104 Paavola, J. and Lowe, I. 14 Palestinian Pareto-optimality 115 panarchism 36, 39–40 Paretian form 159 Pareto-condition 190 Pareto-optimality, Palestinian interpretation 115 ‘participatory democracy’ 69 paternalism 124, 194 pathocentrism 85 payoff structures: influences on 55–56; interference, incentives and 43, 51–53; social responsibility and 181 peppermill, idiot with (example of) 131 perfection, conduct short of 200 Peron, Juan 124 personalism 115 Peters, B.G. and Pierre, J. 184, 194 Phillips, Anne 152 philosophy: democracy, debate on representation in, inconclusive nature of 160; enterprise and commerce, absence from political philosophy 172; liberalism as political philosophy 15; ‘ought implies can’ axiom 10, 14–15; theory and practice in 10 Pinochet, Augusto 21, 114 Pitkin, Hannah 150–53, 157–58, 199 plan of life doctrine 44, 51–52, 72, 76, 104, 106, 117, 138, 144, 159, 160–61 Plato 6, 65–66, 155, 172, 200 Plutarch 124 Pogge, G. 133 policy: cyclical process of policy making 196; policy teloi 6–7, 96; politics and 5–7, 196; sustainability and policy teloi 80–83, 87–88, 89, 90, 92–93, 93–95 polis (polity): allegiance 142–43; communitairianism 132; concept of 7, 35; conceptions of 136–40; contextsensitivity, Aristotelian perspective

219

136–38, 139–40; cooperation, conceptions of 136–37; decolonization 133; ethical necessity 138–39; fragmentation of sovereignty 133–34; of Greece 14; individuals’ interests, representation of 131–32, 145–46; institutional responses 130–31; liberal democracy 134; loss of 33, 34, 35; medieval body-politic 139–40; metropolis 140–45; nationalism 135; peppermill, idiot with (example of) 131; political pluralization, community and 131–32; politics, fragmentation of state power and 133–34; renewal of 130–46; republic, polis as 140, 141–42; secession 140; social cooperation, organization of 141–42, 145–46; social interaction and 8; social justice 134; social justice and consequences of political pluralization 12; stakeholders 146; state, internal sovereignty and identity of 135–36; state, myth of 132–36; superstructures 142–45; trust, expectation and 136; undiscovered 12; Westphalia, origins of Treaty of 134–35 Politea (Plato) 200 Political Liberalism (Rawls, J.) 70, 82 political pluralization 13–40, 36; abstract concept 8–9; alternatives to 5; anti-statism 37–38; authority, devolution and reorganization of 185–86; challenges of 32–35; choice, contexts of 169; cité, civil society and 35; classical state and 14–15; community and 131–32; consensus 6, 7; consensus, requirements of 23; cooperation, power and 20; cooperation under 7–8; coping with 5; dehierarchization 30–32, 39; derogation of state power and 36–37; divided loyalties 4–5; double face of; dysfunctionality of the polis (polity) and 15, 130; economic globalization 21; effects of 14–15; environmental politics and 8–11; fuzzy politics and 12, 110, 161, 163, 164, 165, 184, 188; globalization and 5, 8; governance without government 21; groups, notion of real personality of 38, 39; harmony and 183–93; individual freedom of action, power and 20; internationalization 19–24, 39; justice

