Aristotle, Rationality, and Emotion

I am currently working on a paper that explores the relationship between international politics and the emotions. This entails the difficult task of bridging two forms of social inquiry, scientific and subjective, each of which corresponds to different spheres of human activity. Scientific observations capture that which can be directly quantified and measured, like a state’s territory, population, and economy, while subjective ones aim to shed light on the amorphous realm of feeling, thinking, and perception. Examining the former usually means collecting and statistically comparing hard data. The latter is trickier but ultimately more intellectually rewarding because it includes the analysis of many kinds of texts, such as novels, media sources, and other platforms where humans communicate with one another.

A deep thinker

A research project of this character requires a demanding review of literature in order to identify whether, and how, one might make an original contribution. The literature that I must explore for this purpose runs the gamut from the classics of the ancient world to the latest research on neuroscience, and in this blog post I will share some of observations made while reading Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Rhetoric. As the titles of those works suggest, Aristotle thought that the study of emotion was central to understanding ethical behaviour as well as the rhetorical flair necessary for public speaking. Some of his insights deserve to be mentioned and analyzed.

Unsurprisingly, he believed that emotions were opposed to, or logically independent from, rationality. Here we find the origin of much enlightenment thought which venerated reason because alternative forms of understanding, such as intuition, mysticism, and the emotions, were deemed to be backwards or superstitious. This mindset found expression in most Western social scientific scholarship of the 20^th century, and especially the discipline of economics, which pre-supposed rational agents in its models of human behaviour. Liberalism and realism, the dominant paradigms in my discipline (international relations), also assumed this highly stylized depiction of human behaviour. Of course, many economists and others now recognize what those in other disciplines, such as anthropology and sociology, have long known, namely, that human action is much, much messier than the rational actor model implies. Humans are subject to a range of influences when they make decisions, especially emotions, some of which arguably lead to more optimal outcomes than was previously believed. 

  

 In the contemporary debate among theorists of politics and emotions, one of the divides is between those who argue that emotions are primarily embodied, involuntary, evolutionary adaptations, and those who assert that emotions flow from cognitive appraisals (cognitivists). A core feature of this dispute is the temporal sequence of emotions and cognition: one camp assumes that the emotions precede thought and narration, while cognitivists assume the reverse. Nicomachean Ethics and Rhetoric show that this sets up a false dichotomy, since the proper answer to the debate is that both are right depending on the context and the emotions. Aristotle believed that some emotions, like anger and fear, are largely involuntary. Others, like envy and indignation, are the result of specific forms social comparisons and hence arguably voluntary. In this latter kind, Aristotle makes genuinely insightful observations that have stood the test of time. Emotions occur because humans have goals, and in the attainment of them we compare ourselves with others who have similar objectives. What is more, we compare ourselves mainly with those who are like us rather than with those who are not; when those in our own group category are doing much better or much worse than us, it evokes emotion.

It seems this goes some way in explaining the fact that the anger that people feel towards intra-group inequality is greater than the satisfaction that they feel for inter-group equality. For example, one of the trends in our own time is that inequality has increased domestically, while it has decreased internationally, largely because of the same macro-structural process of globalization. And yet the same actors who quickly condemn globalization for increasing inequality domestically are less likely to praise it for reducing inequality between the West and, say, India and China. Why? I think Aristotle’s observation above answers that question. Those in the domestic realm share a legal, territorial, linguistic, and national orientation, while the almost 1 billion Indians and Chinese who have escaped poverty in the past 25 years are, for most citizens, abstractions. A similar dynamic happens when there is an accident or other event that causes death. When a plane crashes that is full of citizens from our country, we feel it, while the same plane full of foreigners does not evoke the same emotions. Not all are this parochial, of course, but even if half or most are, it supports Aristotle’s theory and goes some way in shedding light on why people react emotionally to some and not others.

Scholars tend to divide emotions into positive and negative, the former usually referring to things like joy, pride, and love, the latter to anger, hatred, and fear. This taxonomy perhaps reflects the scientific impulse to categorize and simplify, which makes research projects more manageable. Aristotle’s work suggests that emotions are not that simple. One of the more interesting parts of his theory is the proposition that negative emotions are often pleasurable, raising questions about how negative they actually are. The pleasurable part of anger, for example, is revenge, while the pleasurable part of sadness is lamentation. My interpretation of these examples is that emotions have social functions or outcomes, and it is this element that produces pleasure. This is another insight that has stood the test of time. Self-righteous indignation, the kind that characterizes much debate during elections, can be pleasurable precisely because it has a social purpose, namely, the political goals of the actor. Here, negative emotions can be understood as part of the action that is necessary to attain these goals, which involves engagement with others: solidarity with those who one agrees with, and antipathy towards those on the other side. One is reminded of other activities that bring men pleasure, such as organized sports and other forms of controlled conflict. Aristotle was clearly on to something here.     

            

Although Aristotle mostly thought that emotions were irrational, he recognized that understanding them was useful for effective public speaking. That was certainly his purpose in Rhetoric, where he spends much more space theorizing emotions than in Nicomachean Ethics. In the process, he made genuinely insightful observations that remain relevant 24 centuries after he wrote. One overarching lesson is that emotions are messy and are not easily quantified. This should council humility to those in my discipline who aim to be rigorously scientific. The methods of modern science include concepts that are categorized into highly stylistic, distinct, and simplified units that can be directly statistically represented and measured. This process is essential for the next step of theory building and hypothesis testing, both of which are characterized with a clear demarcation between variables, as well as an unambiguous separation between independent (cause) variables and dependent (effect) ones. This mode of inquiry might work well in some forms of psychological testing and neuroscientific analysis, but it insufficient for a comprehensive study of emotions because, as Aristotle shows: 1) emotions are not necessarily distinct; they are composite and overlapping, 2) they depend on context, character, and type such that it makes little sense to ask what “causes” emotions. Rather, they have a variety of causes that depend on a variety of influences and on the type of emotions we are investigating. This implies that strictly scientific methods are inadequate for the study of emotion, and that other sources are needed to help us illuminate them.

           

A Review of Victor Hugo's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame"

Some meals can be wolfed down, swallowed with little chewing, and be done with immediately. Others need to be eaten slowly, gently savoured, and extended as much as possible to maximize enjoyment. The written word also has its various forms which must be approached in different ways. A memo from work, an email from the dean, any bureaucratic form, the small print on a contract, are all at times essential reading, but the sooner they are over with, the better. In contrast, verse from Shakespeare or Dante should be slowly absorbed in a way that enables one to capture the many nuances, layers of meaning, and aesthetic qualities of the work. Beautiful novels, like Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, fall in this latter camp. The book is delectable on so many levels, but in this review I will focus on three: the insights gleaned about human relationships from the lives of the characters, the scenery, especially Paris and particularly its great cathedral, and, of course, the beauty of the prose, which is characterized with a poetic rhythm and metaphorical richness that is immensely pleasurable to consume and which, like a good meal, leaves one satiated and yet yearning for more.

He does not get the girl

The Virtues of Ugliness

The Hunchback of Notre Dame is a cultural icon in the West. Its reproduction in film and other media has made most familiar with the basic outlines of the story, and hence there is probably little need to repeat it here. It might be worthwhile, however, to mention the main characters: Don Frollo, the compassionate but also lovesick priest, Quasimodo, the deformed, revolting and yet good hearted hunchback, and Esmeralda, the gorgeous gypsy who both men fall in love with, although in very different ways. The priest’s love is carnal, obsessive, maddening, and ultimately leads to his ignominious demise. Quasimodo’s, in contrast, is selfless and pure, although his ending is no less tragic.

            When the reader initially encounters Don Frollo, one is struck by his remarkable professional and personal qualities. He combines the self-sacrificing features of the principled priest with the insatiable curiosity and objectivity of the disinterested scientist. The Black Plague kills both his parents, and he consequently must raise his much younger brother Jehan, which he does, ensuring his needs are met and providing opportunities for education that most boys in 15^th century Paris would never have. Quasimodo, too, is saved from destitution by Don Frollo, and here, familial duty plays no role. Rather, we see the purest expression of the Christian devotion to the excluded: Quasimodo is orphaned and left for dead, and when found is brought into the cathedral (as were all abandoned babies at the time). Even as an infant his deformities—hunchbacked, no neck, one eyed, asymmetrical limbs, warts—make him revolting. The parishioners are aghast at the sight of him, asserting that he is a demon in human form. In those superstitious times, such beliefs were held literally, and thus one is not surprised when some of the ladies at the church recommend throwing the baby into a fire.

