Politics is not ethics

Adam Kirsch, who is reliably good and interesting, has an article about a Cambridge neo-Leninist's attack on Nozick and that dreary fraud Rawls. Nozick is, and probably always will be, a blank to me, since I decided quite a while ago that ethics is the most worthless subject known to man, but Rawls was inflicted on me before that decision. Rawls is in fact largely responsible for it, because a cruel satirist could not contrive a more self-satisfied, woolly-headed, base-stealing cloudcuckoolander yet ethicists have made him their king. My dislike for ethics is too long for this post, see the next one.

Kirsch's essay needs no comment in itself, but he quotes the neo-Leninist saying something commonplace that struck me for the first time with its utter strangeness: he rejected the idea that "politics is applied ethics." The neo-Leninist wants to say that politics is power inflicting its will, blah blah rampant reification blah, but the really startling thing is the idea that politics should ever have been considered ethics, applied or otherwise. Politics is the art of living in a city, beginning, middle, and end. Polis for city of course, though "in a city" is more simply put "together." Though man's purest misery is isolation, other people are intolerable to him. What each of us really, most sincerely desires is that there be many people about us, but that their wills, tastes, and actions not interfere with ours. That is, each man wants to be with other men but for all that makes them other men to be removed. Since those other men rudely persist in being what they are (this by the way is the genius of A Confederacy of Dunces), we are each of us continually abraded, forestalled, confined, in a word crossed in everything.

The first instinct of man is to fix that by making the most egregious obstacles vanish, and magic being lacking, murder is the preferred solution and politics the faute de mieux. Politics works pretty well for quite a few reasons. For instance, it lets interests combine and separate in ways that are more subtle than warlords changing sides on the battlefield, which permits interests to be more slender and more numerous than they would be if each had to field an army. The more interests there are, each convinced that politics will work best for it, the less likely any one interest, and the men who make it up, will either run away with the whole boodle or give up on the process and start stabbing.

So much, so Federalist Papers. I think the most effective parts of politics are much simpler. Bodies moving through space and words in our ears feel freighted with significance. Politics turns those wellsprings of meaning to the purpose of soothing irritated wills. Parades, elections, the pomp and formality of Congress, every arbitrary and ridiculous rite, all build up a sense of meaningfulness that encourages each to grant to the others some trust and sufferance. All that meaning must derive from some real thing, right? There must really be a State, if it the rites of the state feel so very important and real. For the sake of something so important and real, it is not asking much to listen a little, and so persuasion can begin. Politicians sing their songs, and the singing makes the wills of other men less irksome, by clarifying my will, dissembling your will, tarting up his will. Looking for rational, connected thought in a politician's speech is as silly as looking for sustained rationality in any song. Songs carry their sense in their sound. By singing and dancing together, crossgrained man becomes one of a tribe, a city, a nation, when by his cold and silent will alone he can only endure the role of tyrant. It is merely refinement wrought by time that the songs are long-winded speeches and the dances called parades and parliamentary procedure.

Politics is living together without wholesale murder. Look what happens to countries that try to get beyond politics, Germany Russia China Cambodia Korea.... 1 party, 100% victories in elections, and up to 20% murdered. How I wish St. Barry, St. Joe, and St. John would think, before puffing up with hot air, "They only prefer me to a skull heap."