220

Index

190–93; justification 5–6; legal domains, cross-border expansion of 20–21; legitimate political pluralization 188–90; legitimate rule under 7; legitimate structure of 5; liberalism, political value of 38–39; multi-interpretability of environmental concerns 11; multilevel governance 6; new polities and new problems 13–19; panarchism 39–40; pillars of 38; policy, politics and 5–7; polis, social justice and consequences of 12; political and private in sociopolitical context 169, 172–73; political history of 183–88; political reality, power and 2; politics, subjection to 37; positive aspects 34–35; potestas (legitimate power) and potentia (political sovereignty) 25, 28, 198n4; power, dispersion of 36, 38–39; as process of devolution and reorganization of authority 185–86; processes of 2, 91, 147, 164, 184, 195n7; prospects for, Dutch Republic as example 186–88; reflective individualism approach 22–23; societal fragmentation and 38; sovereignty, rejection of idea 38, 39; state and 4–5, 35–36; supranational cooperation 20; treaty culture 24–30 politics 198; adaptability of sovereign nation-state 14; adaptational abilities of 14–15; arena of 7; civil society in idealized model of 179–80; cooperation, forms of 183–84; enterprise, social responsibility and 179; environmental politics and green political theory 9–10; fragmentation of state power and polity 133–34; goals in 62; green political theory 9–10, 11; history of political pluralization 183–88; individuals interacting, nature of 37; involuntary cooperation and political pluralism 128–29; justification 5–6; legal and political fiction: sovereign nation-state 38, 136, 168; mainstream theories of 13–14; new polities and new problems 13–19; political and private, distinction between 169, 172–73; political and private, socio-political context 169, 172–73; political incentives, need for 43, 53–56, 57; political liberalism 44; political sincerity 170–71; political

theory and existence of sovereign nation-state 13, 183; power, political delegation of 30–32; principles and 61–63, 76–79; sovereign nation-state, political pluralism and strength of 129, 136–37, 168; sovereign nation-state as central unit of politics 18–19; structure of sovereign nation-state 78; subject of, definition of being governed 37; subjection to political pluralization 37 Popper, Karl 70, 72, 101 popularity 96; principle of 66–68, 77, 196 Porritt, Jonathan 9–10 post-cosmopolitan citizenship 163, 170 power: depoliticization of 31; derogation of state power 36–37; dispersion of 36, 38–39; equal and universal access to 147; exercise of, by industry and enterprise 176–77; force, power and exercise of 112; fragmentation of 30–31; generation and redistribution of 25–26; individual freedom of action, power and 20; political delegation of 30–32; political reality, power and 2; potestas (legitimate power) and potentia (political sovereignty) 25, 28, 198n4; power locus and democracy 149; power relations, management of 198–99; violence and 198 pragmatism, ecological 197 principles 7; agreement through reasoning on 98–103, 110; assumptions underlying agreement on 108–9; context and 10–11; controlled deliberation 68–71, 77; ethical absolutism 65–66; foundational principles 96–98, 110; legitimacy, origins of 62–63; of liberalism 16; liberalism, philosophical and political 71–76, 77–78; meddlesome principles, action on 64; objective truth 63–66; other-regarding or ‘meddlesome’ principle 64; politics and 61–63, 76–79; popularity, principle of 66–68, 77; public goods, for dispersal of 13–14; restraint principle 103–8; shared goals, discovery and justification of 63 Principles of Social Justice (Miller, D.) 194 prisoner’s dilemma 83 private sphere 199

Index proactive citizenship 168–71, 182 proceduralism 115, 126–27 profit motivation 177–78, 182 Prokhovnik, Raia 2, 19, 30, 134, 194, 195; sovereignty, creative analysis of 200 protective character of sovereign nationstate 36 Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph 37, 38 public deliberation 69, 96 punishment 195, 198 quality of democracy 33 Rasputin 114 rational self-interest 62 Rawls, John 14, 16, 17, 22–23, 68, 70, 74, 76, 77, 78, 80, 82, 98, 99, 100–101, 102, 103, 106, 107, 108, 116, 123, 124, 134, 138, 149, 156, 163, 164, 191, 195, 198; consensus, perspective on 7 Realpolitik 157 reference group fragmentation 33, 34, 35 reflective individualism 22–23 reflexive policy-making 68 Reidy, D.A. 14 representation 199–200; active representation 150, 151, 152; complex concept of 150–54; descriptive representation 150–52, 154, 155, 157, 158, 163, 164; of enterprise 180; exclusion from 152; in mass democracy 154–61; substantive representation 147, 150–51, 153–54, 156–61, 163–66, 189, 199–200n4; symbolic representation 150, 151, 152, 153, 154 The Concept of Representation (Pitkin, H.) 150–53 republic, polis as 140, 141–42; see also Dutch Republic responsibility: citizenship, lack of structures of 166–67; controlled responsibility 177; impossibility of 175–78, 180–81; law and 175–76, 181; morality and 175–76 restraint principle: choice, structural processes determining 107–8; conditional rights 103–4; on future generations 105; impartiality on 106; Life Environment Principle 106–7; ownership rights 104; principles 103–8;

