Fanaticism and the History of Philosophy (Rewriting the History of Philosophy) [1 ed.] 9781032128191, 9781032128214, 9781032128207, 1032128194

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Notes on Contributors
1 An Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism
Part 1: Fanaticism in Antiquity
2 Fanaticism and Aristotelian Excessive Fear of the Divine
3 Fanaticism in Ancient Indian Philosophy
4 Fanaticism in Classical Chinese Philosophy
Part 2: Fanaticism in the Early Modern Period
5 Superstition, Enthusiasm, and Radical Enlightenment from Hobbes to Hume
6 Locke on Fanaticism
7 Montesquieu’s Restrained Approach to Fanaticism
8 Shaftesbury and Hutcheson: Enthusiasm and Humor
Part 3: Fanaticism in the Late Modern Period
9 Kant on Enthusiasm, Reason, and Misanthropy
10 Germaine de Staël on Passions, Politics, and Fanaticism
11 Fanatical Abstraction: Hegel on the Hazards of Pure Thinking
12 The Need for Certainty
13 Nietzsche and William James on Scientism as Fanaticism
14 “Apretados”: Jorge Portilla on Value Fanaticism
Part 4: Contemporary Explorations of Fanaticism
15 “Grand, Ungodly, God-Like Man”: The Symptomatology of Fanaticism
16 Fanaticism in the Manosphere
17 Fanaticism and Terrorism
18 Extremist Women and Fanaticism
19 Fanaticism and Closed-Mindedness
20 Political Fanaticism and Epistemic Shamelessness
Index

Citation preview

FANATICISM AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY

Voltaire called fanaticism the “monster that pretends to be the child of religion”. Philosophers, politicians, and cultural critics have decried fanaticism and attempted to define the distinctive qualities of the fanatic, whom Winston Churchill described as “someone who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject”. Yet despite fanaticism’s role in the long history of social discord, human conflict, and political violence, it remains a relatively neglected topic in the history of philosophy. In this outstanding inquiry into the philosophical history of fanaticism, a team of international contributors examine the topic from antiquity to the present day. Organized into four sections, topics covered include: • Fanaticism in ancient Greek, Indian, and Chinese philosophy; • Fanaticism and superstition from Hobbes to Hume, including chapters on Locke and Montesquieu, Shaftesbury, and Hutcheson; • Kant, Germaine de Stael, Hegel, Nietzsche, William James, and Jorge Portilla on fanaticism; • Fanaticism and terrorism; and extremism and gender, including the philosophy and morality of the “manosphere”; • Closed-mindedness and political and epistemological fanaticism. Spanning themes from superstition, enthusiasm, and misanthropy to the emotions, purity, and the need for certainty, Fanaticism and the History of Philosophy is a landmark volume for anyone researching and teaching the history of philosophy, particularly ethics and moral philosophy. It is also a valuable resource for those studying fanaticism in related fields such as religion, the history of political thought, sociology, and the history of ideas. Paul Katsafanas is Professor of Philosophy at Boston University, USA. He works on moral psychology, ethics, and nineteenth-century philosophy. He is the author of Philosophy of Devotion: The Longing for Invulnerable Ideals (2022), The Nietzschean Self: Moral Psychology, Agency, and the Unconscious (2016), and Agency and the Foundations of Ethics (2013). His recent work focuses on commitment, devotion, fanaticism, and extremism.

REWRITING THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY Series Editors: Aaron Garrett and Pauliina Remes

The history of philosophy has undergone remarkable growth in the English language philosophical world. In addition to more and better quality translations of canonical texts there has been a parallel expansion in the study and research of sources, thinkers and subjects hitherto largely neglected in the discipline. These range from women philosophers and late ancient thinkers to new Western and non-Western sources alike. Simultaneously, there has been a methodological shift to far greater intradisciplinary and interdisciplinary perspectives in the history of philosophy, cutting across the humanities and social sciences. Rewriting the History of Philosophy is an exciting new series that reflects these important changes in philosophy. Each volume presents a major, high quality scholarly assessment and interpretation of an important topic in the history of philosophy, from ancient times to the present day, by an outstanding team of international contributors. THE SENSES AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY Edited by Brian Glenney and José Filipe Silva MOLYNEUX’S QUESTION AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY Edited by Gabriele Ferretti and Brian Glenney THOUGHT: A PHILOSOPHICAL HISTORY Edited by Panayiota Vassilopoulou and Daniel Whistler INFORMATION AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY Edited by Chris Meyns HABIT AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY Edited by Jeremy Dunham and Komarine Romdenh-Romluc FANATICISM AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY Edited by Paul Katsafanas For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/Rewritingthe-History-of-Philosophy/book-series/RWHP

FANATICISM AND THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY

Edited by Paul Katsafanas

Designed cover image: Anjas Rohendi / Getty Images First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter Paul Katsafanas; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Paul Katsafanas to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-12819-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-12821-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-12820-7 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207 Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra

CONTENTS

Notes on Contributors

viii

  1 An Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism Paul Katsafanas

1

PART 1

Fanaticism in Antiquity

19

  2 Fanaticism and Aristotelian Excessive Fear of the Divine Mor Segev

21

  3 Fanaticism in Ancient Indian Philosophy Nathan McGovern

36

  4 Fanaticism in Classical Chinese Philosophy Eirik Lang Harris

51

PART 2

Fanaticism in the Early Modern Period

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  5 Superstition, Enthusiasm, and Radical Enlightenment from Hobbes to Hume Justin Steinberg

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  6 Locke on Fanaticism Douglas Casson

83

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Contents

  7 Montesquieu’s Restrained Approach to Fanaticism Vickie B. Sullivan   8 Shaftesbury and Hutcheson: Enthusiasm and Humor Rachel Zuckert

97 112

PART 3

Fanaticism in the Late Modern Period

127

  9 Kant on Enthusiasm, Reason, and Misanthropy Krista K. Thomason

129

10 Germaine de Staël on Passions, Politics, and Fanaticism Kristin Gjesdal

143

11 Fanatical Abstraction: Hegel on the Hazards of Pure Thinking Dean Moyar

161

12 The Need for Certainty Bernard Reginster

177

13 Nietzsche and William James on Scientism as Fanaticism Rachel Cristy

197

14 “Apretados”: Jorge Portilla on Value Fanaticism Carlos Alberto Sánchez

215

PART 4

Contemporary Explorations of Fanaticism

227

15 “Grand, Ungodly, God-Like Man”: The Symptomatology of Fanaticism Nicolas de Warren

229

16 Fanaticism in the Manosphere Mark Alfano and Paul-Mikhail Catapang Podosky

252

17 Fanaticism and Terrorism Quassim Cassam

268

18 Extremist Women and Fanaticism Tracy Llanera

283

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Contents

19 Fanaticism and Closed-Mindedness Heather Battaly

297

20 Political Fanaticism and Epistemic Shamelessness Sophie Grace Chappell

313

Index329

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CONTRIBUTORS

Mark Alfano works in philosophy (epistemology, moral psychology, philosophy of science), social science (personality psychology, social psychology), and computer science (ethics and epistemology of algorithms). He also brings digital humanities methods to bear on both contemporary problems and the history of philosophy (especially Nietzsche). He has authored Character as Moral Fiction (CUP), Moral Psychology: An Introduction (Polity), Nietzsche’s Moral Psychology (CUP), and Masculinity and Violent Extremism (Palgrave). Heather Battaly is a Professor of Philosophy at the University of Connecticut. She specializes in epistemology, ethics, and virtue theory. She is the author of Virtue (2015), the editor of The Routledge Handbook of Virtue Epistemology (2018), and co-editor of Vice Epistemology (2020). She is Editor-in-Chief of the Journal of the American Philosophical Association, and Associate Editor of the Journal of Philosophical Research. She has published widely on the topics of intellectual virtue and intellectual vice. Her current projects focus on humility, closed-mindedness, and vice epistemology. Quassim Cassam is a Professor of Philosophy at the University of Warwick, an Honorary Fellow of Keble College, Oxford, and a Fellow of the British Academy. He is the author of seven books, including Extremism: A Philosophical Analysis (2022). Douglas Casson is a Professor of Political Science at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. He teaches political philosophy as well as general education humanities courses. In addition to a few articles on religious toleration, political disagreement, and executive power, he has written a book, Liberating Judgment: Fanaticism, Skepticism, and John Locke’s Politics of Probability (Princeton 2011). Sophie Grace Chappell was educated at Bolton School, Magdalen College Oxford, and the Divinity Faculty of Edinburgh University. She has held posts at Oxford, UBC, UEA, and the University of Manchester. She has been a Professor of Philosophy at the Open University

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Notes on Contributors

since 2006, and Executive Editor of The Philosophical Quarterly since 2021. Her books include Aristotle and Augustine on Freedom (Macmillan, 1995), Understanding Human Goods (Edinburgh University Press, 2003), The Inescapable Self: An Introduction to Philosophy (Orion, 2005), Reading Plato’s Theaetetus (Hackett, 2005), Ethics and Experience (Acumen, 2009), Knowing What to Do: Imagination, Virtue, and Platonism in Ethics (Oxford University Press, 2014), and Epiphanies: An Ethics of Experience (Oxford University Press, 2022). She is a published poet (Songs For Winter Rain, Ellipsis Imprints 2021) and an active mountaineer, mainly in Scotland. She is currently writing Trans Figured: How to survive as a transgender person in a cisgender world, and A Philosopher Looks At Friendship (for Cambridge University Press). She makes frequent media appearances as an advocate for transgender people. Rachel Cristy is a Lecturer in Philosophy at King’s College London. She works primarily on Nietzsche, sometimes putting him in conversation with William James on matters such as the place of science in society and the relationship of science to philosophy, religion, and moral values. Nicolas de Warren is a Professor of Philosophy and Jewish Studies at Pennsylvania State University. He is the author of Husserl and the Promise of Time (2010), A Momentary Breathlessness in the Sadness of Time (2018), Original Forgiveness (2020), and German Philosophy and the First World War (2023). Kristin Gjesdal is a Professor of philosophy at Temple University. Her scholarship covers modern European philosophy, philosophy of interpretation (hermeneutics), philosophy of art, and phenomenology. Her monographs include Gadamer and the Legacy of German Idealism (CUP 2009); Herder’s Hermeneutics (CUP 2017/2019); and The Drama of History: Ibsen, Hegel, Nietzsche (OUP 2021). A short book Germaine de Staël’s philosophy is under contract with Cambridge University Press (Elements series). She is the editor and co-editor of eight volumes in her areas of research. Eirik Lang Harris teaches in the Department of Philosophy at Colorado State University. His research analyzes the relationship between political theory and ethics, looking particularly at debates about the role of morality in the political sphere, with a focus on the early Chinese tradition. He is the author of The Shenzi Fragments: A Philosophical Analysis and Translation and co-editor, along with Henrique Schneider of Adventures in Chinese Realism: Classic Philosophy Applied to Contemporary Issues. Paul Katsafanas is a Professor of Philosophy at Boston University. He works on moral psychology, ethics, and nineteenth-century philosophy. He is the author of Philosophy of Devotion: The Longing for Invulnerable Ideals (Oxford University Press, 2022), The Nietzschean Self: Moral Psychology, Agency, and the Unconscious (Oxford University Press, 2016), and Agency and the Foundations of Ethics (Oxford University Press, 2013). His recent work focuses on commitment, devotion, fanaticism, and extremism. Tracy Llanera is an Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of ConnecticutStorrs. She is the author of Richard Rorty: Outgrowing Modern Nihilism (Palgrave

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Macmillan, 2020), co-author of A Defence of Nihilism (Routledge, 2021), and editor of Resilience: The Brown Babe’s Burden (in progress). Llanera works at the intersection of social and political philosophy, philosophy of religion, feminist philosophy, and pragmatism, specializing on the topics of nihilism, extremism, conversion, and the politics of language. She is affiliated with the UConn Asian and Asian American Studies Institute and the UConn Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Program. Llanera is also a core member of Women Doing Philosophy, a global feminist organization of Filipina philosophers. Nathan McGovern is an Associate Professor in the Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, where he teaches classes on Asian Religions. Prior to his current appointment, he taught at the University of California, Santa Barbara; Franklin and Marshall College; and Dalhousie University. He is the author of The Snake and the Mongoose (Oxford University Press, 2019), which reconceptualizes the formation of religious identities in ancient India. McGovern is also the author of numerous journal articles, book chapters, and encyclopedia articles about religious identity in ancient India and modern Thailand. Dean Moyar is a Professor of Philosophy at Johns Hopkins University. He has published extensively on classical German philosophy, especially Hegel, and is the author of Hegel’s Value: Justice as the Living Good and Hegel’s Conscience. He is currently editing a volume on Moby-Dick for the Oxford Studies in Philosophy and Literature series. Paul-Mikhail Catapang Podosky’s research explores the relationship between language, thought, and the construction of unjust hierarchy, in particular through the lenses of conceptual engineering, feminist philosophy, and critical race theory. Their most recent publications are “Can Conceptual Engineering Actually Promote Social Justice?” (Synthese), “Agency, Power, and Injustice in Metalinguistic Disagreement” (Philosophical Quarterly), and “Gaslighting, First and Second Order” (Hypatia), and “Rethinking Epistemic Appropriation” (Episteme). Bernard Reginster is a Romeo Elton Professor of Natural Theology, Professor and Chair in the Philosophy Department at Brown University. He received degrees in Philosophy and Psychology from the University of Louvain (Belgium), a PhD in Philosophy from the University of Pennsylvania, and he also studied at the University of Münster (Germany). His research focuses on ethics and moral psychology in nineteenth- and twentieth-century European philosophy, and on philosophical issues arising from psychoanalytic theory. Along with numerous articles, he has published two books, The Affirmation of Life (Harvard University Press, 2006) and The Will to Nothingness (Oxford University Press, 2021), and another, The Aim of Revenge is under contract (Cambridge University Press). He has received fellowships from the Princeton University Center for Human Value, the National Humanities Center, the Brown Cogut Institute for the Humanities, and the Erikson Institute, and he was awarded the John Rowe Workman Award for Excellence in Teaching in the Humanities. Carlos Alberto Sánchez is Professor of Philosophy at San José State University. His research focuses on Mexican philosophy and its history. He has published extensively on this topic.

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His books include The Suspension of Seriousness: On the Phenomenology of Jorge Portilla (SUNY, 2012), Contingency and Commitment: Mexican Existentialism and the Place of Philosophy (SUNY, 2016), A Sense of Brutality: Philosophy After Narco-Culture (Amherst, 2020), Mexican Philosophy for the 21st Century (Bloomsbury, 2023), and Blooming in the Ruins: How Mexican Philosophy Can Guide Us Toward the Good Life (Oxford, 2024). Mor Segev is the American Foundation for Greek Language and Culture (AFGLC) Professor of Greek Culture, Director of the Interdisciplinary Center for Hellenic Studies, and Associate Professor of Philosophy at the University of South Florida. Segev’s research is in the history of philosophy. His publications include Aristotle on Religion (Cambridge University Press, 2017), which analyzes Aristotle’s views on the content and political usefulness of traditional religion, The Value of the World and of Oneself: Philosophical Optimism and Pessimism from Aristotle to Modernity (Oxford University Press, 2022), and various articles. Justin Steinberg is a Professor of Philosophy at Brooklyn College and the CUNY Graduate Center. He is the author of Spinoza’s Political Psychology: The Taming of Fortune and Fear (Cambridge University Press, 2018) and co-author (with Valtteri Viljanen) of Spinoza (Polity Press, 2020). He is currently editing a collection of essays on humility (Oxford Philosophical Concepts) and co-editing (with Karolina Hübner) The Cambridge Spinoza Lexicon. Vickie B. Sullivan is the Cornelia M. Jackson Professor of Political Science at Tufts University. She is the author of three books: Montesquieu and the Despotic Ideas of Europe: An Interpretation of “Spirit of the Laws” (University of Chicago Press, 2017); Machiavelli, Hobbes, and the Formation of a Liberal Republicanism in England (Cambridge University Press, 2004); and Machiavelli’s Three Romes: Religion, Human Liberty, and Politics Reformed published by Northern Illinois University Press, 1996; reissued Cornell University Press, 2020. She has also edited two volumes: The Comedy and Tragedy of Machiavelli: Essays on the Literary Works (Yale University Press, 2000) and Shakespeare’s Political Pageant: Essays in Politics and Literature, with Joseph Alulis (Rowman & Littlefield Press, 1996). Her articles have appeared in The American Political Science Review, History of European Ideas, History of Political Thought, Political Theory, Polity, and Review of Politics. Krista K. Thomason is an Associate Professor of Philosophy at Swarthmore College. In 2021–2022, she was the Philip L. Quinn Fellow at the National Humanities Center. Her areas of expertise include philosophy of emotion, moral philosophy, history of philosophy, and political philosophy. Some of her publications appear in Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, European Journal of Philosophy, Kantian Review, and The Monist. She is the author of Naked: The Dark Side of Shame and Moral Life (OUP 2018) and Dancing with the Devil: Why Bad Feelings Make Life Good (OUP, 2023). Rachel Zuckert received BA degrees from Williams College and Oxford University, and MA and PhD degrees from the University of Chicago. She is currently a Professor of Philosophy and German at Northwestern University, after holding positions at Bucknell University and

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Rice University. She has received research fellowships from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, the American Council of Learned Societies, and the National Endowment for the Humanities, and has served as the President of the North American Kant Society, as well as Trustee of the American Society for Aesthetics. She is co-editor of Hegel on Philosophy in History (Cambridge University Press, 2017), and author of two books, Kant on Beauty and Biology: An Interpretation of Kant’s Critique of Judgment (Cambridge, 2007) and Herder’s Naturalist Aesthetics (Cambridge, 2019), as well as many articles on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European philosophy. Her current research focuses on Scottish Enlightenment aesthetics and on the theme of the aspirational character of reason in Kant’s philosophy.

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1 AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OF FANATICISM Paul Katsafanas

Social life is plagued with discord, strife, and division. Groups animated by competing ideals vie with one another for dominance; proponents of competing visions of the good life accuse one another of being reprehensible or deluded; factionalization splinters communities; people with polarized social identities see members of outgroups as enemies to be defeated or overcome. In the worst cases, violence erupts, with proponents of incompatible ethical visions resorting to riots, insurrection, and terrorism. It would be myopic to think that there is a single cause of social discord. But some philosophers have thought that among the welter of causes, we can single out one of great importance: fanaticism. Below, I offer an introduction to the philosophy of fanaticism. Fanaticism is a multivalent concept, with different philosophers offering strikingly varied analyses of its central features. Some philosophers treat fanaticism as an epistemic defect, others as moral defect, and others, still, as a psychological defect. Some philosophers treat all instances of fanaticism as negative or objectionable, whereas others think that there can be positive manifestations of fanaticism. Some see fanaticism as a fringe state, present only in extreme, pathological cases, whereas others see it as more widespread, a feature of large swathes of society. Some see it as essentially religious, whereas other disagree. But what’s not in doubt in any of these analyses is that addressing fanaticism puts us in a position to analyze, and perhaps even take some steps to addressing, a perennial source of social discord.

1.1  Fanaticism’s Emergence as a Central Philosophical Concern If we try to picture the fanatic, what’s likely to come to mind is the religious extremist, the fervent neo-Nazi, the jihadist, the terrorist. We imagine the fanatic as passionately committed to some cause or identity; as dogmatically, stubbornly resistant to compromising, attenuating, or rethinking that cause or identity; and as carrying out terrible acts of violence to achieve it. The term “fanatic” has functioned in that way since the sixteenth century. Widespread religious dissent and uprisings, often stoked by individuals who claimed uniquely authoritative, divinely sanctioned insights into the putatively correct social order, made this problem especially salient at that time. For these conflicts confronted thinkers with a difficult question: what should we make of these religious dissidents and social reformers,

1DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-1

Paul Katsafanas

these people who take themselves to have unmediated and perhaps unquestionable insights into reality, and who thus refuse to bend themselves to established social structures, who thereby threaten civil society? It was in answer to that kind of question that the term the term “fanatic” came to prominence.1 Martin Luther (1483–1546) described the Anabaptists and various Protestant reformers as fanatics; he saw them as disregarding traditional political and religious authorities, claiming that they enjoyed unquestionable justification for acts of violence and revolt. He derided these fanatics as “mad dogs,” who are “devilish,” “poisonous, hurtful,” who all reasonable people must “smite, slay and stab, secretly or openly,” in order to put an end to their horrific violence (Luther 1967/1525). Relatedly, Philip Melanchthon (1497–1560) drew a distinction between the fanatic and civil society, presenting the fanatic as the enemy of a society governed by reasonable discourse: life in the state… does not belong to the gospel, but to the judgment of reason and the counsel of the magistracy… remember that the gospel does not set up any kind of worldly government, but approves the forms of government of all peoples and the laws about civil matters that are in agreement with reason. (Melanchthon 2016/1540) And the term spread: Pierre Bayle (1647–1706) labeled Catholics as fanatics, for they bestow unquestionable authority on the Pope (see de Warren, this volume). David Hume (1711–1776) lists Anabaptists and Quakers as fanatics, again focusing in part on their tendency to spur social divisions (Hume 1985). Of course, political and social discord, violence, and conflict are not unique to the early modern period. Human history is replete with stubborn, intolerant people who violently impose their views on others, with people who proclaim themselves authoritative and ignore or suppress dissenting voices. Not just anyone who resorts to violence and incites social turmoil qualifies as fanatical. So, what additional features distinguish the fanatic? One possibility is that the fanatic is especially cruel and remorseless. In Diderot’s 1756 Encyclopedia, Alexandre Deleyre (1726–1797) writes that fanaticism “is blind and passionate zeal born of superstition, causing people to commit ridiculous, unjust, and cruel actions, not only without any shame and remorse, but also with a kind of joy and comfort” (Deleyre 2009). And he characterizes the fanatics as those “despotic doctors who choose the most revolting systems, those ruthless casuists who distress nature and who, after having torn your eye out and cut your hand off, also tell you to love completely the thing that tyrannizes you” (Deleyre 2009). So for Deleyre, the fanatic is remorselessly, joyously cruel. Voltaire (1694–1778), writing two decades later, focuses on similar features. He complains of the “absurd fanaticism which breaks all the bonds of society.” In the entry on Atheism, he tells us that “fanaticism is certainly a thousand times more deadly” than atheism, for the fanatics “deluged England, Scotland, and Ireland with blood”; in the entry on Religion, he speaks of the “abominable monuments to barbarism and fanaticism” and complains that fanaticism has “inspired so many horrible cruelties.” In his entries on Fanaticism and the Fanatic, Voltaire focuses on fanatical violence:

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An Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism

The most detestable example of fanaticism is that of the bourgeois of Paris who hastened in saint Bartholomew’s night to assassinate, butcher, throw out of the windows, cut in pieces their fellow citizens who did not go to mass. (Voltaire 1984: 285) Here, he is referring to a massacre of French Protestants by French Catholics, carried out on August 24–25, 1572. It began with French Catholics killing Protestants at a royal wedding and quickly spread, with Catholics going from house to house killing Protestants. It left at least 3,000 dead and many more injured. And that was in Paris alone: over the next two months, the attacks spread to other French cities and towns, with historians estimating somewhere between 5,000 and 25,000 Protestant deaths. What distinguishes this fanatical outburst is the way in which it seems to involve a sudden excess of passion or emotion, which leads individuals to break ordinary restraints in a remorseless fashion. So one feature that distinguishes fanatics might be the way in which they are not just violent, but remorselessly and barbarically violent. But careful attention to Voltaire’s discussions reveals another aspect of fanaticism. Notice that in the Saint Bartholomew’s massacre, we have a group of formerly placid individuals who are suddenly gripped by a desire for terrible violence: they slaughter neighbors with whom they had formerly enjoyed peaceful relations. And this is not just an isolated incident, but one that spreads, gripping more and more people. Fanaticism seems contagious. Shaftesbury (1671–1713) highlights this feature: Fury flies from face to face, and the disease [enthusiasm or fanaticism] is no sooner seen than caught. They who in a better situation of mind have beheld a multitude under the power of passion, have owned that they saw in the countenance of men something more ghastly and terrible than at other times expressed on the most passionate occasions. Such force has society in ill as well as in good passions, and so much stronger any affection is for being social and communicative. (Shaftesbury 1999: 10) In Shaftesbury, we can see a fear that fanaticism is contagious: it is a ghastly condition that spreads from person to person, like a disease. Voltaire agrees, claiming that fanaticism is a “spiritual pestilence,” a “malady of the mind, which is taken in the same way as smallpox.” Not only that: “once fanaticism has corrupted a mind, the malady is incurable.” And this was part of Martin Luther’s concern, as well: he saw the “pestilential” mobs of peasants expanding, threatening the social order. Fanaticism demands our attention not only because it is so cruel and remorseless, but because it is so prone to spread. And there are other dimensions. Fanaticism came to be associated not just with a contagious propensity to engage in violent, socially injurious behaviors, but also with epistemic defects or vices, such as closed-mindedness, failures to be epistemically humble, inattentiveness to acceptable rational standards, superstitiousness, and so on. We have already seen Delyre associate fanaticism with superstition, but consider a few more examples. John Locke (1632–1704) is interested in the fanatic’s imperviousness to standard forms of rational argument:

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Reason is lost upon [fanatics], they are above it: they see the light infused into their understandings, and cannot be mistaken; it is clear and visible there, like the light of bright sunshine; shows itself, and needs no other proof but its own evidence: they feel the hand of God moving them within, and the impulses of the Spirit, and cannot be mistaken in what they feel. (Locke 1975: chapter 19) The fanatic rejects ordinary rational standards and takes himself to be an unquestionable authority; he is unwilling to admit the possibility of error. Hume has a similar view: The inspired person comes to regard himself as a distinguished favorite of the Divinity; and when this frenzy once takes place, which is the summit of enthusiasm, every whimsy is consecrated: Human reason, and even morality are rejected as fallacious guides: And the fanatic madman delivers himself over, blindly, and without reserve, to the supposed illapses of the spirit, and to inspiration from above. Hope, pride, presumption, a warm imagination, together with ignorance, are, therefore, the true sources of ENTHUSIASM. (Hume 1985: “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm”) As these quotations indicate, fanaticism was often associated with the presumption that one could achieve authoritative epistemic insights through immediate revelation or inspiration, rather than through critical rational inquiry. Violent, revolutionary uprisings, including peasant rebellions and strife during the English Civil War, were traced to this presumption of authority. So, in the early modern period, we have an image of the fanatic: the person inspired to violent, cruel, intolerant acts through passionate conviction, who manifests this conviction because of some kind of epistemic defect, and who in addition may be a victim of a contagious form of emotional pathology. From there, the term broadens: while earlier thinkers often treated fanaticism as essentially religious, the term begins to be applied to an everwider set of characters. In the nineteenth century, both abolitionists and their opponents are derided as fanatical (Colas 1997; Toscano 2010); and, as the essays in this volume make clear, the term is soon extended to philosophers; to those gripped by scientism; to political groups on both the far right and far left; to terrorists; to incels; and the range of characters goes on and on.

1.2  Analyzing Fanaticism We have a picture of fanaticism—but how do we make that picture more precise? Which features of fanaticism are essential and which are incidental? Which are primary and which derivative? As soon as we consider these kinds of question, complications arise. Consider the heterogenous groups that are lumped under the label “fanatical”: religious fundamentalists, political activists, abolitionists, members of hate groups, terrorists, incels, philosophers, those who engage in excessive abstraction, those who suffer from emotional pathologies. And consider the range of factors that are historically associated with fanaticism: emotional excesses, epistemic defects, propensities to violence, remorseless cruelty, and so on. Can we really single out a useful concept here?

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An Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism

1.2.1  Is Fanaticism a Single Concern? The breadth and shifting connotations of the term “fanaticism” invite a question: is fanaticism really a unified phenomenon? Or does it occupy different roles in different theories, sometimes picking out an emotional malady, sometimes an epistemic one, sometimes a substantive moral defect, sometimes a formal or procedural problem, sometimes an essentially religious phenomenon, sometimes a more general one? One way of addressing this question is by thinking about whether there is a target phenomenon that these diverse accounts are trying to capture. Consider an analogy with other controversial philosophical topics, such as freedom. There are, of course, many different things that philosophers have meant by freedom; there can be no serious doubt that the term’s meaning changes over time; and different philosophers take different aspects as central. But, nonetheless, we can evaluate these competing conceptions of freedom against one another. We can ask whether they are internally consistent; how adequately they capture the phenomenon in which we are interested; how they connect to concerns about moral responsibility, agency, and philosophical psychology; what practical implications they have; and so on. Just so with fanaticism: we can try to locate the target phenomenon and analyze it. Any such account will require specifying the essential, as opposed to the inessential, features of fanaticism, and treating certain uses of the term as exaggerated or misleading. But once we try to locate the target phenomenon, I think we can straightaway detect three central features. From early modernity onward, most philosophers who discuss fanaticism seem to agree on the following claims: fanaticism drives individuals to especially deep forms of commitment; the fanatic stands in a peculiar epistemic relation to his own commitments, being rigidly committed to them, unwilling to revise them in the way that non-fanatical individuals might; and the fanatic is often violent, intolerant, and coercive. Thus, we can treat the fanatic as distinguished by three features: – his wholehearted, unwavering commitment; – his rigid, unbending certainty about these commitments; – and his willingness to impose costs on himself and others so as to preserve or realize these commitments. This is why Martin Luther takes people like Thomas Müntzer, a German preacher who participated in the 1524–1525 German Peasants’ War, as paradigmatically fanatical. Müntzer claimed that inner inspiration was the true source of authority, and argued that his own beliefs—purportedly inspired by the Holy Spirit—should override scripture and traditional social authorities. He acted on this, playing a leading role in the Peasants’ War in which around 100,000 peasants were killed. And he died for these beliefs: he was imprisoned in May 1525, tortured, and eventually executed. So here we have absolute, unwavering commitment to an ideal; unbending certainty about the beliefs underwriting that ideal; a willingness to suffer for these beliefs; and a willingness to coerce others and impose tremendous costs on them. And when we today think about fanatics, what springs to mind? Most likely: the violent white nationalist; the jihadist; the terrorist; the incel; the cult leader. One recent example is Anders Breivik, who was characterized in many newspaper articles as a right-wing fanatic.

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For example, The Scotsman gives a profile of Breivik under the title “Anders Behring Breivik, a fanatic on a crusade against Muslims” (April 17, 2012); the British Medical Journal published “Do cases like that of Anders Breivik show that fanaticism is a form of madness?” (July 14, 2012); AP News characterized him as a “far right fanatic” (January 18, 2022); Reuters called him a “Norwegian anti-Islamic fanatic” (April 19, 2012); a New York Times article described him as “the Norwegian fanatic” (July 20, 2012); and so on. Brevik carried out a terrorist attack on July 22, 2011. On that day, he killed eight people at a government building with a van bomb and 69 people in a mass shooting at a youth summer camp on the island of Utøya. Shortly before beginning these attacks, he sent a manifesto entitled 2083: A European Declaration of Independence to over 1,000 email addresses. The 1,518-page document describes years of preparation for the attacks; espouses a political ideology that blames feminism, political correctness, and Islam for various social problems; argues that all Muslims should be deported from Europe; and advocates for restoring a form of patriarchy and hierarchy in Europe. What makes it so tempting to classify Breivik as a fanatic? Again, the answer seems clear enough: he manifests the three features I’ve listed above. He is wholeheartedly committed to his ideals; he is absolutely, rigidly certain about them; and he engages in cruel, violent actions to support them. Münzter and Breivik are just two examples, widely separated in time and occupying wholly different social contexts. But what these figures have in common is their wholehearted commitment, their rigid certainty, and their willingness to impose costs on others. This is what prompts us to see them as fanatics.

1.2.2  Three Dimensions of Fanaticism Above, I mentioned that fanatics seem to have three key features: wholehearted, unwavering commitment; rigid, unbending certainty; and willingness to impose costs. Notice that these features are psychological, epistemic, and behavioral, respectively. Most accounts of fanaticism agree that the fanatic displays psychological peculiarities, epistemic vices, and potentially problematic behaviors. But these three factors can be analyzed in a number of different ways. Let’s start with the psychological dimension. Everyone agrees that the fanatic is committed to her ends in a peculiarly robust way. One project in the literature on fanaticism is explaining the nature of this commitment. Should we see the fanatic’s commitments as continuous with ordinary forms of commitment? Are they just especially intense or deep commitments? Or are they different in kind from ordinary commitments? I’ve argued that the fanatic is devoted to her ends, where devotion is a distinctive kind of commitment (Katsafanas 2022). More on this below. But in addition to explaining the nature of these commitments, we might wonder whether the commitments are anchored in a distinctive psychological profile. Some authors argue that the fanatic displays a pathological need for certainty (Reginster, this volume). Others think the fanatic is in some sense psychologically weak. For example, I argue that the fanatic’s self-conception or practical identity is fragile: she can maintain her self-conception only by clinging rigidly to certain values that are treated as sacred, and moreover she fuses her identity with a group that is seen as protecting these values (Katsafanas 2022: Chapter 7). Others, still, think that a particular type of religious zeal may be associated with fanaticism (Tietjen 2021, 2023). Or perhaps the fanatic is obsessed with purity (Cassam 2022).

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So there is a range of proposals about the psychology of the fanatic. It’s worth noting that these authors disagree not only about which psychological states might be characteristic of the fanatic, but also about whether these psychological states are primary in the explanation of fanaticism. One view is that we can single out a psychological state, or a cluster of psychological states, which is necessary for fanaticism and which perhaps gives rise to the epistemic and behavioral aspects of fanaticism. A different view is that the psychological features are downstream from the epistemic or behavioral aspects. Much work remains to be done on these points. Analogous questions arise about the epistemic dimension. Here, too, we find some characteristic features of the fanatic. Many writers think that fanatics are excessively certain about their ends. John Locke, for example, tells us that the fanatic gives more “credit or authority” to a “proposition than it receives from the principles and proofs it supports itself upon”—in other words, the fanatic is an “untractable zealot” who takes himself to be an unerring authority on matters of religious and practical import (Locke 1975: Sections 1 and 11). Voltaire treats the fanatic as manifesting a form of superstition and then taking that superstition to warrant horrific acts: Fanaticism is to superstition what delirium is to fever and rage to anger. The man visited by ecstasies and visions, who takes dreams for realities and his fancies for prophecies, is an enthusiast; the man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic. (Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary, entry on Fanaticism) Kant tells us that fanaticism “believes itself to feel an immediate and extraordinary communion with a higher nature” (Kant 2007: 2:251n), which provides it with a seeming justification for its intransigent certainty. Or perhaps the fanatic’s thinking is excessively rigid. Within psychology, cognitive rigidity is typically defined as “the inability to adapt to novel or changing environments and a difficulty to switch between modes of thinking” (Zmigrod 2020: 35). Rigid thinkers tend to persevere in one way of thinking or behaving, especially in situations where this way of thinking or behaving is less effective than alternative modes. Adorno (1950), Zmigrod, and others have argued that fanatical or intolerant individuals tend to be rigid thinkers. Closed-mindedness is another candidate: if we construe closed-mindedness as the refusal or inability to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options, then Cassam (2022) and I (2022) have argued that fanatics display forms of closed-mindedness. (Though see Heather Battaly (this volume) for a more complicated view: she doubts that fanatics need to be closed-minded, and argues that even if they are, the form of closed-mindedness they manifest needn’t be epistemically vicious.) R.M. Hare claims, more generally, that the fanatic is characterized by “the refusal or inability to think critically” (Hare 1981: 172). Or perhaps there’s a more complex defect. Joshua DiPaolo (2020) has argued that the fanatic bears a problematic relation to higher-order evidence: fanatics treat disagreement as a threat to their identity rather than as a reason to revise their views. So possibilities abound. There are many questions here, which repay investigations. One set of questions concerns which epistemic problems or vices, if any, are correlated with fanaticism. Another set of questions concerns whether any of these epistemic problems are distinctive of fanaticism. And a final set concerns whether we can account for fanaticism solely in terms of an epistemic problem, or whether we also need to appeal to other factors.

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Finally, consider the behavioral dimensions of fanaticism. There are several morally problematic features that are correlated with fanaticism. The most obvious one is intolerance: the fanatic is typically presented as someone who is willing to coerce, overrule, oppress, persecute, or more generally behave violently toward those with dissenting views. Some accounts go farther, accusing the fanatic of misanthropy (see Thomason, this volume). Or perhaps fanaticism involves a pathological, collectivized form of hatred (Salmela and Scheve 2018; Szanto 2020). Or it could involve the unjustifiable assertation of oneself as an authority, not subject to civil or social restraints (Colas 1997). Or ressentiment (see Katsafanas 2022). And there are other possibilities: Cassam (2022) treats the fanatic as necessarily oriented toward morally perverse ideals. Just as with the psychological and epistemic dimensions, we could take these behavioral dimensions to be necessary features of fanaticism or merely correlated with fanaticism. We could take them to be central to the explanation of fanaticism; or we could see them as explained by more fundamental features.

1.2.3  An Account of Fanaticism So far, I’ve suggested that fanaticism involves psychological, epistemic, and behavioral dimensions. Each of these dimensions can be analyzed in different ways, and they can be prioritized in different orders. By way of illustration, I will present my own account of fanaticism, which provides one possible way of analyzing these features and thinking about the priority relations between them. Above, I pointed out that since the 1500s, “fanaticism” is a term used for those who combine a certain way of approaching their values with a tendency toward violent intolerance. Let’s start with this first point. The fanatic is absolutely certain about his goals and values: he does not permit critical reasoning to undermine them. This does not mean that the fanatic refuses to reason: indeed, we know that some fanatics are all too willing to produce fantastically lengthy, articulate defenses of their positions. Thus, ISIS published lengthy critical discussions on topics such as the permissibility of raping adolescents and enslaving members of other religions2; and Anders Breivik emailed a 1,500-page manuscript to hundreds of journalists before slaughtering 77 people in his terrorist attacks. So fanatics certainly can reason about their values. But there’s a way in which this reasoning stops at a certain point: fanatics don’t allow their critical reasoning to undermine their most basic commitments. Their basic commitments are secure, unaffected by thoughts about justification. They are invulnerable to the effects of critical reasoning. In Katsafanas (2022), I offered a more detailed characterization of this aspect, calling it dialectical invulnerability. A commitment is dialectically invulnerable when there is no argument, distinction, clarification, or other dialectical move that would dislodge it or cause it to dissipate. Showing the commitment to be irrational, inconsistent with other commitments, in conflict with moral principles, lacking adequate justification, and so forth has no effect. I argue that the fanatic treats his core commitment as dialectically invulnerable. And not just that. In addition, the fanatic treats his core commitment as inviolable: there are no circumstances in which he sees it as permissibly sacrificed for the sake of competing values. He also sees it as incontestable: reflecting on the possibility of sacrificing his commitment for the sake of some competing commitment is anathema. To put this into the language of social psychology, the fanatic embraces one or more sacred values. I’ve argued that sacred values should be characterized in the following way: 8

An Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism

(Sacred value) Let V1 be a value. Then V1 counts as sacred iff it meets the following conditions: 1 Inviolable: If V2 is an ordinary value, then it is prohibited to sacrifice V1 for V2, regardless of the quantities of V1 and V2. 2 Incontestable: It is prohibited to contemplate trading or sacrificing V1 for most or all other values. 3 Dialectically Invulnerable: The agent insulates her commitment to V1 from the effects of justificatory reasoning. That is, while the agent may think about V1’s justification, consider objections to V1, consider alternatives to V1, engage in thought experiments with respect to V1, and so on, the agent does not stake her commitment to V1 on the outcome of this justificatory reasoning. There is no dialectical move that would disrupt the agent’s commitment to V1. So the fanatic has at least one sacred value. But merely having a sacred value is not enough to qualify as fanatical. Psychological and sociological studies reveal that sacred values are pervasive features of human life, far more pervasive than fanaticism, showing up in many religious, political, ethical, and personal contexts. I’ve argued that this is no accident: valuable features of ethical and social life depend on treating some values as sacred (Katsafanas 2022). But we can hold sacred values in different ways. Suppose you treat a value as inviolable, incontestable, and dialectically invulnerable. Of course, you might treat a value as dialectically invulnerable because you think there are no good objections to it: you’re completely convinced anyone who rejects the value is irrational. Some of our beliefs are like this. I am completely convinced that the world is round, flat-earthers notwithstanding. I can’t envision anything that would cause me to give up that belief; it just seems so obvious that it’s correct. Fanatics are different: their certainty is tied to a form of fragility. The fanatic isn’t just someone who happens to treat his values as dialectically invulnerable; rather, he’s someone who needs to do this. Dialectical invulnerability operates as a self-protective mechanism. Just as the spouse might need to believe that his partner is faithful despite all the evidence to the contrary, the fanatic needs to preserve his core commitment. The fanatic’s conception of himself depends on taking the value as fixed; because his identity is partly constituted by his unwavering commitment to the value, he can’t let it go. If the value were lost, he would lose his sense of who he is. So the fanatic is brittle, fragile: he is damaged. The fragility comes in two forms. First, his very identity is fragile: the fanatic needs to treat some value or goal as invulnerable in order to maintain his sense of who he is. Most of us have goals or values that we cherish. But the fanatic is different: he clings to these goals and refuses to let critical reasoning affect them because giving them up would involve a loss of his sense of self. Second, the fanatic sees his value as fragile. He sees it as under threat; he sees public failure to accept this value as problematic. The value is thought to be endangered when it is not widely accepted. So, whereas a non-fanatic might cherish some value while remaining indifferent to how other people feel about it, the fanatic can’t do this; the fanatic sees disagreement and indifference as threatening what he holds dear. Fanaticism thus combines dogmatic resistance to reasoning with deep-seated fragility. That’s what makes it pathological: the dogmatism is rooted in a fragile sense of self and value. So, I claim, the fanatic is characterized by three features: 9

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• Fragility of self: the agent needs to treat a value as sacred in order to preserve her identity. • Fragility of value: the value’s status is taken to be threatened when it is not widely accepted. • Group identity: the fanatic identifies herself with a group, where this group is defined by shared commitment to a sacred value. To the extent that these three features are present, the individual qualifies as fanatical (see Katsafanas 2022 for a full explanation and defense of this view). But there’s another notable aspect of fanaticism: it seems to be contagious. As I mentioned above, this has been recognized for a long time: even Voltaire, writing three centuries ago, said that fanaticism is a “spiritual pestilence,” a “malady of the mind, which is taken in the same way as smallpox.” But how could something like fanaticism be contagious? Well, suppose you wanted to design a mechanism to produce fanatics. You would need to make people experience their own identities as fragile: you would need to get them to think that their identity hinges on total devotion to some value; and you would need them to think that this value is threatened. Then the people would be strongly motivated to maintain and protect this value; and they would see those who don’t accept the value as enemies, as an out-group that needs to be struggled against. And the stronger you can make these tendencies, the better you would be at creating fanatics. So, suppose you put forth a story like this: a certain group—let’s just call them the believers—are identifiable by their devotion to The Value. Outsiders threaten The Value. Moreover, the fact that these outsiders threaten The Value explains all of the faults that the believers are experiencing. If The Value could be maintained—if the out-group’s suppression of it could be stopped—then the believers would be untroubled. This kind of story stokes group resentment. You think that there’s some group responsible for all of your failings. You see a clear path to recovery: simply struggle against that group and valiantly defend your value. Insofar as that out-group is responsible for all of your failings, it makes sense to demonize them, to hate them, even in the extreme case to destroy them. This kind of narrative generates a feedback loop. The resentment narrative tends to become all-encompassing, treating the central failings of one’s life as traceable to some singular root cause. Your identity is seen as fundamentally damaged or wounded by some other. The injury, damage, or wound is not just some past causal factor which is eventually overcome; it provides a central, continual focal point for your life. So the resentment narrative fixates you on some out-group. The out-group is seen as threatening. Your identity becomes bound up with opposition to that group; you define yourself in opposition to it. And this tends to stick. If your identity is dependent on characterizing some out-group as wounding you, then revaluing this belief, reinterpreting the status of the out-group, and so on will be very costly. To the extent that your perspective on the world is in this way all-­encompassing and fixated, breaking out of it requires not just local adjustments but abandoning classifications, labels, and distinctions that create larger upheavals in the perspective. That is what is dangerous about resentment narratives. They prey on weakness: they are attractive to individuals who see themselves as oppressed, wounded, humiliated, or otherwise rejected. And they magnify that feeling: they treat the resentful individual as having good reason for these feelings, and shift the locus of responsibility outward to some 10

An Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism

opposed group. So they give the resentful individual a new sense of group identity, absolving him of responsibility for his weaknesses, while at the same time giving him something to attack. And that is why they spread. A disease, once introduced in a population, can find new hosts. A resentment narrative, once introduced into a population, can find wounded individuals; amplify and entrench their sense of fragility; and thereby turn them into fanatics. On my account, this is why fanaticism is so dangerous: it spreads through a population when individuals experience themselves as suffering and are attracted to a narrative that redirects the suffering into a form of resentful hatred (see Katsafanas 2022).

1.2.4  Is Fanaticism Always a Vice? And, If So, Why? So far, I’ve highlighted three central features of fanaticism and explained my account of individual and group fanaticism. Throughout, I’ve given examples of fanatics who direct themselves toward reprehensible ends, such as racial supremacy. But notice that the three central features of fanaticism that I’ve discussed above can be manifest in people who pursue morally admirable ends. Consider an example. A central figure in the debates about fanaticism, discussed by authors including Toscano, Cassam, and Battaly, is the abolitionist. Abolitionists were often derided as fanatical and some took this label upon themselves (see Colas 1997; Toscano 2010). Take John Brown (1800–1859), who viewed it as his obligation to abolish slavery and famously claimed that he was willing to die—and kill—for this cause. Together with his sons, in 1856 he killed five supporters of slavery, dragging them from their houses, interrogating them on their support for slavery, and then hacking them to death with swords. In 1859, he led a raid on the federal armory at Harpers Ferry, hoping to begin a violent uprising that would spread, overthrow the US government, and ultimately liberate slaves. By some measures, Brown was a fanatic: he was absolutely unwavering in his conviction that slavery was a great evil; he was willing to kill people and stoke violent uprisings in order to overthrow the US government; and his passion for his cause is unquestionable. But, of course, his cause was just: he correctly saw that slavery was an atrocity and turned to violence only because he saw it as a necessary means for ending slavery. What John Brown illustrates is that we can have people who are absolutely certain about their own moral convictions; who are willing to impose costs on others so as to realize these convictions; who suffer, and in some cases die, in order to remain true to these convictions; who act with passionate intensity; but whose goals are laudable. Here, we come to an important question: is fanaticism necessarily directed at reprehensible ends? Or can a person be directed at laudable ends while still qualifying as fanatical? There is scholarly disagreement on this point. Cassam argues for an account of fanaticism that entails that all fanatics are directed toward “perverted ideals” (Cassam 2022: 133). By contrast, my account of fanaticism is content-neutral. I think John Brown was a fanatic. Calling him a fanatic picks out a set of facts about the way in which he relates to his ideals, but it does not disparage those ideals. Consider a simpler case: stubbornness is typically regarded as content-neutral. It picks out a way in which we relate to our goals or our beliefs, rather than anything about the content of those goals or beliefs. You can be stubborn with respect to admirable goals and beliefs; or you can be stubborn with respect to pernicious ones. Just so, I think, with fanaticism. 11

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So one way of thinking about fanaticism—the way that I endorse—is by claiming that fanaticism as such is a vice, but that vices can sometimes have good results. In one sense, it’s bad that John Brown was fanatical, but in a broader sense, when we take account of the good that he achieved by being fanatical, we can say that the vice is outweighed by the goodness of the end. Just as stubbornness or pugnaciousness or cowardice or other seemingly vicious states can, in non-ideal circumstances, have morally praiseworthy effects, so too with fanaticism. (Of course, a full defense of this point would require more argumentation.)

1.2.5  Why Fanaticism Is a Fertile Philosophical Topic A final question is why we should think that fanaticism is a philosophical topic. We can give psychological profiles of fanatics; sociological explanations of why fanaticism might arise; historical accounts of particular instances of fanaticism. What does philosophy have to add? I hope the previous sections have answered that question. Fanaticism is a paradigmatically philosophical issue. It raises epistemological questions about the way in which ideals, goals, and relationships might be justified. It raises political questions about tolerance, forbearance, and interaction with violent opponents. It raises questions in philosophical psychology concerning the way in which we form and sustain commitments, practical identities, and ideals. Precisely because analyzing fanaticism requires integrating epistemic, moral, and agential or psychological concerns, it promises to shed new light not just on fanaticism itself, and not just on the cluster of related states (extremism, zealotry, enthusiasm, dogmatism), but on broader issues in philosophy. To name just a few: the nature of commitment and devotion; the status of ideals; tolerance and intolerance; practical identity or self-conception and its relation to groups and ideals; political psychology; moral agency and responsibility; social pathology.

1.3  Overview of the Volume’s Contents The volume is divided into four parts, which deal with fanaticism in antiquity, early modernity, late modernity, and the contemporary world. Part 1 contains three essays that explore the way in which fanaticism and related topics are discussed in ancient Greece, India, and China. Fanaticism is a term that comes to prominence with early modern writers such as Martin Luther and Voltaire, and many philosophers treat the phenomenon of fanaticism as distinctively modern. Mor Segev disagrees. Segev uses an analysis of the fifth-century BCE heresy trials to examine religious toleration in ancient Greek society. Focusing on Aristotle’s claim that religious fear can play a useful political role, Segev argues that religious fear can devolve into a compulsive, unreflective form that threatens political and individual order. Segev sees excessive religious fear as analogous to modern manifestations of extremism and fanaticism. And not only that—he sees excessive religious fear as emerging from the causes that also prompt fanaticism, such as the instability produced by war. So the problems that early modern thinkers diagnose in terms of fanaticism are also present, and are also recognized as threats, in the ancient world.

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Nathan McGovern notes that although there is no exact conceptual or linguistic equivalent for the term “fanaticism” in ancient Indian thought, debates about closely related topics played a central role. Specifically, McGovern argues that due to the potential tension between the ideals of world-affirming practices and world-renouncing ascetic practices, thinkers were concerned with specifying what would count as “extremes” of renunciation. The basic thought is that we can go wrong by pursuing renunciatory practices to an excessive degree. But just what this means and what counts as “excessive” is a complex matter, and McGovern argues that we can see three major religions—Brahmanical Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism—as charting different paths on this topic. Just as ancient Indian philosophical discourse lacks a term for fanaticism but addresses closely related issues, so too Eirik Lang Harris argues that early Chinese philosophy doesn’t address fanaticism as such but does analyze the problems that emerge from excessive certainty about moral and political views. Focusing on the 770–221 BCE period, Harris notes that certain thinkers seem absolutely certain about the correctness of their views and are willing to demand extreme, coercive, and violent approaches to those who disagree. While Harris argues that the philosophical thinkers he addresses are not themselves fanatical, he suggests that the philosophical views developed by these thinkers can be put to fanatical uses and can legitimate unchecked political authority. Notably, each of these three traditions—Greek, Indian, and Chinese—are concerned with excessive or extreme phenomena. But they are different: Segev focuses on the Greek concern with excessive fear of the divine, McGovern on excessive renunciatory practices, Harris on excessive certainty. We will see these concerns emerging in other thinkers as well, for each of these aspects—patterns of emotion, action, and thought—play a key role in later accounts of fanaticism. I note that this volume’s examination of fanaticism in the ancient world is incomplete. While I had planned to include discussions of fanaticism in ancient Arabic philosophy and Africana philosophy, two contributors withdrew their essays as the publication deadline approached. What we are left with here is just a partial glimpse into three rich areas; this analysis could be broadened by examinations of analogous phenomena in other parts of the ancient world. But no single volume could contain a compressive analysis of the world history of a concept such as fanaticism, so the next section of the volume leaps ahead to early modern European discussions of fanaticism. This is where the term “fanatic” or “enthusiast” first came into widespread employment and acquired its modern connotations. The essays in Part 2 touch on a few key moments in this history. Justin Steinberg asks whether we should view fanatics as intolerant or hostile to civil society. Steinberg argues that in the early modern period it was not the fanatics, but their opponents, who were intolerant. The superstitious and dogmatic clergy imposed their views on the populace, in part by encouraging forms of anxiety, dependence, and senses of humiliation that would redound to the clergy’s advantage. The clergy’s opponents, who were labeled enthusiastic or fanatical, sought to undermine this putative spiritual authority in favor of a more moderated form of political authority. So the anticlerical tendencies of the fanatics ultimately encouraged toleration rather than undermining it. Steinberg argues that while Hobbes, Hume, and Spinoza are critical of certain aspects of the fanatic, their political and social views actually align with certain aspects of the fanatics. He finds support for this reading in Hobbes’s critiques of clerical authority; Spinoza’s discussions of false religions, superstition, and prophecy; and Hume’s opposition to the manipulative clergy.

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Douglas Casson turns to Locke. Locke makes it clear that he sees enthusiasm as a threat both to individuals and to civil society. The fanatic treats himself as an authority on religious matters, refusing to recognize any mediating role for priests, religious institutions, or civil authorities. Locke is interested in diagnosing the origins of this tendency. He offers two distinct accounts. First, fanaticism might result from intellectual malfeasance: fanatics are capable of regulating their beliefs correctly, but decline to do so. They have all the epistemic resources necessary for regulating their beliefs, but refuse to exercise them. Second, fanatics might suffer from a psychopathological malady that renders them incapable of dissociating subjective experiences of certainty from claims about objective justification: their intransigence and unwillingness to question their experiences is not a result of choice, but of mental illness. Vickie Sullivan points out that although Montesquieu was proclaimed by Voltaire and others to be an important opponent of fanaticism, he uses the words fanatiques and enthousiasmé very infrequently. He does, however, devote a chapter of The Spirit of the Laws to the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitors, who many view as fanatical. By examining this complex chapter, we can understand Montesquieu’s objections to fanaticism. He points to errors that arise from thinking that we are compelled to avenge the threats to the honor of divinities and discusses the civil discord that results from religious zeal. He suggests that religious infractions should carry only religious, rather than civil or criminal, penalties. Rachel Zuckert examines an intriguing proposal from Shaftesbury: that enthusiasm is best addressed by humor rather than by arguments or political penalties. But how can this be? If enthusiasm involves epistemically or socially problematic epistemic commitments, how could humor be relevant? Zuckert explains that Shaftesbury treats enthusiasm as essentially involving certain emotional/aesthetic attitudes, which foster the problematic epistemic states. As she puts it, enthusiasm is a “disease of emotion,” and it is an infectious disease: it tends to spread from one individual to another. In addition, these states can be considered aesthetically mistaken—they rest on wrongly taking something to have grandeur. In particular, enthusiasm involves a pathological form of imagination, in which passion is misdirected toward something identified as grand: the enthusiast’s false but imaginatively associated ideas about God and world. The essays in Part 3 turn to the Late Modern period, beginning with Immanuel Kant and continuing through the early twentieth-century phenomenologist Jorge Portilla. Krista Thomason focuses on the way in which Kant associated fanaticism with misanthropy. After reviewing Kant’s use of the terms enthusiasm (Enthusiasmus) and fanaticism (Schwärmerei), which Thomason argues are treated inconsistently across Kant’s works, she examines the role that enthusiasm plays in his corpus. She argues that Kant sees enthusiasts as favoring “inner illuminations” over “slow and ponderous reason,” believing that they can discern things that are in fact beyond the bounds of possible experience. Unlike some earlier thinkers, Kant doesn’t see enthusiasm as directly opposed to reason: rather, he believes that enthusiasm can arise from the same source as rational thinking, namely our drive to understand and contemplate metaphysical truths. But how does enthusiasm connect to misanthropy? Two of Kant’s examples of enthusiasts are Rousseau and Pascal, both of whom he also claims are misanthropic. Their misanthropy consists in arguing that refinements of reason and detections of limits to rational inquiry lead either to corruption or to abdication of reason’s authority. Kant treats this as a result of enthusiasm: rather the seeing that the detection of reason’s limitations is compatible with optimism, these thinkers take it to mandate a form of pessimism. 14

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Kristin Gjesdal examines Germaine de Staël’s analysis of fanaticism. Staël focuses on political cases of fanaticism, claiming that political fanaticism is responsible for destructive impacts on politics, culture, and the self. She treats fanaticism as a particular type of passion, which inclines us to seek an “imaginary” and ultimately unattainable end. It is an unusual passion: whereas most passions are manifest in the same way independently of when and where they occur, fanaticism emerges only in certain social conditions and takes different forms at different times. Socially, fanaticism typically emerges from a mix of helplessness, inability to participate in the political, fear, ennui, and so on. Fanaticism involves a tendency to perceive everything through a single abstract idea; a tolerance of self-contradiction; a fear of compromise; and a loss of the capacity to imagine alternatives and to empathize with others. Fanatics form bonds of “shared animosity,” in which they bond with others not in the service of some positive goal but only so as to jointly attack opponents. In order to break free of fanaticism, we need to cultivate our potential for selfgovernance by establishing meaningful bonds with others. Dean Moyar investigates Hegel’s claim that fanaticism arises from excessive abstraction. According to Hegel, the fanatic abstracts from every determinate characterization, seeing himself as free only if he gains independence from every possible limitation. Because any concrete characterization will involve limitations, the fanatic opposes every actual social condition: even if his own goal or ideals were to be realized, the fanatic would come to see these as limitations and consequently would oppose them. What, then, is the solution to fanaticism? Moyar argues that the Philosophy of Right attempts to show how we might sustain particularity without objectionable forms of limitation, by situating it within the state. Bernard Reginster distinguishes between the Enlightenment and Existentialist views of fanaticism. The Enlightenment view treats fanaticism as a form of epistemic overconfidence that inspires emotional excess. The Existentialist view treats the emotional problem as primary: the fanatic suffers from an emotional disorder, and the epistemic problems are downstream from this. Focusing on Nietzsche, Reginster argues that the fanatic is intransigent on certain commitments because these commitments have emotional significance: critiquing them would disrupt the agent’s certainty, and this certainty is, in the fanatic, a pathological need. The fanatic yearns for a form of naïve certainty, in which her convictions appear self-evident and hence can be clung to with confidence. In an attempt to restore this naïve certainty, the fanatic surrenders herself unconditionally to a conviction, treating it as unshakeable. Nietzsche and William James share an opposition to scientism, despite disagreeing on so many other ethical topics. Rachel Cristy analyzes scientism as an uncritical acceptance of the assumptions and conclusions of science, and thus as a potential case of fanaticism. Nietzsche and James both treat fanaticism as involving an exclusive attachment to a single point of view, coupled with an inability to entertain other points of view. James sees this as an intellectual inability, whereas Nietzsche traces it to a willful inability that arises from the need for certainty. In both cases, though, fanaticism involves a narrowness of interests and perspectives. We find this in scientism. Additionally, scientism involves an uncritical and unquestioning acceptance of the overriding value of truth. This valuation of truth can be seen as an expression of the need for certainty. Scientism can thus be seen as a paradigmatic form of fanaticism. Carlos Sánchez examines the Mexican phenomenologist Jorge Portilla’s analysis of two personality types: the relajiento and the apretado. Portilla treats these two types as affecting the community in different ways: the relajiento undermines the values of seriousness, 15

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whereas the apretado can be understood as a value fanatic who bears a zealous relation to values. Portilla describes apretados as “afflicted with the spirit of seriousness,” in that they bear an extreme or excessively serious relationship to what they value. The apretado treats certain values as non-negotiable and beyond question. They characteristically exhibit four features: excessiveness, possessiveness, exclusiveness, and abstractness. Part 4 turns to contemporary explorations of fanaticism. The essays in this section explore the psychology, epistemology, and sociology of fanaticism. Nicolas de Warren offers a wide-ranging study of the ways in which the concept of fanaticism comes to have social, cultural, and psychological manifestations. Beginning with a discussion of Voltaire and other Enlightenment thinkers, de Warren turns to the way in which certain narratives promote fanaticism; the role that charismatic agitators play in stoking fanaticism; and the importance of resentment. He takes The Last Summer of Reason and Moby Dick as powerful, insightful portrayals of fanaticism: both give us images of the fanatic as devoted to values or ideals that are treated as sacred and inviolable. De Warren presents Lambert Bolterauer, Joseph Goebbels, and Michael Flynn, among others, as proliferating narratives and claims that stoke fanaticism by encouraging grievances and group identification. The fanatical narratives are invitations to group identity, a group identity shaped around opposition and grievance. And he turns briefly to Nietzsche’s reflections on the role of resentment in stoking fanaticism, by giving weak or powerless individuals a way to excuse and even falsify their own powerlessness. Mark Alfano and Paul-Mikhail Catapang Podosky examine a social movement that seems rife with fanaticism: the anglophone manosphere, which includes incels, men’s rights activists, and a group known as men-going-their-own-way. Alfano and Podosky adopt my view of fanaticism, according to which fanatics hold sacred values that they adopt in order to preserve their own psychic unity, and who feel that these values are threatened when others do not regard them as sacred. Alfano and Podosky show that groups in the manosphere fixate on putative social hierarchies and claim that they must secure their position at the top of these hierarchies. They coin new terms and concepts (such as “black pill,” “femanazi,” “cuck,” and so on) in order to influence behavior and aim-adoption. They are engaged in a form of conceptual engineering that produces degenerative, damaging effects. Terrorists are often portrayed as fanatical, and many stock examples of fanaticism are drawn from cases of terrorism. But what, exactly, is the relationship between terrorism and fanaticism? Quassim Cassam argues that they are more loosely connected than is traditionally assumed. The so-called “new terrorism,” which is taken to be descriptive of organizations like Al Qaeda and Hezbollah, is often defined in ways that generate conceptual connections to fanaticism. However, Cassam argues that this approach improperly pathologizes both terrorism and fanaticism, which obstructs both the understanding of terrorism and the proper approach to counterterrorism. He argues for a reorientation that addresses the root causes of terrorism. The typical examples of fanatics are men. But Tracy Llanera explores the neglected topic of women who actively participate in terror and hate groups, some of whom seem even more fanatical than their male peers. Llanera points out that fanatical women are often members of highly patriarchal groups, which raises difficult questions about how they can exercise political agency. Drawing on my account of fanaticism, Llanera argues that fanatical women can be understood as inspired by ressentiment-fostering narratives; that the groups to which they belong license them to defy gender norms in order to secure political or social goals; and that hate and terror groups call on women to perform actions that bring 16