Don Frollo approaches Quasimodo and ignores the natural inclination of lesser beings to see only the hideousness of the creature. Recognizing that only he can prevent the baby’s certain death, Don Frollo assumes the responsibility for raising him, which he does while fulfilling his priestly duties. This full schedule does not prevent Don Frollo from pursuing his other passion: the advancement of scientific knowledge. He devours the literature of his day, is fluent in the classical languages, and spends much of his time theorizing, hypothesizing, and conducting experiments. These two noble impulses—the moral sensitivity of the genuinely religious, and the unbounded thirst for knowledge of the true scientist—give him an aura of authority that is recognized by his peers in Paris, who treat him with reverence and defer to his leadership in matters spiritual and intellectual.

            But beneath the surface lie darker features which are not fully revealed until later in the book. The reader is given hints of Don Frollo’s internal demons in the first part of the text when we are told, for instance, that he avoided making eye-contact or conversing with women, and that when he was struck by sexual desire, he would immediately dive into his scientific endeavours until the impulse passed. This suggests that science was not only valuable in its own right; it was also a tool for Don Frollo to escape the painful conflicts between celibacy and the needs of the flesh. When Esmeralda enters the picture, this tension could no longer be contained and, like the screaming vapors that suddenly escape a pot of boiling water, Don Frollo loses his composure when he encounters her.

            His obsession is, at least partly, understandable, since Esmeralda has a charm and beauty that surpasses all the other women in Paris. According to Hugo, she was a gypsy and bohemian, with thick black hair, and the golden complexion of Roman or Andalusian women. In order to survive, she sings and dances in a way that entrances those around her. Adding to her mystique is Daija, her golden-horned pet goat with seemingly human powers to calculate numbers and communicate ideas. From his perch in the Notre Dame, the tallest building in Paris, Don Frollo could observe her and became captivated by her sounds, movements, and features. The shenanigans he is willing to pull off to obtain her are in equal parts pathetic and farcical. One evening, Don Frollo hides in the building where Esmeralda is having a tryst with her lover Phoebus, the shallow and handsome official who does not feel the same way for her. The priest can hear and see everything in the room, and at a certain point he loses his marbles, enters, and stabs the other man, while leaving Esmeralda unharmed. She loses consciousness, but wakes up to discover that she has been accused of murdering Phoebus—a capital crime. While in solitary confinement in a medieval dungeon, the priest goes to her under the pretence of fulling his religious duties to prisoners. He reveals his love for her even as Esmeralda recognizes that he is the man who stabbed her lover. Horrified, she refuses his advances, and is condemned to be hanged.

            In medieval Paris, executions were public affairs, and even a form of entertainment for the masses. Esmeralda is taken through this crowd, chained to a cart like a beast about to be slaughtered. When she is about to be hanged for a crime she did not commit, Quasimodo comes to her rescue. With his superhuman strength he easily knocks the hangmen and the guards to the ground, removes the noose from Esmeralda’s neck, and takes her into Notre Dame. At the time, cathedrals were the only refuge where the secular force of kings and their minions could not penetrate. There, she is safe and tended to by Quasimodo, who, like his adopted parent Don Frollo, loves her. But the contrast is profound. Whereas Don Frollo is sickened by a pathological obsession, Quasimodo’s love is almost entirely selfless. He knows, for example, that he is too hideous for Esmeralda or anyone else for that matter, and he is also aware that she is in love with the dashing Phoebus. But this does not prevent him from nursing her back to health and protecting her from execution. At one point, he even leaves the cathedral to try to convince Phoebus to come and talk to Esmeralda because that is what she desperately wanted.

            Meanwhile, Don Frollo has cooked up another scheme to obtain her, this one more outrageous than previous attempts. He conspires with another pathetic character in the book, the philosopher Gringoire, to convince the Tramps—Esmeralda’s tribe, the outcasts and bohemians of Paris—to storm the church and kidnap her. On the night of the deed, Quasimodo can only watch in dismay as he observes thousands of them, dressed in rags and carrying clunky weapons, approach Notre Dame with the intension of breaking in. Quasimodo’s defense of the church against the Tramps is one of the most riveting scenes of the book; as they try to break through the doors, Quasimodo must find ways to stop them, and improvises with whatever he could get his hands on. From the roof of the cathedral, he first tosses a large log of wood, which crushes and slaughters dozens of Tramps. But this does not deter them. Next, he discovers liquid lead in one of the rooms being renovated by workmen. He lights it on fire, and pours the burning liquid over the roof onto the crowd of Tramps at the entrance, causing many of them to die in agony. After these efforts, which helped to delay but not prevent the storming of the church, he goes to Esmeralda’s room and finds her missing. She has been taken by Gringoire and the priest, who, under the pretext of saving her, enter Notre Dame and escape through the back exit. When they are far from the Church, Gringoire leaves the two alone, and again Don Frollo expresses his unwavering love for her, his willingness to break his priestly vows, and, ominously, an ultimatum: either she give herself to him, or he would allow the authorities to capture her, which would lead to her certain death. She once again refuses his advances, which is too much for Don Frollo to bear, and, in perhaps the most pathetic scene in the book, he explodes into paroxysms of weeping and rage.

            The story takes a bizarre turn when Don Frollo goes and calls the authorities and leaves Esmeralda in the captivity of the recluse, a woman whose baby was kidnapped 16 years ago and, in despair, decides to cage herself in a hole to live a life of perpetual wailing and prayer (another practice that was quite common in medieval Paris). When Esmeralda sees the baby’s shoe in the recluse’s cell, she recognizes it as the other half of a shoe that she possessed and that was the only trace of the mother from whom she was orphaned. Unbeknownst to Don Frollo, the recluse is Esmeralda’s long lost mother, and after moving scenes of joy at this realization, she makes an effort to save Esmeralda from the authorities by hiding her in the cell. Initially it works, but the appearance of Phoebus on the square (he actually survived the stabbing) causes Esmeralda to lose control and call for him, in the process betraying her hiding place and leading to her capture and execution.

            In the real world, Don Frollo probably would have gotten away for this crime. In the fantasy land of literature, he does not. When she is being hanged, squirming and convulsing as the body enters its final struggle to survive, the priest is watching from the cathedral and laughs at her demise. Quasimodo sees the same and is struck by grief and sorrow. When he sees the priest’s reaction to her death, it is too much to bear, and he throws him over the roof. The priest falls 200 feet to his death, which is eventually ruled a suicide.

            The story has enough realism to withstand this fantasy-land ending to the tragic love triangle. Don Frollo is the archetypical genius who is also crazy—a not uncommon mix of traits among artists and intellectuals. Esmeralda’s surpassing beauty makes men fall madly in love with her, except for Phoebus, the man she loves. She is vain, naïve, and deluded by her passion for Phoebus, believing, against all the evidence, that he will one day love her, confirming the adage that love is most intense when it is most unreasonable. In fact he cares little for her well-being, and even inadvertently hastens her death when his appearance near the cell leads Esmeralda to call for him and reveal herself to her executioners. Quasimodo is the caring and nice but ugly guy who does not get the girl, at least not in this life. In a tragic final twist, he finds Esmeralda’s corpse on a slab in Paris’s mausoleum, lies beside and embraces it, and dies. Their skeletons are discovered in that final position of love, with Quasimodo’s arms wrapped around her. The story ends tragically for all concerned except Phoebus, who marries a beautiful aristocratic girl and likely continues to live his shallow life of privilege and luxury.

Thus just like in the real world, there is no ending where each gets what he or she deserves. Rather, outcomes are determined by fate, or rather by the unchangeable elements of each character—Don Frollo’s genius and madness, Quasimodo’s hideousness, Esmeralda’s beauty, and Phoebus’s good looks and aristocratic connections; it is these things, and not some arc of justice, that determines their lives.

