More thoughts inspired by my reading of Hugh Brogan’s biography of Tocqueville.

Like the Russians in 1917, the French had two revolutions in 1848.  The first, in February, toppled the government of King Louise-Phillipe (the Orleans monarchy that had been in place since the Bourbons had been ousted in the 1830 revolt).  Basically, Paris rose up in arms—and Louise-Phillipe refused (mostly) to allow his troops to fire on the armed crowds.  The death toll was very likely less than 200—so it was mostly a non-violent overthrow of the government, akin to the revolutions in Germany, Poland, and Czechoslovakia in 1989—1991.  But, unlike 1989—1991, the rebels took to arms.  It is just that the government did not fight back.

Louise-Phillipe’s abdication left the National Assembly in charge—and the Second Republic was born. It quickly passed a very large extension of the franchise, some fairly hefty economic aid packages (an economic downturn had spurred the revolt), and, after four months, a new constitution.  Gathering together for the first time under that newly written and ratified constitution, the assembly (motivated by fear of socialism) ended all economic relief programs and took the right to vote away from the working class.  The Parisians rose up in arms again—and this time the Assembly set the army and the National Guard loose.  The bloodbath lasted less than a week, with the rebels routed.  The country outside of Paris was almost entirely quiet.  The reactionary Assembly had survived, but had lost all credibility.  In the ensuing election for the post of President (which had been created by the new constitution), Louis Napoleon (who had been living in exile for over 15 years) won six million votes; all the other candidates combined did not win two million.  Louis Napoleon ran as the strong man who could bring stability and order to a society that had experienced two rebellions in less than six months.

The next crisis occurred when Louis’s two year term was up.  The new constitution had created a strong executive, but had limited presidents to one two-year term.  Louis—and the country—demanded that the constitution be amended to let him run again.  But the process for amending the constitution was so difficult that, even with a majority in favor of making the change, the motion to amend failed.  In response, Napoleon staged his coup d’etat, installing himself as president.  Two years later, he would declare himself Emperor Napoleon III.

To give himself legitimacy, Napoleon III was fond of plebiscites.  He would go directly to the people, bypassing the constitution and the assembly.  He won every vote that was taken—and certainly in the first ten years of his reign (at least) had more popular support than any other leader or faction.  He is a perfect example of what Stuart Hall called “authoritarian populism.”

So much for the history.  I want to consider how the events of 1848 might speak to current conditions in these United States.  But I will leave that for my next post.

I’ve had an odd aversion to blogging these past few months.  A malaise that I cannot name—and can only partly blame on my back/sciatica problems.  More a deep fatigue with the predictable channels in which my own thoughts run; nary a new thought to ponder or pursue.  And also a deep disgust with the nation’s obsession with Trump.  All eyes turned toward that clown, reporting his every twitch, and neglecting all other events, possibilities, and interests.  Like every child who is acting out, he needs to be sent to his room, placed in isolation and ignored for however long it takes for us to regain our own life since I have no delusion that anything at this point can change his behavior.  It’s our sanity that is at stake here, not his.

In any case, there have been some feeble stirrings of life in me lately.  I went up to New York for the annual meeting of my political theory reading group.  What a delight to spend a day talking with ten very thoughtful and intelligent people.  Our common reading this year was Melville’s The Confidence Man, a dizzying text that pulls every rug from under the reader’s feet, providing nowhere to stand.

I may write more about the meeting later.  But for now, two takeaways:

George Shulman noted that, if all appeals to transcendent and/or foundational grounds are taken away, then only comparative analysis is left.  To which someone (I am sorry I can’t remember who) in the group added: “there is also the solidity of objects.”

I am still trying to decide if this is right.  I think I understand the question: what can thought do, what resources does it have at its disposal, if it cannot locate/posit/affirm some indisputable ground or some transcendent standard for judgment?  The two contenders seem to be Johnson’s “thus I refute Berkeley” (i.e. the solidity of objects) and a rough-and-ready ability to judge one of two states of affairs as preferable to the other (a favorite move of Rorty’s).  The comparative mood can articulate the criteria along which it makes the comparative judgment; what it cannot do is claim those criteria must and will hold for all judgers.  It can only “woo the consent”(to use Arendt’s translation of Kant on judgment) of those to whom its comparative judgment is addressed.

On the solidity of objects, we might go to Arendt on truth.  There are facts beyond which we cannot get.  We can argue about the causes of World War I forever, but if you say Belgium invaded Germany in 1914, we have no conversation at all.  Facts are stubborn, even compelling in the strongest sense of the word “compelling.”

But is that it?  I need to think more about whether that’s all.

Point number two was Jason Frank’s insistence that populism requires an enemy.  Put that into dialogue with this comment from The Guardian about the British election.

“As someone pithier than me once said, you don’t win a culture war with facts. Heroes wanted. Conflict wanted. Goals wanted. Dreams wanted. Tell me a story I want to be part of.”

I like the story bit (of course)—and have been focused for some time on how we can tell an inclusive story.  That’s why I resist the enemies notion, the idea that a “conflict is wanted.”  Which may mean also wanting to find an alternative to a “culture war”—or any other kind of war.  I don’t mean not having a choice.  What I want is a choice between a conflictual tale and a non-violent, embracing story.

Classic weak-kneed liberal, in one way.  Denial of fundamental divergence of interests and of the fact that the powerful and wealthy will not surrender their power and wealth without the fight that forces them to do so.  But the idea is to have that fight at the ballot box and for the powerful and wealthy to accept their defeat as legitimate when it is enacted through democratic means.  Don’t be naïve, the radical responds.  There is no democratic process; the game is rigged in favors of the haves.  And, in addition, there is no political passion, no motive strong enough to move people to action, without antagonism, without a “them” to fight against.

Let be fully naïve then.  That position (with its Schmittian insistence on the necessity of “an enemy”) seems to me akin to saying the strongest political passion is hate—and only a politics that mobilizes hate will succeed.  Whereas I am in search of a politics of love.