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them prestige specifically as women, rather than merely as members of the group. Securing empowerment and social recognition through these exercises of fanaticism, women who participate in hate groups have powerful incentives toward fanaticism. Fanatics are often closed-minded, but Heather Battaly argues that philosophers including Cassam and myself have been too quick to assume both that all fanatics are closedminded and that closed-mindedness is always vicious. If we conceive of closed-mindedness as an unwillingness or inability to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options, or an unwillingness or inability to revise one’s beliefs, fanatics need not be closed-minded. In fact, they can even be open-minded. Moreover, Battaly points out that certain Garrisonian Abolitionists were closed-minded fanatics, but their closed-mindedness was epistemically virtuous. Their belief in the badness of slavery, which in certain cases was held in a closed-minded, dogmatic fashion, nevertheless had morally beneficial effects; and the closed-minded, dogmatic nature of this belief allowed it to be maintained even in the face of pervasive social disagreement. Finally, Sophie Grace Chappell examines the connection between political fanaticism and epistemic shamelessness. Chappell treats shame and honor as basic ethical concepts, not explicable in terms of anything more fundamental. Shame (and honor) are suited for second-personal address: shame is something that one person addresses to another, for example by asking “How could you?,” and it involves communicating that the addressee has done a disgraceful act. This implicitly assumes that the addressee could have done better. And shaming can be involved in epistemic assessment: epistemic agency is subject to appraisal, and some of that appraisal takes the form of appeals to shame (and honor). Chappell examines the way in which political discourse is rife with epistemic shamelessness and considers how we might counteract this.

~~~ No single volume can address the vast range of epistemic, moral, psychological, sociological, and historical dimensions of fanaticism. But the twenty essays in this volume provide a path into this terrain, charting some of the most important historical philosophical discussions of fanaticism and opening new questions in the contemporary literature. My hope is that this volume will lay the groundwork for further discussions of fanaticism.

Notes 1 The terms “fanatic” and “enthusiast” were both common, and often used interchangeably, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. See Passmore (2003), La Vopa (1997), Klein and La Vopa (1998), Steinberg (this volume), and Thomason (this volume). 2 These discussions were published in ISIS’s online magazine Dabiq, which is often blocked or restricted as part of antiradicalization efforts. Portions of these websites are available in Stern and Berger (2015).

References Adorno, Theodor W., Else Frenkel-Brunswik, Daniel J. Levinson, and R. Nevitt Sanford (1950), The Authoritarian Personality. New York: Harper and Row. Cassam, Quassim (2022), Extremism: A Philosophical Analysis. New York: Routledge. Colas, Dominique (1997), Civil Society and Fanaticism: Conjoined Histories, trans. Amy Jacobs. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

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Paul Katsafanas Deleyre, Alexandre (2009), The Encyclopedia of Diderot & d’Alembert Collaborative Translation Project, trans. by Stephen J. Gendzier. Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing. . Trans. of Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, vol. 6. Paris, 1756. DiPaolo, Joshua (2020), “The Fragile Epistemology of Fanaticism,” in Higher-Order Evidence and Moral Epistemology, ed. Michael Klenk. New York: Routledge, 217–235. Hare, R. M. (1981), Moral Thinking: Its Levels, Method and Point. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hume, David (1985), Essays Moral, Political, and Literary. New York: Liberty Fund. Kant, Immanuel (2007), “Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime,” in Anthropology, History, and Education, eds. Paul Guyer and Allen Wood. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 23–64. Katsafanas, Paul (2022), Philosophy of Devotion: The Longing for Invulnerable Ideals. Oxford: ­Oxford University Press. Klein, Lawrence E. and Anthony J. La Vopa (1998), Enthusiasm and Enlightenment in Europe ­1650–1850. San Marino, CA: Huntington Library. La Vopa, Anthony J. (1997), “The Philosopher and the Schwärmer: On the Career of a German Epithet from Luther to Kant,” Huntington Library Quarterly 60: 85–115. Locke, John (1975), An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Luther, Martin (1967/1525), “Against the Murderous, Thieving Hordes of Peasants,” in Luther’s Works, Volume 46, eds. Helmut T. Lehmann, Robert C Schultz, and Joel W. Lundeen. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 47–55. Melanchthon, Philip (2016/1540), “Commentary on Romans 9–16,” in Reformation Commentary on Scripture, New Testament Volume VIII, Romans 9–16, eds. Philip D.W. Krey and Peter D.S. Krey. Westmont, IL: InterVarsity Press. Passmore, John Arthur (2003), “Fanaticism, Toleration, and Philosophy,” Journal of Political Philosophy 11(2): 211–22. Salmela, Mikko, and Christian von Scheve (2018), “Emotional Dynamics of Right- and Left-wing Political Populism,” Humanity & Society 42(4): 434–454. Shaftesbury, Third Earl of (1999), “A letter concerning enthusiasm to my Lord *****,” in Characteristics of Men, Opinions, and Manners, ed. Lawrence E. Klein. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 4–28 Stern, Jessica, and John M. Berger (2015), ISIS: The State of Terror. New York: Harper Collins. Szanto, Thomas (2020), “In Hate We Trust. The Collectivization and Habitualization of Hatred,” Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences 19: 453–480. . Tietjen, Ruth Rebecca (2021), “Religious Zeal as an Affective Phenomenon,” Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences, 20(1): 75–91. Tietjen, Ruth Rebecca (2023), “Religious Zeal, Affective Fragility, and the Tragedy of Human Existence,” Humanistic Studies 46: 1–19. Toscano, Alberto (2010), Fanaticism: On the Uses of an Idea. New York: Verso. Voltaire (1984), Philosophical Dictionary. New York: Penguin. Zmigrod, Leor (2020), “The Role of Cognitive Rigidity in Political Ideologies: Theory, Evidence, and Future Directions,” Current Opinion in Behavioral Sciences 34: 34–39.

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PART 1

Fanaticism in Antiquity

2 FANATICISM AND ARISTOTELIAN EXCESSIVE FEAR OF THE DIVINE Mor Segev

2.1  Religious Fear in Classical Greece In the fifth century BC, a series of prosecutions of prominent figures, on allegations including charges of impiety, were launched in Athens. Among those who are reported to have faced such charges are Anaxagoras (for heretical features of his natural theory), Alcibiades (for his involvement in the mutilation of the sacred Herms and the mocking of the Eleusinian mystery rites), and Diagoras (also for disrespecting the Eleusinian Mysteries). By the end of the century, Socrates was sentenced to death following a similar trial (on charges including disbelief in the gods of the city and introducing new deities). It is often observed that these religious trials involved an outburst of ‘religious hysteria’ on the part of the Athenian public, occasioned by the war conditions and political uncertainties of that period (Nilsson 1940: 122; Dodds 1951: 189–193). Whether the religious authorities responsible for this trend (chiefly, the seer Diopeithes) were genuinely fearful of divine punishment resulting from the deeds of the accused or were instead driven by strictly political motives,1 and whether the religious fear felt by the Athenian public was manufactured by such officials or was merely exploited by them,2 it seems undeniable that terror of the divine was both visible and dominant during that time. As Dodds notes (1951: 202–203, n. 77–78), apart from the plausibility of generalizing from the effects of wartime conditions in later history, one finds direct descriptions of the widespread religious fear surrounding the mutilation of the Athenian Herms in Thucydides (6.27),3 and general descriptions elsewhere of the fear of the prospect of an entire community being punished by the gods because of the actions of an individual member (cf. Hesiod, Op. 240; Plato, Laws 910b). It is curious, then, that historians and classicists have traditionally tended to characterize classical Greece as unmarred by religious intolerance. Bremmer (2018: 32–33) traces that tendency, which he himself finds ‘hardly persuasive’ (incidentally, precisely based on the heresy trials in Athens), back to David Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, directly influencing Edward Gibbon, and to Nietzsche.4 This understanding of classical

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DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-3

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antiquity, and its specific application to the case of the impiety trials in Athens, is succinctly formulated by Bury (1913: 50): If we review the history of classical antiquity as a whole, we may almost say that freedom of thought was like the air men breathed. It was taken for granted and nobody thought about it. If seven or eight thinkers at Athens were penalized for heterodoxy, in some and perhaps in most of these cases heterodoxy was only a pretext. They do not invalidate the general facts that the advance of knowledge was not impeded by prejudice, or science retarded by the weight of unscientific authority. The educated Greeks were tolerant because they were friends of reason and did not set up any authority to overrule reason. Opinions were not imposed except by argument; you were not expected to receive some “kingdom of heaven” like a little child, or to prostrate your intellect before an authority claiming to be infallible. In true Gibbonian fashion, Bury (1913: 51) concludes that it is the advent of Christianity that brought into Rome religious intolerance, which was both unprecedented and unforeseen in classical antiquity.5 It is perhaps based on that general tendency in scholarship that Newman, in his commentary on Aristotle’s Politics, writes the following (vol. 1, 1887–1902: 73–4): Even Aristotle fails to comprehend the possibilities of popular enthusiasm. In his view, the masses are well content to be left to their daily struggle for a livelihood, and are little inclined to press for office, unless they are wronged or outraged, or unless they see that office is made a source of gain (7 (5). 8. 1308b34): their aim is rather profit than honour (8 (6). 4. 1318b16 sqq.). Passionate loyalty, or patriotism, or religious feeling, passionate enthusiasm for an idea of any kind, find no place in his notion of the popular mind. The world had not yet drunk deep of the creeds which, more than aught else, have made men fanatics and robbed the lawgiver and the statesman of their command over things… The religious fear surrounding the heresy trials in Athens may not have threatened to undermine the government, which indeed possibly utilized it for its own purposes (as noted above). Nevertheless, such ‘religious feeling’, indeed in quite extreme forms, certainly seems to have been a substantial and recurring feature in the Athenian ‘popular mind’, and it did directly affect the lives of persecuted individuals.6 Whereas Aristotle does not comment on the heresy trials in Athens in the extant corpus, he seems to have been critical of them. When facing charges of impiety himself toward the end of his life, he is reported to have stated, upon fleeing, that he wishes to prevent the city from ‘sinning against philosophy twice’ (Aelianus, Varia hist. 3.36; Elias, in Cat. p. 123, ll. 25–9, Busse).7 Apart from this anecdote, one can reconstruct Aristotle’s position on the political effects of religious fear based on his analysis of political change in the Politics, which is largely informed by historical cases. Here, our interpretation of historical events, and of Aristotle’s understanding of them, seems to make a significant difference to our understanding of his ethical theory. Generally, Aristotle thinks that virtues (and presumably vices) of character are ‘concerned with affections and actions’ (NE II.6, 1106b16–17), and that the character states of individual humans are the same ‘in power and form’ as those of the polis, which must therefore undergo the same types of affection relevant to such character 22

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states (Pol. VII.1, 1323b30–6).8 And if, pace Newman, Aristotle does recognize the political dangers of excessive religious feeling – particularly, excessive fear of the gods, of the type exhibited by the Athenians during the events surrounding the heresy trials – he is likely to acknowledge such excessive fear as an instance of a character vice, perhaps deviating from a virtue such as piety. Indeed, scholars have long debated the reasons for the conspicuous absence of ‘piety’ from Aristotle’s discussions of character virtues in the Ethics, and attributing to Aristotle the recognition of a vice deviating from it would supply evidence relevant to that debate.9 In what follows, we shall see that Aristotle does in fact recognize excessive religious fear as a tangible political danger. We shall then see that Aristotle’s various remarks on the religious behavior and roles of individuals are in line with that recognition and cohere into a portrait of an excessively religious person as vicious and potentially harmful. We shall end by comparing this portrait with a contemporary analysis of fanatic tendencies and extremist behavior.

2.2  Aristotle on Religious Fear as a Political Factor In Politics V.8, 1308a24–30, Aristotle argues that in order to preserve a constitution one must make remote dangers seem pressing and imminent, thereby instilling fear in the population. Although the passage does not provide examples of the implementation of such a political device, there are reasons to think that Aristotle would at least include as one type of such an occurrence the inspiration of religious fear in the population of a city. Lintott (2018: 129) has argued, contrary to a reading going back to Newman,10 that Aristotle in Pol. V.8 recommends preserving the polis by creating fear among its citizens, not over ‘foreign threats’, but rather over ‘the threat to a system from within a city, and the remoteness is one of possibility rather than physical distance’. The formulation in Pol. V.8, 1308a24–30 indeed seems open-ended enough to take internal political threats into account (even if not exclusively so, as Lintott seems to suppose). Since, as Lintott (2018: 129) points out, ‘the affair of the Mysteries and Herms’ would have been familiar to Athenians as such cases of potential internal dangers, and given the prominence of these events in Athenian history, it stands to reason that it is just such cases that Aristotle targets primarily. Though Lintott (2018: 129) focuses on the interpretation of these events by the Athenians as ‘a sign of an oligarchic and tyrannical conspiracy (Thuc. 6.61.1)’, we might add to his account the Athenians’ fear of divine punishment to be incurred for heretical acts committed within their community. That fear, as we have seen, is attested in Thucydides (6.27), and played a significant role in the Athenian heresy trials, as Aristotle would undoubtedly have been well aware. One might at this point doubt that Aristotle would recommend the use for political purposes of collective religious feeling such as the fear exhibited by the Athenian public following the mutilation of the Herms, for the following reasons. First, assuming that Aristotle does not himself maintain a belief in divine retribution by anthropomorphic gods, it would seem that he should regard the use of the fear of such gods as deceptive and malicious. Second, even if we grant that some religious fear is needed for the proper functioning of the polis, the fear surrounding the case of the Herms trials in Athens seems excessive, and hence unlikely to constitute an example of the proper use of such a device, for Aristotle. Let us respond to each point in turn. First, it is true that Aristotle’s own theory commits him to the nonexistence of the traditional gods,11 and hence to the falsity of the overt content of the myths concerning them. However, in other contexts he is quite willing to 23

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endorse the use of fear of nonexistent things. Thus, in the Poetics, Aristotle affords ample room for the emotional involvement with imaginary actions and plots, and specifically the fear (and pity) aroused by these, and he takes poetic mimēsis to be directed toward achieving such an emotional response, with beneficial results to follow.12 In addition, as I have argued elsewhere, Aristotle may well consider the emotional involvement one has with one’s dreams naturally beneficial for one’s own (waking) life; in particular, dreams can help prepare the dreamer for the occurrence in waking life of situations or events relevantly similar to them, and such preparation would be aided by the proper emotional involvement with the content of one’s dream, prompting one to rehearse one’s response to such situations in a risk-free setting (see Segev 2012). Aristotle’s view that it is indeed appropriate for one to nurture fear toward mythological beings whose existence he rejects indicates that he thinks of myths as beneficial, similarly to poetry or dreams, regardless of their truth value. Second, in our passage from Pol. V.8 (1308a24–30), Aristotle suggests that citizens should be made to fear impending situations disproportionately to their actual risk level (regardless of whether his point can be appropriately taken to include fear of the gods’ involvement in such occurrences). It should be noted, in this respect, that Aristotle’s remarks in that chapter are not said to apply specifically to deviant regimes, and hence would seem to apply to constitutions broadly speaking (cf. 1307b26–7). If it is proper and advisable, under appropriate (or even ideal) political circumstances, to have citizens fear unrealistic dangers, for Aristotle, it is reasonable to assume that the falsity of the content of traditional religious myths should not deter him from thinking that it is proper and advisable for citizens to be fearful of them as well.13 But the fact that a certain device is useful across the board does not mean that it is to be applied in the same way in all cases. Famously, Aristotle’s aim throughout Pol. V is to explain how a given constitution is destroyed and preserved, be it correct or deviant (even tyrannical).14 In Pol. V.9, he argues that the greatest thing with a view to political stability is ‘to educate according to the constitutions’ (τὸ παιδεύεσθαι πρὸς τὰς πολιτείας) (1310a12–14). The reason, he explains, is that being educated and habituated according to one’s constitution – e.g., democratically, under democratic laws – is crucial for the success of such laws, for if there is incontinence ‘in the case of the individual’ (ἐφ’ ἑνὸς), it is there ‘in the case of the polis’ (ἐπὶ πόλεως) as well (1310a14–19). For Aristotle, democracy is a deviant regime. Thus, on his view, it is not surprising that the political mechanisms put in place in Athens, including those intended to preserve its constitution and indeed managing to do so, would be deviant as well. By the same token, it ought not to surprise us that the religious fear generated in Athens following the mutilation of the Herms, albeit politically expedient, was also excessive. On Aristotle’s view, although religious fear may fulfill a useful political role even when it is excessive, and although poleis with a certain type of deviant constitution are bound to exhibit such excessive fear rather than its medial counterpart, excessive fear is still aberrant, and indeed deleterious if left unchecked. In Pol. V.11, 1314b38–1315a4, discussing the preservation of tyranny, he says the following: Moreover, [the tyrant should] always appear to be eminently zealous with regard to matters pertaining to the gods. For [people] are less afraid of suffering something lawless by such [things/beings], if they believe that the ruler is fearful of the gods (δεισιδαίμονα) and cares for the gods, and they contrive less on the supposition that he has the gods as allies. But [he] must appear to be such without folly. 24

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Standardly, τῶν τοιούτων at 1314b40 is taken to refer to people such as the tyrant,15 with the implication that what is to be controlled by making the tyrant appear religious is the fear of the tyrant felt by his subjects. Presumably, this reading is preferred because of Aristotle’s specification that what is to be feared is something ‘lawless’ (paranomon), which one might think cannot characterize divine action. However, attributing such behavior to the Greek gods is not unprecedented. Thus, the Furies in Aeschylus’ Eumenides criticize Apollo for transgressing divine nomos by protecting Orestes from them.16 Indeed, even if the gods ought not to be thought of as acting lawlessly, all that Aristotle claims in the Pol. V.11 passage is that it is feared that they would be acting that way. And since Aristotle’s point is precisely that such fear is excessive and should be eradicated, he need not subscribe to the possibility of divine lawless behavior himself. This allows for a more natural reading, both grammatically and contextually, of the Pol. V.11 passage, according to which the tyrant’s subjects might, if the tyrant does not appear religious enough, fear being subjected to lawless behavior by the gods. Alternatively, and to a similar effect, τοιούτων at 1314b40 may refer to the lawless actions performed by the subjects themselves, which they fear would trigger divine action of a similar type. If either of these readings is correct, then the point in this passage is that citizens should not be too fearful of the gods, and that if they are excessively afraid, then that could lead to political malfunctioning. What threatens the tyrant, in Aristotle’s view, is not simply excessive religious fear among his subjects, but specifically their fear of divine retribution for the tyrant’s own actions, very much akin to the fear that motivated the heresy trials in Athens. The potential uses of such fear for political purposes, and the dangers of having such fear exhibited to excess, show that Aristotle considers it a potent political factor deserving close consideration.17 It is true that Aristotle expects such religious fear to be, not only manufactured and used by the polis, but also controllable by it, as Newman maintains. But the fact that religious feeling needs to be contained is itself an indication of its potential risks, which go well beyond what Newman reads in Aristotle, and indeed beyond what historians have traditionally read into classical history. Athens may have benefitted from religious fear in circumventing a potential revolution led by Alcibiades (cf. Thuc. 6.27), but, arguably, that very fear, which was excessive to an unprecedented degree, also contributed to the subsequent defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War and the (temporary) collapse of Athenian democracy.

2.3  The Lover of Myths, the Priest, and the Elderly Despite appearances, then, Aristotle thinks that collective religious fear has significant political implications, and that, if taken to excess, such fear can do serious harm to the citystate affected by it. If so, then we should expect Aristotle to acknowledge, and have at least the theoretical resources for generating an account of, the individual disposition to having such fear. His explicit references to fear of the gods are sparse, but instructive. In Aristotle’s view, virtuous people, including citizens in his ideal polis, must exhibit fear of the appropriate kind and amount (Pol. VII.12, 1331a35–b1; NE II.6, 1106b16–23).18 And this general view seems to extend to the specific case of religious fear. In NE VII.4, he illustrates the improper preoccupation with goods, such as honor or family relatives, using the example of ‘someone who, just like Niobe, would fight against the gods’ (1148a28-b2). And MM I.5 speaks of a person who ‘does not even fear the gods’ as ‘exceedingly fearless’ (λίαν … ἄφοβον) and ‘insane’ (μαινόμενος) (1185b23–5). If not fearing the gods sufficiently is improper and vicious, then the virtuous person would presumably be expected to fear them 25

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to the appropriate degree. It stands to reason that, similarly to the excessive fearlessness toward the gods, Aristotle would also regard excessive fear of the gods as inappropriate and perilous. Since he does not say so explicitly, however, one must gather his views on the matter from discussions of other relevant character traits and behaviors. As we shall see presently, it is indeed possible to reassemble a portrait of an individual suffering from such a condition from Aristotle’s scattered discussions of the ‘lover of myth’, the elderly, and priests in the ideal city. In NE III.10, 1117b28–1118a1, Aristotle speaks of the lovers of myth (φιλομύθους) (as well as narrators and those spending their time on chance matters) as ‘babblers’ (ἀδολέσχας). In the context, he means to attribute to such people an inappropriately excessive preoccupation with ‘psychological’ pleasures, by contrast both to those who dedicate themselves, presumably appropriately, to psychological pleasures, and to those who excessively indulge in bodily pleasures (the intemperate). The comparison between love of myths and study is instructive in this context. In Metaph. A.2, 982b12–19, Aristotle famously says that philosophy begins ‘through wondering’, and that ‘the lover of myths (φιλόμυθος) is a philosopher, in a sense, for myth is constructed out of wonders’. In NE III.10, then, he would seem to characterize the love of myth, similarly to the excessive indulgence in bodily pleasures deviating from temperance, as an excessive indulgence in a psychological pleasure, i.e., wonder, deviating from philosophical study. As I have argued elsewhere, Aristotle thinks that myths, precisely because of the wonder that they engender with regard to their standard subject matter (viz., the gods), have a crucial role to play in the proper pursuit of philosophical knowledge.19 But, the philomuthos, unlike the philosopher, dwells on such pleasurable, awe-provoking myths, pursues them excessively, and thereby loses sight of the appropriate (instrumental) use of them for arriving at philosophical truth.20 In the only other occurrence of the term ‘philomuthos’ in Aristotle, he is recorded as having written that the more isolated he becomes the ‘more myth-loving’ (φιλομυθότερος) he gets (Fr. 668 Rose 3=Demetr. Eloc. 144). If we take this report to be genuine (with Plezia 1961: 121–123), the safest interpretation of it would be based on our understanding of the other two occurrences of the term in Aristotle’s corpus. It has been suggested that, given the affinity between the philosopher and myth discussed in Metaph. A.2, 982b18–19, Aristotle’s remark signifies ‘his increasing rapprochement to Plato’ on the point that ‘myths are excellent vehicles for bringing home essential philosophical truths’ (Düring 1957: 351). Plezia (1961: 121–123) rejects Düring’s interpretation based on the derogatory description of the lovers of myths as ‘babblers’ in NE III.10 (rather than as myth enthusiasts, let alone Platonic philosophers). It is, however, possible to find a middle ground. As mentioned above, whereas Aristotle thinks of myth as helpful toward philosophical education, he does not in fact think of myth itself as a mode of philosophical discussion or as a conveyer of truth as such, and he in fact regards the unbridled preoccupation with myth as detrimental to philosophical apprehension. Thus, he may well think of the condition generally describable as philomuthia negatively, and as characterized most basically by a preference for lengthy speech, which manifests itself by the love of both telling and listening to elaborate tales and myths.21 It is important, in this regard, to note the connection Aristotle draws between philomuthia and old age. In Rhet. II.13, 1389b29–1390a11,22 he argues that the elderly, partly because of being naturally cold and hence cowardly, lack hope for the future, which in turn accounts for their loquaciousness (τῆς ἀδολεσχίας) (particularly, dwelling on the past, so as not to be forced to think about the future, which frightens them). The reason 26

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given here for loquaciousness in old age – viz., the need to immerse oneself in content distracting one from worries concerning the future – seems as applicable to the proclivity to consume such content as it is to the tendency to produce it. And it seems particularly applicable to the proclivity to consume and produce religious content (standardly, via the propagation of myths), which Aristotle otherwise associates with the provocation of fear, as in his recommendation to legislate a mandatory walk to the temple of Artemis to pregnant women, so as to ensure that they exercise through fear of the goddess (Pol. VII.16, 1335b12–16).23 It seems reasonable to assume that, in Pol. VII.9, 1329a27–34, Aristotle assigns the priesthood to the retired citizens in his ideal polis because of their inability to partake effectively at that stage of their life either in military service or in political and philosophical activities (cf. Kraut 2002: 203). But this would seem to be only part of the truth, based on the discussion above. In tandem with their intellectual deterioration, Aristotle expects the elderly to become increasingly fearful, loquacious, and myth-loving, and these traits in turn should make them especially effective in propagating the content of traditional religion for the benefit of the city as a whole. Not only would such people be preoccupied, of their own accord, with the mythical content they are meant to propagate in their capacity as priests, and thus ready to commit themselves to that task, but their emotional attachment to that content would serve them in doing so successfully. For, as Aristotle thinks, ‘a listener always sympathizes with him who speaks emotionally, even when he says nothing at all’ (Rhet. III.7, 1408a23–4). By relating tales of the gods and administering rituals with full pathos and enthusiasm, elderly priests would serve their city well by producing the appropriate emotional response in their audience, including the wonder or astonishment that would prompt (potential) citizens to inquire into divinity and the fear that would deter non-­citizens from wrongful behavior.24 Of course, this political usefulness of the priests and their mental condition by no means entails that these people function optimally or even well qua individuals. Their condition, as Aristotle conceives of it, still indicates a deterioration in their mental functioning, which, while occurring naturally in old age, nevertheless detracts from or even nullifies one’s potential to engage successfully and continuously in those activities that Aristotle thinks constitute human happiness. Furthermore, the condition in question is abnormal, and troubling, when it occurs in younger people, or when it affects an entire community (as we saw in the previous section, Aristotle’s view implies that excessive religious fear infecting a large segment of the population in a political community is aberrant and potentially harmful; one is reminded, again, of the case of the Athenian heresy trials).

2.4 Piety, deisidaimonia, and Atheism One would think that the dispositions dictating one’s emotional involvement with (particularly, fear of) the gods, both appropriate and excessive, should make an appearance in Aristotle’s discussions of particular virtues of character in his Ethics. For, not only does Aristotle recognize the significant political impact that such attitudes have, but, as Broadie (2003: 54–55) points out, in his day piety ‘was a commonly recognized, commonly esteemed excellence’, which furthermore was ‘already a focus of philosophical attention’, e.g., in Plato’s Euthyphro. Broadie’s position is that piety is indeed covered by Aristotle’s discussion in the Ethics, implicitly, and is conceived of there as ‘the disposition for intellectual activity engaged in as by the sophos, i.e., purely for love of the activity itself’ (2003: 67). 27

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Broadie’s suggestion, however, raises difficulties. First, Aristotelian piety as Broadie understands it would be ‘so closely tied to [Aristotle’s] theoretic account of perfect happiness that the latter seems the only possible locus for explaining the former’ (Broadie 2003: 69). Whereas Broadie mentions this point to explain Aristotle’s omission of piety in his discussion of character virtue, one may well ask, based on it, whether Aristotle could conceive of piety thus understood as a character virtue at all. Second, if Aristotle does regard piety as a character virtue, then he must think of it, like all other such virtues, as being a mean between two vices. But whereas it is easy to see why a deficient love of theoretical study would be vicious, for Aristotle, it is not clear that the love of such an activity admits of an excess. Third, Aristotle’s ethical theory is chronologically sandwiched between Platonic and later peripatetic positions, both taking piety to be a part of justice, which Aristotle never repudiates. It is such a consideration that led Richard Bodéüs to conclude that Aristotle, too, subscribes to that general view.25 Now, Broadie (2003: 60) offers a crucial criticism of Bodéüs’s position, namely, that, in NE V.9, 1137a26–30, Aristotle explicitly restricts just transactions to human agents and recipients. However, a modified version of Bodéüs’s proposal still stands. Specifically, Aristotle could still think of piety as a disposition to act justly (as Bodéüs maintains), though not toward any superhuman entities (pace Bodéüs). In NE V.11, 1138a5–14 Aristotle argues that, by committing suicide, one commits an injustice, though not toward oneself, but rather toward one’s city. Similarly, Aristotle may well think of impiety as a disposition to act unjustly toward one’s city – say, by detracting from the proper stability and functioning of the polis – especially since, as we have already seen, he is directly concerned with the political utility and dangers involved in one’s fear of the gods.26 This suggestion also fits in nicely with Aristotle’s general rejection of the existence of the traditional Greek gods and, consequently, of intentional divine providence. For such gods to be either the agents or the recipients of just actions, one would first have to assume that they exist.27 But if the anthropomorphic gods of traditional Greek religion do not exist, for Aristotle, then what could be legitimate, let alone virtuous, in having any disposition to feel a certain way about them? What would piety (and the vices deviating from it) amount to, for him? As Broadie points out, Aristotle has many hypothetical options available to him, from thinking of piety as a mean between ‘contempt for religion and superstitious excess (cf. Theophrastus’ deisidaimonia)’ to thinking of it as intermediate between ‘sluggish observance and religious zeal such as that of Euthyphro’ (Broadie 2003: 55).28 The peripatetic position mentioned in Stobaeus’ Anthology (2.7.25), and which arguably goes back to Theophrastus,29 is specifically that piety (εὐσέβεια) is a subtype of justice, intermediate between atheism (ἀθεότητος) and (excessive) fear of the gods (δεισιδαιμονίας). Though it is impossible to trace this view to Aristotle himself directly,30 it seems congruent with his view as we have sketched it so far, and indeed instructive regarding it. The link between the two views is their focus on fear. Aristotle’s discussions of religious fear in the Politics lend support to thinking of deisidaimonia (lit., fear of the divine) as the excessive state deviating from piety, and of atheism as the deficient state of having no fear of the gods (nor, presumably, any other emotional involvement with them).31 The pious, finally, would be those who are appropriately fearful of the gods. Qua informed virtuous agents, Aristotle would of course expect such people to know that the gods in question do not exist. Nevertheless, as we have mentioned, Aristotle has no qualms about finding merit in one’s emotional involvement with imaginary objects, e.g., while watching a dramatic performance (cf. Section 2.2). Piety, for Aristotle, would be the disposition to 28

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similarly fear the gods as traditionally depicted in myth and ritual, medially, soberly, and presumably occasionally, so as to enable the polis to make use of traditional religion for its purposes (in my view, engendering wonder concerning divinity with a view to encouraging philosophical inquiry and contemplation among the citizenry cf. n. 13), without lapsing into political unrest and risking outright conflict. On the account provided above, the vice of excess deviating from piety fits in well with Aristotle’s characterizations of the ‘lovers of myths’, and among them the elderly priests he envisages for his ideal city (see Section 2.3 above). Such people exhibit an overly meticulous and unreflective preoccupation with the details of the content and practices of their religion, stemming from their exaggerated fear of the divine. Also illustrative of this portrait are the views of deisidaimonia in later authors directly influenced by Aristotle. Theophrastus, in Characters 16, describes the deisidaimōn as one who engages in obsessive behavior patterns based on excessive religious fear, such as cleaning their house frequently to make sure that the goddess Hecate has infiltrated it.32 Perhaps most importantly for our purposes, Theophrastus also expects such people to defy authority in pursuing their religious convictions. Upon having a sack of barley eaten through by a mouse, he says, they would seek counsel from ‘the official interpreter’ (τὸν ἐξηγητὴν)33 and, if told to simply have the bag repaired, they would not heed these words, but would rather take it upon themselves to offer sacrifices instead. Arguably, such proneness of the deisidaimones to take matters of religion into their own hands reveals their apparently innocuous religious idiosyncrasies and phobias as a potential threat to political stability, along the lines described by Aristotle in his discussions of political change in Politics V.34 Also instructive in this respect is the later use of deisidaimonia by Philo of Alexandria. It has been noted that Philo retains the peripatetic meaning of deisidaimonia as a vice of excess, but ‘gives it a meaning of his own when he obviously uses it to signify the, in his view, petty belief in the literal truth of the sacred books and the undue value attached to the outward practices of the Jewish religion’ (Koets 1929: 50). However, the deisidaimōn is overly invested in religious practice in Theophrastus’s description as well, which in turn corresponds to the excessive emotional investment in ritual of Aristotle’s elderly priests. And the literalism that Philo associates with deisidaimonia, too, is in harmony with the Aristotelian-Theophrastean understanding of excessive religiosity as being emotive (particularly, fear-based) and unchecked by reason. Thus, when discussing the mystery involved in the biblical symbolic personification of virtues, Philo says that such words are not intended for the deisidaimones, who may only assess what is holy ‘by the stickiness (γλισχρότητι) of words and names, and by hair-splitting habits (τερθρείαις ἐθῶν)’ (Cher. 12). Here, the literalism characterizing the deisidaimōn is explained in terms of that person’s unreflective pursuit of the details of the content and practices of their religion ‘to the letter’. This seems a reasonable extension of Aristotle’s association of similar fears with an excessive immersion of oneself in myth (see Section 2.3). In both cases, a person taken to be fearful pursues the narratives of their religion, compulsively and indiscriminately, and is thus oblivious to the proper meaning and usage of such narratives.35 Aristotle’s ‘lover-ofmyth’, in particular, pursues myths for their own sake, rather than for the sake of their usefulness for the city (Segev 2017b: 76–7). And, differences between Greek religious texts and the Hebrew Bible aside,36 Aristotle’s own criticisms of the anthropomorphic representation of the gods in Greek religion (see Segev 2017b: ch. 1; Segev 2018: 295–297), combined with his occasional allegorical accounts of certain myths (see Segev 2017b: ch. 4), suggest that 29

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the unreflective handling of religious content, such as that exhibited by the philomuthoi, indeed lends itself to illegitimately literalist tendencies, as Philo argues with regard to the deisidaimones.37

2.5  Fanaticism and Aristotelian Excessive Religious Fear In a recent work, Berger (2018: 134–143) suggests that uncertainty, producing anxiety and prompted by occurrences such as war, is a major cause of movement toward extremism, and that ‘uncertainty-identity theory and related research by social psychologists provide a more functional and better supported explanation of extremism and its causes than any of the current alternatives’.38 Relatedly, Berger (2018: 44; 63) also argues that extremism essentially involves belief in the group’s success or survival as depending on action against an external party (or against dissenting members of the group itself), and he points out, based on analysis of extremist narratives, that extremists tend to propagate belief in imminent existential threat to their community (Berger 2018: 91–92). As we have seen, dominant and credible analyses of the religious persecutions of influential individuals in fifth-century Athens explain them as a function of the instability induced by wartime conditions at the time and the religious fear produced by these,39 which accords with Berger’s understanding of radicalization.40 Thus, contra Newman (following prevailing voices preceding him), it is not later (presumably, specifically Christian) ‘creeds’ that ‘have made men fanatics’. Aristotle was already in a position to recognize historical cases of fanatic tendencies, and indeed of extremist behavior. And, as we have seen, Aristotle provides the theoretical resources for an account of such occurrences. He attends to religious fear, as manifested in both individuals and political communities, and thinks that, in excess, such fear can have detrimental effects, again on both levels. For Aristotle, fear of the gods of traditional religion, when exhibited by a political community to an excessive degree, may result in violent actions which (depending in part on the nature of the community in question, the control exercised by its governing body, etc.) may either affect individuals perceived as dangerous or even undermine the entire regime (e.g., when it is the rulers who are thought to pose the threat). In keeping with his general view that conditions characterizing the political community correspond to virtues and vices in the individual, Aristotle’s theory should provide – and his texts indeed provide sufficient materials for reconstructing – an account of individuals prone to behaving in such radical ways based on their excessive fear of the divine. For Aristotle, the ‘lovers of myth’ (philomuthoi) and the priests he envisages for his ideal polis (who are to be elderly, and hence likely also philomuthoi) pursue the content of traditional religion excessively and unreflectively, and that behavior is caused by the excessive fear characterizing them. The disposition of a person behaving in such a way is deviant, by Aristotle’s lights (despite any use that the polis might make of such behavior for its own purposes). This deviancy is captured by later discussions of the vice of deisidaimonia in Theophrastus and Philo, which either go back to Aristotle’s own view or at least nicely complement it. According to that Aristotelian view, excessive fear of the divine (exhibited in such patterns as compulsive ritualism and oblivious literalism) is unjust because it negatively impacts one’s city. Such fear turns out to be irrational, then, which is further supported by Aristotle’s view that the gods as traditionally conceived do not even exist, let alone pose any direct threat to human communities. The irrational tendency (and character vice) in question is thus comparable to occurrences of fanaticism familiar to us today,41 and 30

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may lead, under certain circumstances, to violence on a par with actions that we might call extremist.42 Aristotelian political theory recommends attending to such tendencies, with a view to subduing the threats posed by them, as well as utilizing their potential uses for the community’s own purposes.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Paul Katsafanas for very useful comments. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the University of Helsinki. I am thankful to the participants on that occasion, especially Risto Saarinen, Aaron Goldman, and Samuel Moyn, for the helpful discussion and feedback. I gratefully acknowledge the support of the American Foundation for Greek Language and Culture (AFGLC) Endowed Professorship in Greek Culture at the University of South Florida. Finally, I wish to thank St. Catherine’s College, Oxford for a Visiting Fellowship in 2021.

Notes 1 Rubel (2014: 42 and 197, n. 193) argues that Diopeithes was ‘more of a political opportunist than a very zealous conservative’, following Connor (1963: 115). According to Whitmarsh (2016: 119), ‘Diopeithes … may well have been motivated by nothing more than a fanatical religious obsession’. 2 As Dodds (1951: 190–191) argues, contra Nilsson (1940: 133-ff.); see also Bremmer (2018: 34); Garnsey (1984: 1–6). 3 See also Thuc. 2.54, as discussed in Rubel (2014: 4). 4 Cf. Rubel (2014: 71). 5 Bury lauds both Hume and Gibbon in a later discussion in his book (see Bury 1913: 159–166). By contrast, Robertson (1906: 155) states that ‘it was the gulled Athenian democracy that brought religious intolerance into Greek life, playing towards science, in form of law, the part that the fanatics of Egypt and Palestine had played towards the worshippers of other Gods than their own’. 6 For a comprehensive account of the religious factors involved in the events in Athens during and following the Peloponnesian War, including the shifting attitude toward Pericles, the prosecution of Anaxagoras, Protagoras, Diagoras, Alcibiades, and Socrates, and the Arginusae trials, and considering historical, archeological, and architectural evidence, see Rubel (2014). Rubel’s overall estimation is that the events during this period in Athenian history were to a decisive extent influenced by a general sense of religious anxiety, and specifically fear of being left unprotected by the gods, intensified especially by the Athenian plague; see, e.g., Rubel (2014: 15). 7 On these reports see Düring (1957: 341–342), Plezia (1961: 113–116), and Natali (2013: 60–64). 8 See Segev 2017a: 103–108. Though below I focus on the case of religious fear and the character states specifically surrounding it, I take Aristotle to be committed to applying further affections (including other types of fear) and character states, indeed the full range of those, to both individuals and poleis. 9 See Section 2.4 below, and the discussion there of the views of Broadie and Bodéüs on this matter. 10 Cf. Newman (vol. 4, 1887–1902: 386–387); Keyt (1999: 129). 11 See Segev (2017b: ch. 1) and Segev (2018: 295–297); pace Bodéüs (2000). 12 For an account of the Poetics along similar lines, see Woodruff (1992: esp. 81–93). Woodruff suggests that, for Aristotle, in achieving such an emotional response mimēsis gets us to regard the events portrayed on stage as if they were true, despite knowing that they are not – a process which Woodruff calls ‘functional deception’. 13 Where non-citizens are concerned, Aristotle clearly thinks the use of fear for political purposes is warranted. He argues that fear should be used for persuading ‘the many’ (NE X.9, 1179b10–13), and gives examples that seem to suggest just such a use, specifically of religious fear, for the purpose of regulating the behavior of non-citizens (Pol. VII.16, 1335b12–16). Elsewhere, I have argued that Aristotle cannot think of the use of religious fear to secure social stability as the necessary political function of traditional religion, which for him is instead educational (Segev, 2017b,

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Mor Segev 65; 81; Segev, 2018, 311-312; 316-317). However, it may be that that function – the inducement of wonder concerning divinity in potential citizens initiating their philosophical education (cf. Segev 2017b; Segev 2018) – itself requires fear of the gods, at least initially. Even if not, Aristotle would presumably still expect religious fear to be standardly present in cities, which would in turn require making provisions for handling the phenomenon virtuously. 14 This is in line with his conception of political science in Pol. IV.1 as aimed at clarifying, not only which constitution is objectively ideal, but also which constitutions are best under specific sets of circumstances. 15 Reeve (1998: ad loc.): ‘For people are less afraid of suffering illegal treatment at the hands of such people’.; Jowett (in Barnes 1995: ad loc.): ‘they are less afraid of suffering injustice at his hands’; Rackham (1932: ad loc.): ‘…for people are less afraid of suffering any illegal treatment from men of this sort’. 16 Eumenides 171; cf. Adkins (1982: 230–231). Later on, particularly based on Antigone, Adkins argues that divine laws (agrapta nomima) are not generally thought of at the time as rules to be obeyed but rather as ‘customs whereby the gods in the past have respected one another’s moirai of time in the sense of functions and areas of responsibility’. 17 Relatedly, Mayhew (1996) argues that Aristotle’s criticism of the communism of the kallipolis of Plato’s Republic, in Pol. II. 4, 1262a25–32, rests on the assumption that its citizens, who are likely to unknowingly commit a disproportionately large number of transgressions deemed impious by traditional Greek religion, to which they nevertheless (mistakenly) adhere, would exhibit ‘an overabundance of fear and shame’ over the consequent pollution and fate of their city, thus undermining its unity. Mayhew concludes that, in Aristotle’s view, cities should make use of the (false) religious convictions of their citizens for the purpose of promoting proper behavior (following Metaph. Λ.8, 1074b1–5), while guarding against dangers to political unity based on such convictions. 18 Cf. Segev (2019: 588). 19 See Segev (2017b); Segev (2018). 20 Cf. Metaph. A.2, 982b18–19; Segev (2017b: 76–77). 21 In the same spirit, Jaeger (1948: 321, n. 1) says: ‘It is of course one thing to see elements of philosophy in the love of myth [sc. as Aristotle does in  Metaphysics. A.2], and another when the philosopher, as Aristotle does in this fragment, indulges himself by returning at the end of his long struggle with the problems to the half-hidden, illogical, obscure, but suggestive, language of myth’. 22 Plezia (1961: ad loc.) mentions this text as evidence for Aristotle’s understanding of ἀδολεσχία as loquaciousness. For a recent discussion of Aristotle’s negative attitude toward the elderly, see Anton (2016, 121–125). 23 See also Bodéüs (2000: 82–83); cf. Pol. VIII.6, 1341b2–8 and n. 13 above. 24 See n. 13 above. 25 See Bodéüs (2000: 138 and 258 n. 9–10), who cites in this respect Plato, Euthyphro 11e–12a, 12d; Divisiones, pp. 5, 20–27, 10, Mutschmann; De virtutibus 1250b15-ff. 26 Fortenbaugh (2003: 182–183) attributes to Theophrastus the view that piety is an ‘inclusive virtue’, encompassing one’s proper attitude toward ‘family and fellow citizens’. Fortenbaugh (2003: 192) also relates this point to the peripatetic association between piety and justice. On the connection between Aristotle’s and Theophrastus’s views on piety, see below.   Again, whereas it is true that Aristotle expects the polis to use people who are excessively fearful of the divine for its purposes, specifically by appointing them as priests, as we have seen, that is compatible with thinking of such people as individually vicious. For Aristotle, the elderly priests would be no longer capable of performing the civic and political duties expected of middle-aged citizens. 27 Bodéüs (2000) does attribute to Aristotle a belief in the traditional gods. I argue against such positions in detail in Segev (2017b) and Segev (2018); cf. n. 11. If the traditional gods existed, for Aristotle, then the handling of one’s fear of them would have fallen under the scope, not of justice, but rather of courage. As Curzer (2012: 229) points out, citing NE III.6, 1115a17–24, ‘in [Aristotle’s] account of courage he says that appropriately fearing disgrace, poverty, insult, etc. are not cases of courage, but rather are cases of modesty, liberality, good temper, etc.’ Aristotle goes on to say there that courage is concerned with those fearful things that are ‘the greatest’ (τὰ μέγιστα) (1115a24–6), surely having in mind those things that are objectively most fearsome. Fortenbaugh

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Fanaticism and Aristotelian Excessive Fear of the Divine (2003: 191) mentions the possibility of taking the point in Arius’s summary of Theophrastus’s ethics (in Stobaeus, Anthology, 2.7.20) that ‘the courageous man is not one who fears nothing, even if the attacker is a god (lines 22–3)’ to imply that piety is a form of courage (rather than justice). However, merely dissociating courage from fearlessness of the gods does not entail that such fearlessness should count as rashness. This applies directly to Aristotle’s view. As we have seen, he describes Niobe’s fearlessness of the gods, not as rashness, but rather as an excess of desire of good and noble things (NE VII.4, 1148a28-b2), and the person who ‘does not even fear the gods’, not as rash, but as ‘insane’ (MM I.5, 1185b23–5). 28 Broadie (2003: 55) cites, with regard to Theophrastus’ position, both Characters 16 and Stobaeus, 2.7.25. 29 Pötscher (1964: 127–128). Cf. Fortenbaugh (2003: 190). 30 The discussion in the Anthology occurs in the context of a discussion of the view ‘of Aristotle and the rest of the Peripatetics concerning ethics’ (Stob. 2.7.13). 31 The Aristotelian view associates excessive religiosity with fear of the divine, while only explicitly linking fearlessness of the divine either with opposition to the gods (cf. NE VII.4, 1148a28-b2) or with atheism, which seems to overlook fanatic tendencies motivated by confidence that the divine is ‘on one’s side’ (I am thankful to Risto Saarinen for this observation). Perhaps the reason is grounded in the idea, going back at least to Aeschylus, of a ‘healthy fear of the gods’, connected to ‘a sense of αἰδώς’ (Kantzios 2004, 19; cf. ibid. 11–12). Indeed, the word deisidaimonia, though directly alluding to ‘fear’ (δέος), at least originally was used ‘in a favorable sense’, to mean ‘piety’; see Koets (1929, 5–31). A similar phenomenon occurs with the designation of both fear and reverence by the same word in both Hebrew and Akkadian; see Gruber (1990). Koets (1929: 106) argues that deisidaimonia is still used in its ‘favorable sense’ in its single occurrence in Aristotle (at Pol. V.11, 1315a, discussed above), though he also notes that the addition of ἄνευ ἀβελτερίας at 1315a ‘shows that δεισιδαιμονία was already beginning to be used as a designation for fatuous, extravagant piety’ (ibid.: 8). Presumably, the main reason for thinking of that occurrence of the word as having a positive connotation is that Aristotle recommends that the tyrant appear to possess that trait. But Aristotle thinks that the tyrant would fail even to appear to possess certain virtues (cf. Pol. V.11, 1314b18–23; 32–6), and so he might think that, as a second best, appearing to be excessively fearful of the divine (rather than atheistic) would be preferable for that sort of leader. For a discussion of atheism in classical antiquity, see Whitmarsh (2016). 32 Martin (2004, 77) argues that, with Theophrastus onward, fear of the gods came to be viewed as an ‘error and a philosophical vice’, citing the definition of deisidaimonia in Characters 16.1. But the word that Martin (2004, 29) translates there as ‘fear’ is deilia, i.e., ‘cowardice’. Theophrastus, then, may well think that fear of the divine, when not excessive, can be appropriate, or even virtuous. In addition, one might think that Theophrastus’ statement in Characters 16.1 that deisidaimonia ‘would seem to be cowardice in relation to the divine’ implies that he classifies piety and deisidaimonia as forms of courage and cowardice, respectively. However, as Fortenbaugh (2003: 191) notes, ‘the definition must be treated with some care’, since in the Characters generally ‘the definitions are not carefully formulated and some scholars hold that they are late additions to the Theophrastean text’. Cf. n. 27. 33 On the use of this term here, see Koets (1929: 35–36, n. 4). 34 Also relevant, perhaps, is Theophrastus’s characterization of the δεισιδαίμων as shunning the dead in order to avoid contamination, which Koets (1929: 36) says is ‘one of his most unsympathetic traits, as it would mean his not being able to fulfill his duties as a neighbour, friend or relative’. 35 My account in Segev (2017b) has been criticized by Edmunds (2021: 170–171, n. 71) for confusing myth with religious myth. But Aristotle’s ‘lover of myth’ should at least include the lover of myths of the religious variety and, as we saw earlier, the similarities between Aristotle’s descriptions of such a person and of the priests in his ideal polis suggest that the latter would indeed be philomuthoi concerned with specifically religious myths. 36 Finkelberg (2012) argues that the status of Homer in Greek society as a foundational text was comparable to that of the Bible (in being the focus of education, defensive exegesis, and communal identity), and analyzes the historical processes responsible for the distortion of that fact, from Rome to modern times. 37 Indeed, Philo presents allegorical interpretations of both the Bible and Homer (taking both to mask philosophical, specifically Platonic, truths), and it has been argued that in doing so he relies

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Mor Segev on classical Greek theories and methodologies (including Aristotle’s in the Poetics); see Niehoff (2012: esp. 133–134). 38 By the alternative explanations, Berger has in mind such factors as poverty, miseducation, and lack of democracy. 39 See Section 2.1 above; cf. Dodds (1951); Nilsson (1940). 40 Incidentally, Berger (2018: 23) makes the point that extremism is ‘a problem that has plagued humanity since almost the beginning of recorded history’. 41 Koets (1929: 35) states that the deisidaimōn, under Theophrastus’s description, is ‘a bigot with a streak of the cad’. 42 On the escalation from fanaticism to extremist action, see Berger (2018: 121).

References Adkins, A.W.H. (1982) ‘Laws Versus Claims in Early Greek Religious Ethics’, History of Religions, 21, 222–239. Anton, A.L. (2016) ‘Aging in Classical Philosophy’, in G. Scarre (ed.), The Palgrave Handbook of the Philosophy of Aging. London: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 115–134. Barnes, J. (ed.) (1995) The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Berger, J.M. (2018) Extremism. Cambridge: MIT Press. Bodéüs, R. (2000) Aristotle and the Theology of the Living Immortals, trans. J. E. Garrett. Albany: SUNY Press. Bremmer, J. (2018) ‘Religious Violence and Its Roots: A View from Antiquity’, in W. Mayer and C. L. De Wet (eds), Reconceiving Religious Conflict. Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 30–42. Broadie, S. (2003) ‘Aristotelian Piety’, Phronesis, 48, 1, 54–70. Bury, J.B. (1913) A History of Freedom of Thought. London: Oxford University Press. Connor, W.R. (1963) ‘Two Notes on Diopeithes the Seer’, Classical Philology, 58, 2, 115–118. Curzer, H.J. (2012) Aristotle and the Virtues. New York: Oxford University Press. Dodds, E.R. (1951) The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley: University of California Press. Düring, I. (1957) Aristotle in the Ancient Biographical Tradition. Göteborg: Institute of Classical Studies. Edmunds, L. (2021) Greek Myth. Berlin/Boston, MA: De Gruyter. Finkelberg, M. (2012) ‘Canonising and Decanonising Homer: Reception of the Homeric Poems in Antiquity and Modernity’, in M.R. Niehoff (ed.) Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters. Leiden: Brill, pp. 15–28. Fortenbaugh, W.W. (2003) ‘Theophrastus: Piety, Justice and Animals’, in W.W. Fortenbaugh, Theophrastean Studies. Stuttgart: Steiner, pp. 173–192. Garnsey, P. (1984) ‘Religious Toleration in Classical Antiquity’, Studies in Church History, 21, 1–27. Gruber, M.I. (1990) ‘Fear, Anxiety and Reverence in Akkadian, Biblical Hebrew and Other NorthWest Semitic Languages’, Vetus Testamentum 40, 411–422. Jaeger, W.J. (1948) Aristotle: Fundamentals of the History of His Philosophy, trans. R. Robinson. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kantzios, I. (2004) ‘The Politics of Fear in Aeschylus’ Persians’, Classical World 98, 3–19. Keyt, D. (trans. and comm.) (1999) Aristotle Politics Books V and VI. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Koets, P.J. (1929) Δεισιδαιμονία: A Contribution to the Knowledge of the Religious Terminology in Greek. Purmerend: J. Muusses. Kraut, R. (2002) Aristotle: Political Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lintott, A. (2018) Aristotle’s Political Philosophy in Its Historical Context: A New Translation and Commentary on Politics Books 5 and 6. London/New York: Routledge. Martin, D.B. (2004) Inventing Superstition. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Mayhew, R. (1996) ‘Impiety and Political Unity: Aristotle, Politics 1262a25–32’, Classical Philology 9, 54–59. Natali, C. (2013) Aristotle: His Life and School. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Newman, W.L. (comm.) (1887–1902) The Politics of Aristotle. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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Fanaticism and Aristotelian Excessive Fear of the Divine Niehoff, M.R. (2012) ‘Philo and Plutarch on Homer’, in M.R. Niehoff (ed.) Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters. Leiden: Brill, pp. 127–153. Nilsson, M.P. (1940) Greek Folk Religion. New York: Harper and Brothers. Plezia, M. (ed. and comm.) (1961) Aristotelis Epistularum Fragmenta cum Testamenta. Warsaw: Pánstwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe. Pötscher, W. (ed. and comm.) (1964) Theophrastos: ΠΕΡΙ ΕΥΣΕΒΕΙΑΣ. Leiden: Brill. Rackham, H. (trans.) Aristotle: Politics. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Reeve, C.D.C. (trans. and comm.) (1998) Aristotle: Politics. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Robertson, J.M. (1906) A Short History of Freethought: Ancient and Modern, vol. 1. London: Watts and Co. Rubel, A. (2014) Fear and Loathing in Ancient Athens: Religion and Politics during the Peloponnesian War. Abingdon: Routledge. Segev, M. (2012) ‘The Teleological Significance of Dreaming in Aristotle’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 43, 107–141. Segev, M. (2017a) ‘Aristotle on Group Agency’, History of Philosophy Quarterly, 34, 2, 99–113. Segev, M. (2017b) Aristotle on Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Segev, M., (2018) ‘Traditional Religion and its Natural Function in Aristotle’, Classical World, 111, 3, 295–320. Segev, M. (2019) ‘Aristotle’s Ideal City-Planning: Politics 7.12’, The Classical Quarterly, 69, 2, 585–596. Whitmarsh, T. (2016) Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World. London: Faber & Faber. Woodruff, P. (1992) ‘Aristotle on Mimēsis’, in A.O. Rorty (ed.) Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, pp. 73–95.

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3 FANATICISM IN ANCIENT INDIAN PHILOSOPHY Nathan McGovern

In 2015, a legal controversy arose in India over the Jain practice of sallekhanā, or “religious death.” Jainism is an ancient but small minority religion in India, practiced by less than 1% of the Indian population. Jains trace their religious teachings, or dharma, to the Jina Mahāvīra, a wandering religious teacher who lived in North India in the middle of the first millennium BCE, roughly contemporaneously with a more widely known Indian religious teacher, the Buddha. Like Buddhists, Jains hold that all living beings are trapped in a cycle of rebirth that is characterized by suffering, and they venerate the founder of their religion as having attained and taught the way to liberation from this cycle, which Buddhists call nirvāṇa and Jains mokṣa. Unlike Buddhism, however, Jainism teaches that to attain liberation from rebirth, one must stop engaging in all forms of action, including, in the end, even the most basic actions of eating and breathing. This is the basis of sallekhanā, in which an advanced practitioner, generally in old age, will voluntarily enter into a fast until death. Jain scriptures record that Mahāvīra entered into final liberation in this way, and a small number of Jains continue to end their lives in this way every year. The controversy over sallekhanā arose in 2015 when the High Court of the Indian state of Rajasthan ruled that this practice is not protected as a religious practice in the Indian Constitution, that it is instead equivalent to suicide and therefore punishable under the Indian criminal code, which outlaws it. The Rajasthani High Court’s ruling sparked protests from the Jain community, which holds sallekhanā to be the most sacred act one can perform and does not consider it to be equivalent to suicide. Although the legal issue has not fully been resolved, the immediate conflict was allayed when the Indian Supreme Court a month later stayed the state court’s ruling, thus allowing the practice of sallekhanā to continue without fear of criminal repercussions (McCarthy 2015). On the surface level, the conflict over sallekhanā may appear to be rooted primarily in the imposition of Western religious values on India through colonialism. The Indian law against suicide derives from the British colonial era, which means that it ultimately derives from the traditional Christian teaching that suicide is a sin. Indeed, Shekhar Hattangadi, who created a documentary about the practice of sallekhanā, argues that the law effectively judges Indian religions by Christian standards, saying, “that contradiction

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is between a statute founded largely on a Christian inspired bioethic and the essentially Eastern variant of the idea of spiritual advancement thru abstinence and denunciation” (McCarthy 2015). It is undeniable that Western colonial power and the continuing hegemony of Western values play a significant role in the recent legal conflict over sallekhanā, if in no other way than by providing the immediate conditions for the initial adoption of a law against suicide. Nevertheless, India is now an independent country, not beholden to the British in the formulation of its criminal code, and Western sentiment itself has changed dramatically since the colonial era from seeing suicide as a sin to seeing it as a symptom of mental illness. Still, sallekhanā continues to inflame passions in India, including from many who consider it to be an unacceptably extreme practice. That is because the labeling of sallekhanā and related practices in Jain and other traditions as “extreme” is not a mere artifact of the colonial encounter; it has deep roots in ancient Indian discourse. In fact, Indian philosophers were having intense debates about what constituted “extreme” practices over 2,000 years ago, long before the British arrived.

3.1  “Fanaticism” as a Western Concept Within the context of this volume on fanaticism, writing a chapter on ancient Indian philosophical approaches to the topic is made difficult by the fact that “fanaticism” is a fundamentally modern, Western concept. The word fanatic is derived from the Latin word fanaticus, which in turn is a modified form of the Latin word fanum, meaning “temple.” A fanaticus is thus someone “of the temple,” or by implication, someone who is intensely or excessively religious (Colas 1997: 11). The modern concept of the “fanatic” has its roots in the Protestant Reformation and the perceived excesses of the Protestant-inspired Peasants’ Revolt of 1524–1525. Martin Luther, who had inaugurated the revolt against Church authority that inspired the rebels to turn against civil authorities as well, was horrified by the violence and threat to social order the latter represented and condemned it as Schwärmerei—literally, “mobism.” This term would be equated by later thinkers with fanaticism and serve as the model for the concept this word would come to represent in modern consciousness (Colas 1997: 15). The modern concept of fanaticism that crystallized in the post-Reformation Enlightenment was essentially that of good ideals taken to an excessive extreme. Other chapters in this volume will explore this philosophical history, so it is unnecessary for me to do so in any great detail here, but I would like to draw particular attention to Voltaire’s 1742 play, Le fanatisme, ou Mahomet le prophet. In content, the play is a typical specimen of Western Islamophobia—in it, Muhammad forces one of his followers to assassinate the sheikh of Mecca for refusing to convert to Islam (Colas 1997: 88–89)—but by labeling Islam as “fanatical” it is also emblematic of the key way in which the category of “fanaticism” operates in Western discourse. That is, it operates as a mechanism of projection that allows one to work through anxieties over one’s own principles by excluding others as indulging in them “excessively.” All of the calumnies leveled by Islamophobes against ­Islam—violence, intolerance of other religions, desire to convert the entire world, patriarchal misogyny— have some basis in certain aspects of Islamic religion and culture, but they have as much or more basis in the very Christian and/or Western culture that Islamophobes seek to “defend” from Islam.

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The same can be said for Luther’s condemnation of Schwärmerei. There is a palpable horror in Luther’s writings at the realization that his rejection of the authority of the Church and criticism of certain aspects of Church Tradition as “un-Biblical” inspired some to reject civil authority as well and to engage in violent iconoclasm. Indeed, this sort of adjudication between one’s own principles and the actions of others has become central to the modern Western concept of fanaticism. “Fanatics” are not horrifying because they are radically different from oneself. They are horrifying because their ideals are quite similar to one’s own, but they take them to extremes that one perceives as grotesque. Whether the “extreme” difference between the fanatic and oneself is even real or (as in the case of Islamophobia) a figment of one’s own imagination is mostly beside the point. The fanatic is a mirror—sometimes distorted but often quite smooth and accurate—that is held up to the beholder and repulses them.

3.2  Renunciation in Ancient India and Its Excesses It should come as little surprise to anyone who is aware of the historic contingency of the major concepts of modernity that there is no one word or concept corresponding to the “fanatic” or “fanaticism” in ancient India. What I will show in this chapter, however, is that there was a discourse in ancient India that, although perhaps less emotionally charged than the modern discourse on fanaticism, nevertheless operated in a similar way to negotiate anxieties over an accepted principle and behaviors perceived to take that principle to excess. The discourse I have in mind is the ancient Indian discourse on renunciation, that is, engaging in practices of self-denial in order to attain some goal, often soteriological. The Jain practice of sallekhanā is not an outlier in the broad scope of Indian religion but rather has roots in a wide variety of renunciatory practices that religious actors, Jain and otherwise, have engaged in since ancient times. What I will illustrate in the following pages is that ancient Indian philosophers of most schools of thought accepted the importance and value of renunciation in principle, but they displayed great anxiety over how much renunciation is “too much.” Before delving into the details of this history, however, I should give a warning about the nature of the sources at our disposal and the state of research on ancient Indian philosophy and religion. Unlike in ancient Greece and ancient China, most of the ancient textual sources in India were written anonymously or eponymously and cannot be dated with certainty, with scholarly opinions about the date for a particular text at times differing on the order of hundreds of years. Scholars have developed a rough chronology of sources, but it is tentative and better at providing relative dates of sources rather than absolute ones. In addition, there is a unique relationship between religion and philosophy in ancient India that can be confusing at first for non-specialists (and often for specialists as well). All of the figures, texts and views that I will discuss in this chapter can be described as philosophical, in the ancient Greek sense of the term. I do not say this idly; when Greeks first visited India in the wake of Alexander’s conquests, they referred to the class of individuals who engaged in these debates as philosophers (McCrindle 1901: 47). Nevertheless, three major religions emerged out of the debates of these “philosophers”: Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism. In part, this seeming paradox is a byproduct of the modern construction of the category “religion”; that is, “religion” is not a native category that would have been used to describe Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism prior to the nineteenth century. The fact that the debates of the ancient Indian philosophers would have a direct bearing on what 38

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in modern times came to be labeled “religions,” however, is also reflective of the fact that ancient Indian philosophy had a very intense practical element, which in fact was the source of anxiety over renunciation to begin with. The precise historical relationship between Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism is contested by scholars to this day. Buddhism and Jainism are anchored in the teachings of particular historical figures—the Buddha and Mahāvīra, respectively—who probably lived in the fifth century BCE (Cousins 1996). The Buddha and Mahāvīra each founded monastic orders in which followers to put their teachings into practice, and those monastic orders have provided the institutional background for Buddhism and Jainism to this day. Hinduism, on the other hand, is a quite different sort of religion. It does not have a founder or any centralized institution. Persianate Muslims who ruled over much of India from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries referred to local non-Muslims as “Hindus”—Persian for “Indians.” The British then adopted this term to refer to the “religion” of those Indians who could not be placed under another category—Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Sikh, Jain, or Buddhist (Lorenzen 2005). Although there is no single founder, creed, or set of practices that is shared by all Hindus, most Hindus accept the authority of the priestly caste known as Brahmans and of the Vedas, ancient scriptures that historically were passed down orally by Brahmans. In ancient India, the class of people the Greeks called “philosophers” were known in Indian discourse as “śramaṇas and Brahmans.” The word śramaṇa comes from a verbal root meaning “to toil” and is roughly equivalent to the Greek/English word ascetic. Both the Buddha and Mahavīra were śramaṇas, and the śramaṇas came even in ancient times to be viewed as sharply opposed to the Brahmans, rejecting their pretenses to superiority on the basis of birth, knowledge of the Vedas, and performance of sacrifices. There thus is a historical divide between Buddhism and Jainism on the one hand and Hinduism—insofar as it is rooted in the ideology of the Brahmans—on the other, with the two sides roughly corresponding to two sides of the ancient debate over renunciation. As we will see, however, all major groups in ancient India accepted the validity of renunciation; they simply disagreed over how much was “too much.” Renunciation and anxiety over its excesses is therefore a fixture of all three religions—Buddhism, Jainism, and Hinduism—to this day. Finally, I should acknowledge that there is a debate among scholars of ancient India today about the precise nature of the relationship between the Vedic tradition of the Brahmans and the śramaṇa movements in ancient India. In my own work, I have argued for an orthogenetic approach, which sees the śramaṇa movement as emerging out of the Vedic tradition and only over time becoming seen as radically separate, and that is the approach I will use in this chapter (McGovern 2021: 57). There are other scholars, however, who prefer a heterogenetic approach, which sees the entire worldview of the śramaṇas as emerging from a tradition completely separate from that of the Vedic Brahmans, but having in turn influenced the latter (Bronkhorst 2007; Samuel 2008). Although I will give an orthogenetic account of ancient India here, the heterogenetic approach does not fundamentally obviate the existence of the discourse on renunciation and its excesses that I am comparing to the modern Western discourse on fanaticism in this chapter.

3.3  The Vedic Antecedents The “Vedas” refers to an extensive literature in Sanskrit, originally passed down ­generation-to-generation by the Brahmans, but since written down, that both were used to perform and commented upon yajña, the ancient form of sacrifice to the gods. There 39

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are four Vedas—the Ṛg, Yajur, Sāma, and Atharva Vedas—each of which consists of an original Saṃhitā (the portion actually used in the sacrifice) and three successive layers of commentarial/speculative literature, the Brāhmaṇas, Āraṇyakas, and Upaniṣads. The oldest of the Saṃhitās, that of the Ṛg Veda, was probably composed starting in the late second millennium BCE, and the oldest and most important Upaniṣads were most likely composed in the seventh to fifth centuries BCE. Thus, the first half of the first millennium BCE, roughly speaking, is taken to constitute the “Vedic period” in Indian history. The worldview of the oldest Vedic texts is similar to that found in many other ancient cultures. There are a variety of gods and goddesses, many of them associated with particular principles or natural forces. Chief among them is the warrior sky-god, Indra. Other significant gods include Agni, the god of fire, and Soma, the personification of a plant (possibly ephedra) whose pressed juice had psychoactive stimulatory properties. The early Vedic hymns portray Indra as consuming soma to give him strength in battle, and soma was one of the most common offerings in Vedic sacrifices, with an entire class of sacrificial rituals dedicated to the offering of soma. The Vedic sacrifice, or yajña, was not performed in permanent temples but rather in temporary sacrificial enclosures in the open air constructed for a particular sacrificial session organized and funded by a patron, known as the yajamāna. The yajamāna, wishing to share from the bounty of his wealth with the gods, would hire Brahmans who were skilled in the intricacies of yajña to perform it on his behalf. The Brahmans developed an extremely complex ritual science, with smaller rituals embedded in an ever-more-complex array of derivative rituals, but the core essence of all sacrifices was the same: the immolation of vegetal and meat offerings in a sacred fire. The logic of these sacrifices was quite simple: by immolating the offerings, one allowed the god Agni (fire) to take them up to the gods in the form of smoke. The oldest layer of the first three Vedas—that is, the Saṃhitās—contains the actual content that was used in the yajña. The Ṛg Veda Saṃhitā contains hymns that are recited in the ritual; the Yajur Veda Saṃhitā contains spells, or mantras, that are recited by Brahman priests at specific points in the ritual; and the Sāma Veda Saṃhitā contains Ṛg Vedic hymns that have been set to music and are sung during the ritual. Different Brahmans specialized in different Vedas and thus different roles in the performance of the sacrifice. They formed “branches” or śākhās, groups of Brahmans who specialized in a particular Veda and passed down its associated texts orally from generation to generation. These śākhās over time composed the later portions of the Vedic literature: the Brāhmaṇas, Āraṇyakas, and Upaniṣads. These later layers of Vedic literature represent successively more abstract speculations on the nature and significance of the sacrifice. Although the logic used within these texts is quite different from that found in other systems of rational thought, such as those privileged by the West since the Enlightenment, the later Vedic texts nevertheless represent a rational enterprise of speculative inquiry. Typical of this intellectual culture was the search for bandhus, i.e., “connections,” between elements of the sacrifice and the broader cosmos. Many of these “connections” strike the modern reader as arbitrary or fanciful, but they nevertheless served as the basis for Brahmans to construct theories about the world around them. Since the speculative Vedic literature—the Brāhmaṇas especially—records an entire intellectual discourse, it is impossible to isolate a single theory of the universe or worldview that it represents in its totality. Nevertheless, there are certain trends in Vedic thought that 40

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would prove to become significant for a more coherent worldview that emerged at the close of the Vedic period and would become the shared heritage of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism. First among these are speculations on the “self” or ātman. The word ātman is simply the reflexive pronoun in Sanskrit, but it came to be treated as a noun, thus the standard translation into English as “self.” Vedic authors speculated that, through sacrifice, one could build up a “self” to live in the next world after death (Tull 1989). Other speculations reflected anxieties over what might happen in that next life. For example, based on a principle of role reversal, some speculated that the animals one killed in sacrifice might subject one to violence in the next life. This would lead in time to the principle of ahiṃsā, or “non-violence,” which has become central to the major Indian religions (Schmidt 1968: 643–650). Similarly, the Vedic texts reflect anxiety over the possibility of punarmṛtyu, or “dying again.” The theory in this case was that the sacrifices made in this life to build up the ātman for the next life were finite, and thus one could die again after their good effects ran out (Schmidt 1968: 650; Witzel 2005). The speculations of the Vedic literature find their culmination in the Upaniṣads, which, while retaining reference to principles derived from the sacrifice, nevertheless focus far more intently on questions of a cosmic nature and in particular on the nature of the ātman. The ātman here becomes not merely something to be built up through sacrifice, but the core essence of who we are. Different passages in the Upaniṣads take different approaches to defining the ātman, but several equate it with brahman, the ultimate reality that lies behind the entire universe (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 6.9.4, 8.7.4, 8.10.1, 8.11.1; Māṇḍukya Upaniṣad 2; Maitrāyaṇīya Upaniṣad 6.17). In addition, certain highly influential Upaniṣadic passages introduced the idea that the ātman passes from this body to the body of another living creature upon death and moreover that the quality of the new body assumed by the ātman was determined by the actions, or karma, performed by one in this life (Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 4.3–4, 6.2; Chāndogya Upaniṣad 5.3–5.10). Thus was planted the seed for the theory of karma and rebirth that became axiomatic to the major Indian religions.

3.4  The Long Fifth Century BCE As stated above, the nature of ancient Indian sources makes it impossible to create a firm chronology of texts and historical figures, but the latest research has led to a near scholarly consensus that the Buddha and Mahāvīra probably lived during the fifth century BCE. This was a period of increasing urbanization in the Ganges River Valley, in which small polities called janapadas were coalescing around major cities. We already see the beginnings of this urbanization in the earliest of the Upaniṣads, the Bṛhadāraṇyaka and Chāndogya, which were probably composed in the seventh or sixth century BCE (Olivelle 1998: 12). The increasing urbanization would then culminate in the late fourth century BCE when one janapada, Magadha, under the rule of the Nanda Dynasty, conquered the other janapadas and united much of North India in a single empire. The time between the early Upaniṣads and the unification of North India under the Nandas—a period in which the region was divided into urbanized janapadas and during which the śramaṇa movement blossomed—I have therefore dubbed the “long fifth century BCE” (McGovern 2021: 60). Many texts purport to depict the religious landscape in the period of the janapadas, but most do so from a decidedly sectarian bent that overemphasize the uniqueness of individual personalities and the cohesion and centralization of institutions that they (purportedly) founded. One very old Jain text, however, the Isibhāsiyāiṃ (“Sayings of the Seers”) 41

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(Vinayasagar 1988), suggests a different picture. Instead of focusing on Mahāvīra or other important figures in the Jain tradition, it presents verses attributed to a wide variety of figures, some of which we now associate with the Jain tradition, but others of which we now associate with the Brahmanical, Buddhist, and other sectarian traditions. They are not presented as members of these particular traditions but instead as independent actors in a vast landscape of such teachers. This picture accords well with what we know of how the Vedic tradition spread—through close teacher-student relationships—and with the way in which Brahmanical life is depicted in the Upaniṣads—a vast network of teacher-student relationships, with teachers debating and jockeying for prestige and influence. We thus can imagine the “religious” world of the long fifth century BCE as having been characterized by an eclectic array of Brahmans—what the Greeks would later call “philosophers”—organized into small groups of teacher and students and engaged in intellectual debate that was indebted to the Vedic heritage but also increasingly concerned with fundamental questions about the nature of existence that could be abstracted away from the narrow confines of the Vedic sacrifice. There is every reason to believe that the opinions of these Brahmans on nearly every issue were quite diverse. These differences of opinion would certainly have included the question of what exactly it takes to be a Brahman in the first place. Most earlier scholars have assumed that “the Brahmans” were a closed hereditary caste going far back into the Vedic period. This would imply that the rise in the long fifth century BCE of monastic orders, such as those of the Buddhists and the Jains, that were open to people of any social class must have come from an outside, non-Brahmanical source. In my own work, I have argued that this is a misreading of the evidence (McGovern 2019). The earliest texts of both the Buddhist and the Jain traditions assert that the Buddha or Mahāvīra, respectively, along with any who attain liberation within their respective system, is a Brahman. That is, they present themselves as systems for one to become a Brahman, through the practice of brahmacarya, or celibate renunciation under a teacher. This understanding of what makes someone a Brahman, while quite different from the model of Brahmanhood as determined by birth found in texts that we now associate with the “Brahmanical” tradition, nevertheless has some basis in earlier Vedic texts. The key intellectual debate of the long fifth century BCE, in other words, was over the nature of Brahmanhood itself. The origins of this debate lay in the rise of the śramaṇa movement. The Sanskrit verbal root śram means “to toil,” and it was used even in Vedic texts to refer to any form of arduous labor, especially labor involved in the performance of the sacrifice. Around or even before the fifth century BCE, this “toil” came to be particularly valorized by certain Brahmans who withdrew into the forest to engage more intensively in sacrifice and associated practices. Both the simple huts they lived in and the lifestyle they followed were referred to as āśrama, while they themselves were referred to as śramaṇas—both of these words being derived from the verbal root śram (Olivelle 1993: 8–19). By experimenting with various practices, attracting and teaching students, and engaging in intellectual debate, these śramaṇas drove substantial changes in the broader field of Brahmans in the long fifth century BCE. As in any community of intellectuals, Brahmans and śramaṇas (which were not yet ­mutually-exclusive categories) at this time had different approaches to the changes that were taking place in their intellectual world. For our purposes, it is useful to divide them into three broad categories. First, there was the avant-garde. These were radical śramaṇas who embraced the emerging worldview of the cycle of rebirth and in pursuit of liberation 42

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from that cycle emphasized renunciation—of sex, home, and possessions—over nearly every other aspect of the Vedic tradition, including the sacrifice, study of the Vedas, and preservation of the archaic Sanskrit language. They gave rise to the Buddhists and Jains. Second, there were reactionaries. These were Brahmans who rejected most renunciatory lifestyles as incompatible (in their reading) with the Vedas, in particular the Vedic injunction to produce offspring. They are represented in the textual evidence by the Dharmasūtras, Brahmanical legal texts written in the last few centuries BCE that valorize the married householder and define Brahmanhood in terms of birth. Finally, there was what I call a conservative mainstream. These were Brahmans who were open to new ideas—such as those about karma, rebirth, and the value of renunciation—but still engaged in Vedic study and sacrifice. Over time, these debates led to a bifurcation into two distinct entity groups. The Greek historian Kleitarchos recorded in the late fourth or third century BCE that the Brahmans and śramaṇas were separate groups of philosophers who were opposed to one another (McCrindle 1901: 76); similarly, the Sanskrit grammarian Patañjali recorded in the midsecond century BCE that the Brahmans and śramaṇas were in “eternal enmity” (McGovern 2019: 3). According to my model, this bifurcation came about because reactionary Brahmans were successful in arrogating the title “Brahman” to themselves, and the most radical śramaṇas lost interest in it. This bifurcation in identity should not, however, be read as a simple split into pro-renunciatory and anti-renunciatory camps. The existence of a conservative mainstream of Brahmans who were open to renunciatory practices while maintaining ties to the Vedic tradition ensured that the tension between this-worldly and renunciatory values remained a dynamic force in Brahmanism and Hinduism to this day. At the same time, even radical śramaṇas had their limits when it came to ascetic practices, resulting in debates over what practices are too “extreme” among Buddhists and Jains as well. These are the discourses on “extremism” that we will explore in the remainder of this chapter.

3.5  The Brahmanical Āśrama System and the Superiority of the Householder In the last few centuries BCE, Brahmans began writing legal texts known as Dharmaśāstras. The contents of these legal treatises are all-encompassing, not respecting the modern secular distinction between private morality and public law, and for that reason they are usually studied today, along with the Jewish Torah and Islamic Sharia, as an example of “religious law.” For technical reasons relating to genre that are not important here, the first four of these treatises are known as Dharma Sūtras. They present in the clearest terms the ideological commitments of the reactionary Brahmans I referred to in the previous section. The Dharma Sūtras were then followed, in about the second century CE, by the Mānava Dharmaśāstra, or “Laws of Manu,” which became the most influential treatise on Hindu Law up until the present day. It is in the Dharma Sūtras that we find the first clear, complete, and unambiguous articulation of the varṇa system, the system of four social classes that is the basis for an understanding of Brahmanhood as determined solely by birth. Āpastamba, the author of the oldest Dharma Sūtra, writes, “There are four varṇas: Brahmans, rulers, commoners, and servants. Of them, each preceding is superior by birth to the next” (Āpastamba Dharma Sūtra 1.4– 5). This system of varṇas has had many effects on Indian society over the centuries. Most notable among them is the development of caste systems across the ­subcontinent—systems of hereditary, endogamous social groups associated with fixed occupations, known as jātis 43

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(“castes” in English), with each jāti bearing a theoretical relationship to one or more of the “original” four varṇas. In its immediate context in ancient India, however, one of the most important effects, or rather purposes, of the varṇa system was to forestall any claims to Brahmanhood on the basis of renunciation. No amount of celibacy, austerity, or other form of renunciation will allow you to become a Brahman (at least in this life) if you have to be born one. In accomplishing this goal, the varṇa system worked in tandem with another theoretical construct introduced into the Dharma Sūtras: the āśrama system. Recall that the word āśrama was being used in ancient India to refer to the lifestyle of “toil” that particularly dedicated Brahmans engaged in, as well as the forest huts they dwelled in. The Dharma Sūtras, however, describe four different āśramas—essentially four different lifestyles of “toil” that one can engage in. Although the Dharma Sūtras differ slightly in the way in which they describe (and even name) these four āśramas, they all refer to them as life-long vocations (Olivelle 1993: 78). The first āśrama is the brahmacārin, or celibate student. This is a man who does not get married but rather lives as the disciple of a teacher his entire life. Second is the gṛhastha, or householder. A householder is a man who gets married, establishes a household, and engages in ritual obligations. Third is the vānaprastha, or forest dweller. This āśrama appears to refer to the prototypical śramaṇic Brahman who withdraws to the forest to engage more deeply in sacrifice, but here he is distinguished by celibacy and may over time engage in greater austerities that go beyond ordinary sacrificial duties. Finally, the fourth āśrama is the parivrājaka, or wanderer. A wanderer gives up all but a few possessions, shaves his head, dons a simple robe, and begs for food for sustenance while he pursues liberation from rebirth. All of the Dharma Sūtra authors draw a sharp contrast between the householder āśrama and the other three āśramas, which involve celibacy, labeling the latter as either inferior to the householder āśrama or completely invalid. As Baudhāyana writes, The teachers, however, (proclaim) a single āśrama because the others do not produce offspring. … “Through offspring, Agni, may we obtain immortality.” “Right at birth, a Brahman is born with three debts—of celibate studentship, to the seers; of sacrifice, to the gods; of offspring, to the fathers (i.e., ancestors).” There are countless (Vedic passages) speaking thus about the debts. “The Triple Veda, celibate studentship, procreation, faith, austerity, sacrifice, gift-giving: We are only with those who do these things. The one who praises other things becomes dust and perishes.” (Baudhāyana Dharma Sūtra 2.11.27, 33–34) Note that austerity and even celibacy (conceived of here as a temporary state of affairs before one gets married) have a place within Brahmanhood as conceived by these texts. Vedic texts speak of these ideals, so the Dharma Sūtra authors are, as champions of the Vedas, in no clear place to deny them. What leads them to reject the other three āśramas—the lifestyles of the radical śramaṇas—is that they involve too much celibacy and renunciation. Lifelong celibacy precludes the production of children, and since Vedic texts speak of the need to produce children, lifelong celibacy is an extreme practice that takes one beyond the Brahmanical pale as conceived by these authors. Interestingly, although the reactionary Brahmans who lay behind the Dharma Sūtras were successful in defining Brahmanhood in such a way as to make it a privileged birthright rather than a state that can be earned by anyone, they were not nearly as successful 44

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in their attempt to delegitimize renunciatory lifestyles as “extreme.” The lifestyles labeled excessive in the Dharma Sūtras were so popular that the early first millennium Mānava Dharmaśāstra essentially gave up and rewrote the āśrama system so as to make all four āśramas legitimate. The trick employed to do so while preserving the principle that one must produce children was to convert the āśramas from lifelong vocations into consecutive stages of life. Thus, the brahmacārin was reinterpreted to refer to the temporary state of celibacy (already recognized in the Dharma Sūtras) during which one studies the Vedas prior to getting married. When these studies are completed, one must then marry a wife and produce children as a householder. The last two āśramas are optional. If one wishes, and only after a man has gotten married and fulfilled his duties as a householder by producing children, he may withdraw from society in older age to live in the forest and engage in intensive sacrifice and Vedic study. After some time in that state, he can then go even further and renounce everything to become a wanderer, in pursuit of final liberation from rebirth. The reworking of the āśrama system to become a series of four stages of life became a normative part of Hindu law, but it was in some ways a mostly fictitious accommodation to popular religious pursuits, even within a Brahmanical community defined by birth. Over the centuries, Brahmanism continued to produce radical ascetic movements, thus perpetuating within Brahmanism the tension between householder and renunciant values that had led to the Brahman-śramaṇa split in the first place. In this respect, Brahmanism has been typical of reactionary movements: Terrible at actually stopping the changes that spurred it to reaction in the first place, but excellent at leveraging a rhetoric of avoiding extremes to solidify an identity for itself.

3.6  Buddhism and the Middle Way Of the śramaṇa movements, Buddhism was the most successful, becoming an important fixture of India’s religious landscape for about a millennium and a half, as well as spreading far beyond India, where it survives as a major world religion to this day. Although, as a śramaṇa movement, Buddhists were “radical” in embracing the worldview of karma and rebirth and teaching a path to escape from that cycle in terms mostly divorced from the traditional pursuits of Veda, sacrifice, and Sanskrit, their own rhetorical self-presentation was not radical at all; instead, it was one of moderation and avoidance of extremes. This rhetoric is seen in the well-known Buddhist teaching of the Middle Way. The Buddha explains the Middle Way at the very beginning of the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta, which Buddhist tradition holds to record his very first sermon: These two extremes, bhikkhus, should not be pursued by one who has gone forth. Which two? That which is devoted to enjoyment of sensual pleasures—inferior, vulgar, common, ignoble, worthless—and that which is devoted to self-exhaustion— painful, ignoble, worthless. Without approaching either of these extremes, bhikkhus, the Tathāgata has fully understood the Middle Path, which creates vision, which creates knowledge, which leads to calm, super-knowledge, awakening, nibbāna. (Saṃyutta Nikāya 56.11) The Buddha then identifies the Middle Way with the Noble Eightfold Path (right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration) and teaches the Four Noble Truths. He explains that life is permeated 45

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by suffering; that suffering is caused by craving; that suffering—and thus the entire cycle of rebirth—can be ended by ending craving (a state called nibbāna, or nirvāṇa in Sanskrit); and that the Noble Eightfold Path leads to nibbāna, the end of rebirth. Avoidance of “extremes” is thus rhetorically central to Buddhism’s program for liberation. What exactly are these two extremes that Buddhism claims to avoid? The traditional story of the Buddha’s life, which was not written until centuries after the Buddha’s death and is certainly fictional (Gethin 1998: 16–27), dramatizes the two extremes in almost cartoonish fashion for pedagogical effect. It portrays the Buddha born as a prince, Siddhārtha Gautama, the son of Śuddhodana, king of the Śākyas. As a boy and young man, Siddhārtha was given every luxury—three palaces for the cool, hot, and rainy seasons; a harem of women; and sumptuous food. Siddhārtha was so surrounded by luxury that he knew nothing of the ordinary suffering of life, and it was only after he snuck out of the palace that he learned that old age, sickness, and death are misfortunes that all of us are subjected to. This prompted him to leave home and his life of luxury to become a renouncer. For six years, he practiced extreme austerities with five other like-minded men, himself fasting to the point of severe emaciation and near death. Finally, having realized that this path was worthless and would not lead to the liberation he sought, he ate some food offered to him by a young woman to regain his strength, sat under a tree, and over the course of a night meditated until attaining Awakening and the final liberation from rebirth, nirvāṇa. This account of the Buddha’s life, while making for a good story and thus an apt medium for teaching the Middle Way, does not fully capture how the rhetoric of extremes implicit in the Middle Way originally situated early Buddhism vis-à-vis its rivals. The early Buddhist texts, however, provide clues. A series of texts in the Aṅguttara Nikāya describe “three ways,” corresponding to the two extremes and the Middle Way itself. The description of the extreme of self-mortification, referred to here as the way of “wasting away,” is particularly detailed: Here, someone is naked, free from conventions, licks his hands, does not come when asked, does not stop when asked; he does not accept (food) brought or allotted or an invitation (to a meal). He does not accept (food) from the mouth of a pot, from the mouth of a bowl, across a threshold, across a stick, across a pestle, from two eating together, from a pregnant woman, from a nursing woman, from a woman touched by a man; he does not accept (food) where it is collected, where it is distributed, where flies gather; he does not accept fish or meat; he does not drink liquor or intoxicants or fermented grains. He goes to one house and eats one morsel or two houses and eats two morsels…or seven houses and seven morsels. He nourishes himself with one donation; he nourishes himself with two donations; … he nourishes himself with seven donations. He eats food once a day; he eats food once every two days; … he eats food once every seven days—thus, up to once a fortnight, he dwells devoted to the practice of eating meals at set intervals. He eats vegetables or millet or raw rice or wild rice or water plants or dark rice or rice-scum or sesame flour or grass or cow dung. He nourishes himself with forest roots and fruits as food; he eats fallen fruits. He wears hemp cloth; he wears cloth mixed with hemp; he wears burial shrouds; he wears rag-robes; he wears bark; he wears black antelope hide; he wears stripes of black antelope hide; he wears cloth of kusa grass; he wears bark fabric; he wears

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wood-chip fabric; he wears fabric made of hair; he wears wild animal wool; he wears a cloth of owls’ wings. He pulls out the hair of the head and beard; he is devoted to the practice of pulling out the hair of the head and beard. He stands up, rejecting seats. He squats; he practices the exertion of squatting. He has a mattress of thorns; he prepares a mattress of thorns as a bed. He dwells devoted to the practice of descending in water for a third time in the evening—thus, in various ways he dwells devoted to the practice of tormenting and mortifying the body. This, bhikkhus, is called the way of wasting away. (Aṅguttara Nikāya 3.156–162) As we can see from this list, the Buddhist Middle Path is constructed to reject many of the same ascetic practices that are implicitly rejected by the authors of the Dharma Sūtras in their discussion of the āśrama system. In particular, practices of self-denial and self-­ mortification, including the wearing of simple clothes or no clothes at all, as well as the restriction of one’s diet, are also mentioned in the descriptions of the āśramas, especially the āśrama known as the vānaprastha or forest dweller. Does this mean that the early Buddhists were no different from the reactionary authors of the Dharma Sūtras? Not at all. Although Buddhists rejected extreme forms of renunciation and asceticism, they did advocate basic forms of renunciation, such as restricting the number of one’s possession to a few essentials (robe, begging bowl, etc.) and forgoing all sexual relations. This latter point put them in direct conflict with the Dharma Sūtras, which rejected celibate lifestyles as incompatible with the Vedic injunction to produce children. Indeed, this is where the other “extreme” avoided by the Middle Path came into play. In one sense, the identification of enjoyment of sensual pleasures as an extreme was an indictment of all ordinary people who did not renounce and live as śramaṇas (i.e., most of society). But, more specifically, it was an indictment of those Brahmans who lived in nice houses, accumulated possessions, and engaged in sexual relations—just like ordinary people—all while claiming a special status. An early Buddhist text, the Brāhmaṇadhammika Sutta (Sutta Nipāta 2.7), delivers a stinging indictment of such Brahmans. In it, a group of Brahmans, who are specifically identified as mahāsālā or “having great halls” (i.e., they are rich), approach the Buddha and ask if the way they live is in conformity with that of Brahmans in the past. He replies that they do not, saying that Brahmans in the past were free of sensual pleasures, did not accumulate wealth, and performed simple vegetarian sacrifices. They had minimal sexual relations with their wives, and the best of them were completely celibate. Then, over time, these Brahmans became greedy of kings with their wealth and harems, and they sought to share in that wealth by offering larger and larger sacrifices with greater fees to grow rich off of, culminating in the horror of sacrificing cows. The Buddhist Middle Way thus positioned the early Buddhists as avoiding the extremes of not just one, but two sets of rivals. On the one hand were the reactionary Brahmans who justified their own accumulation of wealth and relative lack of renunciatory practice by writing off nearly all forms of renunciation as non-Vedic. On the other hand, were other radical śramaṇas who engaged in forms of renunciation that went far beyond the avoidance of sensual pleasures and instead sought to actively punish the body. The ancient Buddhist texts identify a variety of groups and teachers who engaged in and taught such “extreme” ascetic practices. The matrix of such practices, however, can be considered, either directly or indirectly, to form the historical heritage of Jainism, to which we now turn.

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3.7  Jains and the Avoidance of “Extremes” Many of the practices listed in the above Buddhist text as examples of “the way of wasting away”—restriction of dietary intake, nakedness, plucking out one’s hair—are found in at least certain parts of Jain monastic tradition. We have already seen, for example, the practice of sallekhanā, the fast until death. Radical forms of renunciation and asceticism have played an important role in the Jain tradition because of the distinctly materialist Jain understanding of the cycle of rebirth. In the Jain cosmology, all living beings are endowed with a soul (jīva) that is trapped by karma, which is conceived of as a sticky substance that actually weighs the soul down and prevents it from attaining liberation. Any and all actions, especially but not exclusively violent actions, lead to the production of karma. Liberation therefore necessitates, in the end, a renunciation of all action, which explains the logic behind sallekhanā, as well as lesser forms of austerity found in Jain practice. It might then seem apt to say that the Middle Way positions Buddhism between the luxury of Hindu Brahmans and extreme asceticism of Jain monks. But just as we have seen that the anti-renunciatory rhetoric of the Dharma Sūtras did little to actually end renunciatory practices in Hinduism, so too is Jainism, in its entirety, hardly a rush to embrace any and all forms of extreme asceticism. To begin with, from a scholarly perspective, the origins of Jainism are poorly understood. There is, of course, a traditional account, according to which Mahāvīra (the “Great Hero”), also known as the Jina or “Conqueror” (from which the name Jainism comes), and who lived at about the same time as the Buddha, founded the current Jain monastic order by reviving and revivifying practices that had been taught by earlier teachers in previous generations. Mahāvīra had a disciple, Makkhali Gosāla, who parted ways with him and founded his own sect, the Ājīvakas. The Ājīvakas had a materialist understanding of the cycle of rebirth like the Jains, but were if anything more extreme in their practices. After several centuries, the Ājīvakas died out, so we do not have any texts or living practitioners to consult about their practices or beliefs. Unfortunately, this traditional account poses problems for historians. This is not the place to get into a detailed historical analysis, but suffice it to say that there are very few surviving texts from the earliest period of Jainism, and it is difficult to map the split between Jains and Mahāvīra on the one hand and the Ājīvakas and Makkhali Gosāla on the other in a straightforward way onto the complex array of “extremist” śramaṇa teachers described in the ancient Buddhist texts. The Buddhist texts refer to Makkhali Gosāla and a certain Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta who seems to correspond to Mahāvīra, but there are discrepancies between the latter and the known practices of the Jains. The Buddhist texts also mention a variety of other teachers revered by Ājīvakas and Nigaṇṭhas, who appear to have formed a loose and not very centralized community of like-minded materialist practitioners (Aṅguttara Nikāya 6.57). Indeed, if we look at the ancient Buddhist descriptions of the materialists and the modern structure of Jainism, we see a very similar pattern: a basic split between monks who wear clothes and those who go about naked (Bronkhorst 2000; McGovern 2021: 65–67). The testimony provided by early Buddhist texts would seem to indicate that in ancient India that split was marked by the distinction between Nigaṇṭhas and Ājīvakas, with the former wearing robes and the latter going about naked. Within modern Jainism, on the other hand—and in fact going back well over a thousand years in Jainism—this split is marked by the major division into two sects, the Digambaras and Śvetāmbaras. Śvetāmbara (lit., “white-clad”) monks wear a robe, while Digambara (lit., “sky-clad”) monks go naked. 48

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Although Śvetāmbara and Digambara Jains differ in the rigor of renunciation they demand from their monks, both acknowledge Mahāvīra as their founder and depict him as having gone about naked. It is not entirely clear what the precise historical relationship is between Nigaṇṭhas and Ājīvakas in ancient India and Śvetāmbara and Digambara Jains in medieval and modern India. What is clear, however, is that there has always been a division among the most radical materialist ascetics in India between those who embrace the more radical renunciatory practice of nakedness and those who do not. Debates over what practices are “too extreme” are not confined to one group in India; they are, in a sense, fractal.