The Beauty of Paris and the Notre Dame

In the book, Paris has a double personality. On the one hand, it is composed of inhabitants full of cruelty and superstitions, especially towards Quasimodo. On the other, the medieval outline of its unplanned zigzagged streets, with houses and buildings sprouting spontaneously like mushrooms, give it charm and personality, the kind that is totally lacking in the bland homogeneity of planned modern cities and neighborhoods. The architecture, a hybrid of Gothic and classical forms, provide Paris with a vitality and vibrancy that seems to transcend the corruption of its inhabitants. The icon is the Notre Dame itself, which took centuries to build, and which represents the labours and creativity of countless unnamed persons who worked anonymously to construct its towers, arches, spires, and gargoyles that overlook the city with piercing eyes and mouths eternally agape, as if expressing equal amounts of astonishment and chastisement. As the tallest building in the city, Notre Dame also provides an unparalleled view of Paris, and Hugo’s description of this panorama of sights and sounds is gorgeous and deserves to be quoted at length:

“Reconstruct in your imagination the Paris of the 15^th century…mark clearly the Gothic profile of this old Paris on a horizon of blue, make its contour float in a wintry fog that clings to the innumerable chimneys; drown it in deep night, and observe the extraordinary play of darkness and light in this dark labyrinth of buildings…at sunrise, listen to the awakening of bells. Behold at a sign from heaven, because it comes from the Sun itself, those thousand churches trembling all at once. At first a faint tinkling passes from church to church, as when musicians  give notice that they are about to begin. Then see, for at certain times the ear too seems to be endowed with sight [emphasis mine]. See how, all of a sudden, at the same moment, there arises from each steeple as it were a column of sound, a cloud of harmony. At first the vibration of each bell rises straight, pure, and in a manner separate from that of the others, into the splendid morning sky; then, swelling by degrees, they blend, melt, intermingle, and amalgamate into a magnificent concert. It is now but one mass of sonorous vibrations…and it floats, undulates, leaps, and swirls over the city…You can see clear and rapid notes dart around in all directions, making three or four luminous zigzags, and vanishing like lightening. There the abbey of St. Martin sends forth its harsh, sharp tones; here the Bastille raises its sinister and husky voice. At the other end of the city it is the great tower of the Louvre, with its countertenor…Then again, at intervals, this mass of sublime sounds opens and makes way for the finale of the Ave Maria, which glistens like a plume of stars…This is truly an opera that is well worth listening to. Normally, the noises that Paris makes in the daytime represent the city talking; at night, the city breathes. In this case, the city sings.”

Hugo mourns the passing of medieval Paris and its replacement with more modern forms of planning. He also proposes an interesting theory about Paris’s beauty, which can be summed up with the statement that “printing killed architecture”. What he means is that before the mass production of the written word, artists devoted their efforts to architecture, which is one reason why medieval churches possess an intricacy and beauty that cannot be matched by modern ones. I found this thesis to be provocative, and perhaps it helps explain the fact that Protestantism—which spread because of the printing press, and which emphasized the written word—has generally produced bland and ugly churches, in some instances buildings that are little different from the lifeless block buildings of government and commercial plazas. To my knowledge, there is no building in the Protestant world that is comparable, in terms of beauty, grandeur, and intricacy, to St. Peters in Rome, or the Holy Mary cathedral in Florence, or, of course, the Notre Dame.

The splendor of Notre Dame

Victor Hugo’s striking sensitivity to and description of medieval churches perhaps goes some way in explaining the memorable beauty of his prose. I found myself re-reading certain sentences for no other reason than the desire to experience the aesthetic pleasure of absorbing the words, sentences, and, most notably, his use of metaphor. Emblematic is his description of the cathedral, which according to Hugo, is a “vast symphony of stone”. The image of the orchestra conjures up impressions of a singular beauty that is the result of the coordination and harmonization of all its distinct sections, creating something that is much more than the sum of its parts. It is human talent, ingenuity, and creativity at its finest, and synthesizes the various cultural influences and innovations of different historical epochs. In this regard, medieval architecture was, according to Huge, “the great book of humanity” before it was overtaken by printed books—quite literally.

            Metaphors are skillfully used elsewhere. When Esmeralda danced, “her feet disappeared in movement like the spokes of a turning wheel.” In one scene, she enters a room where Phoebus is present and surrounded with young ladies of aristocratic lineage trying to court him, and the effect is profound: “One drop of wine is sufficient to redden a glass of water; to taint an entire company of pretty women with a certain degree of ill-humour merely introduce an even prettier woman, especially when there is only one man in the party”. When the unlucky Esmeralda is imprisoned and accused of murdering Phoebus, Hugo tells says “only two things showed signs of life in the dungeon: the wick of the lantern, which crackled because of the humidity, and the drip of water from the roof that broke this irregular crackling with its monotonous splash, which made the light of the lantern dance in concentric rings on the oily surface of the puddle” [emphasis mine].

Hugo’s talent evokes wonder at how such feats of literary brilliance are achieved. I think his skill as a poet provided that distinct ability to transform sense experience into representations that needed to be communicated in a way that illuminated some of the more amorphous, inchoate, and ineffable aspects of interior and social life while being sensitive to the aesthetic quality of the final result. This ability shines throughout the prose of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, making this compelling story immensely enjoyable to read.

Crisis in the Eurozone by Costas Lapavitsas

The eurozone crisis does not dominate the headlines anymore, in part because the flames that almost extinguished the currency in the summer of 2015 have been subdued. But the fundamental structural weaknesses of the euro have not been addressed; below the superficial appearance of calm, the embers are still glowing, waiting to ignite another explosion. Many events could potentially spark it: a radical government winning office, or the inability of one of the highly indebted countries to meet a debt payment or to comply with the dictates of Europe’s creditors. At that moment, we can expect another drama replete with high tension, blunder blustering, political posturing, soaring apocalyptic rhetoric, and ending with the capitulation of one of the parties, most likely the weaker one.

            But it does not have to be this way. Weaker countries like Greece have other options, as highlighted in the excellent book I will review here, Crisis in the Eurozone by Costas Lapavitsas. He shows convincingly that the apocalyptic scenario depicted in the media every time a crisis occurs—namely, that the alternative to submitting to creditors’ demands is expulsion from the euro, impoverishing many and leading to another global financial crisis—is exaggerated. The character of these narratives derives from the well-known aphorism that, for the media, if it bleeds, it leads. Adapted here, it means that the media’s interest in maximizing viewership creates a perverse incentive to exaggerate and dramatize the implications of exiting the currency union. Another reason is that much of the media relies on the research reports carried out by banks, because they provide a veneer of objectivity. But these reports can hardly be considered unbiased given that banks have been one of the main beneficiaries of the euro, and hence its dissolution would mean major losses for them and their shareholders.

            Enter Crisis in the Eurozone, which helps the reader to see through much of the media-induced fog that surrounds discussion of the euro. Using a treasure trove of data, the book persuasively shows that the euro did not benefit the average person, especially in Southern Europe. Rather, it represented a move towards the financialization of the economy, which refers to reductions in manufacturing and increases in debt-fueled speculative activity which have mostly benefited banks. Furthermore, although the euro was supposed to create convergence between Europe’s strong and weak economies (I document these elite-created expectations in my book Eurozone Politics published by Routledge), it has in fact consolidated and even accentuated the hierarchical structure at the heart of the euro which divides countries into “core” or “periphery”. Lastly, and perhaps the most valuable and interesting part of the book, is his analysis of the fetishism of the euro. This refers to the symbolic meanings that are projected onto the currency that are either loosely connected, or even entirely divorced, from its substantive and concrete elements. This is another feature of the euro that I extensively document in my book, and it is remarkable that Lapavitsas and I independently arrived at similar conclusions on how the euro was fetishized.

He does not fetishize the euro

Banking on the Euro

The goal of establishing a monetary union was consolidated after the signing of the Maastricht Treaty in 1991. There were two major and related pressures that led to it: the re-unification of Germany, which created the spectre of renewed German hegemony, and the belief that the unification of Europe was the best way to prevent a recrudescence of the destructive nationalisms that decimated the continent in the past. But European elites did not have the legitimacy to create a political union, because only a small portion of Europeans—mainly highly educated and mobile cosmopolitan elites—subscribed to an overarching European identity that trumped national loyalties. To circumvent this, Eurocrats decided to unify the currency first, which, it was hoped, would create the pressures that would lead to a real political union.