221

rights and reasons for (or claims to) 104; rights of destruction 104–5 retributive justice: fair pricing and 50–51; social justice and 191–92 rewards structures 47–48 rights: conditional rights 103–4; delegated rights 1–2; of destruction 104–5; ownership rights 104; and reasons for (or claims to) 104 Robespierre, M. 113, 116, 198, 201 Roemer, J. 201 Roman Empires 7, 14, 23, 129, 134–35 Rosendaal, J. 186 Rothbart, M. 38, 67 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 140 Rushdie, Salman 21 Rwandan genocide 121, 122–23 Salomonism 198 Sandel, Michael 199 Schlosberg, D. 9, 14, 68 Schmidt, H. 90 Schmitt, Carl 7, 112 Schuyt, K. 31, 32 Scotland 30 Scruton, Roger 14, 136 secession from polis (polity) 140 security and order 4 self-defeating aspect of treaty culture 25 self-healing powers of free market 45, 48, 56 self-interest 195; rationality in 62 self-proclamation of nation-state 184 self-righteousness 64–65 Sen, Amartya K. 101 Shapiro, Ian 17, 134, 198–99 shared goals, discovery and justification of 63 Singer, P. 22, 85 Six Livres de la République (Bodin, J.) 141–42 Skinner, Q. 134 Smetius, J. 201 Smith, Adam 51 Smith, G. 68, 69 Smith, T. 44, 45 social approval, ‘real’ price of 196 social contract 198 social cooperation: categories of 128–29; organization of 141–42, 145–46 social desirability 41–42 social interaction and polis (polity) 8 social justice 12, 190–93; commutative justice 191–92; distributive justice

222

Index

190–91; exchange, role of justice in 191; justice, context-sensitivity in application of 192; polis (polity) 134; retributive justice 191–92 social liberalism 75 Social Philosophy and Policy (Schuyt, K.) 31 social responsibility: contradictory conceptions of 174–75; of enterprises 174–75, 176, 178–79, 180–81; industry and enterprise 174–75, 180– 82; motivation of enterprises for 182; obligation and 175; payoff structure for 181; practical obstacles to 181–82; stakeholders 174–75 social spheres 8 society 7, 18; distribution and exchange, justice in 173; economy and societal order 173; fragmentation of 38; societies within, policy teloi and liberal democracy 92–93, 93–94 Socrates 148 Sørensen, G. 194 sovereign nation-state 20, 43, 77, 96, 183–84; absence of 41, 185; alternatives to 3; as central unit of politics 18–19; centralization under 186; chaos and 129; classic varieties of 143; conception of, good reasons for 4; as construct 19; cooperative functions of 136–37; coordination and control 129, 130; dismantling of 185; enterprise in world of 169; European Union (EU) and 25; fragmentation of 130–31; imaginary world 110, 129, 132–36; internationalism and the 21; legal and political fiction 38, 136, 168; legal authority of 33; liberalism and 18; meddlesome nature of 37; metropolis and popular conception of 192; myth of 132–36; origins of 132–35; political adaptability and 14; political pluralism and strength of 129, 136–37, 168; political structure of 78; political theory and existence of 13, 183; problems of 195n9; protective character of 36; self-proclamation of 184; state-fragmenting phenomena 17–18; treaties and representation of 24, 25, 28 sovereignty 195; allegiance and 8, 12; alternatives to 3; Catholic claim to 199; classic sovereign nation-state