3.8 Conclusion The modern debate over sallekhanā that I discussed at the beginning of this chapter is not simply an unfortunate byproduct of the imposition of Western Christian values onto India through British colonialism. It is instead the product of a very old discourse in Indian religio-philosophical traditions over which practices are too “extreme.” In ancient India, a basic disagreement over the validity of renunciation and in particular celibacy led to the split between Brahmanical Hinduism on the one and the śramaṇic traditions of Buddhism and Jainism on the other. Within the śramaṇic traditions, Buddhists positioned themselves as a “just right” middle between the “extreme” luxury of reactionary Brahmans and the “extreme” asceticism of radical materialists. But even within the Jain tradition, which is descended from the radical materialists, there has long been a debate over how far one’s asceticism should go, particularly with respect to the question of monastic dress. It is of course not my purpose as a scholar of religion to argue that sallekhanā actually “is” or is not extreme, much less that it is fanatical. Rather, I have shown here that there is a very old discourse in India that leads to the possibility of labeling sallekhanā as such. This discourse is by no means the same as the modern Western discourse on fanaticism, but it has played a parallel role in Indian thought.

References Bronkhorst, Johannes (2000) “The Riddle of the Jainas and Ājīvakas in Early Buddhist Literature.” Journal of Indian Philosophy 28: 511–529. Bronkhorst, Johannes (2007) Greater Magadha: Studies in the Culture of Early India. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Colas, Dominique (1997) Civil Society and Fanaticism. Translated by Amy Jacobs. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Cousins, Lance S. (1996) “The Dating of the Historical Buddha: A Review Article.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 6, no. 1: 57–63. Gethin, Rupert (1998) The Foundations of Buddhism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lorenzen, David N. (2005) “Who Invented Hinduism?” In Llewellyn, J. E. (ed.) Defining Hinduism: A Reader. New York, Routledge, 52–80. McCarthy, Julie (2015) “Fasting to Death: Is it a Religious Rite or Suicide?” National Public Radio, Morning Edition, Sept. 2 [online]. Available at: https://www.npr.org/sections/ goatsandsoda/2015/09/02/436820789/fasting-to-the-death-is-it-a-religious-rite-or-suicide. McCrindle, John Watson (1901) Ancient India as Described in Classical Literature. London: Archibald Constable and Co. McGovern, Nathan (2019) The Snake and the Mongoose: The Emergence of Identity in Early Indian Religion. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Nathan McGovern McGovern, Nathan. (2021) “Identity in Early Indian Religion.” In Jacobsen, Knut A. (ed.) Routledge Handbook of South Asian Religions. London: Routledge, 57–71. Olivelle, Patrick (1993) The Āśrama System: The History and Hermeneutics of a Religious Institution. New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers. Olivelle, Patrick (ed. and trans.). (1998) The Early Upaniṣads: Annotated Text and Translation. New York: Oxford University Press. Samuel, Geoffrey (2008) The Origins of Yoga and Tantra: Indic Religions in the Thirteenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schmidt, Hanns-Peter (1968) “The Origin of Ahiṃsā.” In Renou, Louis (ed.), Mélanges d’indianisme à la mémoire de Louis Renou. Paris: de Boccard, 625–655. Tull, Herman W. (1989) The Vedic Origins of Karma: Cosmos as Man in Ancient Indian Myth and Ritual. Albany: State University of New York Press. Vinayasagar, Mahopadhyay (ed. and trans.) (1988) Isibhasiyaim Suttaim (Rishibhashit Sutra). Trans. Kalanath Shastri and Dinesh Chandra Sharma. Jaipur: Prakrit Bharati Academy. Witzel, Michael (2005) “Vedas and Upaniṣads.” In Flood, Gavin (ed.) The Blackwell Companion to Hinduism. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 68–101.

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4 FANATICISM IN CLASSICAL CHINESE PHILOSOPHY1 Eirik Lang Harris

There is, to my knowledge, no sustained discussion of the concept of fanaticism in early Chinese thought. Indeed, insofar as there is no classical Chinese term that corresponds to “fanatic” or “fanaticism,” it might be thought that these concepts were missing in early China.2 Furthermore, when examining a tradition utilizing the ideas and concepts of another tradition, there is always the danger of reading into the first tradition a set of concerns and ways of thinking about issues that did not exist in that tradition. On the other hand, we often gain valuable insights by examining particular philosophical traditions through the lenses of other traditions with whom they never interacted.3 Within the context of these worries and promises, this chapter is not going to ascribe a concern with fanaticism to classical Chinese philosophers. Rather, it will limit itself to asking two interrelated questions: (1) were early Chinese philosophers themselves fanatics and (2) were the political theories that they developed amenable to appropriation by fanatics? The first question arises from the fact that when we begin to examine the moral and political philosophies that arose during the Spring and Autumn (ca. 770–476 BCE) and Warring States periods (ca. 475–221 BCE) of early China, we often see that thinkers have a startling certitude of the correctness of their views, are willing to mandate extreme changes in people’s actions in pursuit of their goals, and are not adverse to resorting to violence against those who disagree with these views. These characteristics are often found in those who are labeled “fanatics,” raising the question of whether there are strands of fanaticism running through early Chinese philosophy. The second question arises because part of what was entailed in many classical Chinese political philosophies was the development of a political and bureaucratic structure aimed at ensuring that the political leader was able to both maintain power and implement his moral and/or political vision. However, given that there was no conception of choosing a ruler (there was no direct challenge to hereditary monarchies during this period), we are left with the question of whether, even if the thinkers constructing these political philosophies and structures were not themselves fanatics, their structures were amenable to appropriation by fanatics. This question is not merely of historical interest, for it may impact our views on the viability of early Chinese political philosophies to contribute to contemporary discussion in political philosophy.4 51

DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-5

Eirik Lang Harris

This chapter will use these two questions to interrogate three prominent classical Chinese philosophical texts: the Mozi, the Xunzi, and the Han Feizi. The Mozi records the consequentialist vision of the eponymous founder of the Mohist school of thought, the Xunzi was written by perhaps the most sophisticated of the classical Confucians, and the Han Feizi lays out a sophisticated version of political realism. By examining those aspects of these texts that seem most problematic when examined through the lens of (Western) conceptions of fanaticism, I hope both to shed some light on the worry and potentially alleviate it to some extent. Before digging into these texts, however, a few words on the concept of fanaticism to be employed are in order. There are, of course, a wide range of conceptions of fanaticism in the Western world, and, as noted, there is no comparable term in early China. So, to provide clarity and allow more concrete analysis, I will first provide a stipulative definition of the concept of fanaticism that draws on the analysis of (Passmore 2003), who provides three features of what he calls “hard fanaticism.” This is not to say that only those whose views contain these features can be thought of as fanatics. Arguments can certainly be made for other features, either in addition to Passmore’s own or in conflict with them, and nothing in the subsequent analysis precludes this. However, Passmore’s analysis clarifies several aspects of fanaticism that make it particularly worrying. To the extent that the Chinese texts under examination promote these traits, we may have reason to find them fanatical and problematic. Passmore’s analysis focuses on three criteria5: a there is some objective of such consequence that all other ends must be subordinated to it even when this entails acting in ways which would normally be regarded as immoral. b it is possible to know by having access to some peculiarly authoritative source of knowledge what this objective is and why such means are permissible. c those who have this knowledge are entitled to suppress those who raise any question about it, who oppose in a way its realization or, more generally, who do not show in their behavior that they wholeheartedly accept it (Passmore 2003, 221). With this understanding of fanaticism in place, we can turn to our evaluation of our Chinese texts.

4.1 The Mozi The Mozi is a text likely compiled by the followers of Mo Di (c. fifth century BCE), the founder of an organized utopian social movement aimed at the implementation of a political vision that contains elements of both consequentialism and divine command theory.6 Fully adjudicating the relationship between these elements is beyond the purview of this chapter, but we can build up a vision of Mohist political and ethical ideals, nonetheless. The text is clear in its argument that at both the ethical and the political levels (insofar as they can be prised apart), actions should be evaluated on the basis of the extent to which they maximize the wealth, order, and population of the state (Johnston 2010, 54–89). Furthermore, doing this, the text argues, requires implementing a stringent principle of impartial care toward all, both on the part of the ruler of the state and on the part of the people within the state (Johnston 2010, 130–165).7

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The difficulty of implementing such a political theory depends in part on human nature. Do we possess an innate and impartial concern for others? If not, is such a concern easily developed? If not, are there other tools at our disposal to alter people’s behavior, if not their motivations? The Mohists do not make it easy on themselves in this regard, for they acknowledge that we have no innate concern toward others. As the Mozi notes: In ancient times, when people first came into being, were times where there were as yet no laws or government, so it was said that people had differing norms for deciding what was right and wrong. This mean that, if there was one person, there was one norm; if there were two people there were two norms; and if there were ten people, there were ten different norms. The more people there were, the more things there were that were spoken of as norms. This was a case of people affirming their own norms and condemning those of other people. The consequence of this was mutual condemnation of norms. In this way, within a household, fathers and sons, and older and younger brothers were resentful and hostile, separated and dispersed, and unable to reach agreement and accord with each other. Throughout the world, people all used water and fire, and poisons and potions to injure and harm one another. As a result, those with strength to spare did not use it to help each other in their work, surplus goods rotted and decayed and were not used for mutual distribution, and good doctrines were hidden and obscured and not used for mutual teaching. So the world was in a state of disorder comparable to that amongst birds and beasts. (Johnston 2010, 91)8 This passage makes clear that if the goal of caring for all impartially so as to maximize wealth, order, and population is to be achieved, it will require a significant change to the natural motivations of human beings. Our diverse and conflicting conceptions of right and wrong must somehow be unified. And how is this envisioned to go? Well, as the text continues, How do we examine what it is that brings order to a district? It is only that the district head is able to make uniform the norms in the district. This is how there is order in a district… How do we examine what it is that brings order to a state? It is only that the ruler of the state is able to make uniform the norms of the state. This is how there is order in a state… How do we examine what it is that brings order to the world? It is only that the Son of Heaven is able to make uniform the norms of the world. This is how there is order in the world… (Johnston 2010, 95) The idea advocated for here is that at every level in the social and political order, the goal is to unify the conceptions of right and wrong of those below with those above them in the social and political hierarchy, ultimately reaching the stage where the norms of all within the state are unified with the “Son of Heaven,” the supreme ruler of the state. Such a system seems to presume that the ruler will be motivated to advocate the particular set of norms that the Mohists believe will actually maximize wealth, order, and

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population within the state. However, insofar as they lack a mechanism for choosing the ruler aside from the traditional hereditary monarchy, it is unclear that they provide a plausible of ensuring that the ruler is so motivated. This leads to a worry that such a system could easily be co-opted by a ruler who would be, on Passmore’s criteria, a fanatic. In Passmore’s terminology, it seems that the Mohists claim that there is some objective (namely the state consequentialist goal of maximizing wealth, order, and population) that is so important that all other ends must be subordinated to it. The process of unification of norms is explicitly designed to eliminate from the people norms that are in conflict with this. If the ruler has the final authority on the establishment of moral norms, then it follows that they have final authority on the objectives to be pursued, and the authority to subordinate all other aims to whatever objective he chooses. Additionally, insofar as the ruler has the authority to set norms simply because of his position at the top of the hierarchy, it seems that there is a presumption that he has access to some authoritative source of knowledge that allows him to understand why the particular norms that he advocates are the norms that ought to be implemented. Furthermore, the text explicitly discusses what is to be done with those who do not accord with the norms promoted by the ruler: Thus, Master Mozi said: “The ancient sage kings put into effect the five punishments, which was truly how they brought order to the people. The five punishments9 were like the main thread in a skein of silk, or the controlling rope of a fishing net, and were the means used to bring into line the ordinary people of the world who did obey their superiors.” (Johnston 2010, 97) While the text does not put it in Passmore’s terms, or explicitly reject the ability of the people to raise questions about the norms of their leaders, insofar as punishment is seen as the appropriate method for dealing with those who would not otherwise accord with the norms advocated by their superiors, the potential for hard fanaticism may initially seem clear. Now, to be clear, the argument is not that the Mohist ethico-political system is necessarily a fanatical system. Even the willingness to execute those who do not follow the dictates of the ruler need not be read as any more fanatical than contemporary legal systems that punish those who violate its laws. The implementation of punishment cannot in and of itself be seen as fanatical. However, a worry related to fanaticism does remain. Given the structure of the Mohist ethico-political system, it is unclear whether this system could prevent fanatical actions on the part of its rulers. Rather, the system seems to put its faith in the ruler heeding Mozi’s arguments for why it is that a state consequentialism that maximizes the wealth, order, and population of the state must be the standard by which norms are chosen and advocated. In part, this may not be a great surprise, because the Mozi has a great faith in the power of rational argument to change people’s actions. The chapters advocating “impartial caring,” mentioned above, consist of a set of arguments aimed at demonstrating the rationality of taking care of all impartially rather than acting in a partial manner. And it seems clear from these chapters that the author believes that a successful argument is all that is necessary to actually change the behavior of the vast majority of people. To understand why some path is logical is, on the Mohist account, to be motivated to follow that path. Therefore, it would make sense for the Mohists to believe that the ruler would act rationally and in doing so implement Mohist values. 54

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However, we may well be skeptical of the power of rational argument to sway the actions of rulers. What reason would the ruler have to abandon whatever norms he initially had in favor of the ones that the Mohists advocated? Those below him have reason to abandon their original norms, from fear of punishment if nothing else. But there is no political apparatus to hold the ruler to account. The Mohists do recognize this worry but believe that there is a solution. And it is a solution that goes back to the co-joined elements of state consequentialism and divine command theory alluded to above. The Mohists conceive of Heaven as being in favor of the Mohist consequentialist vision.10 And this leads to consequences should the ruler not follow the vision: If the people of the world all obey the Son of Heaven, but do not obey Heaven, calamity will not cease. Nowadays, Heaven’s violent storms and heavy rains are continuous and extreme, this is Heaven’s way of punishing the people for not obeying Heaven. (Johnston 2010, 95–97) If Heaven itself advocates the consequential goals of impartial caring and the maximization of wealth, order, and population, and Heaven directly intervenes in instances where the ruler implements norms that do not accord with the norms advocated by Heaven, then the ruler would have an overriding reason to implement these norms, rather than whatever other norms he may initially have had. In short, the ruler would have the same reason to follow a certain set of norms as everyone else – the punishments meted out to him if he does not do so. If, then, we were to ask the Mohists if their system could avoid the dangers of fanaticism, they would likely answer in the affirmative. If the potentially fanatical ruler is not swayed by rational argument, he will be subject to punishment from Heaven and the fear (or actuality) of this punishment would be sufficient to alter his actions. Without the latter, however, the potential of the system handing power to a hard fanatic cannot be dismissed. Furthermore, and perhaps more worrying, the system is not only vulnerable to takeover by a fanatic, but would provide such a fanatic with a wide range of political and bureaucratic tools allowing him to implement his fanatical vision.

4.2 The Xunzi The Xunzi, a text reliably attributed to the third great Confucian thinker after whom it was named (ca. 315–215 BCE), develops and defends a virtue based ethical and political philosophy, centered on moral cultivation and the development of the cardinal virtues of benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom. Central to this philosophy is the idea that the virtuous individual has an “epistemological privilege” that provides her with knowledge about what actions are appropriate in what situations – and why.11 An implication of such a view has been described by Scott LaBarge (2005) and Michael Cholbi (2007) as the “credentials problem.” In brief, the problem is this: the actual moral expertise of an individual is best judged by the advice that this purported expert provides. However, because of a lack of epistemological privilege, no one who is not already an expert seems to be in a position to pass judgment on the advice. As discussed elsewhere (Harris 2017) this gives rise to a potential practical problem – how is someone who is not yet virtuous able to determine who, among those who claim to be moral experts, actually is a moral expert? And in particular, how is a student to distinguish between a genuine moral expert and a 55

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fanatic? After all, the student, as a student, lacks the requisite epistemological privilege allowing her to evaluate the actions of the purported moral expert. As such, the purported expert, be they fanatic or truly virtuous individual, will at some point run out of explanations that can be understood by the student. Perhaps the fanatic’s actions will appear wrong, or bad, or evil to the student. But the same may be the case with the actions of the truly virtuous individual. Without the understanding that comes with moral cultivation, full knowledge of reasons for actions remains impossible. Thus, it seems that the student is at an impasse. If such a student can have no good reason to choose a truly virtuous teacher over a fanatic, then we may have a problem. Is there any way to prevent a fanatic from coopting the structure of Xunzi’s Confucian virtue based ethico-political scheme to promote his own fanatical agenda? Or, even worse, is Xunzi himself a fanatic? To examine this, I want to return to Passmore’s account of fanaticism and see the extent to which the Xunzian sage fits that account. The Xunzian sage has an ultimate goal to which all else is subjugated, he claims an understanding of a range of texts that places him in a position to adjudicate their authority, and he advocates the elimination of opposition, at least in certain circumstances. Let us, then, dig more deeply into the extent to which the Xunzian political system adheres to Passmore’s first criterion – that there is an objective of such importance that all else must be subordinated to it, regardless of the consequences. Initially, the Xunzi’s emphasis on single-mindedness may be taken to indicate that it does have such an objective in mind: The proper classes of things are not of two kinds. Hence, the person with understanding picks the one right object and pursues it single-mindedly…. One who is expert in regard to things merely measures one thing against another. One who is expert in regard to the Way measures all things together. Thus, the gentleman pursues the Way single-mindedly and uses it to guide and oversee things. If one pursues the Way single-mindedly, then one will be correct. If one uses it to guide one in examining things, then one will have keen discernment. If one uses correct intentions to carry out discerning judgments, then the myriad things will all obtain their proper station. (Hutton 2014, 230) If the Confucian Way is correctly described as an end of such importance that everything else must be subjugated to it, then the Xunzian sage may seem to share an important characteristic with the fanatic. How problematic this is may depend on what other features of the fanatic the Xunzian sage possesses. In this light, let us examine Passmore’s second criterion, that the fanatic takes herself to have a source of knowledge that allows her to know what end should be pursued. At least initially, this again seems to be part of the Xunzian system. It is built upon the teachings of the sage kings of the past, as recorded in a host of historical and ritual texts. What the sage king is able to do is interpret and understand the deeper meaning of these documents so as to understand exactly what they convey about the best way to live. Indeed, part of the process of moral cultivation, according to the Xunzi, is the process of coming to understand these texts, a process for which a teacher – a sage – is essential (Hutton 2014, 6, 30). The sage not only knows the relevant texts, but has access to them in a way that those who are not fully virtuous do not. This is part of what constitutes the epistemological privilege discussed above. This seems to make it clear not only that the

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ethico-political system may allow someone who possesses Passmore’s second criterion into the position of ruler, but that the ideal Xunzian ruler necessarily possesses this trait – a claim to epistemological privilege that both tells her what goals she should pursue and how they should be pursued. Finally, let us turn to Passmore’s third criterion, that those who possess this epistemological privilege are entitled to suppress those who oppose their ideas. In an echo of what we have seen in the Mozi, there is an advocacy of elimination of opposition, at least in certain instances. Those who are incapable of following a sagely ruler but who foment chaos and are full of deception will, the Xunzi says, will be the first to be executed when a sage comes to power, even before robbers and villains (Hutton 2014, 39), and such a sage will “execute those who incite others to bad deeds without waiting to teach them” (Hutton 2014). However, again like what we see in the Mozi, it is unclear that such actions on the part of the Xunzian ruler actually fulfill Passmore’s third criteria. Rather, the Xunzi advocates extensive use of argument in an attempt to persuade people to follow the teachings of the sage king. It is only when such efforts fail, when individuals demonstrate, not only that they are not wholehearted advocates of the Xunzian scheme, but rather that they will actively work against it, that they will be unending dangers to the state and its people, that suppression is countenanced. Only when the stability and order of the state itself is endangered does the Xunzian ruler move to eliminating opposition. There are certainly overlaps between the actions of the sage king and those of the fanatic. However, there are also important dissimilarities. The Xunzian sage king does have an ultimate goal – the implementation of the Confucian Way. This Way could be described as an end of such that everything else must be subjugated to it, leading us to the conclusion that the Xunzian sage shares Passmore’s first criterion with the fanatic. However, it is unclear whether this way is best characterized as a single objective of the sort that the fanatic has. Rather, it seems to be a broad goal that both encompasses and regulates all ethico-political ends, pointing us toward those things which will allow us to live flourishing lives.12 Additionally, the sage does rely upon her interpretation of a range of authoritative texts from the past. However, these texts are not promoted as clear articulations of unchanging claims. Rather, they are held up as repositories of wisdom written by those who has successfully ruled flourishing communities in the past. Indeed, the very fact that part of what becoming a sage involved is developing a skill at analyzing and understanding these texts implies that what they offer are principles rather than explicit claims – principles that must be interpreted in light of the context within which they were first articulated. If this is the case, it would at least dilute the worry of fanaticism.13 However, even if such considerations do lead us to the conclusion that the Xunzian sage is not a fanatic, a worry similar to that seen in our discussion of the Mozi may well remain. That is, the political system envisioned by the Xunzi may be unable to prevent a fanatic from stepping into the role of the ruler, which would then provide him with the tools that he might otherwise lack to implement his fanatical vision. The Xunzian sage ruler may well not be a fanatic if his vision of implementing the Confucian Way is sufficiently broad. However, there seems that there is nothing to preclude a fanatic from claiming the epistemological privilege discussed above and using this privilege to claim as the Way a narrow, single end toward which all else must be subjugated, and for the sake of which all opposition should be eliminated.

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4.3  The Han Feizi The final text to examine is that attributed to Han Fei (ca. 280–233 BCE). Though Han Fei is often said to have been a student of Xunzi, the Han Feizi develops a political philosophy that is radically different – establishing a strong, stable, and flourishing state with no regard for moral normativity. The techniques employed are not aimed at changing or cultivating what people desire or persuading them by logical argumentation. Rather, the text develops a version of political realism aimed at providing the ruler with a set of tools that will allow him to manipulate the people so that they will act in service of the state regardless of their innate desires and motivations. The ruler is exhorted to focus on three main tools at his disposal to ensure that those within the political community act in service of the state: laws, techniques, and positional power. The Han Feizi starts with a conception of humans as having a relatively stable set of primarily self-directed interests – interests that are non-identical with the interests of the state. Further, unlike the Mohists, Han Fei does not believe that rational argument will change the people’s beliefs, and, unlike Xunzi, he thinks that moral cultivation is at best an arduous task that will at most work on a small handful of people. What will work is relying on people acting in ways that they think will benefit them. So, if the ruler understands this, the solution is clear – set up a system whereby it is clearly in the immediate interests of the people to do what the ruler wishes. How to do this? Establish laws with attendant rewards and punishments. As the Han Feizi notes: In general, in ordering all under heaven, it is necessary to follow the natural dispositions of man. The natural dispositions of man have their likes and its dislikes, and thus rewards and punishments can be utilized. Since rewards and punishments can be utilized, prohibitions and orders can be established and the way of order can be completed. The ruler grasps the [two] handles [of punishment and reward] in order to place himself in a position of power, and thus orders are implemented and what is prohibited ceases. (Liao 1959, 258)14 Note the purpose of laws here. Laws are not put into place in order to protect the people. Rather, their purpose is to more effectively manipulate the actions of the people. If the ruler wishes people to do something X, he merely implements a law that either rewards them for doing X or punishes them for not doing X. So long as these rewards and punishments can reliably target the appropriate individuals, and so long as their motivating strength is greater than other motivations that people have, the ruler can reliably ensure that the people do as he wishes. The laws are accompanied by a set of techniques by which the ruler is further able to manipulate the people, particularly those within the government bureaucracy. As we see in the chapter on “The Way of the Ruler”: The Way [of the ruler] lies in what cannot be seen, its use lies in what cannot be understood. Be empty and tranquil without engaging in affairs, and from the darkness observe others’ faults. Observe but do not be observed; listen but do not be heard; understand but do not be understood. Upon understanding others’ words, do not change, do not transform, but rather inspect and compare [name and form] in order 58

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to assess [their correspondence]. Ensure that each position has only a single occupant and do not permit them to communicate among themselves, and then the myriad things will all reach fruition. Cover your tracks and hide your motivations, and those below will be unable to trace back to your source. Discard your knowledge, leave behind your ability, and those below will be unable to understand your intentions. Hold on to what has been previously said and examine whether actions accord with this. Carefully grasp the handles [of governance] and hold them tightly. Cut off others’ hope of using them, destroy others’ intentions to employ them, and let not others desire them. (Liao 1939, 32–33) What allows the ruler to make use of laws and techniques is his positional power – the power that the ruler has in virtue of the position that he holds rather than due to any particular personal trait that he possesses. By relying not upon his own personal qualities but rather focusing on the power that is provided by the position that he holds, the ruler is able to ensure that his will is enforced and that he is not manipulated by those whose interests and desires do not match his own. With this brief sketch of the Han Feizi’s political philosophy in hand, we can return to our questions around fanaticism. As before, we can begin by returning to Passmore’s three criteria of fanaticism. The first was that the fanatic takes there to be some objective of such consequence that all other ends must be subordinated to it even when this entails acting in ways that would normally be regarded as immoral. Han Fei certainly does hold such a view – the state, and therefore those things that bring about the order, strength, and stability of the state – is of paramount importance. Importantly, it is not just that the state is important insofar as it benefits the people. Rather, the state seems to be an end in itself, to be strengthened and ordered, regardless of the consequences to those within it. An historical anecdote recorded with approval in the Han Feizi makes this clear: There was a great famine in the state of Qin. The Marquis of Ying said: ‘As for the plants and roots of the Five Gardens, these vegetables, acorns, jujubes, and chestnuts would be sufficient to allow the people to survive. I ask that we distribute them.’ King Zhaoxiang said: ‘Our laws of the state of Qin ensure that people have achievements and only then receive rewards, that they commit crimes and only then are punished. Now, if we distribute the plants from the Five Gardens, this will enable those who have achievements along with those who lack achievements all to be rewarded. Now, if we enable those who have achievements along with those who lack achievements all to be rewarded, this is the way of disorder. Distributing food from the Five Gardens and having disorder is not as good as throwing away these jujubes and vegetables and having order.’ Another source says: King Zhaoxiang replied, ‘Ordering the distribution of melons, vegetables, jujubes and chestnuts would be sufficient to allow the people to survive, but this would cause those who have achievements and those without achievements to struggle over getting these things. Now, keeping them alive but having disorder is not as good as letting them die but having order. May you, Grand Minister, cast aside this thought!’…. (Liao 1959, 126–127) 59

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Here, we see the lengths to which Han Fei is willing to go to ensure order within the state. He is willing to allow vast swaths of the population to die in service of this order. In the scenario above, the problem that arises when famine strikes is that the ruler does not know who is deserving of aid. Presumably, there are many hard-working farmers who, in times of plenty, would have had sufficient food for their needs. It is only because of the famine that they are starving. However, there are also the lazy and indigent around – the ones who, even in times of plenty would have been in dire straits because they did not do the necessary work to support themselves. Insofar as it is not possible to identify which people were hard-working and which were lazy, then any attempt to provide state resources from the storehouses will result in the undeserving also receiving benefits. And if people begin to see that they can receive benefits from the state without regard to their actual deservingness, then the incentive to work hard (either for oneself or for the state) will be lessened, and the strength, stability, and order of the state will decline (Harris 2013). Indeed, the text sees this potential erosion of order within the state as so serious a problem that it is willing to let vast swaths of the population, deserving and undeserving alike, to perish rather than to allow the underserving to benefit in any way from their indolence.15 This certainly seems to fulfill Passmore’s criterion. But what about the second criteria, that the fanatic has access to some peculiarly authoritative source of knowledge concerning what this objective is and why such means are permissible? Unlike the Xunzi, the Han Feizi never attempts to argue that there is some source of knowledge accessible only to a few who have developed themselves in a particular way. Rather, the text is quite clear that the ruler is no different from the average person. Indeed, the Han Feizi itself never directly engages the question of why the strength, stability, and security of the state is the ultimate objective to which all else must be subjugated. Arguments can be given for why he may have held this view (Harris, 2011, 2013, forthcoming), but the text itself is silent. What is central is that the text takes this objective to have an overriding importance and tasks the ruler with ensuring it is met. Furthermore, the Han Feizi takes a track that may be just as effective as providing an explanation for why the ruler has access to this knowledge – he makes the reasoning and justifications of the ruler inaccessible to the people. As Albert Galvany (2013, 104) notes, “The relationship between sovereign and subject is as asymmetrical and incommensurable as that which exists, on the cosmological plane, between the Way and individual and differentiated existences.” Part of what makes the Way, and the patterns of the universe in general so awesome is not just the power that they have. Rather part of its awesomeness comes from our inability to comprehend it. Some aspects of it can be understood – I know not to jump off a 100-meter-high cliff without a parachute. However, as a whole, it is quite incomprehensible, and even more so in the time when these texts were written. What the Han Feizi does is note that there is an immense value in this incomprehensibility, and advocates that the ruler cultivate a similar air in himself, as we saw earlier. Part of the idea seems to be this – what cannot be understood can only be followed, as attempts to manipulate something or someone require an understanding of the reasons behind that thing or person. By creating and reinforcing this distance between the ruler and the people, the Han Feizi endeavors to reach the same result. The Han Feizian ruler need not claim knowledge; indeed he need make no claims, and yet the people have no alternative but to act as if he does have such knowledge. 60

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Finally, is the question of what is to be done to those who do not accept the ruler’s vision. We have already seen the text advocate allowing innocents to die if the only way to keep them alive is to allow the undeserving to live as well. But there are places in the text that are even clearer on this point. For example, In ancient times there were [the paragons] Bo Yi and Shu Qi. [The Sage] King Wu handed over all under heaven to them, but they refused to accept, [instead] starving to death on Shou Yang Mountain. Subjects of this sort do not stand in awe of substantial punishments, nor do they regard substantial rewards as profitable. They cannot be stopped by means of fines nor can they be caused to act by means of rewards. They can be described as useless subjects. One should consider them of little value and eliminate them, but the rulers of today take them to be of great value and seek them out. (Liao 1939, 131) The fundamental problem with these “paragons,” as the Han Feizi sees it, is that their motivational set is sufficiently different from that of most people that they cannot be manipulated by rewards and punishments. Therefore, the ruler has no means to restrain or control their actions – no means to prevent them from destabilizing and disordering the state – other than eliminating them. Again, then, we see some similarities between the ideal Han Feizian ruler and Passmore’s account of the fanatic. Both take themselves to be entitled to suppress those who oppose them. Additionally, the Han Feizi shares the first criterion insofar as its state consequentialism is willing to sacrifice anything and everything else in its service. However, in much the same way that we might wonder whether Xunzi’s Confucian Way is too broad to be categorized as a single objective, a similar thought may arise when thinking of the broad goal of maximizing the interests of the state. And, while I have proffered a reason for thinking that the Han Feizian ruler may well have access to the same consequences that would arise out of claiming a particularly authoritative source of knowledge supporting his objectives, the text itself makes no claim that the ruler has any authoritative source of knowledge. Thus, again, it does not appear that the ideal Han Feizian ruler is necessarily a fanatic. However, the question of how amenable such a system may be to appropriation by a fanatic remains. And it seems quite clear that the Han Feizi, perhaps even more so than the Mozi or the Xunzi, provides the ruler, whoever he is and whatever motivations he has, with the power to enact his vision. The Han Feizian bureaucratic state gives to the ruler a set of tools that can be wielded for almost any end. And, even if the text is correct in its arguments that these tools need to be wielded in a particular way so as to ensure the long-term survival of the state, insofar as this is not the goal of a particular ruler, it has little to say to prevent that rule from exercising those tools toward whatever goal he happens to have – fanatical or otherwise.

4.4 Conclusion Fanaticism is not a category of activity that concerned classical Chinese philosophers, and I have argued that while the views of the most prominent thinkers of that time period have overlaps with the views of the fanatic, none of these thinkers were themselves fanatical. However, What I have done is raise the worry that each of these thinkers worked to develop a political system that is not immune to appropriation by fanatics. Indeed, an examination 61

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of their political systems gives rise to the worry that each system is structured so as to give almost unlimited power to whoever sits at its head. And, since none of these systems provides a method for a nonarbitrary selection of the ruler, a problem with regard to fanaticism remains. None of these systems seem to be able to prevent the scenario in which the ruler happens to be a fanatic from implementing his fanatical vision. Indeed, all three systems provide the ruler with a wide range of tools for more effectively implementing this vision. While such conclusions are of historical interest, we may very well think that they bear rumination with regard to contemporary political philosophy as well. In particular, over the past few decades, there have been a range of philosophers advocating bringing back classical Chinese political theories and attempting to implement them, in some fashion or another in the contemporary world, often with the aim of solving problems that exist in contemporary political theories. While there may well be significant value in doing so, by examining these theories through the lens of fanaticism, it becomes clear that there are significant worries with such theories, and that they are no panacea for modern ills.

Notes 1 My discussion here draws upon ideas that arose in Harris (2017), and my discussion here of the Xunzi is particularly indebted to that paper. 2 There is considerable debate over whether it is appropriate to say that someone has a concept of something X if there is no term in their vocabulary to express this concept. For a strong argument that this is possible from the field of Chinese philosophy, see Van Norden (2007, 21–23). Similar arguments in support of ascribing concepts to past thinkers who lacked the relevant terminology have been mounted by those working in the Western tradition as well. See, for example, Prudovsky (1997). 3 Examining early Confucian philosophy through the lens of ‘virtue ethics,’ for example, has led to important advances not only in our understanding of Confucian philosophy but also in the development of viable contemporary theories of virtue ethics. See, for example, Kline and Ivanhoe (2000), Hutton (2002, 2015), Ivanhoe (2007), Van Norden (2007), Harris (2010), Slingerland (2011), and Angle and Slote (2013). 4 There has been a resurgence of interest in using bringing early Chinese political philosophy into engagement with contemporary questions over the past couple of decades. See, for example, Bell (2008, 2015), Angle (2012), Chan (2014), Kim (2014), and Harris (2020a). 5 Hard fanaticism requires the inclusion of criterion (c). Passmore notes that we can envision a soft fanatic, one who is committed to criteria (a) and (b) but who does not believe that this entitles them to suppress opposition. The leaders of some cults would fit this description. 6 Whether these two principles are independent or whether one is derived from the other, and other questions about their relation has been the subject of much spilled ink. See Ahern (1976), Taylor (1979), Vorenkamp (1992), Soles (1999), Duda (2001), Van Norden (2007, esp. chp. 3), and Fraser (2016, esp. chps 4 and 5). 7 The term translated here as “impartial care” was long translated as “universal love,” a convention continued in the cited translation. However, what is central to the Mozi is the act of taking care of others, rather than any emotional feeling of love or concern for others. For discussions of the Mohist idea of impartial caring, see Wong (1989), Ivanhoe (1998), Lowe (1992, 92–100), Van Norden, (2007), Defoort (2013), Fraser (2016), and Back (2017). 8 While my translations are based on Johnston (2010), I often modify Johnston’s translation based on my understanding of the text. There are a range of other partial translations available, including Watson (2003b), Knoblock and Riegel (2016), Fraser (2020) and Ivanhoe (2023). 9 The five punishments were branding, cutting off the nose, cutting off the feet, castration, and death. 10 This brings out a potential version of the Euthyphro dilemma, but solving it is not necessary for the current project. For more on this dilemma in the Mozi, see Fraser (2005), Van Norden (2007, 149), Goldin (2011), and Harris (2020b).

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Fanaticism in Classical Chinese Philosophy 11 For more on this, see Hutton (2015). For similar discussions focused on the Western tradition, see McDowell (1979). 12 For a more complete argument along these lines, see Harris (2017). 13 However, it should be noted that Xunzi believed that the rituals as described in these texts would never need any significant modification. See Ivanhoe (2014, 53). 14 All translations of the Han Feizi are my own. However, for reference, I have cited the only complete English translation of the text, the two-volume (Liao 1939, 1959) which is, unfortunately, quite inaccurate. More accurate, but partial, translations include (Watson 2003a; Sahleen 2005; Harris 2023). 15 There may well be a point beyond which the Han Feizi would no longer sanction the death of members of the state. However, it would be at the point at which the disorder arising from further death outweighed the disorder arising from people realizing that they could benefit without working. Individuals are not valuable in and of themselves, merely as contributors to the wealth, order, and stability of the state.

References Ahern, D.M. (1976) Is Mo Tzu a Utilitarian? Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 3, 185–193. Angle, S.C. (2012) Contemporary Confucian Political Philosophy. Polity, Cambridge. Angle, S.C. & Slote, M. (Eds.) (2013) Virtue Ethics and Confucianism. Routledge, London. Back, Y. (2017) Reconstructing Mozi’s Jian’ai 兼愛. Philosophy East and West, 67, 1092–1117. Bell, D.A. (Ed.) (2008) Confucian Political Ethics. Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ. Bell, D.A. (2015) The China Model: Political Meritocracy and the Limits of Democracy. Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ. Chan, J. (2014) Confucian Perfectionism: A Political Philosophy for Modern Times. Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ. Cholbi, M. (2007) Moral Expertise and the Credentials Problem. Ethical Theory and Moral Practice, 10, 323–334. Defoort, C. (2013) Are the Three “Jian Ai” Chapters about Universal Love? In The Mozi as an Evolving Text: Different Voices in Early Chinese Thought (Eds., Defoort, C. & Standaert, N.) Brill, Leiden, pp. 35–67. Duda, K. (2001) Reconsidering Mo Tzu on the Foundations of Morality. Asian Philosophy, 11, 23–31. Fraser, C. (2005) Mohism. In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Ed., Zalta, E.N.) Fraser, C. (2016) The Philosophy of the Mòzĭ: The First Consequentialists. Columbia University Press, New York. Fraser, C. (Trans.) (2020) The Essential Mòzǐ. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Galvany, A. (2013) Beyond the Rule of Rules: The Foundations of Sovereign Power in the Han Feizi. In Dao Companion to the Philosophy of Han Fei (Ed., Goldin, P.R.) Springer, New York, pp. 87–106. Goldin, P.R. (2011) Why Mozi is Included in the Daoist Canon – Or, Why There is More to Mohism than Utilitarian Ethics. In How Should One Live? Comparing Ethics in Ancient China and GrecoRoman Antiquity (Eds., King, R.A.H. & Schilling, D.) De Gruyter, Berlin, pp. 63–91. Harris, E.L. (2010) The Nature of the Virtues in Light of the Early Confucian Tradition. In Taking Confucian Ethics Seriously: Contemporary Theories and Applications, State University of New York Press, Albany, pp. 163–182. Harris, E.L. (2011) Is the Law in the Way? On the Source of Han Fei’s Laws. Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 38, 73–87. Harris, E.L. (2013) Han Fei on the Problem of Morality. In Dao Companion to the Philosophy of Han Fei (Ed., Goldin, P.R.) Springer, New York, pp. 107–131. Harris, E.L. (2017) Which Teacher Should I Choose? A Xunzian Approach to Distinguishing Moral Experts from Fanatics. Journal of Religious Ethics, 45, 463–480. Harris, E.L. (2020a) A Han Feizian Worry with Confucian Meritocracy – And a Non-Moral Alternative. Culture and Dialogue, 8, 342–362. Harris, E.L. (2020b) Mohist Naturalism. The Philosophical Forum, 51, 17–31.

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Eirik Lang Harris Harris, E.L. (Trans.) (2023) Han Feizi. In Readings in Classical Chinese Philosophy (Eds., Ivanhoe, P.J. & Van Norden, B.W.) Hackett Publishing, Indianapolis, IN pp. 323-381. Harris, E.L. (forthcoming) The Dao of Han Fei. In The Oxford Handbook of Chinese Philosophy (Ed., Tiwald, J.) Oxford University Press, Oxford. Hutton, E.L. (2002) Moral Connoisseurship in Mengzi. In Essays on the Moral Philosophy of Mengzi (Eds., Liu, X. & Ivanhoe, P.J.) Hackett Publishing Company, Indianapolis, IN, pp. 163–186. Hutton, E.L. (Trans.) (2014) Xunzi: The Complete Text. Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ. Hutton, E.L. (2015) Xunzi and Virtue Ethics. In The Routledge Companion to Virtue Ethics (Eds., Besser-Jones, L. & Slote, M.) Routledge, New York, pp. 113–125. Ivanhoe, P.J. (1998) Mohist Philosophy. In Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Ed., Craig, E.) Routledge, New York, pp. 6, 451–458. Ivanhoe, P.J. (2007) Filial Piety as a Virtue. In Working Virtue: Virtue Ethics and Contemporary Moral Problems (Eds., Walker, R.L. & Ivanhoe, P.J.) Oxford University Press, Oxford, pp. 297–312. Ivanhoe, P.J. (2014) A Happy Symmetry: Xunzi’s Ecological Ethic. In Ritual and Religion in the Xunzi (Eds., Kline, T.C., III & Tiwald, J.) State University of New York Press, Albany, pp. 63–87. Ivanhoe, P.J. (Trans.) (2023) Mozi. In Readings in Classical Chinese Philosophy (Eds., Ivanhoe, P.J. & Van Norden, B.W.) Hackett Publishing, Indianapolis, IN, pp. 57–113. Johnston, I. (Trans.) (2010) The Mozi: A Complete Translation. Columbia University Press, New York. Kim, S. (2014) Confucian Democracy in East Asia: Theory and Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kline, T.C., III & Ivanhoe, P.J. (Eds.) (2000) Virtue, Nature, and Moral Agency in the. Xunzi Hackett Publishing, Indianapolis, IN. Knoblock, J. & Riegel, J. (Trans.) (2016) Mozi: A Study and Translation of the Ethical and Political Writings. Institute of East Asian Studies, Berkeley, CA. LaBarge, S. (2005) Socrates and Moral Expertise. In Ethics Expertise: History, Contemporary ­Perspectives, and Applications (Ed., Rasmussen, L.M.) Springer, New York, pp. 15–38. Liao, W.-k. (Trans.) (1939) The Complete Works of Han Fei tzu: A Classic of Chinese Legalism: ­Volume 1. A. Probsthain, London. Liao, W.-k. (Trans.) (1959) The Complete Works of Han Fei tzu: A Classic of Chinese Legalism: ­Volume 2. A. Probsthain, London. Lowe, S. (1992) Mo Tzu’s Religious Blueprint for a Chinese Utopia: The Will and the Way. E. Mellen Press, Lewiston, ME. McDowell, J. (1979) Virtue and Reason. Monist, 62, 331–350. Passmore, J. (2003) Fanaticism, Toleration and Philosophy. The Journal of Political Philosophy, 11, 211–222. Prudovsky, G. (1997) Can We Ascribe to Past Thinkers Concepts They Had No Linguistic Means to Express? History and Theory, 36, 15–31. Sahleen, J. (Trans.) (2005) Han Feizi. In Readings in Classical Chinese Philosophy (Eds., Ivanhoe, P.J. & Van Norden, B.W.) Hackett Publishing, Indianapolis, IN, pp. 311–361. Slingerland, E. (2011) The Situationist Critique and Early Confucian Virtue Ethics. Ethics, 121, 390–419. Soles, D.E. (1999) Mo Tzu and the Foundations of Morality. Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 26, 37–48. Taylor, R.L. (1979) Religion and Utilitarianism: Mo Tzu on Spirits and Funerals. Philosophy East and West, 29, 337. Van Norden, B.W. (2007) Virtue Ethics and Consequentialism in Early Chinese Thought. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Vorenkamp, D. (1992) Another Look at Utilitarianism in Mo-Tzu’s Thought. Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 19, 423–443. Watson, B. (Trans.) (2003a) Han Feizi: Basic Writings. Columbia University Press, New York. Watson, B. (Trans.) (2003b) Mozi: Basic Writings. Columbia University Press, New York. Wong, D.B. (1989) Universalism Versus Love With Distinctions: An Ancient Debate Revisited. Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 16, 251–272.

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PART 2

Fanaticism in the Early Modern Period

5 SUPERSTITION, ENTHUSIASM, AND RADICAL ENLIGHTENMENT FROM HOBBES TO HUME Justin Steinberg Before composing his more sustained analyses of religion in the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion and Natural History of Religion, Hume published a short essay about two forms of “false religion”: “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm.”1 In this piece, he identifies several differences between these two “corruptions” of true religion. While superstition is said to arise from a “gloomy and melancholy” disposition, since dread and despair breed helplessness and credulity, enthusiasm is said to arise from a sense of “elevation and presumption” that leads one to regard “raptures, transports, and surprising flights of fancy” as sources of genuine religious insight (Hume 1985: 74). On this account, then, superstition and enthusiasm spring from opposing affective sources: fear and humility in the case of the former; overconfidence and swollen pride in the case of the latter. The main point of the essay, however, is not just to identify the affective roots of these corruptions, but to understand the socio-political impact of these conditions and the institutions and practices that nourish them.2 These are explored in the three reflections that constitute the bulk of the essay, which are roughly as follows. First, superstition is encouraged through anxiety, humiliation, and a sense of dependence that is stoked by priests, while enthusiasm is “not less or rather more contrary to [priestly power] than sound reason and philosophy” (Hume 1985: 75). Second, while enthusiasm is initially more “furious and violent” or antithetical to civil life than superstition, the former moderates over time, while the latter does not, making superstition the more uncivil pathology in the long run. And third, while superstition is hostile to civil liberty, enthusiasm is supportive of it. The final reckoning is that while superstition is deeply injurious to social and political life, enthusiasm, at least over time, is not. Indeed, in its anticlericalism and support of civil liberty, enthusiasm might be said to be salutary, even if false. While, on the surface, these seem like rather desultory, idiosyncratic observations, in this chapter, I aim to show that they capture, in distilled form, the radical enlightenment attitude toward religious corruption. Since “enthusiast” and “fanatic” were widely used interchangeably in the early modern period (including by Hume himself), the picture that emerges from this analysis complicates the view of fanatics as intolerant or inimical to civil society that is widely espoused today. In fact, as is clear in Hume’s remarks and in the 67

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relevant background sources, fanatics or enthusiasts were defenders of civil toleration and ardent opponents of the real enemies of civil society: superstition-promoting clerics. The chapter will be structured as follows. After some preliminary terminological remarks (Section 5.1), I turn to consider seventeenth century “enthusiast” movements and the radical enlightenment reception of them, first in England, taking Hobbes as a representative radical (Section 5.2), and then in the United Provinces, taking Spinoza as a representative radical (Section 5.3). I focus on the Anglo-Dutch context both because England and the United Provinces were hotbeds “fanatical” and anticlerical thought in the mid-seventeenth century, and because they supply a relevant backdrop for appreciating Hume’s remarks. I then return to Hume’s essay, presenting it as a kind of précis of the radical enlightenment assessment (Section 5.4). And in the concluding section (Section 5.5), I consider how the radical enlightenment analysis might inform our understanding of fanaticism today.

5.1  Enthusiasm, Fanaticism, Superstition, and the Radical Enlightenment While Hume takes the concepts of superstition and enthusiasm to be perspicuous, it is worth saying a bit about how he and his predecessors understood these terms. Enthusiasm was widely associated with early modern dissenting sects like Anabaptists, Mennonites, and Quakers, who challenged the existing (reformed) theologico-political order.3 What was common to these dissidents and emblematic of enthusiasm was a distrust of religious representation or mediation, either in the form of idols or of priestly emissaries of the divine word. Those who were labelled enthusiasts believed that individuals stood in an unmediated relationship with the divine, rendering them capable of receiving direct religious insight. To be an enthusiast was fundamentally to believe that through one’s “inner light” one can apprehend the word of God directly, without the need for rational or empirical corroboration. By allowing that all humans are potential vessels of divine inspiration, enthusiasts were often criticized for adopting a far too permissive or indiscriminate conception of prophecy and, indeed, were often themselves regarded as false prophets. In this period, “enthusiast” was used more or less interchangeably with “fanatic” and its linguistic equivalents (Latin: fanaticus; German, Schwärmer).4 Both epithets were directed at members of religious sects who believed in direct divine revelation and who were perceived as challenging, sometimes aggressively, existing moral and theological norms. Sometimes more is built into the concept of fanaticism, such as being single-minded in the pursuit of something of transcendental value,5 rejecting the institutions of civil society,6 or being (potentially violently) intolerant.7 But since the seventeenth century enthusiast or fanatic often defies these thicker conceptions, I propose that, we start with a thin conception and built more in only after we have studied some paradigmatic enthusiasts and their critics. Like “enthusiasm” and “fanaticism,” “superstition” was a term of abuse, in this case denoting a particular form of “false” religion involving rituals and ceremonies, engendering belief in the supernatural power of objects or figures (e.g., relics, talismans, amulets, etc.) for protecting, healing, and sanctifying. Practices that were regarded as superstitious typically involved religious authorities presiding over the rituals and unlocking quasi-magical or supernatural powers of objects/figures, thus making the laity dependent on, and in some sense subordinate to, the religious authorities or clergy.8 Consequently, superstition was associated with idolatry and priestly chicanery. In brief, then, the concepts of enthusiasm and superstition represented antipodal forms of false religion: enthusiasts rejected religious mediation, saw everyone as potential receptacles 68

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of divine inspiration, and rejected religious hierarchy and subordination; the superstitious looked to emissaries to orient themselves in relation to God, fearfully submitting to the power of intermediaries who would help them to navigate an enchanted world. There is one final terminological issue that I would like to address upfront, namely, how we are to understand the locution “Radical Enlightenment.” This classificatory term was introduced by Margaret Jacob in her book The Radical Enlightenment in 1981, and then further expounded by Jonathan Israel in his monumental study bearing the same title (sans article): Radical Enlightenment (2001). While Jacob and Israel understand and apply the concept in similar ways, there are some crucial differences. For Jacob, what defines the radicals was a commitment to a form of naturalism—whether materialist or pantheist—according to which all phenomena, including religious experience, are explicable through the basic operations of nature. This naturalism went hand in hand with a distrust of spiritual authority. On Israel’s account, which situates Spinoza as the great progenitor, the radical enlightenment included these elements along with political egalitarianism. By making egalitarianism a sine qua non of membership in the radical enlightenment, Israel sidelines religious critics like Hobbes and Hume from his account.9 And yet, there are deep affinities between thinkers like Hobbes, Spinoza, and Hume—especially in terms of their naturalisms and critiques of religion—that are neglected on this overtly political model. Since Jacob’s model enables us to track these affinities, rather than consigning the figures to different camps, when I use the concept of radical enlightenment, I am using Jacobean model, comprising those who embrace metaphysical naturalism, critique orthodox theism, and oppose ecclesiastical authority. My central claim is that members of this tradition, while critical of both enthusiasm and superstition, were far more concerned about superstition and its root causes than they were about enthusiasm and its causes. I will turn now to consider the radical enlightenment critique of enthusiasm and superstition in the Anglo-Dutch context.

5.2  Enthusiasm and Superstition in the English Context 5.2.1  Enthusiasm in Seventeenth-Century England To call the mid-seventeenth century a tumultuous period in English history would be an understatement. The civil war of the 1640s gave rise to a tense and unstable peace of the interregnum (1649–1660). In this uncertain climate, in which printing was more accessible and there was no censor, a flurry of novel religious and political thought emerged, along with a proliferation of pseudo-prophet figures who foretold the destruction of the antichrist and the second coming of Christ, some of whom even had the ear of Oliver Cromwell.10 These “prophets” included the founders, leaders, or prominent members of the various dissenting sects that came to be regarded as enthusiasts.11 From among the welter of dissenting movements, I will examine three groups—the Diggers, Ranters, and Quakers—who are particularly representative of “enthusiasm.” Viewing them in context will help us to understand why enthusiasts were perceived by some as a threat to civil order, while also enabling us to appreciate Hume’s assessment of their sociopolitical impact. The so-called Diggers were a group of social reformers that splintered off from the ­Levellers near the start of the interregnum period. Perhaps the central thesis of the ­Diggers—emblematized by the men who gathered to till the abandoned land at St. George’s Hill in 1649—was that land was to be cultivated collectively and property held in common. 69

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­ errard Winstanley, one of the foremost representatives of the movement, argued forceG fully and persistently that property, especially land, was part of the “common treasury,” and so should not be hived off or enclosed for private purposes. Winstanley claimed that the imperative to return land to the common treasury was revealed to him in a divine vision, and he cast his position in messianic terms: And all the strivings that is in mankind is for the earth, who shall have it; whether some particular persons shall have it and the rest have none, or whether the earth shall be a common treasury to all without respect of persons. And this is the battle that is fought between the two powers, which is property on the one hand, called the devil or covetousness, or community on the other hand, called Christ or universal love. And as Christ doth cast covetousness out of the heart, so property is cast out from amongst men, and mankind will not only become single-hearted again, but will walk in the light of pure reason and love, and never fall again into divisions. (Winstanley 2006: 268) This notion of a universal spirit of love is central to Winstanley’s pantheistic theology. On his account, God is the “universal love” that pervades all of creation, dwelling everywhere and in all things.12 So, while he invoked divine inspiration to ground his politics, his conception of God is fundamentally immanent or indwelling. And he thinks that “reason and equity” confirm his prophetic vision, since it will be apparent to any reasonable person that a law that permits a small segment of the population to deprive others of all means of subsistence is unjust. In these respects, Winstanley’s views resemble those of radical enlightenment theorists.13 He also shares with radical enlightenment theorists a deep-seated anticlericalism.14 Consider, for instance, the following parable from The Law of Freedom in a Platform, where the clergy (represented by the elder brother) are depicted as exploiting the fear and naivety of the innocent (younger brother) for their own gain: ‘Why’, saith the elder brother, ‘this is his Word, and if you will not believe it, you must be damned; but if you will believe it, you must go to heaven.’ Well, the younger brother, being weak in spirit and having not a grounded knowledge of the creation nor of himself, is terrified and lets go his hold in the earth, and submits himself to be a slave to his brother for fear of damnation in hell after death, and in hopes to get heaven thereby after he is dead; and so his eyes are put out, and his reason is blinded…this divining spiritual doctrine is a cheat; for while men are gazing up to heaven, imagining after a happiness or fearing a hell after they are dead, their eyes are put out, that they see not what is their birthrights, and what is to be done by them here on earth while they are living. (2006: 353) On Winstanley’s account, in order to shore up their own power, priests fill the minds of the laity with blinding and incapacitating fear that leads them to accede to their own subordination and to embrace the existing theologico-political order, including the scourge of private property, even when it runs contrary to their welfare. One group from whom Winstanley sought to distance himself was the Ranters. Like the Diggers, the Ranters were a ragtag group of dissenters who challenged the existing 70

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socio-political order. But whereas the Diggers challenged class relations and property rights, the Ranters challenged social and ethical mores. Their scandalous ethical views were rooted in an unabashedly antitrinitarian and pantheistic theology.15 Indeed, it was frequently reported that Ranters took themselves to be Gods. As receptacles of divine inspiration, they believed that anything they did “in light and love”—that is, while possessing the divine spirit—is without sin. Indeed, according to Laurence Clarkson, sin itself is “only a name without substance, [and] hath no being in God, nor in the Creature, but only by imagination.”16 No act is itself sinful or unclean; it is so only in the mind of the agent. Consequently, so he reasoned, if one imagines no sense of wrongness in the performance of an act, one is free from sin, regardless of what external authorities proclaim. For obvious reasons, Ranters were viewed as a threat to the moral order. Episcopalian Edward Hyde’s construal of Ranter doctrine captures this well: “That the acts of adultery, drunkenness, swearing, and the like open wickedness, are in their own nature as holy and righteous as the duties of prayer, and giving of thanks” (Cohn 1970: 292). Public fear of Ranter amoralism helped spark the Adultery and Blasphemy Acts (1650) under which many some Ranters were tried and imprisoned. These laws also led to the imprisonment of Quakers, who were, at the time, closely associated with the Ranters. The Quakers, like many other dissenting sects, appealed to divine inspiration to underwrite their faith and principles. George Fox, founder of Quakerism or the Society of Friends, claimed prophetic insight, forecasting various ills that would plague the English.17 This was no incidental feature of their religion. For the Quakers, as for the Ranters, the divine spirit or natural light was in all things and everyone; every creature had direct access to God. The emphasis on the inner light and on the capacity of all creatures to access the divine spirit went hand in glove with fervent anticlericalism.18 Early Quaker Edward Burrough decried all “earthly lordship and tyranny and oppression,” calling priests “the fountains of all wickedness abounding in the nations” who robbed the poor of land and labor.19 Others regarded clergymen as conjurers who deceived the masses for their own gain. And, while today Quakerism is associated with pacificism and quietism, early Quakers were in fact quite abrasive in their preaching, confronting and denouncing representatives of the established church and even disrupting their services. By assailing bastions of religious authority and adopting a range of “uncivil” practices—including refusing to doff their hats in the presence of “superiors,” addressing everyone with the informal “thou,” and refusing the “superstitious” practice of swearing oaths—they came to be regarded as socially noxious. A somewhat different way in which some Quakers challenged external spiritual authority was through questioning the divine origin of scripture. Like members of other dissenting sects, many Quakers regarded scripture as the source of moral parables and precepts, but certainly not the infallible word of God. Quaker Samuel Fisher lent scholarly support to this position in his The Rustic’s Alarm to the Rabbies (1660), claiming that far from being the unvarnished word of God, the canonical works are: “a bulk of heterogeneous writings, compiled together by men taking what they could find of the several sorts of writings that are therein, and…crowding them into a canon.”20 This, too, was regarded as a heretical and dangerous, a giant step in the direction of atheism. Quakers came to be seen as the very model of enthusiasts or fanatics. They claimed divine inspiration, rejected religious intermediaries and all forms of idolatry, including the worshipping of the texts of scripture, and were unabashedly irreverent toward civil 71

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mores and even civil authority. But they also seem quite close to the radical enlightenment ­tradition, as they were staunchly anticlerical, egalitarian, and, crucially, tolerant. Even if, by flouting social norms and challenging authorities, they disturbed the status quo, they were not intolerant or hostile to civil order as such.

5.2.2  Hobbes on Enthusiasm and Superstition As these “enthusiast” sects were emerging, Thomas Hobbes was working assiduously on his magnum opus: Leviathan.21 Hobbes was no ally of these dissenters. But, as we shall see, he found common ground with them in opposing the paramount threat to the state: an empowered and superstition-promoting clergy. Hobbes is quite dismissive of enthusiasm as such, which he treats as a kind of possession, whereby God purports to speak through the possessed (Lev. 8.25). He claims that such ravings should be regarded as the blathering of “lunatics” (e.g., Lev. 45.4) or, perhaps, epileptics (Lev. 34.18; Lev. 34.26; Lev. 12.19) and certainly not the word of God.22 Hobbes’s analysis of enthusiasm is part of a more general critique of prophecy. While he does not deny the gift of prophecy, he maintains that genuine prophecy is confirmed by two marks: performing miracles and not teaching anything contrary to the established religion (Lev. 32.7). Since the time of miracles has ceased (Lev. 32.9), the time of prophecy has as well. In this single stroke, Hobbes seems to undercut the claims of the profusion of prophets whose proclamations contributed to the turmoil of the civil war and interregnum periods.23 According to Hobbes, to the extent that professions of prophecy are sincere, they typically reflect a failure to distinguish dreams from waking experiences (Lev. 2.7–8). As for waking visions, they are mere “phantasms” born of fear. Interestingly, Hobbes thinks that the fear that breeds both false prophesy and superstition is largely the result of an empowered clergy, who use their wiles and their own proclaimed prophetic insight to induce a sense of vulnerability and credulity in the laity. Rather than worrying about the relatively isolated and powerless enthusiasts, Hobbes directs even his critique of prophecy at ambitious priests who arrogate power to themselves and, consequently, undermine state power and true religion (e.g., Lev. 36.19).24 In order to secure obedience and peace, then, we must rein in the “superstitious fear of Spirits” and “false Prophecies” by which “crafty ambitious persons abuse the simple people” (Lev. 2.8). The remedy, in short, is to disempower the clergy. Much of Leviathan can reasonably be seen as an assault on clerical power.25 In various ways and in different rhetorical registers, Hobbes argues for Erastianism, or the view that the civil sovereign alone has the right to regulate public affairs, including religious practices (e.g., Lev. 42.79). Priests who claim coercive power confuse the “kingdom of God,” which concerns only the next life, with the civil or temporal kingdom. Hobbes advances rightsbased, Scriptural, and consequentialist arguments for Erastianism. While Hobbes’s anticlericalism most explicitly targets the Catholic church (see Lev., Part 4), perhaps the more exigent targets were defenders of clerical authority within the reformed church. In many instances, Catholics function as stand-ins for Presbyterians, who advocated strong clerical authority and uniformity of religious practice.26 In Leviathan and Behemoth, Hobbes’s history of the English Civil War, he criticizes both Presbyterians and their opponents, the so-called Independents or Congregationalists, who opposed religious uniformity and robust forms of clerical authority. But he is especially withering in his critique of the Presbyterians. In passages reminiscent of Winstanley, Hobbes describes the 72

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Presbyterians as a “confederacy of deceivers that, to obtain dominion over men in this present world, endeavour by dark and erroneous doctrines to extinguish in them the light” (Lev. 44.1; cf. Lev. 47.4), bent on “abusing and putting out the light of the Scriptures” (Lev. 44.3), and “tak[ing] from young men, the use of Reason” (Lev. 47.27). Like Winstanley and the radical dissenters, Hobbes’s critique of clerical authority includes a critique of hierarchy and a rejection of the view that the laity depend on the clergy (Lev. 42.125). Instead, as Sandra Field has argued recently, Hobbes seeks to level the citizenry (Field calls this “repressive egalitarianism”), breaking up “informal power blocs,” leaving only relatively equal individuals subject to the supreme power of the civil sovereign.27 So, while the motivations behind Hobbes’s critique of hierarchy and clergy might be quite different from the sectarians, they shared core political goals. Hobbes was also aligned with them in denying the intrinsic authority of scripture. Like Fisher, he rejected the view that Moses was the sole author of the Pentateuch, claiming instead that it was the work of “divers men” (Lev. 33.20).28 To doubt a biblical claim is to doubt its human authors, not to doubt God, just as, “If Livy say the Gods made once a cow speak, and we believe it not, we distrust not God therein, but Livy” (Lev. 7.7). By denying the self-credentialing authority of scripture and claiming instead that the sovereign the sole judge of canonicity (Lev. 33.25), Hobbes simultaneously blocks a particularly pernicious form of “idolatry”—namely, the worshipping of scripture as revelation—while also depriving the church of the power of “Seducing of men by abuse of Scripture” (Lev. 44.3). Hobbes’s Erastian anticlericalism underwrites a form of tolerationism.29 Despite his reputation as the arch-authoritarian, Hobbes defends a conception of faith that lies beyond the reach of coercive power (Lev 42.9). According to him, we must distinguish outward religious practice, over which the sovereign has ultimate authority, from one’s faith or private beliefs, which can only be modified by persuasion, not force.30 And in the concluding chapter of Leviathan, he claims that after removing priestly restrictions on faith: [W]e are reduced to the independency of the primitive Christians, to follow Paul, or Cephas, or Apollos, every man as he liketh best. Which, if it be without contention…. is perhaps the best. First, because there ought to be no Power over the Consciences of men, but of the Word it selfe…and secondly, because it is unreasonable in them, who teach there is such danger in every little Errour, to require of a man endued with Reason of his own, to follow the Reason of any other man. (Lev. 47.20) Some scholars see this as evidence that Hobbes side with the Independents and their radical (enthusiast) progeny in the struggle for religious freedom.31 He certainly found common cause with them, especially in the 1660s when an empowered Anglican church helped to craft legislation restricting religious practice and prosecuting heresy.32 There are several points to underscore about Hobbes’s critique of religious corruption. First, while he regards both enthusiasm and superstition as pathologies, he is particularly worried about corruptions of religion that arise from an empowered clergy. While other British thinkers of the era—especially representatives of the more cautious and irenic moderate enlightenment—were preoccupied with the civic disruptions caused by the enthusiastic sects,33 Hobbes was in crucial respects aligned with the enthusiasts. Like them, he embraces a naturalistic metaphysics while denying that hierarchies between men are innate in origin. And, while Hobbes and the enthusiasts disagreed about the scope of political 73

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authority, they were united in their assessment of the greatest threat to civil life: clerical power. They denied the right of the clergy to punish, coerce, or impose uniformity of worship; they denied the divine authority of scripture, thereby undercutting clerical claims of distinctive interpretative authority; and they defended a conception of faith as lying beyond coercive authority.

5.3  Enthusiasm and Superstition in the Dutch Context 5.3.1  Enthusiasm in the Seventeenth-Century United Provinces Great Britain was not the only hub of eccentric religious thought in midcentury Europe. Across the North Sea, the newly founded Dutch Republic was also a breeding ground of heterodoxical thought. The early days of the de facto (but not yet de jure) republic, saw liberal Arminians breaking with orthodox Calvinists in ways formally set out in a “Remonstrance” (hence their other name: Remonstrants). Following a national synod, the Synod of Dort, the claims of the Remonstrance were repudiated and Remonstrants were removed from university positions and public offices. Still, religious dissent persisted in the wake of the Synod, giving rise to a kind of enthusiast fringe that rivalled England’s in boldness and heterogeneity. Like British enthusiasts, what bound them together were a vehement anticlericalism, a rejection of dogmatic creed and religious uniformity, a defense of religious freedom, and a belief in the direct accessibility of religious truth and the “internality” of faith. Among the groups that emerged out of the ashes of the Remonstrance were the Collegiants, a nonconfessional collection of thinkers who held regular “colleges” or meetings in which they studied scripture and discussed religious matters openly and with a free prophetic spirit.34 Important early figures in the movement were Millenarians Daniel de Breen and Adam Boreel, as well as certain outcast Mennonites, who were in the midst of an internal fissure.35 In many respects—from their commitment to the primacy of the “inner light,” their antihierarchical structure, and their general anticlericalism—Collegiants resembled Quakers. Unsurprisingly, then, when Quaker missionaries arrived in the Dutch Republic in the 1650s, they saw Collegiants as kindred spirits, even while engaging in polemics with them.36 Amongst these thinkers we find much of the intellectual circle of the most prominent and audacious representative of the radical enlightenment: Benedict Spinoza. Spinoza’s life and work was so completely entangled with these figures that one cannot easily isolate the particular strands of influence. It is possible that Spinoza met Boreel and fellow Millenarian Peter Serrarius through his early Rabbinical teacher Menasseh ben Israel.37 In the 1650s, Boreel and Serrarius, as well as the prominent Quaker missionary William Ames, forged ties with the Amsterdam Jewish community in part because they were convinced that the second coming of the messiah was near (many thought this would come in 1656) and this was to be preceded by mass conversion of Jews. Whether Spinoza met them while still a member of the Jewish community or after he was cast out through the cherem of 1656, he became closely associated with the Collegiants, with Serrarius serving as an intermediary in his correspondence with Henry Oldenburg, the secretary of the English Royal Society. In fact, Spinoza might have been at a Collegiant meeting at Serrarius’s house, along with several Quakers, when Boreel delivered a paper responding to an English Quaker who professed that he was the Messiah.38 This was, at any rate, his intellectual milieu. Some of Spinoza’s friends were Collegiants, including Mennonites Jarig Jelles and Pieter Balling. While they could have met through any number channels,39 what is known is that 74

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they all became close as members of the Amsterdam Collegiant community, and they remained close until Spinoza’s death. Balling translated some of Spinoza’s work into Dutch and Jelles wrote a preface to the publication of Spinoza’s Opera Posthuma, which contains correspondence with both Balling and Jelles. While the authorities worried that the Collegiants were Socinians (i.e., antitrinitarians) or even atheists, Jelles and Balling were unquestionably sincere, if unorthodox, religious thinkers. Jelles’s theological views, developed after a religious crisis led him to quit his job as a grocer, are spelled out in his Confessions of a Christian Faith (published posthumously in 1684), in which he argues that the truths of scripture as immediately accessible to all and that external religious performance and ceremonies are unnecessary for salvation.40 Balling’s views are expressed in his Light upon the Candlestick (1662), which was composed and published while they were all active participants in Collegiant circles. The reception of Balling’s anonymously published Candlestick is a fascinating story unto itself. While it seems to have been written in reaction to Quaker William Ames’s Mysteries of the Kingdom of God, it was initially taken to have been written by Ames itself, with an English translation being produced and published alongside Ames’ Kingdom, suggesting clear affinities between Balling’s theological views and Quakerism.41 Like the Quakers, Balling rejected clericalism and the mediated interpretation of scripture, regarding the “inner light” as the source of divine insight, writing: We direct thee then to look within thyself; that is, that thou oughtest to turn into, to mind, and have a regard unto that, which is within thee, viz., the light of truth, the true light which enlighteneth every man that cometh into the world.42 Balling is thus committed to an enthusiast epistemology.43 Spinoza’s relationship with the arch-enthusiasts, the Quakers, remains a matter one of considerable historical interest and speculation. When Ames travelled to the Dutch Republic, he was charged with finding someone who could translate two pieces about Jewish conversion by Margaret Fell, the so-called mother of the Quakers, into Hebrew. In a 1657 letter to Fell, Ames reports that he found a translator: a Jew that is “Cast out.”44 Richard Popkin has argued by elimination that the expelled Jew must have been Benedict Spinoza.45 If so, the Hebrew translation, which first appeared in 1658, would have been Spinoza’s first published work. Through this project, Spinoza might also have met Samuel Fisher. Fisher was in Amsterdam at this time on the same mission as Ames and he claimed to have spent hours arguing with Amsterdam Jews. He also appended his own appeal for Jewish conversion to Fell’s pamphlets. If Fisher and Spinoza did meet, one cannot help imagining that they discussed questions such as the divinity of scripture, since soon thereafter Fisher would publish his brash Rustic’s Alarm, containing arguments against scriptural authority that would be echoed and amplified in Spinoza’s Tractatus-Theologico Politicus [TTP] a decade later. While Spinoza’s interaction with the Quakers remains a matter of historical conjecture, his involvement in enthusiast circles lends plausibility to these proposals.46

5.3.2  Spinoza on Enthusiasm and Superstition While Spinoza clearly associated with “enthusiasts,” we should not infer that he was uncritical of this religious cast of mind. Though he rarely refers to “enthusiasm” or explicitly 75

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targets radical dissenting sects, his critique of false religion in the TTP reveals his distaste for both enthusiasm and superstition. However, like Hobbes, he is unquestionably more concerned about the effects of superstition in the form of idolatrous, ritualistic, and ­clerically-governed religious practice than he is about enthusiastic inspiration or prophecy. The closest thing to a direct critique of enthusiasm can be found in Spinoza’s analysis of prophets and prophecy in TTP, Chs. 1–2. Here, he maintains that prophecy depends entirely on the imagination [imaginatio], which he regards as the lowest form of cognition (2p40s). Prophets are possessed of vivid imaginations, and “those who have the most powerful imaginations are less able to grasp things by pure intellect” (TTP 2.1); so, prophets are not at all wise. “Prophecy” primarily reveals the disposition (e.g., distempers) of the proclaimer’s body rather than revealing God’s will or the operations of Nature (TTP 2.13–20).47 And, like Hobbes, Spinoza claims that most prophetic avowals should be treated as little more than reports of dreams or evidence of mental illness. Moreover, since prophetic insights are not demonstrably true or self-credentialing, they require external corroboration in the form of a “sign” and the possession of a moral character (TTP 2.10). Since what counts as a sign is necessarily contested,48 and since the clearest objective sign, namely, a miracle, is metaphysically impossible (TTP, Ch. 6), the central mark of a true prophet is moral propriety.49 This is of a piece with Spinoza’s conception of true religion more generally: one’s piety or faith is exhibited through obedience to proper authority and love [caritas] of one’s neighbor. By denying that prophets have special insight into God’s plans or wishes, he undercuts the epistemic grounds of enthusiasm. At the same time, though, he suggests that we should judge putative prophets according to their moral uprightness, in which case “true” prophets are not a threat to the state. By contrast, superstition and its sustaining causes are presented as the chief obstacles to peace and security. Spinoza’s anticlericalism is evident from the opening passages of the preface to the TTP, in which he examines the source of superstition. Like Hobbes before him and Hume after him, Spinoza traces superstition back to fear, specifically fear that arises when ambitious people (i.e., priests) use the tools of religion to stultify and subordinate the masses (TTP Preface.8). Consequently, like his radical enlightenment brethren and like the enthusiasts of his time, he is particularly concerned with limiting ecclesiastical power. We see this in his critique of idolatry and in his relegation of rituals and ceremonies to matters of salvific indifference. Attempts to discern God’s will from omens or “external signs” reveal commitment to a misguided anthropomorphic and providential notion of God.50 Such prognostications depend on projecting one’s own imaginings onto the mechanical operations of nature, “as if the whole of nature were as crazy as [the prognosticator]” (TTP Preface.2). Spinoza also directly rails against scriptural idolators, or those who “worship the books of Scripture rather than the Word of God itself” (TTP Preface.25), claiming that they convert religion into superstition (TTP 12.5). He thus agrees with those “enthusiasts” who deny scriptural authority, following Fisher and Hobbes in treating the “canonical” books of scripture as the product of various fallible, and perhaps even deceptive, human authors and editors (TTP, Chs. 8–12). As for the religious ceremonies found in Judaism, Catholicism, and orthodox Calvinism, Spinoza denies that they are necessary for faith, regarding them as mere tools of social regulation (TTP, Ch. 5).51 The observations are embedded within a larger critique clerical power.52 His denial of scriptural authority supports the more general thesis that we should look to scripture not for metaphysical insight, but for simple moral teachings that are accessible to all readers (TTP Chs. 13–14). By rejecting the view that scripture contains deep metaphysical wisdom, 76

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denying that ceremonies are essential to salvation, and treating the simple moral teachings of scripture as directly available to all, Spinoza deprives priests of the grounds for their claim to an elevated status. And in the later chapters of the work (TTP Chs. 16–19), he advances an Erastian argument reminiscent of Hobbes, marshaling conceptual arguments and historical lessons in defense of the view that the civil sovereign is the sole authority over external religious practices. And, once again like Hobbes, Spinoza regards strong sovereign authority as a way of protecting individuals from ambitious men who seek to establish fiefdoms of oppression within the state. Finally, more explicitly and robustly than Hobbes, Spinoza unites this Erastianism to a defense of toleration, maintaining that one’s conscience lies beyond the coercive power of the state and that people should be free to construe the basic tenets of universal faith however they wish, provided that they obey the state and practice loving-kindness toward others (TTP Chs. 14 and 20). So, while Spinoza’s critique of prophecy is an indictment of the claims of divinely inspiration made by enthusiasts, his theologico-political concerns align closely with theirs. Most importantly, he shares the view that an empowered clergy is the wellspring of superstition and persecution and the greatest threat to civic functioning. And, while Spinoza’s functionalist conception of faith—as that set of beliefs that conduce to obedience to God and love of one’s neighbor (TTP 14.14–21)—is somewhat different from the “inner light” of faith embraced by enthusiasts, Spinoza agrees that faith lies beyond the bailiwick of authorities, civil or religious, and regards attempts to enforce religious uniformity as counterproductive. Consequently, Spinoza had quite a bit of sympathy for the peaceable, tolerationist, nondenominational Collegiants. To be sure, he opposed spiritualists who called for a rejection of all forms of human authority, writing derisively of those who, on account of their religious views, “judge the laws of the state to be worse than evil” (TP 3/8).53 But he does not take theoretical challenges to civil authority to be especially worrying, since, theoretical commitments aside, most people remain responsive to threats and incitements, and so, on his analysis, remain good subjects. And he does not take such philosophical anarchism to be an essential feature of enthusiasm, as he makes clear in a letter to a former friend turned proselytizing Catholic irritant, Albert Burgh: “in every Church there are many very honorable men, who worship God with justice and loving- k ­ indness. For we know many men of this kind among the Lutherans, the Reformed, the Mennonites, and the Enthusiasts” (Epistle 76). So, while Spinoza is critical of enthusiastic assertions of inspiration and of seditious expressions of religious belief, he does not regard enthusiasm itself as a menace to the polity.54 Superstition, on the other hand, and the clericalism that undergirds it, are fundamental noxious to state functioning and must be eradicated (TTP 20.32).

5.4  Revisiting Hume’s Essay Let us now return to Hume’s essay on enthusiasm and superstition and the three observations that make enthusiasm more politically palatable, which, we will recall, are: (1) superstition supports, and is supported by, predatory priestly power, while enthusiasts oppose such “priestly bondage” (76); (2) enthusiasm, while initially “furious and violent,” becomes “gentle and moderate” over time, while superstition “steals in gradually and insensibly,” as priests subtly subordinate the unheeding masses (78); (3) enthusiasm is an “friend” to civil liberty, while superstition is an “enemy” (78). The upshot is that while enthusiasm is, over time, politically innocuous at worst and at best supportive of freedom and equality, superstition and its root, clericalism, are insidious threats to civic flourishing. 77

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While these remarks might initially appear unsystematic and idiosyncratic, in light of what we have seen, they look like synopses of radical enlightenment thought. Hobbes and Spinoza are both also critical of enthusiasm, but are far more concerned about superstition, not only because of the epistemic incapacitation it implies, but also because it is engendered by and supportive of the pernicious imposition of priestly power. For them, it is the ambitious and manipulative clergy who threaten to civil health, not the anticlerical and tolerant enthusiast. There is a fairly straightforward lineage that can be traced from Hobbes and Spinoza to Hume. Some have argued that this influence is direct. For instance, Paul Russell (1985, 2010) claims that Hume’s Treatise is directly modeled on Hobbes’s Elements of Law and that Hume shares the “irreligious” aims of his infamous predecessor. And Hume’s religious critics (e.g., Wishart and Beattie) certainly saw him as taking up the mantle of atheism from both Hobbes and Spinoza.55 The case for Spinoza’s influence on Hume is more equivocal. On the one hand, Hume’s critique of Spinoza in the Treatise appears to be based on Bayle’s Dictionnaire entry on the Dutchman. And yet, the strong affinities between Hume and Spinoza with respect to their treatments of the affects and their critiques of religion suggest a more direct line of influence, as other scholars have indicated.56 But even if one doubts that there is a direct line of influence, the case for mediated influence is absolutely compelling, as Hume’s religious thinking is clearly indebted to conduits of Hobbesian and Spinozist thought, perhaps most notably Anthony Collins and John Toland, whose writings were forged in the Hobbesio-Spinozist cauldron.57 It should come as no great surprise then that writings of radical enlightenment thinkers like Hobbes and Spinoza would illuminate and flesh out Hume’s seemingly desultory, essayistic remarks.

5.5  Theorizing Fanaticism: Some Lessons from the Radical Enlightenment The radical enlightenment treatment of enthusiasm or fanaticism calls into question some common assumptions about fanatics, who are often portrayed as hostile toward civil society and intolerant of others, sometimes violently so. In terms of the former claim, while it is true that early modern fanatics were often distrustful of mediating authorities and were prone to challenging—sometimes aggressively—social and moral norms, from the perspective of radical enlightenment thought, they were not the real disturbers of the peace, since they were generally opposed to spiritual authority and only rarely took up cause against civil authority. Indeed, they were great foes of the truly uncivil class: the clergy. And as for toleration, as we have seen, many seventeenth-century “fanatics” were fanatical precisely in pursuit of religious freedom. Once again, it was not the fanatics who were intolerant of others’ religious beliefs, it was their opponents: the clergy. One might think that the enthusiasts’ defense of religious toleration was merely selfprotective. After all, these radical sects were at the margins of society, far from the halls of power, and so they had prudential reasons for defending religious toleration. But to reduce their toleration to prudence would be to ignore the deep theoretical grounds for toleration. They consistently defended the privacy of faith, denying not only external coercion, e.g., in the form of punishing heretics or demanding uniformity of religious practice, but also internal coercion in the sense of punishing congregants who violate principles of the faith. One can contrast here the Jewish community that Spinoza was born into and the Collegiant community that he adopted. Both occupied precarious social positions, but while the former exerted internal force over their members, the latter did not—a difference in practice 78

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that reflected different conceptions of religious authority. On perfectly consistent theoretical grounds, then, many seventeenth century fanatics were among the most vocal advocates of toleration. We see from this that the “fanatics” of the seventeenth century complicate the picture of fanaticism as inimical to civil society or constitutively intolerant. There are, of course, several ways that one might still defend the view of fanatics as hostile to civil society or intolerant. For instance, one could deny that the putative “fanatics” of the seventeenth century were the true fanatics, insisting that the genuine fanatics were intolerant and hostile to civil society. But this looks like a “true Scotsman”-type argument, offering a kind of ad hoc stipulation in place of a defense.58 Another possible response would be to allow that the early modern conception of fanaticism differs from our conception. However, this is not a move that contemporary theorists of fanaticism are likely to make, since they take themselves to be identifying a transhistorical phenomenon, or a recurring social type (e.g., “demogogue”), rather than a contingent, context specific phenomenon or social type (e.g., “Juggalo”). Paul Katsafanas, for instance, takes himself to be analyzing the same phenomenon as early modern theorists when he accuses enlightenment accounts of fanaticism of “misfiring” because they admitted “paradigmatically peaceful and tolerant individual[s].”59 Indeed, one might think that the philosophical value—as opposed, say, to sociological interest—of such theorizing would be partially undermined if it turned out that our notion of “fanatic” picked out a culturallyspecific type, defined by properties that hang together in a wholly contingent manner. To concede that the early modern conception of “fanatic” differs from ours would, at the very least, raise questions about the philosophical value of pursuing the necessary and sufficient conditions of fanaticism. In addition to challenging pervasive assumptions about fanaticism, I think that the radical enlightenment critique of enthusiasm and superstition carries a salutary reminder about saliency biases and the structure of political power. While epistemically defective, normdefying enthusiasts are conspicuously disruptive, there is little reason to worry about them, especially when they are socially marginal and when they aggressively oppose insidious, institutionalized forms of oppression and subordination.60 To be sure, fanatics themselves sometimes become demagogues and oppressors. But in seventeenth-century England and the Netherlands, they were part of a movement that opposed oppressive and benighting institutions. We could use a bit more of this fanaticism today.61

Notes 1 The two sustained critiques were composed around 1750, though the former was only published posthumously and the latter was not published until 1757. “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm” appeared in his collection Essays, Moral and Political (1741), which was one of the few works that Hume describes as having met a favorable reception in his autobiographical piece, “My Own Life.” 2 For discussions of institutional contributions to these corruptions, see McIntyre (1999) and Bell (1999). 3 Hume lists Quakers, Anabaptists, Camisards, Levellers, and Covenanters among the “enthusiasts” or “fanatical sects” (1985). 4 For a representative case of the identification of enthusiast and fanatic, see H. More (1662). 5 See Martinich (2000: 419) and Passmore (2003: 213). 6 See especially Colas (1997). 7 See Katsafanas (2019), Martinich (2000), and Colas (1997). For a discussion of the early modern association of fanaticism with intolerance, see Laursen (2012).

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Justin Steinberg 8 See Thomas (1971: 32). 9 Israel gives other, non-political, reasons for downplaying Hobbes’s place in the radical enlightenment position (1999:159, 602). For instance, he oddly and mistakenly suggests that Hobbes was a supporter of ecclesiastical authority (for rebuttals, see Malcolm 2002: 535–537 and Curley 2007). Israel also undersells Hobbes’s influence on later generations of English deists (see Carmel 2018; Champion 2003; Malcolm 2002, ch. 14). 10 See Thomas (1971: 409) and Jacob (2006: 37). 11 For a rich and fascinating study of these dissenting movements, see Hill (1972). 12 See e.g., Winstanley (2006: 219). 13 Consider Hill’s gloss on Winstanley: “if God is everywhere, if matter is God, then there can be no difference between the sacred and the secular: pantheism leads to secularism” (1972: 109). 14 See Thomas (1971: 70) and Hill (1972: 102). 15 See primary literature in appendix to Cohn (1970), esp. Bauthumley (p. 304), Clarkson (p. 311), and the portrayal by critics (esp. 290–293). 16 In Cohn (1970: 314). 17 See Thomas (1971: 140). 18 See e.g., Hill (1972: 177, 183). 19 Cited in Hill (1972: 183). 20 Quoted in Popkin (1985: 229). 21 For more about the composition of Leviathan, see Malcolm (2002: 19). All references to Leviathan are to chapter and section in Hobbes (1994) (e.g., “Lev. 2.8” refers to Hobbes 1994, Ch. 2, Section 8). 22 Hobbes rejects divine possession as plainly as he rejects possession by the devil (see Lev ch. 45). 23 For a good discussion of Hobbes and prophecy, see Hoekstra (2004). 24 See Hoekstra (2004: 131–132). See Hobbes (1990: 53). 25 See Collins (2005) and Tuck (1993). 26 See Tuck (1993: 331–332). 27 Field (2020). 28 He is somewhat more cautious when it comes to the New Testament (for a discussion, see Curley 1992: 569). For an informative essay situating Hobbes amongst other critics of scriptural authority, see Malcolm (2002, ch. 12). 29 The extent of which has been the topic of much scholarly debate in recent years. See Ryan (1988), Tuck (1990), Curley (2007), and Bejan (2016). For more on the connection between Hobbes’s anticlericalism and his toleration, see Collins (2016) and Tuck (1993). 30 See e.g., Hobbes (1990: 62). 31 See Collins (2005: 6, 2016) and Tuck (1990, 1993, esp. 335–336, 342–344). 32 Sensing that his own writings would be investigated for heresy, he composed a series of works between 1666 and 1670 meant to push back against the heresy hunting that imperilled him and the radicals alike. See Springborg (1994) and Malcolm (2002: 23). 33 For discussions of the anxieties of moderate enlightenment thinkers, like Locke and the Cambridge Platonists, in the face of the epistemic and political challenges posed by “enthusiasts” and kindred radical pantheists and materialists, see Jacob (2006: 43–45), Popkin (1992: 97) and Fix (2014). 34 Fix (2014). 35 See Fix (2014) and Kolakowski (2004: 44n2). 36 See Popkin (1992, ch. 7) and Nadler (1999: 139ff). 37 For a good discussion of the sense in which ben Israel can be said to be Spinoza’s “teacher,” see Nadler (2019). 38 Nadler (1999: 160). 39 They might have met through mercantile networks as young men, through the Collegiant circle, or through Francis van den Enden, Spinoza’s subversive Latin instructor (see Nadler 1999: 168). 40 Kolakowsi (2004: 68) and Nyden-Bullock (2007, Ch. 3). 41 See Van Cauter and Rediehs (2013: 109) and Popkin (1992: 133). 42 Quoted in Nyden-Bullock (2007: 49). 43 There is some dispute regarding Spinoza’s influence on Balling and Jelles. See Fix (2014) thinks that Spinoza helped to move Collegiants in a more rationalistic direction; see Van Cauter and Rediehs (2013) think that Balling’s Candlestick remains closer to Quaker philosophy than to Spinoza’s rationalism.

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Superstition, Enthusiasm, and Radical Enlightenment 4 Popkin (1992: 127–128) and Nadler (1999: 159). 4 45 Popkin (1992, Ch. 7). 46 See Popkin (1985, 1992) and Clausen-Brown (2019) explores textual parallels between Fell’s translated works and Spinoza’s remarks about Judaism in the TTP. 47 All references to Spinoza are to 1985–2016. References to TTP are to chapter and section. 48 James (2012: 62–63). 49 The reduction of the prophet to a good moral leader outraged even liberal readers like the Hobbesian Lambert van Velthuysen, who worried that Spinoza had no basis for denying “imposters” like Mohammed (Ep. 42). 50 In Ethics 1 Appendix, Spinoza declares belief in an anthropomorphic God to be the root of prejudices. 51 In his notes to Spinoza 1985–2016, Curley claims: “In rejecting these Christian ceremonies, Spinoza’s position resembles that of the Quakers” (at iii.76) 52 For a fuller analysis, see Steinberg (2018, Ch. 6). 53 A.G. Wernham regards this as a dig at the Mennonites (see Curley’s notes to Spinoza 1985–2016, at iii.288). 54 Kant called Spinoza a fanatic for thinking that we can have non-discursive knowledge. While there are difficult interpretative questions surrounding Spinoza’s notion of intuitive knowledge, it certainly does not amount to a mere feeling of inspiration, and, arguably, is just a more immediate way of apprehending what can be known demonstratively. 55 See Russell (1985: 59). 56 See Baier (1993), Klever (1993) and Russell (2010). 57 See Malcolm (2002, Ch. 13), Champion (2003), Jacob (2006), Russell (2010) and Carmel (2018). 58 See e.g. Passmore, who acknowledges socially salutary forms of fanaticism, but dubs this view “soft fanaticism” (2003: 222). 59 2019: 10; cf. 2, 18. Of course, I have claimed that from the perspective of the radical enlightenment, it is quite right to admit that fanatics can be peaceful and tolerant. 60 The critic of fanaticism might take this to reveal the contingency of the fanatic’s salutary social function. On such a reading, socially divisiveness and the threat of violence is intrinsic to fanaticism, even if fanaticism produces positive social effects when fanatics are themselves relatively powerless and when they happen to oppose more deeply uncivil and intolerant forces. To be sure, similar worries about the potential downside of fanaticism underlie the ambivalent analyses of Hobbes, Spinoza, and Hume. Nevertheless, this objection is somewhat blunted by the fact that many early modern fanatics abjured the wielding of power (even internally) as a matter of principle and took themselves to be constitutively, and not merely accidentally, opposed to a truly noxious social force, namely, priestly oppression. Thanks to Paul Katsafanas for pressing me on this matter. 61 Thanks to Karolina Hübner and Paul Katsafanas for helpful feedback on an earlier draft.

Works Cited Baier, Annette (1993) “David Hume, Spinozist,” Hume Studies 19.2: 237–252. Bejan, Teresa M. (2016) “Difference without Disagreement: Rethinking Hobbes on ‘Independency’ and Toleration,” The Review of Politics 78.1: 1–25. Bell, Martin (1999) “Hume on Superstition,” in Religion and Hume’s Legacy, eds. D.Z. Phillips and Timothy Tessin. New York: St. Martin’s: 153–170. Carmel, Elad (2018) “Hobbes and Early English Deism,” in Hobbes on Politics and Religion, eds. Laurens van Apeldoorn and Robin Douglass. Oxford: Oxford University Press: 202–218. Champion, Justin (2003) Republican Learning. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Clausen-Brown, Karen (2019) “Spinoza’s Translation of Margaret Fell and his Portrayal of Judaism in the Theological-Political Treatise,” The Seventeenth Century 34.1: 89–106. Cohn, Norman (1970) The Pursuit of the Millennium. New York: Oxford. Colas, Dominique (1997) Civil Society and Fanaticism. Trans. Amy Jacobs. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Collins, Jeffrey (2016) “Thomas Hobbes’s Ecclesiastical History,” in The Oxford Handbook of Hobbes, eds. Al P. Martinich and Kinch Hoekstra. New York: Oxford, 520–544.

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Justin Steinberg Collins, Jeffrey (2005) The Allegiance of Thomas Hobbes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Curley, Edwin (2007) “Hobbes and the Cause of Religious Toleration,” in The Cambridge Companion to Hobbes’s Leviathan, ed. Patricia Springborg. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 309–334. Curley, Edwin (1992) “‘I Durst Not Write So Boldly’ or, How to Read Hobbes’ Theological–Political Treatise,” in Hobbes e Spinoza, ed. Daniela Bostrenghi. Napoli: Bibliopolis: 497–593. Field, Sandra Leonie (2020) Potentia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fix, Andrew Cooper (2014). Prophecy and Reason. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hill, Christopher (1972) The World Turned Upside Down. London: Penguin. Hobbes, Thomas (1994) Leviathan. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Hobbes, Thomas (1990) Behemoth. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Hoekstra, Kinch (2004) “Disarming the Prophets: Thomas Hobbes and Predictive Power,” Rivista di Storia della Filosofia 59.1: 97–153. Hume, David (1985) Essays Moral, Political, and Literary. New York: Liberty Fund. Israel, Jonathan (2001) Radical Enlightenment. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jacob, Margaret (2006) The Radical Enlightenment. Second Edition. Lafayette, LA: Cornerstone. James, Susan (2012) Spinoza on Philosophy, Religion, and Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Katsafanas, Paul (2019) “Fanaticism and Sacred Values,” Philosophers’ Imprint 19: 1–20. Klever, Wim (1993) “More about Hume’s Debt to Spinoza,” Hume Studies 19.1: 55–74. Kolakowski, Leszek (2004) ‘The Two Eyes of Spinoza’ and other Essays. South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press. Laursen, John Christian (2012) “Intolerance of Fanatics in Bayle, Hume, and Kant,” in Paradoxes of Religious Toleration in Early Modern Political Thought, eds. John Christian Laursen and María José Villaverde. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books: 177–192. Malcolm, Noel (2002) Aspects of Hobbes. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Martinich, Aloysius Patrick (2000) “Religion, Fanaticism, and Liberalism,” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 81: 409–425. McIntyre, Jane L. (1999) “Passion and Artifice in Hume’s Account of Superstition,” in Religion and Hume’s Legacy,” eds. D.Z. Phillips and Timothy Tessin. New York: St. Martin’s: 171–184. More, Henry (1662) Enthusiasmus Triumphatus, printed by J. Flesher. London. Nadler, Steven (2019) “Spinoza and Menasseh ben Israel: Facts and Fictions,” Journal of the History of Ideas 80.4: 533–554. Nadler, Steven (1999) Spinoza: A Life. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nyden-Bullock, Tammy (2007) Spinoza’s Radical Cartesian Mind. London: Continuum. Passmore, John Arthur (2003) “Fanaticism, Toleration, and Philosophy,” Journal of Political Philosophy 11.2: 211–222. Popkin, Richard (1992) The Third Force in Seventeenth-Century Thought. Leiden: Brill. Popkin, Richard (1985) “Spinoza and Samuel Fisher,” Philosophia 15: 219–236. Russell, Paul (2010) The Riddle of Hume’s Treatise. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Russell, Paul (1985) “Hume’s Treatise and Hobbes’s The Elements of Law,” Journal of the History of Ideas 46: 51–64. Ryan, Alan (1988) “A More Tolerant Hobbes,” in Justifying Toleration, ed. Susan Mendus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 37–59. Spinoza, Benedict de (1985–2016) The Collected Works of Spinoza vol 1–2, ed. by Edwin Curley. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Springborg, Patricia (1994) “Hobbes, Heresy and the Historia Ecclesiastica,” Journal of the History of Ideas 55: 553–571. Steinberg, Justin (2018) Spinoza’s Political Psychology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thomas, Keith (1971) Religion and the Decline of Magic. New York: Scribner’s Sons. Tuck, Richard (1993) Philosophy and Government 1572–1651. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tuck, Richard (1990). “Hobbes and Locke on Toleration,” in Thomas Hobbes and Political Theory, ed. Mary G. Dietz, Lawrence: University Press of Kansas. Van Cauter, Jo and Laura Rediehs (2013) “Spiritualism and Rationalism in Dutch Collegiant Thought,” Journal of Early Modern Intellectual Culture and Its Sources 40.2: 105–175. Winstanley, Gerrard. (2006) ‘The Law of Freedom’ and other Writings. Cambridge: Cambridge ­University Press.