            Thus right from the get-go, the currency was spurred by fear of Germany, the designs of unrepresentative European elites, and the meretricious attempt to establish the conditions for political unification through the back door, as it were. These motivations were not based on the theoretical and empirical elements of currency unions, and this detachment from what truly mattered was not a propitious start for such an ambitious project. Luckily for Europhiles, though, reputable economists came to the rescue. Titans of the profession, like Nobel Prize winner Robert Mundel, presented models that showed the high possibility that the euro would propel economic convergence between stronger and weaker European countries. Phew; now, this project, largely motivated by the fear of German hegemony, had the backing of eminent economists with sophisticated theoretical models that promised the things that voters wanted.

            Armed with these ideas, Europhiles proceeded to sell the euro to their publics with statements that, with hindsight, are pretty embarrassing: the euro would increase growth by 1% a year, would enhance productivity by similar amounts, augment the amount of time available for leisure, protect against global competition and financial crises, and create a global power with the strength to balance China and the US; these are only some of the promises made to European publics. Of course, it did not turn out this way, especially for countries in the periphery. Where the euro did coincide with growth (especially Ireland, Spain, and Greece) it was mostly debt-fueled speculative activity that came crashing to a halt in 2010, leading to humiliating bailouts and external control. These policies, moreover, transpired mainly to save German and French banks which heavily invested in periphery countries. Italy, meanwhile, has been economically comatose since it adopted the euro, although there have been intermittent signs of life. Even France, which unlike the others is part of the “core”, has mostly seen anemic growth.

The main beneficiary has been Germany, and this is one of the more bitter ironies of the euro. It was supposed to equalize the relative positions of Germany and others. Instead, the distance between them has increased. German dominance has re-emerged even though, being financial and economic, it is much gentler than in previous eras. The rise of radical parties in Europe on the right and the left is partly a response this development. In Italy, France, Greece, Spain, Portugal, and elsewhere, a salient discourse of the populists is that the euro, as it currency operates, has cemented German dominance. This resonates precisely because it contains much that is true. The fact that most Germans probably didn’t ask for or did not seek this state of affairs is immaterial. What matters is that it has had the final say on the conditions of the bailouts that were enacted to save the euro, and through this mechanism Germany has been able to project its model of ordo liberalism onto countries that reject it because they seemingly had little choice to either toe the line or face the consequences of bankruptcy. 

Fetishized Unions

In light of the preceding analysis, one might legitimately ask: why do large portions of Europeans still want to preserve the currency? There are several responses. First, the polls that show that many, in some cases majorities, support the euro are misleading because the pollsters frame the question in terms of simple binaries (support or non-support). A deeper probing would likely reveal that many support the currency only because they fear the alternative, a fear which the media has been happy to fuel. A helpful analogy is marriage. Sometimes, the parties want to stay together because of a genuine romantic attachment, but often times they stay together only because they fear the economic and social consequences of breaking up, especially if there are kids in the picture. The euro is, I would argue, analogous to the second case, which means that it is fundamentally held together by fear. Another reason is that for many, the euro is equated with a European identity that is associated with modernity and progress. This is especially the case in Southern Europe. Countries like Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Greece have looked to Europe to solve their so-called “backwardness”. Like other compelling narratives, this has a grain of truth. In order to enter the European Community, all those countries (except Italy) had to consolidate their democratic structures, protect human rights, and modernize their legal systems. For this and other reasons, belonging to Europe is associated with advancement, and being outside might be associated with backwardness.

            In Crisis in the Eurozone, Costas Lapavitsas reveals how fallacious this thinking is when applied to the common currency. His data shows what most informed observers know: that the adoption of the euro did not enhance the relative positions of the periphery; rather, it led to their relative decline. The currency accentuated Europe’s inter-state hierarchy, and hierarchy, in turn has informed the crisis response which has mostly benefited the banks and their shareholders. Concretely, the bailouts of major banks, and the austerity conditions attached to these loans, were possible because Germany, and to a lesser extent France, had the final say on these crucial decisions.

            Periphery countries are equally responsible because they have been mostly unwilling to challenge this state of affairs. The main reason is that, for the majority of elites in these countries, national worth, dignity, and prestige are tied to belongingness to the euro. One of the valuable contributions of Crisis in the Eurozone is that it encourages the reader to look past these perceptions and focus only the facts. In this regard, there are three main possibilities: 1) More of the same. If periphery countries follow this path, they will precariously remain members of a currency union that has reduced their competitiveness, which is fundamentally held together by fear of the alternative, that is dominated by Germany, and that, for the foreseeable future, will seemingly remain on the precipice of another crisis. 2) Creditor-led default. In this scenario, eurozone countries will publicly admit what they already privately know: the debts of many periphery countries are not sustainable and need to be restructured. Subsequently, default on public debts—still anathema in the euro and illegal according to the Treaty of Maastricht—would be allowed, but on terms dictated by creditors, which would likely mean more austerity. This seems to be the path that Greece is on at the moment. 3) Debtor-led default. The main difference with number 2 is that debt-restructuring will happen on the terms of periphery countries rather than the core, meaning that they will declare non-payment and reject the austerity conditions demanded by creditors. This would likely mean ejection from the euro, but Lapavitsas shows that, compared to the alternatives, it is the least-bad option. Only after the present structure dissolves, he shows, can a new vision of Europe emerge that is not orientated around the interests of finance and core countries.

            The main obstacle to an actualization of a debtor-led default is the fetishization of the currency. As long as the currency is associated, incorrectly, with enhanced relative status and prestige, elites in periphery countries will be unwilling to challenge the core. This suggests that constructive policy will depend on a new definition of self-worth that injects confidence and value in the national community independently of Europe. Not in a way that devalues the EU, since identities do not need to be zero-sum. Again, the analogy of romance is helpful. Relationships characterized by dependency, insecurity, low self-worth, and fear are usually not healthy. Rather, they work best when both parties are confident in their value and capabilities independently of the other. Analogously, periphery countries will be better able to confront the unhelpful policies of the core only if they alter their perceptions of national worth. Easier said than done, of course. It is hard enough for individuals to alter their perceptions, and probably even harder at the level of the national community. This suggests that the fetishization of the euro will continue, and elites in periphery countries will continue to view the currency through rose-tinted glasses even when their interests suggest alternatives would be better. The abusive relationship between creditors and debtors will continue until one of the parties says “enough” and decides to break-up. Acrimony and bitterness might ensue, but will eventually pass and open up possibilities for something new.

The Price System versus the Balance of Power

The Nobel prize winning economist Friedrich von Hayek is mainly known for his influence on right-wing politicians like Margaret Thatcher. This politicization of Hayek is unfortunate because he was also an economist and philosopher who produced insightful academic work. Most notably in this regard is his identification of what he calls "The Knowledge Problem," the argument of which was published in the American Economic Review in 1948. The article is titled "The Use of Knowledge in Society," and it is worth reading because in it he highlights an important element in the economy that is relevant to all forms of social activity, including the area that interests me, international relations. 

The balance of power

My summary of his insight is the following. If all the dispersed information of economic actors could be known to one mind, that is, if it was aggregated and centralized, this mind would in principle be able to allocate the goods and services that we produce and consume in a way that would take account of all the dispersed knowledge of actors. If, for example, wood suddenly became scarce, this all-knowing mind would quantify and formulaically encode all the implications of the sudden scarcity of wood, namely, people's willingness to pay more for it, the search for, and production of, substitutes, the increase in the cost of all the products made with wood, and actors' changing preferences in response to these changes. With all this knowledge, the central mind would then allocate the goods that are affected by this change--houses, boats, chairs, tables, books, etc.--in a way that reflects a) the new scarcity, b) the changes in the value of wood and all the goods made with it, c) actors' subjective reactions to this change, including the desire for substitutes, and actors' responses to these substitutes, and d) the effect of the new substitute on all the goods that are implicated by this new resource.