143; collective self-determination and 29; contract and 142; duty and 145; functional cooperation and 8; as legal fiction 39; legal fiction of 2, 25; Prokhovnik’s creative analysis of 200; recognition of 3; rejection of idea of 38, 39; state and 1–3 Spinoza, Baruch 9, 100, 200 spontaneous cooperation 83, 96 Spruyt, H. 23 stability: of institutions in internationalization 23; of liberal democracy 17 stakeholders 146, 174–75 Stalin, Josef 114, 115 standards, conforming to 50–51 ‘standing for’ democracy 158 state: absolute power of 1–2; associations and 39; authority, constructed as desirable 14; authority, internal, undivided and absolute 1, 12; chaos in absence of 4–5; delegated rights 1–2; demise of sovereignty in, assumption of imminence 1–2; as evil 37; external independence 1; institutional rule within 4; interference 5; internal sovereignty and identity of 135–36; legitimate power of 1; liberal democracy, state and rise of 4; libertarian state 13–14; loyalty to 4; machinery of 14; myth of 132–36; need for 41; political pluralization and 4–5, 35–36; provision by 13–14; security and order within 4; sovereignty and 1–3; welfare state 13; see also sovereign nation-state Steinberger, Peter J. 1, 2, 4, 8, 68, 185, 189 Steiner, Hillel 24, 38 Stephens, P.H.G. 44, 106 Strange, S. 133, 194 Sturgeon, N.L. 197 subjective and objective impartiality 100–101 substantive representation 164–65; citizenship in the metropolis 147; consultative elitism 165–66, 168–69; deliberative strategy 164–65; futures for citizenship in the metropolis 163–67; mass democracy and 163; new forms of, rise of 164–65; representation 147, 150–51, 153–54, 156–61, 189, 199– 200n4 Suetonius 124

Index Sun Tzu 113 Sunstein, C.R. 73 superstructures 142–45 supranational cooperation 20 supreme authority, conflict over 195 sustainability 197; Brundtlandian 84, 85, 86; civil society and 87–88; conceptions of sustainable development 90–93; ecology v. environment, sustainable development 83–88; ‘green ideas,’ taxonomy of 84; incompossibility problem 87–88, 90–91, 93, 94; liberal v. non-liberal societies and 88–93; perspectives on 93–95; policy teloi 80–83, 87–88, 89, 90, 92–93, 93–95; sustainability theory 85–87; types of 85–87 sustainable development 6; conceptions of 90–93; ecology v. environment 83–88 sustainable growth 45 symbolic representation 150, 151, 152, 153, 154 taboos 70–71 Talshir, G. 68, 165 Tamir, Y. 17 Temkin, L. 153, 199 terror, reign of 121–24 theocracies 115 A Theory of Justice (Rawls, J.) 70 threats 114–15, 121–24, 198 tolerance, assumption of 109 Torquemada 122 torture 114, 121–24, 198 treaty culture: contradiction in 27–30; economic globalization and 25–26; intervention in regional conflict, legitimacy of 28–29; political pluralization 24–30; power, generation and redistribution of 25– 26; representation of sovereign nation-state 24, 25, 28; self-defeating aspect of 25 trust, expectation and 136 truth: absolute truth 65, 196n5; objective truth 63–66

223

universal access 161–63 unnecessary production 49 Vallentyne, Peter 38 Van der Kolk, H. 199 Van der Vleuten, A. 25 Van Hasselt, W.J.C. and De Hartog, L. 186 Van Hees, M. 155 Van Hees, M. and Wissenburg, M. 20 Vaughan-Williams, N. 14 VOC (Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie) 199 voluntary association 3 voluntary cooperation 53–55, 81–83; bargaining in conditions of 54, 55; coercion and 54–55; constraints of conscience 54; defection from 54–55; optimality in outcome from 54 Walker, N. 2, 194 Wallack, M. 105–6 Walzer, Michael 8, 14, 31, 49, 122, 142, 192 Ward, H. 83 Warren, M.E. 111, 198 WCED (World Commission on Environment and Development) 197 Weale, A. 17, 45, 72, 88 Weale, A. and Lehning, P.B. 18 Weale, A. and Nentwich, M. 18 welfare state 13 Westphalia, origins of Treaty of 134–35 William of Ockham 34 William V of Holland 201 Wissenburg, Marcel 1, 15, 16, 24, 31, 32, 42, 43–44, 46, 47, 48, 49, 60, 84, 92, 102–3, 103–4, 105, 106–7, 155, 157, 162, 163, 170, 197 women, subordination of 112 work and labour, preconditions for good life 173 WTO (World Trade Organization) 27, 32 Young, O.R. 21, 23 Zimmerman, D. 197