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6 LOCKE ON FANATICISM1 Douglas Casson

John Locke was uncomfortable with the term fanatic. In his Essay on Toleration (1667), he suggests avoiding the word entirely since describing diverse groups of religious dissidents as fanatics provides them with a unified political identity. The strategic aim, Locke insists, should be to keep them divided (Locke 1997: 153). Here we glimpse an important aspect of Locke’s approach. For him fanaticism was not simply a religious or philosophical puzzle; it was a political problem. Yet in spite of these concerns, he occasionally referenced fanatics and zealots in his published and unpublished writings, especially in his work on toleration. He also came to employ a more technical term, “enthusiast,” to describe someone who claims to receive truths directly from God unsupported by external evidence and unmediated by any political, ecclesiastical, or even textual authority. Locke believed that enthusiasm could be found among many religious groups and even philosophical schools. Yet he was especially concerned with the way the phenomenon manifested itself among a group of religious dissenters known as the Society of Friends or the Quakers (Locke 1997: 289–291). In fact, as Peter Anstey has recently shown, Locke had Quakers in mind not only when composing an early draft of the Essay Concerning Human Understanding in 1671, but also when he wrote the chapter, “Of Enthusiasm,” which he added to the fourth edition in 1700 (Anstey 2019). Visions of Quakers seemed to haunt him throughout his life. In one of his first letters, written in Oxford around 1654, Locke cryptically warns that “Aristotle and Scotus cannot secure us from” the “Quakers here among us” (Locke 1978: vol 1, 17). Who were these Quakers who threatened the very foundations of Oxford’s intellectual edifice? Consider Elizabeth Fletcher, a 17-year-old girl who caused a scandal in Oxford around the same time Locke wrote that first letter. Fletcher experienced what Quakers called “convincement.” Guided by her inner light, she became convinced to shed her clothes as well as her shame and social status and walk naked through the streets. Quakers called this peculiar form of witness “going naked as a sign.” By going naked, Fletcher signaled her detachment from her old self, her renunciation of worldly honor, and her obedience to God. Her old self had been emptied out, annihilated, and she had been made anew (Braithwaite 1912: 158). As the movement grew, Quakers throughout the country continued to shock – interrupting church services, rejecting the authority of courts, and refusing to follow norms 83

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of language, gender, and dress. In letters to his father and friends, Locke complained repeatedly about these troublemakers (Locke 1978: vol 1, 41–42, 44, 84, 98, 145). So when he wrote in 1659, “We are all Quakers here and there is not a man but thinks he alone hath this light within and all besids stumble in the darke,” it is clear he did not mean it as praise (Locke 1978: vol 1, 123). He is expressing worry. He also seems to be introducing a puzzle that would trouble him throughout his life. Locke saw Quaker enthusiasm as an extraordinary danger, not only to the well-ordered mind but also the well-ordered polity. Yet he also recognized that this extraordinary danger as rather ordinary. He knew that the yearning to overcome one’s intellectual limitations, and experience a god’s-eye view of the universe is hardly unique. In fact, the tendency to seek to equate one’s own experiences, opinions, or convictions with the structures of the cosmos might even be universal. Despite his nod to its universality, Locke spent a great deal of energy later in his life distinguishing enthusiasm from the rational self-regulation that he championed. Locke wasn’t alone. The enthusiast had become a stock character, providing many of his contemporaries with a polemical shorthand to distinguish their own reasonableness from the irrationality, superstition, and coercion of religious zealotry. The character of the enthusiast was, in Pocock’s phrase, “the antiself of the Enlightenment,” a constitutive other against which modernity could define itself (Pocock 1997). The term, enthusiasm, stems from the Greek, en theos, which means “in god” or inspired. It appears in several Platonic dialogues, most notably the Phaedrus, which explores how prophets, poets, and lovers all claim a type of divine inspiration. Plato considers here the possible benefits of such inspiration, “the greatest of blessings come to us through madness, when it is sent as a gift of the gods” (Plato 1925: 244a). For early modern thinkers such as Locke, divine madness was not so much a blessing as a curse. The widespread use of “enthusiast” as an all-purpose term of abuse reveals a persuasive concern with the distinction between rational and self-regulated belief and irrational and unregulated belief (see Heyd 1995). As Jason Frank points out, “enthusiasm stands at the center of one of the formative theological and political debates of Western modernity” (Frank 2005, 374). For optimistic defenders of modern disenchantment, the ascendancy of the rational, self-regulating subject over the irrational, unpredictable enthusiast represents the triumph of liberating reason over religious imposition (Colas 1997; Goldsmith 2022). By defining enthusiasm as the irrational other, early modern thinkers sought to promote epistemic humility and resist messianic politics. Yet skeptics have pointed out how the language of enthusiasm and fanaticism aimed to delegitimize and marginalize radical dissenting voices (Toscano 2017; Poe 2022). By dismissing opponents as enthusiasts, defenders of established social structures could ignore serious challenges and shore up support for political authorities (Cavanaugh 2011). Even those who were not predisposed toward radical politics, such as David Hume, recognized that enthusiasts were driven by a yearning for emancipation, which could have beneficial consequences (Hume 1985). Locke’s own student, the Third Earl of Shaftesbury, distinguished between justified and unjustified enthusiasm in his Letter Concerning Enthusiasm (1708) in order to defend a sensibility that transcends cold, rational calculation (Shaftesbury 2001). This distinction would influence German philosophers, starting with Christoph Weiland and including Immanuel Kant, who would differentiate between the inspiring power of enthusiasm and the dangerous superstition of fanaticism (Poe 2022). Yet for Locke and his contemporaries, enthusiasm represented a threat to the intellectual structures and political arrangements that they sought to defend. Quaker enthusiasts were so unsettling because their appeal to an inner light seemed to insulate them from critique, 84

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enabling them to take any passion, interest, or conviction they might experience as a direct message from the divine. Revelation rightly understood, Locke insisted, does not change the fundamental nature of how we think or interact with those around us: “God when he makes the Prophet does not unmake the Man” (Locke 1975: IV.xix.14: 704). However, for Quakers – and they could appeal to a long tradition from St Paul to that famous Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, John Donne – the whole point of revelation was to unmake the man. Revelation releases the ego from sinful enslavement and transforms the self into a new, sanctified being. The Quakers’ appeal to an inner light presents an unsettling alternative to Locke’s rational self-regulating agent. Yet it also threatens the political structures which would allow for this rational agent to flourish. Those who understand themselves to be channeling the will of God will seek to unmake society as well. It is the persistence of this type of enthusiasm, as a potentially universal phenomenon, that haunts Locke’s thinking and ultimately raises doubts about his optimistic view of rational self-regulation. My account can be summed up in three interrelated claims, which I hope to clarify in three sections of this chapter. 1 For Locke, the problem with enthusiasm is not intensity of belief or even direct communication with God, but the collapse of mediating spaces within the mind and polity. 2 Locke offers two very different accounts of the source of this collapse – on one hand the enthusiast is guilty of intellectual malfeasance and on the other hand the enthusiast suffers from a seemingly universal mental pathology. 3 Without choosing between these accounts, Locke advocates at least two disparate responses, training and toleration. These responses represent distinct and potentially conflicting strategies for sustaining mediating spaces in the mind and polity. Yet neither strategy is able to eliminate the threat of enthusiasm.

6.1  The Collapse of Mediating Spaces It might seem strange that the young Locke, safely ensconced in the intellectual and cultural privilege of Oxford, would concern himself with a fringe group of religious zealots. It is even stranger that a mature Locke, who had witnessed the transformation of Quakers from radical sectarians to moderate dissenters over his lifetime and had formed lasting friendships with prominent Quakers such as Benjamin Furly, would continue to be unsettled by them. Yet there was something about the Quakers that represented a genuine threat, not only to the religious and political authorities of his day, but also to his assumptions about what it meant to be a responsible and reasonable individual. Of course, Locke was not alone in worrying about the Quakers. A wide range of critics, from Calvinist Puritans to High Church Anglicans, saw in the Society of Friends a resurgence of the millennial sects that had upended Germany during the Peasant Wars and Anabaptist rebellion more than a century earlier. Inspired by Martin Luther’s rejection of the mediating role of priests and many of the church’s sacraments, one of Luther’s followers, Thomas Müntzer, insisted that the holy spirit spoke not only through scripture but also through dreams and visions. Müntzer understood himself to be following Luther’s lead, when he publicly rejected both secular and ecclesiastical power, and lead an army of peasants to overthrow the nobility. Through armed revolt, he hoped to establish the kingdom of God on earth. 85

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Luther was horrified by these radicals and coined the term Schwärmer to describe those who ignore the gap between their own judgment and divine understanding and seek to eliminate the interval between the kingdom of God and the earthly kingdom. He and his collaborator, Philip Melanchthon, used the term interchangeably with fanatic and enthusiast. As Dominique Colas points out, Melanchthon was the first to oppose the fanaticus homo to societas civilis, or “civil society,” in a commentary on Aristotle’s Politics (Colas 1997: 8). Fanatics are those who reject the mediating role of civil society by appealing to direct communication with God. They ignore the gap between their own judgment and divine understanding and seek to eliminate the interval between the city of God and the terrestrial city. In fact, Luther’s doctrine of the two kingdoms – that the earthly kingdom is distinct from the kingdom of God and necessary to restrain evil in this world – was articulated in large part in response to the threat of the Schwärmer. The problem with Müntzer is that he fails to maintain the distinction between the earthly and divine kingdoms. Luther’s response to Müntzer and his followers was brutal – he called on political authorities to put down the rebellion as swiftly and violently as possible – “let anyone strike, choke, and slay” the peasants “secretly or openly” (Luther 1908: 358). He saw the peasant revolt as a diabolical challenge to the mediating role of the political rulers. As William Cavanaugh points out, “Fanaticism was in its origins a challenge to the power of the civil authorities to mediate Christian identities to the Christian masses” (Cavanaugh 2011: 230). Although the Quakers never posed the immediate political threat of Müntzer and the revolting peasants, Locke’s contemporaries saw disturbing similarities between Quakers and the Schwärmer. Frederick Spannheim, a theologian from Leiden, made this connection explicitly in England’s Warning by Germanies Woe (1646). Subsequent treatments of enthusiasm, such as Meric Casaubon’s Treatise Concerning Enthusiasm (1655) and Henry More’s Enthusiasmus Triumphatus (1656), continued to emphasize its political dangers as they shifted their focus from diabolical possession toward imbalanced humors (see Heyd 1995: 10 on the “medicalization of the critique of enthusiasm”). It was in this context that Locke encountered one of the founders of the Quaker movement, James Nayler. In a carefully choreographed provocation, Nayler rode into Bristol in 1656 accompanied by three men and three women who announced him as the messiah, singing hosannas, and throwing garments before him (Damrosch 1996). He was arrested, charged under the Blasphemy Act of 1650, and publicly questioned in an unprecedented hearing before Parliament. Locke attended the proceedings and was present when Nayler was asked whether he claimed to be God. Nayler responded with the same language of selfemptying, self-annihilation that young Elizabeth Fletcher and George Fox used (Damrosch 1996: 96). Nayler said that his old self was no more; God was now in him and worked through him. In a letter to his father describing the proceedings, Locke expressed frustration with Nayler and his associates. He writes, they spoke “with a great deal of suttlety” and hid behind the “cover and cunning of that language which others and I believe they themselves scarce understand.” Locke ends his letter with a sigh, “I am weary of these quakers” (Locke 1978: 44). Yet the figure of the Quaker, and I suspect Nayler himself, came to play a crucial role in Locke’s subsequent thinking. Nayler and his followers represented for him the type of spiritual overreach, antinomian fanaticism, that characterized enthusiasm. When Locke rejected the idea of toleration in 1660 because it would “turn loose the tyranny of religious rage,” he explicitly referenced Quakers (Locke 1997: 22). When he began to question religious imposition in the “Essay Concerning Toleration” (1667), he warned that seemingly 86

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trivial matters, such as Quakers “keeping on their hats,” can “unite a great number of men … and thereby endanger the government” (Locke 1997: 148–49). In his notes on Stillingfleet (1681), he equated the Quaker’s appeal to an inner light with Roman Catholic doctrines of infallibility. Locke even hinted that if they could, Quakers would use the magistrate’s power like any other group of fanatics “to force men to keep in their churches” (Locke 1997: 375). When he visited the Labadists in Holland, who like the Quakers appealed to an “inner light,” he noted that they expected “perfect submission” and were not disposed to answer questions about their beliefs or practices (Locke 1997: 295). So when Locke added his chapter on enthusiasm to the fourth edition of the Essay, he was drawing on decades of thinking about the doctrines and the practices of Quakers. Although he referenced Quakers directly in an early draft, his decision to use the general term, enthusiasm, instead of the name of a particular sect, is evidence that he sought to describe a phenomenon that extended beyond the Society of Friends. Peter Anstey has recently argued that a focus on Locke’s response to Quakers can help scholars overcome an impasse between those who think that the main target of the chapter is philosophical enthusiasm and those who think it is religious enthusiasm (Anstey 2019). Thomas Lennon has argued that Locke had Cartesians, especially Nicolas Malebranche and his English follower John Norris, in his sights when he described enthusiasm (Lennon 1993). Nicholas Jolley responded to Lennon, arguing that Locke was focused on religious and not philosophical matters, balancing the attack on Catholic right found in his first edition focus on innate principles with an attack on the Puritan left, among whom he includes Quakers (Jolley 2003: 182–183; Jolley 2016: 91). Anstey’s overwhelming evidence supports Jolley’s religious reading of the chapter. Yet it does not necessarily disprove Lennon’s philosophical reading. In fact, the religious and philosophical expressions of enthusiasm seem to be closely related, especially in the case of Malebranche and Norris. From Locke’s perspective, their philosophical enthusiasm is not distinct from religious enthusiasm, but rests on the same presumption. Locke also witnessed it among contemporary Platonists. His earliest reflections on enthusiasm as an overarching category, recorded in a letter to Damaris Cudworth, argued that the Cambridge Platonist John Smith was an enthusiast (Locke 1978: no. 696; Locke 1997: 289–290). Locke and Lady Masham also seem to have discussed Malebranche and the Malbranchian, John Norris, in the context of enthusiasm. As Victor Nuovo points out, “It would not be farfetched to suppose that Locke and Lady Masham were engaged in a common project in which enthusiasm was a foil” (Nuovo 2010: 142–143). Locke came to believe that the danger of enthusiasm does not rest on any particular proposition or set of propositions that the enthusiast might embrace. The danger of enthusiasm rests on the threat it poses to the conception of the mind as a mediating space. At the beginning of the Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke announces that his project requires a certain detachment from our own understanding in order to recognize its limits: “The Understanding, like the Eye, whilst it makes us see, and perceive all other Things, takes no notice of it self. And it requires Art and Pains to set it at a distance, and make it its own object” (Locke 1975: I.i.1: 43). Locke’s project involves setting our faculties at a distance so that we can distinguish ourselves from the ideas, passions, or beliefs that we might experience through those faculties. This type of self-estrangement is neither natural nor comfortable; it requires “Art and Pains.” We have to work hard to maintain a space – an insulating buffer – between ourself as judge or agent and ourself as the ideas, passions, or beliefs that appear or are formed in our minds. It is through the maintenance of this buffer that we are able to exercise our power to suspend and examine the beliefs that 87

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come before us (Chappell 2007). In Locke, we see a particularly detailed defense of what Charles Taylor calls the bounded or “buffered self” of the modern, secular world (Taylor 2007: 27, 37–42). Instead of viewing ourselves as porous receptacles of diabolical influence or melancholic contagion, Locke wants to convince us to think of ourselves as buffered agents sitting apart and in judgment of any ideas that appear before us in our mind. We cannot be reduced to our body’s passions, convictions, and conceits. We should be able to disengage from them – suspend our judgment – and determine whether we want to accept or reject them. In fact, Locke believes that the rational agent has a duty to maintain this mediating space, especially in the case of religious belief. Enthusiasts collapse this buffered or mediating space by refusing to hold an alleged revelation at a distance. Notice that this collapse of the mediating space of the mind – the eliminating of the buffer of judgment – is parallel to the collapse of the mediating space of the civil society in which political authorities serve as a buffer between the kingdom of God and the earthly kingdom. The deepest and most profound truths – the truths of the divine kingdom – must be filtered through our frail and faulty faculties – the structures of the earthly kingdom. Locke’s account of the mind is – in a sense – an internalization of Lutheran doctrine of the two kingdoms. It is not that Locke categorically rejects the possibility of immediate inspiration. He writes, I am far from denying, that GOD can, or doth sometimes enlighten Mens Minds in the apprehending of certain Truths, or excite them to Good Actions by the immediate influence and assistance of the Holy Spirit, without any extraordinary Signs accompanying it. (Locke 1975: IV.xix.16: 705) It is conceivable to Locke that God could communicate with us by placing ideas directly in our minds. And at first blush this seems it seems such immediate inspiration could be something like Locke’s account of intuitive knowledge. God’s ideas appear in the mind and they are recognized as certain. In fact, Locke’s description of intuitive knowledge sounds a lot like Quaker description of inner light – such knowledge is “irresistible like the bright sun shine” “leaves no room for hesitation, doubt, or examination. The mind is full of the clear light of it” (IV.ii.1: 531). Yet Locke insists that intuitive knowledge is something that can be perceived by natural reason and divine revelation cannot be perceived in the same way. When Quakers talk of inner light, they deceive themselves into thinking that their strong attachment to a particular claim must be evidence of internal perception of the truth of that claim. “For all the Light they speak of is but a strong, though ungrounded perswasion of their own Minds that it is a Truth” (IV.xix.11: 702). Yet a rational agent must have grounds to believe that such communication is divine – either outward miracles or obvious conformity with received scripture and natural reason. Enthusiasts fail to look for grounds to justify their claim of immediate revelation. Any encounter with the divine must be mediated by rational reflection and justificatory evidence. Even the “holy Men of old, who had Revelations from GOD, had something else besides that internal Light of assurance in their own Minds, to testify to them, that it was from GOD” (IV.xix.15: 705). The problem with enthusiasts is that they do not provide grounds, beyond the strength of their own inner persuasions, for believing that a presumed revelation is really from God. 88

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So the real problem with enthusiasm is that it leads to the collapse of mediating spaces, the collapse of the buffer between divine and earthly kingdoms. Enthusiasts collapse that space by allowing the firm persuasion that they feel to impose on their understanding – to take their own presumptions for direct perception. Having imposed on their own belief, Locke tells us, they will be ready to impose on others, and collapse mediated political space as well (IV.xix.2: 698).

6.2  Malfeasance or Malady Although Locke occasionally uses the language of possession or contagion to describe the origin of enthusiasm, he does not show much interest in investigating these explanations in any depth. Instead, he offers two other accounts of the source of this collapse. On one hand, he argues that enthusiasts simply fail to regulate their beliefs appropriately. They could act differently but they choose not to. By not restraining their desire to believe in the absence of evidence, enthusiasts are guilty of what Mark Boesflug and Robert Pasnau call “intellectual malfeasance” (Boespflug and Pasnau 2021: 555). They are culpable because they have “the epistemic resources to do better” but decline to use them (558). On the other hand, Locke seems to imply that enthusiasts are not in complete control of themselves. They are carried away by faulty principles, passions, or conceits. From this perspective, enthusiasts are not to be blamed; they are to be pitied. They suffer from what Katherine Tabb calls a “psychopathology” that emerges from the association of ideas (Tabb 2019). Enthusiasts do not choose to believe beyond what the evidence would allow. They associate their subjective experience of certainty with immediate revelation and are unable to decouple the two ideas. On this account, enthusiasm is not a decision but a disease, not something one chooses, but something one catches. Let’s start with intellectual malfeasance. When Locke adds his chapter on enthusiasm to the fourth edition of the Essay, he places it within his discussion of grounds of belief and degrees of assent in book four. Locke’s overarching claim of this section is that we should assent to a proposition only to the degree to which one has a rational basis or evidence in favor of it. “The Mind,” Locke writes, “if it will proceed rationally, ought to examine all the grounds of Probability … before it assents to or dissent from it” (Locke 1975: IV.xv.5: 656). After examining the grounds or evidential support for a proposition, we ought to assent or refrain from assenting in proportion to the evidence. Enthusiasm is presented as a failure to follow this precept, a failure to proportion belief to grounds of assent. Locke describes the encounter with divine revelation as a special case of testimony. The extraordinary testimony of revelation is such that it “cannot deceive nor be deceived, and that is of God himself. This carries with it Assurance beyond Doubt, Evidence beyond Exception” (IV.xvi.14: 667). Yet as with all testimony, it must be examined to determine whether it is credible – whether it actually is the testimony of God. On Locke’s telling, the enthusiast experiences a conceit or conviction and then falsely attributes that experience to immediate divine revelation (IV.xix.6: 699). The process proceeds in two steps: the experience of the conviction and the attribution of the conviction to God. The content of the revelation and the justificatory inference that the content is divine. Locke emphasizes that these two steps “must be carefully distinguish’d, if we would not impose upon our selves” (IV.xix.10: 701). We might perceive the truth of a particular proposition, but that perception is not evidence that this truth is a divine revelation. As Locke puts it, “Knowledge of any Proposition coming into my Mind, I know not how, is not a Perception that it is from 89

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GOD. Much less is a strong Perswasion, that it is true, a Perception that it is from GOD” (IV.xix.10: 701). Enthusiasts collapse the distinction between the supposedly revealed proposition and the source of that proposition. They use the language of direct perception, of light and seeing, to describe an indirect, two-step process that involves encountering a proposition and then assenting to the proposition based on the authority of testimony. “But however it be called light and seeing,” Locke writes, “it is at most but Belief, and Assurance” (IV.xix.10: 701). Locke argues that the appropriate response to supposed revelation is to assess the validity of the testimony. He insists, “the Mind … ought to examine all the grounds of Probability, and see how they make more or less, for or against any probable Proposition, before it assents to or dissents from it” (II.xv.5: 657). It is the responsibility of the person claiming divine inspiration to examine the grounds upon which they base their presumption and then assent in proportion to what the evidence allows. Since enthusiasts fail to do this, they are guilty of intellectual malfeasance; they fail to do their epistemic duty. Yet at the same time Locke seems to hint that enthusiasts are not so much negligent as incapacitated. They embrace unwarranted assurance not because of epistemic irresponsibility, but because of mental illness. Kathryn Tabb has recently pointed to the connection between Locke’s chapter on enthusiasm and his chapter on the association of ideas (Tabb 2019). Not only were the two chapters written at the same time and added to the fourth edition of the Essay, but they seem to be motivated by overlapping concerns. The chapter on enthusiasm seeks to address how individuals go astray with regard to faith, while the chapter on association of ideas seeks to explain why people cling to their false opinions even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Locke suggests that such intransigence is often a “sort of Madness” (Locke 1975: II.xxxiii.3: 395). By associating ideas that have no natural connection with each other, the mind habituates itself to drawing false conclusions. Of course, Locke recognizes that not all connections between ideas are the result of madness. Many are result from a “natural Correspondence” (II.xxxiii.5: 395). The mind, in its effort to represent those things outside of it, naturally conjoins ideas of properties which seem to occur together – sunlight and warmth for example. The mind can also conjoin ideas that do not appear in nature, for example, Locke imagines a human body with a horse’s herd. The combinations that correspond to ideas that appear together in nature are called real and those that do not appear in nature are called fantastical correspondences. Yet some complex ideas are not the result of natural correspondence or well-regulated imagination. They are the result of an association that emerges from chance or custom and binds together ideas that are unrelated. These ideas are not real, they do not correspond to nature, but are taken to be real. Locke calls this type of false connection an “association of ideas” and equates it with madness. Once such an association is formed, it is very difficult to dislodge it. The attempt to talk someone out of an association by appealing to evidence, Locke argues, is as effective as attempting to “preach Ease to one on the Rack, and hope to allay, by rational Discourses, the Pain of his Joints tearing asunder” (II.xxxiii.13: 398). It is plausible to assume that Locke arrived at his conception of the association of ideas while trying to account for the intransigence of the enthusiast. Among the many examples he offers, Locke describes a child associating the idea of God with a particular figure or shape or connecting the idea of infallibility with a particular person. “Some such wrong and unnatural Combinations of Ideas,” he writes, “will be found to establish the Irreconcilable opposition between different Sects of Philosophy and Religion” (II.xxxiii.18: 400). 90

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Conflicts between believers result from the pathological association of ideas and not any particular decision or conscious failure to regulate the mind appropriately. Since “we cannot imagine every one of their Followers to impose willfully on himself and knowingly refuse Truth offer’d by plain Reason,” we must assume that most enthusiasts are not willfully choosing to believe without evidence, but rather suffer from a false association of ideas (II. xxxiii.18: 400). Locke might even have been hinting at the connection between enthusiasm and the association of ideas in the metaphor that he uses to describe the phenomenon, [T]hey always keep in company, and the one no sooner at any time comes into the Understanding but its Associate appears with it; and if they are more than two which are thus united, the whole gang always inseparable shew themselves together. (IV.xxxiii.5: 395) Here Locke invokes an image of gathering associates, perhaps even Quakers, showing up together for a secret meeting. It is not hard to imagine that Locke might be implying that the way in which Quakers “always keep in company” might contribute to the type of associations that they share. This intellectual malady is not limited to the proud or passionate, but can affect those who conduct themselves rationally in other affairs. “Men of fair Minds, and not given up to the over weening of Self-flattery, are frequently guilty of it; and in many Cases one with amazement hears the Arguings, and is astonish’d at the Obstinancy of a worthy Man” (II. xxxiii.2: 394). Although Locke uses the word “guilty” here, he seems to imply that those who suffer from such an affliction are not really culpable. The religious madness caused by the association of ideas is not a willful failure to regulate the mind appropriately. As Locke writes to his friend Molyneaux, madness or frenzy is “involuntary, and a misfortune, not a fault” (Locke 1978: vol 5, 58). Such people are patients more than perpetrators. “When this Combination is settled and whilst it lasts,” Locke explains, “it is not in the power of Reason to help us, and relieve us from the Effects of it” (Locke 1975: II.xxxiii.13: 398). The association of ideas gives us a way to think about enthusiasm as malady instead of malfeasance. Katherine Tabb argues that Locke’s engagement with the association of ideas explains why he did not discuss the content of belief in his account of enthusiasm. If the particular conceits and convictions that appear in the mind are the result of irrational association of ideas, it is foolish to try to regulate or control what he elsewhere calls “Reveries of the crazy Brain” (IV.iv.2: 563). Such certainty is the result of an association of ideas that cannot be rectified by reason. Yet Tabb tries to salvage Locke’s position by insisting that the justificatory inference that the enthusiast makes following their experience of certainty, that is, claim that the conceit or conviction must be the result of immediate revelation from God, is a failure of self-regulation – and makes the enthusiast epistemically culpable. From this perspective, Locke’s account of epistemic duty does not relate to the first step of this process (conceits appearing in mind as a result of association of ideas) but to the second step (the justificatory inference that the conceits are heaven sent). Yet I wonder why Locke’s account of madness emerging out of the association of ideas would only apply to the first step but not the second step. Locke read one and took careful notes on a Quaker tract, Possibility and Necessity of Inward Immediate Revelation of the Inward Immediate Revelation of the Spirit of God 91

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(1687). In this work, the author, Robert Barclay, does not just describe the perception of the conviction, or thing revealed, (that first step) as immediate and certain. He explains that the perception of the mode of revelation (the second step) is to be immediate and certain (Barclay 1686: 6; Locke 2002: 37–41). For Barclay, the inner light is “like the Sun’s Light, proceeding from the Divine Sun” (Barclay 1686: 5). Recall Locke’s description of intuitive knowledge as “irresistible like the bright sun shine” (Locke 1975: IV.ii.1: 531). If asked how he knows an immediate, divine revelation is divine, Barclay’s response is similar to Locke’s account of intuitive knowledge, “how knows thou that a Whole is a Whole, and a Part is a Part?” (Barclay 1686: 9). Barclay not only associates a particular conceit or fancy with an experience of certainty, he also associates his subjective certainty with the idea of divine revelation. He takes the conviction and the justification for that conviction to be one and the same. Locke concedes that “there may be such an inspiration” given that “an omnipotent agent & author of us & all our faculties” could plant such an understanding in our minds, but he insists that any single person or sect could never prove that what they took to be divine inspiration actually is divine inspiration (Locke 2002: 39). In fact, it is “impossible you should know whether any other Quaker … ever had any such [inspiration] (39). By making an inner light the primary source of revelation, Barclay undermines the possibility of faith “in the ordinary and plain sense of assenting upon rational grounds of examination & enquiry” (38). The ordinary paths to faith, scripture and reason, are rendered useless. The intersubjective process of “discourse and reasoning” based on examining the shared evidence of scripture and experience is “impracticable” if we take faith to be the presence or absence of personal and incommunicable divine inspiration (39). The enthusiast presumes that God is the source of a type of internal testimony, but it is plausible to surmise that the source could be some other spirit or even one’s own imagination. Locke poses a rhetorical question: isn’t it the responsibility of the person claiming divine inspiration to examine the grounds upon which they base their presumption? Having followed his argument this far, the reader knows that a rational agent must suspend belief, examine the evidence, and then assent in proportion to what the evidence allows. When grounding belief on testimony, examining the evidence involves assessing the validity and quality of that testimony. Enthusiasts do not offer probable grounds for believing that their inner conviction is in fact the voice of God in them. It seems plausible to assume that on Locke’s telling, such believers are not simply guilty of intellectual malfeasance. They suffer from an association of ideas. They identify their experience of certainty with their idea of immediate i­nspiration – and once they associate these ideas, they can’t separate them. As Locke puts it, “It is a Revelation, because they firmly believe it, and they believe it, because it is a Revelation” (Locke 1975: IV.xix.10: 702).

6.3  Training and Toleration Locke seems to present his readers with two distinct accounts of enthusiasm. It is either the result of intellectual malfeasance or it is a psychological malady. If enthusiasts have a choice to suspend judgment, assess the available evidence, and to assent only to the degree warranted by that evidence, then they are epistemically culpable for failing to regulate their minds appropriately. If enthusiasts have no such choice because they make judgments based 92

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on an association of ideas, then they are not culpable, but victims of a particular type of madness, a psychopathology, that stems from a false but incorrigible connection between ideas. If the first account is accurate, then it would make sense to work to correct the dispositions or habits of reasoning that lead to such false judgments. If the second account is correct, then any attempt to persuade or cajole enthusiasts to renounce their claim on certainty stemming from an inner light is bound to fail. Locke does not provide his readers with a final determination between these alternatives. Instead of choosing one account over the other, he responds to both at the same time, focusing his energies at the end of his life on practical guides for managing the understanding as well as political reforms that take into account the incorrigibility of many religious beliefs. In Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693) and the posthumously published Of the Conduct of the Understanding (1706), Locke emphasizes the way in which discipline and habituation can help individuals avoid errors in judgment. Yet in his extended exchange in the 1690s with the Oxford chaplain Jonas Proast over his Letter Concerning Toleration (1689), Locke wrestles with the incorrigibility of religious belief. Taking enthusiasm as a type of intellectual misbehavior, Locke exhorts his readers to get to work disciplining their minds. Proper intellectual conduct requires “industry and labor of thought,” “industriousness,” and the “steady application and pursuit” of truth (Locke 1975: IV.iii.6, I.iv.22, II.xiii.27, III.vi.30, IV.ii.4). The Conduct abounds with similar labor metaphors (Locke 1823: vol 3, §§6, 25, 26, 28, 35, 38, 45). Locke’s appeal of intellectual labor parallels his account of the labor theory of property in the fifth chapter of the Second Treatise. Just as physical exertion establishes a claim to possess material property, mental exertion establishes a claim to possess ourselves as persons capable of rational reflection. It is through labor, whether intellectual or physical, that the “waste” of the natural world is improved and the “needy and wretched” inhabitants are transformed into flourishing beings (Locke 1823: vol 5, §§33, 37, 40–48). Locke seems to assume that our original intellectual and physical condition is one of neediness, not of abundance and grace. Just as we find unimproved nature unable to support our growing desires, we find an intellectual world unable to provide comfort and solace to our “busy minds” (Locke 1823: vol 3, §38). By regulating our thinking properly, Locke at times implies that many of the disagreements over religious doctrine and practice will dissolve. Locke never quite lets go of his hope for rational agreement or concordia, between rival parties (see Bejan 2017: 139). If only we would do the intellectual heavy lifting, we could avoid error and achieve a modest religious consensus. Yet Locke’s commitment to training and self-discipline fits uncomfortably well with Jonas Proast’s challenge to Locke’s Letter Concerning Toleration. Proast argued that coercion might not work directly, but it might work indirectly. Political authorities could force people into situations, like church attendance, which would provide them with the opportunity to reconsider their beliefs. This type of carefully administered and indirect coercion could help zealots cure themselves of their “unreasonable prejudices and refractoriness against the true religion” (Locke 2010: 214). Jeremy Waldron has famously argued that Proast’s defense of indirect coercion has more in common with Locke’s own account of the power of discipline and habituation than Locke is willing to admit (­Waldron 1988). In Second Letter Concerning Toleration (1690) and the Third Letter for Toleration (1692), Locke seems to acknowledge the strength of Proast’s argument. At times he seems to concede that in some circumstances coercion might be effective in changing opinions. 93

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(Locke 1823: vol 6, 78, 400, 408–409). So instead of refuting Proast directly, he offers a range of other arguments challenging the claim that the state should be trusted to enforce conformity even if such efforts could be effective (Casson 2021). If Locke had come to see enthusiasm as a form of madness that leaves individuals with incorrigible beliefs, this could have influenced his understanding of toleration. In the unfinished fourth Letter, Locke writes that some magistrates are unable to distinguish between their “firm persuasions” and the truth of their beliefs: “Men act by the strength of their persuasion, though they do not always place their persuasion and assent on that side on which, in reality, the strength of truth lies” (Locke 2010: 174). Locke’s distinction between belief and actions in his writings on toleration seems to take into consideration the potential incorrigibility of some beliefs due to the association of ideas. He argues that the state should focus its attention on regulating actions that affect the life, liberty, and property of others and concern itself only with beliefs that undermine morality and the civil order (here, however, Locke includes atheism and Catholicism). Here Locke seems to assume that the type of enthusiasm that leads to religious zealotry is not something that can be eradicated through training or punishment. Since we cannot expect our fellow citizens to engage in the type of intellectual labor that is necessary to maintain an appropriately regulated mind and since such intellectual labor is not at all guaranteed to work in the context of a fixed connection of ideas, we must recognize that it is preferable to avoid the imposition of religious orthodoxy in matters that do not directly affect the shared goals of our political institutions. By promoting the toleration of dissenters, Locke hopes to avoid a collapse of mediating political institutions that takes place when religious zealots use the power of the magistrate to enforce their own peculiar religious beliefs on a populace. He had recognized early on that the “fanatical spirit” is not only evident in religious sectarians, but also in those who persecute sectarians (Locke 1997: 214). Although he could not guarantee it, he believed that securing the mediating space of the polity in which the earthly city is held apart from the city of God, could also foster the maintenance of a mediating space in the mind in which earthly judgments are held apart from the purported revelations of the divine. The two responses to religious enthusiasm that Locke promotes at the end of his life, increased care in habituating oneself to intellectual self-regulation on one hand and establishing regimes of toleration on the other, represent two very different reactions to enthusiasm. If enthusiasm is the result of intellectual malfeasance, then it makes sense to redouble our efforts to help those who embrace religious error conduct their thinking more appropriately. Yet if, as Locke points out, the malady that undergirds religious enthusiasm is “a Taint which so universally infects Mankind” that there “is scarce a Man so free of it” (Locke 1975: II.xxxiii.4: 395), then redoubling our efforts to discipline the mind might well be fruitless. The best we can do might be to set up institutions that insulate people from enthusiasm’s worst effects. For Locke, this meant keeping the power to impose religious conformity out of the hands of enthusiasts, whether we are religious sectarians, establishment elites, or political authorities. Yet it is important to note that none of these strategies are able to eliminate the threat of enthusiasm. For Locke, the threat of enthusiasm seems to be always lurking in the back of our minds and in the midst of our polities. Insofar as we all tend to mistake our experience of subjective assurance for unmediated access to certain truth, Locke might say “we are all Quakers here.” 94

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Note 1 I am especially indebted to the recent work of Peter Anstey and Kathryn Tabb who have not only offered extensive and insightful accounts of Locke’s treatment of enthusiasm, but have also emphasized the figure of the Quaker in Locke’s thinking (Anstey 2019; Tabb 2019). I’m also grateful for encouragement and criticism from Teresa Bejan, Dan Layman, Patrick O’Connell, Sam Rickless, Brian Smith, Susanne Sreedhar, Tim Stuart-Buttle, Shelley Weinberg, and others at the Locke Workshop at King’s College London and the Philosophy in Assos Conference during the summer of 2022.

References Anstey, Peter R. 2019. “Locke, the Quakers and Enthusiasm.” Intellectual History Review 29 (2): 199–217. Barclay, Robert. 1686. The Possibility and Necessity of the Inward Immediate Revelation of the Spirit of God. EEBO London: publisher not identified. Bejan, Teresa M. 2017. Mere Civility: Disagreement and the Limits of Toleration. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Boespflug, Mark, and Robert Pasnau. 2021. “Locke on Enthusiasm.” In The Lockean Mind, edited by Jessica Gordon-Roth and Shelley Weinberg, 554–563. New York: Routledge. Braithwaite, William C. 1912. The Beginnings of Quakerism. London: Macmillan and Co, limited. Casson, Douglas. 2021. “Locke on Toleration: Rejecting the Sovereign Remedy.” In The Lockean Mind, edited by Jessica Gordon-Roth and Shelley Weinberg, 554–563. New York: Routledge. Cavanaugh, William T. 2011. “The Invention of Fanaticism.” Modern Theology 27 (2): 226–237. Chappell, Vere. 2007. “Power in Locke’s Essay.” In The Cambridge Companion to Locke’s “Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” edited by Lex Newman, 130–156. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Colas, Dominique. 1997. Civil Society and Fanaticism: Conjoined Histories. Translated by Amy Jacobs. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Damrosch, Leo. 1996. The Sorrows of the Quaker Jesus. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Frank, Jason. 2005. “‘Besides Our Selves’: An Essay on Enthusiastic Politics and Civil Subjectivity.” Public Culture 17 (3): 371–392. Goldsmith, Zachary R. 2022. Fanaticism: A Political Philosophical History. Fanaticism. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Heyd, Michael. 1995. Be Sober and Reasonable: The Critique of Enthusiasm in the Seventeenth and Early Eighteenth Centuries. Leiden: Brill. Hume, David. 1985. Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary. Edited by Eugene F. Miller. Revised edition. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund. Jolley, Nicholas. 2003. “Reason’s Dim Candle: Locke’s Critique of Enthusiasm.” In The Philosophy of John Locke: New Perspectives, edited by Peter R. Anstey, 179–191. London: Routledge. ———. 2016. Toleration and Understanding in Locke. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lennon, Thomas M. 1993. The Battle of the Gods and Giants: The Legacies of Descartes and Gassendi, 1655–1715. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Locke, John. 1823. The Works of John Locke (10 vol). London: Thomas Tegg. ———. 1975. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Edited by Peter H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ———. 1978. The Correspondence of John Locke. Edited by Esmond Samuel de Beer. 8 vols. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 1997. Locke: Political Essays. Edited by Mark Goldie. Reprint edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2002. John Locke: Writings on Religion. Edited by Victor Nuovo. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2010. Locke on Toleration. Edited by Richard Vernon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Luther, Martin. 1908. Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Joachim Karl Friedrich Knaake. Vol. 18. Weimar: H. Böhlaus.

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Douglas Casson Nuovo, Victor. 2010. “Enthusiasm.” In The Continuum Companion to Locke, edited by S.-J. ­Savonius-Wroth, Paul Schurrman, and Jonathan Walsmley, London: Bloomsbury, 141–43. Plato. 1925. Plato in Twelve Volumes. Translated by Harold Fowler. Vol. 9. 12 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Perseus Digital Library. http://data.perseus.org/citations/ urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0059.tlg012.perseus-eng1:244a. Accessed 2.23.22. Pocock, John Greville Agard. 1997. “Enthusiasm: The Antiself of Enlightenment.” Huntington Library Quarterly 60 (1/2): 7–28. Poe, Andrew. 2022. Political Enthusiasm: Partisan Feeling and Democracy’s Enchantments. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Shaftesbury, Third Earl of. 2001. Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund Inc. Tabb, Kathryn. 2019. “Locke on Enthusiasm and the Association of Ideas.” Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy IX: 75–104. Taylor, Charles. 2007. A Secular Age. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press. Toscano, Alberto. 2017. Fanaticism: On the Uses of an Idea. New York: Verso Books. Waldron, Jeremy. 1988. “Locke: Toleration and the Rationality of Persecution.” In Justifying Toleration, edited by Susan Mendis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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7 MONTESQUIEU’S RESTRAINED APPROACH TO FANATICISM Vickie B. Sullivan1

Montesquieu…was always right against the fanatics and the promoters of slavery. Europe owes him eternal gratitude. Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary

Montesquieu’s influence on political thought and on the practice of politics itself is immense (Bartlett 2001, 13–14). During “all the stages of the [American] founding era,” Montesquieu was “read and reacted to by American political writers of all factions” more than any other European writer (Lutz 1984, 190, cf. 193).2 Publius, the collective authors of the Federalist Papers, for instance, opposes the view espoused by the Anti-Federalists, supported with the authority of Montesquieu, that republics needed to be geographically small (Anonymous 1787). Publius counters, laying claim to Montesquieu’s authority on the advantages of the confederate republic (Hamilton, Jay, and Madison 1818, no. 9). In expatiating on the importance of the separation of powers, Publius pays homage to the “celebrated Montesquieu,” “the oracle who is always consulted and cited on this important subject” (Hamilton, Jay, and Madison 1818, no. 47). The leading light of criminal justice reform in the late eighteenth century, Cesare Beccaria, cites “the immortal Montesquieu” as his inspiration, acknowledging that he “follow[s] the steps of that great man” (1872, 9; emphasis in original). Louis de Jaucourt, by far the most extensive contributor to the Encyclopédie, serves as Montesquieu’s mouthpiece, sometimes naming his authority, such as in the articles “Civility, Politeness, and Affability” and “Slavery,” or quoting him verbatim without a named reference, such as in his article on the “Inquisition” (Jaucourt 1753–1765). Montesquieu’s poetic praise of commerce and his clear-eyed examination of its effects on societies and individuals transformed the field of political economy (Bibby 2016). For all the influence that Montesquieu’s thought would come to wield, his writing is subtle—at times even sphinx-like. He certainly does not exhort; rather, he consistently implies more than he proclaims. He himself acknowledges his enigmatic way of writing when he notes at the conclusion of his book on liberty and constitutions in Spirit of the Laws that he could have chosen to expatiate further on all the constitutions of Europe, delineating “the degrees of liberty each one of them can enjoy.” He refrains from such fine-grained 97

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analysis, however, and one could easily imagine that a writer in pre-revolutionary France, where absolutism still reigned, would not wish to expatiate on that topic. Yet, he offers a reason different from mere prudence: “But one must not always so exhaust a subject that one leaves nothing for the reader to do. It is not a question of making him read but of making him think” (SL 11.20, 186).3 He announces that his prose demands that readers be actively engaged in following out his argument and filling in what he does not say explicitly. He thus reveals that he left with readers with puzzles to ponder. Although Voltaire was no great admirer of Montesquieu (Shklar 1987, 114), the poet was willing to concede that the author of Persian Letters and Spirit of the Laws was praiseworthy in opposing slavery and the fanatics (Voltaire 1901, 108). While Montesquieu’s treatment of slavery is not without its ambiguity, he does, in fact, devote a book to the topic in his Spirit of the Laws, “How the Laws of Civil Slavery Are Related with the Nature of the Climate,” and he refers to it frequently elsewhere in that work as well as in his other works, Persian Letters and The Greatness of the Romans and their Decline (Sullivan 2023). The same is not true of his approach to the topic of fanatiques, however. Not only does he not devote a book to the topic in his great work Spirit of the Laws, but he also does not use any form of the word in the entire work. Indeed, in his entire published corpus, he uses the word only two times: once each in Persian Letters (letter 61) and Consideration of the Greatness of the Romans and their Decline (chapter 22). The common synonyms at the time, enthousiasme and enthousiasmé, he uses just as infrequently.4 None of these explicit references to fanatics and enthusiasts can be understood as constituting an overt analysis of the phenomenon or a case against religious fanatism. If Voltaire’s judgement on this issue is to be given any credence, then Montesquieu found a way of opposing fanaticism without so naming the phenomenon and offering a brief against it. There is, in fact, one salient chapter in Spirit of the Laws that must be said to constitute his most extended and overt engagement with those whom others would term fanatics: the inquisitors of the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions, who are guilty of the most atrocious of crimes. This powerful prose comes in a more indirect form, however, as Montesquieu does not speak in his own name, but rather in the character of a Jewish man whose epistle implores the inquisitors to give up their bloody deeds in the pursuit of their religion’s purity and propagation.5 With this chapter as a starting point, a reader can follow Montesquieu’s approach throughout Spirit of the Laws to quelling the most deleterious effects of a persecuting Christianity.6 He posits that all religions should be measured by the earthly good that they foster and specifies that violence against nonconforming, but otherwise upstanding, citizens is the most destructive characteristic a religion can display. His praise and blame of other religions reflect Christianity’s deficiencies on this score, as Christianity is far from exemplifying the mildness he praises. Conversely, Christianity uses as its justification for its vengeful violence a doctrine that Montesquieu condemns as unworthy to be used by truly civilized people, although he does not explicitly link the doctrine to Christian persecution. He locates the impetus for such religious violations of civility in the “idée” that human beings can and should avenge slights done to God (SL 12.4; O 434). In response, he rejects outright such a harmful notion; an omnipotent God has enough capacity to seek His own vengeance. Human beings should not become divine avengers, he counsels. More importantly, ­Montesquieu tenders a wholly new categorization of crimes and corresponding punishments. His new legal code maintains that strictly religious crimes cannot be punished with civil or criminal penalties—they can be punished only with religious penalties. 98

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Therefore, religious authorities may excommunicate but not kill. In this way, he points the way to the pacification of Christian violence—a path that would disarm the religion’s fanatics. Montesquieu thus lays out his remedy to this glaring European abuse without directly terming as fanatics its fanatical perpetrators.

7.1  The Fanaticism of the Inquisition Unlike his Persian Letters, an epistolary novel in which Montesquieu’s voice is always filtered through various characters, his Spirit of the Laws is a treatise in which Montesquieu almost without exception speaks in his own name. That exception, however, is quite remarkable; he selects as his only fictional mouthpiece a Jewish character who writes to the inquisitors of the Catholic Inquisition, imploring them to stop killing Jewish children. This chapter not only has been deemed Montesquieu’s “most impassioned piece of writing” (Shackleton 1961, 354), but it is also his most overt treatment of fanaticism, although it does not contain the word or any of its synonyms. The chapter is entitled “Very Humble Remonstrance to the Inquisitors of Spain and Portugal,” and Montesquieu’s voice appears only in its introduction. There he explains that the letter that follows was occasioned by the last auto-da-fé in Lisbon in which an “eighteen-year-old Jewess” was burned. The fictional letter writer’s context is Portugal, and its author directs his “remonstance” to those responsible for this horrific killing. It is ­Montesquieu, however, who entitles the chapter, and he directs it not only at the religious leaders of Portugal but of Spain as well. Montesquieu’s introduction then notes that the fictional author of the missive desires to change the behavior of the Catholic inquisitors as he “loves” Christianity (SL 25.13, 490). The remainder of the chapter is presented in the form of an extended quotation of the fictional letter of the Jewish man. Montesquieu’s Jewish character points out the hypocrisy of the leaders of a religion who enjoin their congregants to follow the example of Christ, but who pitilessly persecute those who do not believe as do they (Carrithers 1998, 227–228; Ehrard 1992, 336–338; Gilmore and Sullivan 2017; Sullivan 2017, 92). His Jewish character offers most uncomfortable truths in terms meant to shock, underscoring the absurd cruelty of that shocking killing. His character observes: If you are cruel in our regard, you are even more so in regard to our children; you have them burned because they follow the suggestions instilled in them by those whom the natural law and the laws of all the peoples teach them to respect like gods. It is this cruelty that highlights the disjunction between Christian teachings and the actions of some Christians. In a succession of entreaties, the Jewish writer challenges the inquisitors to behave as true Christians: We entreat you, not by the powerful god we both serve, but by the Christ that you tell us took on the human condition in order to give you examples you could follow; we entreat you to act with us as he himself would act if he were still on earth. (SL 25.13, 490491) The Jew underscores the irony of the inquisitors’ violent deeds: “You want us to be Christians, and you do not want to be Christian yourselves” (SL 25.13, 491). More particularly, 99

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Montesquieu’s character proclaims that the cruel violence of the adherents of this variant of Christianity are no better than those whom they loathe as bitter enemies to their faith: the Romans who fed Christians to lions, the Muslims who conquered by the sword, and the Japanese emperors who sought to kill the Christian missionaries in their land (Schaub 1999, 228–230). Indeed, Montesquieu’s character draws an equivalence between the emperor of Japan who persecutes Christians and the inquisitors who persecutes Jews. Of the emperor, the Jewish letter writer notes: You complain…that the emperor of Japan had all the Christians in his states burned by a slow fire, but [the emperor] will answer: We treat you, you who do not believe as we do, as you yourselves treat those who do not believe as you do; you can complain only of your weakness, which keeps you from exterminating us and which makes it so that we can exterminate you. (SL 25.13, 490) Thus, Montesquieu’s Jewish mouthpiece uses the Japanese emperor as his mouthpiece in order to speak of the most horrific violence, equating the attempt of the Japanese emperor to destroy European missionaries with the inquisitors’ attempt to eradicate impiety by killing the impious. These references to violence occur against the backdrop of the immediate impetus for the Jew’s letter—the horrific killing of a female, Jewish adolescent by fire in a European capital. Montesquieu’s character ends his letter with the far-reaching prediction that the deeds of the inquisitors will sully the legacy of the current century: [I]f someone in the future ever dares to say that the peoples of Europe had a police in the century in which we live, you will be cited to prove that they were barbarians, and the idea one will have about you will be such that it will stigmatize your century and bring hatred on all your contemporaries. (SL 25.13, 491–492) Thus, Montesquieu finds religious fanatism persisting with such potency as to mar even the legacy of his own age. Whereas the letter ends with the reflection of Montesquieu’s Jewish character on the great significance of the persistence of religious persecution, the letter begins with Montesquieu’s judgment that this letter is “the most useless thing that has ever been written” (L 25.13, 490). This judgement appears at first to be disparagement of the Jewish man’s missive, but upon reflection it is, in fact, a condemnation of the inquisitors and ultimately of the Europeans who allow them to commit atrocities in the name of Christianity. First, it is doubtful that Montesquieu would unironically disparage his most impassioned and moving prose in his treatise. Second, a reader can readily explicate the irony here with the thought that Montesquieu seeks some literary distance between himself and the character he creates to articulate such pointed truths against some of the religious rulers of Europe and the pervasive beliefs that sustain them. While manifestly true, his disparagement here would also seem to convey an additional point—namely, that this letter, which highlights the violent hypocrisy of the inquisitors, is unlikely to move these particular leaders of the Christian religion. In that sense the letter is, indeed, truly useless, not because of any defect in the prose or insight that follows, but rather because the inquisitors are beyond any redemption. 100

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Moreover, while the Jew directs the letter at the Portuguese inquisitors, Montesquieu expands its addressees to include the Spanish inquisitors when he entitles the chapter. But reflection on the Frenchman’s evaluation that the letter is useless suggests that he ultimately endeavors to address an even more expansive audience; Montesquieu would seem to aim his powers of persuasion at those Europeans still capable of shame at countenancing such barbarity in the name of their loving God (Gilmore and Sullivan 2017).

7.2  Montesquieu’s Overt Praise and Subtle Blame The remainder of Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws is written as a treatise. When he speaks without the veil of a fictional letter, he takes alternative, but still subtle, approaches in addressing the fanaticism that can be found among Christianity’s faithful. He suggests, for instance, a new standard of praise and blame for religious practices without directly impugning the beliefs and practices of any Christians. He bestows his praise and his condemnation in Spirit of the Laws, where he devotes two books to the topic of religion, the first treating “the Religion Established in Each Country” and the second “the Establishment of the Religion of Each Country, and of its External Police.” The latter features the letter to the inquisitors of Spain and Portugal. In both books, he treats religions ancient and modern, obscure and dominant from around the globe. Montesquieu praises a religion other than Christianity for its mildness. In this manner, he suggests a standard for Christian mildness, of which at the moment it falls far short. In addition, he renounces a harsh injunction from the Old Testament, deeming it unworthy of being adopted by any civilized people, without explicitly acknowledging the fact that very biblical passage had been the scriptural authority for the sentences for death for heresy that Catholics and Protestants alike have executed. Here in his own name, he takes a subtler approach than that of his character’s bitter condemnation of Christian barbarism. When treating the announced topic of the “Consequences of the Character of the Christian Religion and of that of the Mohammedan Religion,” Montesquieu’s ostensible point in this brief chapter is that whereas Islam is warlike, having spread at the point of a sword, Christianity is mild, seeking converts through the peaceful spread of its gospel. He remarks that “the Mohammedan religion, which speaks only with a sword, continues to act on men with the destructive spirit that founded it.” By comparison, Christianity would appear to spread its faith in a milder fashion, and a reader could easily conclude that was his point. He quite explicitly refrains from such a conclusion, however, proceeding immediately to pronounce that “it is much more evident to us that a religion should soften the mores of men than it is that a religion is true” (SL 24.4, 462). Now, this proposition is evident neither for the believers of Christianity nor for those of Islam; religious adherents do not generally believe that the earthly utility of their religion far outweighs its truth (Pangle 2010, 106–107). Montesquieu enjoins his readers to “embrace the one and reject the other,” without identifying explicitly which religion they are to embrace and which to reject. Of course, the prejudices of his European readers, who have not taken to heart Montesquieu’s stated purpose of inducing them to think, would probably overlook the ambiguity of Montesquieu’s admonition, unreflectively concluding that he forthrightly lauds Christian mildness. Perhaps when such praise is thus being bestowed, their prejudices would also induce them to accept their religion winning a compliment for its salutary effects even when they would not otherwise accept utility as the sole criterion by which all religions, even their own, are to be measured (Bartlett 2001, 15). 101

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If Montesquieu means for his Christian readers to take pride in their religion’s mildness, he immediately offers reason to moderate that sense of superiority. Without benefit of any transition, Montesquieu offers an obscure anecdote from history: “The history of Sabaco, one of the pastoral kings, is remarkable.” He appends to this sentence a note to the history of Diodorus Siculus, a Greek historian who wrote in the century before the common era, thus revealing that this “remarkable” “history” to which he refers occurred before the Christian revelation; this pastoral king was not a Christian. “The god of Thebes appeared to [Sabaco] in a dream and ordered him to put to death all the princes of Egypt,” Montesquieu recounts.7 Rather than follow what could readily appear as the murderous directive of the divine will, this Ethiopian ruler of Egypt interpreted this supernatural message in a most pacific way. This king “judged that the gods were no longer pleased for him to reign because they ordered him to do things so contrary to their usual will, and he withdrew into Ethiopia,” Montesquieu relates. This pagan king’s understanding of the will of the gods induced him to eschew violence rather than to perpetrate it. Montesquieu offers no further comment on this story, leaving the reader to contemplate what precisely about this story is “remarkable” (SL 24.4, 462). Surely, one of its remarkable aspects is how very different this king is from the Catholic leaders of the Iberian Peninsula who do not interpret the will of their god in so mild a manner.8 By contrast, their religion teaches them to pursue vengeance in their god’s name. Montesquieu neither draws such a contrast nor bestows any such criticism, however. Nevertheless, perhaps even an unreflective Christian would recognize that the religion of the pagan king is the mildest of the three religions he mentions in this chapter. Montesquieu not only reflects on Christianity’s effects through the praise of an ancient Egyptian religion, but he also does so through criticism of the Old Testament. He deems that a specific “law of Deuteronomy cannot be a civil law among most of the peoples that we know because it would open the door to all crimes.” Thus, he looks to the revelation of the Jews to find this law so antithetical to human flourishing: “‘If thy brother, or thy son, or thy daughter, or the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is as thine own soul, entice thee secretly, saying: “Let us go to other gods,” thou shalt stone him; thine hand shall be first upon him, and afterwards the hand of all the people.’” He deems this law “harsh” when he compares it to one that is even harsher: “The law in many states that ordered that, on penalty of death, one reveal even the conspiracies in which one did not have a hand, is scarcely less harsh” (SL 12.17, 202). Christians need not feel their religion attacked when encountering Montesquieu’s criticism of the revelation their religion superseded. What Montesquieu fails to mention here, though, is that Christians for centuries used this very injunction of the Old Testament as a law that justified the sternest possible measures against heretics. Jesuit Archbishop and Cardinal Inquisitor Robert Bellarmine invoked this very passage of Scripture in justifying the execution of the priest and astronomer Giordano Bruno, as did John Calvin when he countenanced death as a punishment appropriate for Michael Servetus’s heresy (Bellarmine n.d., chap. 21; Calvin 1868, 475–476; cf. Sullivan 2017, 106–108). Not only is it an old Jewish law that Montesquieu deems inappropriate for civilized people, but it is a Christian law as well. Thus, Montesquieu criticizes another religion for the severity of its laws against heresy, but that religion—Judaism—has given many laws to Christianity, including the very laws he denounces with violent results. He offers as remarkable a pagan king who would rather renounce his rule than invoke divine sanction for killings that could solidify his rule by eradicating his competitors among other acts of moderation. Rather than appear frequently 102

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as a critic of Christianity, Montesquieu uses these other religions as his stocking horses. In these subtle ways, Montesquieu seeks to educate the judgment of his readers.

7.3  The Evil Idea of Avenging Insults to Divinity Elsewhere in the work, Montesquieu provides insight into the psychology of those fanatics who would so brutally punish others who do not believe as do they. The infliction of pain and death on those whom Christians deem heretics and blasphemers is an attempt to avenge any indignity aimed at the divinity they worship. In the face of such passion and such logic, Montesquieu declares quite simply that human beings cannot and should not seek to avenge divine beings. In Book 12 of Spirit of the Laws, devoted to the “Liberty of the Citizen,” Montesquieu broaches the human propensity to attempt to avenge insults to divine entities. He calls this propensity an ill: “The ill [mal] came from the idea [idée] that the divinity must be avenged.” He then proceeds to display the type of atrocious result that this evil idea can foster when he adduces a grisly example from the France of the Middle Ages: “An historian of Provence reports a fact that paints very clearly for us what this idea of avenging the divinity can produce in weak spirits.” The result of such an evil idea occurs when a “Jew, accused of having blasphemed the Holy Virgin, was condemned to be flayed.” Now, obviously, the judicial situation in which the Jew finds himself illustrates the harmful result of the idea, but Montesquieu has his sights set on an even more heinous outcome. Just as the punishment was about to be carried out by the sanctioned “executioner,” he recounts, “[m]asked knights with knives in their hands mounted the scaffold” so that they might “avenge the honor of the Holy Virgin themselves.” So filled with a blinding rage at the indignity that Mother Mary had suffered at the hands of this man of the Jewish faith were these Christian knights that they could not be satisfied with the painful death that the state had ordered; instead, they “drove away the executioner” so that they could perform the flaying themselves (SL 12.4, 190; O 434). Surely, these masked knights are fanatics. They believed that they could and should avenge themselves the honor of the mother of Christ in a most horrifying manner. Having presented this historical scenario, Montesquieu denies that any human being can avenge the honor of a divine entity. “One must make divinity honored, and one must never avenge it,” he declares. He continues by asking: “if one were guided by” “the idea” of avenging divinity, “where would punishments end?” The rhetorical question would seem to demand the response that there would be no distinguishable limit to punishment. He then specifies that “[i]f men’s laws are to avenge an infinite being, they will be ruled by his infinity and not by the weakness, ignorance, and caprice of human nature.” Montesquieu declares that this prohibition against the pursuit of justice for divinity must be inscribed in the laws. “In those [things] that wound [blessent] the divinity, where there is no public action, there is no criminal matter.” The state does not have any role in punishing such violations. He adds that “it is all between the man and god who knows the measure and the time of his vengeance” (SL 12.4, 190; O 433–34). Human beings need not—nay, should not—usurp God’s divine punishment, he warns (Sullivan 2013). Then, Montesquieu turns to the civil consequences of failing to adhere to this principle: “For if the magistrate, confusing things, even searches out hidden sacrilege, he brings an inquisition [inquisition] to a kind of action where it is not necessary” (SL 12.4, 190; 433) In using the word “inquisition” here, he refers to any wide-scale judicial inquiry into the 103

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thoughts and intentions of individuals with respect to an alleged crime. But, surely the Inquisition, which he so castigates in the voice of a Jew later in the work, falls under the heading of such illegitimate and harmful investigations. Indeed, in so cruelly killing the children of their lands, the contemporary “inquisitors of Spain and Portugal” illustrate the excessive atrocities that wrong-headed magistrates can perpetrate (SL 25.13, 490). Montesquieu continues to elaborate on the deleterious consequences such a mistaken magistrate can cause. Such a magistrate “destroys the liberty of citizens by arming against them the zeal [zèle] of both timid [timides] and brash [hardies] consciences” (SL 12.4, 190; O 434). So, the pursuit of religious crimes destroys liberty itself, he determines. He defines “political liberty in a citizen” as “that tranquillity of spirit which comes from the opinion each one has of his security, and in order for him to have this liberty the government must be such that one citizen cannot fear another citizen” (SL 11.6, 157). Regarding the significance of “the surest rules one can observe in criminal judgments,” he announces that they are “of more concern to mankind than anything else in the world.” Here is a rare superlative from Montesquieu’s pen that announces the most important issue facing human beings always and everywhere in the world. Moreover, he implicitly offers judgment on all cultures across time and geography: it is the “knowledge” that has “already” been “acquired in some countries and yet to be acquired in others” that provides a criterion for judgment (SL 12.2, 188). On this issue, then, he offers a standard that is everywhere and always applicable. Obviously, that liberty can be violated in all sorts of flawed criminal procedures, but it is the pursuit of religious crimes that engages “the zeal of both timid and brash consciences,” Montesquieu specifies (SL 12.4, 190). Zeal is dangerous when it comes to prosecutions— the human activity so very threatening to human liberty. One must proceed coolly and rationally. When the idea of avenging divinity is engaged, zeal replaces rationality, and zeal can arise from those whose consciences display contrary dispositions. Both those of timid and brash dispositions are overcome with the zeal to vindicate the honor of divinity when they believe that others have disparaged it. As correct criminal procedure is the most important knowledge, such prosecutions on religious grounds are particularly dangerous to human flourishing. As a result of this danger, Montesquieu takes a firm stand in his book on the religion of each country and its external police. In the chapter entitled “On Penal Laws,” he pronounces: “Penal laws must be avoided in the matter of religion.” He concedes that such penal laws “impress fear, it is true, but as religion also has its penal laws which inspire fear, the one is canceled out by the other.” The result deprives individuals of their security and liberty, but it also has a deleterious effect on society as a whole: “Between these two different fears, souls become atrocious,” he notes. Certainly, no society can flourish that is composed of such deformed souls. He concludes this chapter with a reiteration of the damage that such penal laws wreck: “In a word, history teaches us well enough that the penal laws have never had any effect other than destruction” (SL 25.12, 489). Surely, that history is still being written, because he highlights in the very next chapter of the work the destruction of the Inquisition in Spain and Portugal is causing.

7.4  Montesquieu’s Own Laws on Religion and Remedy for Fanaticism Many recent commentators see Montesquieu as emphasizing particularity—even relativism— over any sort of natural law that could be said to apply to all human beings without regard 104

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to cultural and historical circumstances (Bandoch 2017; Callanan 2018; Kautz 1995, 95– 96; Rasmussen 2014; cf. Zuckert 2001, 2004).9 There is, however, one place where he offers a single best form of legislation that he claims follows nature. His legislation includes—nay, features—the correction a glaring European abuse—that is, the illegitimate manner in which Christians have imposed corporeal punishments on citizens for religious infractions. By way of correction of these ghastly abuses, he forthrightly declares that penalties for religious infractions cannot entail infringement of liberty or infliction of bodily harm. According to Montesquieu’s proffered legislation, the only punishment that religious infractions can carry are religious ones; the most severe would entail expulsion from the religion itself. Thus, Montesquieu’s legislation would make illegitimate the punishment that heretics had suffered for centuries (Bartlett 2001, 17). It would make obsolete the inquisitors whom we have seen him chastise. Under Montesquieu’s guidance, religion would become a private matter. Fanatics could no longer order pain and death in their endeavor to purify a community’s religious beliefs. Believers must accept the notion that only God can avenge violations of His laws. Montesquieu’s laws would make violent acts by religious fanatics themselves illegal. In the chapter entitled “That Liberty Is Favored by the Nature of Penalties, and by Their Proportion,” Montesquieu posits a law concerning religious crimes that would be new to Europe—even the Europe of the Enlightenment: no strictly religious violations would henceforth be considered a crime; such violations would neither be pursued nor punished by civil authorities. Montesquieu embeds this monumental approach to religious violations in this chapter into a more general approach to crimes and penalties, delineating four types of crimes: those against security of citizens, against tranquility, against mores, and against religion. He also assigns the penalties appropriate to each class of crimes. He offers the following thought as a preamble to his legal code: “it is the triumph of liberty when criminal laws draw each penalty from the nature of the crime,” because the “penalty does not ensue from the legislator’s capriciousness but from the nature of the thing.” “In concluding, he appeals directly to nature: “All that I say is drawn from nature and is quite favorable to the citizen’s liberty” (SL 12.4, 189, 191). Thus, he declares that he draws his approach to law not from any cultural, historical, or religious inheritance but from the nature of human beings themselves. As a result, they would be relevant anywhere a given people were prepared to receive this legal approach (cf. SL 19.2; Callanan 2014). Of course, as we have seen, some ancient pagan peoples might be more prepared to accept this milder approach than the Christian ones in Spain, Portugal, Germany, or France (Schaub 1999). With respect to religious violations, Montesquieu pronounces: In order for the penalty against simple sacrilege to be drawn from the nature of the thing, it should consist in the deprivation of all the advantages given by religion: expulsion from the temples; deprivation of the society of the faithful for a time or forever; shunning the presence of the sacrilegious; execration, detestation, and exorcism. (SL 12.4, 190) It goes without saying that these strictly religious penalties that Montesquieu here legislates are considerably milder than burning at the stake. In this manner, Montesquieu deprives the fanatics of their weapons. Montesquieu does, however, recognize that more serious categories of crime can involve religion. For example, one religious sect could physically prevent another from meeting. 105

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This would be a crime against “the citizens’ tranquility,” and he explains that “penalties” for such “crimes” “should be drawn from the nature of the thing and relate to that tranquility.” He provides as examples of such penalties “deprivation, exile, corrections, and other penalties that restore men’s troubled spirits and return them to the established order” (SL 12.4, 191). Elsewhere he notes that “it is useful for the laws to require of these various religions not only that they not disturb the state, but also that they not disturb each other” and continues that a “citizen does not satisfy the laws by contenting himself with not agitating the body of the state; he must also not disturb any citizen whatsoever” (SL 25.9, 488). Crimes that disturb the peace can be so aggravated that they “attack security at the same time.” One might imagine, for example, that the same sect that disturbed the convocation of another sect could simultaneously infringe on the security of their targets by injuring or killing them. In such cases of the violation of security, more severe “punishments [supplices]” are justified, which Montesquieu terms “a kind of retaliation.” He posits that a “citizen deserves death when he has violated security so far as to take or to attempt to take a life” (SL 12.4, 191; O 435). Thus, Montesquieu rules out as entirely illegitimate—and, indeed, against nature—any corporal punishment for religious violations such as heresy or blasphemy, but nevertheless appears to countenance such punishments for violations of security.

7.5  Montesquieu’s Correction of the Abuse As we have seen, when proffering his taxonomy of crimes and punishments in Book 12, Montesquieu renders the death penalty entirely illegitimate for religious nonconformity but countenances it for individuals who have violated the security of their fellow citizens in the most aggravated manner. His support, albeit limited and moderate, for the death penalty in that place is notable, because in Book 6, his earlier book also devoted to crime and punishment, he speaks against corporal punishments, including the death penalty, as being ineffectual. Moreover, in that earlier treatment, he endorses the mildest possible penalties, even when a given society is wracked by the most grievous crimes. The apparent contradiction of Montesquieu’s two discussions of harsh punishment for the most grievous violations of security is noteworthy because they help to illustrate the difficult position that European society will find itself in when it fully acknowledges the crimes that religious fanatics have perpetrated. Europe has allowed religious and political leaders to kill illegitimately—nay, to murder. At such a reckoning, a dangerous backlash is possible. Crusading avengers of religious persecution are liable to punish wantonly those who had once persecuted; the persecutors would become the persecuted, and despite the alternation in roles persecution would persist. Indeed, whenever the passion of vengeance motivates judicial procedure, the innocent along with the guilty suffer. Individuals, innocent of crimes, may well be convicted and punished, and society itself would be afflicted by continuing—perhaps even, intensifying— violence. To use Montesquieu’s terms for the results of such a violent backlash: “spirits” would be “corrupted” as “they have become accustomed to despotism” (6.12, 85). With such a prospect before him, he counsels a society to take as mild an approach as possible in correcting abuses—even the atrocious abuses of fanatics. Moreover, as he offers that very counsel, it becomes evident that his own approach to writing about punishment models how he recommends a society should deal with the punishment in such a dangerous situation. Montesquieu speaks movingly against the harshest punishments in Book 6 of Spirit of the Laws: “Men must not be led to extremes; one should manage the means that nature 106

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gives us to guide them” (SL 6.12, 85). Punishments that do not extinguish life or wrack the body with pain are preferable, in his view (Pangle 1973, 95–96). He enjoins human beings to be guided by a gentler, more natural approach: “Let us follow nature, which has given men shame for their scourge, and let the greatest part of the penalty be the infamy of suffering it” (SL 6.12, 85). Here again, appealing to nature, Montesquieu pleads not only for the repudiation of vengeance in punishment, but also for a general moderation of punishments. One must wonder at this point whether his recommendations against violent punishments would render the death penalty illegitimate either on the basis of principle or of societal utility (Goldberg 2023). Montesquieu does, in fact, reflect ever so briefly in this book on how his recommendation of gentleness in criminal punishments would bear on Europe’s use of the penalty of death, noting that among soldiers, the introduction of the death penalty has not discouraged deserters. He challenges the continent’s use of torture at more length. As in the case of the death penalty, he appeals to utility, observing that the threat of torture on the wheel has not discouraged robbers (SL 6.12, 84–85). He notes too that, by contrast, England, “a well-­ policed nation,” has done away with torture to no ill effect and thus concludes that the use of torture “is, therefore, not necessary by its nature.” In the same chapter, he turns to consider the common practice in the ancient republics of torturing the slaves of the accused in order to extract inculpatory evidence. The cruel and unnecessary pain of the victims stops his pen: “I was going to say that slaves among the Greeks and Romans. … But I hear the voice of nature crying out against me” (SL 6.17, 92–93). Torture is merely violence that produces no benefit to society, he consistently argues in this book. Although he notes the ineffectualness of the threat of criminal punishment among a class of people who face death as a part of their vocation, it is not clear whether he is as critical of the death penalty as he is of torture. Whereas in Book 6 Montesquieu supports the mildest possible approach toward punishment and speaks against torture and seems to be on the verge of so speaking against the death penalty, in Book 12, he explicitly countenances the death penalty as regrettable but legitimate, declaring that a “a citizen deserves death when he has violated security so far as to take or to attempt to take a life.” Here he speaks in terms of principle rather than of utility for society. He follows up with the reflection that the “death penalty is the remedy, as it were, for a sick society” (SL 12.4, 191). Thus, even when speaking of the death penalty for murderers, he speaks in the tone of regret rather than of anger—of healing rather than of vengeance. An examination of this apparent disparity in his assessment of the death penalty in these two books of Spirit of the Laws must recognize that the chapter in which he states that a citizen guilty of the most heinous crime deserves death is no ordinary chapter; it is the one in which he offers his new categories of crimes and punishments. In this extraordinary chapter in which he acts as a lawgiver, he devotes by far his greatest attention to religious infractions. In setting a new standard by declaring that all religious refractions cannot be legitimately punished with civil or criminal penalties, he also depicts in detail how religious nonconformity has been traditionally punished—that is, often with gruesome deaths. Again, these traditional punishments are illegitimate on Montesquieu’s terms; because religious crimes cannot in principle be punished bodily, those imposing these illegitimate sentences and carrying out these atrocious penalties for religious infractions are themselves committing the most serious of crimes—that of depriving others illegitimately of their security, of their very lives. Europe has been far too lax when it comes to “attack[s]” on “security”—that is, to murders—perpetrated in its midst in the name of a loving God for millennia (cf. SL 12.4, 190–191). 107

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Readers who follow Montesquieu’s argument to confront the full extent of this lamentable situation of Europe in the eighteenth century, must wonder what remedy the author proposes. Clearly, he has reflected on this predicament, as he confesses in the preface to this great work that the solution to just such a problem would provide his greatest personal happiness. He writes: “I would consider myself the happiest of mortals if I could make it so that men were able to cure themselves of their prejudices” (SL, preface xliv). He thus announces his endeavor to be a healer of a type who initiates an approach to law that would allow human beings to cure themselves of the deleterious consequences of premature judgments. Certainly, the bloody prejudices of the religious persecutors are among the most grievous of such wounds.10 Moreover, Montesquieu explicitly reveals that he understands the argument that the heinous deeds perpetrated by the fanatics of the Inquisition could be used to inflict the same punishments on them. When his Jewish letter writer puts himself in mind of the Japanese Emperor, who has inflicted Christians with death, he notes that the ruler could have recourse to the following argument: “‘We treat you, you who do not believe as we do, as you yourselves treat those who do not believe as you do’” (SL 25.13, 490). The justification of this foreign ruler could readily be used by others who would seek to persecute Christianity, including those in eighteenth-century France liable to take the injunction écrasez l’infame to an extreme. Thus, the crusaders of the Enlightenment would have ready recourse to the violence of Christianity to justify their own violent reaction to the fanatics’ abuses. Montesquieu first prescribes that the persecutors understand this fact. Montesquieu also turns to society as a whole to explain the meaning of true latitudinarianism in addressing the most fearsome crimes. He notes that “laxity” arises not from “moderated penalties” but rather from “unpunished crimes” (SL 6.12, 85). When viewed through the lens of the illegitimacy of the inquisition, Europe suffers from such laxity in the extreme—the inquisitors enjoy complete impunity. On Montesquieu’s teaching, the state should recognize and punish their crimes, but it need not—should not, in all likelihood— impose the harshest punishments available in all cases. He also turns to advise a legislator—a great individual who would guide nations in correcting the abuses—and in the process, he delineates his own approach that is more likely to ameliorate than to exacerbate, to soothe rather than to agitate. He muses on the possible pitfalls of such an endeavor: “A legislator who wants to correct an ill often thinks only of that correction; his eye is on that object and not on its defects.” This intense focus on a correction can readily give way to its own abuses: “Once the ill has been corrected, only the harshness of the legislator is seen; but a vice produced by the harshness remains in the state; spirits are corrupted; they have become accustomed to despotism” (SL 6.12, 85). A legislator in the position of attempting to remedy the very situation Europe faces would be in a delicate situation, indeed. Montesquieu posits an approach to remedying the general malady that does not carry with it its own abuses: A wise legislator would have sought to lead men’s spirits back by a just tempering of penalties and rewards; by maxims of philosophy, morality, and religion, matched to this character; by the just application of the rules of honor; by using shame as a punishment, and by the enjoyment of a constant happiness and a sweet tranquillity. (SL 6.13, 87)

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In treating in Spirit of the Laws the crimes of the religious fanatics of Europe, Montesquieu proceeds in writing precisely as he here recommends. His writings do not attack the offenders directly. He does not even attack them as fanatics. Instead, he assures that the most explicit denunciations appear not to come from his pen, but from that of his Jewish character who shames, cajoles, and warns them. In addition, his writings appeal to philosophy, morality, and religion in such a manner that could assist in curing a society rife with fanaticism. He uses philosophy and morality to derive the appropriate punishment for each crime. The religion he appeals to would take the good of society and its security as its touchstone. In addition, he himself offers a “just application of the rules of honor” (cf. SL 6.13, 87) to counter the horrors of religious persecution, when he praises the “great and generous courage” of Viscount of Orte, a nobleman who refused to carry out the orders of King Charles IX to massacre the Huguenots in his territory out of his concern for his own honor (SL 4.2, 33; see Krause 2002, 43–66). He even salves the spirits of human beings by opening to view the prospect “of a constant happiness and a sweet tranquillity” (cf. SL 6.13, 87) when he lauds a nation that exudes a “sociable humor,” “an openness of heart,” and a “joie dans la vie” as it engages in social “commerce” between the sexes (SL 19.5–19.6, 310–311; O 558). He continues to soothe agitated spirits as he points to the possibility that economic commerce abroad brings in its wake “gentle mores” (SL 20.1, 338). He even goes so far as to promulgate a “[g]eneral rule” “in the matter of changing religion,” declaring that “invitations are stronger than penalties” and instructing that “a more certain way to attack religion is by favor, by the comforts of life, by the hope of fortune, not by what reminds one of it, but by what makes one forget it” (SL 25.12, 489; Pangle 2010, 102–103; cf. Callanan 2018, 179–194).

7.6 Conclusion Although Montesquieu does not use any form of the word “fanatic” in Spirit of the Laws, he not only deals with the phenomenon, but also points to an approach to its healing. In the process, he reveals that he is willing to make judgments and unwilling to celebrate without exception all folkways. He is particularly disdainful of the folkway of the European inquisitions. Nevertheless, he treats them circumspectly. He reveals their dastardly deeds, but does not demand retribution. He understands the danger of vengeful violence when long complacent Europeans awake to the brutality of the crimes that continue to be perpetrated in their midst.

Notes 1 Skyler Goldberg served as my research assistant on this article. I thank him for his corrections and helpful comments. 2 Montesquieu’s closest competitor for number of citations is Blackstone, a fact that magnifies Montesquieu’s influence because the English jurist was a student of Montesquieu’s philosophy who cited the Frenchman frequently (Lutz 1984, 193). 3 References to the English translation of De l’esprit des lois (Montesquieu 1989) will be to book, chapter and page numbers and will be denoted by SL, and references to the French edition (Montesquieu 1951) will be to page numbers and will be denoted by O. 4 These terms were located using the ARTFL Project at the University of Chicago https://artfl-­ project.uchicago.edu. The term “fanaticism” also appears in works he did not prepare for publication: three times in Pensées and twice in his personal correspondence. I thank Skyler Goldberg for his excellent work in locating these and other terms in Montesquieu’s work.

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Vickie B. Sullivan 5 A key component of fanaticism is the insistence that one’s belief system is threatened by less than universal acceptance (Katsafanas 2019). 6 Some commentators argue that Montesquieu regards ancient virtue, which he declares is “a renunciation of oneself” (4.5, 35–36), as a form of “ugly fanaticism” comparable to its Christian variant (Rahe 2009, 20; see also Pangle 1973, 82–83). Although these commentators apply a form of the word “fanaticism” to Montesquieu’s depiction of the ancient republics’ pursuit of virtue, Montesquieu does not. This chapter will focus on Montesquieu’s treatment of the most pressing forms of fanaticism—religious fanaticism and the threat of a fanaticism that aims at correcting that very abuse. 7 Montesquieu refers in his note to Book 2, but Diodorus Siculus tells the story in Book 1. The dream that repeatedly comes to Sabaco, a king of Egypt who is of Ethiopian descent, is that he should kill the priests of Egypt, not its princes (Siculus 1933, 225–227). https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Diodorus_Siculus/1C*.html 8 See also Montesquieu (2012, 534 [Pensée 1797]), where Montesquieu says that Sabaco abolished capital punishment, further suggesting the king’s mildness in stark contrast to contemporary Europeans. 9 The understanding of Montesquieu as a relativist has a distinguished pedigree. See Aron (1965– 1968), Althusser (2007), and Durkheim (1970). On the issue of his purported relativism, see ­Larrère (2008). 10 Montesquieu deems the “pillages of the Spaniards” in America “one of the greatest wounds that mankind has yet received” (SL 4.6, 37).

References Althusser, Louis. 2007. Politics and History: Montesquieu, Rousseau, Marx. Translated by Ben Brewster. London: Verso. Anonymous. “Brutus I.” New York Journal 1787. Rpt. in The Documentary History of the Ratification of the Constitution. Vol. 13. Ed. Gaspare J. Saladino and John P. Kaminski. Madison: Wisconsin Historical Society Press, 1981. 411–421. https://consource.org/document/brutus-i-1789-5-28/20160122215029/ Aron, Raymond. 1965–1968. Montesquieu, Comte, Marx, de Tocqueville, Sociologists and the Revolution of 1848. Volume 1 of Main Currents in Sociological Thought. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Bandoch, Joshua. 2017. The Politics of Place: Montesquieu, Particularism, and the Pursuit of Liberty. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press. Bartlett, Robert C. 2001. “On the Politics of Faith and Reason: The Project of Enlightenment in Pierre Bayle and Montesquieu.” Journal of Politics 63, no. 1: 1–28. Beccaria, Cesare. 1872. An Essay on Crimes and Punishments. With a Commentary by M. de Voltaire. A New Edition Corrected. Albany, NY: W.C. Little & Co. https://files.libertyfund.org/files/2193/ Beccaria_1476_EBk_v6.0.pdf Bellarmine, Saint Robert. n.d. De Laicis: Treatise on Civil Government. Translated by Fr. James Goodwin, S.J. http://catholicism.org/de-laicis.html. Bibby, Andrew Scott. 2016. Montesquieu’s Political Economy. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Callanan, Keegan. 2014. “Liberal Constitutionalism and Political Particularism in Montesquieu’s The Spirit of the Laws.” Political Research Quarterly 67, 589–602. ———. 2018. Montesquieu’s Liberalism and the Problem of Universal Politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Calvin, John. 1868. “Faithful Exposition of the Errors of Michael Servetus and Short Refutation of Them: Where It is Taught that Heretics Must Be Coerced by the Law of the Sword.” In Opera Quae Supersunt Omnia: Tractatus Theologici Minores, edited by G. Baum, E. Cunitz, and E. Reuss. Brunswick: C.A. Schwetschke. https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_qSYBAAAAQAAJ/page/ n677/mode/2up Carrithers, David W. 1998. “Montesquieu’s Philosophy of Punishment.” History of Political Thought 19, no. 2: 213–240. Durkheim, Emile. 1970. Montesquieu and Rousseau: Forerunners of Sociology. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Montesquieu’s Restrained Approach to Fanaticism Ehrard, Jean. 1992. “Montesquieu et l’Inquisition.” Dix-huitième siècle 24: 333–344. Gilmore, Nathaniel and Vickie B. Sullivan. 2017. “Montesquieu’s Teaching on the Dangers of Extreme Corrections: Japan, the Catholic Inquisition, and Moderation in The Spirit of the Laws.” American Political Science Review 2017, no. 111 (03): 1–11. Goldberg, Skyler. 2023. “Moving Against Retaliation, the Death Penalty, and Corporal Punishments: Montesquieu’s Gentleness.” Unpublished manuscript. Hamilton, Alexander, John Jay, and James Madison. 1818. The Federalist. Gideon ed. https://oll. libertyfund.org/title/jay-the-federalist-gideon-ed Jaucourt, Louis, chevalier de. 1753–1765. The Encyclopedia of Diderot & d’Alembert Collaborative Translation Project. Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing, University of Michigan Library. https:// quod.lib.umich.edu/d/did/ Katsafanas, Paul. 2019. “Fanaticism and Sacred Values.” Philosophers’ Imprint 19: 1–20. Kautz, Steven. 1995. Liberalism and Community. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Krause, Sharon. 2002. Liberalism with Honor. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Larrère, Catherine. 2008. “Montesquieu and Liberalism: The Question of Pluralism.” In Montesquieu and His Legacy, edited by Rebecca E. Kingston, 279–301. Albany: State University of New York Press. Lutz, Donald S. 1984. “The Relative Influence of European Writers on Late Eighteenth-Century American Political Thought.” The American Political Science Review 78, no. 1 (Mar): 189–197. Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et de. 1951.Œuvres complètes. Vol. 2. Edited by Roger Caillois. Paris: Gallimard. ———. 1989.The Spirit of the Laws. Translated by Anne M. Cohler, Basia C. Miller, and Harold S. Stone. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2012. My Thoughts. Translated by Henry C. Clark. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund. Pangle, Thomas L. 1973. Montesquieu’s Philosophy of Liberalism: A Commentary on “The Spirit of the Laws.” Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2010. The Theological Basis of Liberal Modernity in Montesquieu’s “Spirit of the Laws.” Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press Rahe, Paul. 2009. Soft Despotism, Democracy’s Drift: Montesquieu, Rousseau, Tocqueville, and the Modern Prospect. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Rasmussen, Dennis C. 2014. The Pragmatic Enlightenment: Recovering the Liberalism of Hume, Smith, Montesquieu, and Voltaire. New York: Cambridge University Press. Schaub, Diana J. 1999. “Of Believers and Barbarians: Montesquieu’s Enlightened Toleration.” In Charles-Louis de Secondat, Baron de Montesquieu, edited by David Carrithers, 471–493. London: Ashgate, 2009. Originally published in Early Modern Skepticisms and the Origins of Toleration, edited by Alan Levine, 225–247. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Shackleton, Robert. 1961. Montesquieu: A Critical Biography. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Shklar, Judith N. 1987. Montesquieu. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Siculus, Diodorus. 1933. Library of History. Loeb Classical Library. London: William Heinemann. https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Diodorus_Siculus/1C*.html Sullivan, Vickie B. 2013. “The Most Important Knowledge: Criminal Procedure and the Distinction between Human and Divine Justice in The Spirit of the Laws.” In Natural Right and Political Philosophy, edited by Ann and Lee Ward, 153–173. South Bend, IN: Notre Dame University Press. ———. 2017. Montesquieu and the Despotic Ideas of Europe: An Interpretation of “The Spirit of the Laws.” Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2023. “Montesquieu on Slavery.” Cambridge Companion to Montesquieu. Edited by Sharon Krause and Keenan Callanan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Voltaire. 1901. Philosophical Dictionary: Unabridged & Unexpurgated, Volume 6. Paris and New York: DuMont. Zuckert, Michael. 2001. “Natural Law, Natural Rights, and Classical Liberalism: On Montesquieu’s Critique of Hobbes.” Social Philosophy and Policy 18, no. 1: 227–251. ———. 2004. “Natural Rights and Modern Constitutionalism.” Northwestern Journal of International Human Rights 2, no. 1: 42–65.

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8 SHAFTESBURY AND HUTCHESON Enthusiasm and Humor Rachel Zuckert

Anthony Ashley Cooper, third Earl of Shaftesbury, opens his influential Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times (a collection of previously published essays) with “A Letter on Enthusiasm,” an essay that had originally been a letter addressed to a noble patron, published in 1708.1 The essay treats “enthusiasm,” which Shaftesbury, like many ­eighteenth-century British writers, uses (pejoratively) to refer to a rather capacious set of behaviors and states of mind, including something like religious fanaticism: over-emotional or otherwise extreme, epistemically or socially troubling religious commitments. Shaftesbury’s primary concern is the appropriate response to enthusiasm: rather than political repression, which will only inflame enthusiasm, he argues, he recommends deflating humor. Later, in his “Reflections upon Laughter” of 1725–1726, Francis Hutcheson seems to ­endorse Shaftesbury’s proposal: while expounding his incongruity theory of humor, he briefly suggests that ridicule can provide “relief” from “wild enthusiastic apprehensions” (1750: 31–32).2 In this essay, I explore this provocative suggestion to develop the correlated view of enthusiasm presupposed, if not explicitly worked out, by the two thinkers. I will suggest that if enthusiasm (and so, perhaps, fanaticism more narrowly, or its root psychological causes) is appropriately addressed by aesthetic methods (humor), it is also itself primarily to be understood as an aesthetic state, or (perhaps better) an aesthetic problem: a disease of the imagination, a misdirected passion toward something misidentified as “grand” (or, a term that comes into currency later in the period, “sublime”). Shaftesbury and Hutcheson also conceive of enthusiasm, again like humor, as (what I will call) a socially amplified phenomenon: though one can be an enthusiast, or amused, alone – neither phenomenon is necessarily social – both states are heightened and contagious in social contexts. This social dimension of enthusiasm on their view is both plausible and importantly related to the political dangers that preoccupy Shaftesbury, but it entails that “wits” using humor to “cure” enthusiasm must meet high, perhaps even unreachable demands of political-comedic artistry. After situating Shaftesbury and Hutcheson in their discursive context (concerning “­enthusiasm”), I concentrate on Shaftesbury’s more extensive treatment of enthusiasm (in Section 8.2), drawing (in Section 8.3) upon Hutcheson’s view of humor to fill it out. I conclude with brief remarks about problems facing their accounts. DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-10

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8.1  Situating Shaftesbury and Hutcheson Like “fanaticism” in contemporary usage, “enthusiasm” in eighteenth-century British ­usage has almost definitionally pejorative meaning: it refers to a mental state or attitude understood to be in some way problematic, whether epistemically, morally, socially, or politically, and is used predominantly to describe religious attitudes. Though the import of the intended criticism is often not precise, “enthusiasm” tends to connote an emotionally extreme state, perhaps associated with non-rational, uncontrolled bodily behaviors, such as speaking in tongues or convulsions, held to be problematic because they cloud appropriate rational understanding or cause extreme, irrational behavior (see Kors 2003: 1–6; Tucker 1972). The connotations of violence in present-day usage of “fanaticism” seem not to be as central to eighteenth-century worries about enthusiasm. But the common accusation of enthusiasm leveled at religious sects or factions betrays a similar worry about political unrest: that social order will be disrupted by a subgroup of the population (often, in the eighteenth-century context, from the lower classes) who are united and strongly motivated by a religious conviction divergent from that of the established church. And of course, in Shaftesbury’s context, groups such as the Quakers and other dissenters did cause political disruption (e.g., notably, Oliver Cromwell).3 Given the pejorative meaning of “enthusiasm” in the period, any proposed view of it is to be understood by identifying what is supposed to be problematic, in what way, in the so-designated state. For example, in a treatment likely known to both Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, Locke treats enthusiasm as an epistemic error. On Locke’s analysis, the enthusiast believes that he has received a direct communication from God (and so also believes other propositions as purportedly thereby communicated). Locke does not deny that one could, through such direct illumination, acquire knowledge (1975: 689–690, 699), but he argues that the enthusiast does not have sufficient grounds for belief that this illumination was from God – instead of his imagination or the intervention of “some other spirit” – and thus cannot legitimately claim it to be knowledge (Locke 1975: 702).4 Shaftesbury and Hutcheson largely – though not entirely – fit this general pattern. Shaftesbury clearly is prompted to write about enthusiasm in response to socio-political worries concerning the formation of potential factions opposed to the established church; the case that occasions his discussion is a group of French Hugenots preaching in London (see ­Carroll 2021: 31–35).5 In this context, Shaftesbury uses “enthusiasm” to identify an attitude or behavioral tendency linked to religious conviction – oriented toward what is “beyond Life” and “too big for the narrow human Vessel to contain” (2001: 1.34) – and he tends to do so pejoratively: as involving extreme mental turbulence (2001: 3.26), as a “disease” associated with physical convulsions, which should be cured or curtailed (2001: 1.32). But Shaftesbury does not do so exclusively. For the etymology of “enthusiasm” – ­literally, a god within one or being infused with the divine – influences his view of the state to which this term refers. Religious enthusiasts take themselves to be moved by gods, like puppets, Shaftesbury suggests (mockingly) at one point (2001: 1.18; see also 3.19). But he also frames his discussion concerning religious enthusiasm with comments about poetic ­inspiration – a state of mind similarly conceived, traditionally, as one in which a god or muse speaks through the poet (and described by a term with similar etymology) (2001: 1.4–6, 32–33; see also 3.21). It is a state Shaftesbury prizes, as the source of artistic achievement, and is akin not just to enthusiasm, but also, as he acknowledges, to the highly emotive orientation to virtue, patriotism, friendship, beauty, philosophical wisdom and the divine 113