Of course, there is no single mind that could aggregate all this knowledge. And even if computers could somehow statistically represent the data implied above, it is hard to see how even the most powerful ones could register and predict the subjective changes that determine the different valuations of substitutes, or the creative process whereby substitutes are imagined and produced. This is the meaning of what Hayek calls the "Knowledge Problem". He adds that, in the economic sphere, this problem is at least partially resolved by the price mechanism, and this can be illustrated by continuing the example in the previous paragraph. If there suddenly occurred a scarcity of wood while demand for it remained unchanged, the price for it and all the goods that are made of wood would increase. If this increase was significant, those who depend on wood would economize it, and search for substitutes. The price system registers all this information of economic change in the form of a price, which is a signaling device that encapsulates the relative values of all the goods and services that are implicated in the original change. Actors would adjust in response to the changes in this signaling device--that is, the price--in a way that would restore some sort of equilibrium. The important point here is that this would happen even though the actors are mostly ignorant of the original change (a sudden scarcity of wood), and are mostly unaware of how the millions affected by the change are acting. All they need to know is that wood is now more expensive, and that they will have to adjust in one of the ways mentioned above. Thus the price system, for Hayek, helps to solve the knowledge problem because it aggregates dispersed information and, by transforming it into a signaling device (the price), induces others to adjust even though the said actors are mostly unaware of the causes of the changing prices. No all-knowing mind, or all-powerful computer, can carry out this function because the information that is represented in the price is the aggregation of millions of subjective preferences which are dispersed, local, implicit, tacit, fluctuating, contradictory, and circumstantial. And yet the price system transforms these bits of data into a single number that helps to coordinate the activities of millions who are mostly unaware of each other. 

Even more remarkably, this is a form of organization that is the product of human action and not human design. It is a macro-structural mechanism that humans create without intention or purpose. In this sense, the price mechanism is similar to evolved forms in the natural world: both emerge spontaneously and through chance and are selected because of some adaptive value. The final outcome is a complex organization without an organizer.

The implications of this are huge for all sorts of human behaviour, but here I will focus on international politics. The knowledge problem that afflicts the economy that Hayek identified also characterizes the international system. In both there are actors pursuing their goals (although in the economy it is mainly producers and consumers, and in the international arena it is states). Both are complex systems of fluctuating parts, where the knowledge of the totality of dispersed knowledge cannot possibly be known to a single mind. According to Hayek, in the economy  the price system helps to solve this problem. This raises the question of whether there is any analogous mechanism in the international system that also solves the knowledge problem.

At first glance, it seems like there is no exact equivalent. The reason for this absence is the nature of the goods that actors pursue in each sphere of human action. In the economy, actors pursue economic gain of some sort--consumers want to consume, and producers want to profit. In the international system, actors pursue security and sovereignty. Since there is no open market where security and sovereignty are openly exchanged, there is no mechanism to determine their relative values. And yet actors still pursue these goods.

But further inquiry suggests that there is a macro-structural process in the international system which, like the price system, coordinates the activities of  actors by concentrating and signaling dispersed knowledge. The candidate for this is the balance of power, which, like the price system, might be a mechanism which is an adaptation to the absence of a central mind or authority. To see how, consider what the balance power is: the distribution and asymmetrical possession of military and economic force in the system. State actors observe the balance of power similarly to how economic actors observe the price. They look for movements, and adjust their behaviour in light of the changes. If the change is favourable--that is, if a rival experiences a real reduction in power--this represents an opportunity for the pursuit of advantage. In the economy, the corresponding behaviour would be the profit maximizing opportunity that would accrue to some actors if the price of an important resource suddenly declined. 

Thus both the price system and the balance of power are signaling devices that facilitate and coordinate decision making between actors pursuing some material advantage.  Both are spontaneous evolutionary adaptations to the absence of an all knowing mind which can value and allocate goods according  to their relative values. The main, and fundamental, difference, is the goods that are produced and exchanged. Despite this difference, the international system has a market-like quality, but rather than operating like a domestic economy, it more closely resembles a territory infested with gangs, as the following example will suggest.

Let us presume that there are 200 gangs in a city, and all are pursuing similar things like territory to pursue their illicit activities, like drug dealing and gambling. These gangs compete with each other for territory, and the security to control it. But they cannot all have the same areas. This is where force comes into the picture. In order for a gang to protect what it has, or to gain more, it needs instruments of violence. If it lacks this, it can ally with a stronger gang--for a price. The stronger party may demand some sort of payment, or some contribution to the alliance. The realization of the objectives of the gang's leaders depends on the amount of force it has, and is willing to use, and, most importantly, the extent to which it is constrained by the force possessed by other gangs. The relative distribution of forces is the main determinant of whether a gang achieves its objectives. If the gangs are roughly similar, there will be a regular shifting of constellations as they compete with each other. If, however, one gang is 20 times stronger than the rest, its objectives are not constrained by others, and it will obtain domination over most or all of the territory. Other gangs must submit or be crushed.

The similarity between gangs and states arises from the fact that both depend on instruments of violence which are used to procure goods that are exclusive: more territory and security for X means less of both for Y. Meanwhile, in the economy, actors use money to pursue goods that in principle are not exclusive: more computers for me does not mean there are fewer for you. Despite these differences, both are composed of actors pursuing material advantage in systems where the totality of the dispersed knowledge cannot be known to an all-knowing mind (the knowledge problem), and both have developed spontaneously generated adaptive mechanisms that help to turn the dispersed knowledge into a single value that is also a signaling device which coordinates the activities of actors. For the economy, it is the price; for the international system, it is the balance of power.

A Review of Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina

The hyper-specialization of academia in the past several decades has had many effects, one of which is that most scholarship is focused on very narrow and technical theoretical questions, such as whether subjective ideas or objective economic variables are more influential in causing very specific forms of human behaviour. These kinds of inquiries, although interesting, are, in the grand scheme of things, of relatively little value. Although important in helping to systematize thought and in sharpening our tools to understand some political events, they will not help one live a better life, or make much positive change in the world, or tackle some of the existential quandaries of being alive. The same cannot be said about the book that I will review here, Leo Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina. Unlike the vast majority of academic work, even the most prestigious, in this masterpiece Tolstoy tackles some of the big questions that all thinking people, at one time or another, must face and deal with, such as: what is the nature of love? What is the meaning of life? How should I live my life? In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy does not pretend to provide a solution to those puzzles. But in the development of the characters, and more importantly in the relationships between them, Tolstoy weaves together a story that contains an edifying mix of romance, history and philosophy that constitute a system of thought that gives some tentative and partial answers. Consequently, after reading Anna Karenina, one feels a bit more enlightened, entertained, matured, and enriched. For this, the book merits its place in the pantheon of history’s great novels.

 

All unhappy in their our own ways

 

As the book’s title suggests, a major character in the novel is Anna Karenina, and much of the text is organized around her tragic love affair with Oblonsky which transpires despite her marriage to Aleksey. The love triangle involving Anna, Oblonsky, and Aleksey is strategically juxtaposed with the courtship and marriage of Levin and Kitty. None of these characters are “bad”; in fact all of them are good in their own ways. And yet all, at one time or another, must suffer, although for the latter couple it leads to redemption, and for the former, to tragedy.

 

Kitty and Levin find lasting happiness, although not without difficulties. Kitty is initially infatuated with Oblonsky, and for good reason: his dashing good looks, enticing personality, and high status make him very desirable. At the same time, Levin is in love with Kitty, but as an average looking (although intelligent) landowner and farmer, he does not have Oblonsky’s appeal. At least partly for this, Kitty rejects his marriage proposal. Levin is wounded, but he finds meaning in his work and eventually moves on. Kitty’s hopes are also dashed when Oblonsky falls in love with Anna. This event has a traumatic effect on Kitty and causes a love-sickness that manifests itself as a serious physical illness. Her doctor prescribes travel abroad to a spa, where Kitty meets Varanka, who embodies the ideals that Tolstoy believes provides the ultimate meaning and guide to life: Christian self-sacrifice that puts ethics and the well-being of others before the interests of the egoistic self.

 

Levin, like Varenka, is a literary vehicle for Tolstoy’s philosophy. After Kitty initially rejects him, he goes back to his farm and lives a quiet and productive life even though his dream of building a family is crushed. The death of his consumptive brother, Nikolai, confronts Levin with the reality of the inevitability of death, which leads to an existential crisis. What is the point of life if we must die? In the end, does it matter whether we die tomorrow, next week, or 40 years from now? What kind of force would create us only to live briefly on this earth, to desire and conceive of eternity even while we inexorably must slide into eternal nothingness and oblivion? These are some of the questions that Levin, at the tender age of 30, is tortured with after seeing his brother die. He initially has no answer other than to distract himself through working on the land. All this changes when he encounters Kitty again after not seeing her for at least a year. By then, she has completely healed from the wound inflicted by Oblonsky, and has matured considerably as well, mainly because of the positive influence of Varanka. After a brief courtship, she accepts Levin’s second proposal, and they are happily married. Levin’s dedication to his work and his family provideshim with purpose and satisfaction, but the questions that tortured him remain unresolved, and are always in the background of his consciousness. Kitty’s pregnancy and experience of giving birth is a turning point. While she is in labour, sweating and shrieking in pain, Levin realizes his utter helplessness and inability to provide relief, and is terrorized by the fear that she might die. At that moment, he finds himself on his knees, pleading to God for help. He was an atheist his entire adult life, but this event involuntarily brings him back to the religion of his childhood.  In the process, Levin moves a small step towards discovering the answers to the questions that tortured him.