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celebrated throughout the Characteristicks (2001: 1.31–35, 3.19–23), cases in which one is not necessarily moved by an external agent or force, but rather by superlatively valuable and eternally valid (“divine”) ideas or purposes.6 For his part, perhaps signaling an expansion and redirection of the term toward presentday usage, or exemplifying his characteristic mildness, Hutcheson refers to enthusiasm more broadly and with less-emphatic criticism. In “Laughter,” he seems to construe enthusiasm as a state of powerful affective response, presumably including responses to religious ideas or practices (but not exclusively).7 Rather than call it a disease, Hutcheson gently suggests that it is advisable to “rectify” it (1750: 33). Generally, for Hutcheson as for Shaftesbury, an affective response to abstract ideas concerning the divine, perhaps even ideas understood as (potentially) divinely furnished or divinely valuable, is central to the good human life: for Hutcheson, the pleasures of the moral or aesthetic sense, his somewhat toned-down versions of Shaftesbury’s powerful responses of admiration, emulation, and aspiration for beauty and virtue.8 Thus, concerning their views, one may ask not why enthusiasm as such is problematic, but what form of enthusiasm is problematic, what distinguishes a “good” from a “bad” enthusiasm. As neither spells out his view of enthusiasm, the answers to these questions will be somewhat speculative. I propose to speculate “backward,” by attending to the way in which their proposed “antidote” – humor – is supposed to address enthusiasm (proper, i.e., “bad” enthusiasm).

8.2  Shaftesbury on Enthusiasm As noted, Shaftesbury’s central concern is to promote the appropriate social response to enthusiasm: one ought not to try to suppress it by political means, but rather defuse it through humor. Consonantly with his general commitment to freedom of speech and argument, Shaftesbury argues, first, that if people “reason ill,” it must be reason that would in turn “teach ‘em to do better” (2001: 1.7). One can legislate that people do not express beliefs in specific behaviors, but legislation cannot (directly) change people’s minds, particularly about important religious matters. Rather, they must be persuaded to do so, by reasons, in free public discussion. Indeed, he claims, if one tries to persuade believers by force, such measures will backfire: enthusiastic passion will be inflamed by repression (Shaftesbury 2001: 1.12–14). In making this argument, Shaftesbury appears to conceive of enthusiasm primarily as an epistemic error, subject to rational evaluation and thereby corrigible. Overall, however, he suggests that rational discussion is not sufficient to address enthusiasm. On one hand, Shaftesbury emphatically endorses humor as antidote to enthusiasm – an antidote that is not per se rational discussion, even though he does argue that “raillery” or “wit” should be permitted as free speech.9 On the other hand, Shaftesbury describes enthusiasm as a disease, and claims that it is accompanied or even caused by melancholy (2001: 1.9–11, 28), itself perhaps conceived as a psychic disease (as in Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy [1621]). This description suggests that argument will not suffice: diseases are not responsive to reasoning but to causal methods, that is, the elimination of their causes or administration of opposing causal methods (e.g., to ameliorate symptoms). I propose that both points – the preference for humor in addressing enthusiasm, and its disease-like character – may be understood to stem from the centrality of emotion, feeling, or passion10 to enthusiasm on Shaftesbury’s view. Thus enthusiasm is not solely a form of 114

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epistemic error, but also involves problematic emotional (or, as I will suggest, emotionalaesthetic) attitudes. Indeed, he refers to a “natural passion of enthusiasm” (2001: 1.12). I suggest, first, that this is the reason Shaftesbury takes rational argument to be insufficient, and humor needed, to address enthusiasm. In favor of his preferred antidote, Shaftesbury asserts that the “good Humour” brought about by “raillery” takes us “more than half-way towards thinking rightly of” religious matters; it is “the best Security against Enthusiasm” and indeed “the best Foundation of…right Thoughts and worthy Apprehensions of the Supreme Being” (2001: 1.14–15). Correlatively, melancholic “ill Humour” alone, he writes, leads one to “think seriously that the World is govern’d by [a] devilish or malicious Power”; “Nothing can persuade us of Sullenness or Sourness in such a Being, besides the actual forefeeling of somewhat of this kind within our-selves” (2001: 1.15; see also 1.21). It is good or ill “humour” – feeling or mood – that determines one’s right or wrong (enthusiastic) religious attitude, Shaftesbury claims. And so, second, enthusiasm is to be “cured” not by argument, but humor because it is a “disease” of emotion: one cannot be persuaded to perk up by reasons, but must be jostled into a better mood, as it were. It is, indeed, an “infectious” disease (to pick up another of Shaftesbury’s disease-metaphor terms, see 2001: 1.11): human beings can “catch” others’ emotional states, through artistic expression (as Shaftesbury discusses at the opening of “Letter”), religious or other ceremonial rites and practices, bodily expressions (such as convulsions or crowd movements), or other forms of verbal or non-verbal communication. So too Shaftesbury’s proposed cure: good humor and laughter are also notably contagious,11 transferred from one person to another perhaps in part through verbal communication, perhaps to a small degree through reasoning, but also significantly amplified by proximity, mirroring of expressions, and whatever other somewhat mysterious non-verbal forces are activated by being in others’ cheerful presence. I now pause a moment, however, to unpack and clarify several components of this view. I note first that one should not over-read his (prevalent) metaphor of disease. Shaftesbury explicitly rejects a physical understanding of emotion (criticizing Descartes), mentioning as his chief example, “superstition” or “the sort of Fear which most oppresses” (2001: 1.182; Shaftesbury, like many in his period, closely links superstition to enthusiasm, see 2001: 1.10, 12). One should not inquire about bodily “Parts or Districts” where “Blood or Spirits…are made to rendevouz” to understand superstition, he writes, but about its “Grounds” in “Opinion” (2001: 1.182–3).12 That is, on Shaftesbury’s view, as suggested also in the passage concerning good and ill “Humour” quoted above, emotions have cognitive content: they are about certain ideas or beliefs; they respond to certain aspects in one’s perception of the world. As a result, they lead one to fasten upon those aspects, with an evaluative “tinge”: as good or ill, terrible or admirable, beautiful or grand. In the case of the “natural passion of enthusiasm,” in particular, the cognitive content appears to be a conception of God as “sour” and “sullen” – or, perhaps, as vengeful and violent – and to a frightening and dreary world created by such a God. Thus the disease of enthusiasm does involve an epistemic error on Shaftesbury’s view: enthusiasts suffer from the false belief that God is not truly, wholly good (2001: 1.24–25). But it is also, more centrally, an emotional misorientation toward God and world: fearful, melancholy, anxious, turning one away from the good, away from friendship or broader social community, from rational understanding of order or appreciation of natural beauty, and thus away from what can truly make one happy.13 Here one may contrast Shaftesbury’s view to Locke’s, to clarify its contours. On Locke’s view, emotions can be either causes 115

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or effects of enthusiasm proper (as epistemic error): they may mislead one into endorsing a faulty belief14 – for example, pride may lead one to believe that God spoke to oneself, ­personally – or they can be the result of a faulty belief, for example, a profound anger at others who fail to endorse the doctrines purportedly revealed by God. But the core of e­ nthusiasm – its error – is nonetheless epistemic, the faulty belief itself. For Shaftesbury, by contrast, the enthusiast’s most crucial error lies not in the faulty beliefs, but in the emotional attitude corresponding to them: the enthusiast fears and despairs, instead of loving and aspiring; she fails to see, and so, more importantly, fails to promote and cherish that which is good. I have characterized Shaftesburian passions as having cognitive “contents” (generally), rather than “grounds” (his term at 2001: 1.182), because he seems to suggest different relations among the conceptions or beliefs and emotional responses. Generally he takes emotional responses to be calibrated (appropriately) to certain aspects of one’s perceptions or conceptions of objects: calm joy in response to order (say), or fear in response to vengeful power. In the just-cited passage, Shaftesbury suggests more specifically that one could eliminate superstitious fear by showing that the opinion at its “ground” is erroneous (2001: 1.183). On this view, enthusiasm would be addressed primarily by argument (as Shaftesbury does suggest in that passage): even if the badness of enthusiasm consists in its emotional mis-orientation, it would be corrected by epistemic means, by reasoning. In the bulk of his discussions, as in the good/ill Humour passages, however, Shaftesbury suggests that such a correction is impossible: those in melancholic mood, precisely because of their melancholy, cannot acknowledge reasons that would support a more sanguine conception of God and world; those reasons are appreciable only by those already in “good Humour” (see also 2001: 1.184). Shaftesbury here appears to suggest (at least) three possible relations between passion and cognitive content: that a negative passion can block recognition of contravening facts (I am so miserable that I cannot notice the bright, cheerful sunshine); that passion makes the world show up a certain way by focusing one’s attention on aspects that accord with it (I am so miserable that ways in which the world is out of kilter, such as cracks in the sidewalk, are highly salient to me); that the passion projects a certain understanding of the world and of God as its creator (I am so miserable that I imagine God as likewise miserable, as “sour” inflictor of harm). Some of these effects may be falsifying – certainly the last, on Shaftesbury’s view – but it would seem that they are (at least often) not corrigible purely by pointing out that falsity to the enthusiast, for her passion will block, render non-salient, or projectively skew the counter-evidence. (All of these responses unfortunately sound familiar in our current sociopolitical situation.) Rather, one must remediate a melancholic’s mood – put her in good humor, perhaps through eliciting a countervening passion with its own correlated focal perceptions and projections – so that she may recognize reasons for changing her mind.15 Enthusiasm is not just a disease of emotion, but also requires an emotional antidote: humor that lightens and smooths, calms and cheers melancholy.16 Finally, to return to the political considerations with which I began, on this view, as Shaftesbury indeed argues, political repression would be likely to intensify enthusiasm, by prompting or exacerbating melancholy (it is not gladdening to be the focus of repression) (2001: 3.66–67). Shaftesbury also seems to conceive of the use of political force and enthusiasm as reciprocal social phenomena, forceful repression lending force to enthusiasm, perhaps even constituting a form of enthusiasm itself (2001: 1.9–11). In portraying political matters as such reciprocal plays of force, Shaftesbury appears to aim to indict repressive political agents of themselves being led by reactive emotion instead of deliberation, and 116

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(rhetorically) to shame them into a different course of action. But such discussions also capture a social-political danger of the “infectiousness” of enthusiasm: that it is transferred from one person (the enthusiast) to others, to a crowd, without much call upon their reason (2001: 1.27). Again, though such enthusiasm does have cognitive contents – say, proverbial fire and brimstone preaching – reasoning would be ineffectual against this “infection,” the symptoms of which include ignoring reasons, and which therefore calls instead for a response to its socially amplifying forcefulness.17 And in this context again Shaftesbury invokes humor as a superior method, of defusion rather than persecution. Rather than exerting force against enthusiasts, thereby activating their opposing, responding force (as it were), mockery can belittle enthusiasts, undermining their attractiveness to others (stemming the contagion) and perhaps calming their own passions as well, allowing them to see the objects of their concerns lightly, rather than with the over-gravity Shaftesbury associates with enthusiasm (2001: 1.8). Thus, in sum: though Shaftesbury self-avowedly fails to define enthusiasm (2001: 3.20), I suggest that it might be described (for him) as a melancholic-fearful religious attitude, a passionate response to a God conceived as powerful and malicious and to a world conceived as created by that sort of being, so as disordered, frightening, alienating. On Shaftesbury’s view, the enthusiastic passionate attitude is evaluatively oriented toward certain cognitive contents – it correlates to, focuses attention to accord one’s perception with, a valenced worldview – and can be both shared and amplified by social osmosis (what Hume will later more extensively theorize as “sympathy”). Thus for Shaftesbury, enthusiasm is to be criticized for moral and epistemic reasons: it involves false beliefs concerning the normative nature of God and world. But, by contrast to Locke’s view (among others), for Shaftesbury, it is more centrally a misdirected emotional state, orienting one (wrongly) toward the purported value-structure of the world, within a social context. Correlatively, it is to be undermined not (merely) by pointing out the falsity or lack of justification of the enthusiast’s beliefs, but by adjusting her emotional tone and social positioning (see also Carroll 2021: 18–19). Shaftesbury understands enthusiasm as an aesthetically mistaken state. One may wonder, however, whether Shaftesbury’s view of enthusiasm, as so far presented, is not better described as an “emotional” or “passional” state than as “aesthetic” narrowly: these aspects of enthusiasm would appear to hold of many emotional states, not solely aesthetic ones. It is indeed characteristic of Shaftesbury (and of the so-called sentimentalist tradition in moral philosophy and aesthetics, including Hutcheson, that he initiates) that no very firm dividing line is drawn between aesthetic and other affective responsiveness (or among values to which they respond). (Though Shaftesbury refers to “beauty,” “grandeur” or “sublimity,” the “grotesque” and so forth, he does not use the term, “aesthetic,” and nor do his successors.) Nonetheless, I suggest, one may (gently, lightly) identify a sub-category of emotional responses to which enthusiasm belongs – which sub-category I denote “aesthetic.” First: as already noted, Shaftesburian enthusiasm is an emotional response with focal objects or “cognitive contents” – by contrast to moods or other unfocused emotional arousals. It also involves affectively laden perception of present objects or states of affairs – unlike hope or ambition (which concern imagined future states or objects). Also unlike ambition, as well as pride or shame, the focal object of enthusiasm and other (what I am calling) aesthetic emotional responses is not oneself, but other persons, objects, or states of affairs. Moreover, the way in which that object is perceived as value-laden is not relatively to oneself, with 117

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respect to its import for one’s actions – as in hope, disappointment, (many cases of) a­ nger – but as valuable (or as calling for affective response) in and of itself.18 Beauty is of course the paradigm case of such aesthetic value (and response thereto) for Shaftesbury: its order is valuable; our pleasure in and love for it comprises affective recognition of that good in the object (for a representative discussion, see 2001: 3.109–114). One may object that fear (a key component of enthusiasm) is a response to objects as relative to oneself (as potentially infringing upon one’s actions or life). But I take it that one may – and, on Shaftesbury’s view, enthusiasts do – have a more “objective” response of fear, that is, to objects conceived as fearful (as meriting fear) because (say) they are powerful, violent, and arbitrary, without taking them to be such specifically in relation to one’s envisioned action. And so finally, for Shaftesbury – and, to anticipate, also for Hutcheson – aesthetic emotional responses are endowed with (what I will call) “objective status”: they are not just states that persons happen to be in, but are “true” or “false,” appropriate or inappropriate evaluative responses to objects, given what those objects are like. The ground of such objective status may be different for each thinker. As noted, Shaftesbury appears to hold that beauty is a real value, belonging to objects independently of human response (see, e.g., 2001: 1.207); thus, affective responses have objective status just in case they reflect the object’s real value, which value can also be confirmed by rational investigation. (On Shaftesbury’s endorsement of affective and rational recognition of value, see Gill 2021.) By contrast, Hutcheson can be read to hold that such objective status is a matter of human universality, that is, one’s aesthetic response is correct if it corresponds to human natural affective responsiveness when operating normally or well (2004: 28, 80–81).19 For present purposes, however, (interpretation of) the source of such status for either thinker is not crucial. The crucial point is that, on their view, enthusiasm is wrong – that is, that it is an emotional response that purports to have such objective status, incorrectly; or, in the terms I have proposed, it is an aesthetic response (affectively laden perception of another, present object, valued because of its own character) that is mistaken. Shaftesbury’s account of this error remains at a somewhat metaphorical level, however: in what way does the enthusiast’s aesthetic orientation go astray, exactly? How, precisely, is this disease remedied by humor? This second question is pressed by Shaftesbury’s notorious “test” of ridicule (2001: 1.7, 20 and 40, 3.152–153): not only is humor supposed to defuse enthusiasm, but it is supposed to diagnose its error. For, Shaftesbury contends, by ridiculing, one discovers what is in fact great – it cannot be (successfully, amusingly) ridiculed, while that which is wrongly admired (e.g., by the enthusiast) can.20 To develop these two views – the mistake of enthusiasm, and its cure (and perhaps diagnosis) through humor – further, I turn now to Hutcheson’s theory of humor.21 With Hutcheson, we also add a significant element to Shaftesbury’s portrayal of enthusiasm as an aesthetic state: associative imagination.

8.3  Humor as Antidote 2: Hutcheson on Incongruity and False Grandeur Hutcheson’s focus in “Laughter” is not enthusiasm. Rather, he aims to argue against Hobbes’ view (now usually termed a “superiority theory” of humor) that laughter arises because of one’s “sudden glory,” that is, one’s sudden recognition of one’s superiority to another; Hutcheson wishes to replace that theory by the view that laugher arises from a recognition of incongruities.22 Hutcheson’s arguments are therefore part of a larger project of undermining a Hobbesian conception of human nature, as motivated primarily by competitive 118

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self-interest.23 As Hutcheson emphasizes, one need have no sense of superiority in laughing; to the contrary, one may admire, as superior to oneself, the wit of the humorist, who has cleverly identified the incongruity at which one laughs (1750: 10). In elaborating this view, however, Hutcheson briefly suggests that humor may defuse enthusiasm (1750: 32), and I propose accordingly to use Hutcheson’s theory of humor to fill out Shaftesbury’s treatment. I take a moment to spell out his central claims. As indicated, Hutcheson’s theory of humor is (what is now called) an incongruity theory: he takes it that one laughs at a contrast or mismatch between a focal idea and another idea conjoined to it in the witticism (1750: 19). Hutcheson claims, specifically, that the focal idea and the conjoined idea are in some way similar and in other ways dissimilar. Thus, one might say, the incongruity at which one laughs is a relevant one: not a juxtaposition of two different, randomly chosen items but of items that are in some way akin, so that their difference from one another is in some way noticeable and pertinent; it is incongruity, not mere surd difference. Hutcheson also specifies that the incongruity concerns (what I will call) the aesthetic character of the focal and conjoined ideas.24 That is, it is not merely that the focal and conjoined ideas are pertinently dissimilar. They are, specifically, dissimilar in their aesthetic tone or valence: one is grand, one is low; one is beautiful, one ugly, etc. Thus, Hutcheson suggests, a pratfall is amusing because of the contrast between the idea of ­“dignity…generally joined with” that of a human person, on one hand, and the “meanness” of the accident or of the “contortions of the body in a fall,” on the other (1750: 21).25 Finally, Hutcheson suggests that this contrast may hold not between the focal and conjoined ideas themselves, but between the ideas associated with them. These associated ideas may, in fact, be responsible for the contrasting experienced aesthetic characters of the focal or conjoined idea. For example, Hutcheson writes: “An ass is the common emblem of stupidity and sloth, … an eagle of a great genius [and so forth]” (1750: 18) – hence conjoining a focal idea with an idea of ass or eagle will also bring along their associated aesthetic characters of meanness or grandeur (respectively), which characters may in turn derive from other ideas associated with the ideas of ass or eagle. With the last point, Hutcheson aims to explain the cultural variation and possible cross-cultural untranslatability of humor: in different cultural contexts, ideas accrue different associated ideas and thereby different aesthetic characters, so that the relevant incongruity may only (one might say) be activated if one shares those associations.26 As an illustration, we may apply Hutcheson’s account to the killer rabbit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975). The movie follows the knights of the round table on their picaresque wanderings; at one point, they are warned of a terrifying, deadly beast that guards the Cave of Caerbannog, into which they must enter, as part of their chivalric quest; after some lead up, they approach the cave to be confronted by a small white rabbit. The rabbit is indeed deadly: it leaps up to decapitate the knight who approaches to combat it (accompanied by flowing bright-red blood effects). Nonetheless, it is amusing. In part this must be because the film sets a tone of irrealism, for example, with the make-believe horses, which is also promoted by the low-budget film quality: one is not sympathetically pained by a comedically light, clearly staged injury. But it is also funny (to return to Hutcheson’s account) because of the incongruity between the focal idea of killer beast and the conjoined idea of little white rabbit. In accord with Hutcheson’s suggestions, these ideas have opposed aesthetic characters (ominous vs. cute), and, in turn, those aesthetic characters may arise from other culturally associated ideas, such as heroic quest vs. child’s pet or wilderness vs. Easter baskets. 119

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All these elements of his account are at play in Hutcheson’s proposal that humor can undermine enthusiasm, or (in his terms) “prevent our excessive admiration of mixed grandeur” or of “false grandeur” (1750: 33). For, first, Hutcheson’s view of “mixed” or “false” grandeur turns again on association: ideas (of things) that themselves are not grand (in the case of “false” grandeur), or not truly or fully grand (in the case of “mixed” grandeur), can appear to be so – by being associated with ideas (of things) that are truly grand (or, one supposes, that are associated in turn with other ideas that are grand). Hutcheson intimates also that a great number of such associations lends further grandeur: the more associations an idea has with ideas with grandeur (or kindred lofty aesthetic character), the grander the focal idea will appear. So he explains the effects of genial poetic metaphor: poets achieve grandeur by novel association of many resembling, grand ideas, to an initial grand idea (1750: 18–19).27 Thus, to dispel the glamour of “false grandeur,” one must presumably dissociate a not-grand idea from its grandeur-conferring associated ideas. Moreover, though Hutcheson does not quite spell out this point, it appears that humor can disrupt those associations precisely by bringing attention to incongruities – perhaps making them salient and so laughable – here not so much between focal and conjoined ideas (or their characters) but between focal idea and its associations.28 So, to return to the killer rabbit example, one could argue that the Monty Python piece undermines the false (or, probably better, “mixed”) grandeur of wild beasts or even nonhuman nature generally – their glorification, we might say, as dreadful and heroically great (insofar as it solicits heroic responses) – by showing that such grandeur accrues to the idea of wild nature because of misleading or partial cultural associations. That is, as noted above, the killer rabbit image involves an incongruity between ideas (of dangerous beasts) and the little white rabbit – it is for this reason amusing, on Hutcheson’s account. But it might be understood as deflationary of a form of enthusiasm also. For a white rabbit is a non-human animal, sometimes a wild denizen of non-human nature (this is Hutcheson’s requisite similarity between focal and conjoined idea). Yet it is not associated with heroism, dangerous wildness, and so forth. The killer rabbit could, then, elicit a sense of the (partial) incongruity between the idea of non-human wild animal and the grandeur-endowing ideas of danger, heroism, and so forth that have been culturally and imaginatively associated with it – thereby undercutting its false grandeur and accompanying “enthusiastic apprehensions.” Now we may return to Shaftesburian enthusiasm as well: it may be understood as ­(aesthetic-emotional responsiveness to) “false grandeur,” potentially dispelled by humor. To use Hutcheson’s terms, Shaftesbury’s enthusiast has a collection of associated ideas – of arbitrariness, power, perhaps mystery, perhaps certain rites or practices (such as speaking in tongues) – to which she associates also the truly grand idea of God. This idea then imbues the other associated ideas with grandeur – but they are not in fact grand, not truly admirable, but horrible.29 This is (as it were) the enthusiast’s aesthetic error. And the “disease” of enthusiasm – the source of this error – is rampant association of ideas, a disease therefore not addressable by argument, because such associations are not formed thoughtfully (it is not a matter of reasoning “ill” in Shaftesbury’s terms, quoted above), but by leaps or habits of imagination. In turn, the puppet show Shaftesbury mentions (2001: 1.18) – his only explicit example of anti-enthusiastic humor30 – then would dissolve such associations, by manifesting the incongruity among the component ideas, for example, between arbitrary power and divine greatness. Perhaps (applying Hutcheson’s analysis to Shaftesbury’s sketchy example) it does 120

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so by linking puppetry – petty manipulation of passive objects – with the enthusiast’s conception of God (as absolute arbitrary power), and so also the enthusiast (moved, without any consciousness or will) with a jerky puppet. Thereby, perhaps, the puppet show could shear away associations of the enthusiast’s complex of ideas with those of the truly admirable (God, as endowed with virtue and rational order). Correlatively, though doubts about Shaftesbury’s “test of ridicule” may remain (as I will discuss), Hutcheson’s account gives us some way to understand how it might work. If humor shows up incongruities, it can shear away ideas merely associated with (and in fact in some way incongruous with) a core idea (e.g., arbitrary power) – so as to isolate it or focus one’s attention on it alone. One could then come to perceive its aesthetic character – mean or grand, admirable or terrible – without being misled by the borrowed aesthetic character imbued by associated ideas. So, conversely (leaving aside enthusiasm for a moment) Hutcheson appears to view his favorite cases of humor, namely parody or burlesque: for purposes of humorous incongruity, one may associate Homeric gods with a rusty pistol (as Samuel Butler does, in Hudibras) – or perhaps, in our cultural context, have Bart Simpson recite Hamlet’s “to be or not to be.” But this does not, Hutcheson asserts, render a text by Homer (or Shakespeare) itself ridiculous; perceived by itself, alone, it will still be found grand (1750: 7–8, 19–20, 28–29). Conversely, if the enthusiast is led to perceive her core idea of (say) arbitrary power, alone, she may free herself of her admiration for it, coming to perceive it as perhaps fearful, but not truly grand. And so I note, finally, that unlike rational argument – such as Shaftesbury’s own arguments that God, the truly great, should not be understood as arbitrary power – a humorous intervention might make the incongruity (between greatness and arbitrary power) manifest and salient, in an emotionally laden (i.e., amusing) perception, perhaps thereby avoiding the “blockage” of conflicting affective orientation and allowing for the enthusiast’s emotional reorientation toward the (now dissociated) ideas. To return to my metaphorical locution above, dissociation and correlative aesthetic-emotional reorientation through humor is a (re-)jostling of ideas: not an argument, but a juxtaposition of ideas that detaches or loosens (non-argumentatively formed) associations. Perhaps those in the grip of fear and melancholy, superstition and enthusiasm, could be “jostled” into a better mood by a goofy puppet show, and thereby oriented toward a gladder, lighter, more community-building and grateful religious attitude. And, as noted above, humor, like enthusiasm, is contagious: the emotional reorientation can be communicated across a social group, in a way that again, here possibly for better instead of worse, bypasses explicit reasoned discussion. Yet there are limits to the Shaftesbury-Hutcheson account, or at least questions requiring further discussion. The aesthetic view they propose captures – arguably better than positions like Locke’s that treat enthusiasm as a primarily epistemic matter – the intrinsically moving, perception-defining, and life-orienting character of enthusiasm, as well as its (and its antidote’s) not entirely rational social communicability (“contagion”).31 As Ross Carroll emphasizes (2021: 13, 84), however, their view also presupposes a confidence, now somewhat hard to share, not only in the objective status of aesthetic responses (to the ridiculous or to the grand), but also in a widespread social sharing of such responses (at least eventually, for the “cure” to take hold). They seem confident, indeed, that their own responses have such status – and crucially so, as (particularly for Shaftesbury) this appears to be the primary distinguishing factor between good (virtuous, artistic) and bad (sectarian-religious) forms of enthusiasm (2001: 1.34–35).32 But perhaps melancholy and fear are not such obviously, rationally inappropriate responses to the world as the two thinkers presume. Conversely, 121

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as both note with concern, some people will laugh at anything; Shaftesbury refers to “the vulgar” (2001: 1.8), Hutcheson to “weak minds” (1750: 27–28, 34–35). (Precisely the people most attracted to enthusiasm?) It is therefore unclear whether humor can or will be true-value-orienting or socially uniting, by virtue of eliciting a shared response to what is truly ridiculous. More basically, as Shaftesbury sometimes intimates (e.g., 2001: 1.9), those in the grip of powerful negative emotion – including enthusiasts, on his analysis – would seem to be those least open to laughter, to joking about their own commitments. Shaftesbury and Hutcheson were alive, moreover, to social problems that humor, especially ridicule, can pose, problems which seem likely to arise in the case of enthusiasm. Ridicule can be divisive and harmful: it may not spread “good humour,” or “cure” enthusiasts by freeing them of irrational imaginative associations, but rather humiliate and anger them, as its objects.33 Such humiliation might prevent a potential “contagion” of enthusiasm to others, as Shaftesbury hopes, but it also seems likely to harden the enthusiasts’ resistance to a broader social consensus. (In our day, unfortunately, the baleful reciprocity of enthusiasm and forces opposing it, described by Shaftesbury, seems to play out also in reciprocal, anger- and social-division-amplifying mockery.) Hutcheson’s theory of humor could in fact be used to explain this humiliating, angering, and isolating function of humor: the wit could bring out incongruities among the enthusiast’s ideas precisely by instituting new and morally questionable associations, that is, by connecting the enthusiasts’ purportedly grand ideas to belittling ideas that demean them.34 Thus the task Shaftesbury and Hutcheson pose for a political-comedic artist is very demanding. First: actively and delicately to make incongruities of ideas manifest in a way that enthusiasts will find funny (and so curative). For enthusiasts are not likely to recognize such incongruity themselves (without “help”) and of course humor is generally more successful (actually funny), when communicated by another and received passively as a surprise (paradigmatically, in a joke).35 But, second, the artist must do so in a way that will not demean enthusiasts before others, ideally without promoting the social superiority even of the wit herself (and so of those who align themselves with her, by laughing). Rather, the wit should somehow bring all into a good-humored social community. One might wonder whether other forms of aesthetic address – perhaps a redirection of enthusiasm into mystical Romanticism, or pop art celebrating everyday beauty, to counteract melancholy – might be more practicable and kinder aesthetic cures.36

Notes 1 The Characteristicks was first published in 1711, then reprinted 11 times during the eighteenth century, more than any other work in Britain apart from Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding. The “Letter” in particular generated much, often outraged attention; see (Shaftesbury 2001: 3.19–81) for Shaftesbury’s own “Miscellany” responding to that reception and (Carroll 2021: 20–76). Citations to Shaftesbury (2001) list the volume followed by page number in that edition. 2 I cite the 1750 posthumously reprinted edition of this text, which was originally published anonymously in the Dublin Journal as a series of three letters. 3 Hutcheson’s original (Irish) and mature (Scottish) contexts are different, because the dominant Churches (especially in the latter case) were of a kind that others might label enthusiastic. Arguably, however, he generally aims to moderate religious (and other) passion. 4 See Boespflug and Pasnau (2022) for more on Locke’s view in its historical context. 5 However, Shaftesbury’s category of enthusiasts is much broader, including “Romish Churches” (2001: 3.25), some members of ancient “heathen” religions (2001: 1.29–33, 3.26–27, 30), even atheists (2001: 1.34, 3.42). Further discussion, beyond what I can provide here, is needed to identify what (coherently) could unite all these attitudes.

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Shaftesbury and Hutcheson 6 Shaftesbury even (with some irony) describes his own, presumably good philosophical practice as involving “a sort of Phrenzy” in which he may “fall insensibly into… Paroxysms” (2001: 1.181). 7 He cites the Biblical example of Elijah mocking idolatry (1750: 33), a staple in eighteenth-century discussion about ridicule (see Carroll 2021: 11), which takes the object of mockery to be religious error. 8 Hutcheson appears to hold that one can identify moral or aesthetic senses as natural to human beings, and their characteristic objects (moral goodness and beauty), without reference to divine creation or revelation. Nonetheless he also seems to hold (consistently) that they are thus part of our nature as created by a benevolent God (2004: 81–82). 9 This is the focus of Shaftesbury’s second essay in the Characteristicks: “Sensus Communis: An Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour.” 10 Though some in the period distinguish among “passions,” “emotions,” “affects,” or “feelings” (such as Immanuel Kant or Henry Home, Lord Kames, in his Elements of Criticism), Shaftesbury does not appear to make such distinctions, and I use these terms interchangeably. 11 As noted by Hutcheson (1750: 27). 12 As Katalin Makkai remarked (private conversation), material conditions – bodily and economic – plausibly underlie enthusiastic states of mind and might be remediated in a response thereto; Shaftesbury recognizes such conditions only glancingly (2001: 1.11, 3.50). Shaftesbury’s dismissal of bodily states also appears to be a missed opportunity for connecting enthusiasm to its antidote in humor, as both combine mental attitudes and meanings, emotional valence and force, and bodily expressions (convulsions and laughter, respectively). 13 See, for example, Shaftesbury (2001: 3.108) and (1.192–198) for colorful description of the lifeorientation of good humor, appreciation of beauty, and so forth, contrasted to the purported wholly vicious orientation directed by melancholic “fancy” (imagination). 14 Locke mentions conceit, melancholy, vanity, and laziness as passions or interests of enthusiasts that may override their “love of truth” (Locke 1975: 697–700). 15 Shaftesbury suggests that the correct understanding of God is also projective: when in good humor, I can recognize virtue in myself, and thereupon attribute it to God (2001: 1.21). Shaftesbury’s strange parable of three gentlemen who, in a determinedly good mood, decide to find the good in a not entirely lovely country they visit suggests more strongly that one finds (falsifyingly? projectively?) what one seeks (2001: 3.62–66). It is unclear how to square these suggestions (particularly the second) with Shaftesbury’s more typical moral realist view, viz. that with sufficient practice, attention, and so forth, human beings will recognize and love the truly, independently good. Perhaps these views are reconcilable by suggesting that for Shaftesbury (despite his confident realist claims) conceptions of the world order and of God’s mind are, strictly speaking, beyond us; we will never quite know them, but will always be projecting views of them based on partial evidence. But we can know, with directness and certainty, what is morally good or beautiful closer at hand (e.g., within our own souls) – and these true, good-humored findings are better bases for projection than ill-humored perceptions. 16 See also (Shaftesbury 2001: 3.72–73) on music and poetry as antidotes to enthusiasm, and (2001: 1.194–195), describing celebratory emotional responses to beauty (not argument) as a way to overcome selfishness or attachment to base pleasures. 17 In emphasizing emotional and social dimensions of enthusiasm, Shaftesbury’s view harks back to Spinoza’s discussion of “superstition” as an affective-political problem: leaders manipulate common people into extreme, factional action, by calling upon their hopes and fears (Spinoza 2007: 3–12). However, there is apparently no evidence that Shaftesbury was familiar with Spinoza’s works (see Passmore 1951: 97). 18 It should be noted that, though Shaftesbury is commonly recognized as originating the view that aesthetic appreciation is disinterested, he does not mean by this that it is disengaged from action: echoing Socrates’ ladder of beauty in the Symposium, he rather claims that once one recognizes true beauty (including virtue), one pursues it for oneself (tries to become virtuous) (2001: 3.109–114). This claim in turn should not be understood as a claim that beauty has value only in relation to that action (of pursuit). Rather, the beautiful object independently has value, which one appreciates in the object (even when that object proves to be one’s own soul), and therefore takes to be worthy of pursuit. One may additionally feel pride or another self-oriented pleasure that this value belongs to oneself.

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Rachel Zuckert 19 These interpretations are subject to debate, particularly concerning Hutcheson; see Winkler (1985) and Shelley (2007) for opposed interpretive positions. 20 See Carroll (2021: 52–70) for a good evaluative synthesis of the substantial scholarly discussion of this claim. 21 I proceed under the common assumption that Hutcheson aims sympathetically to work out some of Shaftesbury’s proposals – as indeed Hutcheson asserts (2004 [1725]: 8–9) – even if they do not agree in all respects. 22 Quoted by Hutcheson (1750: 6). Hutcheson’s theory is thought to be the first incongruity theory of humor, now the predominant view (see Carroll 2014). Telfer (1995) provides a helpful evaluative overview of Hutcheson’s theory. 23 Indeed, “Laughter” was published together with an essay objecting to similar claims in Bernard de Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees. See Carroll (2021: 6–8) for well-taken qualifications concerning Hutcheson’s view of Hobbes on laughter. 24 This aspect of Hutcheson’s view is often unnoticed by commentators, with the exception of Jaffro (2017: 34). Some narrowing of this kind seems necessary for any viable incongruity theory, however; otherwise, any juxtaposition of ideas in any way similar and in any way dissimilar – that is, any juxtaposition of ideas – would have to be funny on Hutcheson’s view. 25 Here Hutcheson reinterprets in his own terms an instance of laughter that seems to support ­Hobbes (1750: 21–22). 26 Humor is thus anomalous in Hutcheson’s aesthetics: generally he adverts to associations to explain why a perceiver fails to have the universal, natural affective response to perceiving the object (2004 [1725]: 62–63, 67–68). With respect to metaphor (1750: 18–19), Hutcheson suggests that wealth of associations can itself have aesthetic value – though he emphasizes that the associations reveal true, if previously unnoticed resemblances among the component ideas (they are not mere associations). In the case of humor, remarkably, associations explain the cultural locatedness of some humor, but appear not to undermine its status as truly humorous. 27 Hutcheson appears here to mingle two points: that association of ideas in metaphor is aesthetically appreciable for revealing new, telling resemblances among ideas, thereby also heightening their aesthetic character (whatever it might be). And, second: that grandeur in particular is heightened by having a greater number of (appropriately) associated ideas, and poets are admirable (found great) for finding so many; thus grandeur is perhaps the aesthetic character most easily so heightened. 28 This view thus works out Shaftesbury’s suggestion that ridicule can differentiate true from false “Gravity” (2001: 1.8) – without conflating grandeur and gravity (or ridicule and lightness of mood), as Shaftesbury appears to do. 29 One may note that the enthusiast’s conception itself would seem incongruous in combining ideas of opposed aesthetic characters – but, perhaps unfortunately for Hutcheson’s view of humor, it does not seem to be funny. (Hence I sometimes refer to “manifest” or “shown” incongruities.) Another complication: the Shaftesburian enthusiast appears to mistake the character of her own emotional response, taking melancholic fear for admiration (rather than, as a Hutchesonian analysis would have it, responding inappropriately to the object of fear as an object of admiration because of association with another admirable idea). 30 Apart, perhaps, from his own attempts at wit in composing the Letter itself. Readers are encouraged to “test” for themselves how successful those attempts may be. 31 As Katsafanas objects generally against enlightenment analyses, however, this view does not explain why violence or intolerance of others’ values would be a necessary component of enthusiasm (2022: 139–141). 32 Poetic enthusiasm (good) poses a further problem here, however, since (on Shaftesbury’s view) ancient poets are not inspired by (nor do they arouse emotional responses in others to) the correct idea of God. 33 See Carroll (2021) for good treatment of Shaftesbury’s position concerning the social effects of humor (and of extensive previous scholarship), and Davison (2020) and Jaffro (2017) on Hutcheson’s prescribed moral restrictions on ridicule as a different response to such concerns. 34 That is, Hutcheson implicitly recognizes how humor, while not necessarily a Hobbesian “sudden” recognition of (already existing) superiority, can institute social superiority (by rendering someone ridiculous) (Carroll 2021: 6). Neither Hutcheson nor Shaftesbury seems to recognize another (now

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Shaftesbury and Hutcheson much-discussed) aspect of humor that may not lead to social harmony: violating social norms (as such) can be funny. 35 Jaffro (2017: 141–143) interestingly emphasizes Shaftesbury’s ethics of self-criticism through selfdirected humor; this seems an unlikely achievement for enthusiasts. 36 I am grateful to Katalin Makkai and Paul Katsafanas for helpful comments on a draft, and to Leon Sommer-Simpson, Sam Filby, and Spencer Nabors for stimulating discussion of these texts, and to the National Endowment for the Humanities for a faculty fellowship that supported this research.

Works Cited Boespflug, Mark and Pasnau, Robert. 2022. “Locke on Enthusiasm,” in The Lockean Mind, eds. ­Jessica Gordon-Roth and Shelley Weinberg, London: Routledge, 554–563. Carroll, Noël. 2014. Humour: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carroll, Ross. 2021. Uncivil Mirth: Ridicule in Enlightenment Britain. Princeton, NJ: Princeton ­University Press. Davison, Kate. 2020. “Plainly of Considerable Moment in Human Society: Francis Hutcheson and Polite Laughter in Eighteenth-Century Britain and Ireland,” Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplements 88: Irish Philosophy in the Age of Berkeley, 143–169. Gill, Michael B. 2021. “Shaftesbury’s Claim that Beauty and Good are One and the Same,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 59:1, 69–92. Hutcheson, Francis. 1750. Reflections upon Laughter and Remarks upon the Fable of the Bees. Glasgow: Baxter. Hutcheson, Francis. 2004 [1725]. An Inquiry into the Original of Our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue, ed. Wolfgang Leidhold. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund. Jaffro, Laurent. 2017. “The Passions and Actions of Laughter in Shaftesbury and Hutcheson,” in ­ xford: Thinking about the Emotions: A Philosophical History, eds. Alix Cohen and Robert Stern. O Oxford University Press, 130–149. ­ xford: OxKatsafanas, Paul. 2022. Philosophy of Devotion: The Longing for Invulnerable Ideals. O ford University Press. Kors, Alan Charles (Ed.). 2003. Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, vol. 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Locke, John. 1975. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, ed. Peter H. Nidditch. Oxford: Clarendon. Passmore, John Arthur. 1951. Ralph Cudworth: An Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shaftesbury (Anthony Ashley Cooper third Earl of). 2001 [1711]. Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times, in three volumes, ed. Douglas den Uyl. Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund. Shelley, James. 2007. “Aesthetics and the World at Large,” British Journal of Aesthetics 47:2, 169–183. Spinoza, Benedict De. 2007. Theological-Political Treatise, ed. Jonathan Israel, trans. Michael Silverthorne and Jonathan Israel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Telfer, Elizabeth. 1995. “Hutcheson’s Reflections Upon Laughter,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 53:4, 359–369. Tucker, Susie I. 1972. Enthusiasm: A Study in Semantic Change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winkler, Kenneth. 1985. “Hutcheson’s Alleged Realism,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 23:2, 179–194.

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PART 3

Fanaticism in the Late Modern Period

9 KANT ON ENTHUSIASM, REASON, AND MISANTHROPY Krista K. Thomason

Kant’s writings on fanaticism (what is typically translated into English as “enthusiasm”) are well-known.1 I have argued elsewhere that Kant’s interest in enthusiasm ought to be situated in his broader concerns about the proper use of reason (Thomason 2020). Here I want to explore one dimension of these concerns: the danger of misanthropy. Kant connects enthusiasm to misanthropy in a few different ways. He notably associates misanthropy with Rousseau, but less attention has been given to his comments about the misanthropy of Pascal. I will argue that Kant is especially concerned about misanthropy because he sees his own critical project as possibly opening the door to it. The critical project requires that we accept reason’s limitations and be more modest about reason’s ability to answer metaphysical questions. Kant worries that people who are optimistic about the promise of the Enlightenment might see this conception of reason as too feeble and thus decide to abandon it in favor of enthusiasm. For Kant, enthusiasm is an ever-present danger that faces anyone who tries to undertake the project of Enlightenment. The chapter will proceed as follows. First, I will situate Kant’s work on enthusiasm in the context of his predecessors in the Enlightenment. Many philosophers wrote about enthusiasm and Kant was likely familiar with these arguments. Next, I will reconstruct Kant’s own views about enthusiasm and discuss the issues with translation and terminology. I then move to the question: how does Kant think reason and enthusiasm relate to each other? Unlike some of his fellow Enlightenment philosophers, I argue that Kant cannot think of reason a straightforward cure for enthusiasm. I conclude with the section on enthusiasm and misanthropy, paying special attention to Kant’s comments about Pascal. Kant’s views on enthusiasm help to illustrate his complex attitude toward the project of the Enlightenment.

9.1  Enthusiasm’s Historical Context and Kant’s Terminology The specter of enthusiasm haunted the Enlightenment.2 Versions of it appeared in England, France, and Germany. Numerous philosophers of the time period wrote about enthusiasm: Hume, Voltaire, Shaftesbury, Locke, Burke, Wieland, Garve, and Lessing, to name just a few, either wrote stand-alone treatises on it or incorporated discussions of it in their work.

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By the time Kant enters the scene, the discussion and debate about enthusiasm—how to define it and whether it was good or bad—was already well under way. Enthusiasm remained a contested concept throughout the Enlightenment. Kant’s predecessors and contemporaries struggled to fix its meaning and to keep their definitions and terminology consistent. I will return to the issue in a moment because it is relevant to Kant’s views, but first let me provide a handful of examples from literature that Kant was likely familiar with.3 Henry More, whose Enthusiamus Triamphatus was known to Shaftesbury and Locke, excoriates multiple types of enthusiasm. The standard is religious enthusiasm, which is the “misconceit of being inspired” (1966: 2). More thinks enthusiasm is probably caused by some sort of disease in the mind, most likely a form of melancholy. He writes that it, “is most observable in Melancholy when it reaches to a disease, that it sets on some one particular absurd imagination upon the Mind so fast, that all the evidence of Reason to the contrary cannot remove it” (8). In addition to religious enthusiasm, there is also a “Philosophical” type, which is “found in such as are of a more Speculative and Philosophical complexion” (28). Philosophical enthusiasts imagine “that every fine thought or fancy that steals into their mind ought to be look’t upon by them as a pledge of the Divine favour, and a singular illumination from God himself” (29). Despite More’s attack on enthusiasm as the product of a diseased brain, toward the end of the essay, he is clear that there is a “true and warrantable Enthusiasm of devout and holy Souls, who are so strangely transported in that vehement Love they bear towards God, and that unexpressible Joy and Peace they find in him” (45). Genuine believers experience a form of enthusiasm that is both beyond rational expression and truly divinely inspired. Like many philosophers who were concerned about religious enthusiasm, More’s work is in part an attempt to distinguish between the false enthusiasm and this true devotion. Throughout his Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, Shaftesbury applies the term “enthusiasm” to religious fanaticism, prophetic visions, and artistic inspiration.4 Like More, he thinks that enthusiasm has some link to melancholy: “There is a melancholy, which accompanies all enthusiasm. Be it love or religion (for there are enthusiasms in both), nothing can put a stop to growing mischief of either, till the melancholy be removed” (1999: 9). For Shaftesbury, enthusiasm in religion might be dangerous, but treating it with too much seriousness makes the problem worse. He recommends instead a kind of amused tolerance. On Shaftesbury’s view, the proper treatment for enthusiasm is not a heavy hand; instead, we should use “all the force of wit and raillery against it” (1999: 11). There is also a good kind of enthusiasm that is the “sublime in human passions” and is the spirit of “heroes, statesmen, poets, orators, musicians, and even philosophers” (27). Part of Shaftesbury’s point in advocating tolerance is that it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between true inspiration and enthusiasm: “The only thing, my Lord, I would infer from all this is that enthusiasm is wonderfully powerful and extensive, that it is a matter of nice judgment and the hardest thing in the world to know fully and distinctively” (1999: 27). Voltaire provides two different entries in his Philosophical Dictionary: one for fanaticism and one for enthusiasm. The entry for fanaticism is a scathing attack on religious fanatics. He calls fanaticism, “a religious madness, gloomy and cruel. It is a malady of the mind, which is taken in the same way as smallpox” (1901: Vol. 5.3, Section II).5

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Fanaticism makes devout believers think they are above the law and most likely lead to violence. As he puts it, they are fully convinced that the Holy Spirit which animates and fills them is above all laws; that their own enthusiasm is, in fact, the only law which they are bound to obey. What can be said in answer to a man…who consequently feels certain of meriting heaven by cutting your throat? (ibid) Voltaire’s remarks in the enthusiasm entry are more tempered. Like Shaftesbury, he admits that enthusiasm is difficult to define: “What do we understand by enthusiasm? How many shades are there in our affections! Approbation, sensibility, emotion, distress, impulse, passion, transport, insanity, rage, fury. Such are the stages through which the miserable soul of man is liable to pass” (1901: Vol. 4.2). Voltaire primarily thinks of enthusiasm as an emotional extreme. While this extreme can be harmful, it can also be the source of inspiration. He likens enthusiasm to wine because it has the power to excite such a ferment in the blood-vessels, and such strong vibrations in the nerves, that reason is completely destroyed by it. But it may also occasion only slight agitations so as not to convulse the brain, but merely to render it more active, as is the case in grand bursts of eloquence and more especially in sublime poetry. (ibid) In all these philosophers, we find common themes. Their primary concern is religious enthusiasm. For More, we must be able to distinguish genuine faith and love of God from the false inspirations of the pretenders. Shaftesbury’s Letter takes the form of advice for how to handle religious enthusiasts in civic life. Voltaire’s entry on fanaticism is a biting polemic and warning that the mania for religion leads to violence. More, Shaftesbury, and Voltaire make some connection between enthusiasm and mental illness. All three also try to distinguish false and harmful enthusiasm from the real and noble version. The noble enthusiasm of Shaftesbury and Voltaire is not confined to genuine religious belief as it is for More. They think of enthusiasm as related to poetic or artistic genius. Before getting into the substance of Kant’s views, we should note that Kant uses two terms, both of which are translated into English as enthusiasm: Enthusiasmus and Schwärmerei. There has been some discussion in Kant scholarship about using two different English terms for each concept, but the distinction between them is difficult to pin down.6 Although he uses two different terms, he does not always keep them separate. Given the historical context, this should not be surprising. Like his predecessors, we should not expect Kant to be able to define enthusiasm clearly. For example, Kant thinks one of the causes of enthusiasm is the idea of freedom. The French have an “infectious spirit of freedom” that “causes an enthusiasm (Enthusiasmus)” (7:314).7 Yet in Observations, the “fervor for freedom” causes Schwärmerei rather than Enthusiasmus (2:221).8 It would also be a mistake to think that Kant always gives a positive connotation Enthusiasmus and a negative one to Schwämerei. In Conflict of the Faculties, he “the very expression” of enthusiasm (Enthusiasm) is “fraught with danger” (7:85) Likewise, he writes that “enthusiasm (Enthusiasm) as such deserves censure” (7:86, emphasis original).

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Even when Kant uses only one term, the definition is not consistent. The clearest definition of Enthusiasmus comes in the third Critique where Kant describes it as “the idea of the good with affect” (5:272). In the Anthropology lectures, Kant claims that the enthusiast takes “the ideal for something real,” but there is no mention of this in the third Critique (25:528). In Observations, Kant claims that we must distinguish Enthusiasmus from fanaticism (fn 2:251), but in the Anthropology lectures he describes enthusiasts (Enthusiasten) as “fantasts in principles” (25:1287). Although Kant classifies Enthusiasmus as an affect in the third Critique, in the Anthropology he says that it “must be attributed to the faculty of desire and not to affect” (7:254). Also in the Anthropology, the enthusiast (Enthusiast) is a person who “neglects to compare his imaginings with the laws of experience (who dreams while awake)” and engages in this activity “with affect” (7:202). Yet in the third Critique, we see nothing about the waking dreamer. Kant’s writings are in keeping with the debate over enthusiasm from the rest of the Enlightenment. Like his predecessors and contemporaries, he has difficulty defining enthusiasm and being able to distinguish a noble or genuine kind from the false or harmful kind. While we may not be able to provide a tidy Kantian definition of enthusiasm, by looking at his various discussions, we can understand what role it plays in his corpus.

9.2  Dethroning Reason: Kant’s Worries about Enthusiasm Like his predecessors, Kant talks about enthusiasm in multiple contexts. Kant has no standalone work on enthusiasm, aside from the very short “On the Propensity to Fanaticism and the Means to Oppose it,” which appeared in a letter to Ludwig Ernst Borowski.9 Kant’s occasional praise for Enthusiasmus sounds similar to the noble kinds of enthusiasm defended by Shaftesbury and Voltaire. Enthusiasmus “signifies the state of the mind which is inflamed beyond the appropriate degree by some principle, whether it be by the maxim of patriotic virtue, or of friendship, or of religion” (2:251 fn). The most consistent description of Enthsiasmus is an elevated feeling that accompanies noble ideals, including morality and religion. In Maladies, Kant goes so far as to claim that “nothing great has ever been accomplished in the world without it” (2:267). Kant almost never uses the term Schwärmerei when he points out the positives of enthusiasm. He characterizes Schwärmerei in a number of different ways: as a “delusion” (5:275), a “derangement” (2:346, 7:145), as an “illusion” and “mental illness” (7:161). Kant sometimes talks about it in connection to melancholy (2:221, 7:202), but not consistently. Some Enlightenment philosophers are particularly concerned with religious enthusiasm. Despite Kant’s bad experiences with the overly emotional dogma of the Pietists during his youth and his school years, his work on enthusiasm is not dominated by the religious kind.10 Religious enthusiasm, for Kant, is suspect, but not because it threatens to denigrate some genuine or noble kind of religious enthusiastic feeling. Instead, enthusiasm in religious contexts is dangerous because it is “the moral death of reason without which there can be no religion, because, like all morality in general, religion must be founded on principles” (6:175). Religious enthusiasm claims to be above reason because it surpasses anything in the human world—it assumes there is an inner light of inspiration that is “not within the human being’s power” (ibid). Religion cannot be grounded on unconfirmable supposed direct contact with God or the divine. Kant calls such an idea a “delusion,” which can reach “the heights of enthusiasm (schwärmerischen), to the point of imagining that he feels the special effects of faith within him” (6:201). Unlike More, who thinks there can be a kind 132

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of genuine, inexpressible knowledge of God in the heart, Kant simply denies that we would ever be able to distinguish the true version from the false. For Kant, enthusiasm represents a danger that extends far beyond religion. Enthusiasm, to use a metaphor Kant uses, dethrones reason. It is this dethroning that is at the heart of Kant’s writings on the subject.11 The objection can be summed up in this important passage from the Orientation essay: First genius is very pleased with its bold flights, since it has cast off the thread by which reason used to steer it. Soon it enchants others with its triumphant pronouncements and great expectations and now seems to have set itself on a throne which was so badly graced by slow and ponderous reason, whose language, however, it always employs. Then its maxim is that superior lawgiving reason is invalid—we common human beings call this enthusiasm (Schwärmerei). (8:145) Enthusiasts of all sorts—religious and otherwise—share a common problem. They choose inner illuminations over “slow and ponderous reason,” believing that they can gain more knowledge once they are out from under reason’s yoke. I have argued elsewhere that Kant’s prime example of an enthusiast is Emmanuel Swedenborg, the Swedish mystic and theologian, who claimed to have visions of the spirit world and be able to communicate directly with spirits (Thomason 2020: 383–384).12 In Dreams of a Spirit-Seer, Kant reviews Swedenborg’s work (the eight-volume Arcana coelestia). The review is scathing and sarcastic, and even though Kant claims that Swedenborg’s work contains “not a single drop of reason,” he nevertheless writes that “there prevails in that work such a wondrous harmony with what the most subtle ruminations of reason can produce on a like topic” (2:360). The whole structure of the Dreams essay is to meant to show that Swedenborg’s delusions look a little too much like the dogmatic metaphysics that would eventually become the target of the first Critique.13 In the first chapter, Kant introduces the problem that the spirit-world presents to philosophy. The second chapter—what Kant calls a “fragment of occult ­philosophy”—then allegedly offers an answer about how spirits could interact with the physical world (2:329). The third chapter is a skeptical critique of the second chapter. This chapter contains much of the same language that Kant uses elsewhere to describe enthusiasts. He divides them into two groups: “dreamers of reason” and “dreamers of sense” (2:342). But Kant claims both groups do the same thing: “they see something which no other normal person sees; they have their own community with beings which reveal themselves to no one else, no matter how good his senses may be” (ibid). After Kant finishes his review of Swedenborg, he says that if he were merely talking about Swedenborg’s nonsense, he would have been wasting his and the reader’s time. But he claims to have another purpose. He argues that metaphysics, with which he has “fallen in love,” has two advantages: first, it can “use reason to spy after the hidden properties of things” (2:367). Unfortunately, that task, as it did with Swedenborg, ends in disappointment and “satisfaction escaped our eager grasp” (ibid). The second advantage of metaphysics “consists both in knowing whether the task has been determined by reference to what one can know and in knowing what relation the question has to the empirical concepts” (2:368). Metaphysics, according to Kant, allows us to determine the “limits of human reason” (ibid). Dogmatic metaphysics (unlike his critical metaphysics) encourages flights into “empty space” on “butter-fly wings” where we end up “conversing there with spirit-forms” 133

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(ibid). Kant thinks critical metaphysics encourages use to “fold those silken wings” and find ourselves “back on the humble ground of experience and common sense” (ibid). Philosophers who think that they can use the methods of metaphysics and philosophy to determine truths about the supersensible are no better than Swedenborg. As Kant makes clear in Dreams, this is the “limbo of vanity” (2:369). Metaphysicians fool themselves into thinking not only that they can use reason to discern knowledge of the supersensible, but that they should bring the authority of reason to bear on important questions, such as “freedom, predestination, the future state” (ibid). As he puts is, “The feeling of satisfaction which accompanies the extension of knowledge will very easily assume the appearance of dutifulness” (ibid). But this is fantasy: metaphysics and reason cannot “discover” that which is completely detached from empirical concepts. Of course, Kant’s critique of dogmatic metaphysics receives its full articulation in the first Critique. The concerns about enthusiasm from Dreams reappear in the Preface to the B edition: “Through criticism alone we can sever the very root of materialism, fatalism, atheism, of freethinking unbelief, of enthusiasm (Schwärmerei) and superstition, which can become generally injurious” (Bxxxv). In the Orientation essay, Kant explicitly describes the first Critique as a work that “completely clips the dogmatist’s wings in respect of the cognition of supersensible objects” (8:144 fn). Believing that we can discern things about the world that we cannot experience is the hallmark of both religious enthusiasts and theoretical enthusiasts. Both are, according to Kant, simply building “castles in the sky in their various imaginary worlds, each happily inhabiting his own world to the exclusion of ­others” (2:342).

9.3  Reason as the Cure for Enthusiasm What should we do to avoid enthusiasm? It might seem as though reason and philosophy would be the antidote, and indeed some Enlightenment thinkers make this suggestion. Chief among them is Voltaire. In the entry on fanaticism in the Philosophical Dictionary, he writes: “There is no other remedy for this epidemical malady than that spirit of philosophy, which, extending itself from one to another, at length civilizes and softens the manners of men and prevents the access of the disease” (1901: Vol. 5.3, Section II).14 Although Enlightenment philosophers often pointed out that enthusiasm could be found among the ancients, Voltaire thinks that most “ancient philosophers were not merely exempt from this pest of human society” there were in fact “antidotes to it: for the effect of philosophy is to render the soul tranquil, and fanaticism and tranquility are totally incompatible” (ibid). Likewise in the enthusiasm entry, Voltaire claims: “What is most rarely to be met with is the combination of reason with enthusiasm. Reason consists in constantly perceiving things as they really are” (1901: Vol. 4.2). Even when Voltaire praises noble enthusiasm in poetry, he still insists that reason should control it. He writes: How is reasoning to control enthusiasm? A poet should, in the first instance, make a sketch of his design. Reason then holds the crayon. But when he is desirous of animating his characters, to communicate to them the different and just expressions of the passions, then his imagination kindles, enthusiasm is in full operation and urges him on like a fiery courser in his career. But his course has been previously traced with coolness and judgment. (ibid) 134

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Reason tempers the flames of enthusiasm by acting as a tether or an anchor. The poet makes a plan prior to the onset of enthusiastic inspiration so that, when he is in the midst of the fire, it does not burn out of control. Reason allows us to keep a cool head and keeps our feet firmly planted in reality. Kant cannot accept a straightforward opposition between reason and enthusiasm. While he does occasionally argue that enthusiasm is the caused by madness (2:267, 7:145) or an overly-active imagination (2:265–6, 7:172), I have argued that Kant thinks reason itself (and thus philosophy) can lead us to enthusiasm (Thomason 2020: 386– 387).15 Kant warns repeatedly that reason is ready to try to break beyond its boundaries: it has “a propensity” to try to reach beyond experience (A797/B825).16 In Dreams, Kant references the “zealousness” with which one can “pursue every curiosity” and which allows “no limits to the thirst for knowledge” (2:369). In the first Critique, he says that philosophy should be dedicated to “revealing the deceptions of a reason that misjudges its own boundaries and of bringing the self-conceit of speculation back to modest but thorough self-knowledge” (A735/B763). Kant thinks this critical process will be painful and “humiliating for human reason” because it “requires a discipline to check its extravagances” (A795/B823). Kant describes reason in these passages not as the coolheaded anchor, but as an active force that drives us to know more about the world. We are always tempted to try to make discoveries with pure reason and “to invent or to opine” where in reality we can only “enthuse” (A770/B798). We are naturally spurred by reason to contemplate and try to understand the mysteries of life and the universe. Reason, as Kant puts it, it driven by a “feeling of its own need” and that need is “attaching to reason in itself” (8:136). It is not passion, madness, or imagination that is pushing us to seek out higher truths; it is reason. Dogmatic metaphysicians are Kant’s case study of exactly this phenomenon. Reason and philosophy are not immune from enthusiasm, so they cannot be its cure. This puts Kant is a difficult position, especially in contrast to positions like the one taken by Voltaire. On the one hand, philosophy and reason are not guaranteed antidotes against enthusiasm. On the other hand, Kant is not a reason skeptic. He believes in Enlightenment, thinking for oneself, not abdicating your own thought to authority, metaphysics, and philosophy. Kant’s critical program, detailed in the first Critique, is meant to help secure the proper place and power of reason while ensuring that we do not end up building castles in the sky with the likes of Swedenborg. Kant analogizes thinking for yourself to finding your bearings, as you would on a ship on the ocean or in a completely dark room. You have to find something firm or familiar, like the North Star or your bed post, to know where you are, otherwise you are just drifting or groping (8:135). Swedenborg and the dogmatic metaphysicians leave these familiar objects behind when they try to reason through the supersensible. Kant thinks part of the cure for enthusiasm is accepting reason’s limitations rather than holding it up as an object of worship. He writes: To make use of one’s own reason means no more than to ask oneself, whenever one is supposed to assume something, whether one could find it feasible to make the ground or the rule on which one assumes it into a universal principle for the use of reason. This test is one that everyone can apply to himself; and with this examination he will see superstition and enthusiasm (Schwärmerei) disappear. (8:146 fn) 135

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Kant’s critical project advocates for a healthy, grounded reason—one that knows it cannot fly as high as it wants. Even Kant’s conception of a grounded reason that stays within its limits does not fully stave off the problems of enthusiasm. I want to suggest that Kant identifies yet another avenue for enthusiasm, which is especially problematic for his own work. He is sensitive to the worry that clipping reason’s wings might open the doors to a different type of enthusiast: the misanthrope.

9.4  Enthusiasm and Misanthropy Kant is clearly worried about the connection between enthusiasm and misanthropy. There are two places in his work where the connection appears. The first is with Rousseau.17 In the Anthropology lectures, Kant claims that “Enthusiasm requires that one make oneself and ideal of something” (25:529). Enthusiasts fall too much in love with their ideals and expect to be able to attain them. When they fail to do so, “enthusiasm produces misanthropic individuals” (25:530). These enthusiasts are not bad people because they “are touched with principles of benevolence toward the entire human race,” but disappointment turns them into “misanthropes, for example, Rousseau” (ibid). Rousseau’s arguments about the corruption of philosophy and society life were well-known to Kant and the rest of the Enlightenment (Callanan 2019: 8–10; Hulliung 2001: 57–60). He also eventually followed his own advice and left Paris for the French countryside, which caused an uproar among his fellow philosophes (Hulliung 2001: 64–67). As much as Rousseau rails against high society, science, and philosophy, he eulogizes the simple innocence of the uncorrupted human heart. For Kant, his angry diatribes are born from a genuine love and concern for the human race. The fact that he is so moved by goodness in people makes him an enthusiast, but also leads to his misanthropy. Kant’s many scattered remarks about fantasts in principles and enthusiasts for ideals are likely informed by his thoughts on Rousseau (e.g., 7:86, 25:1287, 7:254). The second connection between enthusiasm and misanthropy in Kant’s work is associated with Pascal. Like Rousseau, Pascal’s pessimism about human nature was well-known to the Enlightenment, largely due to Voltaire’s famous attack in the Philosophical Letters. In the twenty-fifth letter, Voltaire critiques the Pensées for trying to “show man in an odious light” (2007: 101). He picks out various passages that he quotes and then tries to refute, most of them dealing with man’s supposedly miserable and contrary nature.18 He takes aim at all of Pascal’s gloomy descriptions of mankind as plagued by “blindness and misery” and “without light, abandoned to himself and as it lost in this little corner of the universe” (105). Voltaire argues against all of this and specifically labels Pascal a “fanatic” (105). Voltaire declares that he will “take the side of humanity against this sublime misanthrope” (101). Kant’s familiarity with Rousseau’s misanthropy is well-documented, but his familiarity with Pascal’s is less so. Kant mentions Pascal specifically in at least two places, both in the Anthropology. They appear in the context of Kant’s warnings about intense selfobservation. The first passage is in the section entitled “On Self-Observation,” which Kant opens with the warning that self-observation “can easily lead to enthusiasm and madness” (7:132). Kant then ends the section with a reference to Pascal: The warning is given because this is the most direct path to illuminism or even terrorism, by way of a confusion in the mind of supposed higher inspirations and powers flowing into us, without our help, who knows from where. For without noticing it, 136

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we make supposed discoveries of what we ourselves have carried into ourselves, like Bourignon, with his [sic] flattering ideas, or Pascal with his terrifying and fearful ones. (7:133)19 The other passage is very similar to the first and appears in Kant’s discussion of inner sense. Once again, Kant mentions enthusiasm just before mentioning Pascal. He writes that inner sense is often “subject to illusions,” which consists in “taking imaginings for sensations” and is either “enthusiasm or spiritualism” (7:161). He then gives the example of Pascal: This is how it was with the fanatically exciting inner sensations of a Bourignon, or the fanatically frightening ones of Pascal. This mental depression cannot be conveniently cleared away by rational ideas (for what are they able to do against supposed intuitions?). The tendency to retire into oneself, together with the resulting illusions of inner sense, can only be set right when the human being is led back into the external world and by means of this to the order of things present to the outer senses. (7:162) Let us reconstruct what role Pascal has in these sections. First, like Rousseau, Pascal is also a misanthrope. In just one example that Voltaire quotes, Pascal describes the human condition as “a number of men in chains, all condemned to death, some of whom are slaughtered each day in full view of the others…looking at one another with anguish and without hope” (2007: 113). While Rousseau sings the praises of humanity’s natural innocence and blames their corruption on civilized life, Pascal thinks people are naturally confounding and miserable. He attributes this corruption to original sin, but the examples he uses are often just drawn from everyday experience. This was indeed part of Pascal’s plan for the Pensées in the first place.20 Steinmann argues that Pascal’s intended audience for the book was the sophisticated humanistic atheist (1966: 173–176). His plan was to lead this person to despair by cataloging what they could see in front of their face: the misery and inconstancy of humanity. This is why Kant calls his visions “frightening,” “terrifying,” and “fearful.” Second, Kant is associating Pascal with what he calls the illusions of inner sense. Inner sense is a concept much-debated in Kant scholarship, but it bears a connection to Kant’s remarks on enthusiasm.21 Inner sense appears in several places in Kant’s work and he describes it in a variety of ways. In the Anthropology inner sense is someone’s “consciousness of what he undergoes, in so far as he is affected by the play of his own thoughts” (7:161). Kant typically contrasts inner sense with thinking and with apperception (7:161, 7:141–143). Very broadly, inner sense is something like our experience of our mental life. In the passages where Kant mentions Pascal, crucially, it is our experience of our unbidden or undirected mental life. Pascal, according to Kant, was engaging in an intense and, in some sense impossible, form of self-observation. It is mostly likely that he is referring to the Pensées, particularly to the latter sections of the Port-Royal edition, which were also the primary target of Voltaire’s critique. It is difficult to know precisely how Kant arrives as his interpretation of Pascal, but we can see how he might have arrived at it. In the Port-Royal edition (the edition that Kant would have known, if he knew it), the structure of the Pensées is presented as follows: it begins with relatively standard arguments against atheism and in favor of Christianity. This contains some of Pascal’s pessimism, but more of it appears after a section entitled “The Portrait of a Man who has wearied himself with searching after God by his Bare reason, 137

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and who begins to read Scripture” (Barker 1975: 100). From Kant’s perspective, it may have appeared as though this was a progression of Pascal’s thinking. It shows Pascal trying and failing to do precisely what the dogmatic metaphysicians do: use reason to discern supersensible truths of religion. When that fails, he abandons reason and instead tries to discern religious truths via inner inspiration. Once he does that, the reader then comes to the fragments where Pascal says horrible things about man’s misery. From Kant’s perspective, the Pensées illustrate the precise progression (or regression) that he describes in the Orientation essay. Wearied by the failures of reason, the enthusiast abandons it in favor of inner illumination (8:145). In order for Pascal to adopt a method of inner inspiration, he would have to engage in the self-observation that Kant warns against. The enthusiast has to monitor her inner sense for signs of divine inspiration. Kant’s question is: how would we ever know the difference between our own thoughts and thoughts that come from the divine? As Kant puts it, we cannot observe ourselves this way because “the stability of observation necessary for experience does not occur” (7:134). Inner sense, all by itself, would never be able to distinguish between actual divine inspiration and feelings or thoughts that we believe to be divine inspiration. Attempting to use your own inner sense to find signs of divine revelation is, according to Kant, like trying to listen to yourself talk or to pose in front of the mirror to see how you look to other people (7:132). Observer and subject are the same person; there is no way to do this without driving yourself insane. Why does Kant feel the need to warn his readers against the likes of Pascal? Pascal was a formidable figure in the Enlightenment because of his important work in science and mathematics (Barker 1975: 37–47). Although Pascal was seen as an intellectual equal, he departed sharply from the philosophes on the subject of religion. On this topic, as Cassier puts it, Pascal “speaks their own language and offers to fight them with their own weapons” (2009: 142). Kant would have known Pascal’s reputation and he brings to life Kant’s fears. Here is a person endowed with sophisticated reason—just the sort advocated by the Enlightenment—and yet it is precisely through the use (or misuse) of that reason that he ends up an enthusiast. Pascal might have turned into a fanatic, but he was at one point “one of us.” There are, I suggest, two reasons why Kant is especially concerned about the kind of danger that Pascal represents. First, Kant thinks that becoming acquainted with your inner mental life is essential to his critical project. In the section in the Anthropology where he mentions Pascal, he writes: “To observe the various acts of the representative power in myself, when I summon them, is indeed worthy of reflection; it is necessary for logic and metaphysics” (7:133). The critical program outlined in the first Critique requires us to inspect the content of our mental life so that we can tell the difference between, for example, inner sense and apperception. Probing the boundaries of reason means we have to figure out what exactly we are doing while we are thinking. Kant recognizes that there is a risk in this activity. Just as the dogmatic metaphysicians risk building castles in the sky, Kant’s critical project risks digging itself into an endless hole inside the human mind. Pascal was an example of this possibility. The Pensées seem to show a renowned philosopher degenerating into the madness of self-observation. While Pascal is searching for the divine, I think Kant anticipates that anyone trying to plumb the depths of reason might fall into the same trap. Second, Kant recognizes that his critical project could be seen as an endorsement of skepticism about philosophy or reason itself. He suspects that his insistence on the limitations of reason will be seen as “jealous enemies of our unremitting drive straining for 138

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the expansion of our cognition” (A708/B736). This is why Rousseau and Pascal figure so prominently for Kant. Both of them argue for this very position. Rousseau thinks the refinement of our reason has been our corruption and done nothing but multiply our vices. Pascal thinks once reason has discerned its limitations, its logical next step is its own annihilation and abdication of its authority to God. They arrive at this dark vision of reason by using reason. Kant is advocating using reason to discover reason’s boundaries. He recognizes that coming fact-to-face with reason’s limitations can easily lead a curious optimistic person into despair. Why, when faced the newly “clipped wings” of reason, should we not abandon it, especially if, as Rousseau and Pascal have it, it does more harm than good? From both Rousseau and Pascal, we get the threat that, contrary to the basic assumptions of the Enlightenment project, people are irredeemable even when you get them to think for themselves. While Kant is no reason skeptic, he seems to see the power in these arguments. As the work of Trullinger (2015), Israelsen (2019), and Callanan (2019) point out, Kant has a complex relationship with misanthropy, hatred of reason, and solitude. Kant himself did not always feel positively disposed toward people. He clearly did not follow Rousseau and Pascal to their conclusions, but at some point in his thought, he understood the temptation. Pocock refers to enthusiasm as the Enlightenment’s “antiself:” it was co-created with the Enlightenment and is its mirror image (1997: 26). I suggest Kant’s views about fanaticism support this idea. For Kant, learning to think for oneself is as essential as it is risky. There is no guarantee that reason will lead us to a fabled promise land and that we will actually achieve what the Enlightenment hoped for. Reason is not the automatic cure for enthusiasm that other Enlightenment thinkers believe it is. We are just as capable of being enthusiasts in philosophy are we are in religion. But contra the misanthropes, there is no alternative to the proper use of reason. Although reason might drag us out of a metaphorical paradise of innocent simplicity, we cannot achieve freedom of mind without it.22

Notes 1 See, for example, Shell (1996), Sorensen (2002), Kneller (2007), Clewis (2009), Zuckert (2010), Thomason (2020), and Goldsmith (2022). As I will explain in a moment, in keeping with the historical context, I will use the term “enthusiasm.” 2 Heyd (1995) remains the most thorough history of enthusiasm for the time period. For work focusing on Germany, see La Vopa (1997). On the importance of enthusiasm in the Enlightenment, see Pocock (1997). 3 It is of course difficult to determine precisely which sources Kant draws on for his own work, but many German translations of French and English writing would have been available. Beck points out that philosophers in the German Enlightenment valued eclecticism, which motivated translation efforts (1969: 321–323). For some of the key German translations of English works, including Shaftesbury, see Klemme and Kuehn (2001). We know Kant was familiar with Shaftesbury (Kuehn: 132–134) and he owned books by both More and Voltaire (though not the works where their writings on enthusiasm appear) (Warda 1922). It is also likely that he could read some French (Kuehn 2001: 50). 4 Enthusiasm comes up for Shaftesbury also in The Moralists and in Miscellany II, which are collected together with the Letter in Characteristics (1999). Kant was likely familiar with The Moralists; it was translated and widely read among German philosophers (Klemme and Kuehn 2001: xvi–xx). For more on Shaftesbury’s views on enthusiasm, see Zuckert’s chapter in this volume. 5 The most complete English version of Voltaire’s works is provided by the Online Library of Liberty, which has no page numbers. I have cited the Dictionary by its volume number and part number. The entry on fanaticism has multiple sections, so I have included the section number as well. 6 Clewis (2009: 4–5), Zuckert (2010: 295–297), and Goldsmith (2022: 56–58). I discuss this issue in greater detail in Thomason 2020.

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Krista K. Thomason 7 All references to Kant are taken from the Akademie volume. 8 Other passages where the distinction is unclear are the following: 5:85; 5:157; 7:202; 7:254; 25:528; 25:530. 9 The letter appears in Kant’s collected correspondence (11:141–143). 10 For background on the Pietists and their educational theory, see Kuehn (2001: 45–54). 11 This is what Zuckert refers to as “theoretical” enthusiasm (2010: 297). I have also argued that Kant’s concerns about enthusiasm are primarily epistemological (Thomason 2020: 385–387). 12 Although Kant is concerned by the fact that enthusiasts tend to garner an audience and convince others of their divinely inspired power, he does not make the “spread” of enthusiasm the focus of his criticism. 13 My reading here follows Shell’s interpretation (1996: 106–132). Laywine (1993), Grier (2001), and Rukgaber (2018) have also argued that Kant sees speculative metaphysics implicated in the Dreams essay. 14 It is not clear from the text whether Voltaire thinks the spirit of philosophy will prevent enthusiasm or whether it will cure enthusiasm. He seems to suggest both. 15 It is likely that Kant is inspired by Shaftesbury’s The Moralists in this regard. 16 Grier makes this point clearly regarding the interpretative difficulties with the Transcendental Illusion in the first Critique (2001). 17 For further discussions of Rousseau’s misanthropy in Kant, see Trullinger (2015: 70–71), Callanan (2019: 9–11), and Israelsen (2019: 226–228). 18 It is important to remember that Voltaire only had access to the version of the Pensées that was assembled by Port-Royal. For a detailed examination of this version, see Vamos (1972) and Barker (1975). Although, as Hulliung points out, Voltaire seemed to be aware that Pascal’s work was given a Port-Royal spin (2001: 60). 19 The other person referenced in both passages is Antoinette Bourignon, who was a Pietist mystic. She rejected many formal aspects of religion in favor of direct illumination, which she believed one would receive if one gave oneself completely to God (Irwin 1991: 308–309). It is unclear why Bourignon is referred to by “his” here. Kant knew she was a woman: she is referenced again in the Mrongovius lectures in a discussion of women visionaries (25:1288). 20 This plan is not properly represented in the Port-Royal edition, since the editors seem to have switched Pascal’s intended order for the Pensées (Steinmann 1966: 173–178). 21 I take it the description in the Anthropology is at least consistent with the description in the first Critique. Kant writes that it is “through inner sense that we intuit ourselves only as we are internally affected by ourselves, i.e., as far as inner sense is concerned we cognize our own subject only as appearance” (B156). For a helpful discussion of the development of Kant’s thinking on inner sense, see Dyck (2016). My reading of inner sense has been influenced by Valaris (2008). 22 This process is detailed clearly in the Conjectural beginnings essay (8:114–118).

References Barker, J. (1975). Strange contraries: Pascal in England during the age of reason. Montreal: McGillQueens University Press. Beck, Lewis White. (1969). Early German philosophy: Kant and his predecessors. Cambridge, MA: Harvard/Belknap. Callanan, J. (2019). Kant on misology and the natural dialectic. The Philosopher’s Imprint 19 (47), 1–22. Cassier, E. (2009). The philosophy of the enlightenment. Koellin F. and Pettegrove, J. (Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Clewis, R. (2009). The Kantian sublime and the revelation of freedom. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dyck, C. (2016). The scope of inner sense: the development of Kant’s psychology in the silent decade. Con-Textos Kantianos 3, 326–344. Goldsmith, Z. (2022). Fanaticism: a political philosophical history. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Grier, M. (2001). Kant’s doctrine of transcendental illusion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Kant on Enthusiasm, Reason, and Misanthropy Heyd, M. (1995). ‘Be sober and reasonable’ the critique of enthusiasm in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Hulliung, M. (2001). Rousseau, Voltaire and the revenge of Pascal. In The Cambridge companion to Rousseau, pp. 57–77. Riley, Patrick (Ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Irwin, J. (1991) Anna Maria van Schurman and Antoinette Bourignon: contrasting examples of ­seventeenth-century pietism. Church History 60 (3), 301–315 Israelsen, A. (2019) And who is my neighbor? Kant on misanthropy and Christian love. Heythrop Journal 60, 219–232. Kant, I. (1992a) Theoretical philosophy, 1755–1770. Walford, D. and Meerbote, R. (Ed. And Trans.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (1992b). Practical philosophy. Gregor, M. J. (Ed. and Trans.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (1996). Religion and rational theology. Wood, A. and Di Giovanni, G. (Ed and Trans). ­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (1998). Critique of pure reason. Guyer, P. and Wood, A. (Ed. and Trans.). Cambridge: ­Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (1999) Correspondence. Zweig, Arnulf (Ed. and Trans.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (2000). Critique of judgment, Guyer, P. (Ed). Guyer, P. and Matthews, E. (Trans.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (2007). Anthropology, history, and education, Louden, R. and Zöller, G. (Ed.), Gregor, M.J., Guyer, P., Louden, R., Wilson, H., Wood, A., Zöller, G., and Zweig, A. (Trans.). Cambridge: ­Cambridge University Press. Kant, I. (2012). Lectures on anthropology, Wood, A. and Louden, R. (Ed.), Clewis, R., Louden, R., Munzel, G. F., and Wood, A. (Trans.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Klemme, H. and Kuehn, M. (2001). The reception of British aesthetics in Germany: seven significant translations, 1745–1776. Bristol: Thoemmes Press. Kneller, J. (2007). Kant and the power of imagination. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kuehn, M. (2001). Kant: a biography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. La Vopa, A. J. (1997). The philosopher and the ‘schwärmer:’ on the career of a German epithet from Luther to Kant. Huntington Library Quarterly: Enthusiasm and Enlightenment in Europe 1659–1850 60 (1.2), 85–115. Laywine, A. (1993). Kant’s early metaphysics and the origins of the critical philosophy. Atascadero, CA: Ridgeview Press. More, H. (1966) Enthuiasmus triumphatus. Los Angeles, CA: The Augustan Reprint Society. Pocock, J.G.A. (1997). The anti-self of the enlightenment. Huntington Library Quarterly: Enthusiasm and Enlightenment in Europe, 1650-1850 60 (1.2), 7–28 Rukgaber, M. (2018). Immaterial spirits and the reform of first philosophy: the compatibility of Kant’s pre-critical metaphysics with the arguments in Dreams of a Spirit-Seer. The Journal of the History of Ideas 79(3), 363–383. Shaftesbury (Cooper, A.A.). (1999). Characteristics of men, manners, opinions, times. Klein, Lawrence (Ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shell, S. M. (1996). The embodiment of reason: Kant on spirit, generation, and community. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Sorensen, K. (2002). Kant’s taxonomy of the emotions. Kantian Review 6, 109–128. Steinmann, J. (1966). Pascal. Turnell, M. (Trans.). New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Thomason, K. (2020). Wild chimeras: enthusiasm and intellectual vice in Kant. European Journal of Philosophy 28 (2), 380–393. Trullinger, J. (2015). Kant’s neglected account of the virtuous solitary. International Philosophical Quarterly 55 (1), 67–83. Valaris, M. (2008). Inner sense, self-affection, & temporal consciousness in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. The Philosopher’s Imprint 8 (4), 1–18. Vamos, M. (1972). Pascal’s Pensées and the Enlightenment: the roots of a misunderstanding. In Studies on Voltaire and the eighteenth century, Vol. 97, pp. 7–144. Besterman, Theodore (Ed.). Oxford: The Voltaire Foundation/Thorpe Mandeville House.

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Krista K. Thomason Voltaire, (d’Arouet, F-M). (1901). The philosophical dictionary in the works of Voltaire, 21 Vols., Fleming, William (Ed. and Trans). New York: E. R. DuMont. Voltaire, (d’Arouet, F-M). (2007). Philosophical letters or regarding the English nation. Leigh, John (Ed.) and Steiner, Prudence L. (Trans.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Warda, Arthur (1922). Immanuel Kant’s Bücher. Berlin: Martin Breslauer. Accessed via online catalog, maintained by The Kant Research Group at the University of Western Ontario: https://publish. uwo.ca/~cdyck5/UWOKRG/kantsbooks.html Zuckert, R. (2010). Kant’s account of practical fanaticism. In Kant’s moral metaphysics: God, freedom, and immortality, pp. 291–318. Bruxvoort Lipscomb, B. J. and Krueger, J. (Eds.). Berlin: De Gruyter.

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10 GERMAINE DE STAËL ON PASSIONS, POLITICS, AND FANATICISM Kristin Gjesdal

Discussions of fanaticism are well established in Enlightenment thought. Voltaire treats ­fanaticism as more or less synonymous with religious extremism (Voltaire 1964 [1741]: 22).1 As such, it is contrasted with reason (Voltaire 2000 [1763]: 6, 10). Similarly, Diderot, in his Encyclopedia entry on fanaticism, traces it back to religion and takes religion, in turn, to be based on dogma that is contrary to reason (Deleyre 2009 [Diderot 1756]). Reason, in this picture, is a determining feature of humanity. In abandoning reason, the fanatic has therefore reduced himself to an animal or, in Voltaire’s scheme, fallen even lower, “for wild animals kill only to eat, whereas [fanatical humans] have exterminated one another over a parcel of words” (Voltaire 2000 [1763]: 28). A wild animal or worse, the fanatic cannot expect to be met with reason and toleration (Voltaire 2000 [1763]: 78). Two problems emerge from Voltaire’s position: the first is philosophical and has to do with the consistency of his position; the second is historical and related to developments that were clearly beyond the philosopher’s control. First, Voltaire indicates that the fanatic cannot be treated as reasonable, but must be fought with all possible means. In their fight against fanaticism, the guardians of reason might even need to leave reason behind. This blurs the very boundary between the fanatic and the non-fanatic that the reference to reason, in the first place, was meant to secure. Second, in France the Revolution did not bring an end to fanaticism. Fanaticism, in other words, was not, as Voltaire had hoped, a thing of the past. The new fanaticism was not only religious, but also political. Enlightenment philosophy, it seemed, had failed to provide the sought-after cure for extremism. It is at this point that Germaine de Staël (1766–1817) enters the debate. Staël’s focus, however, is not on religious fanaticism, but on politics.2 Over a timespan of two decades— spanning the ebbs and flows of the Revolution, Napoleonic rule, and beyond—she analyzes the problem of fanaticism and its possible solutions. Fanaticism, she claims, destroys politics, culture, and, ultimately, the self. Further, fanaticism cannot be cured by philosophy alone. There is even such a thing as philosophical fanaticism. For, she points out, fanaticism can turn individuals into “reasoning murderers, who march to the perpetration of crimes under the conduct of metaphysics.”3 Hence it is of the utmost importance to understand the causes and manifestations of fanaticism, to think about its potential cures, and to determine what role philosophy can play in this context. 143

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Staël leads fanaticism back to an overheating of the human passions. As such, it must be situated within a larger moral psychology. However, she also emphasizes the particular political conditions under which fanaticism prospers. The joint emphasis on moral psychology and on the social conditions of fanaticism sets her model apart. Likewise, does her analysis of fanaticism—of what happens when the self loses self-governance—serve as a lens through which she develops her theory of selfhood, which runs through and unifies her philosophical contributions. In their discussions of Enlightenment approaches to fanaticism, Passmore (2003), Toscano (2010), Cavanaugh (2011), Katsafanas (2019), and Lacorne (2019) all ignore Staël’s work. Craiutu (2012) is an exception, but he approaches fanaticism in terms of the ideal of moderation, not as a topic considered in its own right. Similarly, Staël scholars have failed to consider her discussion of fanaticism. For instance, in her treatment of Staël’s contribution to post-Napoleonic geopolitics, Sluga (2009, 2021) does not discuss Staël’s analysis of fanaticism. A comprehensive volume on Staël’s philosophy of the passions (Cuillé and Szmurlo 2013) does not include a systematic discussion of fanaticism and focuses primarily on the role of the passions in Staël’s literary work. This oversight—among scholars of fanaticism and of Staël’s work alike—is unfortunate. Staël offers an important contribution to the Enlightenment analysis of fanaticism and a way to get beyond the limitations of the model described above. Moreover, her discussion of fanaticism is key to her philosophical work.

10.1  Philosophical Preliminaries Staël turns to fanaticism in a period when the Revolution had taken a massively violent turn. A description of the 1793 fights in Vendée, where the revolutionary government had been met with resistance, tells it all. Upon encountering what they perceived as religious fanaticism, the revolutionaries made their attitude clear: “We must follow their own methods…We can no longer hope to bring them to reason. We must kill them or they will kill us.” The Vendée protesters were branded a plague or gangrene in need of a drastic cure, if not straight-out amputation (for the quote and the description, see Clarke 2019). The problem is that in resorting to such a dramatic measure, the fight against fanaticism threatens to become itself fanatical. Staël is aware of this danger and sees fanaticism as a sign of dark times. In the posthumously published Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution (1818), she describes the developments of the Revolution as a “frightful crisis” and continues: …there is no individual to fix attention, no circumstance to excite interest: all is uniform, though extraordinary; all is monotonous, though horrible; and we should be in some measure ashamed of ourselves if we could observe these brutal atrocities sufficiently closely to characterize them in detail. Let us only examine the great principle of these monstrous phenomena—political fanaticism. (Staël 2008 [1818]: 354, trans. modified) While this may be her most chilling description of fanaticism, Staël discusses its presence and nature in a number of works, early as well as late and posthumously published texts. Discussions of fanaticism feature in the anonymously published Reflections on Peace addressed to M. Pitt and the French and in Reflections on Domestic Peace (both 1795, though the latter was withdrawn and only posthumously published [see “Introduction,” ŒCS III, 144

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1:123]). The most complete treatment, however, can be found in A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions from 1796. The book was initially conceived as a two-part study. Part One addresses the passions from the point of view of the individual (i.e., moral psychology). Part Two, in turn, was supposed to address the passions from the point of view of government (i.e., politics and law). Only Part One was published in its original form. Yet, some 20 years after its publication, Staël describes this work as “the testament of my thought” (letter of Oct 1, 1796; quoted from Craiutu 2010: 345). Happiness—How, in the midst of the turmoil of human life, can it be gained? How can we best hold on to it?—is at the center of On the Influence of the Passions. Staël does not offer a definition of happiness. On her books, attempts at a final definition in this area would be philosophical hubris and, as she puts it, only an alchemist would take on such a task (TIP 315/162). Her goal—as a philosopher and not an alchemist!—is to “investigate the means of escaping from the more poignant pains [of life]” (ibid.). The ability to escape pain—and thus close in on happiness—is led back to self-governance, which is pitched as a necessary, albeit not a sufficient, condition for happiness (or, at least, for avoiding unhappiness). Self-governance, however, is constantly emasculated by the passions, which lure us with a promise of happiness, but in reality often prevent it (TIP 230/123). Under their dominance, we lose the domain of ourselves (l’empire de vois-même, TIP 219/119). In her discussion of the passions and the differences between passions and feelings, Staël relies on an everyday understanding of these concepts. Feelings are fleeting, they come and go. Passions, by contrast, are almost like a “species of fever,” under the influence of which our wishes and actions are guided not by what actually is but by an “imaginary end that must be attained” (TIP 316/163). The problems start when the self seeks to attain this imaginary end by performing real actions. Because the end is imaginary, the self is often barred from meeting it and its efforts can cause harm to the self and others. Unlike feelings, passions are durable and overpower other aspects of the soul (TIP 45/30). Under their rule, the self is subject to a tyrant within itself, sometimes also vulnerable to external influences (TIP 318/163). That is, under the influence of passions, the self finds itself at the mercy of powers it cannot control. When the harmony and happiness of the self is contingent upon forces it cannot control, the self is left fragile and is prone, in Staël’s poetic description, to let itself be hurried away by the stream of life instead of meeting it with calm and self-­possession (TIP 318/163). Dominated by passions, the self loses itself. Individual and collective well-being is threatened (TIP 5/9). In this form, the passions are a formidable enemy; more than any other source, they can lead to unhappiness (TIP 250/132). The contrast Staël draws between passions and self-governance has led commentators to assume that she, like the Enlightenment philosophers before her (and Kant after her), wants to do away with the passions tout court. For example, Isbell assumes that she “condemn[s] the passions outright” (Isbell 1994: 194). This is not quite right. In On the Influence of the Passions, Staël centrally discusses the double nature of passions. Passions, to be sure, can be (and often are) destructive. Yet individuals who are foreign to the animating forces of the passions will strike us as stiff and cold (TIP 221/119). Without passion, we could not experience love and wholehearted dedication to artistic projects. Passion can even be a positive factor in politics. It is under the influence of the passions that an individual will dedicate herself to a higher cause, persevere, and actively work toward goals that benefit humanity (TIP 38/26). Similarly, a government that is run by passionless bureaucrats would be deprived of a human touch (TIP 5/9). While an excess of passions makes the self prone to unhappiness, moderate passions can bring about happiness.4 145

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Passions, Staël argues, are an inherent aspect of the self. In excess, they create unhappiness; in moderation, they add to emotional well-being and facilitate cultural, moral, and political progress. Staël’s goal is, in other words, not, as Isbell suggests, to eliminate the passions. For Staël, such an endeavor would not only be impossible (humans are born passionate beings), but also undesirable (it would make us less human). Instead, she seeks to facilitate a balance between the passions and the other aspects of the self that optimizes the conditions for individual and collective happiness. Among the passions discussed in On the Influence of the Passions, fanaticism plays a particularly important role. (Fanaticism is described as a passion and not, like happiness, as a result of the way we relate to the passions.) Staël had observed—and been a victim of—­fanaticism during the Revolution. She was an early supporter of the Revolution, but the years of Terror left her more distanced. She finds fanaticism amongst both the revolutionaries and the defenders of the old regime. In the early as well as the later works, Staël emphasizes that fanaticism is not related to the kind of beliefs we hold (be they religious, philosophical, or political) but to the way they are held. If the completed Part One of On the Influence of the Passions centers on individual happiness—the perspective that also shapes the discussion of passions in The Influence of Literature upon Society (1800; hereafter: On Literature) and Germany (1810/1813)—this poses a particular challenge for Staël’s discussion of fanaticism. Most of the passions, Staël claims, present themselves in the same manner independently of time and place. Fanaticism, however, is an exception. It thrives only when the political and historical conditions allow for it. It is, in other words, not simply led back to an individual weakness, but also depends on a social weakness. Individual weakness, to which, for Staël, we are all prone, is a necessary, but not a sufficient, condition. Hence, a full understanding of fanaticism does not only require a moral psychology, but also a social and political philosophy, which is not given, at least not in the intended form, in On the Influence of the Passions. Staël herself suggests that the material intended for the planned Part Two ended up in the (fairly brief) chapter on fanaticism in the late Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution (Staël 2008 [1818]: 354–357). Her expression of the need for a replacement of the never-finished Part Two indicates both the centrality of fanaticism within her treatment of the passions (it is the only passion that, in this way, requires a social and political approach) and her continuing interest in the topic. Considerations, however, treats fanaticism by way of indicating the need for formal political responses: rule of law and liberty (Staël 2008 [1818]: 355 and 356). Staël exemplifies the success of such responses by pointing to the United States, contrasting the North to the South: The human race has exhausted itself for many centuries in useless efforts to constrain all men to the same belief. That could not be attained: and the simplest idea, toleration, such as William Penn professed, has forever banished from the North of America the fanaticism of which the South has been a horrid theater. It is the same with political fanaticism: only liberty can calm it. (Staël 2008 [1818]: 356) Rule of law and liberty, the features that made Staël endorse the American Constitution, may represent a (partial) solution to fanaticism. It does, however, little or nothing to explain its causes (after all, not each and every non-liberal society sees an upsurge of 146

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fanaticism). And Staël’s point, in her early discussion, is precisely that the understanding of fanaticism requires particular attention to its social causes. While for example interpersonal love is cultivated in different manners through the ages (this is a topic in On Literature, Corinne, and other works), fanaticism not only, like love, manifests itself differently at different times, but also requires a set of particular political conditions in order fully to manifest itself in the first place. Hence, Staël’s own reference to the late work as an ersatz for Part Two is philosophically unsatisfactory: in order fully to come to terms with fanaticism, a larger social and political explanation is needed, and this is neither given in Considerations, nor in On the Influence of the Passions, in its existing form. This, however, does not mean that we are left completely in the dark with respect to what Staël might have had in mind. Upon its publication in 1796, On the Influence of the Passions had been years in the making. Fontana (2016: 61) traces its beginnings to Staël’s stay in England after she, in 1792, fled Paris during the massacres. In this period, Staël also published a defense of Marie Antoinette, Reflections on the Trial of the Queen, by a Woman, and “From What Signs Can We Tell Which is the Opinion of the Majority of the Nation” (Staël 2009 [1791]). Fontana (2016) relates On the Influence of the Passions back to these texts. This is a helpful move. However, beyond pointing to thematic overlaps, Fontana does not ask how these works from the same period can help us fill the gaps in Staël’s study of the passions. This is a crucial question. Reflections on the Trial of the Queen was carefully crafted so as to address republicans and monarchists alike; it sought to analyze the situation of the Queen independently of the views one might have on monarchy per se. Further, Staël was not interested in determining whether or not the Queen was guilty, but sought instead to explain how public opinion shifted so quickly, from its support of the queen to a complete rejection. This was possible, Staël argued, because the public at this point had gone through a process of political alienation and could no longer recognize itself in the political agenda or find meaning in politics. Under such circumstances, the public no longer offered a critical check of politicians and public opinion is vulnerable to propaganda. In “From What Signs” Staël further reflects on the falling apart of politics. A public that suffers from apathy, ennui, and distrust is alienated from politics and can easily be manipulated by pacifying entertainment and spectacles of power. Judgment is quelled, and it becomes, in Staël’s words, difficult to distinguish “what belongs to the moment and what will last over time, what is dictated by fear and what is motivated by reason” (Staël 2009 [1791]: 559, my trans.). A similar point is made in the opening of “Essay on Fictions,” from the same period. Staël here argues that “the human race is not about to give up being stimulated, and anyone who has the gift of appealing to people’s emotions, is even less likely to give up the success promised by such talent” (Staël 1987 [1796]: 60). Populist demagogues take advantage of the situation, “touch the heart” instead of enlightening the mind, and gain a “great influence on all our moral ideas” (Staël 1987 [1796]: 60). With its mix of apathy, ennui, fear, and populism, this political climate creates an environment for political fanaticism. Fanaticism need not result from these conditions, but when it emerges, such conditions are typically present. While we can, in theory, have fanaticism in all kinds of circumstances, the combination of political alienation and populism makes fanaticism a particularly dangerous phenomenon: it no longer takes hold of the odd individual but of the greater masses. 147

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10.2  The Phenomenology of Fanaticism In On the Current Circumstances That Can End the Revolution (written in 1798, published in 1979), Staël defines fanaticism as a willingness to perceive everything, every problem, through the lens (the “despotism,” as she puts it) of one single idea (Staël 1979: 255). On the Influence of the Passions operates with a similar definition, but links fanaticism closer to politics (TIP 176/96). Following the enlightenment philosophers’ interest in religious fanaticism, Staël mentions—but does not rehearse the full historical details of—the historical conflicts between Catholics and Protestants (TIP 177/96–97). Most of her examples are taken from the current political situation in France. The point, though, is not to dwell on a particular political context for its own sake but rather to capture, through this lens, the psychological, social, and political conditions that facilitate fanaticism. While her description is narratorial in form, it can, for the sake of clarity, be reconstructed as a set of characteristic features. Such a list of features will, in turn, help us see how Staël provides a systematic and analysis-based account rather than a collection of eyewitness observations of the Revolution. Once we extract from her work a systematic account of this kind, we see that what she offers here is no less than a phenomenology of fanaticism (its appearance and its pathologies) that can help us identify and better understand it. In my reading, a reconstruction of Staël’s account of fanaticism includes the following characteristics: Exaggerated Reason. As described by Staël, fanaticism is not contrasted with reason (as suggested by Voltaire, Diderot, and other enlightenment philosophers), but can also be a version of reason that is pushed toward a point at which it flips over into its opposite. This is why, in Staël’s analysis, we find an enlightenment philosophe such as Condorcet suffering from fanaticism. A reasonable man—and a thinker with whom Staël had much in common, including a commitment to abolitionism and women’s rights—Condorcet, on Staël’s judgment, is driven by an intellectual tunnel vision that makes him go so far in his defense of his ideas that he “would have written against his own opinion, (…) he would have disavowed and openly attacked it (…) if he had imagined that this expedient could contribute to the triumph of the opinion he supported” (TIP 176/96). It is important to note that Condorcet, in spite of Staël’s polemical tone, is not described as lacking in intellectual powers. On the contrary, the very point is that he is extraordinarily capable. Only thus can she make it clear that even the most rational of individuals, philosophers included, can fall prey to the power of fanaticism. In Staël’s retrieval, Condorcet follows abstract principles to the extent that he is ready to sacrifice everything—even consistency, the most valuable asset of the ­philosopher––for the sake of these principles. Similarly, the fanatics among the Jacobins and the counter-revolutionaries “settle in the extremes of all ideas in order to allow their judgment and their character to repose” (TIP 177/97). Hence, there may well be an element of reason in fanaticism, but this element is inflated and the mind of the fanatic finds rest only in the (irrational) stasis of extremity, in which political deliberation turns into hardened doctrine and reason is reduced to mere calculation.5 Thus, philosophy cannot be introduced as a first remedy against fanaticism. Nonetheless, it belongs to the resources we have in ourselves to combat fanaticism (see Section 10.4 below). Self-Contradiction. For the fanatic, a perverted demand for coherence gives way to selfcontradiction. What used to be a rational discourse turns into superstition and worship of prejudice (TIP 177/97). Atheism is preached with religious fervor, liberty is defended with the fury of despotism (TIP 178/97), and the very destruction of virtue is itself turned into a virtue (TIP 191/104)—or, stronger still, the fanatic feels particularly virtuous when 148

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committing crimes (TIP 191/104). In her earlier work, Staël had argued that fanaticism is distinguished by a combination of exalted virtue and crime (Staël 1821 II: 46, 54). Similarly, On the Influence of the Passions describes how the fanatic combines a virtuous mind with criminal conduct (TIP 199/108). Absolute Power. Fanaticism, on Staël’s account, does not come in degrees, but is presented as a total package—you are a fanatic or not, never mildly fanatical. It can be compared, Staël explains, to a force of nature; like, say, a storm or a hurricane can completely overtake us, fanaticism can overpower the intellect (TIP 181/99). Lack of imagination. Under the spell of fanaticism, the imagination withers. There is neither will nor ability to put oneself in the situation of others.6 Objections are not considered but met with the rehearsal of the same two or three arguments (TIP 181/99). When these arguments have run their course, the fanatic resorts to violence, which, when the space of politics is already undermined, no longer appears as a breach of integrity. Fear of Compromises. The fanatic is not only intolerant, but also unwilling to modify his or her points of view (TIP 178/97). Openness toward the point of view of others is judged a weakness and triumph by compromise considered defeat (TIP 179/98, see also 181/99). The purity of dogma overrules pragmatic solutions and even the success of the cause (TIP 180/98). As is made clear by the example of Staël’s Condorcet, the fanatic would rather risk failure than modify his views (TIP 179/98). Reflectiveness is seen as a weakness and weakness is feared. What matters to the fanatic is the power of fanaticism itself—the willingness to go to extremes, to think of politics in terms of an either/or. Negative Allegiances. The fanatic, Staël claims, often does not share with his peers a commitment to a positive ideal. Instead, he forms bonds of negative allegiances, that is, of shared animosity (TIP 182/99). The fanatic thrives when faced with an opponent who is (or is understood to be) equally fanatical (TIP 194/106). Hence, the fanatic does not seek a durable result (TIP 198/108). At the end of the day, the fight itself matters at least as much as or even more than any particular goal, achievement, or resolution, and is therefore perceived as an aim that must be pursued in its own right. Lack of Recognition (of Humanity). The fanatic is less interested in who an individual is or what she does, than what she does for the particular cause in question. Party membership trumps human qualities and can even, Staël notes, overrule the deed of saving a fanatic’s life. If the opponent does something good, this is seen as a matter of mere chance, not as a mark of character (TIP 182/99–100). Passive Following. The fanatic is ready to follow a leader, and the leader is typically less fanatical than his or her followers (TIP 179/98; a similar point is made in Voltaire 1964 [1741]: 19–20). This, Staël points out, is a feature that fanaticism shares with religion. What matters here is the passivity, the abdication of reflective thought, and the leader can therefore be replaced by a mob or a crowd.7 When the self follows a leader or a mob, individual differences are erased and, along the same lines, individual responsibility drowned in a state of mind resembling that of intoxication.8 Once the self’s relationship to itself and to others is broken, the cause (embodied in the leader or the mob) fills the gap. The feeling of belonging to a movement yields a sense of security (TIP 184/100). Foregoes Personal Advantage. The fanatic will forego personal advantage in order to purely adhere to the cause (TIP 185–86/101). In this sense, the fanatic is indifferent to personal gain and ambition (TIP 197/108). Completely possessed in his mind as well as his heart, the fanatic is prepared to sacrifice everything (TIP 190/104). If the end is superior, no sacrifice seems too great (TIP 183/100). 149

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Tainted Perception of Reality. Fanaticism colors one’s relationship to oneself and others. It also colors one’s perception of the world. As Staël puts it: “When our thoughts are once tinctured with partisanship, it is not from objects to our minds, but from our minds to the objects, that our impressions proceed” (TIP 187/106 [trans. modified]). These, on my reconstruction, are the key points in Staël’s phenomenology of fanaticism. Her exposé is not intended to offer a list of necessary or sufficient criteria, but presents, in narrative form, a cluster of features that can help us get the phenomenon of fanaticism into relief. However, while the phenomenology of fanaticism, as reconstructed above, can help us identify its manifestations, it does not do much work in terms of explaining the grip it, under the right conditions, gets on certain individuals. For this, fanaticism must be situated within a larger moral psychology—that is, within a more comprehensive analysis of the passions and how they lead us to suspend the capacity for self-governance. This is the purpose of Staël’s taxonomy of the passions, that is, her discussion of fanaticism in its relation to other passions.

10.3  A Taxonomy of Passions In A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions, Staël hones in on eight basic passions, sometimes grouped in pairs, which are then compared and contrasted: the love of glory, ambition, vanity, romantic love, gambling and drunkenness (addiction), envy and revenge, partisanship, and crime and guilt. Fanaticism sits under partisanship. As was the case with Staël’s phenomenology of fanaticism, her approach is largely narrational and informal. She does not offer a detailed discussion of the structural relationship between the passions (Should they be arranged hierarchically? Do they emerge one by one or in clusters?). Nor does she establish the status of her list, for example, whether it is preliminary or conclusive. The latter question is intensified if we take into consideration that she, in the novel Delphine, addresses an additional passion, greed, that emerges in the context of the novel’s treatment of transatlantic slavery and the corrupted psychology of the enslaver. The reader, in other words, will ask by what criteria or principle Staël puts together her taxonomy of the passions and wonder about the status of her list. However, if we view Staël’s taxonomy against the background of her phenomenology of fanaticism, a plausible interpretation is disclosed: the taxonomy of the passions makes it clear how each passion shapes, for good or bad, the self’s relationship to itself and to others. From this perspective, greed, as it is brought up in Delphine, sorts under the passions that are already covered in A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions, and does therefore not warrant a new analysis. By pursuing this interpretation, it gets clear that (a) the passions can be defined with respect to whether they are potentially productive or clearly destructive for the self and society, (b) the list of passions given in On the Influence of the Passions need not cover every single passion, but can do its job by mapping out the core positions or relationships between the self and others, and, finally, (c) each of the passions is structurally determined by its relationship to other passions. Hence, the eight passions discussed cover the basic positions in a structural grid between self, others, and the external world. From this point of view, the Staëlian roster of the passions can be reconstructed as follows: Love of glory (l’amour de la gloire) is built on the most elevated principles in human nature (TIP 99/57) and what drives individuals to sacrifice their own interest in order to 150

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leave a mark on history and the minds of people in general. As such, love of glory presupposes the existence of a society. That is, it presupposes that the self is not surrounded by a faceless mass (mob), but by a group of agents who, qua individuals, can bestow glory on its deeds (TIP 45/30). In its relentless pursuit of its goals, love of glory may lead to a loss of self-governance, but since the individual here pursues that which is just and great, its actions stimulate the individual and collective imagination, and inspire to new glorious acts. Glory is bestowed by way of comparison, that is, by relative standards. An individual’s claim to glory is not always recognized and no passion, Staël remarks, leaves in its train so much disappointment (TIP 68/42). However, if attempts at glory-evoking deeds—deeds that do not benefit the individual but serves the community—fail, then the individual will still be treated respectfully (TIP 86/51). Ambition is the base and inverted version of love of glory. It is driven by thirst for power and directed toward individual rewards: riches, property, pride (TIP 73/44–45). Ambition does not stimulate the imagination (like love of glory does), but bases itself on the prosaic realism of power. The ambitious person treats others in merely instrumental ways. Their agency is ignored and ambition rules by authority, rather than by example (here Staël’s republicanism shines through). Typically, the ambitious individual is at some level aware of its shortcomings and fears that it will be outed and its incompetence uncovered (TIP 79–80/47–48). Ambition betrays a weak ego, one that, in Staël’s analysis, will get ever more worn by constantly seeking to cover up its hollowness. Compared to the love of glory, ambition fares poorly. Love of glory pursues high ideals; it fights with impartiality, its goals are steadily held, other human beings are trusted, and the self is oriented toward a shared humanity. Ambition, by contrast, pursues no higher goals, fights with partiality, its ideals are frail, others are mistrusted, and when it fails, its failure is total and the public reacts with contempt. Ambition is therefore characterized by particularly lowly ways of relating to oneself and others. Vanity is classified as a passion because of the violence of the actions it inspires (TIP 99/57). It is, though, parasitic on love of glory and ambition (TIP 99/57). Once we experience its influence, vanity can completely dominate the other passions. It does not seek material gains but receives its force almost exclusively from our relationship to others. No other passion proceeds less from causes within ourselves (TIP 101/58). Interpersonal love is discussed next. This section is preceded by Staël’s personal note to the reader: She will, in this chapter, speak from the point of view of her own experience, not from impartial observation (TIP 127/72). Further, she makes it clear that unlike the other passions, interpersonal love does not affect everyone in the same way (TIP 123/70). In particular, she is interested in how women, in a patriarchal society, are affected by love. As is the case with love of glory, interpersonal love is neither immoral nor selfish (TIP 123/72). It is not rooted in a will to dominate or gain applause but is connected with a desire that can, if not reciprocated, lead to suffering and even death. With interpersonal love, individual others (unlike the group that will admire the glorious deed) enter the picture. Significantly less elevated than love of glory and interpersonal love is what we today would label “addiction:” gambling, avarice, and drunkenness in Staël’s catalogue. Addiction shares with love a nearly complete loss of self-governance. But the addicted self will not, like the loving self, aim toward a higher unity where governance of the self is regained in union with another individual. The addicted self is yoked to a pendulum of craving and short-lived satisfaction that holds it back from both governing itself and being genuinely open toward others. 151

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Envy and revenge are further ways in which the self loses the ability to govern itself. Like gambling (but unlike love of glory and interpersonal love), envy and revenge do not entail significant benefits for the individual or society. Again, like gambling, envy and revenge allow for no positive relations to others. They also do not bring lasting joy and well-being. Staël sees her own political world as being ripe with envy and lust for revenge. She emphasizes the need to overcome these passions through what she, in anticipation of Nietzsche, terms a heroic oblivion (un héroïque oubli; TIP 173/95)—that is, a deliberate attempt to elevate oneself above bad deeds, insults, ingratitude, etc. Having thus laid out the basic structure of love of glory, ambition, interpersonal love, addiction, and envy and revenge, Staël arrives at partisanship or the spirit of the party. The spirit of the party is distinguished from the other passions by the fact that it requires fermentation over time (TIP 175/95–96) and social conditions that allow for such fermentation. The spirit of the party inspires fanaticism, but it can also take the weaker form of groupthink. Though not a good thing, group think is, per se, passive. Fanaticism, by contrast, is active and invites extremism and violence (TIP 177/97). To the fanatic, the entire world presents itself through the optics of the movement (TIP 187/102 see also 194/106). Obstacles must be done away with, but yet they are, paradoxically, needed. For fanaticism is, as we have seen (Section 10.2), not self-driven but depends on the idea of an opponent: somebody who is perceived as an enemy and against whom the fanatic individual positions itself and its fight. Criminality and Guilt, the final passions to be discussed, are presented as extensions of fanaticism. While fanaticism can and often does have a virtuous core, it easily leads to a criminal mindset and even violence. It is if or when fanaticism develops into a criminal mindset that the fanatic typically becomes aware of its power. At this point, fanaticism turns to guilt, that is, a shift occurs in the individual’s relationship to itself. This shift can take place, Staël argues, precisely because of the way fanaticism combines criminal conduct with a potentially virtuous mind (TIP 199/108). And, relatedly, it is precisely because the fanatic sees himself as pursuing virtue that the recovery from fanaticism is so difficult. For such recovery requires that the would-be-virtuous “I” confronts its own relapse of virtue (or, non-virtuous way of holding the virtue). No one, Staël observes, is more unfortunate than the person who awakens from the dream of fanaticism (TIP 194/106). The guilt suffered leads to excessive reactions; it offers no respite to the (former) fanatic and, in its Sisyphean nature, the efforts to come to terms with one’s fanaticism can end in suicide (TIP 214/116).9 At this point of self-nullifying extremity—the point at which the dominance of the passions drives an individual to actually give up her life (i.e., give up her self)—Staël’s typology of the passions is brought to completion. Staël’s taxonomy spans the potentially productive as well as the harmful passions. It presents passions that contribute to or are even necessary for the common good and passions that destroy the self and its community. Each of the passions is analyzed with respect to the self’s relationship to itself and others. None of the passions are quelled when the goal is reached. Their nature is such that they are, in principle, insatiable. What distinguishes the potentially constructive passions of love of glory and interpersonal love is their ability to allow for a healthy relationship between self and others, as well as a healthy self-relation. While the other passions reduce others to mere means, thereby also flattening the self (in its relationship to others), love of glory and interpersonal love are motivated by the striving for a higher unity: a historical or political achievement that benefits the community or even humanity (love of glory), or a unity with the beloved 152

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(interpersonal love). These passions thus go hand in hand with a recognition of others, be it at the collective and political or the intimate level. Hence, what is at stake in these passions is a momentary loss of individual self-governance that allows for a connection with one’s own humanity—thus also with a higher form of self-governance and a self that relates itself to others and understands itself as part of a larger context, that is, a relationship to oneself that is meaningfully mediated through others. Fanaticism holds none of these benefits. Among the passions, fanaticism is structurally closest to addiction (TIP 194/106). Addiction and fanaticism color one’s entire relationship to other people and the surrounding world. These passions lead us to view everything through their specific lens: they shape our perception of the world and the community. The subject-subject relationships enabled by fanaticism and addiction are constantly threatened by emptiness and other individuals count only to the extent that they fuel or share in the passions. Also like addiction, fanaticism often leads to criminal behavior. However, unlike addiction, fanaticism is active, and there is potentially a seed of virtue inherent in fanaticism. Thus understood, fanaticism is identified as a loss of self in a set of other-directed actions, a one-sided and uncritical adoption of ideas that completely color the perception of reality, a forgetting of oneself in group behavior, and an orientation toward the sustaining of the passion over pragmatic considerations, objectivity, morality, and even consistency of thought and action, and, finally, a predisposition to prioritize the cause over law and order. Staël’s later works do not add much to her taxonomy in On the Influence of the Passions and the further passions (such as greed) can be worked into her flexible mapping. Moreover, her taxonomy offers a clue to how fanaticism in particular, and overheated passions in general, can be overcome or at least dampened at the individual level. For through her analysis of the potentially positive passions of love of glory and love, we have learned that the self, even in its passionate modes, can gain existential sustenance and satisfaction because what first appeared to be a loss of self-governance here leads to a mediated gain of itself through a development of positive relations to others. Precisely this point, as I read her, will give Staël what she needs to stake out a possible path toward modified and tempered passions: the path to success is one in which the self’s need for transcendence is taken seriously, but satisfaction is sought in ways that are not destructive or harmful. In these cases, the self gains strength through its ties to immediate others, its understanding of the world and, eventually, its commitments to humanity as such.

10.4  Compassion and the Relational Self In Staël’s model, the urges and needs that fuel the passions are not brushed away but acknowledged as real. The challenge is therefore not to purge oneself of these needs, but to satisfy them in a way that does not threaten the self’s autonomy. Following this argumentative path, Staël faces a methodological-philosophical challenge. The cure for the passions cannot be based on second-person advice, but must be found within oneself, that is, it must involve a strengthening of the self. The challenge, then, is that while the passions erode the capacity for self-governance, it is precisely this ability that is needed in order to modify or overcome them. How can this vicious circle be overcome? How can the impassioned self find in itself something to build on in its cultivation of self-governance? Staël casts this as a process of allowing the self to rediscover itself through meaningful relationship and practices. We know from her early work that she worries about the collapse of the political as a sphere in which the individual can find meaning and an arena for 153

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human excellence. Further, the focus in the existing Part One of On the Influence of the Passions is on individual psychology. From this point of view, it makes sense that she presents a three-step approach: the self first needs to uncover a potential for self-governance in its relationship to close or intimate others, should then proceed to further develop this potential from within the resources it has in itself, and, finally, turn toward humanity. While laying out this process, Staël builds on the positive aspects of love of glory and interpersonal love—that is, the passions that are conducive to caring relationships, shared humanity, and a sense of lasting existential fulfillment. Staël first turns to the resources that are “intermediate between the passions that enslave us and the resources which depend upon ourselves alone” (TIP 216/117). Here she uncovers three sources of sustenance: friendship; parental, filial, and conjugal love; and religion. Friendship and parental, filial, and conjugal love strengthen the self through its interaction with concrete others (this is especially relevant for ambition, vanity, revenge, and fanaticism). Religion addresses the passions’ tendency to tint the entire world of objects (especially relevant for addiction and fanaticism). A bit more must be said about each of these resources. On Staël’s analysis, the passions thrive off a desire for self-transcendence and belonging that gets funneled into destructive paths. Friendship facilitates subject-subject relationships that are not based on a need for admiration or domination; it offers assurance that another human being is responsive to our joys and sorrows (TIP 220/119) and thereby a way in which the self can reach out to an other, but without staking its self-governance. Unlike passionate love (as it will be described in literary works such as Mirza, Delphine, and Corinne), friendship is stable (TIP 219/119), offers reciprocity (TIP 220/119), and does not close off the outer world (TIP 222–223/120). Successful friendships let the self lose itself in a way that brings it back to itself nourished and expanded. That is, it relates to others in a healthy way and gets a chance to test its understanding of the world against the perspectives and judgments of others. Family (filial piety, parental and conjugal affection) offers relationships that are even less risky to the self than friendship is. Filial piety strengthens the self through its interaction with others. Parents (ideally) love their children unconditionally (TIP 241/125). Conjugal affection connects selves without opposing them to each other (TIP 242/129). In these cases, our relationships to others allow us to reconnect to the resources we have in ourselves— they offer, as Staël puts it, a middle path between passions and virtue (TIP 243/129). Finally, religion discloses a kind of self-relation that is mediated in a more abstract way. Whereas Voltaire, as mentioned in the introduction, had seen fanaticism as emerging from religion—that is, the turn to faith predisposes us for fanaticism—Staël views religion, precisely because it taps into our passionate being, as a potential cure. Like friendship and family, religion offers a sense of belonging. It responds to our need for existential sustenance and, moreover, the church can offer institutional support to individuals who seek to escape fanaticism and other violent passions. Religion, as such, is therefore not the culprit. The problem, rather, is when religion becomes extreme or when politics takes the place of religion, that is, serves as a source of individual meaning that is not questioned or scrutinized. At the end of the day, however, religion postulates an external power and can therefore not facilitate true self-governance. In an almost proto-Feuerbachian turn, Staël concludes that religion is a product of the human imagination, yet it yields authority to an other (TIP 262/138). Hence, she argues, religion cannot lead to absolute freedom (liberté absolute) for the self (TIP 262/138). It taps into the resources we have in ourselves, but does not fully 154

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allow us to realize them. For such realization, we need to turn to the resources that are solely within the self and do not invite submission to authority. These resources are identified as philosophy, study, and compassion. In line with the Stoic tradition by which much of the (French) Enlightenment had been informed (see Andrew 2016), Staël recommends that the impassioned soul takes a position above itself (TIP 271/142). Philosophy facilitates the contemplation of life and can, at its best, lead to an acceptance of human finitude. It helps us develop self-governance and the ability to be at home in ourselves and the world. Philosophy nourishes moderation (TIP 275/144); it cultivates strength of mind and self-possession (la possession de soi; TIP 277– 278/145). It is, in other words, philosophy that offers the transition to what the American transcendentalists, in their eager turn to Staël’s work (Mueller-Vollmer 1991), translated as self-reliance. Like religion, philosophy answers to a need for meaning, but unlike religion, it calls for a reflective attitude. Study is the exercise of thought more broadly conceived (TIP 285/148). Just as in her later On Literature, we must assume that study includes literature, science, and philosophy. Study unfolds gradually and, like physical labor, can ease the longings of the soul (TIP 286/149). However, unlike physical labor, love of study reflects the passions’ drive toward transcendence. Yet study does not bring with it the risks that come with dependence on fate and on others (TIP 287/149). Study offers daily variety as the mind contemplates its own ideas and the vastness of the universe (TIP 289/150–151). It diverts us from the anxious pursuit of our private interests and enables the mind to take a reflected perspective on its own orientations (TIP 292/152–153). Once study has been made a habit, it stimulates curiosity and hope (TIP 294/153). There is, Staël notes, no direct transition from passions to study. For the impassioned individual, study will seem dry and tedious (TIP 296/153–154). Like a somnambulist, the passionate self is dominated by a single idea and fails to recognize the perspectives of others (TIP 296–297/154). Hence, we need the gradual transition from love and family, via religion, to intellectual pursuits. Such a transition allows the self gradually to see itself as part of an ever larger context. Yet the self, we have seen, is not intellect alone. Thus, the ultimate overcoming of the rule of passions—fanaticism included—requires that we involve not only our minds (as in philosophy and study) but also our emotional being as it is realized in and through our relationships to others. This is the stage of compassion (la bienfaisance) and goodness (la bonté)—of meeting the urge for self-transcendence by doing good to others. While philosophy and study require a certain intellectual disposition, compassion requires neither (TIP 304/157) and draws instead on a potential we all have qua human—an avenue to “sublime enjoyment” that is “in the power of every man” (TIP 301/155). Echoing Rousseau’s definition of pity as a basic human feature (Rousseau 1992 [1755]: 39), Staël sees compassion as a natural or primitive virtue (TIP 302/156). Qua humans, we respond to the suffering of others (TIP 335/171). Yet compassion can also be reached through the path of study and philosophy and thus arrived at in a mediated way, that is, through the detour of culture and intellectual engagement. For the sake of her discussion, Staël offers a pragmatic definition of compassion and goodness: Goodness never wishes for, nor expects anything from others, but concentrates the whole of its felicity in the consciousness of its own feelings. It never yields, or even 155

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listens, to any one suggestion of selfishness, not so much as to the desire of inspiring reciprocal sentiment it enjoys nothing but what itself bestows. (TIP 303/156) Compassion is akin to the passions, but not itself a passion. Where a passion “continues fixed on nothing but its own object” (TIP 307/ 158), compassion is oriented toward the suffering of others. Compassion is the only sentiment that can serve as a guide in each and every situation (TIP 330/169). It does not seek recognition or external reward, but finds its reward in doing good to others (TIP 309/159). Compassion gives the passions a healthy form, channeling them toward virtuousness. As Staël puts it: “Whatever is generous in the passions is also to be found in the exercise of goodness” (TIP 309/159). For Staël, compassion offers a way in which the self can go beyond itself and connect to others, but without the dependency on others, thus also without the kind of heteronomy, contingency, and vulnerability that, on her account, causes individual and collective unhappiness. As such, it may not be sufficient for happiness but it is “truly necessary [véritablement nécessaire]” for it (TIP 302/156, trans. modified). In compassion, transcendence is enabled through an emotional engagement with others that, ultimately, leads the self to a regained self-­governance, one that is void of egoism (TIP 263/139), but still does not deny, but instead responds to, the need for meaning and belonging that has been disclosed in the analysis of the passions. Because Staël acknowledges that the passions respond to a desire for meaning and existential sustenance, the trajectory at stake, from friendship, via intellectual pursuits, to religion and, finally, compassion, enables self-governance through self-growth and the path toward well-being. She describes a self-formation that ascends from the close bonds of family and friendship, via abstract and intellectual discipline (philosophy), a broader orientation toward the richness of nature and the social world (study), and an awe in the encounter with the world (religion), to goodness for others (compassion). Only compassion can completely fill the existential vacuum at stake: that degree of sensibility which inheres in every thing that interests the soul, converts the exercise of goodness into an enjoyment, which alone can supply the vacuum which the passions leave after them. (TIP 308/159) Compassion connects with the emotional side of the self that, initially, fired up the passions, yet retains the orientation toward others that is first disclosed through family bonds and then, more universally, through philosophy, study, and religion. It helps us satisfy the need for existential gratification that fanaticism, in particular, had been seeking (TIP 178/97). As Staël argues, though, compassion is not necessarily appreciated by somebody who is under the spell of the passions, be it the doer of good acts or the receiver of goodness. She elaborates by way of a literary image: Could Prometheus, while tied to his rock of torment, be sensible of the smile of returning spring or the serene effulgence of a summer day? While the vulture sticks to the heart, while it gnaws and devours the principle of life, there is in the situation that calls for perfect ease or death no partial consolation; no random, fortuitous pleasure can be of efficacious aid. (TIP 307/158) 156

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Both for the giver and for the receiver of goodness, the self that has been “tempered in the furnace of the passions” will be more appreciative (TIP 307/158). Compassion and goodness mature when an individual gains a reflective relationship to itself. Like study, compassion can lead to self-perfection, though one that is not based in the mind alone but also in the heart (TIP 308/159). In this way, Staël’s analysis of the passions in general and fanaticism in particular is key to her understanding of selfhood. Indeed, On the Influence of the Passions is, as Staël presents it in her conclusion, a meditation (une méditation) that frees her, the author, from the grip of the passions, precisely by undertaking a reflective exercise on selfhood: My object in writing was to discover myself amidst the crowd of sufferings that surround me; to rescue my faculties from the servitude imposed on them by sentiment, to raise myself, by a kind of abstraction, to a point that might enable me to observe the operation of pain on my own mind, to examine, in my own impressions, the various movements of moral nature, and to generalize the little experience which I may have acquired by reflection. (TIP 329/168) In pursuing the reflective ascent from an analysis of the passions, via a general moral psychology, to philosophy, study, and, finally, compassion, Staël’s work exemplifies how the self grows from realizing how compassion and goodness can serve as antidotes to existential misery. Like the confessions of an Augustine or a Rousseau—or, for that sake, like Descartes’ Meditations—Staël’s study of the passions performatively exemplify the philosophical point that she makes. In her work, however, Staël points beyond the insistence we find, in Rousseau, on the sheer immediacy of compassion (pity). For Staël, compassion is immediate, but it is only in reflecting on the role that compassion can play in staking out a meaningful human life that the self takes the full (philosophical) step toward maturity and self-governance. Staël’s discussion of the self’s struggle to find a balance between its need for selfgovernance and its need for transcendence is further developed in Germany.10 For scholars of Staël’s work, this is an important point: it allows us to see that the philosophical impetus of Germany, especially its discussion of the religious elevation of the self, is not simply taken over from the German philosophers that she engages—Kant, Herder, Schleiermacher, Jacobi, and others. Instead: having already developed her own position, in On the Influence of the Passions and other early works, she further sharpens and expands her thought through the discussion of German philosophy. Germany does also not represent a mystical turn in her work. Rather, in her encounters with German philosophy, Staël finds further resources for her philosophy of selfhood. When she, in the last part of Germany, transitions from a discussion of religion to an endorsement of enthusiasm, defined as the ability to allow oneself to be overcome by the beauty or even sublimity of the universe, this is but a development of points already made in her early work. Recognizing the individual’s need for a larger context of meaning, the turn to enthusiasm identifies a source of existential sustenance that is larger than those of intersubjective relations, namely the one that can be found, as already Kant had pointed out in his Critique of the Power of Judgment (a work that Staël knew well), in the self’s disinterestedly losing itself and going up in the higher totality of the world of which it is a part. 157

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10.5 Conclusion Like Voltaire and other Enlightenment philosophers, Staël sees fanaticism as a central ­philosophical problem. Unlike these philosophers, however, Staël does not link fanaticism with religion. The fanaticism that concerns her is that of political partisanship, aroused by the spirit of the party. In her own time and culture, she finds this phenomenon among revolutionaries and counter-revolutionaries alike, that is, it emerges regardless of any particular political affiliation. Fanaticism, moreover, is neither seen as a complete collapse of reason nor as an outcrop of religion, but as resulting from an impassionate channeling of the self’s need for transcendence, even the reasonable and virtuous self, into a destructive path. Further, fanaticism is not described from an alienating us-versus-them perspective, but is given its place within a comprehensive moral psychology. Staël argues that the fanatic’s needs must be taken seriously: fanaticism originates in a quest for meaning and belonging. In order to overcome the passions, fanaticism included, what is needed is not simply a strengthening of reason (as a part of the self), but a strengthening of the self tout court. The imbalance of the passions must be adjusted, but this can only happen when the self maintains healthy connections to other human beings and the world of which it is a part. By establishing meaningful bonds with others, especially through compassion, the impassioned self can regain self-governance and get closer to fulfillment and happiness. Staël, though, never claims that such strategies offer a guarantee of happiness. In fact, her novel Delphine, published six years after On the Influence of the Passions, portrays a heroine whose compassion is abundant, whose self-governance is strong, and who is yet driven toward a path of tragic love and even suicide. In this case, though, the unhappiness is led back to social structures, especially the lack of free marriage for women (sometimes also for men) and the impossibility of divorce for women and men who are trapped in unhappy marriages. As part of her broad-spanning analysis of the passions, Staël argues that any effort to overcome fanaticism needs to recognize its roots in shared existential conditions and in moral psychology. The goal is not to eliminate the passions—again, that would be both undesirable and impossible. Instead, she seeks to channel the passionate energies into more productive directions. In this way, her approach is pragmatic (she offers a path beyond fanaticism), generous (she emphasizes the shared responsibility for taking care of the fanatic), and philosophical (it is related to a moral psychology and a discussion of the conditions under which the self can thrive).

Notes 1 Fanaticism also features in the epic poem The Henriad (1723), Philosophical Letters (1734), and the novel Candide (1759). For a discussion of Voltaire’s focus on religious fanaticism, see ­Cavanaugh (2011: 232–233). 2 Staël nonetheless notices the similarities between political and religious fanaticism. In her late work, she makes it clear how both kinds of fanaticism structurally presuppose “the will to dominate in those who are at the top of the wheel, the eagerness to make it turn in those who are on the bottom” (Staël 2008 [1818]: 305). 3 Staël (1798: 339/2021: 173). Hereafter abbreviated TIP, with page numbers referring to the ­English translation and the French original. 4 It is worth noting that Staël, in her early as well as late work, also discusses a more positive form of self-loss—that of enthusiasm. This is something she shares with other philosophers of the time, included Karoline von Günderrode and Bettina Brentano von Arnim. Her understanding of enthusiasm, and her willingness to separate enthusiasm from fanaticism, sets her model apart from Kant and Hegel.

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Germaine de Staël on Passions, Politics, and Fanaticism 5 Hegel has a similar notion of fanaticism and, like Staël, links it with the Reign of Terror. In his words: “fanaticism wills only what is abstract, not what is articulated, so that whenever differences emerge, it finds them incompatible with its own indeterminacy and cancels then. This is why the people, during the French Revolution, destroyed once more the institutions they themselves had created, because all institutions are incompatible with the abstract self-consciousness of equality” (Hegel 1991 [1821]: 39 [§5]). 6 Imagination and the ability to see the world from the point of view of others, is an important aspect of Staël’s hermeneutic thought. I discuss this aspect of Staël’s thought in “Spinoza’s Hermeneutic Legacy: Interpretation and Emancipation in Herder, Schleiermacher, Staël” (Gjesdal forthcoming). 7 This position differs from the one we find in Kant’s Anthropology, published two years after A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions. For Kant, it is the nature of the fanatic to follow a leader (Kant 2006 [1798]: 169). 8 Staël calls the spirit of the party “a very good substitute for the strong liquors” (TIP 194/106). Voltaire, too, compares fanaticism to being intoxicated: the Huguenots are “drunk with fanaticism and steeped in blood” (Voltaire 2000 [1763]: 18). 9 While Staël initially defends the right to suicide, her 1813 Reflections on Suicide makes it clear that she no longer holds this position and she speaks, instead, of the need to live with hope. See “Reflections on Suicide” (excerpts), Staël (1987 [1813]: 348–358). 10 While the 1794 Reflections on Peace discusses fanaticism and enthusiasm side by side, Staël distinguishes the two in Germany: “Many people are prejudiced against enthusiasm; they confound it with fanaticism, which is a great mistake. Fanaticism is an exclusive passion, the object of which is an opinion; enthusiasm is connected with the harmony of the universe; it is the love of the beautiful, elevation of soul, enjoyment of devotion, all united in one single feeling which combines grandeur and repose” Staël (1864 [1810/1813] II: 360). From this point of view, it is also clear how Staël breaks with a Kantian understanding of enthusiasm as closer to Schwärmerei. For discussions of Kant’s use of this term, see Thomason (2020) and Zuckert (2010).

References Andrew, Edward. 2016. “The Epicurean Stoicism of the French Enlightenment.” In The Routledge Handbook of the Stoic Tradition, edited by John Sellars. London: Routledge, 243–253. Cavanaugh, William T. 2011. “The Invention of Fanaticism.” Modern Theology 27(2): 226–237. Clarke, Joseph. 2019. “‘The Rage of the Fanatics’: Religious Fanaticism and the Making of Revolutionary Violence.” French History 33(2): 236–258. Craiutu, Aurelian. 2010. “Flirting with Republicanism: Mme de Staël’s Writings from the 1790s.” History of European Ideas 36: 343–346. Craiutu, Aurelian. 2012. A Virtue for Courageous Minds: Moderation in French Political Thought, 1748–1830. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cuillé, Tili Boon and Karyna Szmurlo, eds. 2013. Staël’s Philosophy of the Passions: Sensibility, Society, and the Sister Arts. Lanham, MD: Bucknell University Press. Deleyre, Alexandre. 2009. “Fanaticism.” In The Encyclopedia of Diderot & D’Alembert. Trans. ­Stephen J. Gendizer. Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing, University of Michigan Library. Accessed February 28, 2022: https://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=did;cc=did;rgn=main;view=te xt;idno=did2222.0001.305. Fontana, Biancamaria. 2016. Germaine de Staël: A Political Portrait. Princeton, NJ: Princeton ­University Press. Gjesdal, Kristin. Forthcoming. “Spinoza’s Hermeneutic Legacy: Interpretation and Emancipation in Herder, Schleiermacher, and Staël.” In Jason Yonover and Kristin Gjesdal (eds.), Spinoza in ­Germany: Political and Religious Thought in the Long Nineteenth Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hegel, G.W.F. 1991 [1821]. Elements of the Philosophy of Right. Edited by Allen W. Wood. Translated by H.B. Nisbet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Isbell, John Claiborne. 1994. The Birth of European Romanticism: Truth and Propaganda in Staël’s “De l’Allemagne.” Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Kristin Gjesdal Kant, Immanuel. 2006. Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View. Edited and translated by Robert Louden. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Katsafanas, Paul. 2019. “Fanaticism and Sacred Values.” Philosophers’ Imprint 19(17): 1–20. Lacorne, Denis. 2019. The Limits of Tolerance: Enlightenment Values and Religious Fanaticism. Trans. C. Jon Delogu and Robin Emlein. New York: Columbia University Press. Mueller-Vollmer, Kurt. 1991. “Staël’s Germany and the Beginnings of an American National Litera­ oldberger, ture.” In Germaine de Staël: Crossing the Borders, edited by Madelyn Gutwirth, Avriel G and Karyna Szmurlo. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 141–158. Passmore, John. 2003. “Fanaticism, Toleration and Philosophy.” The Journal of Political Philosophy 11(2): 211–222. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1992 [1755]. Discourse on the Origin of Inequality. Translated by Donald A. Cress. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Sluga, Glenda. 2009. “Passions, Patriotism and Nationalism, and Germaine de Staël.” Nations and Nationalism 15(2): 299–318. Sluga, Glenda. 2021. The Invention of International Order. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Staël, Germaine de. 1798. A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions upon the Happiness of Individuals and of Nations. Trans. unknown. London: British Library. Staël, Germaine de. 1864 [1810/1813]. Germany. Two vols. Trans. unknown. New York: Hurd and Houghton. Staël, Germaine de. 1979. Des circonstances actuelles, ed. Lucia Omacini. Geneva: Libraire Droz. Staël, Germaine de. 1987 [1796]. An Extraordinary Woman: Selected Writings of Germaine de Staël. Edited and translated by Vivian Folkenflik. New York: Columbia University Press. Staël, Germaine de. 2008 [1818]. Œvres Complètes de Madame de Staël. Série I, II, and III. Paris: Édition Champion. Staël, Germaine de. 2009 [1791]. Des circonstances actuelles et d’autres essais politiques sous la Révolution, Oeuvre Complètes, series III, Oeuvres historiques, I, ed. Lucia Omacini. Paris: Honoré Champion. Staël, Germaine de. 2021. De l’influence des passions sur le bonheur des individus et des nations. Middletown, DE: Editions le Mono.Thomason, Krista K. 2020. “Wild Chimeras: Enthusiasm and Intellectual Virtue in Kant.” European Journal of Philosophy 28: 380–393. Toscano, Alberto. 2010. Fanaticism: On the Uses of an Idea. London: Verso. Voltaire. 1964 [1741]. Mahomet the Prophet or Fanaticism: A Tragedy in Five Acts. Trans. Robert L. Myers. New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing. Voltaire. 2000 [1763]. Treatise on Tolerance. Trans. Brian Masters. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zuckert, Rachel. 2010. “Kant’s Account of Practical Fanaticism.” In Benjamin J. Bruxvoort ­Lipscomb and James Krueger (eds.), Kant’s Moral Metaphysics: God, Freedom, Immortality. Berlin: De Gruyter, 291–319.

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11 FANATICAL ABSTRACTION Hegel on the Hazards of Pure Thinking Dean Moyar

Do you have the right to make the guillotine a basket for other people’s dirty laundry and to make their decapitated heads into scrubbing balls for their dirty clothes, just because you always wear a cleanly brushed coat? (Danton to Robespierre in Büchner’s Danton’s Death)

The problem of fanaticism reveals at once the stakes of Hegel’s philosophical enterprise and the risks of his dialectical approach to ethics, politics, and religion. In Hegel’s view, the fanatical attitude stems from thinking itself, from the abstraction that marks human selfconsciousness as free and universal. Rather than shunting it off to the periphery of modernity, Hegel gives fanaticism a central role in his phenomenological account of the genesis of reason and thematizes it in his theory of the will. Fanaticism shows why speculative philosophy is needed, for through speculative philosophy we can reconcile the finite and infinite, the representational and conceptual, freedom and life, the positive and the negative. Without a view of rationality that can defuse our tendency to become fanatical, the pursuit of freedom and the holy is liable to end in a self-defeating spiral of murderous violence. There are serious risks in making fanaticism a dialectical “moment” in the logic of the will. Fanaticism reveals that Hegel is playing a dangerous game, granting extreme abstraction a central place in his philosophy in order to establish a form of radical freedom that he ultimately, if perhaps futilely, aims to isolate and contain. Yet we should also ask what the alternative is once self-conscious thought comes on the scene. A rejection of thinking could itself be fanatical, for a one-sided appeal to “life” or even “friendship” can take on the marks of fanaticism once it is hypostatized as an abstract absolute. Hegel himself clearly learned to live with the tension between abstract rationality and the determinate purposes of a well-ordered society. To the end of his life, he celebrated the French Revolution even while continuing to spotlight the deathly logic of Jacobin political fanaticism. Like the possibility of evil action, where Hegel thinks that a will can only be genuinely good if it is capable of evil, fanaticism remains a permanent possibility that can never be finally solved or eliminated without eliminating freedom itself.

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DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-14

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It is clear that the fanatical person acts under the guise of the good, for they think that their abstract conception of the good (God, equality, freedom, etc.) can justify any action that they believe serves that good. A central challenge for theorists of fanaticism is to say what conceptions of the good are characteristic of fanatical willing. We often say that someone is fanatical in their devotion to a sports team, but this is not the sense of fanaticism that we are dealing with here. Rather, we want to understand why certain religious or political conceptions lead to self-abnegating, self-destructive, and even tyrannical action. In Hegel’s depictions of fanaticism, it is the infinite objects of thought and willing that are the source of the problem. Because they are universals, they lead their advocates into an exclusionary thinking that can brook no plurality in the realization of the infinite. Hegel himself thinks of conceptual articulation of the infinite as a structure of finite moments bound together in a whole. The reciprocal dependence of the whole and the moments is supposed to rule out fanatical adherence to an abstraction.

11.1  A Fanatical Moment of Thought in the Will Fanaticism was long associated with religious extremism, yet philosophy came to be seen in the eighteenth century as a main source of fanatical politics. A focal point for Hegel’s reflections on fanaticism is the French Revolution and its sources in the French Enlightenment. The idealism that was inaugurated by Kant (himself strongly influence by Rousseau) and brought to completion by Hegel is itself clearly liable to fanatical interpretation. In 1831, Hegel’s former student Heinrich Heine presented an analogy of French politics and German philosophy in which he likened Kant to Robespierre and Fichte to Napoleon. Schelling was given the role of the Restoration and Hegel was aligned with the new King (Louis-Philippe d’Orleans) who gave each its place as moments in the whole.1 At the ending of the 1835 “On the History of Religion and Philosophy in Germany,” Heine famously and chillingly predicts an impending German revolution. He leaves Hegel out of that story, while identifying Schellingean Naturphilosophie with the most extreme version of this German revolutionary impulse. Heine write, There will be Kantians, unwilling to have anything to do with piety even in the world of appearance, who, with axe and sword, will mercilessly tear up the soil of our European life in order to destroy the past to its very roots. Armed Fichteans will come onto the scene, who, in their fanaticism of will [in ihrem Willensfanatismus], will be untamable by self-interest or fear …. (Heine 2007: 115, translation altered) The words read like a prophecy of National Socialism, and many Nazi intellectuals did indeed find Fichte’s writings congenial to their project. Heine would thus also seem to prophecy the failure of the Hegelian attempt to isolate and contain the radicalism of German idealist thought. One could see how Heine might in the end see Hegel’s program as succumbing to extremism, for Hegel places the Fichtean will at the heart of his own theory of the will in the Introduction to the Philosophy of Right. Polemicizing against those who would separate thinking and willing, Hegel grants to the moment of abstract universality the place of thinking in the will. He then turns around and says why this is deficient, why it leads to fanaticism without the other “moments” of the concept of the will (particularity, individuality). 162

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I give a long quote from his remark to §5, since it is the single most important text on fanaticism in Hegel’s corpus. He touches on all the themes that appear in other discussions: Only one aspect of the will is defined here – namely this absolute possibility of abstracting from every determination in which I find myself or which I have posited in myself, the flight from every content as a limitation. If the will determines itself in this way, or if representational thought considers this aspect in itself [für sich] as freedom and holds fast to it, this is negative freedom or the freedom of the understanding. – This is the freedom of the void, which is raised to the status of an actual shape and passion. If it remains purely theoretical, it becomes in the religious realm the Hindu fanaticism of pure contemplation; but if it turns to actuality, it becomes in the realm of both politics and religion the fanaticism of destruction, demolishing the whole existing social order, eliminating all individuals regarded as suspect by a given order, and annihilating any organization which attempts to rise up anew. Only in destroying something does this negative will have a feeling of its own existence. It may well suppose [meint] that it wills some positive condition, for instance the condition of universal equality or of universal religious life, but it does not in fact will the positive actuality of this condition, for this at once gives rise to some kind of order, a particularization both of institutions and of individuals; but it is precisely through the annihilation of particularity and of objective determination that the self-consciousness of this negative freedom arises. Thus, whatever such freedom supposes [meint] that it wills can in itself [für sich] be no more than an abstract representation [Vorstellung], and its actualization can only be the fury of destruction. (Hegel 1991: §5R) I bracket for now the crucial assumption that the will is composed of moments that have to be taken together rather than isolated on their own. The passage contains three main claims: (1) there is a power of thinking in the will that involves an abstraction from all limitation, and that is properly described as “theoretical.” (2) As negative freedom in “actuality,” this power turns fanatical in religion and politics because it cannot accept positive conditions of realization. (3) This power goes awry in the hands of representational thought [Vorstellung], which in its abstraction can only “suppose” it is willing rather than actually willing. Hegel clearly aligns (1) with Fichte’s basic standpoint of the “I” that can “tear itself loose” from all determination and simply think its own identity qua self-consciousness.2 Hegel is following Fichte’s account in holding this abstraction to be an “absolute possibility” that partly constitutes freedom.3 Fichte’s theory of the I went awry, according to Hegel, when Fichte isolated the identity of self-consciousness as an absolute starting point and goal of philosophy. Fichte thought that nothing could be in the I that wasn’t posited by the I itself, so that the value of everything threatens to be reducible to the value of the I as something purely positive (see Hegel’s remarks in §6). This point is worth dwelling on because it brings out the core issue in the infinite universals that draw the subject toward fanaticism. Other familiar exemplars of infinite universals are Plato’s Idea of the Good and the monotheistic God. Because these universals are held to be the source of everything, there is a tendency to think that nothing else (nothing finite) matters in comparison to them. The free will is such a universal and that will comes to be seen as the only source, a source that is authoritative for a whole community when all are purely free and purely equal. 163

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The sense of the negative in (2) is clear enough when focusing on abstraction away from all determination. But why would any universal be incapable of realization? One would think that believers in universals would think they are meant to be instantiated. Notice, though, that while universality typically involves a determinate concept (sense universals like red, or substance universals like animal), the universals at issue here are at a different level. Hegel’s point here is that fanaticism arises precisely because the move to the fanatical universality he associates in this passage with thinking tends to obliterate the determinate differences between (sub-)universals. As a version of the universality of the Concept that he considers generative rather than subsumptive, the will takes itself to be the source of all sub-universals and thus as not reducible to any of them. In Hegel’s main political case, that of the French Revolution and the Terror, the will aims at universal equality. The clearest way to meet this demand is to eliminate existing inequalities between people. Pretty soon any sign of distinction is suspicious, for it is evidence that one is not aiming at universal equality. Equality of basic needs seems like a laudable goal, but it can come to mean that anyone getting more than their basic needs satisfied is against the universal project. There is no activity that affirms the universal in its purity other than the practical abstraction, namely the destruction, of existing differences. Anyone who stands in the way will be eliminated. I have elsewhere aligned this universality with a certain kind of practical inference that takes the universal to be an abstract conception of the good.4 Because of its purity, the only way to conclude the inference is to turn it into a negative one: the good is realized by eliminating obstacles to its purity.5 The attack on representation (3) as a cause of fanaticism brings us to a distinctly Hegelian thesis about the difference between representation and conceptual thought. For students of his philosophy of religion, representation is well known as the mode of religious practice that is distinguished by treating the objects of religion (God in particular) as entities with a fixed being that transcends human activity. One of the chief faults with representational thinking is that it fixes the subjects and predicates of judgments in opposition, rather than, like properly conceptual thought, seeing the predicates as constituting the subject (and thus as not mere predicates). This subject-predicate separation is part of the fanatical will in so far as it isolates the universal subject, say, the general will, from the specific qualities that could be predicated of it. This separation is what allows the will simultaneously to demand the willing of something pure (e.g., equality, holiness) and to bar itself from seeing anything specific as actually connected with that pure entity. Hegel associates this posture with a supposition or mere belief (“meinen”) in the sense of a deficient intentional object. Something is not properly conceived, but only something pointed to, merely believed in the sense contrasted to known in all its specificity.6 The universal moment is supposed to highlight “thinking” in the will, but seeing this very moment turned into a kind of blind fanatical willing controverts the work that the universal was supposed to do. How, then, can the thinking agent avoid the turn to fanaticism once they have abstracted from all determinacy? Hegel continues his account of the will (in PR §6) with the moment of determinacy and an argument that speculative philosophy alone can properly address the problem of abstraction. He thereby gives the impression that something deeply speculative is required in order to save the will from the abstract thought of the understanding. One must, it seems, be able to grasp the dynamic duality of the negative and the positive, of the infinite and the finite, in order to avoid the slide into fanaticism. This could obviously be quite problematic as a demand on ordinary deliberation, and could even lead to the conclusion that one should refuse to take the first step at all. If abstraction to universality tends 164

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toward fanaticism, and if it can be cured only with an understanding of Hegel’s philosophy, the reasonable conclusion (given the difficulty of Hegel’s philosophy) is that abstraction is a mistake. You could reasonably insist that we should refuse to be idealists at all, and should instead remain realists who do not separate the self from the norms in which it is invested by habit and inheritance. But couldn’t that realist turn also amount to blind devotion to the church and state? If we take a few steps back in the story of post-Kantian idealism, we can see how the struggle between realism and idealism leads to mutual charges of fanaticism. As the leading critic of idealism, F.H. Jacobi charged Kant and the post-Kantians with an idealism that sacrifices the real to the demands of logic. Fichte got into hot water for his essay “On the Basis of Our Belief in a Divine Governance of the World,” where he argues that from a transcendental perspective, the “living and efficaciously acting moral order is itself God. We require no other God, nor can we grasp any other” (Fichte 1994: 151). His claim here depends on a sharp separation of a realist perspective of life and an idealist perspective of thought. Fichte believed that much of the antagonism toward his philosophy stemmed from a mistake that he saw exemplified in Jacobi’s misunderstanding of the distinction of two standpoints, philosophy and life. When the Atheism Controversy was exacerbated by Jacobi’s ‘Open Letter,’ Fichte in fact writes to Reinhold and stresses Jacobi’s obtuseness on just this point. He rightly refuses to tolerate logical fanaticism, and so do I. But he appears at the same time to harbor an opposite sort of fanaticism, which I may term the fanaticism of real life. It it this fanaticism which forbids him to abstract dispassionately and impartially from real life, even for the sake of experiment. (Fichte 1988: 429) The lesson from this is that it seems that any holding to a one-sided view is susceptible to fanaticism. Fichte’s argument that the refusal to abstract can also turn fanatical is sound. In fact, I think we should take this one step further and say that appeals to life can turn fanatical because life shares with self-conscious thought the structure of self-sufficiency. I return to this point at the close of the essay.

11.2  Self-Consciousness and Self-Sacrifice in the Phenomenology of Spirit Hegel took very seriously the problem raised by the Fichte-Jacobi exchange in the Atheism Controversy. He acknowledges that a philosophy that requires ordinary agents to elevate themselves to a counter-intuitive idealism is asking for trouble. Yet he also argues that idealism can itself be true to common sense, that philosophy can be reconciled with common modes of thinking and living. His case for this is best made in the Phenomenology, his “ladder to science.” In that account, which I discuss in this section and the next, he shows how the process of infusing the world with value develops on the basis of more or less fanatical approaches to religion, philosophy, and politics. These fanatical stances are introduced as arising out of the ordinary standpoint itself, namely because human consciousness is inherently universal and thus cannot remain satisfied with a realism that does not raise the question of what is essential to its objects. He aims to cure this realism and fanaticism through overcoming the form of representation (point 3 above), the form of consciousness that separates the subject and object. His goal is to show that the Concept is the substance 165

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of all reality. But this conceptuality is not fanatical because it consists of a whole of different moments, and involves a complex synthesis of levels that by its very manysidedness cannot be invoked as fanaticism. While the early Philosophy of Right discussion of fanaticism focuses on freedom of the will, the Phenomenology account shows that fanaticism is a misfiring of the general drive to invest the world with universal value, to locate a world that makes sense to self-conscious thought.7 The Phenomenology account of self-consciousness centers on the emergence of value from thought and life. Hegel thinks of value as the joint expression of human attitudes and rational standards. I have elsewhere argued that Hegel should be seen as giving a “fitting attitude” account of value, where the valuable is defined as that which it is fitting to desire, love, care about, etc.8 To call something fitting is another way of saying that it is rational to desire, love, etc., or that one has compelling reasons to desire, love, etc. The attitudinal side of this picture is aligned with feeling, with affect, and generally with what moves us as embodied beings. The rational or reasons sides is about what can be justified, communicated in language between agents. Without the attitudes, the reasons would be empty, whereas without the reasons the attitudes would be blind. Hegel’s method requires that both sides of value – life and thought – be taken initially in their immediacy. This means considering desire in the immediacy of life, and taking thinking to consist in the formal emptiness of the I. In the notoriously difficult set of moves that opens Chapter 4 of the Phenomenology, Hegel sets up life and self-consciousness as homologous activities that are both substantively opposed and structurally identical. Mere life is a process between individual and universal that culminates in reproduction and the continuance of the species. Thinking is initially empty, the sheer difference that is no difference or the I that is both singular and universal. Hegel famously makes a case for the satisfaction of self-consciousness as occurring only with another self-consciousness, though the nature of that satisfaction in thinking alone remains obscure. The pure process of thought and formally symmetrical mutual recognition represent the side of reasons, or rationality, that only gets its filling through the simultaneous interplay of embodied beings, and thus as living self-consciousnesses (Hegel 2018: ¶176, 188).9 Hegel sets the goal of mutual recognition, a condition which would secure the status of the value as both affectively anchored and as meeting standards of rationality for expressive action. He locates the baseline for that achievement in the “life of a people” (Hegel 2018: ¶350, 194) in ancient Greece. But the goal can only be achieved in a conceptually articulated manner by working through the conflicts of thought and life, conflicts in which fanatical postures both prove untenable and precipitate more ideal worlds. Strong traces of fanaticism are already in evidence in the famous struggle to the death in which two individuals aim to prove to each other (and to themselves) their independence from mere life. The confrontation arises because the two “for each other have not yet achieved the movement of absolute abstraction” (Hegel 2018: ¶186, 111). It is not enough to have this certainty of self-consciousness oneself, for one must be recognized as such for that certainty to have standing in the world. Thus, the exhibition of itself as the pure abstraction of self-consciousness consists in showing itself to be the pure negation of its objective mode, or in showing that it is fettered to no determinate existence, that it is not at all bound to the universal singularity of existence, that it is not shackled to life. (Hegel 2018: ¶187, 111) 166

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Each wants to be the one to be able to set the standard of value, for they think that in order to be an independent source of what counts, one cannot rely on anything given merely through one’s condition as a living being. On a prominent reading of Hegel, one’s identification with something is expressed by one’s willingness to sacrifice for that entity (idea, country, etc.).10 The willingness to sacrifice one’s life to prove one’s freedom is a sign that one is constituted by freedom, that one takes freedom to be essential to what one is. Yet that willingness to sacrifice is clearly only one part of the story, and the side that lends itself to fanaticism. On Hegel’s view it is the servant, the forerunner of the bourgeois, the upright conscientious citizen, who has acknowledged that life is essential and thus is in a position to realize freedom through life-affirming value. The fanatic typically does not think of themselves as the main issue (unlike the Hegelian master). Rather, the fanatical willingness to die (and to kill) comes in the service of a higher cause. Hegel explores the fanatical consciousness that sees itself as a servant vis-à-vis an internalized unchangeable entity in the “Unhappy Consciousness” episode that concludes Chapter IV of the Phenomenology. Recoiling from the skepticism in which everything is unstable, this consciousness seeks to place the essential (i.e., the valuable) in the “unchangeable,” and the inessential in the ordinary changeable activities of life. This is a step backward in a sense because the lesson of the servant (in the preceding section) had been that life is essential. To deny life now seems perverse, and Hegel does not spare this consciousness from criticism for the refusal to acknowledge a lesson that has already been learned. He writes of “a struggle against an enemy in which victory really means defeat” (Hegel 2018: ¶209, 122), for the victory over one’s own changeable consciousness in favor of the unchangeable is clearly a defeat at the level of ordinary life. The consciousness is unhappy, or sorrowful, from this internal discord, but knows only how to sacrifice itself – thus making itself even more unhappy – in order to strive for the valuable. Yet this consciousness is not merely retrograde, for it does work to overcome the immediacy of its own desires in favor of an impersonal universal authority. That authority is first of all the unchangeable God, the father, an entity distant from the finite human individual. Hegel outlines the basic idea of Christianity, of God becoming a singular human individual, but he is clear that at this stage the actual individual is not conscious of itself as instantiating the trinitarian structure (Hegel 2018: ¶216, 125). When he says that “the unhappy consciousness does not conduct itself towards its object in a thinking manner” (Hegel 2018: ¶217, 125), he is repeating the criticism mentioned in Section 1 that the fanatic remains in a representational mode. Instead of viewing the unchangeable structurally, as that contrasted with the finite and changeable determinacy, God is hypostatized as a wholly other being existing in another space beyond (but akin to) our own. God on this picture remains remote: “this essence is the unattainable other-worldly beyond which, in the act of being seized, escapes, or rather has already escaped” (Hegel 2018: ¶125–126, 217). Only self-negation can bring consciousness closer to this beyond, but that attempt also proves illusory since God is by definition unreachable. The basic separation of life and thought remains, so what could be a world of value remains instead divided between religious devotion and worldly (dis)satisfaction. A positive relation to the unchangeable finally comes with the idea of a mediator, in the form of the priest as Christ’s representative on earth, an impersonal and yet worldly authority. The successor idea to the mediator, and Hegel’s answer to religious fanaticism, is simply “Reason.” The individual realizes that the world is there for them, that the unchangeable 167

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is not in a negatively defined beyond, or in the grave. Yet in another way this move to reason only makes the fanaticism problem worse. If the individual reasoner is certain of themselves as all reality, when they encounter resistance to their ideas about reality they are more likely to dig in and turn fanatical.11 In terms of value, they have progressed in taking life and subjective value to be continuous with thought and objective value. But that unity itself remains immediate, or, as he puts it in an especially vivid episode, it remains a “law of the heart” and dictates to humanity what they should consider to be valuable (Hegel 2018: ¶202, 367). What Hegel calls “the Insanity of Self-Conceit [Wahnsinn des Eigendunkels]” is the state of a consciousness driven to rage against a world that does not recognize its law as the law for everyone. The link of fanaticism and universality is clear here, for universality (on a rather intuitive view of it) means that no other view is possible, or all other views are excluded. For Hegel, this is an inadequate immediate universality, a lack of articulation of the law evidenced by appeal to the heart. The solution is a more thorough rationalization of the social order, though we have seen enough by now to worry that thought, no less than faith, can turn fanatical.

11.3  Religious and Enlightened Fanaticism in the Phenomenology of Spirit For an overall understanding of Hegel’s take on fanaticism, the “Spirit” chapter is both indispensable and inconclusive. The chapter is obviously important because of its concluding presentation of the French Revolution as “Absolute Freedom and Terror.” The account leading up to the French Revolution is no less important, largely because we want to understand how the Enlightenment developed into fanaticism. Triumphant in its victory over religion, the Enlightenment appears content to view the world in terms of utility, a view that lends itself to pragmatism and seems to pull against the slide to fanaticism. But on Hegel’s telling of the Enlightenment narrative, the hollowing out of the world of divinely anchored meaning in utility leads directly to the theoretical project of abstract justice and the guillotine. This raises the question of whether there is any way to avoid fanaticism once the move to universality has been made. Hegel’s subsequent transition to morality provides a less than satisfactory answer to the question. Hegel’s treatment of the pure insight of the Enlightenment is most notable for its critical stance toward the negativity of the Enlightenment. He does in the end portray the Enlightenment as victorious over faith, but the march to victory is loaded with pathos, and the actual practice of religion comes off looking rather good in comparison to insight.12 The Enlightenment contains the seeds of fanaticism because of its fundamentally negative orientation: “its positive content lies in its eradication of error” (Hegel 2018: ¶302–303, 557). The errors it aimed to correct are those supposedly made by faith, though Hegel is quite scathing in his assessment of this effort. Enlightenment has to misinterpret faith in order to convict it of error, as in the claim that it mistakes a block of wood (e.g., a cross or a statue of Christ) as the divine essence. In this critical mode the Enlightenment is just as wed to representation as the fanatical practitioner of religion. Hegel writes, While in general it comprehends all determinateness in this way, which is to say, it conceives of every content and every fulfillment of content as finite, or as a human essence and as representational thought, absolute essence turns out, to itself, to be a vacuum to which no determinations and no predicates can be married. (Hegel 2018: ¶ 303, 557) 168

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Though it is in the mode of atheistic denial of an absolute essence, the Enlightenment shares with the religion it criticizes the idea that value attaches to tangible objects and agencies. There are only “singularities and limitations” (Hegel 2018: ¶303, 557) to the Enlightenment because there can be no reality, nothing intrinsically valuable, beyond the representable finite. From these two points – that the absolute essence or value is void and that things in their sensuous immediacy have value – Hegel derives the Enlightenment conception of utility. I cannot, within the scope of this essay, discuss the details of this account. The basic case is that the individuals (or singulars) have a reality or value of their own, and yet they cannot be allowed to slide into the place of an absolute value (because in that case they would take on religious significance), so the only way to maintain the reality of value is through the idea of relational value. The Enlightenment has a robust conception of rationality (“form” in Hegel’s account), holding that items have their standing through rational relations, and it thus cannot simply leave things in their sensuous immediacy. Things are taken up into the idea of purpose, or the relation of different moments, or in general into the relation of being for another. To say that an individual is for another, essentially for another, is a way of saying that it is not absolute, that the void of absolute essence is preserved as a void. Value is thus relative and instrumental. But value is relative to human desires and needs, and the finite world has a positive standing, so everything is good. We walk in a garden planted just for us (Hegel 2018: ¶304, 560). Everything is useful, including ourselves to each other. The only badness would come from our excess indulgence in the objects of desire. We have been given reason, knowledge of good and evil, in order to moderate our desires so that they do not undermine that goodness. As Hegel notes, this utilitarian view is abhorrent to the person of faith, for whom God as the absolute essence has to be more than a negative, a void. Yet faith cannot completely deny insight and its utility, for faith has a mundane existence alongside its comportment toward God. The person of faith may give away some possessions, but they still care about possessions in the here and now. The faithful consciousness keeps two sets of books, has two orders of value, “weighs and measures by a double standard” (Hegel 2018: ¶310, 572), and thus cannot deny the accusation of incoherence by the Enlightenment. This does not mean that faith is simply happy with the resulting world of utility, for “what speaks to spirit is only an essenceless actuality and a finitude forsaken by spirit” (Hegel 2018: ¶573, 310). This anxiety can be cured, but only through a move that opens the door to rationalist fanaticism. Without the absolute value of the individual, the logic of the Enlightenment tends toward an abstract relational universality that prepares the way for political fanaticism. As a practical concept, utility is no longer something for the individual walking in the garden, but rather it implies a “selflessness of utility” (Hegel 2018: ¶573, 311). The apparent shift from the individual agent’s good to the universal good of abstract utility is jarring. But if one follows the development of utilitarianism from Hume to Bentham, one can see clearly enough the radical potential of a desire- and pleasure-based ethics. This self-lessness is in part that of agent-neutral utilitarianism, a universality that demands of individuals that they give up their personal concerns. One must do what is good overall, where one’s own particular interests count only as much as those of any other person. The selflessness is not just a looking away from the particular desires, but also the idea that the unifying function of the individual self (as distinct from the relations) recedes in favor of the relational nexus of utility. 169

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To appreciate the move from the initial conception of utility to the ideology of the French Revolution, we have to understand the way in which the Enlightenment radicalizes the concept of utility. Utility becomes all there is – not simply a practical view but a metaphysical view of all reality as universal and relational. Things and selves are what they are in their relations, or in not-being for themselves, an opposition that defines the instability of this world. Whereas utility still may seem to be something distinct from the subject, and thus the basis of a world that has standing on its own, the dissolution of the world (and objectivity) has already happened in principle. Here is how Hegel puts it at the beginning of “Absolute Freedom and the Terror”: “this objectivity has nothing more of its own for itself and is instead pure metaphysics, the pure concept, or knowing of self-consciousness” (Hegel 2018: ¶583, 316). The self-consciousness at issue here is pure, universal subjectivity: consciousness as pure insight is not a singularly individual self which could be confronted by the object which would likewise have its own self. Rather, it is the pure concept, the gazing of the self into the self, absolutely seeing-itself-as-doubled. The certainty of itself is the universal subject, and its knowing concept is the essence of all actuality. (Hegel 2018: ¶583, 317) Thus, starting from the idea of the relationality of the world, its thoroughgoing beingfor-another, the world becomes a function of self-consciousness, the formal universal that determines the standing of everything. The world is thus fully subordinate to the universal self, and no claim of individual justice against the universal can hold. The extremism of absolute freedom makes a good deal of sense, at least in its seductive initial conception as the universal will. To be free is to be subject only to norms that one has authored oneself, and no one would willfully author a law in which they are exploited. A just society is one in which all individuals count equally as universal, both in principle and in fact. You may be told that justice is served when each person does their part in a differentiated whole, with a division of labor, but this rings extremely hollow when the lives of some are so much better than the lives of others. Isn’t each person an equal part of the people? Shouldn’t each person have an equal say in the laws, and shouldn’t the laws be made to the benefit of all? Each individual is a self-conscious human being and the social order exists for the purpose of realizing the self-consciousness that all share in common. This picture of human freedom and a just social order has the attractiveness of simplicity. It is so attractive because it is “only the movement of universal self-consciousness within itself,” and so “its object is a law given by itself and is a work carried out by itself, and passing over into activity and into creating objectivity, it is thus not making anything which is singular; it is only making laws and state-actions” (Hegel 2018: ¶587, 318). It is hard to argue with this picture in the ideal, for to object one seems forced to say that inequality is good, and that justice must mean different things to different people. The objector is forced to say “different but equal,” which is quite obviously a convenient cover for injustice. The trouble, as we have already seen in Section 11.1, is that this universal conception cannot be satisfied with anything positive and thus tends only toward destructive action. The individual has a good abstract reason for refusing to act in a way that would reinforce the social whole. Hegel presents the problem of social differentiation in terms of the injustice experienced by the individual: “the doing and being of personality would thereby find itself restricted to a branch of the whole, to one kind of doing and being … it would in 170

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truth cease to be universal self-consciousness” (Hegel 2018: ¶588, 319). Hegel notes that this consciousness views as deceptive any claims about political representation, echoing Rousseau’s argument in the Social Contract that sovereignty cannot be represented. But the problem is not just that one cannot constantly summon the whole populace to take action. The problem is that only an actual individual can take action, For the universal to reach the point of actually doing something, it must gather itself up into the One of individuality and put a singular consciousness at the head, for the universal will is only an actual will in a self that is One. (Hegel 2018: ¶589, 319) But this would not be an action of an “actual universal self-consciousness. Universal freedom can thus produce neither a positive work nor a positive deed, and there remains for it only the negative doing. It is only the fury of disappearing” (Hegel 2018: ¶589, 319). The revolutionary freedom destroys the existing aristocratic order, but that order is not the proper object of its (negative) action. The universal will must will freedom, and it can do so only by finding an object of its activity within itself, as the hard individuality “of the actual self-consciousness” (Hegel 2018: ¶590, 319–320). The fanaticism of the sphere comes out especially in the turn of the universal will against itself, for the abstract individual is the only object that is there for the universal will. But it is there only to be destroyed, for “the relation is that of wholly unmediated pure negation” (Hegel 2018: ¶590, 320). This is fanaticism because of its blank disrespect for life. Its “work and deed” is only “the coldest, emptiest death of all, having no more meaning than chopping off a head of cabbage or swallowing a mouthful of water” (¶590, 320). This is the fanatical clean conscience of the upright law. It is ultimately the messiness of life that Robespierre cannot abide, as Büchner brings out so well in the passage at the top of this chapter. Robespierre turns not only against inequality but against the uncleanliness of life in general, not realizing that abstract universals alone cannot sustain a world of value.

11.4  Ethical Holism and Fanatical Totality On Hegel’s Phenomenology account, the constructive lessons of the French Revolution are taken up by German philosophy, the moral worldview that ends the “Spirit” chapter. The rational core of the general will is made the principle of moral subjectivity, but it remains unclear throughout the concluding section where the content of this morality comes from. Hegel’s transition from politics to morality raises some obvious questions for the student of modern fanaticism. How can it be that revolutionary collective universality becomes nonfanatical when taken as the standard of individual conduct? Is the retreat from participatory politics to inner morality a genuine answer to the pressures that lead to revolutionary fanaticism? What is to stop the moralizing individuals from re-externalizing their principles for a new kind of political or religious fanaticism? Hegel’s revolution-to-morality move may well have suggested to Heine the comparison of Kant and Robespierre, but Hegel himself does not worry very much in his mature philosophy about a moral fanaticism from Kantian and Fichtean moral philosophy. Hegel appears to be much more worried about the hypocrisy and irony of the moral standpoint than about its potential political excesses.13 In the Phenomenology Hegel organizes his account around the question of Kant’s Highest Good and the role of God in uniting the elements of 171

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duty and happiness. Kant makes room for the determinacy or particularity that absolute freedom erased, but Hegel does not think that the Kantian view succeeds in stabilizing this relation. The moral consciousness only dissembles by locating the essence of action alternately in duty and happiness, and by locating the responsibility alternately in the agent or in a postulated deity. So we seem to be left with the options of fanatical political justice and hypocritical moral rectitude. The solution turns on a reinterpretation of conscience that Hegel accomplishes with what I earlier alluded to as a new theory of the moment-whole relation. Modern moral subjectivity is to be celebrated for its capacity to “dissolve” various determinate duties in a deliberative nexus. The subject reaches an all things considered judgment through complex processes of reasoning about how those different duties (considered as morally relevant factors or prima facie duties). Hegel’s case for why this individual authority does not suffer from that emptiness of universal abstraction is that it is constituted by the processes that have led to its authority. Those processes, as determinate negations in which content is aufgehoben or “suspended,” set the basic terms for what a legitimate output of deliberation must look like. The action (or, for Kantians, the maxim of action) must be recognizable to the other subjects in the context. The action must also realize a specific purpose and have presumptive universality (one cannot be making an exception of oneself). The second requirement (roughly of utility) is supposed to block the full-blown negativity of the universal will. The first requirement gives the account a certain conventionalism or historical aspect in so far as one must take into account the uptake of one’s actions by other agents whom one recognizes as sources of authority themselves. While the third element, the Rousseauian and Kantian element, most clearly represents thought in the value of the action, the other two rely on processes of life and anchor the action in a developed world of value. The agent of “actual conscience” (Hegel 2018: ¶662, 357) acts in ways that are both self-determined and highly constrained, and we can thus recognize the agent as embedded within a social order that itself is properly structured according to the same historical processes that have given individual conscience such a central place. The picture I just sketched may seem too good to be true, and there is a sense in which Hegel would agree. His worries about modern moral subjectivity are expressed in the dialectical reversals of conscience and evil in the Phenomenology account. In terms of the account I just gave, it seems that we must choose whether the individual agent (conscience) or the community of recognizers (first moment) has priority. Without an account of the ethical contexts of recognition (which he does not give in the Phenomenology), it seems to be too much up to the individual to determine what is right. The deliberative space of moral subjectivity is indeed necessary, but without a more substantial recognitive context there is too much room for individual interpretation of what counts as duty. Evaluative abstraction is either too permissive, thus allowing doctrines such as probabilism, in which any reason is enough to make an action count as good, or it is too restrictive, disallowing all actions that have any particularity about them. The beautiful soul that becomes the self-righteous hard heart in the Phenomenology is a good example of the restrictive moral critic who does not act. The moral critic does not go so far as to destroy and is thus not properly fanatical, but the abstract universality of value is the same problem for both figures. It might be objected that the moral subject hardly seems to threaten revolution or violence, since its problematic characteristics are impotence and the hypocritical pursuit of self-interest. Yet while the problems of fanaticism and moralizing hypocrisy can seem very far apart, in the Philosophy of Right presentation Hegel makes clear that both are the 172

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result of an abstract conception of the Good. Once we understand this similarity, we can provide a clearer Hegelian solution to fanaticism. Both the moral idealist and the religious fanatic operate with an abstraction that is constitutive of their practice. According to Hegel’s own interpretation of religious language and practice, God is the absolute essence or ultimate conception of value, and the Good is just that same conception of value viewed as a purpose to be achieved (rather than as a super-agent who acts to achieve it). In Hegel’s view the Good is a concept that philosophy should present as a noble abstraction, just as there is something sublime about the abstract divinity that he associates with fanaticism.14 The abstractions represent the freedom of thinking and the elevation of the soul above mere life. Both fanaticism and hypocrisy result from treating that concept as the whole on its own, apart from life and the social organization that has developed through action on value. When Hegel explicitly turns to the issue of politics and religious fanaticism in Philosophy of Right §270, he confirms the parallel of fanatical actions and the subjective actions of morality gone awry. He writes, If, however, this negative attitude does not simply remain an inward disposition and viewpoint, but turns instead to the actual world and asserts itself within it, it leads to religious fanaticism which, like political fanaticism, repudiates all political institutions and legal order as restrictive limitations on the inner emotions and as incommensurate with the infinity of these, and hence also rejects private property, marriage, the relationships and tasks of civil society, etc. as unworthy of love and the freedom of feeling. Since, however, decisions still have to be made in relation to actual existence and action, the same thing happens as in the case of that subjectivity of the will in general which knows itself to be absolute (see §140), namely that the decisions are made on the basis of subjective representation, i.e. of opinion and the caprice of the arbitrary will. (Hegel 1991: §270R) The fundamental problem is the mismatch of the infinity of religious and moral representations, on the one hand, and the finite purposes of the social order, on the other.15 Like the moral agent aiming to act on behalf of the abstract Good, the religious fanatic is someone who thinks they are acting on behalf of a higher power when in the end they only have their own finite natural will at their disposal. To the extent that the fanatic is not merely destructive, the source of their decisions can only be ordinary finite desire. That desire, if unconstrained by practices of value, can only be determined arbitrarily. The whole of ethical life, encompassed by and culminating in the rational state, is its own best defense against fanaticism in that all the finite moments are preserved within the whole. In the above passage Hegel lists “private property, marriage, the relationships and tasks of civil society” as some of the institutions that are targeted by the fanatical religious appeal to feeling. The system of ethical institutions constitutes “the living Good” (PR §142), a system that is the living result of a developed collection of moments. One cannot detach the Good from that rational articulation without risking arbitrariness and fanaticism. By building into the Good the specifically legal relations of property, and by celebrating the institution of marriage and of the competitive workplace, Hegel affirms the idea of the separation of individuals (and family units) from the overarching good embodied by the State. 173

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Hegel finds religious fanaticism to be so dangerous not only because it appeals to an abstract entity beyond all finite being, but also because it tends to oppose its inner belief in God to the finite laws of the State. A passage from the Hotho lecture notes gives a final set of clues as to why the modern turn toward a religion of feeling makes us more liable to fanaticism. For the differences within the state are far apart, whereas everything in religion invariably has reference to the totality. And if this totality sought to take over all the relations of the state, it would become fanaticism; it would wish to find the whole in every particular, and could accomplish this only by destroying the particular, for fanaticism is simply the refusal to admit particular differences. If we may so put it, the saying ‘Laws are not made for the pious’ is no more than an expression of this fanaticism. … It is also in keeping with this if piety leaves decisions to the conscience, to inwardness, and is not determined by reasons; for inwardness does not develop reasons and is not accountable to itself. Thus, if piety is to count as the actuality of the state, all laws are swept aside and it is subjective feeling which legislates. (Hegel 1991: §270Z) Hegel’s reputation as a philosopher of totality makes this passage especially striking. He shows here that he is quite aware of the dynamic that would give holism in political philosophy a bad name. His own theory relies on integrating particularity within a totality, and thus runs the risk of fanaticism in just the sense he diagnoses here. Wouldn’t it be better, we might think, simply to accept the atomism of liberal rights and leave political totality off the table? When Hegel says that “the differences within the state are far apart,” he is expressing his own commitment to the liberal regime of rights and to the separation of different spheres of justice. The challenge for him is to say what is involved in his commitment to patriotism and to religion, and why his own holism does not lead to fanaticism. Implicit in much of Hegel’s writings on fanaticism is the idea that human beings cannot do without an absolute essence, an ultimate value, around which to orient their lives. Hegel attempts to capture this aspiration to the universal and unconditional while keeping us focused on the particular conditions that give moderating texture to our hopes and dreams. We saw this in the abstract conception of freedom (struggle to the death), in the “unchangeable,” and in the absolute freedom of the French Revolution. Hegel’s route to avoiding the fanatical turn is to make the absolute a result of a process that makes the whole a living unity. The living character of that unity consists in the proper relation of the finite value and the infinite whole. In ethical life it is the finite value of satisfying work and the infinite value of the state. Hegel does, however, have a blind spot when it comes to the state itself, for he does not seem worried enough about fanaticism that would take the life of a people as the abstraction worth dying and killing for. In attempting a middle way between Jacobean fanaticism of real life and Fichtean fanaticism of the thinking will, Hegel gives us devotion to the rational state, a real entity structured by laws and institutional roles. While not a nationalist himself, his theory does not provide enough checks against nationalist fanaticism. He wants to sustain the idea of a state where the “differences are far apart,” yet much of his praise of the state (and of war) depends on the differences being subordinated to the good of the whole. Even life itself as a term that is supposed to moderate the totality of the state by highlighting the dependence of the whole on the members, is liable to fanatical 174

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abuse. To get life and law in one picture, to think of civil society as sustaining individuals rather than alienating and impoverishing them, remains the best that modern freedom can achieve. The finite conditions of life have to hold if we are to keep at bay the impulse to the abstract unconditioned that is fanaticism.

Notes 1 He writes, “Kant was our Robespierre. – Afterwards came Fichte with his “I,” the Napoleon of philosophy, the highest love and the highest egoism …” (Heine 2007: 131). See Sternberger (1980) for an excellent discussion of Heine and Hegel. See also Pinkard’s “Introduction” in Heine (2007). 2 Fichte has quite a complicated story about the drives in his account of how the agent gets from this initial act of thinking to an actual action. For a recent reconstruction of Fichte’s account, see Ware (2020). 3 There are important questions here about the nature of this act vis a vis the ordinary world of causes. Fichte and Hegel can seem to be giving a version of Kant’s argument in Groundwork III that the spontaneity of thought is already proof enough of a transcendental freedom, of the will as an uncaused cause. In this essay I cannot get into the thicket of issues surrounding this claim. I will say that there are good grounds for doubting that Hegel is endorsing a libertarian incompatibilist view of the will here. In fact, it seems that mistaking the universal moment of abstract thought to be something real on its own is part of the turn to fanaticism. 4 Moyar (2021), Chapter 2. 5 While in one sense Hegel’s connection of universality and fanaticism threatens to normalize the fanatic, in another sense he sets a high bar, for a person or movement that is satisfied with a positive organization or outcome of their activity could not count as fanatical on Hegel’s view. 6 I give “suppose” rather than Knox’s “believe” for meinen mainly to avoid confusion with other senses of belief. 7 While I largely concur with the assessment of Bouton (2007), who links fanaticism quite closely to human freedom, I argue that we get a more nuanced view by seeing the question through the lens of Hegel’s theory of value. 8 See Moyar (2021). 9 Citations of the Phenomenology give the paragraph number in the Pinkard translation and the page number in GW 9. 10 See Brandom (2019: 238). 11 See Bristow (2017) for a good discussion of the framing of “Reason.” 12 He writes that delusion is out of the question. See especially Hegel (2018: ¶550, 288–289). 13 He does criticize Fries for fomenting political unrest with his doctrine of feeling, but I take it that Hegel sees a world of difference between Kant and Fichte, on the one hand, and Fries on the other. 14 Here is his description of Islam as fanatical: “Abstraction swayed the minds of the Mahometans. Their object was, to establish an abstract worship, and they struggled for its accomplishment with the greatest enthusiasm. This enthusiasm was Fanaticism, that is, an enthusiasm for something abstract – for an abstract thought which sustains a negative position towards the established order of things. It is the essence of fanaticism to bear only a desolating destructive relation to the concrete; but that of Mahometanism was, at the same time, capable of the greatest elevation – an eleation free from all petty interest, and united with all the virtues that appertain to magnanimity and valor” (Hegel 1956: 358). Cited also by Bouton (2007: 444). Bouton notes the influence of Voltaire and the general prejudice of the Enlightenment against Islam. 15 Hegel gives the impression that fanaticism is an individual problem when he brings the fanatic close to the arbitrary willing of the moral agent. Llorente (1995) raises this as an unresolved problem.

Bibliography Bouton, C. “Die Furie der Zerstörung: Hegel und das Phänomen des Fanatismus,” Sinn und Form, 2007, July/August, pp. 437–453. Brandom, R. A Spirit of Trust: A Reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2019.

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Dean Moyar Bristow, W. “Reason, Self-Transcendence, and Modernity in Hegel’s Phenomenology,” in The Oxford Handbook of Hegel, edited by Dean Moyar. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2017, pp. 102–125. Büchner, G. The Major Works. Edited by Matthew Wilson Smith and translated by Henry J. Schmidt. New York and London: Norton, 2012. Fichte, J.G. Early Philosophical Writings. Translated and edited by Daniel Breazeale. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988. Fichte, J.G. Introductions to the Wissenschaftslehre and Other Writings. Translated and edited by Daniel Breazeale. Indianapolis, IN and Cambridge: Hackett, 1994. Hegel, G.W.F. The Philosophy of History. Translated by J. Sibree. New York: Dover, 1956. Hegel, G.W.F. Elements of the Philosophy of Right. Translated by H.B. Nisbet and edited by Allen Wood. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Hegel, G.W.F. The Phenomenology of Spirit. Translated by Terry Pinkard and edited by Michael Baur. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Heine, H. On the History of Religion and Philosophy in German and Other Writings. Edited by Terry Pinkard. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Llorente, R. “Hegel’s Conception of Fanaticism,” Auslegung, 20: 2 (1995), 83–99. Moyar, D. (2021), Hegel’s Value: Justice as the Living Good. Oxford: Oxford University Press.  Sternberger, D. “What Heinrich Heine Kept in Mind of Hegel’s Teaching,” Revue Européenne Des Sciences Sociales, 18: 52 (1980), 145–153. Ware, O. Fichte’s Moral Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020.

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12 THE NEED FOR CERTAINTY Bernard Reginster