 

His spiritual journey is impacted by other factors. Levin finds insight on how to live meaningfully, not from history’s great writers and thinkers, but from the peasants who live and work on his farm. Levin is educated and well-read, and even wrote a book on the question of agricultural production in Russia. But he is suspicious of intellectuals like his brother Sergey, the type who can cite at will all the great philosophers and who express much concern about the plight of lower classes, and who personally endorse policies to help them, even while pursuing a life of comfort and prestige that his inferiors could never achieve. In marked contrast to his brother, Levin actually lives and works with peasants; he is intimately involved in the minutiae of their daily lives, and this personal experience nourishes his genuine affection for them. By his actions he treats them as equals and shows the hollowness of those, like his brother Sergey, who pretend to be compassionate by expressing the latest intellectual fads of social justice for the peasants.

 

Through his genuine intermingling and affection for those below him in socioeconomic status, Levin discovers their way of life, and realizes that it contains an answer to some of the questions that tortured him. It can summed up as: simplicity. The peasants are not disturbed by the inevitability of death because for them, life has a simple rhythm of work, family, and faith. Death, evidently, is just part of the natural rhythm of life, and hence it is pointless to philosophize about it. Here, Tolstoy reveals his anti-intellectualism even though he himself was a great writer and thinker. Levin (who is Tolstoy’s projection of himself) has a prodigious mind, and this produced a kind of intellectual pride that was shattered after witnessing the death of Nikolai. The ensuing crisis was  not resolved by reading theology or philosophy. Rather, a resolution occurred after observing the birth of his son, which, by reminding him of his essential helplessness, brings him to the faith of his childhood, and also from his intimate knowledge of the life of his peasants, where he discovers that the purpose of life is the simplicity that is etched in their rhythms of life.

 

Whereas Levin and Kitty discover marital happiness and spiritual fulfillment, the relationship between Anna and Oblonsky ends in tragedy, and Tolstoy is clearly using them as a warning about the destructiveness of egoistic love. As mentioned above, Anna is married to Aleksey, and together they produce a son who Anna adores. But their union is loveless, in part, because of the personality of Aleksey. He is the embodiment of the cold, efficient, rational, knowledgeable, rule-following, and ambitious official that arguably is the archetypical modern man. Although he is devoted to his wife and child, he is seemingly incapable of feeling or expressing genuine emotion. Anna is desperate for feeling, and at one point even says that she would prefer for Aleksey to kill her than the current state of affairs, as this would at least mean that he felt angry. For Anna, any emotion, it seems, is better than none. It was this loveless and robotic marriage that makes Anna ripe for an affair, and when the handsome, daring, and passionate Oblonsky enters the picture, and both instantly feel attracted to each other, it is only a matter of time before their desires are consummated even though Anna tried—she really did—to be a good wife and resist him. She eventually becomes pregnant with Oblonsky’s baby, and when Aleksey discovers this, he does his best salvage the marriage, not because he wants to become a loving husband, but rather because it would be humiliating in the eyes of his peers for him and Anna to get a divorce. In a moment which shows that even men like Aleksey, somewhere buried within them, have compassion and feeling, after Anna gives birth to Oblonsky’s baby and almost dies in the process, Aleksey forgives her and expresses delight towards the new baby even though it was not his. At this point, one gets the impression that to save his marriage, Aleksey would be willing to raise the little girl who was conceived illegitimately by Oblonsky. But it was not to be. Anna chooses to take the baby and travel abroad with Oblonsky, and they begin to build a life together full of the love and passion that Anna desired and that Aleksey could not provide.

 

But they do not live happily even after. The intensity of their passion is directly proportional, and even causes, the intensity of their suffering. With love comes vulnerability, and this takes an extreme form in Anna. She has become emotionally enslaved, so to speak, because her well-being is directly tied to how Oblonsky feels for her. And when she senses, sometimes accurately, that Oblonsky’s love for her has diminished, she suffers greatly. This also leads to petty jealousies that sometimes take the form of paranoid fantasies. Any little inconsistency on the part of Oblonsky is interpreted by her as evidence of a change of feeling or sexual betrayal. Even worse, she does not seem to love the baby that they produced. This is one of the odd ironies of the book: she feels a deep love for the son produced with the loveless Aleksey, while she does not feel the same for the daughter produced with Oblonsky, the man she was madly in love with. Anna deals with her misery in a number of ways, some helpful and others destructive. She adopts a poor English girl and makes an effort to raise her well. She reads voraciously, and is up to date on all the latest ideas. She also becomes addicted to morphine. Through these various ways of self-medicating, Anna deals with the suffering involved in her relationship with Oblonsky. But it could not be suppressed for long, and as the book proceeds, their quarrels become more and more intense, frequent, and maddening. Their last fight causes unspeakable emotional pain for Anna, and she subsequently commits suicide by throwing herself under a train.

 

 

And so we come back to the one of the puzzles mentioned above, namely, what is love? The not-coincidental comparison between, on the one hand Kitty and Levin and, on the other Anna and Oblonksy provides Tolstoy’s answer, and it is that there are several kinds of love. One is carnal and untethered to broader ethical and social considerations. It is based mainly on physical attraction and the need to satisfy our desire for the ecstasy that only sexual activity can produce. It is spontaneous, visceral, and capricious, and when it happens it can only be resisted by much effort, if at all. This is the love that was shared between Anna and Oblonsky, and it led to ruin. The other kind of love is embodied by Kitty and Levin. This kind does not exclude physical attraction, but it seems much less prominent (Kitty was gorgeous, but Levin was average looking). It is a kind of love that is embedded in a system of ethics that takes account of the reproduction and well-being of the community. It happens slowly, and requires the consent of the families of the parties. Most importantly, perhaps, is that it is sustained by spiritual maturity. Kitty’s moral transformation after befriending Varanka, and Levin’s discovering the ethics of self-sacrifice after his brother’s death, and from observing the peasants’ lives, are no coincidence; these events are catalysts in their spiritual growth that provides the bedrock of their marriage. It is this that will ultimately help them get through the difficult times, such as financial difficulty, or events that force one of them to choose whether to supress egoistic sexual impulses or infidelity. Levin is faced with such a dilemma when he is seduced by the unhappy Anna. Had he pursued his desires, Kitty would have been understandably devastated. But happily for them both, Levin does not.

 

Anna, it seems, was doomed from the start. Had she stayed with Aleksey, she would have conformed to broader societal expectations and obtained some happiness through the deep love she felt for her son, even while remaining in the unhappy marital union. She decides to follow her passions, and although this provides transient moments of happiness and ecstasy, she loses the son she loves and, ultimately, her life. Her first option, it seems, was the lesser evil and, from Tolstoy’s perspective, the most ethical. Kitty and Levin are perhaps Tolstoy’s way of saying that true happiness is possible in this life, even while all must face the inevitability of death. But it can only happen though a kind of spiritual development that places the interest of others before the satisfaction of egoistic desires. Through his characters, Tolstoy is also telling us that the life of the mind is overrated, and that we will ultimately not find real purpose and succor by reading the works of history’s great thinkers. Rather, the answer to the existential questions of life, the kinds that tortured Levin and that all thinking people must face, can be found in the simple and humble lives of the peasants. Tolstoy’s answer to life’s existential quandaries might not convince everyone. But he attempts to provide an answer while telling a compelling and memorable story. Most scholarly writing does not even come close to approaching such lofty heights.

 

A Review of Adolf Hitler's "Mein Kampf"

Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf is not for the faint hearted reader. The content, and the language that is used to express it, are an affront to basic decency and to the sensibilities of those who have been socialized in a cultural milieu that emphasizes, directly or indirectly, the moral framework of universal human rights.  A not-unusual sentence in Mein Kampf is the following: “The French people, who are becoming more and more obsessed by negroid ideas, represent a threatening menace to the white race in Europe, because they are bound up with the Jewish campaign for world-domination.”