Fanaticism becomes an object of close philosophical scrutiny in the Enlightenment, often from philosophers alarmed by the violence it is apt to unleash. They undertake to circumscribe its precise character and causes partly in the hope of identifying a remedy for it. In this chapter, I explore a particular view of fanaticism that emerges from discussions of it in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, to which I will refer as the existentialist view because its key elements are borrowed from the existentialist tradition, broadly conceived as including figures such as Dostoyevsky, Nietzsche, and Heidegger. This existentialist view departs in fundamental respects from a view that predominates in the Enlightenment, which I will call the Enlightenment view. To speak of an “Enlightenment view” is misleading because the accounts of fanaticism offered by individual Enlightenment thinkers differ in substantial ways. Nevertheless, I will focus on a particular though not uncommon understanding of it, sketching which will provide a useful point of contrast and help to bring out the character of the existentialist view. While the term “fanaticism” still carries a benign connotation (typically reflected in its abbreviation “fan”), current dictionary definitions of it emphasize its character as a kind of excess: they present it now as emotional excess and now as epistemic excess.1 Roughly speaking, what I will here call the “Enlightenment view” and the “existentialist view” differ in their conception of how these two types of excess interact in the psychological profile of the fanatic. In the Enlightenment view, fanaticism is fundamentally an epistemic excess, which inspires certain forms of emotional excess. Thus, it is an epistemic failing, and the passionate zeal associated with it is excessive in virtue of being caused by an epistemically defective state. Fanatical passion is, in this picture, primarily the consequence of cognitive disorder. If we could correct the fanatic’s epistemic failing, the emotional excess it causes would dissipate. In the existentialist view, by contrast, the epistemic extravagance is the symptom of an emotional disorder. As a consequence, fanaticism cannot be dispelled by purely intellectual (epistemic) means. The chapter places a special focus on Nietzsche’s discussion of fanaticism because his lifelong investigation of the phenomenon forms a transition between the Enlightenment view and the existentialist view. The characterization of fanaticism on offer in his early works (sometimes described as his “Enlightenment period”) (such as Human, all too 177

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Human and the first four books of The Gay Science) echoes the Enlightenment view. But it already suggests departures from that view, which his later discussions (particularly in the fifth book of The Gay Science and in The Anti-Christ) amplify. The new conception of fanaticism intimated in these works is intuitively tantalizing, but it also remains vague and underdeveloped. However, it gains clarity if we connect it with some seminal ideas from the broader existentialist tradition. The chapter is organized as follows. In Section 12.1, I sketch out the Enlightenment view of fanaticism. In Section 12.2, I examine Nietzsche’s early analysis of fanaticism and identifies as its point of departure from the Enlightenment view the role played by a special passion, the need for certainty. In Section 12.3, I circumscribe the nature of a distinctively fanatical need for certainty. In Section 12.4, I describe the emotional crisis that awakens this need. In Section 12.5, I explain how fanaticism may be understood as a kind of response to that crisis. In Section 12.6, I examine why Nietzsche deems this response pathological. Finally, I conclude with some brief thoughts about what, in this view, would constitute a remedy for fanaticism.

12.1  A Blind Passion Enlightenment philosophers sometimes refer to the phenomenon I have in view as “enthusiasm” in a pejorative sense (e.g., Locke, Shaftesbury), but others favor the more encompassing “fanaticism” (e.g., the Philosophes, Hume, Kant), and I will generally follow this practice.2 In what I call here the “Enlightenment view” fanaticism is an emotional excess born of an epistemic excess. This picture is in evidence, for example, in the Encyclopédie’s definition of fanaticism: Fanaticism is blind and passionate zeal born of superstitious opinions, causing ­people to commit ridiculous, unjust, and cruel actions, not only without any shame or remorse, but even with a kind of joy and comfort. Fanaticism, therefore, is only superstition put into practice.3 In other words, the Philosophes invite us to conceive of fanaticism as passion born of error. The defining shortcoming of the fanatic is epistemic: his passionate zeal is “blind.” My sketch of the Enlightenment view will rely primarily on Locke’s analysis of “enthusiasm” in his Essay Concerning Human Understanding, because it is especially detailed, representative, and provides a clear contrast with the existentialist view. Fanaticism is often equated with enthusiasm, in the Enlightenment view, because the epistemic extravagance of the fanatical conviction consists in its being taken to be a direct product of divine inspiration. Thus, Locke characterizes the fanatical state of mind as follows: they see the Light infused into their understandings, and cannot be mistaken; ’tis clear and visible there; like the light of bright sunshine, shows itself, and needs no other proof, but its own evidence: they feel the hand of God moving them within, and the impulses of the Spirit, and cannot be mistaken in what they feel. (Essay IV.xix.8, p. 700)4 This claim to divine inspiration constitutes an epistemic excess because it is thought to give the fanatical belief unimpeachable warrant, and so to endow it with absolute certainty. 178

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The  claim to divine inspiration is also an epistemic excess because it does not, in fact, ­constitute a legitimate warrant for the fanatical belief. In Locke’s view, the content of fanatical beliefs is formed by “associations” of ideas, which he also calls “fancies” or “conceits” because they are not connections of ideas that “have a foundation in Nature” (Essay II.xxx.1, p. 372), even though they carry with them “a tacit supposition of their conformity” to it (Essay II.xxxii.4, p. 385). Such “unnatural” associations include for example beliefs imprinted early on in the “unwary, as well as unbiased, understandings” of children, “and fastened by degree, are at last (equally, whether true or false) riveted there by long Custom and Education beyond all possibility of being pulled out again” (Essay IV.xx.9, p. 712). As such, they “ape the light of reason”: this means that they seem just as true to the agent as if they had been produced by the appropriate cognitive processes. Nevertheless, their origin is “inexplicable,” which means both that their real cause (e.g., early childhood indoctrination) is not visible to the agent, and that the certainty which accompanies them cannot be grounded in empirical evidence or demonstrative reasoning. Such “unnatural” associations of ideas are not yet fanatical beliefs. We take for granted many unjustified beliefs that strike us as obviously true without being fanatical about them. What makes them fanatical is the inference that, since their appearance of conformity to nature cannot be explained otherwise, it must be the product of divine revelation. Fanaticism is thus rooted in the second-order belief that the certainty that accompanies certain first-order beliefs is best explained in terms of divine inspiration. While this inference is tempting, however, it is not inevitable. Locke does not discount the epistemic value of divine revelation, but he insists that we must demonstrate “that what I take to be a revelation is certainly put into my mind by Him, and is not an Illusion dropped in by some other spirit, or raised by my own fancy” (Essay IV.xix.10, pp. 701–702).5 Since the inference to divine inspiration is not inevitable, we must explain why the fanatic draws it nonetheless. This is one of the respects in which the accounts of individual Enlightenment thinkers tend to differ. Some evoke the influence of certain passions. For example, Locke observes that “the Ease and Glory it is to be inspired and be above the common and natural ways of knowledge … flatters Men’s Laziness, Ignorance, and Vanity” (Essay IV.xix.8, p. 700).6 So, it is a bit misleading to suggest (as I have) that, in the Enlightenment view, fanaticism is emotional excess born out of epistemic excess, since the epistemic excess can itself be a consequence of the influence of certain passions, such as vanity, in the cognitive process. On closer inspection, however, passions play a mostly supporting role in the genesis of fanaticism in this view. First, the epistemic extravagance of the fanatic is largely the product of cognitive, rather than emotional, factors. For example, in Locke’s view, fanatical beliefs are “conceits” that are grounded neither in empirical evidence nor in demonstrative reasoning but are, as a consequence of habituation for example, deemed to be true beyond question. Since in Locke’s view divine inspiration is an epistemically legitimate kind of evidence, agents in the thrall of such “conceits” would naturally be strongly tempted to suppose that they are the products of such inspiration. The passions that contribute to the genesis of fanaticism are thus ordinary passions that operate on an agent whose condition is already epistemically vulnerable to their influence.7 This suggests that if we could correct or prevent such epistemic defects, those passions might lose much of their disruptive power. Second, passions such as “laziness” or “vanity” merely disrupt the proper exercise of our cognitive faculties, but they do not altogether corrupt them. In Locke’s account, for example, the fanatic only misuses an otherwise legitimate epistemic standard, namely, divine inspiration. 179

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In the final analysis, the hallmark of fanaticism in the Enlightenment view is epistemic overconfidence (see Essay IV.xix.7: p. 699). It accounts for the characteristic dogmatic extravagance of fanatical beliefs: since they are inspired by God, as Locke notes, they “cannot be mistaken.” This extravagance in turn explains the propensity to excessive passionate zeal they inspire. A short vignette illustrates this view: ENTHUSIASM: A man was raised in a small, isolated Christian community, where some people are believed to have visions inspired by the Holy Spirit and are revered on that account. His education is limited; he was taught to read, but only the Holy Scriptures. Since childhood, he has been told that righteousness sometimes requires great sacrifices. So, when in a dream a spirit orders him to sacrifice his beloved younger son, he recognizes that it goes against ordinary moral beliefs but, like Abraham, he assumes that the spirit is from God and he does not hesitate. He kills his son. This analysis also suggests that a rekindled or strengthened epistemic discipline should be apt to defeat fanatical overconfidence (and to counteract the passions that may contribute to it). In the Enlightenment view, then, fanaticism is primarily an intellectual problem, and so calls for an intellectual solution. For example, Locke holds up an abiding “love of truth” (Essay, IV.xix, pp. 1–8) as the antidote to fanaticism.8 Later on, Voltaire endorses that sentiment in a letter to Madame du Deffant: “Without philosophy, we would have two or three Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres each century. … Fanaticism kindles the fire of discord, and philosophy extinguishes it.” In our own day, this Enlightenment optimism is crisply summarized by Bertrand Russell: “Fanaticism is primarily an intellectual defect … one to which philosophy supplies an intellectual antidote.”9

12.2 Conviction Nietzsche usually refers to the fanatic as the “man of faith [der Mensch des Glaubens],” or “the believer [der ‘Gläubige’].” Since the term “belief” is ambiguous, his discussion of fanaticism also resorts to more precise terminology: the fanatic is the “man of conviction [Mensch der Überzeugung].” However, while he never draws the distinction explicitly, there are reasons to suspect that not all instances of “faith” or “conviction” are fanatical for Nietzsche, and that fanatical belief is only a particular species of conviction. Thus, what he calls a conviction may refer to the epistemic overconfidence in terms of which the Enlightenment view understands fanaticism; but we shall see that in his view fanaticism is more than epistemic overconfidence.10 A conviction is “the belief that on some particular point of knowledge one possesses the unqualified truth [der Glaube … im Besitze der unbedingten Wahrheit zu sein]” (HH I §635). It is, in other words, a second-order belief that what some first-order belief represents is “the unqualified truth.” Nietzsche shares this conception of fanatical belief with his Enlightenment predecessors. Like them, he also recognizes that this second-order belief makes the fanatical conviction resistant to rational review: “The presupposition of every believer of every kind was that he could not be refuted.” (HH I §630) However, the emphasis in the text suggests that the resistance the fanatic opposes to rational review differs from the resistance motivated by epistemic overconfidence in terms of both its intensity and its character.

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To see this, we should first note that a belief can be fanatical, and so characteristically resistant to rational review, without being unreasonable. An agent who has good epistemic reasons to hold his belief may nonetheless be a fanatic if his belief were to prove resilient to the “refutation” of these reasons. He would be someone who originally “takes up his position not for reasons … [and] may perhaps also have devised a couple of reasons favorable to [it]; but if one refutes these reasons, one does not therewith refute him in his general position” (HH I §226). This description invites us to suppose that the agent actually recognizes that his initial reasons for holding the belief have indeed been “refuted,” and yet nonetheless continues to hold it. However, this attitude is an instance of fanaticism for Nietzsche only when it has a particular explanation. We might suppose that the agent in this example is, much like Locke’s enthusiast, so deeply accustomed to his belief that it still appears obviously true to him. He is like someone who takes up his position, not for reasons, but out of habit. He is a Christian, for example, not because he has knowledge of the various religions and has chosen between them…: he encountered Christianity… and adopted [it] without reasons, as a man born in wine-producing country becomes a wine-drinker. (HH I §226) He is untroubled by the “refutation” of his existing reasons because he presumes that better reasons can, and eventually will, be discovered. The resilience of his belief is, in this case, motivated by epistemic overconfidence: it is simply unthinkable that it could be false. But such epistemic overconfidence is rather common for Nietzsche (e.g., GS §2), and it does not seem to be a straightforward instance of fanaticism. The resilience is fanatical, in his view, when it has a different source: the “refutation” of the agent’s existing epistemic reasons for holding his belief do not dislodge it because these reasons are merely a rationalization of it. He does not hold the belief because he overconfidently believes that there are compelling reasons to take it to be true, but instead because he wants it to be true. In such cases, “the ‘will’ was too audibly the prompter of the intellect” (HH I §630). The fanatic is therefore a wishful believer, but also, as I will now show, a wishful believer of a special kind. First, we should note that a wishful believer is still a believer, and in Nietzsche’s view believing a proposition constitutively involves a commitment to its truth: “Every believing is a considering-something-true” (WP §15/KSA 12:9[41]). This commitment distinguishes belief from other attitudes, such as imagining, entertaining, or pretending. This implies that the agent must take his belief, if only implicitly, to be answerable to the relevant epistemic norms, that is to say, the norms with which it must comply in order to be true. He cannot, therefore, coherently hold a belief and be indifferent to whether or not he has adequate epistemic reasons to do so (see, e.g., HTH I §§30, 120, 227). This is true even in cases of wishful thinking: in such cases, the believer has an affective interest in the content of his belief (he wishes the world to be a certain way) but also an epistemic interest, as believer, in having his belief conform to the relevant epistemic norms. When these two interests conflict, he does not simply abandon his epistemic interest, but his affective interest interferes with it. He still requires reasons, but “the desire misleads [him] into purchasing bad reasons for good ones” (HH I §131). For example, he overestimates the evidence favoring truth and underestimates the evidence against it.

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However, a wishful belief is not necessarily fanatical. While its wishful character might make it somewhat resilient in the face of an unfavorable review of its epistemic grounds, it does not necessarily give it a characteristically fanatical rigidity. I can believe that the weather will be nice tomorrow because I wish it were so and, under the influence of this wish, dismiss as unreliable one particular forecast to the contrary. But this does not imply that I would not—or could not—change my mind if I were presented with further evidence to the contrary. In Nietzsche’s view, the resilience of the fanatic’s belief is not just motivated (insofar as he wants it to be true), but it also displays a special rigidity: it is virtually impervious to unfavorable rational review. This is because it is not simply unthinkable, but intolerable to him that his belief could be false. To account for such rigidity, we must suppose that it is motivated by more than a mere wish. It must be a motivation of such a character and intensity that its frustration is psychologically unbearable for the agent. Thus, Nietzsche invokes the concept of need. The fanatic would be one who believes that the world is a certain way because he needs it to be that way, and not because he merely wishes it were so. This makes him wholly unwilling—or unable—even to contemplate the possibility that his belief is false: “an article of faith could be refuted before him a thousand times—if he needed it, he would consider ‘true’ again and again” (GS §347). It is precisely at this point, I would like to suggest, that Nietzsche’s account departs from the Enlightenment view. In this view, fanaticism is simply the epistemic failing of overconfidence, in the genesis of which certain passions may play a supporting role and which, in the absence of the appropriate intellectual antidote, may give rise to a passionate zeal that is excessive by virtue of outrunning the actual epistemic warrant the agent has for the motivating belief. For Nietzsche, by contrast, fanaticism is primarily an emotional condition, manifest in a certain emotional need; and it is this emotional need (to the character of which I shall turn shortly) that explains the epistemic extravagance of the fanatic. This need does not merely disrupt the proper exercise of the fanatic’s cognitive faculties, but it can altogether corrupt them. So, when it is not possible for him to discount evidence against the belief that he “needs” to be true, the fanatic might go so far as to alter the relevant epistemic standards to which he takes it to be answerable. For example, he might deny the relevance of ordinary rational standards: The presupposition of every believer of every kind was that he could not be refuted; if the counter-arguments proved very strong it was always left to him to defame reason itself and perhaps even set up the ‘credo quia absurdum est’ as the banner of the most extreme fanaticism. (HH I §630) This is why, Nietzsche argues, the fanatic is “the antithesis, the antagonist of the truthful man—of truth” (A §54). The fanatic is an enemy of truth, and not just of truthfulness, because he makes the standard of truth itself hostage to his needs: “there exists among Christians a kind of criterion of truth called ‘proof by force [Beweise der Kraft]’. ‘Belief makes blessed: therefore it is true’” (A §50; see HTH I §§120, 227; GS §457; WP §171/KSA 13:14[57]). Disagreements with fanatical believers are typically intractable, in this view, because they quickly turn into radical disagreements. They cease to be simply first-order disagreements over which one of two conflicting beliefs may be true, and soon involve a higher-order disagreement over what norms are ultimately relevant to adjudicate the first-order disagreements. And such higherorder disagreements over norms of adjudication cannot, by their very nature, be adjudicated. 182

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12.3  The Need for Certainty We now seem to have arrived at a promising new characterization of fanaticism. A belief counts as fanatical only if (1) the agent is motivated to hold it not by a consideration of its rational credentials, but because he needs it to be true; and (2) this need is a motivation of such character and intensity as to make the belief impervious to rational review. Is this definition satisfactory? To answer this question, consider the following case: DISTRESS: A father loves his child, who unfortunately suffers from a rare disease. Having exhausted all established modes of treatment with no success, the distraught father places his faith in the prospects of a new, but unproven, treatment. When his friends and his physician challenge his conviction by pointing out the lack of medical evidence, the father persists in his conviction that the treatment will make his child well and dismisses their concern with an emphatic declaration: ‘The treatment will work. I can just feel it!’ The distraught father’s belief in the prospects of the unproven new treatment has the two main characteristics of fanaticism canvassed in the above definition: he holds it not because of its rational credentials, but because he needs it to be true; and this need is such as to make the belief impervious to rational review. Thus, when he is confronted with the lack of medical evidence, the distraught father goes so far as to suggest that this evidence is not the relevant standard, but that the hopeful feeling the belief inspires in him is. And yet, we would not, I think, be inclined to describe the distraught father (pejoratively) as a fanatic. I noted that fanatical belief is a species of needful belief: the agent holds it because he needs it to be true. But it could be that what gratifies this need, in the case of fanaticism, is not the particular content of the belief. Consider the following case: RUSSIAN NIHILISM: A young man is drifting aimlessly through life in 19th century Tsarist Russia. He feels lost and unsure about almost everything. In the streets of the large city where he lives, he once hears an intellectual speak with great conviction of the unredeemable corruption of Russian culture. Seduced by the speaker’s conviction, the young man embraces his cause. Curiously invigorated by his bleak new ideology, he dismisses the more hopeful arguments his friends oppose to it as symptoms of their own corruption. One day, while taking part in an attempt to set fire to a government building, he is shot to death by the state police.11 The belief of the Russian nihilist cannot be fanatical because its content pleases or comforts him; on the contrary, it is rather depressing. Hence, his motivation cannot be that he needs the world to be as his belief represents it. And yet, he firmly holds onto it, dismissing the very relevance of arguments that threaten it, and following through on his commitment to it to its bleak, nihilistic end. We understand easily why the distraught father needs his belief to be true: it comforts him to think that his child will be well again. We do not understand quite so easily why the Russian nihilist needs his belief to be true, since he cannot find comfort in the world being as he now represents it. Nietzsche offers the following suggestion: he holds his belief not because he needs to believe this particular content, but simply because he needs to believe. The fanatic is thus not just any needful believer. He is animated by a specific need—a need for certainty. 183

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A needful believer like the distraught father also needs certainty, but he only needs certainty about some particular content. It is only because he needs the world to be a certain way that he must believe that the world is that way. To satisfy this need, his belief must be a conviction: harboring persistent doubts about the effectiveness of the treatment would not give comfort to the distraught father. By contrast, the fanatic’s need for certainty is not linked to the determinate content of his belief. He does not need to believe this or that particular content; he just needs to believe: he “needs a belief [Glaube] … that is ‘firm’ and that he does not wish to be shaken because he clings to it [weil er sich daran hält]” (GS §347).12 Of course, there is no denying that fanatical convictions often, and perhaps typically, have contents that are comforting to the believers: the eschatological promise of the Second Coming, of the classless society, or of 72 virgins in paradise. Nietzsche’s point is that convictions are fanatical not by virtue of having such contents—and so gratifying the believer’s need that the world be a certain way—but simply by virtue of being convictions— of gratifying the believer’s need for “firm” belief. The fanatic is not the only type of agent who desires for his beliefs to be certain, regardless of what their content happens to be. Such a desire constitutes what Nietzsche calls “intellectual conscience”: an agent has intellectual conscience when he accounts “the desire for certainty as his inmost craving and deepest need” (GS §2). In this case, the desire for certainty simply is the desire for knowledge. He wants to know the world around him, and he seeks certainty insofar as knowledge requires it. This quest for certainty typically motivates an epistemologically rigorous approach to his subject matter, whereas, as we saw, the fanatical need for certainty can wreak deep epistemic corruption. We could suppose that the desire for certainty breeds fanaticism when it is felt with particular urgency—when it is, in Nietzsche’s words, an “impetuous desire for certainty.” It is only this impetuousness that causes epistemic trouble: “on account of the ardor of this desire one is easier and more negligent about the demonstration of this certainty” (GS §347). The impetuousness of that desire may be a feature of the agent’s temperament (such as the vanity of the enthusiast, for example), or a consequence of the conditions of practical urgency under which she finds herself. And the impetuousness of the desire may interfere with the effective pursuit of its satisfaction, so that the sense of certainty that she achieves may turn out to be overhasty. But I think we would hardly describe it as fanatical on that account. We can readily see why: while her impetuous desire for certainty may make the agent overhasty in acquiring a sense of certainty about her belief, it does not corrupt her cognitive faculties and it does not make that belief impervious to rational review. After the fact, when she cools off and has the opportunity to reflect, she readily acknowledges that the belief is unjustified, and that her sense of certainty about it was illegitimate. By contrast, beliefs that are motivated by a fanatical need for certainty are made thereby impervious to rational review. It must therefore be a different need than the need for certainty of the intellectually conscientious inquirer, even when it is “impetuous.” On the surface, the conscientious inquirer and the fanatic both want certainty, but on closer inspection that they do not want the same thing. While the conscientious inquirer is moved by a “passion for seeking the truth,” the fanatic is moved by a very different passion, namely, a “passion for possessing the truth” (HH I §633; Nietzsche’s emphasis). The “passion for seeking the truth” implies a desire for knowledge, and therefore a certain aversion for uncertainty and ignorance; after all, it is a desire to overcome uncertainty and ignorance. But the conscientious inquirer also follows inquiry where it leads, and this means that he is prepared to tolerate the confusion and uncertainty in which it may end. By contrast, the 184

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fanatic cannot be a conscientious inquirer since, when uncompromising inquiry fails to deliver certainty, he will relax or alter its epistemological exigencies in order to enable it to produce the convictions he needs. His “passion for possessing the truth” expresses an inability to tolerate uncertainty, and so a need to eliminate it at all costs. This passion is the fundamental cause of the epistemic extravagance of the fanatic. But what, precisely, is the source and character of this peculiar passion—the fanatical need for certainty?

12.4  “A Terrible Burden” The characterization of fanaticism in terms of the inability to tolerate uncertainty calls for clarification. First, it is not uncertainty as such that elicits the fanatic’s aversion, but only the uncertainty that breeds anxiety. For example, a fanatical white supremacist can easily enough tolerate uncertainty over the precise day on which his new copy of Mein Kampf will be delivered, for this uncertainty only brings zest and excitement, rather than anxiety.13 It is plausible to describe anxiety as a registration of insecurity; it is naturally conceived as a kind of fear. But it also differs from ordinary fear precisely insofar as the insecurity it registers is bred by uncertainty as such. Thus, Freud defines anxiety as fear without a definite object.14 Hence, the object of anxiety is not simply danger, but uncertainty over its definition. And the alleviation of anxiety is not the elimination of danger, but only the elimination of uncertainty about it. Giving the danger definition does not make the agent secure against it, but it allows her to know where she stands: she can fight or flee and, if the danger is overwhelming, she can at least prepare herself for the inevitable. Second, the fanatic can tolerate even uncertainty that breeds anxiety in the manner just described. Thus, we can plausibly imagine our white supremacist tolerating uncertainty over the physical perils he faces, such as the diffuse threats posed by relatively undefined agents, such as “the government” or “foreigners.” We may therefore suppose that the fanatical need for certainty must have its roots in a distinctive kind of anxiety, which is not simply motivated by the preoccupation with physical well-being or self-preservation.15 The anxiety at the root of the fanatical need for certainty, I would like to suggest, is anxiety as it is understood in the existentialist tradition (the famed “existential Angst”). I will focus here on the account offered by Heidegger because it illuminates Nietzsche’s late conception of fanaticism. Like Freud, Heidegger defines anxiety by contrasting it with fear.16 But he develops a very different analysis of it. In his view, fear presupposes “involvement,” that is, practical engagement in the world framed by the agent’s projects, that is to say, the ends he endeavors to realize and therefore, ultimately, the values that ground his adoption of these ends. To fear is to apprehend some feature of the world as “detrimental,” that is to say, as a threat to the realization of his ends, and this apprehension is possible only from the perspective of his projects. It is therefore in the light of his projects that aspects of his surrounding world gain “relevance” or “significance”: for example, they are the objects of his dreams and aspirations, or they are conducive or detrimental to their realization. Anxiety is the condition that results from the breakdown of involvement: for an agent in the grip of anxiety, “the world has the character of completely lacking significance.”17 Anxiety is therefore not, as it is for Freud, indefinite fear: it is not simply the response to a threat that remains “factically undecided.” Indeed, it is not fear at all—as Heidegger puts it, the threat is literally “nothing and nowhere”18—because it is a response not to the indefiniteness of danger, but to the loss of “involvement” that makes fear possible in 185

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the first place. So conceived, anxiety is the product of the “collapse” of those projects that had hitherto framed the agent’s engagement in the world, and made it “relevant” for him. These projects collapse when his commitment to the values that motivate them erodes. If he ceases to care about the realization of a certain end, he no longer experiences those aspects of the surrounding world that interfere with it as “detrimental.” As a consequence, he can no longer fear them. In Heidegger’s view, anxiety is not the registration of a threat, but of a loss. Prior to the onset of anxiety, the individual [Dasein] is fully absorbed in “the everyday publicness of the ‘one’ [das Man], which brings tranquillized self-confidence [die beruhigte Selbstsicherheit] and the self-evidence of ‘being-at-home’ [das selbstverstandliche ‘Zuhause-Sein’].” By contrast: In anxiety [Angst], one feels ‘unsettled [unheimlich]’. Here, the peculiar indefiniteness of that which Dasein finds itself alongside in anxiety finds a proximal expression: the ‘nothing and nowhere’. But here ‘unsettledness’ also means ‘not-being-at-home’ [das Nicht-zuhause-sein]. … [A]s Dasein falls, anxiety brings it back from its absorption in the ‘world’. Everyday familiarity collapses. Dasein has been individualized … [and] enters into the existential ‘mode’ of the ‘not-at-home [Unzuhause]’.19 Closely considered, anxiety registers two related losses. First, it registers a loss of meaning. The estrangement from the world to which the passage alludes is an experience of it as foreign, where this is understood as lacking practical intelligibility, or no longer “meaning” anything to the person in the sense of its no longer being action-guiding. This results from the fact that she no longer subscribes to the projects, from the perspective of which it once made practical sense. Thus, she may have once held religious beliefs, from the perspective of which certain rituals and places meant something to her; if she loses those beliefs, the rituals and places remain intelligible to her, but in a merely theoretical sense: she understands what they are about, but they no longer give her life a practical orientation. On the flip side of this, loss of meaning is a loss of “self-confidence.” In the existentialist tradition, a person’s identity is constituted (centrally, if not exclusively) by the fundamental projects that frame her experience of the world and give her life its determinate practical orientation. Hence, the erosion of her commitment to these projects also constitutes a crisis of identity. Thus, self-confidence refers here not to a sense of physical security, but rather to a sense of psychological security—of knowing who she is and where she stands. The ensuing estrangement from the world is not just the experience of it as lacking “significance”; it is also the experience of no longer “being-at-home” in it. The world is experienced as foreign, in the sense of no longer being “familiar,” of being a place in which the person feels as though she belongs. Prior to the onset of anxiety, she unreflectively absorbs the values of that pervade her social world: they represent to her what “one” values or what “one” believes. These “public” evaluative stances, and the projects they inspire, strike her as possessed of a kind of “self-evidence” and subscribing to them makes her feel “settled” or “at home” in that world. The erosion of her commitment to these values, therefore, dissolves her bond with the world—she no longer feels “at home” in it. The language of “self-evidence” in which Heidegger describes the condition devoid of anxiety evokes a state of what we may call naïve certainty. Naïve certainty is essentially unreflective. It is characteristic of beliefs about which questions have never arisen and which are therefore taken for granted, typically because they are received from external sources 186

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whose authority also goes unquestioned—the “one,” or its representatives. The person believes in loving her neighbor, or in the right to free speech, not because she was taught to do so by others whose authority she has independently established, but simply because this is what “one” does in her everyday world. In the normal course of life, this naïve certainty is liable to be lost. The authority of the “one” eventually comes into question. For example, the values for which different representatives of the “one” advocate might be found to diverge or the person might be exposed to new values. Since they cannot all be right, the authority of each comes into doubt, and so does the confidence she places in the evaluative beliefs she had originally inherited from them. She is thus forced into a reflective stance; she is “brought back” from her absorption into the “the everyday publicness of the ‘one’” and thereby “individualized.” As she withholds her confidence from these values, and disengages from the projects they inspired, she becomes prey to anxiety.20 She is “unsettled” in all the senses canvassed above: she experiences a loss of meaning and of belonging and, fundamentally, a crisis of identity. In Heidegger’s view, this individualizing reflective turn is, for Dasein, a kind of liberation, “its Being-free for the freedom of choosing itself and taking hold of itself.”21 The person starts thinking for herself, and this necessarily involves reflectively distancing herself from the values she has unreflectively absorbed from her social environment, and in terms of which her involvement in the world has so far been framed. Nietzsche, too, recognizes that the loss of naïve certainty is the beginning of “freedom of mind” or “spirit”: “He is called a free spirit who thinks differently from what, on the basis of his origin, environment, his class or profession, or on the basis of the dominant views of the age, would have been expected of him.” (HH I §225). Freedom of spirit requires thinking for oneself “in accordance with the light, bright or dim, of one’s own reason” (D §107), or “according to one’s weight and measures” (GS §117), that is to say, by relying only on one’s own intellectual resources in answering questions about the world and the conduct of one’s life. Given the inevitable limitations of these resources, and the complexity of the questions, thinking for oneself is bound to create considerable uncertainty. For the individual, the onset of freedom is therefore not an unqualified good. As Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor famously observes, when “in place of the old, firm law, the human being was himself to decide with a free heart what is good and what is evil,” he experienced this “gift of freedom” not as a relief, but as “a terrible burden,” for it inevitably caused him tremendous “confusion and torment” as it “left [him] so many worries and unsolvable problems.”22 The uncertainty registered by anxiety is not, however, simply the absence of solutions to particular practical problems but, more fundamentally, a crisis of identity, with its attendant loss of meaning and belonging.23

12.5 Surrender Once naïve certainty is lost, it cannot be recovered. The only certainty to which one can still aspire is reflective. Naïve certainty is characteristic of beliefs about which no question arises and, as such, it is simply given. It is irretrievably lost the moment questions arise. Only reflective certainty remains possible then, and it can only come from offering decisive answers to these questions. Accordingly, it cannot be given; it must be an epistemic achievement. Psychologically speaking, there are important differences between naïve and reflective certainty. Naïve certainty is characteristic of absorption in the “everyday publicness of the ‘one’.” The values and norms the agent unreflectively absorbs from her social world appear 187

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“self-evident,” and for that reason her adherence to them fills her with a feeling of “tranquil self-confidence”—her world is replete with significance and her life in it is meaningful; she knows who she is. Moreover, since they are the values and norms governing the surrounding social world, her adherence to them makes her feel “at home” in it—she experiences the surrounding world as familiar, where she belongs, or has a place. So, while naïve certainty is an epistemic state, its significance for the agent is primarily emotional. Strictly speaking, reflection cannot reproduce these features of naïve certainty. From a reflective perspective, few, if any, views will appear self-evident, and even those that appear self-evident now remain vulnerable since it is always possible that future reflection will raise questions even about them. So, reflection cannot restore the “tranquil self-confidence” characteristic of naïve certainty. Moreover, even if the person were to achieve reflective certainty on a particular commitment, there is no guarantee that this commitment would align with the commitments that dominate, and define, her social world. There is no guarantee, in other words, that her adherence to this commitment would allow her to feel “at home” in that world. In fact, given that the questions that arise about the authority of the “one” are often grounded in the revelation of divergence among its “representatives,” the loss of naïve certainty is often in fact the recognition that there is no coherent social world to belong to in the first place. Nevertheless, Nietzsche observes that it is possible to hold on to the notion that reflective certainty can reproduce the self-confidence of naïve certainty—specifically by accepting to three “presuppositions”: “that unqualified truths exist; … that perfect methods of attaining them have been discovered; … that everyone who possesses convictions avails himself of these perfect methods.” However, the individual who accepts these presuppositions “stands before us in the age of theoretical innocence and is a child, however grown up he may be in other respects.” (HH I §630). However, conviction born of this “theoretical innocence” is not strictly fanatical precisely because it remains naïve. It evokes the overconfidence of Locke’s “enthusiasm,” whereas we shall see that in Nietzsche’s late view fanatical conviction is distinctively insecure. Fanatical conviction is insecure because it is a response to the loss of naïve certainty: the predicament of the fanatic is thus one in which he has been stripped from his original “innocence.” The freedom at the root of this loss causes such anguish that, as Dostoyevsky’s Inquisitor recognizes, it gives rise to an imperative urge “to surrender the gift of freedom.”24 Nietzsche detects precisely such a surrender in fanatical conviction. It has two aspects. First, and most obviously, fanatical conviction is a surrender insofar as it is the result of submission to an external authority. The fanatic simply “prefers to surrender unconditionally to a conviction harbored by people in authority” (HH I §631). Such conviction cannot be a settled expression of his own true self; on the contrary, it is “an expression of selflessness, of self-alienation”: The man of faith, the ‘believer’ of every sort is necessarily a dependent man—such as cannot out of himself posit ends at all. The ‘believer’ does not belong to himself, he can be only a means, he has to be used, he needs someone who will use him. … Belief of any kind is itself an expression of selflessness, of self-alienation. (A §54) This is a surrender because it is not a product of an independent reflective assessment of their authority, but a deliberate renunciation of it. It is a surrender because the fanatic’s 188

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predicament is one in which his identification with the “one” has been severed and he has become “individualized.” By contrast, the naïve agent is absorbed into the “the everyday publicness of the ‘one’.” His valuing what “one” values is not a surrender because there is for him no distinction between his own judgment and the judgment of external authorities. Second, there is surrender in conviction itself, the belief in an “unconditional Yes or No” (A §54). In Nietzsche’s analysis, you will recall, fanatical convictions are unshakable: “The presupposition of every believer of every kind was that he could not be refuted.” (HH I §630). And this presupposition is not compatible with a “passion for seeking the truth”; it can only express a “passion for possessing the truth.” Specifically, it is not compatible with a conscientious quest for reflective certainty, but rather betrays a surrender of the freedom to think for oneself. I have suggested that the fanatic’s surrender of freedom is a reaction to the psychological loss that accompanies its emergence. We can now take a closer look at Nietzsche’s analysis of the crisis for which fanatical conviction offers an apparent remedy. He focuses on a central feature of this crisis, which he identifies as “lack” or “weakness” of will. Let us begin by quoting at length an important passage: Faith is always coveted most and needed most urgently where will is lacking; for will, as the affect of command, is the decisive sign of sovereignty and strength. In other words, the less one knows how to command, the more urgently one covets someone who commands, who commands severely—a god, prince, class, physician, father confessor, dogma, or party conscience. From this one might perhaps gather that the two world religions, Buddhism and Christianity, may have owed their origin and above all their sudden spread to a tremendous collapse and disease of the will. And that is actually what happened: both religions encountered a situation in which the will had become diseased, giving rise to a demand that had become utterly desperate for some ‘thou shalt’. Both religions taught fanaticism in ages in which the will had become exhausted, and thus they offered innumerable people some support, a new possibility of willing, some delight in willing. For fanaticism is the only ‘strength of the will’ that even the weak and insecure can be brought to attain, being a sort of hypnotism of the whole system of the senses and the intellect for the benefit of an excessive nourishment (hypertrophy) of a single point of view and feeling that henceforth becomes dominant—which the Christian calls his faith. Once a human being reaches the fundamental conviction that he must be commanded, he becomes a ‘believer’. (GS §347) The passage brings into play the crucial notions of “strength” and “weakness” of “will.” “Strength of will” has a familiar phenomenological profile: steadfastness in compliance with one’s commitments, even in the face of conflicting impulses. To explain this phenomenological profile, it is tempting to evoke the existence of a special executive faculty, the “will,” which governs the agent’s compliance with his commitments. It is the strength or weakness of this faculty that explains his steadfastness or oscillation in that compliance. Since Nietzsche casts doubts on the existence of the will conceived as such an executive faculty (e.g., TI “Errors” §3), he must have something else in mind. On close inspection, strength and weakness are not so much a feature of the compliance with one’s commitments as a feature of these commitments themselves—specifically of how settled they are in the first place. So, oscillation in the compliance with one’s commitments is a consequence 189

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not of executive weakness, but of legislative weakness, or weakness of commitment. A commitment is weak when the agent is not fully settled on it, for example because he has persistent doubts about the commitment itself or about how to adjudicate conflicts with other commitments. In the present context, weakness of commitment is what Nietzsche has in mind when he speaks of “weakness of will.” A weak will is here an unsettled will, that is to say, a will pulled in too many different directions, and lacking in organization and direction. It consists of a “multitude and disgregation of impulses and the lack of organization among them” and manifests itself as “oscillation and lack of a center of gravity [Schwergewicht]” (WP §46/KSA 13:14[219]). Conversely, an agent possesses a strong will not by virtue of having a special executive capacity for perseverance but rather by virtue of having settled commitments, that is to say, “precision and clarity of the direction” (ibid.). This is achieved through “coordination under a single predominant impulse,” which is manifest in the “affect of command,” “the decisive sign” of a strong will (GS §347). Strength of will, in other words, expresses a settled (practical) identity, and with it a clear and precise “direction,” whereas weakness of will signals the lack of it. Weakness of will in this sense is a problem, but not necessarily a failing or a pathology. It is characteristic of the “free spirit,” for example, the agent who thinks for himself: “the free spirit is always weak, especially in actions: for he is aware of too many motives and points of view and therefore possesses an uncertain and unpracticed hand” (HH I §230). In contrast to the free spirit, the fanatic displays “strength of will” but Nietzsche’s use of scarecrows indicates that it is ersatz strength of will, “the only ‘strength of the will’ that even the weak and insecure can be brought to attain.” He suggests two reasons why this is the case. First, the fanatic manages to achieve “strength of will”—“coordination under a single predominant impulse”—only through “an excessive nourishment (hypertrophy) of a single point of view and feeling that henceforth becomes dominant.” The notion of “excessive nourishment” and the metaphor of “hypnotism” to which Nietzsche resorts in this context suggest that the dominance of a single point of view is achieved through the suppression of other points of view, the appeal of which to the fanatic is thereby obscured but not extinguished. Second, the fanatic achieves strength of will only through subjecting his will to the direction provided by an external authority: If one considers what need people have of an external regulation to constrain and steady them, how compulsion, slavery in a higher sense, is the sole and final condition under which the person of weaker will […] can prosper; then one understands the nature of conviction. Conviction is the backbone of the man of conviction. (A §54)25 Fanaticism is, in other words, a particular response to the problem of “weakness of will”: “a demand … for some ‘thou shalt’,” that is to say, a need for “external regulation.” The following vignette provides an illustration: FUNDAMENTALISM: A young Muslim man leaves his traditionalist, theocratic homeland to go study in a Western country. There, he is exposed to a dizzying plurality of points of view, and observes in his fellow students a level of liberal-mindedness he had never previously encountered. When, in late-night arguments with them in 190

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the dorm, he invokes his tradition as a source of unquestionable authority, they urge him to think for himself. He feels strangely moved by this exhortation, as well as by the appeal of some of their liberal ideas. While he begins to feel alienated from his tradition, he cannot quite bring himself to embrace their liberal-mindedness. Increasingly lost and confused, he comes across an Islamic fundamentalist website, which condemns Western liberalism with ferocious single-mindedness, and promises salvation to all Muslims who purify themselves by adhering strictly to the basic tenets of Islam. A few months later, a makeshift bomb strapped to his body, he blows himself up in a crowded mall. On his personal computer, investigators find a pre-recorded martyrdom video. The young man of this example loses the “tranquil self-confidence,” which his youthful absorption in the “everyday publicness” of the traditional values of his homeland once provided, when his mind is opened to a host of new points of view, to which he had never been exposed. Soon come estrangement and anguish, and a crisis of identity, or what Nietzsche calls “weakness of will.” The young man’s response to his predicament is an instance of fanaticism, I suggest, because it constitutes a surrender to the views on the fundamentalist website is an attempt to recover the “self-confidence” of naïve certainty.26 His fanatical stance is reactionary, not because he returns to the Islamic fundamentalism of his earlier years, but because he seeks to recover the “self-confidence” this fundamentalism had once provided. His response would have been reactionary in just the same way if he had chosen to join a new cult instead.

12.6  A Disease of the Will Nietzsche describes the fanatic’s predicament as “a situation in which the will had become diseased, giving rise to a demand that had become utterly desperate for some ‘thou shalt’.” In other words, the attempt to resolve the problem of “weakness of will” through a surrender to an external authority, or generally through the adoption of a “faith” or “conviction,” constitutes a pathology. Why? The bond of naïve certainty, once broken, cannot be mended. In Nietzsche’s view, the ­fanatic—the young Muslim man in the vignette—at least dimly recognizes this, which is why his attempt to recover the “tranquil self-confidence” it once provided by “surrender[ing] unconditionally to a conviction” is, by his own implicit lights, doomed to failure. This is the respect in which the fanatic’s response is pathological. It is an act of “desperation,” Nietzsche suggests, because he cannot really believe that his reactionary conviction will restore his erstwhile self-confidence. This desperation can be detected in a subtle feature of his relation to his conviction: he “clings” to it (GS §347).27 “Clinging” to something is refusing to let go out of fear that doing so would have dire consequences; but it is also a reaction to the perception that the thing is slipping away. Far from restoring the “tranquil self-confidence” of naïve certainty, the fanatical surrender to a conviction betrays a persistent insecurity. He “clings” to his conviction out of the fear that letting go of it, if only to reflect on it or on alternative points of view, would “lead to [his] crumbling and disintegration” (BGE §30). But at the same time, he feels as though the certainty of his conviction is slipping away; it is slipping away because at bottom it is fragile. His conviction is fragile because it is not the product of genuine reflection, of the free exercise of his own mind. For instance, the conviction on which the young Muslim 191

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fundamentalist eventually settles is not the conclusion of a genuine reflective consideration, inevitably messy and fraught with uncertainty, of the norms and ideals he inherited from his tradition, the new liberal ideas to which he is exposed, and his own inchoate intuitions and aspirations. As a consequence, the “direction” he gets from this conviction is not the result of a reflective “coordination” of the multiplicity of divergent points of view he discovers in himself; it is only the product of his suppression of it. His conviction is fragile, as a consequence, precisely because it is constantly, if implicitly, challenged by those suppressed points of view within himself. This fragility is evident in the intolerance the fanatic typically harbors toward other perspectives: Not to see many things, not to be impartial in anything, to be party through and through, to view all values from a strict and necessary perspective—this alone is the condition under which such a man exists at all. (A §54) We may plausibly suppose that such rigid intolerance is a response to the fact that the perspectives he rejects still resonate in him. If he were secure in his convictions, if they represented genuinely settled commitments, he would feel no need to ignore or suppress divergent points of view, either within or outside of himself. Enlightenment thinkers were particularly worried about the violence that, in their view, fanatical convictions typically motivate. And they often located the cause of that violence in the fanatic’s intolerance toward divergent points of view and those who embrace them. But it is not clear how their account can explain why fanaticism would involve a special propensity to violent intolerance.28 It is tempting to suppose that violent intolerance is rooted in the specific content of fanatical convictions. For example, the young Muslim man would seek the destruction of non-believers because their very existence poses a threat to the realization of the particular values to which he subscribes. But this kind of violence is not distinctive of fanaticism. For one thing, fanatical convictions could have a non-violent content: non-believers must be converted, not destroyed. For another thing, the commitment to particular values is a commitment to their realization, and there may be circumstances in which this requires the violent destruction of those who reject these values (e.g., the violent response to National Socialism during World War II). And this sort of violent intolerance is not necessarily an expression of fanaticism. If there is a special propensity for violent intolerance in fanaticism, then, it cannot be explained in terms of the content of the fanatical convictions. I would like to suggest that the distinctively fanatical propensity for violent intolerance can be explained in terms of the fragility of the fanatic’s conviction. The divergent views of the non-believer pose a threat to his conviction precisely because they find resonance in him. If they did not, they would only evoke his incredulity and he could discount them as the products of ignorance or confusion. He would not feel the need to suppress them violently. In the case of fanaticism, outward intolerance is the expression of inner fragility. The violent destruction of non-believers by the young fundamentalist Muslim is distinctively fanatical, then, insofar as it is not an attempt to realize the values that are the content of his conviction, but an attempt to safeguard that conviction itself.29

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This could explain why fanaticism tends to become more common during periods of cultural chaos and transition (the Reformation, the French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution and, in our own day, Globalization). Exposed to a proliferation of new perspectives, some of which at least appear worth considering, entire groups of individuals become confronted with the anguish of a loss of meaning, belonging, and identity. In response, they seek old (or new) convictions to cling to. This clinging reflects their implicit acknowledgment that these old (naïve) beliefs are irreparably unsettled, because of the penetration in their collective mind of new, disruptive ideas that call them into question. Clinging to old (or new) convictions is thus for them a matter of psychological survival, of maintaining an identity, and a “direction” for their life. As a strategy for psychological survival, however, we saw that it is bound to fail.

12.7  Conclusion: Freedom and Mourning In the Enlightenment view, the passionate zeal of the fanatic is the consequence of his belief, and it is excessive insofar as this belief is wrongly assumed to have unimpeachable epistemic warrant. The same passionate zeal might not be so objectionable if it were associated with an epistemically legitimate belief. In the existentialist view, by contrast, the fanatic’s epistemic extravagance matters primarily insofar as it is the symptom of an emotional disorder. The fanatic’s conviction is rigidly resistant to rational review because its significance to him is emotional, rather than epistemic: it is a desperate attempt to restore the “tranquil selfconfidence” of naïve certainty. If fanaticism is at its root an emotional disorder, then the remedy for it can only be a kind of psychotherapy—specifically, learning to mourn the self-confidence and the very sense of being “at home” or “settled” that underlie it.30 To become a truly free spirit, one must learn to come to terms with being homeless, so to speak, and “take leave of all faith and every wish for certainty, being practiced in maintaining himself on insubstantial ropes and possibilities and dancing even near abysses” (GS §347). Achieving such emancipation requires a kind of “strength” (ibid.), and is therefore likely to be uncommon—“independence is for the very few” (BGE §29). Nietzsche fears that most human beings will be “fettered spirits” (HH I §225), who either remain ensconced in naïve certainty, or reactionarily seek to recover it by clinging to old (or new) convictions. In the closing section of Human, All Too Human, he movingly acknowledges the emotional demands of this mourning process: He who has attained to only some degree of freedom of mind cannot feel other than a wanderer on the earth—though not as a traveler to a final destination: for that destination does not exist. … Such a man will, to be sure, experience bad nights, when he is tired and finds the gate of the town that should offer him rest closed against him; perhaps, in addition, will the desert, as in the Orient, reach right up to the gate, beasts of prey howl now farther off and now closer by, a strong wind arise, robbers depart with his beasts of burden. (HH I §638) In coming to terms with his homelessness, however, the free spirit may also, eventually, learn to be “at home in mountain, wood and solitude” (ibid.).31

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Notes 1 The Oxford Dictionary defines “fanaticism” as “excessive enthusiasm, especially in religious matters” or as “rapturous intensity of feeling on behalf of a person, cause, etc.” By contrast, Scribner’s Dictionary defines “fanatic” as a person who is “wildly extravagant in opinions or views, as with religion and politics.” 2 I set aside further distinctions. Hume (2021) distinguishes between “enthusiasm” and “superstition,” but these have come to be seen as varieties of fanaticism (e.g., see the distinction between “internalist” and “externalist” fanaticism in Passmore [2003, p. 216]). And Kant (2007) reserves the term “enthusiasm” (as opposed to “fanaticism”) for excessive zeal inspired by a “principle” when this zeal is not motivated by belief in its supernatural warrant. 3 Diderot & d’Alembert (1756). The entry on fanaticism was written by Alexandre Deleyre. 4 I use parenthetical references to the Nidditch edition of the Essay. My rendition of Locke’s view largely follows the meticulous analysis developed in Tabb (2019). The role of divine inspiration in fanaticism is also emphasized in Hume (2021, pp. 77–78), Shaftesbury (1900, Section 12.7), and Kant (2007, 2: 251n). 5 I leave aside the question of how one could “demonstrate” the epistemic value of a putative revelation while preserving its independence. Tabb (2019) points to a special sign accompanying it, such as Moses’ burning bush, or Abraham’s unexpected offspring. See also Shaftesbury (1900, Sections 12.6–7). 6 Hume (2021, p. 78) concurs. By contrast, Kant regards pride only as a consequence of, rather than a motivation for, fanatical belief (see 2007, 2:251; 8:389–390, 394–395; for a helpful analysis, see Zuckert, 2010). Shaftesbury (1900, Section 12.7) suggests that certain kinds of “vision” are apt to elicit certain passions that then incite the agent to see it as divinely inspired. 7 Similarly, Hume (2021, p. 78) observes that “pride” typically works in tandem with “ignorance” and a “warm imagination” in the genesis of fanaticism. 8 See also Shaftesbury’s emphasis on self-examination (1900, Section 12.7). 9 Cited in Passmore (2003, p. 211). 10 I thank Rolf-Peter Horstman for bringing this point to my attention. Katsafanas (2023, Chapter 6) distinguishes between being a “true believer” (which is what the “Enlightenment conception” of fanaticism describes) and being a fanatic. 11 This vignette is loosely inspired by a remark Nietzsche makes about “nihilism à la Petersbourg,” “the belief in unbelief even to the point of martyrdom” (GS §347). 12 Cf. Hoffer (1951): “[The fanatic] embraces a cause not primarily because of its justness and holiness but because of his desperate need for something to hold on to” (p. 89). 13 See Dewey (1929, p. 8) “Uncertainty that affected only the detail of consequences to be experienced provided they had a warrant of being enjoyable would have no sting. It would bring the zest of adventure and the spice of variety.” 14 “Anxiety … has a quality of indefiniteness and lack of object. In precise speech we use the word ‘fear [Furcht]’ rather than ‘anxiety [Angst]’ if it has found an object” (Standard Edition, XX, p. 165). 15 For example, social psychologists identify the fanatical need for certainty as a species of the need for cognitive closure. For an overview of empirical studies on cognitive closure in extremism, see Kruglanski and Orehek (2011). In my view, the fanatic’s need for cognitive closure is only symptomatic of a more fundamental need. 16 Heidegger (1962, p. 231). 17 Ibid. 18 Ibid. 19 Heidegger (1962, p. 233). 20 Heidegger (1962, p. 232): “Anxiety thus takes away from Dasein the possibility of understanding itself, as it falls, in terms of the ‘world’ and the way things have been publically interpreted.” 21 Ibid. 22 Dostoyevsky (2003, p. 332). 23 Cf. Fromm (1941), who understands anxiety in terms of the psychoanalytic developmental theory of “separation-individuation,” but recognizes in it the same stakes as Heidegger: loss of “meaning

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The Need for Certainty and direction” (p. 20), of “a feeling of belonging and being rooted somewhere” (p. 24), and of “identity” (p. 30). 24 Dostoyevsky (2003, p. 332). Fromm (1941) also notes that the anxiety it creates can make “freedom an unbearable burden. It then becomes identical with doubt, with a kind of life which lacks meaning and direction. Powerful tendencies arise to escape from this kind of freedom into submission or some kind of relationship to man and the world which promises relief from uncertainty” (pp. 35–36). 25 Nietzsche explains in similar terms the fanatical rationalism of the ancient Greeks (TI, “The Problem of Socrates” §10). 26 His (re-)identification with the Islamic fundamentalism of his youth aims to restore the sense of meaning, belonging, and identity threatened by the loss of naïve certainty. On the role of submission to an external authority in restoring a sense of “community,” see Dostoyevsky (2003, p. 331). For a helpful overview of empirical studies on the role of group identification in reducing “selfuncertainty,” see Hogg (2011). 27 Cf. Hoffer (1951): “To live without the ardent dedication is to be adrift and abandoned. … He hungers for the deep assurance which comes with total surrender—with the wholehearted clinging to a creed and a cause” (p. 90; see p. 149). As Fromm (1941) puts it, the attempt to gain “a new security and a new pride in the participation in the power in which one submerges” is bound to be fail because “the emergence of the individual self cannot be reversed …. He and the power to which he clings never become one” (pp. 154–155). 28 On this point, see Katsafanas (2023: chapter 6). 29 Note that intolerance assumes a violent form often only when the threat posed by dissenters cannot be defused by isolation—for example, by seeking refuge in an insular group of like-minded people. 30 On mourning as remedy to extremist violence, see Volkan (2006); in his view, the loss in need of mourning is of an old identity, rather than of the very possibility of the “tranquil self-confidence” of naïve certainty. 31 An early version of this paper was presented at the Boston University Workshop on Modern Philosophy (2018). I have benefitted from discussions of issues relevant to it with Justin Broackes, Paul Guyer, Emily Hodges, Rolf-Peter Hortsman, Thomas Lambert, Charles Larmore, and Kathryn Tabb. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Paul Katsafanas for several probing exchanges on the subject of fanaticism.

Bibliography Dewey, J. (1929) The Quest for Certainty. A Study of the Relation of Knowledge and Action. New York: Minton, Balch & Co. Diderot, D. & d’Alembert, J. (1756) Encyclopédie ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers. Paris: Briasson. Dostoyevsky, F. (2003) The Brothers Karamazov. McDuff, D. (trans.), London: Penguin Books. Freud, S. (1956–1974) The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Strachey J. (trans.) London: The Hogarth Press. Fromm, E. (1941) Escape from Freedom. New York: Henry Holt & Co. Heidegger, M. (1962) Being and Time. Macquarrie J. & Robinson E. (trans.). Hoboken, NJ: B ­ lackwell Publishing. Hoffer, E. (1951) The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements. New York: Harper & Brothers. Hogg, M. (2011) “Self-Uncertainty, Social Identity, and the Solace of Extremism”, in Hogg M. & Blaylock D. (eds.) Extremism and the Psychology of Uncertainty. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 19–35. Hume, D. (2021) “Of Superstition and Enthusiasm”, in Beauchamp T. & Box M. (eds.) Essays: Moral, Political, and Literary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 77–80. Kant, I. (2007) Anthropology, History, and Education, Guyer P. and Wood A., (eds.) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Bernard Reginster Katsafanas, P. (2023) The Philosophy of Devotion. The Longing for Invulnerable Ideals. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kruglanski, A. & Orehek, E. (2011) “The Need for Certainty as a Psychological Nexus for Individuals and Society”, in Hogg M. & Blaylock D. (eds.) Extremism and the Psychology of Uncertainty. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 3–18. Locke, J. (1975). An Essay Concerning Human Understanding [abbreviation = Essay]. Oxford: ­Oxford University Press. Nietzsche, F. (1966) Beyond Good and Evil [abbreviation = BGE]. Kaufmann W. (trans.), New York: Random House. Nietzsche, F. (1968a) The Anti-Christ [abbreviation = A]. Hollingdale R. J. (trans.), Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Nietzsche, F. (1968b) The Will to Power [abbreviation = WP]. Kaufmann W. & Hollingdale R. J. (trans.), New York: Random House. Nietzsche, F. (1974) The Gay Science [abbreviation = GS]. Kaufmann W. (trans.), New York: Random House. Nietzsche, F. (1982). Daybreak [abbreviation = D]. Hollingdale R. J. (trans.) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nietzsche, F. (1986). Human, All Too Human [abbreviation = HTH]. Hollingdale R. J. (trans.), ­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nietzsche, F. (1990) Twilight of the Idols [abbreviation = TI]. Hollingdale R. J. (trans.), Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Passmore, J. (2003) “Fanaticism, Toleration and Philosophy”, in The Journal of Political Philosophy, 11/2, pp. 211–222. Shaftesbury, A. C. (1900) “A Letter Concerning Enthusiasm”, in Robertson J. (ed.) Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times, etc. London: Grant Richards, pp. 5–42. Tabb, K. (2019) “Locke on Enthusiasm and the Association of Ideas”, in Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, X, pp. 75–104. Volkan, V. (2006) Killing in the Name of Identity. A Study of Bloody Conflicts. Charlottesville, VA: Pitchstone Publishing. Zuckert, R. (2010) “Kant’s Account of Practical Fanaticism”, in Lipscomb, B.B. & Krueger J. (eds.) Kant’s Moral Metaphysics: God, Freedom, and Immortality. Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 291–318.

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13 NIETZSCHE AND WILLIAM JAMES ON SCIENTISM AS FANATICISM Rachel Cristy

Since the Enlightenment, science has taken on more and more of the roles that religion once played in the lives of educated westerners. Now it is science, not religion, that explains the origins of the universe, life, and humankind, and foretells how they might end. We turn to natural and social science rather than religion for an account of human nature and our capacities for good and evil. But it is not only as a source of factual information that science now encroaches on the former territory of religion. Some champions of science go so far as to claim that science can tell us what counts as good or evil, or that the project of science itself is what provides life with meaning and purpose after science has undermined the authority of religion and philosophy to furnish such purposes. These last two claims illustrate a faith in science that goes beyond a well-founded respect for its achievements and into the realm of scientism. At its most basic, scientism is an attitude of science-worship. It involves an uncritical faith in the methods of the modern sciences, uncritical acceptance of their assumptions and conclusions (at least until they are replaced by newer ones), and often a quasi-religious faith in the value of the scientific enterprise. Scientism is popular today both within and outside the academy. It can be seen in politicians who advocate cutting humanities programs in universities to focus exclusively on the sciences1; in public intellectuals who declare all religious belief to be indefensible in light of science’s discoveries, and thus a sign of weak-minded gullibility2; in academic philosophers who dismiss the “softer” humanities disciplines and take philosophy seriously only if it is made “scientific,” for example, by incorporating formal and quantitative methods from the sciences, or limiting itself to interpreting their results. But scientism is hardly a new attitude; it was just as widespread in the latter half of the nineteenth century, when institutional science was becoming established and successful, and powerful new theories— evolution by natural selection, thermodynamics, electromagnetism—were capturing the popular imagination. Both Friedrich Nietzsche and William James remarked critically on the prevalence of this attitude in their intellectual environment. Although the word “scientism” had not yet been coined, the views they describe and condemn in their contemporaries can easily be identified as falling under that label. I have explored their objections to scientism at length in previous work.3 In this chapter, I lay out the connections between scientism and fanaticism 197

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in their writing. First, I distinguish between two types of scientism, basic and strong, that Nietzsche and James address; then I explain their conceptions of fanaticism, which are distinct but share certain core characteristics; then I make the case that both philosophers considered both basic and strong scientism to display core characteristics of fanaticism.4

13.1  What Is Scientism? A number of different definitions of scientism have been proposed both by those who oppose it and those who “reclaim” the term and defend it, such as Rosenberg (2011) and Pinker (2013). From the negative side, Haack describes it as “an exaggerated kind of deference towards science, an excessive readiness to accept as authoritative any claim made by the sciences” (2007: 17–18). Sorell identifies as the core of scientism “the belief that science, especially natural science, is much the most valuable part of human learning”—perhaps even “the only valuable part of human learning”—“because it is much the most authoritative, or serious, or beneficial,” often accompanied by the related view “that it is always good for subjects that do not belong to science to be placed on a scientific footing” (1991: 1). Rosenberg describes scientism as “the conviction that the methods of science are the only reliable ways to secure knowledge of anything” (2011: 6) and that “[s]cience provides all the significant truths about reality” (7). In my investigation of Nietzsche and James’s responses to scientism, I have found it useful to divide the target attitude into two component propositions that the philosophers often addressed separately. Endorsing the first is both necessary and sufficient for espousing some form of scientism; the first, without the second, constitutes what I call basic scientism: 1 Science, and only science, can attain any truth or knowledge that is possible to attain. I have phrased this as “truth or knowledge” in order to remain neutral about what the target of inquiry is; people discussing the goals and products of science on both sides of the scientism issue have used both terms, sometimes interchangeably (as the above quotes from Rosenberg 2011 illustrate). The important point is that science is claimed to be the only practice that has epistemic value, in whatever terms it is cashed out. This claim leaves open two possible positions on ethical questions, which have both been taken by various scientistic thinkers, past and present: a Science is capable of attaining ethical truth/knowledge,5 OR b Science is not capable of attaining ethical truth/knowledge; therefore, it cannot be attained (typically because there is no such truth/knowledge).6 Scientism can also come in more restrictive or permissive variants. Restrictive scientism holds that only the natural sciences have epistemic value—with mathematical physics usually viewed as the paradigm—and the social sciences can have epistemic value only if they adopt natural-scientific methods, or can be reduced to a natural science (e.g., if psychology and cognitive science are reduced to or replaced by neurobiology). More permissive scientism may allow that social sciences are genuine sciences with distinctive methods that have epistemic value in their own right; the most permissive may even grant epistemic value to some humanities disciplines, such as (certain types of) history, philosophy, or literary analysis. But even permissive scientism draws a sharp line between “science” and “non-science,” and only the practices on the “science” side have epistemic value. This is not to say that 198

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skepticism about pseudosciences like astrology or homeopathy counts as pernicious scientism; one can coherently deny that certain practices which attempt to claim the authoritative status of a science deserve that status, or have epistemic value at all, without denying that any non-science practice has epistemic value. Religion is usually scientism’s primary target for delegitimization, but art and (many forms of) philosophy are also excluded from (nonaccidental) access to truth. These practices may be admitted to have sentimental or hedonic value, but they should not be regarded as providing any meaningful information about the world.7 But Nietzsche and James often describe an attitude that combines basic scientism with a further element: 2 The aims of science, attaining truth/knowledge and eliminating error, have intrinsic and overriding value. This is the attitude that Nietzsche, in section 344 of The Gay Science (1887), calls “the unconditional will to truth” (which I abbreviate for convenience as UWT).8,9 By saying that adherents of the UWT take the aims of attaining truth and eliminating error to have intrinsic value, I mean that they regard truth and its pursuit as valuable for their own sake, not merely instrumentally valuable for realizing other aims or values. Taking these epistemic aims to have overriding value means taking them to be binding at all times, regardless of whether the pursuit advances or hinders one’s other goals, values, or interests. “Seek truth and avoid error” is regarded as a categorical rather than a hypothetical imperative, which imposes duties at least upon possessors of the UWT, possibly upon everyone: in “The Ethics of Belief” (1877), W.K. Clifford famously declared, “it is wrong always, everywhere and for any one, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence” (1884: 28 [318]). In the typical pattern of Kantian categorical imperatives, the UWT is generally understood to impose stricter negative duties than positive duties,10 or as James puts it, Clifford and others of his mindset “treat the avoidance of error as more imperative, and let truth take its chance” (James 1912: 18). That is, the UWT strictly forbids its followers to willfully or carelessly ignore evidence or arguments, or place their belief in a proposition insufficiently supported by evidence; it also commands its followers to actively pursue truth, but permits some flexibility in the manner and extent. Endorsing (1) and (2) together results in the attitude I call strong scientism—the attitude whose motivations Nietzsche critically examines in GS 34411 and the Third Essay of On the Genealogy of Morals (1887), and that James targets in “The Will to Believe” (1896), as exemplified notably by Clifford.

13.2  What Is Fanaticism? The mature Nietzsche presents his most explicit account of fanaticism in GS 347: How much one needs a faith [Glauben] in order to flourish, how much that is “firm” and that one does not wish to be shaken because one clings to it, that is a measure of the degree of one’s strength (or, to put the point more clearly, of one’s weakness). […] The demand that one wants by all means that something should be firm (while on account of the ardor of this demand one is easier and more negligent about the demonstration of this certainty)—this, too, is still the demand for a support, a prop, in 199

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short, that instinct of weakness which, to be sure, does not create religions, metaphysical systems, and convictions [Ueberzeugungen] of all kinds but—conserves them. [… F]anaticism is the only “strength of the will” that even the weak and insecure can be brought to attain, being a sort of hypnotism of the whole system of the senses and the intellect for the benefit of an excessive nourishment (hypertrophy) of a single point of view and feeling that henceforth becomes dominant—which the Christian calls his faith. Reginster (2003) has provided a thorough analysis of Nietzsche’s conception of fanaticism. According to Reginster, Nietzsche sees the fanatic as a particular type of wishful thinker who holds certain beliefs—for which Nietzsche alternately uses the words Glaube, translated as either “belief” or “faith,” and Überzeugung, translated as “conviction” (HH I, 630, 635; GS 347; AC 54–55)—based not on evidence or reasons bearing on their truth (Reginster 2003: 60–61), but “an urgent need” to believe “that he ‘possesses the unconditional truth’” (2003: 58, quoting HH I, 630). Importantly, the fanatic “derives advantage from regarding his (fanatical) beliefs as true not because their particular content appeals to him, but because thinking he ‘possesses the unconditional truth’ does”; indeed, “the fanatic is prepared to accept beliefs the particular content of which may be quite unpleasant or disturbing, provided he manages to convince himself that they represent the unconditional truth” (Reginster 2003: 58). But, as Reginster argues, Nietzsche’s fundamental objection to fanaticism (in his mature works12) is not that it leads believers away from truth by discouraging them from seriously examining the justification of their beliefs. Rather, Nietzsche condemns fanaticism because it indicates a particular weakness of character (2003: 69–70): people who lack sufficient strength to direct their own lives, who “cannot out of [themselves] posit ends at all,” must seek “external regulation” (AC 54) in the form of a doctrine to which they cling unshakably, and which dictates the ends they should pursue. Such people are incapable of greatness, which requires the ability to consider many different points of view and to express a variety of drives and passions while still pursuing a single dominant goal: greatness consists in “range and multiplicity,” “wholeness in manifoldness” (BGE 212). The fanatic, meanwhile, “manages to achieve unity only at the expense of complexity” (Reginster 2003: 80)—namely, through “excessive nourishment (hypertrophy) of a single point of view and feeling” (GS 347), which does not permit rival viewpoints even to be considered, and the consequent under-nourishment and starvation of drives and passions that cannot be made to serve the dominant one directly. Reginster’s account emphasizes the suppression of different drives, which represent distinct “points of view” in that each regards its own aim as supremely valuable. But the inability or refusal to consider viewpoints on different topics, or to acknowledge sources of value other than the one affirmed by the dominant drive (e.g., to allow expression to one’s drive for sex or artistic beauty if one’s dominant drive is religious), is a different kind of singlemindedness from the refusal to consider conflicting viewpoints on the same topic.13 Nietzsche does not always clearly distinguish these types of viewpoint “hypertrophy” in characterizing fanaticism (and neither does James, as we shall see), which may be because for the fanatic, they are intertwined. The person who refuses to consider rival viewpoints in politics but whose dominant drive is toward artisanry or engineering would not count as a fanatic because their political beliefs do not serve as their primary source of strength and self-organization. Nor would the person who obsessively researches different religious 200

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traditions, carefully considering the merits of each, be a religious fanatic, because their open-mindedness about the content of the correct religious beliefs would prevent any one doctrine from becoming their sole guide. However, as I shall explain in Subsection 13.3.2.2, (apparent) open-mindedness about the content of one’s beliefs can be associated with a specific form of fanaticism, if it is motivated by an unquestioning commitment to the overriding value of truth. In short: according to Nietzsche, fanaticism is the “hypertrophy of a single point of view and feeling” that the fanatic regards as completely certain and unchallengeable because it fulfills the “need for a faith, a support, a backbone, something to fall back on” (GS 347), which the fanatic (or his dominant drive) is too weak to supply for himself. James never provides such an explicit account of fanaticism, but the main passage where he discusses it, in the lectures assessing “The Value of Saintliness” in The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902), shows some interesting similarities to Nietzsche’s account, which I have emphasized in the following excerpt: We find that error by excess is exemplified by every saintly virtue. Excess, in human faculties, means usually one-sidedness or want of balance […] In the life of saints […] the spiritual faculties are strong, but what gives the impression of extravagance proves usually on examination to be a relative deficiency of intellect. Spiritual excitement takes pathological forms whenever other interests are too few and the intellect too narrow. […] First of all let us take Devoutness. When unbalanced, one of its vices is called Fanaticism. Fanaticism (when not a mere expression of ecclesiastical ambition) is only loyalty carried to a convulsive extreme. When an intensely loyal and narrow mind is at once grasped by the feeling that a certain superhuman person is worthy of its exclusive devotion, one of the first things that happens is that it idealizes the devotion itself. […] Fanaticism is found only where the character is masterful and aggressive. In gentle characters, where devoutness is intense and the intellect feeble, we have an imaginative absorption in the love of God to the exclusion of all practical human interests, which, though innocent enough, is too one-sided to be admirable. (James 1917 [1902]: 340–343, emphasis added) There, are of course, differences between Nietzsche’s and James’s conceptions that reflect differences in their concerns and evaluative perspectives. First, because the express purpose of the lectures is to examine the nature and value of religion, James focuses exclusively on religious fanaticism, whereas Nietzsche in GS 347 names various non-religious doctrines to which people have a fanatical attachment. However, I shall assume that James would be willing to extend his understanding of fanaticism beyond religion, since he extends the language of religious devotion to the most enthusiastic partisans of science (1912: 131; 1917: 35). Second, James restricts the label of fanaticism to “masterful and aggressive characters” (1917: 343) because he associates it more directly than Nietzsche (apparently) does with active, often violent intolerance (see 1917: 342). In contrast with fanaticism proper, James calls the nonviolent “excess of devotion” in “gentle characters” “a theopathic condition” (343). A third, more significant difference is that James attributes fanaticism, as well as theopathy, to a different fundamental cause than Nietzsche does: “narrowness” or “feebleness” of intellect, rather than weakness or deficit of will. The problem, in James’s view, is not that 201

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fanatical devotees require “someone who commands […] severely—a god, prince, class, physician, father confessor, dogma, or party conscience” (GS 347)—to impose order and direction that they lack the self-control to provide for themselves. It is, rather, that their mind lacks the capacity to hold more than a single, powerful motivating interest, so they pursue it with the single-minded obsession of someone who is simply incapable of considering other interests or values that might impose limits or moderation on their expressions of devotion. However, the main point that Nietzsche’s and James’s analyses have in common is that fanaticism involves an exclusive attachment to a single point of view and an inability to genuinely consider others—whether this is an intellectual inability, as James would have it, or a willful inability born of the need for certainty, as Nietzsche claims. Another, more subtle point they both identify is that the characteristic attitude of fanaticism is, somewhat perversely, directed toward the attitude itself as much as, or perhaps more than, to the overt object of the attitude. Nietzsche describes fanaticism as clinging to a belief that is regarded as indubitably certain, but what fundamentally matters to the fanatic is not the content of that particular belief, but that they have something to cling to as certain: they are attached to the attachment, so to speak.14 James describes fanaticism as an excess of devotion to (typically) some deity or saint, but says that “[w]hen an intensely loyal and narrow mind is at once grasped by the feeling that a certain superhuman person is worthy of its exclusive devotion, one of the first things that happens is that it idealizes the devotion itself” (1917: 340–341).

13.3  Scientism as a Form of Fanaticism In this section, I explain how Nietzsche and James considered scientism, in both its basic and strong forms, to exhibit the core features of fanaticism, though strong scientism does in a more complex, multifaceted manner. A contextual point to note is that in James’s intellectual environment, it was routine for outspoken champions of science to proudly claim the label of “fanaticism” in the name of truth—an attitude which marks them as representatives of strong scientism. For example, in “The Will to Believe,” James quotes Clifford as saying: Whoso would deserve well of his fellows in this matter will guard the purity of his belief with a very fanaticism of jealous care, lest at any time it should rest on an unworthy object, and catch a stain which can never be wiped away. (James 1912: 8) Hollinger notes that “the agnostic T.H. Huxley was often quoted praising science as ‘fanaticism for veracity’” (2013: 120). Given that such champions of science were already calling themselves “fanatics,” it would not be a stretch for James to think of them that way. His task in opposing them, then, would be not to prove that they are fanatics, but to show that fanaticism even for something so noble as “veracity” can be excessive and harmful.

13.3.1  Basic Scientism as Fanaticism The more difficult task I have set myself (one might think) is to show that Nietzsche and James considered basic scientism to display the hallmarks of fanaticism, even without the unconditional will to truth. But in fact, a view that falls under my description of basic 202

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scientism is one of those Nietzsche names in GS 347 as examples of fanaticism: “that impetuous demand for certainty that today discharges itself among large numbers of people in a scientific-positivistic form.” Who are the people Nietzsche refers to? Moore identifies a generation of philosophers that came to prominence in the mid-nineteenth century, “chief among them Jakob Moleschott, Ludwig Büchner and Carl Vogt,” who “worshipped at the altar of natural science, uncritically seizing upon the latest advances in physiology and chemistry to underpin a crudely materialist and mechanist worldview, according to which all natural forces were reducible to inertia and motion” (2004: 7). Moore also points to “the shallow materialism of David Friedrich Strauss’s The Old Faith and the New (1872), that literary monument to the bourgeois worship of science” (Moore 2004: 8) which Nietzsche lampooned in the first of his Untimely Meditations. Stack names Nietzsche’s contemporary Eugen Dühring as an exemplar of the “dogmatic ‘positivists’ of the nineteenth century” by whom Nietzsche was “repulsed” (2005: 4), and explains that Dühring “argued for a strict realism and held that human knowledge apprehends reality as it is,” that “there are no ambiguities in existence and no room for doubt” (2005: 209, n.5). Later in The Gay Science, Nietzsche elaborates on the type of certainty “in a scientificpositivistic form” (GS 347) that such people seek: […] the faith with which so many materialistic natural scientists rest content nowadays, the faith in a world that is supposed to have its equivalent and its measure in human thought and human valuations—a “world of truth” that can be mastered completely and forever with the aid of our square little reason. What? Do we really want to permit existence to be degraded for us like this—reduced to […] an indoor diversion for mathematicians? Above all, one should not wish to divest existence of its multiply ambiguous character15: that is a dictate of good taste, gentlemen, the taste of reverence for everything that lies beyond your horizon. That the only justifiable interpretation of the world should be one in which you are justified because one can continue to work and do research scientifically in your sense (you mean, mechanistically?)—an interpretation that permits counting, calculating, weighing, seeing, touching, and nothing more—that is a crudity and a naïveté, assuming that it is not a mental illness, an idiocy. (GS 373) This characterization establishes that the attitude of these “materialistic natural scientists” fits my definition of basic scientism: the view that science, and only science, can attain any truth or knowledge that is possible to attain. Their “faith” is in “a ‘world of truth’ that can be mastered completely and forever with the aid of our square little reason”—specifically, by “do[ing] research scientifically in [their] sense,” that is, using the mathematical methods of mechanistic physics. They “insist that mechanics is the doctrine of the first and last laws on which all existence must be based as on a ground floor” (GS 373), and thus that everything can be explained in terms of the mathematically law-governed movements of particles. GS 373 confirms that Nietzsche takes the outlook of the materialist positivists to express the key characteristics of fanaticism: it consists of the “hypertrophy of a single point of view” (GS 347), reflecting a need for stability in their practical as well as their epistemic lives. They insist that theirs is “the only justifiable interpretation of the world”— thus “divest[ing] existence of its multiply ambiguous character”—because their favored 203

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interpretation is “one in which [they] are justified,” and “can continue to work and do research scientifically in [their] sense” (GS 373). Here, interestingly, Nietzsche attributes their clinging to this single interpretation not only to their need for a worldview that prescribes a clear direction for their lives (to continue with a particular style of research), but also to the defect of intellect to which James traces fanatical tendencies: it indicates “naïveté,” perhaps even “idiocy” (GS 373). In a passage from “The Will to Believe” with a remarkably similar theme, James attributes certain scientists’ refusal to countenance anything that does not fit into their materialistic interpretation of the world to the narrowness of interests (if not of intellect) that, he said in the Varieties, characterizes individuals prone to fanaticism: As a rule we disbelieve all facts and theories for which we have no use. Clifford’s cosmic emotions find no use for Christian feelings. Huxley belabors the bishops because there is no use for sacerdotalism in his scheme of life. […] Why do so few ‘scientists’ even look at the evidence for telepathy, so called? Because they think, as a leading biologist, now dead, once said to me, that even if such a thing were true, scientists ought to band together to keep it suppressed and concealed. It would undo the uniformity of Nature and all sorts of other things without which scientists cannot carry on their pursuits. But if this very man had been shown something which as a scientist he might do with telepathy, he might not only have examined the evidence, but even have found it good enough. (1912 [1897]: 10) Like Nietzsche, James suggests that these scientists will not permit themselves to entertain a view of the world that might threaten their ability to “carry on their pursuits” precisely as they do now. Both James and Nietzsche observe how the narrowness of their perspective limits their imagination: they cannot imagine anything “which as […] scientist[s] [they] might do with telepathy” or how they might adjust their understanding of nature to accommodate it (James 1912: 10); they lack not only “reverence” but even tolerance for the notion of anything “that lies beyond [their] horizon” (GS 373). In the next section, Nietzsche says, “I should think that today we are at least far from the ridiculous immodesty that would be involved in decreeing from our corner that perspectives are permitted only from this corner” (GS 374, emphasis added); following immediately after his remarks in GS 373, I assume that this “we” refers not to modern thinkers in general, but to a narrower “we”—free spirits or “gay scientists” of Nietzsche’s own stamp—in implicit contrast with the materialistic scientists who do attempt to “decree[…] that perspectives are permitted only from [their] corner” (GS 374).

13.3.2  Strong Scientism as Fanaticism In this section, I show how strong scientism can be seen as a form of fanaticism, according to Nietzsche and James. Strong scientism, recall, is basic scientism combined with the unconditional will to truth (UWT), or the combination of (1) and (2): 1 Science, and only science, can attain any truth or knowledge that is possible to attain. 2 The aims of science, attaining truth/knowledge and eliminating error, have intrinsic and overriding value. 204

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In what follows, I highlight two related respects in which Nietzsche and James describe strong scientism as exemplifying core features of fanaticism: i Strong scientism—specifically the UWT—involves a faith in the value of truth that places it beyond question. ii The form of skepticism associated with strong scientism expresses the need for certainty born of weakness that (according to Nietzsche) produces fanaticism, as well as the tendency (described by both philosophers) of fanaticism’s characteristic attitude to become directed toward itself.

13.3.2.1  Placing the Value of Truth Beyond Question Nietzsche introduces his critique of the UWT in the following passage: In science convictions [Ueberzeugungen] have no rights of citizenship […] Only when they descend to the modesty of hypotheses, of a provisional experimental point of view, of a regulative fiction, they may be granted admission and even a certain value in the realm of knowledge […] —But does this not mean […] that a conviction may obtain admission to science only when it ceases to be a conviction? Would it not be the first step in the discipline of the scientific spirit that one would not permit oneself any more convictions? Probably this is so; only we still have to ask: To make it possible for this discipline to begin, must there not be some prior conviction—even one so commanding and unconditional that it sacrifices all other convictions to itself? We see that science also rests on a faith [Glauben] […] The question whether truth is needed must not only have been affirmed in advance, but affirmed to such a degree that the principle, the faith, the conviction finds expression: “Nothing is needed more than truth, and in relation to it everything else has only second-rate value.” (GS 344) What does Nietzsche mean by calling the UWT a “faith” (Glaube) or “conviction” (Ueberzeugung) of the kind that scientific inquiry forbids? In Human, All Too Human (1878), he defines “conviction” [Ueberzeugung] as “the belief [Glaube] that on some particular point of knowledge one is in possession of the unqualified truth” (HH I, 630). A conviction, then, is a view that is no longer open to question for those who hold it. Nietzsche maintains, as he does in GS 344, that scientific thinking precludes convictions: the presuppositions of having a conviction as he defines it—“that unqualified truths exist; likewise that perfect methods of attaining to them have been discovered; finally, that everyone who possesses convictions avails himself of these perfect methods”—“demonstrate at once that the man of convictions is not the man of scientific thought” (HH I, 630). Scientific thought requires regarding everything as open to question and defeasible by the evidence, even the methods of science itself. What it means for convictions to “descend to the modesty of hypotheses, of a provisional experimental point of view” (GS 344) is that certain assumptions may be temporarily taken for granted for the purpose of conducting an experimental program that can test whether the assumption is justified. But the principle that one must “not permit oneself any more convictions” (GS 344)—that any assumption is ultimately subject to revision—is not merely a provisional 205

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assumption of scientific practice, but an unrevisable one. The integrity of science depends on the ­requirement to regard everything as open to question—except for this requirement itself, which, Nietzsche claims, expresses the conviction that “[n]othing is needed more than truth” (GS 344). Nietzsche spends the remainder of the section arguing that the belief that it is always better to know the truth rather than to be ignorant or deceived cannot be justified prudentially (i.e., it is not better for the subject’s well-being to know the truth about every matter), so it must instead rest on moral grounds: the UWT that animates science must be understood not as “a long-range prudence, a caution, a utility,” but as a duty, presupposing a “metaphysical world” from which this command proceeds, but whose existence is unjustifiable by scientific evidence (GS 344).16 Nietzsche links this unquestioned faith in the supreme value of truth to the ascetic ideal—the attitude of condemning our finite, material world in favor of another, vastly different world, changeless and perfect (GM III, 11)—specifically in its dominant European expressions, Platonism and Christianity. At the end of GS 344, he declares: it is still a metaphysical faith upon which our faith in science rests—[…] even we seekers after knowledge today, we godless anti-metaphysicians still take our fire, too, from the flame lit by a faith that is thousands of years old, that Christian faith which was also the faith of Plato, that God is truth, that truth is divine. (GS 344) In GM III, he adds that “the faith in a metaphysical value, the absolute value of truth,” is “sanctioned and guaranteed by [the ascetic] ideal alone” and “stands or falls with this ideal,” and claims that the reason “truth was not permitted to be a problem” in philosophy, or for the justification of science, is “[b]ecause the ascetic ideal has hitherto dominated all philosophy, because truth was posited as being, as God, as the highest court of appeal” (GM III, 24). James, likewise, notes that the devotees of science can offer no logical or evidential justification for their supereminent valuation of truth: Science can tell us what exists; but to compare the worths, both of what exists and of what does not exist, we must consult not science, but what Pascal calls our heart. Science herself consults her heart when she lays it down that the infinite ascertainment of fact and correction of false belief are the supreme goods for man. Challenge the statement, and science can only repeat it oracularly, or else prove it by showing that such ascertainment and correction bring man all sorts of other goods which man’s heart in turn declares. (1912: 22–23) James also attributes this unjustified valuation to a covert religious impulse (though unlike Nietzsche, he does not trace it back to the influence of an officially repudiated Christianity): Certain of our positivists keep chiming to us, that, amid the wreck of every other god and idol, one divinity still stands upright,—that his name is Scientific Truth, and that he has but one commandment, but that one supreme, saying, Thou shalt not be a theist, for that would be to satisfy thy subjective propensities, and the satisfaction of those is intellectual damnation. These most conscientious gentlemen think they have 206

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jumped off their own feet,—emancipated their mental operations from the control of their subjective propensities at large and in toto. But they are deluded. They have simply chosen from among the entire set of propensities at their command those that were certain to construct, out of the materials given, the leanest, lowest, aridest result,—namely, the bare molecular world,—and they have sacrificed all the rest. (1912: 131) This image of the divinity Scientific Truth commanding that no other god be worshipped echoes Nietzsche’s description of a conviction of the value of truth “so commanding and unconditional that it sacrifices all other convictions to itself” (GS 344).17 Also like Nietzsche, James points to the ascetic self-denial that the UWT demands; in the above passage, this is the denial of our “subjective propensities,” meaning the natural human tendency to favor a worldview that is “practically rational,” that is, that shows the world as hospitable to effective action and the ultimate realization of our values (1912: 117–120, 123–127; cf. 75–79, 82–88). But James denies that it is even possible to form beliefs with no influence from our “subjective” practical interests, as these “conscientious” positivists insist we must to avoid “intellectual damnation” (1912: 131). Their belief that they have “emancipated their mental operations from […] their subjective propensities” amounts to a belief that “they have jumped off their own feet”—liberated themselves from the necessary constraints of human existence (1912: 131). With the absurd image and lightly mocking tone, James seems to suggest that this “delusion” about the conditions of their own cognition is merely an intellectual error, indicating a foolish lack of self-awareness. But then, James’s insistence on the unavoidable influence of practical interests leads him to insinuate that the positivists have deliberately chosen “to construct […] the leanest, lowest, aridest result,—namely, the bare molecular world” (131), which is, as he remarks elsewhere, doomed by the laws of thermodynamics to dissolve everything of value that it once produced, leaving no trace or memory (1987 [1907]: 531–152). Perhaps he thinks this choice is motivated by the desire to justify their own methods of research as the route to ultimate truth (as discussed in Section 13.3.1), but his wording suggests that he suspects the same kind of ascetic impulse which, he claims in “The Will to Believe,” arouses the contempt of science’s partisans at the notion of choosing to believe in God: When one turns to the magnificent edifice of the physical sciences, and sees how it was reared; what thousands of disinterested moral lives of men lie buried in its mere foundations; what patience and postponement, what choking down of preference, what submission to the icy laws of outer fact are wrought into its very stones and mortar; how absolutely impersonal it stands in its vast augustness,—then how besotted and contemptible seems every little sentimentalist […] pretending to decide things from out of his private dream! […] The whole system of loyalties which grow up in the schools of science go dead against its toleration; so that it is only natural that those who have caught the scientific fever should pass over to the opposite extreme, and write sometimes as if the incorruptibly truthful intellect ought positively to prefer bitterness and unacceptableness to the heart in its cup. (1912: 7, emphasis added) Reginster argues that in GS 344 and GM III, Nietzsche aims to show that “belief in the overriding value of truth is not merely an unjustified belief, it is the very sort of ‘conviction’ 207

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characteristic of fanaticism” (2003: 64). Nietzsche claims that philosophers have never questioned the UWT underlying all philosophical as well as scientific inquiry “because truth was not permitted to be a problem” (GM III, 24). Reginster reasons that “it must have occurred to those who are uncompromisingly dedicated to the truth […] that their belief in its unconditional value should be, in all consistency, checked for its truth,” but since a genuine inquiry would have revealed “how flimsy the metaphysical grounds of this belief really are,” their “continuing commitment” to the UWT “suggests that they must have deceived themselves either about the need to call this belief into question, or about the lack of adequate justification for it” (2003: 68). That is, since adherents to the UWT would not simply have overlooked the question of justifying their belief in the absolute value of truth, their historical failure to raise the question must be “motivated”—but by what? Reginster points out that it is “hard to think of an alternative motive for [this] self-deception” aside from the fanatic’s distinctive need for something to hold certain, regardless of the content of the belief; unlike most products of wishful thinking, “there is nothing appealing or pleasant” about the UWT or “the uncompromising service of truth” that it demands (2003: 68).

13.3.2.2  Skepticism as an Expression of Weakness and the Self-Reflexivity of Fanaticism GS 347, titled “Believers and their need to believe,” characterizes the fanatic as one who “needs a faith [Glauben] in order to flourish,” but in Beyond Good and Evil (1886), ­Nietzsche remarks on a type of fanaticism that, paradoxically, refuses beliefs. He begins by expressing his doubt that “[t]he eagerness […] with which the problem of ‘the real and the apparent world’ is today attacked all over Europe” is genuinely motivated by “a ‘will to truth,’” though he allows that there may be some exceptions: In rare and isolated instances it may really be the case that such a will to truth, some extravagant and adventurous courage, a metaphysician’s ambition to hold a hopeless position, may participate and ultimately prefer even a handful of ‘certainty’ to a whole carload of beautiful possibilities; there may actually be puritanical fanatics [Fanatiker] of conscience who prefer even a secure nothing to an uncertain something to lie down on and die. But this is nihilism and the sign of a despairing, mortally weary soul—however courageous the gestures of such a virtue may look. (BGE 10) What Nietzsche describes here is a type of person whose need for certainty is so powerful that they refuse to believe anything if they cannot be certain of its truth. GS 347 marks the fanatic’s weakness by “how much that is ‘firm’ and that one does not wish to be shaken because one clings to it,” but BGE 10 identifies a type of fanatic who is so afraid that something they’d thought firm enough to cling to might be shaken that they will not trust any proposition with their faith—except, perhaps, that nothing is certain enough to trust. It is important to note (as does Reginster, 2003: 64) that Nietzsche considers these ­people—unlike the “anti-realists” whom he suspects of using skepticism of appearances to “win back […] the faith of former times, perhaps ‘the immortal soul,’ perhaps ‘the old God’”—to be motivated by a genuine will to truth (BGE 10). Regarding fanatics who do trust some concrete dogma to meet their need for certainty, Nietzsche notes that “on account of the ardor of this demand one is easier and more negligent about 208