Nonetheless, it is worthwhile to read this difficult text because it helps to answer several puzzles. The first is the question of how Hitler managed to seduce tens of millions of people, and not only Germans. It is worth recalling that he built his National Socialist party from scratch; at its first meeting in 1919, it attracted only seven men. By 1933, the Nazi’s won a plurality of votes in a democratic election, which paved the way for the creation of the dictatorship which perhaps represented history’s greatest menace to civilization. Mein Kampf provides clues that help to answer the question of Hitler’s smashing success, and in so doing helps to solve another puzzle: the main cause of World War 2. Scholars disagree on this topic, with some arguing that it was the injustice of the Versailles Treaty that created the conditions for the rise of the Nazi’s, while others point to Germany’s expansionary agenda. The book under review provides evidence for both explanations but it will be argued here that the second has more evidentiary weight. Lastly, it is valuable to read Mein Kampf because in the book Hitler, perhaps inadvertently, forces one to interrogate the basis of one’s moral framework and the civilization that produced it. Hitler’s system of thought contained many elements, but the main ones are racial supremacism and a kind of theological pantheism that equated nature with divinity and, in so doing, glorified the amoral aspects of natural selection. In this sense, it is a moral system derived from the laws of the natural world. As will be argued below, this framework is immoral precisely because the laws of nature are ruthless and do not conform to any observable standards of human decency.

Historical Background

Before assessing the content of Mein Kampf, the historical context of the book and its author are worth mentioning. Adolf Hitler grew up in a typical middle-class home, he adored his mother and respected his father, and often quarreled with the latter about his career choices. Against the wishes of his father who wanted him to become a bureaucrat, Hitler wanted to be an artist, and eventually left home to pursue this dream in cosmopolitan Vienna, which at the time was the capital of the Habsburg Empire. In that city he lived as what today might be called “a starving artist”, but quite literally, since he often did not make enough money to buy food. It was also here that his views on racial purity and his anti-Semitism began to develop. Hitler detested the social pathologies he observed in Vienna, including the co-existence of fabulous wealth and obscene levels of destitution. Economic exploitation, poverty, family breakdown, alcoholism, syphilis, ignorance, and other pathologies were all widespread in the city, and as time went by Hitler developed the idea that Vienna’s cosmopolitanism generally, and its racial mixing specifically, were the culprits. In addition, according to his own accounts at least, as a young man he did not feel any animosity towards Jews, and was even sympathetic to their plight, until he observed them in Vienna. Whereas previously he thought that they were mainly of European racial stock (but with a different religion), after living in Vienna he believed that they were a foreign and inferior race. Even worse, he blamed Jews for many of the cultural pathologies he observed, but his main accusation was that they were the authors and purveyors of Marxism, which Hitler equated with pure evil. This is rather ironic, because Hitler agreed with Marxists that industrial capitalism was exploitative and that the state should be an agent for the progressive empowerment and improvement of the working classes. However he fiercely objected to the cosmopolitanism and universalism of Marx’s ideas. Hitler believed in socialism, but one that was undergirded by the interests of the nation. Hence the name of his party: National Socialism.

Hitler detested the condition of the German people, divided as they were between different nation-states. He blamed many groups for this state of affairs, both domestic and international, and welcomed the First World War as a means to settle scores. He enthusiastically joined the front, where he engaged in close combat, and was wounded twice: the first time from conventional warfare, and the second time from poison gas, which almost took his life, blinded him for weeks, and ultimately led to a long period of convalescence that prevented his return to the battlefield. This was a source of grief for Hitler; he explains in vivid detail the sorrow he felt in the hospital because he could not fight with his comrades. His anguish reached a crescendo when Germany surrendered. For Hitler, this was unspeakably and unforgivably humiliating because it resulted, not from German weakness, but from the machinations of Jews and the betrayal of Marxists, bourgeoisie liberals, pacifists, and others who signed the terms of surrender which included the loss of German inhabited territories and the punitive measures of the Treaty of Versailles.

It was in the shadow of this perceived humiliation and betrayal that Hitler began his political career. He wrote the first volume of Mein Kampf while in a Bavarian jail cell, where he was imprisoned for his political activities. Another important background feature is that it was written when the French illegally occupied Germany’s industrial district, the Ruhr, in order to control and extract resources from it. These three elements—the humiliating loss of the First World War, his imprisonment, and the French occupation—go some length in explaining the rage and venom that suffuses much of the language of Mein Kampf. But this is insufficient to account for the content of the book. Equally important is the philosophical substance of his thought. It is to that which I now turn.

Hitler’s Theology

Throughout Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler repeatedly refers to the “Almighty Lord” or the “Divine Creator” or, simply, “God”. This highlights that he was a theist in the sense that he believed in a creator god who governs the universe. However, his god would not be recognizable to any of the monotheisms even though he adopts their terminology. In particular, Hitler’s god would be alien to both Protestantism and Catholicism (I will focus on Christianity because it is the faith that I am most familiar with). Both major denominations rely on the belief that man is made in God’s image, which forms the ethical basis of human value that both ascribe to. To the extent that they follow the example of Christ, both denominations also valorize the sick, weak and the poor and make it a core mission to support them through acts of charity.  

Hitler’s theological worldview relies on a different paradigm: biology and the survival of the fittest. He begins with an observation that few biologists would disagree with, namely, that the natural world is characterized by struggle and violence, and through this process nature selects only those organisms which are stronger. On this basis, Hitler proceeds to assert that since Europeans (or those of Aryan stock) ruled the world and displayed unmatched technological and economic power, they were selected by nature to fulfill this function by virtue of their biological constitution. Hitler then makes a theological leap and sustains that these supposed natural and biological processes are a reflection of god’s will.

This biologically based moral system is also seen in the kinds of the metaphors that Hitler uses to make his case. In a typical sentence where he critiques the influence of the Jewish press, he complains that “this poison was allowed to enter the national bloodstream and infect public life.” Here, the nation is perceived as an organism that must be protected from disease. In a chapter called “Race and People”, Hitler defends the promotion of racial purity by appealing to analogies in the animal word: “Each animal mates only with one of its own species,” he says, and deviations will inevitably lead to inferior creatures. The same is true, according to Hitler, with inter-racial offspring. Hitler also anthropomorphizes nature (a tactic that is often used to ascribe moral agency to abstractions): “Nature is pleased with what happens” when the stronger defeat the weaker; and “Nature [his capitalization of nature is revealing] does not wish that weaker individuals should mate with the stronger, she wishes even less that a superior race should inter-mingle with an inferior one” (emphasis mine).

Whereas a Christian might explain the world’s evils, including inequality and disease, by positing the principle of original sin, Hitler presumed that they were the outcome of god’s will operating through the mechanisms of natural selection. It is a short leap from this to assert that the strong rule because they have a divine right to. Here we see a complete inversion of the example of Christ: it is the strong, rather than the meek, that are favoured by the divine. In a passage that reveals Hitler’s close reading of Nietzsche, he calls this “the aristocratic principle of nature.” The difference between Nietzsche and Hitler, of course, is that the former was an atheist, while the latter believed in a pantheistic god with the characteristics highlighted above. Despite this difference, both derived their moral systems from the logic of natural selection. Hitler’s whole political program rested on these metaphysical assumptions: for him only healthy Aryans are made in god’s image, while the rest are inferior. It is therefore their duty to rule the world, and to fight those who place obstacles in the path of this destiny. 

Readers might be shocked to learn that variants of these ideas were shared by many in the West who called themselves progressives. Those who supported eugenics may have opposed fascism and even Hitler, but the unpleasant truth is that eugenics is a moral system derived from the logic of natural selection and which asserts that the state should be an agent in the perfection of the human race by only allowing those deemed “fit” to breed. Those deemed “unfit” tended to be members of minority groups, or those with low-scores on IQ tests, prostitutes, alcoholics, and others deemed to be inferior. Prominent defenders included Tommy Douglas, founder of Canadian universal healthcare; Woodrow Wilson, 28^th President of the US and promoter of “self-determination” (self-determination for whom?), Margaret Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood, and most major scientific organizations in the West. Eugenics became law in many Western states and Canadian provinces, and was only delegitimized after WW2, when it became associated with the genocidal crimes of the Nazi’s. The main difference between the National Socialists and Western eugenicists was that the former was willing to kill those they deemed inferior, while the latter wanted to prevent them from reproducing. 

This sad historical episode reveals an important point: that any moral system that rests on equal human dignity cannot flow from the scientific observations of biologists. In other words, universalist moral systems, like liberalism, socialism, or the United Nation Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) rely on assumptions that are not scientific. The idea that all humans have equal worth is a statement of value that is not verifiable according to the standards of science. Rather, it rests on faith, but this does not make it less true. It means that a strictly scientific materialist worldview is insufficient for the belief in universal human equality. One could even assert that human decency is inversely proportionate to the distance that we create between ourselves and the dictates of nature. The natural world indeed operates in a hierarchical, predatory, and ruthless fashion that ensures the survival and reproduction of the strongest. Hitler not only recognized this, he celebrated and derived his morality from it, as did eugenicists. Universal moral systems like the ones mentioned above can accurately be characterized as attempts to use human agency to overcome these ruthless processes of the natural world. Therefore, attempts to derive moral systems from nature, or to ascribe some transcendental moral agency to the earth, should be taken with a grain of salt.

Hitler’s anti-Semitism

Another feature of Mein Kampf is Hitler’s rabid hatred of Jews. They are not the only group that he attacks; Slavs, blacks, aboriginals, and especially the French are all, at one time or another, targets of his animus. But the book reveals that he had a pathological obsession for Jews. Obsessions of any kind tend to distort reality, because they exaggerate the agency of the object, and lead to fantasies about its supposed actions, past and present. And, of course, an inordinate amount of thought is devoted to the object of the obsession. This characterizes some of Hitler’s ideas when he discusses Jewish people. He repeatedly mentions them when analyzing some social ill that has supposedly weakened Germany. His accusations are varied and many, from producing smutty literature and cinema, to “adulterating the blood of fair haired German girls,” to spreading democracy, propagating Marxism, promoting the interests of international finance, having designs for world domination, to “smelling bad,” secretly pulling the strings behind the French and Bolshevik revolutions; these are just the main indictments. In one of his flights of spiritual fancy, he claims that, in fighting them his “conduct is in accordance with the will of the Almighty Creator. In standing against the Jew [Hitler] is defending the handiwork of the Lord.”

It seems easy to draw a direct line between this obsessive and irrational hatred and the holocaust. But scholars actually disagree on whether the attempt to exterminate Jews was part of a grand design (Intentionalists), or whether it was more ad hoc (Functionalists). In my view, Mein Kampf does not conclusively answer this question, because nowhere in the book, despite the rabid hatred mentioned above, does he say that the entire Jewish race must be exterminated. Functionalists would point out that his hatred was compatible with any number of different policies, including subjugation, forced labour, or even expulsion from Europe. This interpretation is supported by a document that Hitler approved on May 25, 1940, titled “The Final Solution to the Jewish Question,” which stated that “the Bolshevik method of physical extermination of a people [is] un-German and impossible.” The document proceeds to endorse the “territorial solution” (i.e. forced population transfer). Intentionalists, on the other hand point to certain passages in Mein Kampf, such as the one stating that had 12000-15000 Jews been gassed during WW1, the sacrifice of millions of German soldiers would not have been in vain. This aspiration, it is argued, is evidence of a master plan to exterminate Jews. Perhaps, although it was written in 1926, and in the context of a war that Hitler believed Germany lost because of the machination of Jews. In any event, this debate is academic, since the Nazi war machine did create the industrial machinery for mass murder and used it. Their culpability for this crime is not lessoned by evidence that suggests that it was not the ultimate plan of the party’s leadership.

The Seduction of Hitler

In light of the dark vision outlined in the book, one cannot help but ask: how did Hitler manage to seduce millions of people? It is worth repeating that his National Socialist movement began in a dingy room with seven people, and would eventually capture the hearts of entire political communities and lead to a series of events that would overturn European politics and change the course of history. One of the popular explanations is that his success was the result of the Treaty of Versailles, which imposed punitive measures on Germany after World War 1. Exponents of this view often favourably cite John Maynard Keynes’s book The Economic Consequences of the Peace, where he presciently observed that the imposition of reparations and other punishments on Germany would have devastating economic and political ramifications for Europe. Mein Kampf provides some textual evidence for this view, as Hitler repeatedly rails against the injustice of the Treaty and emphasizes its importance as a propaganda tool.

I find this unconvincing for several reasons. First, the Treaty was hated across the board in Germany. Liberals, Marxists, and other German political groups also suffered from its provisions, and hence Germans who objected to it could have pursued other political parties. Second, a discursive analysis of Mein Kampf gives the impression that other motivations dominated the text. In particular, a close reading clearly shows that Hitler had an expansionary agenda that involved the destruction of many European states. In the conclusion he devotes an entire chapter to the need to conquer Eastern Europe and destroy the Russian state so that those of German racial stock could grow in numbers and feed themselves. At the time that the book was written, Germans numbered perhaps 70 million, and Hitler explicitly says that those numbers must increase to the hundreds of millions. This would fulfill Germany’s divine destiny, according to Hitler, to rule the world. In order for this to happen, he says, they needed more territory. These expansionist views take up much more space in Mein Kampf than the injustice of the Treaty of Versailles, and the subsequent savagery of the conflict in Eastern Europe and Russia supports the view that they were the main motivating force of Hitler’s regime.

Hitler’s talent for communication also mattered. In Mein Kampf he is revealed to be an astute observer of mass psychology. Evidently, the other ideological movements in Germany at the time, such as liberalism and socialism, did not have the rhetorical suave and emotional appeal of fascism. Hitler correctly states that the major problem with the bourgeoisie is that their rhetoric of economic liberty appeals mainly to learned professors, upper-class professionals, and other privileged groups. Marxism’s main weakness as a political movement, he correctly understood, was its cosmopolitanism: most oppressed workers have little time for the plight of their comrades in other countries. Fascism appeals to things that resonate among the masses, namely, nation, blood, and belonging, while it condemns the supposed commercial egoism of liberalism and the internationalism of the socialists. The last two ideological movements promise economic growth and/or social justice, while fascism satisfied the desire for blood lust and victory, both of which should not be underestimated as major motivating forces. As the usually perspicacious George Orwell observed after reading Mein Kampf, fascism was:

“psychologically far sounder than any hedonistic conception of life … Whereas Socialism, and even capitalism in a more grudging way, have said to people “I offer you a good time,” Hitler has said to them, “I offer you struggle, danger, and death,” and as a result a whole nation flings itself at his feet … We ought not to underrate its emotional appeal.”

The Final Lesson of Mein Kampf

Our current international system is characterized by liberal principles that are codified in the United Nations founding documents, and even though they are often not met in practice, they have changed the consciousness of political actors and constituted our aspirations. This was possible mainly because fascism lost WW2. At that point, the US entered history as the world’s hegemon, a position that it still holds. The international institutions that subsequently emerged, such as the UN, the protection of open seas, the principle of self-determination, all bear the stamp of the liberal values that emerged triumphant after WW2 and that reached their apotheosis after the collapse of the USSR. This shows that power precedes, and has causal influence over, value systems, whatever they may be. In light of this, one could not help but wonder: what would the world look like if fascism had won?

Mein Kampf provides some clues to that question. First, the notion of universal human rights would have remained academic; it would not have become codified in any treaties or international institutions. Second, and most shockingly, the values of racial hierarchy would have reigned supreme. Had Hitler achieved his dream of conquering all of Europe, he would have created a political unit where only Aryans had a right to citizenship and to marry and reproduce. Others, including minorities, the sick, or those of non-Aryan stock, would either be sterilized, subjugated, or expelled. Doing this, according to Hitler, would mean their extinction in about 600 years, and only healthy fair-haired Aryans would be left, at least in Europe. Other countries and regions would have to submit to the dictates, or the conquest, of this all-powerful entity; for Hitler, non-whites had no right to self-determination.  True freedom would be unthinkable in this political structure. Any group that threatened this order based on white supremacism, such as liberals, socialists, or Christians, would, in one form or another, be crushed. It is worth emphasizing the fact that this outcome was prevented not because of divine intervention or some historical destiny. Rather, it was the combined force of the US and the Soviet Union (but mainly the latter) that destroyed the Nazi’s and, with them, their designs for world domination. This should give pause to those who believe that societies organized around human decency are universal and natural. Rather, they are sustained by power relations that are historically contingent and ephemeral.