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the demonstration of this certainty” (GS 347), but BGE 10’s “puritanical fanatics of conscience” really do ­demand that anything they put their faith in be ascertainably true (except, of course, the UWT itself). Whereas for an ordinary fanatic, “[a]n article of faith could be refuted before him a thousand times,” and “if he needed it, he would consider it ‘true’ again and again” (GS 347), fanatics of the UWT consider provable truth to be the only safeguard against losing a belief they rely on for support. Nonetheless, this is not entirely to their credit. Nietzsche grants that “the gestures of such a virtue” may look like “an extravagant and adventurous courage,” but concludes instead that “this is nihilism and the sign of a despairing, mortally weary soul,” and contrasts them with “stronger and livelier thinkers who are still eager for life”—the very same who are using their “knowledge-microscopy” as an excuse to recover aspects of religious faith (BGE 10). Fanatics of the UWT are claimed to be weaker than this other species of wishful thinkers—who are not described as fanatics, because they are motivated by the content of the ideas they favor, “ideas by which one could live better, […] more vigorously and cheerfully, than by ‘modern ideas’” (BGE 10), rather than by the need for anything at all to cling to. It is difficult to say whether Nietzsche would also consider fanatics of the UWT to be weaker than fanatics of particular beliefs. But in a sense, the UWT is the purest form of the impulse that produces fanaticism: the need for a sense of certainty, to feel that one “possesses the unconditional truth” (HH I, 630). The UWT assures its adherents that their highest duty is to seek the certainty that can only be found in “the unconditional truth.” This ideal of a transcendent truth to which we must hold our intellectual lives accountable provides something to cling to beyond the changeable, deceptive world, which cannot be relied upon to furnish any firm support. Recall that both Nietzsche and James identify a way in which the characteristic attitude of fanaticism is directed toward the attitude itself rather than its ostensible object: the ­Nietzschean fanatic clings to the state of clinging to something held to be certain more than to any particular belief; the Jamesian fanatic becomes devoted to devotion, as much as to his divinity. The case of the fanatic of the UWT elucidates this structure especially clearly, because the only thing he holds certain is the belief that attaining certainty in one’s beliefs is of paramount importance. Such a fanatic may end up as a total skeptic, “who prefer[s] even a secure nothing to an uncertain something to lie down on” (BGE 10), precisely because no belief is secure enough to satisfy his powerful need for certainty. This kind of refusal is an example of a skepticism resulting from weakness or “sickness of the will” like that Nietzsche describes in BGE 208, which he contrasts with a “stronger type of skepticism” in BGE 209.18 But the psychology of the skeptical fanatic of the UWT differs from that of the skeptic described in BGE 208: “a delicate creature, […] frightened all too easily; his conscience is trained to quiver at every No, indeed even at a Yes, that is decisive and hard.” These skeptics’ weakness of will is manifested in the timid incapacity to commit decisively to any position, which they pass off as “noble abstinence” (BGE 208). Fanatics of the UWT are also driven by weakness, but instead of simply giving in to the inability to choose a direction, they look for a doctrine to command them, which provides a substitute for natural strength: “fanaticism is the only ‘strength of the will’ that even the weak and insecure can be brought to attain” (GS 347). But skeptical fanatics of the UWT do not trust any specific doctrine to hold firm; what they cling to instead is the conviction that they must withhold belief from anything they cannot be absolutely certain is true. Thus their refusal of belief is not, like the BGE 208 skeptic’s, the direct consequence of 209

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weak-willed indecision, masquerading as virtuous abstinence; their abstinence involves an exercise of strength of will, but a borrowed strength, derived from the stringency of the UWT’s commandment. Theirs is still fundamentally a skepticism of weakness, expressing an underlying need for the support of “something firm.” James gives a somewhat more mundane account of skepticism as an expression of weakness, when discussing Clifford’s preference for the commandment to avoid error over the commandment to believe truth: [H]e who says, “Better go without belief forever than believe a lie!” merely shows his own preponderant private horror of becoming a dupe. He may be critical of many of his desires and fears, but this fear he slavishly obeys. He cannot imagine any one questioning its binding force. (James 1912: 18–19) James’s description of the Cliffordian’s fear of deception seems to liken it to fearing the embarrassment of falling for a con artist’s scam, while for Nietzsche’s fanatic of the UWT, the fear of deception is the deeper, more existential fear that anything they tried to rely on as their “backbone” (GS 347), the support and guide for their whole life, might be hollow and doomed to collapse. James goes on to claim that science as a whole operates based on this “nervousness lest [one] become deceived”: Science has organized this nervousness into a regular technique, her so-called method of verification; and she has fallen so deeply in love with the method that one may even say she has ceased to care for truth by itself at all. It is only truth as technically verified that interests her. The truth of truths might come in merely affirmative form, and she would decline to touch it. (1912: 21) This is another example of the self-reflexivity that both Nietzsche and James perceive in the attitude of fanaticism. In preferring the method that was supposed to reliably lead to truth over truth itself, science “idealizes the devotion” (1917: 341) above its purported object. T.H. Huxley, in the passage where his much-quoted phrase originated, declares in this spirit that the “fanaticism of veracity” which permeates “an ideal University” “is a greater possession than much learning; a nobler gift than the power of increasing knowledge […] as the moral nature of man is greater than the intellectual; for veracity is the heart of morality” (Huxley 1908: 24, aphorism XCIX). James does not go as far as Nietzsche in claiming that the very institution of science is founded on a fanatical devotion to the ascetic ideal in the form of the UWT. Instead, he says that the policy of epistemic caution embodied in science’s “method of verification” (1912: 21) is appropriate to science as a social institution, but it is inappropriate to impose the same rules on individual epistemic agents, as do Clifford, Huxley, and other preachers of the UWT: [T]he command laid on us by science to believe nothing not yet verified by the senses is a prudential rule intended to maximize our right thinking and minimize our errors

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in the long run. In the particular instance we must frequently lose truth by obeying it; but on the whole we are safer if we follow it consistently, for we are sure to cover our losses with our gains. […] But this hedging philosophy requires that the long run should be there; and this makes it inapplicable to the question of religious faith as the latter comes home to the individual man. He plays the game of life not to escape losses, for he brings nothing with him to lose; he plays it for gains […] Let him doubt, believe, or deny, he runs his risk, and has the natural right to choose which one it shall be. (1912 [1882]: 94, n.2) In the individual case, both Nietzsche and James associate the willingness to endure uncertainty about the truth of their beliefs with courage and strength. James contrasts this with “Clifford’s exhortation” not to believe anything on insufficient evidence, which he says is like a general informing his soldiers that it is better to keep out of battle forever than to risk a single wound. Not so are victories either over enemies or over nature gained. […] In a world where we are so certain to incur [errors] in spite of all our caution, a certain lightness of heart seems healthier than this excessive nervousness on their behalf. (1912: 19) In Pragmatism (1907) he recommends the same flexible, fallibilist outlook: “we have to live to-day by what truth we can get to-day, and be ready to-morrow to call it falsehood” (1987: 583–584). Nietzsche imagines, in contrast with the fanatic’s weakness, “such a pleasure and power of self-determination […] that the spirit would take leave of all faith and every wish for certainty, being practiced in maintaining himself on insubstantial ropes and possibilities and dancing even near abysses” (GS 347). His strong skeptics, among whom he names Zarathustra, will even permit themselves “conviction as a means” for channeling their “great passion” (AC 54); they are confined neither by the temporary convictions they employ, nor by the weak skeptics’ fear of entrusting themselves to any conviction.

13.4 Conclusion In this chapter, I have argued that scientism, in the forms in which Nietzsche and James opposed it, fits their understanding of fanaticism in many respects. I have identified the central features of fanaticism according to the two philosophers, noting the overlap as well as the differences in their conceptions, and shown how they took both basic and strong scientism to exhibit these features. It should be emphasized that Nietzsche and James shared a respect for science itself—for its remarkable achievements in the century in which they wrote, and for its adventurous spirit of experimentation and discovery. But in pointing out the excesses of modern devotion to science, they hoped to create space for a richer, more meaningful vision of existence, with its “multiply ambiguous character” (GS 373), than the tools of science alone could provide.

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Notes 1 An especially striking example: in response to “a letter from education minister Hakubun Shimomura sent to all of Japan’s 86 national universities, which called on them to take ‘active steps to abolish [social science and humanities] organizations or to convert them to serve areas that better meet society’s needs,’” 26 Japanese universities agreed to “either close or scale back their relevant faculties” (Grove 2015). 2 The stance of the “New Atheists” or “Brights”—a term intended to suggest that religious believers are, by contrast, dim—such as Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, Sam Harris, and Christopher Hitchens. 3 See Cristy (2018). Some of the expository text of the present chapter is reproduced from that work. 4 I focus on Nietzsche’s mature works of 1886–1887 (Beyond Good and Evil, On the Genealogy of Morals, and the second edition of The Gay Science) because his analysis of scientism and fanaticism in that period is different than in his middle period (and his treatment of science loses nuance in some of the late works of 1888). 5 This was the position taken by Herbert Spencer in The Data of Ethics (1879) and W.K. Clifford in “The Scientific Basis of Morals” (published 1884) and “Right and Wrong: The Scientific Ground of their Distinction” (orig. 1875). Recently, Pinker (2013) and Greene (2014) have articulated versions of this view (while simultaneously denying that they hold it; see Greene 2014: 189). 6 This was the general position of the Logical Positivists, who explained ethical statements as having some status other than truth-apt propositions (Ayer’s emotivism being the most famous example). Rosenberg also takes this position (2011: 94–96). 7 Thus Rosenberg: “When it comes to real understanding, the humanities are nothing we have to take seriously, except as symptoms. But they are everything we need to take seriously when it comes to entertainment, enjoyment, and psychological satisfaction” (2011: 307). 8 Jenkins (2012) analyzes this attitude under the name of “the will to truth” simpliciter, but I find it helpful to mark a distinction between the unconditional [unbedingte] will to truth (or “faith in truth”)—which Nietzsche argues in GS 344 is distinctively moral, and connects with the ascetic ideal in GM III—and a will to truth that evades these critiques, which may be restricted or directed in certain ways. The Nietzschean virtue of curiosity, as described by Reginster (2013) and Alfano (2013), counts as such a will to truth that would not be called “unconditional.” Jenkins (2012) ends up making a similar distinction in terms of the way one pursues truth; I find it more economical to use “unconditional” to distinguish ascetic from non-ascetic versions of the will to truth (which Nietzsche does at least sometimes, though perhaps not consistently). 9 It is possible to hold proposition (2), the UWT, without (1), but then it would not constitute scientism. 10 In the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, Kant derives perfect duties, which “admit[ ] no exception in favor of inclination” (Ak. 4:421n), in the form of negative commandments not to do something (commit suicide or make false promises); and he derives imperfect duties, which permit some “latitude” in how agents follow them and what balance they strike among various ones (6:390), in the form of positive commandments (to develop one’s talents and help others) (4:421–424). 11 I cite Nietzsche by title abbreviation and section number (with roman numerals for larger divisions of the text, as appropriate), using the following abbreviations: AC for The Antichrist, BGE for Beyond Good and Evil, GM for On the Genealogy of Morals, GS for The Gay Science, HH for Human, All Too Human. 12 Reginster draws on middle-period texts in building his account of the Nietzschean fanatic, but also acknowledges that the focus of Nietzsche’s critique shifted between the middle and later works due to “growing misgivings about the value of truthfulness” (2003: 63). 13 Thanks to Paul Katsafanas for pointing this out in comments on a draft of this chapter. 14 Katsafanas (2019: 13, n.24) remarks upon how easily fanatics can jump from one set of values that are held sacred to a radically opposed set, giving the example of a neo-Nazi who converted to radical Islamism. 15 “Seines vieldeutigen Charakters”; Kaufmann translates this as “rich ambiguity.” 16 See Cristy (2018: 22–30) for a more detailed explanation of Nietzsche’s argument.

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References Alfano, Mark. 2013. “The Most Agreeable of All Vices: Nietzsche as Virtue Epistemologist.” British Journal of the History of Philosophy 21(4): 767–790. Clifford, William Kingdon. 1884. The Scientific Basis of Morals, and Other Essays. Humboldt Library of Popular Science, No. 55. New York: J. Fitzgerald. Available at . Cristy, Rachel. 2018. The Will to Truth and the Will to Believe: Friedrich Nietzsche and William James against Scientism. PhD thesis, Princeton University. Greene, Joshua. 2014. Moral Tribes: Emotion, Reason, and the Gap between Us and Them. New York: Penguin Books. Grove, Jack. 2015. “Social Sciences and Humanities Faculties ‘to Close’ in Japan after Ministerial Intervention.” Times Higher Education, 14 September 2015. Available at . Haack, Susan. 2007. Defending Science—Within Reason: Between Scientism and Cynicism (2nd edition [orig. 2003]). Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books. Hollinger, David A. 2013. After Cloven Tongues of Fire: Protestant Liberalism in Modern American History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Huxley, T.H. 1908. Aphorisms and Reflections from the Works of T.H. Huxley, selected by Henrietta A. Huxley. London: Macmillan and Co. Available at . James, William. 1912 (1897). The Will to Believe and Other Essays in Popular Philosophy. New York: Longmans, Green, and Co. Available at . ———. 1917 (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience. New York: Longmans, Green, and Co. Available at . ———. 1987 (1907). “Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking.” In Writings 1902–1910, ed. Bruce Kuklick, pp. 479–624. New York: The Library of America. Jenkins, Scott. 2012. “Nietzsche’s Questions Concerning the Will to Truth.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 50(2): 265–289. Kant, Immanuel. (1996). Practical Philosophy. Trans. and ed. Mary J. Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cited by Akademie Ausgabe volume and page number. Katsafanas, Paul. 2019. “Fanaticism and Sacred Values.” Philosophers’ Imprint 19(17): 1–20. Moore, Gregory. 2004. “Introduction.” In Nietzsche and Science, ed. Gregory Moore and Thomas H. Brobjer, pp. 1–17. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company. Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1954 (1888). The Antichrist. In The Portable Nietzsche. Trans. and ed. Walter Kaufmann, pp. 565–656. New York: Viking Penguin ———. 1966 (1886). Beyond Good and Evil. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche. Trans. and ed. Walter Kaufmann, pp. 179–436. New York: The Modern Library. ———. 1966 (1887). On the Genealogy of Morals. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche. Trans. and ed. Walter Kaufmann, pp. 437–600. New York: The Modern Library ———. 1974 (1882, 1887). The Gay Science. Trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York: Random House, Inc. ———. 1986 (1878–80). Human, All Too Human. Trans. R.J. Hollingdale. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2009–. Digitale Kritische Gesamtausgabe: Werke und Briefe. Ed. Paolo d’Iorio, based on the critical texts by Giorgio Colli and Mazzio Montinari. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1967–. Available at . Pinker, Steven. 2013. “Science Is Not Your Enemy: An Impassioned Plea to Neglected Novelists, Embattled Professors, and Tenure-Less Historians.” New Republic, 6 August 2013. Available at .

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14 “APRETADOS” Jorge Portilla on Value Fanaticism Carlos Alberto Sánchez

Writing in the 1950s and early 1960s, Mexican philosopher Jorge Portilla’s Phenomenology of Relajo proposes that there are two types of people that “get in the way of community”: those who undermine values and seriousness and those who embody values and seriousness. The former, Portilla calls “relajientos,” and the latter, “apretados.” These two types stand in opposite extremes of one another. As opposites, the relajiento is an enemy of value, while the apretado is a zealot for value—she/he is, what I will call, a value fanatic. Because an authentic, anti-colonial, or post-colonial, community will be one where persons work toward the fulfillment of values mined in their own experience and conducive to a shared, and not imposed, conception of progress, both relajientos and apretados constitute impediments to this fulfillment. The first, in undermining those shared conceptions, the second by insisting on what those values should be, preferring and advocating for established (or better yet, colonial and foreign) values, while seeking to impose them on others in various ways. I will only briefly touch on relajientos in what follows, as I have treated this personality type elsewhere (Sánchez 2012); here I focus on the apretado, who I identify with a “value fanatic” or, alternatively, a “die hard” fanatic or a zealot for values.

14.1  Die-Hard Fanatics An accurate way to translate Portilla’s philosophical use of the Spanish term “apretado” is the following: an apretado is a “die hard” fanatic of those values with which he or she identifies. I thus define the “apretado” as a value fanatic, or a zealot for values. Before getting to that, however, a word on the meaning of “fanatic.” According to Milgram (1977), the term has historically referred to an “excessive enthusiasm in religious belief.” Thus, we can pick out Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and Buddhists fanatics by the excessive passion or fervor in which they proclaim their faith. In modern times, the term has expanded a bit; a fanatic can be said to possess an excess of enthusiasm for “extreme” beliefs, religious or not. Being excessively enthusiastic, the fanatic is thus “closed for argument and reason,” suffers from “intellectual rigidity,” “lacks critical judgment,” and “is blind to the contradictions of his own position” (Milgram 1977). R.M. Hare called the fanatic a “moral idealist” who holds his/her “ideals” above any and all “considerations of 215

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people’s interests, even the holder’s own in actual or hypothetical cases” (1963: 176). As a moral idealist, moreover, the fanatic structures his behavior in accordance with his or her ideals, so that his morality is a reflection of what he holds sacrosanct. In these descriptions, the fanatic is set in his or her ideals, beliefs, or values and will not, and, ultimately cannot, be persuaded to act or be any other way—I call this fanatic a “die hard” fanatic. Recently, Alberto Toscano offers a historical typography of the fanatic that tracks Milgram’s observation of the fanatic as excessively enthused. Toscano adds, however, that although the fanatic is closed off to reasons that may change his mind, his relationship to his ideals is not blind. Toscano says, that “though fanaticism defies explanation and dialogue, it is also frequently identified not with the absence but with the excess of rationality” (2010: xii; emphasis mine). That is, the fanatic, as a moral idealist (Hare), has more than enough reasons to not change his stance in relation to his ideals, to what he most values, which he believes he is justified to defend by an abundance of reasons. Following Hegel, Toscano says that the fanatic enjoys an “enthusiasm for the abstract” (24), where the abstract is identified with universality. The fanatic attaches himself to the universal, or the abstract, and seeks to represent it, perhaps even embody it. For this reason, the fanatic sees the world only in the way allowed by what he takes to be the “unconditional universalism” (12) of what he values and seeks to preserve, elevate, emulate, or worship. The relation created with the object of his valuing, and thus, with what he seeks to preserve, etc., is direct and unwavering. Toscano writes that the fanatic is “possessed by a violent conviction that brooks no argument” (xi) or “compromise” (xii).1 Ultimately, a “militant enthusiasm” (23) defines the fanatic, who constructs his life around the object of his fanaticism and will defend this relation regardless of reasons or competing alternatives to his way of thinking and being.

14.2  What Is an “Apretado”? The apretado is also a “moral idealist” (Hare) who enjoys an “enthusiasm for the abstract” (Toscano), or, to paraphrase Portilla, an enthusiasm for values.2 But in order understand the “apretado,” a few remarks are needed about the apretado’s antithesis, the “relajiento.” We call someone a relajiento who personifies “relajo.” Relajo is an attitude or behavior of carelessness and aloofness, a nihilistic, skeptical, or dismissive mood, or the sort of gradual disruption that unfolds when, through the repetition, mimicry, or reiteration of a joke, a tease, a fall, an unpleasant noise (such as a sneeze, a fart, a cough, a whistle), or any of a number of acts that are sudden and unexpected, the entire atmosphere or purpose of a situation, an event, or a setting, changes, is brought to a sudden stop, or is upended. Because situations, events, or settings unfold in accordance with certain rules or values that must be taken seriously for the situation, event, or setting to be what it seeks to be, Jorge Portilla defines relajo as a “suspension of seriousness” (2012). Relajientos, in personifying relajo, are thought to be the enemies of seriousness. They are known in the community as those that do not to take anything seriously, not even themselves, but especially social rules or conventions. If they come across a serious situation, like a gathering where a result or achievement of some kind is expected—they will not go in search of it, since this would mean that they take something seriously—they will waste no time interrupting it in some way that will deny its value, suspend its seriousness, or negate its purpose. Because they take nothing seriously, not even themselves, the relajiento is not hard to spot; there is, Portilla says, a “certain way about them.” We would say that the relajiento is relaxed, uncommitted, or, even, lazy, what in colloquial terms we would refer to as 216

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“extremely chill.” We could even say that relajientos are not fanatical about anything at all. Meeting them, one notices that they are unbothered by worries or commitments, and their speech and behavior suggest that, if they value anything at all, is the freedom to do as they please—but even a relation to this value will be lackadaisical and easily broken. They are, in this way, an extreme sort of existentialist: they live fully in the now, as their relation to future-orienting values is weak and even nonexistent. About this, Portilla (2012) tells us that “relajiento is, literally, an individual without a future. …he or she refuses to take anything seriously, to commit to anything…assumes no responsibility for anything…a good humor witness to the banality of life” (147). Ultimately, we know relajientos when we see them, and we see them coming from a mile away. On their approach, the atmosphere fills with tension; their arrival threatens to distract us, or to get us “off track.” Their mere presence is a foreshadowing of the dissolution of any possible seriousness. Their mere appearance unleashes a light breeze of smiles and the atmosphere is transformed into a condescending expectation of a shower of jokes that will dissolve the seriousness of all topics, reducing them literally, to nothing…This individual is a ‘relajiento’. (Portilla 2012: 147) We could imagine the scene here being one where an important argument is being presented, one with wide-ranging social implications. According to Portilla, the relajiento’s appearance, on its own, is enough to unsettle the atmosphere; people know him or know of him, and now expect what comes next—inappropriate jokes, taunts, comical looks, the jerking of the face, arms, or legs, a loud yell, guttural noises, and so on. The atmosphere unravels. The important argument is undermined by the ruckus. Social change will have to wait. However, before the scene unraveled, the situation could’ve gone differently if the relajiento would have been intercepted, kicked out, bringing a sudden end to his chaotic rebellion. But that’s not what happened. What happened was that someone else repeated the relajiento’s actions, someone laughed at the joke, and repeated it, and then a third person, until the scene devolved into something it was not meant to be, what Portilla envisions as “an endless rosary of negated moments” (147). In such negated moments, our attention seems to be under attack, and negations have colonized the space; the values that held the space together are suspended and reduced to “nothing,” or, in other words, they longer do what values are supposed to do. What the scene pretended to be before the appearance of the relajiento is now not the same scene. It is an other scene, a valueless and chaotic scene. One thinks back to childhood friends or acquaintances that were surely relajientos. We all had them. They were fun companions, since when in their company, nothing was taken seriously, everything was joking, play, and the abandonment of worries. They certainly took us out of time and concern. As Portilla (2012) puts it: “[t]he relajiento does not bring about preoccupation but rather inoccupation” (147–148). However, this inoccupation or playfulness depends or relies on a negation, that is, on the destruction of values and the suspension of a seriousness, those things that not only structure the now but also serve as guides into the future as expectation. This, perhaps, explains why those childhood friends are no longer our friends. We somehow knew that they, and the relajo they brought about, were obstacles to our own futures. 217

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It is worth emphasizing that while the relajiento embodies the qualities of relajo, he is not relajo itself. Although he may threaten relajo’s arrival, on his own, he simply brings with him the “threat” of relajo—this is why, in the above example, the unraveling of the otherwise serious event could have been avoided if the relajiento would have been kicked out or intercepted. In his mannerisms, and in his language, he simply refuses to be serious; it is when others join him that relajo takes root. Portilla treats the relajiento as a negation; as that which is antithetical to social progress or communal flourishing. But there’s a redeeming quality about this character type as well, namely, that relajientos can’t be easily oppressed or repressed, since they refuse and negate the language and the mechanisms of power inherent in inherited values. However, because relajo is the mode of being of the relajiento individual, not much can be expected of them. They are persons without purpose, without commitments, and without a future. Portilla’s diagnosis is that the relajiento’s “systematic negation of value is [ultimately] a movement of self-destruction” (2012: 149). Now we get to the “apretado,” the antithesis of the relajiento. The apretado, which I also call a “value fanatic,” and can also be translated as “snob” or “zealot,” is serious, or, better yet, burdened with seriousness to the point that he is “tightly wound,” always occupied, and fully committed to law, order, and his beliefs. According to Portilla (2012), these individuals are “afflicted with the spirit of seriousness” (190; my emphasis), which means that they will take themselves and what they find important (i.e., what they value) extremely, or excessively, serious. Such commitment to seriousness will set them apart not only from relajientos, but from everyone else. Unlike relajientos who, if they value anything at all, value the ability to do as they please, the apretado values order, law, and commitment—but, again, to an excessive degree. ­Portilla tells us that: Deep down, apretados love order more than freedom. Order is that stable situation of society that allows these individuals to play the exclusivity game and to give themselves the pleasure of embodying value. The objective expression of that order is Law. (Portilla 2012: 196) As such, the apretado lives always within the bounds of the law, which lends his life the order necessary for a full (and obsessive) dedication to values, some which he embodies in the way he dresses, speaks, and acts. We could say that he is “fanatical” about those values. In him, one finds “no distance…between being and value”—the apreatado is what he values, and he wears it on his face, his clothes, his bumper stickers, his hats, because these are “an expression of his internal being” (191). Apretados “carry their value in the same way that they carry with them their legs or their liver: as a silent and solid cause of pleasure that they caress in their private moments” (191). They are, Portilla says, “[c]ompact masses of value” (191). Although we translate “apretado” as snob or zealot or “die hard” fanatic, the literal translation of “apretado” is “tight.” To “apretar” something is to tighten it. In colloquial speech, we say that So and So is an apretado/o if they are “tight” with their money, refusing to spend it, even when necessary. We can also say that So and So is an apretado/a if they are “tightly wound,” as in someone who seems both hyperaware and easily bothered by the slightest disruptions. We may also talk about So and So being an apreatado/a if they are “set in their ways.” As “set in their ways,” this person refuses to change, to accept challenges to his beliefs or worldview, and hold on to what he values as if for dear life. Thus, 218

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we can say that apretados are passionately, enthusiastically, fervently, and fanatically committed to those ways on which they are set. In Mexico, the values which attract the apretado, to which they then commit and which they defend, and ultimately embody, are usually colonial or foreign values, those either handed down by history and tradition but originating someplace else, usually a culture thought (by Mexicans themselves via processes of internal colonialism) to be superior to the Mexican. Of course, there can be local, non-colonial values that could attract them as well, but for the most part apretados will reject these values as inferior; their snobbery becomes apparent in such instances. Apretados come to set their ways in accordance with those values that meet their high standards and, in being set in their ways, they set themselves in those values. Ultimately, those values come to orient their lives and are thus non-negotiable and beyond rebuke. They will defend them to the death, seek to bring about their fulfillment, and promote them as values that the rest of us should defend and embody. In this way, we can say that the apretado is a zealot when it comes to those values that they believe should orient one’s being in the world. As she embodies her values and never tires of promoting them, we say that the apretado is a value fanatic and fanaticism over those values a “colonial dead end,” as fanaticism closes off the possibility that those values will be challenged, altered in lieu of new experiences, or discarded due to a lack of fit. The apretado is possessed by an “attitude of consciousness which refuses to take notice of the distance between ‘being’ and ‘value’” (Portilla 2012: 191). That is, in their being they are what they value. In what they believe and what they do they seek to reflect and bring about the fulfillment of the values that they uphold. If the apretado values the sophistication of the Hollywood elite, then she will dress, speak, spend, believe, as do the Hollywood elite; if the apretado values Catholic orthodoxy, then he will be the most Catholic and the most orthodox he can possibly be; and if the apretado values the color of his skin, he will be his skin color’s most outspoken advocate—historically, we have seen that these a­ pretados will be racist and xenophobic. Ultimately, apretados identify and are identified by that which they value: “values are not ever-attainable guides for self-constitution, but rather actual ingredients of their own personalities” (191).

14.3  Characteristics of the Apretado We have characterized the apretado as a “die hard” value fanatic. However, constituting their “die hard” quality are four basic behaviors that distinguish apretados from non-­apretados or from relajientos: the first we’ve already suggested above, namely, a disproportionate enthusiasm for values (excessiveness); the second, a taking ownership over the values they uphold, that is, believing themselves as “proprietors” of value (possessiveness); the third, a setting themselves apart from those that do not value what they value (exclusiveness); and, the fourth, transforming their entire person into a reflection of the value that they uphold so as to be the value (abstractness). Let us look at each one in turn.

14.3.1 Excessiveness Apretados are excessive. Excess defines them. Portilla writes that apretados are “massiveness without fissures”—they are “compact masses of value” (2012: 191). In characterizing them as “compact masses of value…without fissures” Portilla points to the uselessness of 219

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trying to change their mind. They are closed to new perspectives or reasons as to why they should separate themselves from the values with which they identify. There are no cracks in their armor; they have fully, and excessively, identified. As with fanatics, who Toscano says possess “excessive rationality,” apretado do not lack reasons to be what they think they are. They are excessively committed. This explains why changing their minds or behaviors is almost always an impossible task. Mexican films during Mexico’s golden age of cinema (roughly between 1935 and 1969) provide us with an abundance of examples of apretado excessiveness. Often portrayed as the owner of the hacienda, this character is immaculately dressed in the European style— three-piece suits, bowler hats, etc., they value cleanliness, class division, wealth, racial purity, colonial traditions, and so on, and are usually contrasted with the hero, himself dressed in the style of the Mexican peasants—large charro hats, dirty, poor, mestizo, dispossessed, and for the most part, afoul of societal (especially colonial) values. The apretado’s personality, on the other hand, reveals an excessiveness that knows no bounds: they know what is right, and refuse any competing theory; they are value fanatics and will do whatever it takes to uphold both their way of life and their values (which are naturally intertwined). The apretado’s excessiveness is frequently curved only by death itself: these movies usually end with the apretado’s death at the hands of the hero.

14.3.2 Possessiveness Another way to think about the apretado is as “proprietor,” or owner of values. The language here should remind one of Marx, and Portilla encourages this reading by concluding his Phenomenology of Relajo reminding the reader that a “genuine community” should not be “divided into proprietors and the dispossessed” (2012: 199), by which he means apretados and the rest, but rather, he suggests that society should be constituted by a sort of rational agent that the models after Socrates.3 However, what Portilla means by “proprietor” does not refer to owners of land or the material conditions of society but to those who think themselves as owners of properties in the metaphysical sense. That is, while they see themselves as constituted by what they value, apretados also possess the properties that define the values; apretados, in other words, are “essentially proprietors” (Portilla 2012: 192). For instance, an apretado who values cleanliness will not only try to push her ­cleanliness-agenda on all comers but will likewise consider herself as constituted by cleanliness, she will be clean, and cleanliness will be a property that she shares with other clean things. But more than that, she will protect this property as if she owns it. The same goes with apretados who are religious. They will not only be religious, but they will imagine that they have ownership over their religion, protecting it as fiercely as an animal protects its kill. Portilla says that apretados “live in calm possession of their properties: intelligence, brilliance, talent, officialness” (192). Ultimately, as proprietors apretados relate to the world and to others through “a having, a possessing” (192), which means that, as they see it, “the one who possesses is; the one who does not possess is not” (192). Portilla writes: Since these individuals have begun to conceive their own being according to the model of things, and since property has started out by being the way in which they relate to themselves, it seems inevitable that property become also their way of referencing the world. (192) 220

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We can say that the apretado ties himself to values in such a way that the world becomes divided between those who are allied with certain values, beliefs, or personalities, and those who do not possess such allegiances—they are dis-possessed of such a relation. The apreatados are the haves, while those that do not possess similar relations, for example, the relajientos, are the have-nots.

14.3.3 Exclusiveness As they claim ownership over values, the apreatado as value fanatic seeks others who are likewise propertied. As they form community amongst themselves, they look at those who are not fanatics about values with disdain. A class division forms between apretados and the rest of society. The apreatado is one who wants to set himself apart as part of the in-crowd, as part of an exclusive set of colonial cronies for whom doors ought to be open—ultimately, it is about ownership: All this game of negations is based only on property. The aspiring “apretado” bows reverently before those who possess more than he or she does and despises the mass of those who do not possess. The one who possesses is, and the one who does not possess is not. (Portilla 2012: 195) The apretado wants to be exclusive, to exist apart. However, such a desire for exclusivity means that the apretado requires others with whom to contrast his possessions, or her excesses. She needs others, that is, to see, recognize, and know that both the object of her fanaticism and her fanaticism itself set her apart. Her personality relies on always being better than others and in believing (even if not knowing) that others see her as their superior based solely on her exclusive relation to the values that identify her. This means, moreover, that the apretado needs the other, who is unlike herself, to be always watching, to be always inferior, to always be the one who is not a fan of what she values. Portilla says that apretados “need witnesses”: Since, for the “apretado” individual, values are not that unattainable transcendence that outlines the pathways of their behavior but rather are real ingredients of their being, and since that value-filled being cannot be contemplated in a reflection that only places it facing itself as a neutral presence, “apretado” individuals are condemned to make themselves present before others in order to seek recognition by them. (2012: 193) That is, the apretado needs to know that others are not like him; he depends on others not appreciating his particular relation to the values that define him. He needs to know that he’s one of a kind. Portilla writes, “[a]pretado individuals are “distinguished” by others; but to themselves, they are ‘exclusive.’ ‘Exclusivity is the supreme category in the world of the apretado” (2012: 194). Moreover, in an exclusive relationship with their value, they prohibit anyone else from interacting with it, thus holding it hostage—and holding themselves hostage to the value, in turn. In this way, “apretado” individuals are slaves of others: slaves of the dispossessed, whom they fear but whom they need in order to be “apretado” and distinguished; 221

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slaves of the possessors, whom they fear and they flatter; slaves of appearances to which they subjugate their entire lives; slaves of their apparent virtues and of their maxims, which they consider threatened by negation since “apretado” individuals are immersed in a world of negations. (2012: 196) The idea here is that apretados have surrendered their freedom in more ways than one: first, in identifying themselves as an ideal value, they must conform to the demands of value; and second, in living solely for the recognition from others of their identity with value. They need to be able to read their value in the gaze of others, thus they are “slaves” to the other’s potential gaze. If they are not recognized as the value that they embody, then they are no-thing; but if they are, they lean into it more, creating a tighter identity with the value and a greater distance between others and that value. Attention or recognition by others creates a greater exclusivity. The apretado, like the fanatic, depends on those she excludes, those that do not value what she values, to serve as the boundary that encircles her and defines her in her identity.

14.3.4 Abstractness A final characteristic of the apretado is “abstractness.” The apretado wants to achieve a level of abstractness that signals simultaneity and identity with the abstract values that they own, defend, and that characterize them. The process of abstraction begins with exclusivity, with a distancing between themselves and others (the have-nots, the relajientos). But because they are excessive, apretados double-down on their commitment to their value; they seek the “exclusivity of exclusivities,” that is, to be as the object of their affection, to be abstract and, thus, out of reach. Apretados—who start out being a fullness and a self-affirmation—begin to move toward the periphery of their being; they have a need for other people, but not in order to communicate with them. They have a need for other people, not in order to constitute a “we” with them, but rather to negate them while affirming themselves: they only need others as spectators of their own excellence. In this way, a type of competition of exclusivities is established: the greater the exclusivity, the greater the value, until one reaches—by elimination—a supreme degree of exclusivity that constitutes the paradise of “apretado” individuals. Their supreme aspiration is to belong to the most exclusive of exclusivities. “Apretado” individuals simply exclude others and distinguish themselves from them. They are “abstractness”: what is left when [this occurs] is an empty and universal concept…. (Portilla 2012: 194) That is, as they achieve the ultimate exclusivity, the apretado excludes even his real personality, his personhood, and achieves an abstractness that is only an idea. Their “die hard” fanaticism ends, then, in becoming identified with the idea of the value they worship. To insult the idea, for instance, is to insult their very identity. I recall decades ago saying something disparaging about the history of the Catholic Church to someone who I would say was an apretado about Catholicism. They have not spoken to me since. Because in their fanaticism they came to identify with their beliefs to the point of abstraction, insulting the Church was insulting them. 222

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Apropos the definition given at the outset, we see how Portilla’s apretado is a value fanatic. This is a person whose fanaticism is, moreover, excessive, possessive, exclusive, and abstract. This is a person who loves The Beatles so much that their entire self-identity is wrapped up in their discography and in their history (they are excessive), the poor person who will defend the depravity of the wealthy because in their “die hard” commitment to the “free market” they believe themselves shareholders of it as value (possessiveness), the person whose worship of Donald Trump represents a uniqueness that defines them and sets them apart from others (exclusiveness), and the person for whom “America” is a value that defines their identity, regardless of the historical, political, and cultural ambiguity of the term (abstractness).

14.4  The Apretado as a Value Fanatic and Colonial Dead-End Thus far I have assumed that the apretado and the fanatic are identical, that is, that the terms are interchangeable. This is not necessarily the case, which is why I’ve used the phrase “die hard” to define the apretado as a fanatic. While, in my reading, apretados will always be fanatics (esp. about value) not all fanatics are apretados. Take a sports fanatic. While there are “die hard” Dodgers fanatics, that is, those who are excessive and possessive about the team, most will restrict their fandom to the baseball season, gamedays, or discussions specific to baseball. It would be wrong, then, to use the terms interchangeably because an average baseball “fanatic” will not be an apretado. All apretados, however, are fanatics in the “die hard” sort of way, that is, in an extreme and excessive way. While most people are merely rational, apretados are excessively rational; while others have reasons to be what they are, apretados are excessive in their reasons. This excessiveness in justification, however, is due to the fact that apretados are aware that their identities are always in question, that their fanaticism seems—to “outsiders” or those who are not fanatical about the same things—irrational. Portilla says that apretados “are continually obligated to stand up for [the] virtues and maxims [that characterize them], since casting doubt on these is equivalent to casting doubt on themselves” (2012: 196). This means that apretados, like die-hard fanatics, are always ready to defend their position regardless of how untenable it may seem. Examples abound: fans of Donald Trump are apretados that have identified with the values that Trump represents; they will defend their man regardless of what he does (like shooting someone in the streets of New York), what he says (“Mexicans are criminals” or “You have to grab her by…”), or how contradictory and exhausting defending him becomes. There is always a reason to stick by their decision to support him. There is never a lack of reasons. They consider any argument raised against their support of Trump as a personal attack on themselves, their decisions, and their character. Moreover, even if the evidence is convincing enough to change the average person’s mind, they will not do so as their identity is inexorably tied to him. Rather than loosen their support, they will doubledown on it. To confront either an apretado or a die-hard fanatic with reasons, on this reading, is like running into a wall, or dead-end. In Mexico, apretados manifest themselves as “colonial dead-ends.” By this, I mean that they have allowed an external value, person, idea, etc., to colonize their minds, their spirits, and their personalities and, as a consequence, have set a limit beyond which they cannot venture. In their desire for exclusivity, they’ve closed all openings, trapping themselves in with their properties, isolated in a museum of values, a repository 223

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for ideals and abstractions; as such, apretados lose their future in the past. As colonial dead-ends, their only option is to become more of what they already are—more colonial, more Christian, more European, more beautiful, more…excessive and exclusive. In the United States, die-hard fanatics are likewise “colonial dead-ends.” Regardless of their collective colonial history, fanatics are nonetheless colonized by their obsessions, and, in their dead-endness, they have nowhere to go except deeper into their fanaticism, thus becoming more conservative, more racist, more “American,” more Trump-y, more… possessive and abstract. Die-hard fanatics, apretados, and colonial dead-ends: these are names for those who seek to be identical with a value, with some truth, with a thing or a person. Finally, because they believe themselves as embodying the value that identifies them (or with fanatics, reflections of the object of their fandom), they are not open to conversation about the value. This would be, in their minds, like having a conversation about themselves, which seems circular and unnecessary. To discuss the value that they represent would be to insist on a distance between themselves and that value, and this is prohibited, since a distance would show a mis-identity, a non-identity, a rupture. Dialogue is impossible with an apretado individual. Genuine dialogue presupposes the transcendence and the evanescence of value; but when value is there—completely made out of flesh and English cashmere—the only thing left to do is listen attentively and assent respectfully, or dissent—but not a lot and only with the greatest possible prudence. (Portilla 2012: 197–198) Ultimately, one cannot approach the apretado straightforwardly. Any interaction is a deadend, as they are themselves. The only way to approach the apretado is indirectly, in irony, but only as to disarm them, thus exposing that distance between themselves and the object of their worship (which, at the end of the day, is also themselves).

14.5  Conclusion: The Approach of Irony According to Portilla, apretados conceive of “themselves as impenetrable blocks of valuefilled being” (193). This means that in the process of their die-hard fanaticism, the setting of their ways, their single-minded focus on those values they wish to uphold, they see no difference between who they are and what they value. As they are the ones who conceive themselves as such, they seek to be treated as abstractions, as more than merely human. Dealing with them can be frustrating. Portilla suggests a way to approach apretados or “die hard” fanatics: he encourages a sort of ironic approach. All signs point to apretados as arrogant or pretentious. The only “adequate response” to the pretentious persons is irony. Portilla says, Irony is…immanent to a consciousness that judges and that notices the distance between the possible realization of a value and its supposed realization by someone with a pretense of fulfilling it. It is, so to speak, the adequate response to the “self-assuming person.” (2012: 171)

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In irony, one is able to change the sense of things by re-contextualizing them, by misplacing them. In such mis-placements, one is able to expose a gap between the value the apretado internalizes and the apretado himself—a gap in knowledge or understanding. Portilla’s model is Socrates. With Socratic irony, the trick is to encourage the person holding the belief or value into giving away the reasons for holding that belief or value as true. This encouragement comes in the form of questions or interventions. What we end up with is a clear “distance” between the appearance (the pretentious person’s position) and the reality (the value in itself). This distance, or gap, reveals the holder of the belief as radically distinct from what he believes, and what he believes as itself at a distance from the truth. For Portilla, “[i]rony is something that can penetrate into logic and into reality” (2012: 171). Returning to the “die hard” fanatic or the apretado, because both embody their commitments (their values and beliefs), revealing a distance between them and what it is that they are committed to is the first step toward revealing their pretentions. As they articulate why they value what they value, their explanation should reveal this distance. In this way, “Socrates’ irony manifests itself as a way of freeing oneself of an obstacle that is in opposition to our knowledge” (Portilla 2012: 174). The result is that the apreatado is forced to lessen his grasp on the value, to be less “tight” and more open. This also forces the apretado to reconsider his identity. Portilla recalls the manner in which Socrates handled Euthyphro: Socrates shows that he doesn’t limit himself only to saying it, but rather he makes it visible: he shows that this Euthyphro knows not one word about piety. Socrates makes us catch him red-handed in his not-knowing about piety. He undresses Euthyphro of his pretentions in such a way that we almost feel a little pity for dear Euthyphro, who is there, before our eyes, trying to cover up his nakedness with some rag of thought. Irony has suddenly transformed Euthyphro the wise into Euthyphro the ignorant. (172) The key with Portilla’s notion of Socratic irony is that he thinks that irony can “free” the “die hard” fanatic or apretado from their own dead-endness. In the same way, irony can free us as well. Irony is “liberatory” in that, in freeing the truth (the absolute value) from the apretado or the fanatic, in splitting them apart, it frees us all to look after value in our own way. Like Socrates, we are all responsible for truth and, regardless of the apretado’s insistence, no one has a monopoly or a stranglehold on it. Portilla concludes his Phenomenology of Relajo by reminding us that a well-functioning society is one where division created by apreatados (or fanatics), on the one hand, and relajientos, on the other, are finally dissolved. Such a dissolution makes possible a society where members can properly listen to one another, learn from each other, and grow. Irony is a tool in this “difficult task” (Poritlla 2012: 199), but the first step is recognizing that such individuals exist and to be cognizant of who they are.

Notes 1 This is a brief synopsis of Toscano’s much more complicated view. In fact, fanaticism is not entirely negative, as he makes the case that the fanatic is a necessary element in emancipatory politics. Toscano writes: “The disruptive force of fanaticism lies in its explicit refusal of history as a domain of gradualism and mediation” … “the revenge upon global modernity of peoples without history,

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Works Cited Hare, Richard Mervyn. 1963. Freedom and Reason. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Milgram, Stanley. 1977. “The social meaning of fanaticism,” ETC: A Review of General Semantics, vol. 34, no. 1: 58–61. Portilla, Jorge. 2012. “Appendix: The Phenomenology of Relajo,” in The Suspension of Seriousness. Edited by Carlos Alberto Sánchez. Albany: State University of New York Press: 123–216. Sánchez, Carlos Alberto. 2012. The Suspension of Seriousness: On the Phenomenology of Jorge ­Portilla. Albany: State University of New York Press. Toscano, Alberto. 2010. Fanaticism: On the Uses of an Idea. New York: Verso Books.

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PART 4

Contemporary Explorations of Fanaticism

15 “GRAND, UNGODLY, GOD-LIKE MAN” The Symptomatology of Fanaticism Nicolas de Warren

Nor is the history of fanatics half so striking in respect to the measureless self-deception of deceiving and bedevilling so many others.

– Melville

For many of us, not so long ago, fanaticism remained an apparition at the periphery of our vision, lingering on a horizon far removed from apparently more pressing intellectual concerns, either as a historical phenomenon of occasional curiosity or a cultural occurrence intermittently attracting one’s own attention. But as of late, fanaticism no longer seems to be merely somewhere “out there.” Quite the contrary, fanaticism has volatilized mainstream politics and cultural life to the point that one can speak of a certain normalization of fanaticism along with its political accreditation. What was once “out there” has become “in here.” Fanaticism has come of age. Indeed, the widespread recognition of an increased polarization of outlooks and hardening of attitudes afflicting contemporary Western societies bespeaks the slow creep of unyielding devotions across the spectrum of political and cultural contestation. Whether as the ideological totalism of a collective worldview, the cultish introversion of an elect group, or the myopic pursuit of an unbridled individual, one of fanaticism’s salient traits is its unassailable claim of ownership to reality at the strangling or expense of reality itself.1 This armored claim on reality reflects a steely attachment to a view of the world, more specifically, to how the world should be, at once narrow and engulfing, with the consequence that this imperviousness from reality along with an imperiousness toward reality imbues fanaticism with an unsettling seductiveness; in many instances, to the point of fanaticism for the sake of fanaticism itself. To take but one recent example. The shambolic spectacle of the (so-called) QAnon Shaman’s symbols – the horned racoontail headdress, the tattooed torso, the American flag, and the loudspeaker – are telling of a fanatic’s unconcern for their own self-affirming eccentricity, replete with cultural grammar mistakes, as it were, in heedlessly, albeit effectively, upturning semantic conventions, norms of conduct, and expectations of accountability.2 In the popular imaginary, “the shaman” is vaguely associated with archaic powers of restorative magic and spiritual wisdom. This 229

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New Age image betrays the cultural absorption of the fabricated ethnographic category of “the shaman” – an imaginary figure from an imaginary place and time – while attesting to the dispensation of the real through a magical incantation of social and cultural grievances.3 When faced with fanaticism, one understandably finds oneself helpless, even if wanting – and needing – to stand defiantly in protest and opposition, much as the hapless Starbuck before Captain Ahab. As Voltaire sarcastically noted in the entry “Fanaticism” in his Philosophical Dictionary: “How can you answer a man who tells you that he would rather obey god than men, and who is therefore sure to deserve heaven in cutting your throat?”4

15.1  Écrasez l’infâme! It was, in fact, Voltaire who promoted the – at the time – relatively novel term “fanaticism” in placing this disquieting phenomenon at the center of his indefatigable philosophical efforts in the name of toleration, reasonableness, and enlightened human existence.5 Voltaire’s contribution to the proliferation of concern with fanaticism among eighteenth-century thinkers heralds a significant transformation in the conception of the fanatic, aspects of which still resonate today.6 As Haynal, Molnar, and de Puymege observe: “The fact is striking. ‘Fanaticism’ does not appear in seventeenth century French dictionaries,” although “fanatic” does frequently occur; for example, in the Dictionnaire Universel (1690) and the Dictionnaire de L’Academie (1694).7 In circulation since the late Middle Ages, the term “fanatic” originally derived from the Latin fanum (a temple or other consecrated location, where oracular prophecies were pronounced) and fanaticus (an individual imbued with divine inspiration). Frenzied and erratic behavior, disruptive and antinomian social conduct, and self-deception were notable characterizations that molded into the designation of an individual, or group of individuals, as “fanatic.” Until the religious turmoil of the sixteenth century, the term “fanatic” did not intrinsically possess a pejorative connotation or quotient of stigmatization; it was during this turbulent period of radical spiritualization that the image of “the fanatic,” historically as well as conceptually, attained its radicalized meaning. During the Reformation, Luther decried the “false prophets” of the Anabaptists and the rebellious excessiveness of Thomas Müntzer as “fanatics” (Schwärmer); the latter was deemed a “prophet of death” (Mordprophet). Under the rubric “the fanatic,” Luther included a broad swath of Protestant reformers such as Zwingli and the Sacramentarians, all of whom posed an existential threat to his conception of true religion and endorsement of legitimate political authority.8 What alarmed Luther was not only, as expressed in the German Schwärmer (“ausfliegende, summend schwirrende Bienenschar, sich wimmelnd fortbewegende Menge”), their disruptive doctrinal unruliness, but, significantly, their flagrant disregard and, indeed, rejection of the distinction between earthly power and divine power, between the City of Humans and the City of God.9 The fanatics spurring Luther’s consternation claimed inspiration as well as sanction directly from God for their violent pursuit of their other-worldly world-transvaluation. It was, however, Luther’s theologian, Philip Melanchthon, who minted the conceptual opposition between fanaticus homo and societas civilis in his commentary on Aristotle’s Politics.10 The Anabaptists, with their millenarian aspiration and acceleration of the end of days, were fanatical not merely on account of the intensity and, most importantly, the form of their religious devotion.11 The Anabaptists were “fanatics” given their repudiation of the authority of civil society, that is, the sovereignty of the princes and the rule of law, “to mediate Christian identities to the Christian masses.”12 230

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Bishop Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet is credited for having first introduced the expression “fanaticism” into the discourse on (and against) fanatics with his critique of Protestantism in Avertissement aux protestants (1689) and debate with François Fénelon in Sommaire de la doctrine du livre qui a pour titre Explications des maxims des saints (1697). For this Catholic theorist of absolutist political authority, the Quakers, as he writes in L’Oraison funèbre de la reine d’Angleterre, were “gens fanatiques, qui croient que toutes leurs rêveries leur sont inspires.”13 In Sommaire des maximes des saints, Bossuet identified an inflated imagination along with an inflated image of self-perfection, or sanctity, as the underlying disturbance of a fanatic’s soul. Here, with reference to the Quietists, these fanatics “s’estimant très parfaits dans leur esprit, ils s’imaginent être mus par l’inspiration […], ce qui est pur fanatisme.”14 As Kant would later reformulate in the secular lexicon of reason, the moral fanatic prides themselves on their own self-righteousness in believing themselves to have acted morally when, in fact, they have acted not for the sake of the moral law, but for the sake of self-satisfaction in the mirror of their own self-esteem. A moral fanatic is motivated to act as “expected of them not because of duty but only because of their own bare merit,” and thus come to “flatter themselves with a spontaneous goodness of heart, needing neither spur nor bridle nor even command, and thereby forgetting their obligation, which they ought to think of rather than their merit.”15 Whether Moral (for Kant) or religious (for Bossuet), fanaticism, in part, hinges on a self-conceit. In Histoire du fanatisme de notre temps (1692), David-Augustin de Brueys, who converted to Catholicism under Bossuet’s influence (after having previously penned a treatise against the venerable Bishop), likewise railed against self-conceited Protestant fanaticism as “madness,” given their ambition to destroy civil and institutional authority in the name of the Kingdom of Heaven.16 The accusation of “fanaticism,” bordering on stigmatization and slur, cut both ways, however. Whereas Bossuet regarded Quakers and other Protestant sects as fanatics, Pierre Bayle recognized Catholic Papists as fanatics. As the Savoyard Vicar observes in Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Émile: “Bayle has proved conclusively that fanaticism is more pernicious than atheism.” In Bayle’s terminology, a “heretic” (a term nearly synonymous with “fanatic”) did not merely adhere to false beliefs. They persisted in holding their beliefs obstinately, insincerely, and perniciously, thus refusing any possibility of ­accepting – let alone discovering  – its falseness. In Bayle’s ornate language, obstinacy expediently prevented finding oneself “in the most boisterous Ocean in the World” – the Church. But, as Bayle remarks: How to find this True Church? ‘tis sought for in the Scriptures, and purest tradition; but this is a matter of long and tedious Brawl. To say, that the Church of Rome is the true Church, is saying nothing, unless it be prov’d; and to prove it so, in effect, all sorts of Discussions present.17 Atheists, whom Bayle did not discount being moral, were not liable to zealotry as was the case with fervent devotees of religion. As he writes in Various Thoughts on the Occasion of a Comet (1682): We know the impression made on people’s minds by the idea that they are fighting for the preservation of their temples and altars […] how courageous and bold we become when we fixate on the hope of conquering others by means of God’s protection, and when we are animated by the natural aversion we have for the enemies of our beliefs. 231

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As exemplified in the late seventeenth-century writings of Bossuet and Bayle, the fanatic did not stand opposed to reason; they stood opposed to truth. By the same token, the fanatic did not embody an opposition between reason and religion; they represented a false or distorted understanding of religious faith and identity. These represented, however, isolated instances of the term “fanaticism.” For toward the end of seventeenth-century, “fanaticism” was a “word newly entered into the language.”18 With Voltaire and other eighteenth-century thinkers, the term “fanaticism” gained in substantial usage and conceptual significance, transformed from an adjective (fanatique) into a noun (fanatisme).19 Fanaticism is a dominant leitmotif in Voltaire’s essays, fables, and theatre.20 As Voltaire writes in the preface to his Treatise on Tolerance, it was the struggle against “absurd fanaticism which breaks all the bonds of society” that motivated him to contribute to the Encyclopédie (1777) – the flagship project of the Enlightenment which included a lengthy article on “Fanaticism” but only a brief entry on “the Fanatic.”21 In Voltaire’s writings, the understanding of the fanatic, cast in terms of fanaticism, becomes reconfigured into an opposition between, on the one hand, intolerance, political violence, and imagination unchecked by reason and, on the other, tolerant civil society, secular political authority, and the critical exercise of reason.22 Fanaticism becomes displaced from its seventeenth-century reference to religious heresy to an eighteenth-century reference to superstition. Although Voltaire did not consider that a religious believer was necessarily a fanatic, religious beliefs, as a form of superstition, predisposed a believer toward fanaticism; the lure of fanaticism represented an inherent tendency of religious beliefs as such.23 In his article “Fanaticism,” Voltaire distinguishes – as did other eighteenth-century writers – between enthusiasm and fanaticism, where the latter is characterized by an unconditional devotion to an superlative idea or sacralized belief in conjunction with a propensity for (often violent) action. What disposed religious believers to embrace fanaticism was fallibility and weakness; security and surety, above all, was the tempting fruit of fanaticism. Voltaire defined fanaticism as superstition in action, thus stressing the engagement of fanatics as social and political agitators.24 As he writes: “The most detestable example of fanaticism is that of the bourgeois of Paris who hastened in saint Bartholomew’s night to assassinate, butcher, throw out of the windows, cut in pieces their fellow citizens who did not go to mass.”25 This association of religion with a disposition for fanaticism and paranoid suspicion (as dramatically displayed with the Jean Calas Affair and Saint-Barthelemy massacre) underscored Voltaire’s advocation for the minimization of religion from the public space of reason. As John Locke, for his part, stated: fanaticism is an uncivil passion. It is not only that fanatics, beholden to false and fanciful beliefs, are opposed to reason and the public space of discourse; they overlay a falsifying claim on reality, thus distorting, violently in word and deed, the world in the name of their own distorted and unyielding views. For Voltaire, there are, in fact, many types of fanaticism. In addition to religious fanaticism, there is the “cold-blooded fanaticism” of those who are beholden to an idée fixe, unable and unwilling to accept persuasions other than their own, and dispassionate in the methodical pursuit of their single-minded cause. As Fyodor Dostoevsky would admirably state this insight: a fanatic is possessed by their guiding idea. “It was not you who ate the idea, but the idea that ate you,” the startled Pyotr expresses to Kirilov in Demons.26 From this perspective, the melodramatic Jesuit as well as the metaphysical Pangloss can both be seen as “fanatics” in Candide. As Voltaire writes as well:

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There is a kind of fanaticism in the love of country which could be called a cult of the hearth. It is based on customs, laws, and religion, and it is especially for its religious content that it merits even more the name of fanaticism.27 Among these forms of fanaticism (religious, cold-blooded, nationalist), Voltaire recognizes role of the fanaticizer as an agitator of fanaticism: “Fanatics are usually guided by rascals, who put the dagger into their hands.”28 The prominence of fanaticism in Voltaire’s thinking reflected its profound challenge to the progress of enlightened human existence as well as the urgency of the social and political mission of philosophy itself. For Voltaire, the radicalism of the Enlightenment measures itself against the extremism of fanaticism.29 As Voltaire famously writes in a letter to d’Alembert (13 February 1764): “I hope you will destroy l’infâme! […] This is the greatest service which we can render to the human race.” The battle cry of reason is nothing other than Écrasez l’infâme! In other words: Make War on Fanaticism!30 Yet, there is arguably an unresolved tension running through Voltaire’s writings. On the one hand, the imperative ecrasez l’infâme! ascribes to the philosopher a radical militancy of reason, sliding, as Gustave Flaubert would later suggest, into its own type of fanaticism. On the other hand, in Voltaire’s Candide, we witness la comédie humaine as a spectacle of superstition, foolishness, and fanaticism, against which we are not called to arms, but, instead, called to resigned peace with oneself: “il faut cultiver notre jardin.” Faced with the question, “how can you answer a man who tells you that he would rather obey god than men, and who is therefore sure to deserve heaven in cutting your throat?,” we left with the double-bind of either defiant militancy verging on fanaticism or Epicurean tranquility verging on indifferent resignation.31

15.2  The Last Summer of Reason On May 26, 1993, the Algerian writer and journalist Tahar Djaout was assassinated by the Groupe Islamique Armé (GIA), an Islamic militant organization dedicated to overthrowing the Algerian government and establishing an Islamic regime under the rule of Shariah law. In the GIA’s 1996 manifesto, “The Sharp Sword,” the leader of this group, emir Antar Zouabri, endorsed a Salafist justification for violence against those “impious enemies” who did not partake in their fundamentalist vision of Islam.32 Aligned with the movement of “Salafis” (also called “Wahhabis”), the term “salafi” refers to companions (salaf) of the Prophet Mohammed commanded to an absolute acceptance of Islamic teachings.33 Djaout’s murder was one of numerous assassinations of Algerian intellectuals in the Spring of 1993 (more would follow in 1995 and 1996) during an Algerian civil extending from 1991 to 2002. Djaout understood himself to be a secular Muslim, who, in his writings, confronted the self-styled Islamists, while complicating the entrenched image of an opposition between Western liberalism and Islamic fundamentalism. In a posthumously published novel, The Last Summer of Reason, the manuscript of which was found after his death, Djaout examined, in what would effectively be his last intellectual testament, the unrelenting sweep of fanaticism across his homeland. As Wole Soyinka remarks in the forward to Djaout’s novel: “This voice from the grave urges itself on our hearing. For let no one be in any doubt – the life-and-death discourse of the twentieth century is unambiguously the discourse of fanaticism and intolerance.”34

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The Last Summer of Reason chronicles the experiences, recollections, and reflections of a bookseller, Boualem Yekker, as the world around him succumbs to Islamic fundamentalism. Djaout’s narrative explores the multi-faceted social, cultural, and psychological manifestations of fanaticism. We are guided through a mapping of the contours and dynamic of the becoming of fanaticism, its transvaluation and usurpation of a world. This remarkable literary discourse on fanaticism does not venture a single definition or stable essence of “the fanatic,” or “fanaticism.” It portrays instead various effects and operations of fanaticism. Fanaticism becomes the world. In this respect, rather than speak of “the concept” of fanaticism, we might, with Gilles Deleuze in mind, speak of a “clinical conceptualization” of fanaticism, where different symptoms converge and intersect into a conceptual configuration.35 The Last Summer of Reason develops a symptomatology of fanaticism. From this perspective, the language of “madness” and “disease” which embroidered discourse on fanaticism since the eighteenth century – Voltaire, for example, speaks of fanaticism as “the virus of the soul” (la peste des âmes), “an uncurable disease,” and “madness” – can be retrospectively understood as an implicit marker for conceptualizing fanaticism symptomatically, that is, as a psychological, social, and cultural pathology.36 When thus considered, Candide can be read as a symptomalogical journey around the world of the human propensity for fanaticism, folly, and fallibility. Several features of becoming-fanaticism can be collated from The Summer of Last Reason. The fanatic, as an individual, and fanaticism, as a movement of collective becoming, is devoted to set of values and course of action that are upheld as sacred or otherwise inviolable. As Djaout entitles one of his chapters: “The Good whose substance the Almighty established.”37 Given this devotion to an absolute value or ideal, the fanatic exhibits hostility (one might even claim: thrives from) toward others who would not share in, or dissent from, their own conceited worldview and adulated self-image. In The Last Summer of Reason, the fanaticism of Islamic fundamentalism is not characterized in terms the content of (Islamic) values and beliefs; indeed, Boualem Lekker does not repudiate his Muslim identity. Rather, what lends fanaticism its edge is what constitutes holding values and beliefs. As Yekker describes, fundamentalists are imprisoned by their beliefs; their beliefs do not open onto the world. This adherence to a certain form of having beliefs, where conviction consumes the believer (Dostoevsky’s memorable line: “It was not you who ate the idea, but the idea that ate you”) transforms – “radicalizes” – the content of values and beliefs, to the point that Yekker no longer recognizes himself as a Muslim nor others as sharing in the same faith (and society) in light of the becoming of fundamentalism in his world. This disruptive force of fanaticism plays itself out dramatically in Djaout’s novel with the fanaticization of Yekker’s own family members. Bonds of kinship are broken by the usurping allegiance of his daughter’s embrace of fundamentalism; he no longer recognizes his own transfigured kin: “A statue raised up as the righter of wrongs. […] The illness of fanaticism had attacked her. Her superhuman, inhuman faith had shattered all attachments in her woven by flesh and affection.”38 As exemplified with his own daughter, her fanaticization is beholden to an apocalyptic mission to transform the world at any cost. As he states: “They would shout their determination to purify society in order to bring it in line with the commandments of the Almighty.”39 In words that echo Voltaire: “All fanatic energy is stretched like an archer’s bow, turned toward a dream of society’s purification. Exorcism by blood and total deluge.”40 As perceived through Yekker’s experiences, the becoming of fanaticism involves a contestation of narratives as a function of changing relations of power and shifting cultural 234

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literacy. Yekker’s bookstore is filled with works of Western philosophy and literature, which he does not see as incompatible with Islamic thought and literature, nor his own faith. As the world around him increasingly succumbs to Islamic fundamentalism, his bookstore becomes progressively shunned; he is even attacked by rock-throwing youth outside his store. The power of the word along with embedding narratives animates the becoming of fanaticism. As he reflects: “But it is not only the teacher who stands between adventure and himself, it is all of society, blinding and fanaticized by the Text, a society tethered to a Word that pulverizes it.”41 A contrast is here evoked between the confines of “the Text” and openness toward nature in tandem with a bibliophile’s embrace of the pluralism of literary culture. The richness of culture opens onto the richness of nature; likewise, the diversity of nature is echoed in the diversity of culture. As Djaout writes: Boulem wants to leave the arid and lifeless season of the Text to plunge into other seasons in which heat follows upon cold, plants change their finery, colors explode and then grow dull, and the sky is a painting in perpetual upheaval. He aspires to tasting the succulence of the planet!42 On this view, fanaticism does not merely represent a winnowing of the mind and fixation on an Idea or Text. It represents the constriction of world disclosure in the Arendtian sense of the imbrication of “world disclosure” (or “appearance”) and narrative enclosure, or pastures, as it were. Djaout does not revert to a classic opposition between fanaticus homo and societas civilis or “reason” and “religion” (superstition). Fanaticism, in its myopic claim on reality and nightfall in which all cats are grey, stands opposed to openness and curiosity for “this kaleidoscope universe […] teeming with nourishing, cooling, and shade-bringing trees.” Fanaticism seeks to bring a permanent halt to the “spinning of the universe.” It is “apocalyptic” in this sense, as a movement against the indeterminate movement of the universe itself, of movements other than itself, and, in this sense, it represents the dream of perpetual motion that would be, in its splendid isolation, indistinguishable from eternal stasis. This foreclosure of “the spinning of the universe” mirrors a closure of the imagination. As he writes: “Imagination is eroded by the Truth blocking the horizon, preventing the eye and mind from roaming beyond.”43 The analogy between books and nature suggests a distinction between narratives to which the fanatic becomes captive and captivated, thus narrowing the world to the point of oblivion, and the breadth of world disclosure within narratives that open onto world and enrich the great outdoors. Narratives, as Arendt argued, are not only ways in which we show-up, or appear, to each other; narratives are inexorably ways in which the world shows up, that is, in narrative enclosures of world disclosure. As G. K. Chesterton argued in a comparable manner, whereas “the poet only asks to get his heat into the heavens [and] desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch in himself,” the “logician seeks to get the heavens into his head.”44 The point for Chesterton is that the fanatic (or “maniac”) succumbs to a blinding myopia for the richness and variety of the world (and others) given their monomaniacal pursuit of an Idea. “Are there no other stories,” Chesterton rhetorically asks, “in the world except yours, are all men busy with your business?” And yet, in Last Summer of Reason, Yekker remains at an impasse: Sad reference today: Devotion as the standard for grandeur. Faith: a desert of stones; a gravel wasteland with a scraped face. Boualem Yekker is a man lost between this 235

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desert of faith and the paradise of books. Books, his old companions, the saving grace of dreaming and intelligence brought together!

15.3  “Fight Like a Flynn” Voltaire’s observation that fanatics are “usually guided by rascals, who put the dagger in their hands,” through whose influence individuals become fanaticized, anticipates Lambert Bolterauer’s elaboration of what he calls the “primary fanatic,” namely, the fanatic who induces fanaticism in others. Bolterauer distinguishes between “the original fanaticizing fanatic” (originären, ‘fanatisierenden’ Fanatiker) and “induced fanaticism” (induzierten Fanatismus).45 As Djaout examined in his novel, the becoming of fanaticism does not occur without a fanaticizing narrative along with fanaticizing figure. According to Bolterauer, the allure of the primary fanatic, or fanaticizer, consists in authorizing their followers to repudiate and rebel against the inhibitions of the super-ego function of social norms, customs, and laws. Fanaticized followers find assurance in an idealized figure who dispenses reassurance, conviction, and security.46 Aside from Donald Trump, there is no better contemporary example of a primary fanatic than General Michael Flynn, recently labeled “one of the most prominent right-wing leaders in America.” Among other machinations in Flynn’s self-­ proclaimed “spiritual war,” this retired three-star General, “once hailed as an intelligence genius,” headlines the “Reawaken America Tour.”47 This traveling exhibition and excitation of fanaticism, committed to “discovering the Truth” and “resetting America,” brings under one capacious tent a host of narratives, constituencies, and grievances: anti-government, anti-maskers, anti-vaxers, election deniers, and QAnon adherents. What unifies this sectarian menagerie of discontent is the proliferation and promotion of falsities and insinuation of a coup against reality (as dramatically witnessed with the January 6, 2021 insurrection). Seductive narratives of apocalyptic promise prove conducive for the constitution of ingroup solidarity among followers who otherwise would not find common cause or ground with each other. “There’s a war going on right now,” as Flynn, lionized as “living martyr,” “war-hero,” and “America’s General,” exhorted his enthralled audience at one gathering.48 Within this movement to “reawaken America,” the religious overtones of which cannot be missed, Flynn heroically casts himself in a narrative of “spiritual war” for the soul and future of America in which he himself acts as the main protagonist.49 This spiritual crusade represents a Manichean conflict between absolute good and evil. As a typical symptom of such paranoid conspiratorial mindset, as Richard Hofstadter observed in his classic essay, “what is necessary is not compromise but the will to fight things out to the finish.”50 As a primary fanatic, Flynn embodies what Leo Lowenthal and Norbert Guterman labeled “the agitator,” namely, “the demagogue who calls for change (or rather what he calls change), for housecleaning, eliminating, removing, returning or advancing to something better and purer, to the genuine American values, American freedom, American piety, American cleanliness.”51 The agitator gives voice to what followers might think and believe yet themselves never (dare) articulate in public. Especially through slogans and repeated, forceful statements, the agitator induces an individual into a collective set of convictions while allowing an individual stamp on those convictions to remain by virtue of a personalized relation to the agitator. As they write: “The agitator does not confront his audience from the outside; he seems rather like someone arising from its midst to express its innermost thoughts.”52 And yet, contrary to their contention that the agitator presents their themes “with a frivolous air,” one might claim (in the case of Flynn and 236

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other comparable figures) the contrary. Taking a cue from Simone de Beauvoir’s reflections on “the serious man” in The Ethics of Ambiguity, as she writes, “the serious leads to a fanaticism which is as formidable as the fanaticism of passion.”53 The person who makes themselves “serious” in this Beauvoirian sense accords an absolute meaning to an image, value, or role through which they dissimulate their own subjectivity, and hence, freedom, as “an indefinite movement.” The serious man, as she writes, “puts nothing into question,” least of all, themselves. Given what might be termed the figurative self-immolation of the fanatic to the Idol of their conceit, “the serious man is dangerous.” As she writes with examples in view, the fanaticism of the Inquisition which does not hesitate to impose a credo, that is, an internal movement, by means of external constraints. It is the fanaticism of the Vigilantes of America who defend morality by means of lynching. It is the political fanaticism which empties politics of all human content and imposes the State, not for individuals, but against them.54 This recalibration of the agitator around “the serious man” seamlessly connects into what Lowenthal and Guterman identify as “the constants of agitation.” Unlike social reformers and revolutionaries, the agitator exploits and stokes pre-existing social discontent and political grievance without offering a rational or reality-bound means of social and political transformation. As they write, “unlike the reformer or revolutionary the agitator makes no effort to trace social dissatisfaction to a clearly definable cause.” A further “constant” of agitational political mobilization is the placing of responsibility on “an unvarying set of enemies, whose evil character or sheer malice is at the bottom of social maladjustment.”55 Moreover, “Instead of building an objective correlate of his audience’s dissatisfaction, the agitator tends to present it through a fantastic and extraordinary image, which is an enlargement of the audience’s own projections” with paranoiac overtones.56 In giving voice to a litany of grievances along with instilling an aspiration for transformation, the primacy fanatic, through their narrative framing and inducing, effects a displacement and transference of meaning: the actual conditions of social discontent (poverty, increase in cost of living, etc.) are displaced and, indeed, obscured, along with a transference of the “cause” of discontent onto “the other,” who becomes the target of aggression and antagonism. Through this condensation and channeling of aggression, the primary fanatic serves as an emotional avatar for in-group identification – “Fight like a Flynn!” – and cultural fertilizer, as it were, of social distrust and hostility toward out-groups (“the media elite,” etc.). Yet, rather than consider the function of the primary fanatics as a persuader (deploying a rhetoric of persuasion), it is more fitting to speak of the primacy fanatic as exercising the magic of seduction. This inducing of fanaticism in others draws on a narrative of “Family Romance” – “Make America Great Again!” – while operating with a strategy of de-representing and de-legitimating socially instituted reality (i.e., the election) in the name of (purportedly) the Truth itself. The “truth” becomes capitalized, as it were, in two senses: rendered into an Absolute and leveraged in the lure of seduction. The slogans “do you own research!,” “think for yourself!,” and “speak the truth!” that circulate among QAnon hives and “Reawaken America” events serves as a ploy to proliferate “Flynn facts” and “falsities” as genuine articles of truth. The primary fanatic dupes his followers in insisting that they have been duped (by liberals, by the elite media, etc.) under the imperative: “don’t be duped!” As Lowenthal and Guterman perceptively (and presciently) observed: “The dupe 237

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is pictured not merely as cheated, but as cheated systematically, consistently, and perpetually” as the victim of conspiracy and oppression. The primary fanatic animates a transvaluation in the authorization function of truthdiscourse to which the reconfiguration and redeployment of power relations are hitched. Social and cultural identities become “de-represented” from established accounts and norms of accountability as well as “de-institutionalized.” Established institutions of truth-discourse – newspapers, “Liberal Media,” politicians, academics, etc. – become de-­ legitimated and exposed as purveyors of falsity. The agitator contests the terms of representation itself; hence, the vitally theatrical nature of fanaticism and its conspiratorial politics.57 When seen in this way, the agitator, as a generating fanatic, incarnates a charis matic personality of authority. Following Max Weber’s seminal analysis, a charismatic leader is not only an individual to whom “great expectations” and political acumen are attributed. Charisma is not a mysterious or intrinsic quality of an individual but emerges instead as a social interaction between the charismatic leader and their followers. Charismatic authority (as with Flynn and Trump, for example) represents a form of political leadership, structure of social relations among adherents of the group, and cognitive understandings of the situation and space of political action. Although not every charismatic leader is necessarily a primary fanatic, a primacy fanatic, as an agitator of fanaticism, operates as a charismatic personality. For Weber, charismatic leadership leverages a “revolutionary power [that may lead] to a change of vital courses of ethos and action and complete reorientation of all attitudes to any single life form and to the world in general.”58 Charisma exudes from as well as becomes projected onto the leader-figure through a social relation predicated on “voluntary acceptance through the subjects by abandonment to revelation, hero worship, and trust in the leader.” On this basis of devotion to a charismatic leader, the leader leverages their social authority and personal prestige, with the uptake that followers, gathered around their leader figure, become less inclined and less beholden to normative rules, inhibiting prohibitions, and institutions. As Weber states, in a charismatic relationship, there are “no rules of procedure, no abstract legal acts, and no rational jurisdiction.” The more a charismatic figure flaunts the norm, the more they become lauded as the (new) norm. Attachment to a charismatic leader allows for an individual to break with the anonymity of political authority while at the same time investing personalized capital into political issues and identities; the separation, or distance, between who one is and what one believes becomes reduced, thus dismantling that singular virtue of the political: discretion. This collapse of discretion and hence, for Hannah Arendt, civility is the exacted price of devotion to an Ideal. The relation between charismatic leader and followers is constituted through affective solidarity and personalized identification (or attachment), and thus are not organized, or mediated, by established institutional authority and entrenched norms. As Weber states, charismatic leaders are “alien to the economy” in the sense that they (and their collective) operate within a social space outside and, indeed, counter wise to, the rationality of utility and bureaucracy, thus often resorting to blackmail, bribery, and other illegal actions to advance their cause and bolster their charismatic stature. A charismatically crystallized group of followers is bonded through emotional collectivization. The becoming of fanaticism involves the generative collectivization of various emotional, or affective, relations (pride, sympathetic identification, etc.) which, given the premium of emotional investment of each follower in the group as such as well as their charismatic figure, fosters what Weber insightfully terms the “probation” (or dispensation) of the charismatically charged group from 238

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norms and conventions. Inciting and sanctioning social probation constitutes the “revolutionary” force of the charismatic leader: their self-elected exception from established norms and instituted rationality. Indeed, the more that institutional norms are disregarded and rejected, the stronger the charismatic relationship between leader and follower becomes. The charismatic leader must therefore sustain his standing on the footing of a permanent probation. This mandate of probation extends without end, as it were, to the degree that followers will continue to believe in their charismatic leader – their prophecies, views, etc., – at the expense of reality itself in order to preserve the probation, or exceptionality, of the leader, and thereby, their own in-group election.59 Self-deception and cognitive dissonance among followers thus becomes mitigated through the emotional collectivization of identifying oneself as “elected” with the exceptional burden of probation. Followers relish in the sense of release (as sung at a recent Reawaken America Tour after Flynn’s address: “We’re not gonna’ take it anymore!” to the original track from Twisted Sister) from the norms and accountability of the social body, thus fostering progressive distrust and deinstitutionalization as essential for their own exclusive claim to the ownership of political and social reality. Through his incitement of probation, the primary fanatic can be seen as what Kierkegaard dubbed the “counterfeit knight of faith” – “the sectarian” – who, in calling for the suspension of the ethical, not induces others into his sectarian faction and thus understands himself as a “teacher,” that is, indoctrinator and agitator. The genuine Knight of Faith, by contrast, “is witness, never a teacher.” Whereas the Knight of Faith “feels of the pain of not being able to make himself intelligible to others,” the sectarian is possessed by “a vain desire to instruct others,” indeed, to seduce others into “their screaming and hooting menagerie.”60 In an insightful passage in Economy and Society, Weber contrasts the “personal proof” of charismatic leadership with the “democratic proof” of election, essential for the establishment of democratic legitimacy. Election supplants charisma in a rationalized organized democratic society. As Weber argues, the principle of election, when applied to rulers, can be seen as a “redefinition of charisma.” As he writes: “Elected officials whose legitimacy derives from the trust of the ruled, and so are liable to removal if they lose this trust, are typical of ‘democracies’ of a particular kind, for instance that in America.” Plebiscitary democracies or “leader democracies” represent a type of charismatic rule “concealed by the formality that legitimacy is derived from the will of the ruled, and is only by virtue of this capable of being sustained.”61 In this light, the “Stop the Steal” movement and election denial are symptomatic of charismatic social relationship and the deinstitutionalization effected through charismatic social relationships. The democratic legitimacy of election becomes Trumped by the authoritarian legitimacy of charismatic seduction and exceptionality.

15.4  Lingua Tertii Imperi In The Last Summer of Reason, Djaout contrasted the literary culture of the bibliophile Boualem Yekker with the desertification of the world under the sweep of Islamic fundamentalism in its devotion to the Text. When stated in Arendtian terms, the space of the political, wherein individuals appear to each other and act in concert with each other is both a space of narratives – the stories we tell each other, the stories we become – and a space of world disclosure. Along similar lines, as Wilhelm Schapp argued, “being in the world” is always embedded in “being in narrative” – our life stories, historical narratives, etc.62 Narratives frame our interaction with the world and each other; narratives allow for the articulation 239

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of who we are in concert with each other. As significantly, as argued by Jerome Bruner, “narratives, then, are a version of reality whose acceptability is governed by convention and ‘narrative necessity’ rather than by empirical verification and logical requiredness,” – to the point of sustaining a narrative for its own necessity at the expense of reality itself.63 In Djaout’s novel, the conduit for the fanaticization of Yekker’s family transpired through their subjection to the Text; their becoming-fanatic involved their narrative imprisonment. This constitutive relation between the becoming of fanaticism and narrative inducementimprisonment is lucidly examined in Victor Klemperer’s The Language of the Third Reich, who recognizes the interaction between the generative force of narration for the seduction and traction of fanaticism and a vested attachment to a leader, as a primary fanatic. As a philologist and scholar of the eighteenth century, Klemperer was astutely sensitive to the power of discourse in proliferating and indoctrinating fanaticism. However, as he argues, “the most powerful Hitlerian propaganda tool” was neither the official speeches delivered by Hitler and Goebbels, nor Nazi newspaper articles and Nazi symbolism. As he writes: “Instead Nazism permeated the flesh and blood of the people through single words, idioms and sentence structures which were imposed on them in a million repetitions.” This saturation of the space of discourse, through an effective use of media (radio, films; in our contemporary context: internet and other digital media), amplified how language does not “simply write and think for me, it also increasingly dictates my feelings and governs my entire spiritual being the more unquestioningly and unconsciously I abandon myself to it.”64 Dubbed the Lingua Tertii Imperi (LTI), the discourse of the Third Reich generated, induced, and enforced fanaticism among large segments of the German population. LTI, as he writes, changes the values of words and the frequency of their occurrence, it makes common property out of what was previously the preserve of an individual or tiny group, it commandeers for the party that which was previously common property and in the process steeps words and groups of words and sentences in its poison. This fanaticization through discourse changes the political function and social valence of language itself. Reflecting an insight found as well in The Last Summer of Reason, Klemperer characterizes LTI as the omnipotence of poverty. As he writes: “The richness, which flourished until 1933, when it was abruptly stifled, must be recognized in order to grasp the true poverty of that uniform slavery which is a fundamental characteristic of the LTI.”65 This impoverishment of the function of language occurs through the repeated use of prescriptive statements, clichés, and slogans, thus rendering every utterance and statement an “oration” and “invocation.” As he writes: “The LTI is the language of mass fanaticism. Where it addresses the individual – and not just his will but also his intellect – where it educates, it teaches means of breeding fanaticism and techniques of mass suggestion.”66 The “handbook” of this “priestly deception” was, of course, Hitler’s Mein Kampf. This transformation of the function of language, as an essential element in the fanaticization of a population, was understood by the architect of Nazi propaganda himself. As Joseph Goebbels stated, he pursued in his propaganda efforts every means available to being to the masses a new way of thinking in a modern, up-to-date, interesting, and appealing manner […] That is the secret of propaganda; completely to imbue the targeted person with the ideas of your propaganda without him even realising it.67 240

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However, the power of Nazi discourse proclaiming German racial superiority and the millennial destiny of the Reich was effective not as a passive manipulation of the population. Rather, as argued by Nicholas O’Shaughnessy, “persuasion in such cases offers an idea of solidarity and the target of that persuasion is more co-conspiratorial than victim, an invitation to share in the creation of a hyperbolic fiction.” Such discourse, in other words, did not just induce fanaticism; it invited to partake in fanaticism. It was both seduction and solicitation. In this sense, LTI “does not make the error of asking for belief” nor pretend to represent objectivity, but operates instead as an “invocation to partnership” through what Adorno called the “collective power of fantasies.”68 As Goebbels understood: “the politics of representation was more important than the representation of politics.”69 From this perspective, the identification or association of propaganda with falsification runs the risk of falsifying the actual functioning of the seductiveness and traction of fanaticizing narratives. As Aristotle Kallis argues, propaganda involves a fabrication of truth, yet it is a manufactured truth that is “reshaped through the lens of regime intention […] that links past, present, and future in a meaningful, coherent way.”70 Fanatical narratives are invitations to partnership (social and political) as well as (narcissistic) group identification and solidarity, which solicits individuals to participate in an adventure, as it were, with fanatical devotion toward the realization of an alternative social and political reality, and hence, worldview. This becoming of fanaticism becomes normalized into a shared and unquestioned “common sense” of the group. As Klemperer observed first hand, the normalization of fanaticism integrally belongs to the generative process of fanaticism itself.71 To illustrate the generative sway of LTI for the inducing of and invitation to fanaticism, Klemperer tells the story of a young man, enlisted in the officer training corps, whom he befriended during the late 1920s: “an upright and good-natured young man” with “an honest heart and without any trace of chauvinism or blood lust.”72 After this man’s promotion to Lieutenant, Klemperer lost contact with him. Shortly after their brief acquaintance, Max René Hesse published a novel Partenau (1929) as a thinly veiled endorsement of Nazi ideology and veneration of the German Army. The plot of this story centers on the friendship between Lieutenant Partenau and a person of the landed Prussian aristocracy (named Junker Kiebold). In this novel, Parenau expresses “fanatical” and “fantastical” ideas, and dreams of revenge after the 1918 defeat in the hopes of German renewal. Praising the “master race of the superior German nation,” Partenau speaks of needing a “glorious leader” who could give “the Germans the space they need.” The impressionable Junker Kiebold, in Klemperer’s words, “is fired with enthusiasm by the ideas of the lieutenant. ‘I would die tomorrow for Partenau’s dreams and ideas.” Much to Klemperer’s consternation, upon re-connecting with his former acquaintance during the 1930s, he is shocked to discover that this man has meanwhile embraced whole-heartedly the views of the fictional character Partenau. In effect, the fictional narrative of Nazi ideology in Hesse’s novel contributed to the becoming of fanaticism in Klemperer’s acquaintance. As he reflects: How effortlessly people with harmless average dispositions adapt to their environment! […] At the time we took it to be a cliché endorsed without so much as a second thought. But clichés do indeed soon take hold of us. Language which writes and thinks for you ….73 Klemperer tells another story of a woman working for a Jewish shop owner, whom he confronts for espousing Hitler’s Anti-Semitism. And she explains to him: “Hitler allows the 241

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German people to come home, and this is something that is felt, and not based on reason.” When Klemperer inquires as to where her certainty comes from, she responds: “Where all certainties come from: faith.” Indeed, her professed faith in Hitler is “absolute,” at which point Klemperer politely responded: “Well in that case, Fräulein von B., the best thing is to postpone our friendship and the discussion about faith indefinitely.”74 Klemperer underlines that he knew Fräulein von B to be “a very sensible woman” with “a good education” who “grew up with sensible people and felt at home amongst people with broad horizons” – all of which should have rendered her immune to “the religious psychosis” of Nazism. Even during the twilight of the Reich and catastrophic defeat, as he recounts, he continued to encounter persons who maintained their faith in Hitler and Nazism. From these anecdotal stories, Klemperer draws the conclusion: “It is self-evident that at its height the LTI was a language of faith because its objective was fanaticism.”75 In a chapter of this book entitled “Fanatical,” Klemperer recalls that “fanatique and fanatisme are words which the French Enlightenment uses as terms of the utmost censure.” As he remarks, Enlightenment thinkers were staunchly opposed to fanaticism. In Rousseau’s Confessions, the Savoyard Vicar remarks: Bayle has proved conclusively that fanaticism is more pernicious than godlessness, a fact which is indisputable; but he also kept himself a no-less-significant truth; namely, that in all its bloodlust and cruelty, fanaticism is a great and powerful passion which inflames the hearts of men, enables them to scorn death, gives them abundant vitality, and should be better directed to bring forth exalted virtues […]. Klemperer sees in this statement “a complete transformation of fanaticism into a virtue.” In German, Klemperer notes, the word fanatisch is “invariably negatively loaded” and “denotes a threatening and repulsive quality.” Against this historical background, as he writes, “prior to the Third Reich no one would have thought of using the word ‘fanatical’ in a positive sense,” and, indeed, as he points out, Hitler himself spoke dismissively in Mein Kampf of “fanatical objectivists” (Objektivitätsfanatiker).76 Yet, as he observes: “since National Socialism is founded on fanaticism, and trains people to be fanatical by all possible means, the word ‘fanatical’ was, throughout the entire era of the Third Reich, an inordinately complimentary epithet.”77

15.5  “Spiritual Venom” Ever since Nietzsche’s discovery that – to cite Max Scheler – “ressentiment can be the source of moral value judgements,” the relation between ressentiment and fanaticism has frequently been explored: in Nietzsche’s own account of priestly morality and their lifedenial asceticism and Sartre’s analysis of Anti-Semitism, as well as among recent treatments of fanaticism.78 The constitutive role of ressentiment in Alt-Right movements has likewise been (and often drawing on the analyses of Nietzsche and Sartre) a subject of inquiry.79 Less recognized, however, is the significance of Voltaire’s reflections on fanaticism for the shaping of Nietzsche’s own reflections.80 Aside from his explicit admiration of Voltaire’s play Fanaticism, or Mahomet the Prophet (1741), Human All-Too Human “contains a powerful linguistic pattern of references to fanaticism in Voltaire’s sense of the term.”81 As Sarah Kofman, moreover, argues, “Now, the ‘free spirit’ – understood in this way – to which Nietzsche dedicates Human, All Too Human is precisely Voltaire, whom he judges as one of 242

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the greatest liberators of spirit.”82 As Nietzsche himself writes in Ecce Homo: “The name ‘Voltaire’ on one of my writings – that was true progress – towards myself.” Not surprisingly, given the vibrant resonances between both authors’ views, Nietzsche closes the chapter “Why I am Destiny” in Ecce Homo with the imperative: Écrasez l’infâme!83 Following Voltaire, Nietzsche proposes that the presupposition of every believer of every persuasion was that he could not be refuted; if the objections proved extremely strong, it still remained possible for him to malign reason and perhaps even to plant ‘credo quia absurdum est’ as the banner of the most extreme fanaticism.84 What distinguishes the fanatical believer is their conviction of possessing truth without compromise and unconditionally. It is not necessarily the content of a given belief, value, idea, but, as it were, “the how” of holding onto their conviction, as Bayle described it, obstinately, insincerely, and perniciously. Stubbornness and obstinacy, mixed with an obsessive quality of attachment, characterize the sense in which a fanatic’s convictions embodies a complete investment of themselves. To adopt a Sartrean manner of speaking, the fanatic wants to be right at the expense of truth itself since it is upon their convictions of being “the truth,” where the fanatic interjects the object of their devotion as well as projects themselves into their devotional object (that is, identifies with this object through the incorporation of their own self-image into the object). Their sense of self becomes incorporated into their convictions, rather than beliefs becoming inscribed into their sense of self. As Sartre examined in his analysis of bad faith (mauvais foi), a fanatic, when thus regarded as captivated by self-deception, and hence, in bad faith, is swayed by “non-persuasive evidence,” that is: he does not believe because he is persuaded (on the basis of evidence or reasoning); on the contrary, he believes in order not to be persuaded (by evidence or reasoning). In this sense, the fanatic’s conviction places themselves beyond reproach and hence beyond the reach of truth or falsity. They have, following Sartre, immunized themselves from the purchase of truth’s meaningfulness. As Nietzsche writes: “The believer is not free to have a conscience at all over the question ‘true’ and ‘false’: to be honest on this point would mean his immediate destruction.”85 In this respect, the fanatic can be said to be “the antithesis, the antagonist of the truthful man – of truth,” or, more pointedly, the antithesis of what Nietzsche calls Redlichkeit – probity, honesty, or truthfulness. As he writes: “Enemies of truth. – convictions are more dangerous enemies than are lies.”86 What animates this wanting “to be” truth turns on a distinction between “the pathos that we possess the truth” and “the pathos for searching after the truth.”87 The pathos to possess the truth establishes a besieged mentality within the fanatical in-group (and its value attachments and worldview) as well as imbues a quotient of hostility toward outgroups, verging into a paranoid suspicion with regard to the world “out there,” while promoting an ethos of self-sacrifice “in here.”88 As Cioran memorably stated: “The fanatic is incorruptible: If he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.”89 It is the (perceived or imagined) threat against a group to which the fanatic adheres, and not necessarily to oneself, which provokes and, indeed, amplifies aggressive response, and this because the fanatical collective embodies and strives to preserve its values and worldview. Given this narcissistic structure of the groupself, any endangering of its worldview or, indeed, its loss, is experienced collectively as more threatening, and hence, catastrophic than the death of individuals. As Nietzsche comments, 243

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the one who possesses the truth “had to preserve it at any price and by any sacrifice for the salvation of humanity,” or, whatever group (“America,” etc.) a given fanaticism narratively elects for itself as its “chosen glory.”90 This pathos for possession involves a desire for self-possession (identification one’s ideal self-image) as well as an abreaction of one’s own fallibility or failings, that is, an abreaction of self-dispossession. The fanatic protects themselves against their own fallibility or failings by means of aggression against those against whom he is convinced he must preserve “the truth,” namely, his own convictions and constitutive sense of individual and group self, at all costs. As Nietzsche writes: “Letting one’s belief be torn away perhaps meant putting one’s eternal salvation in question.”91 In wanting to be right, one wants to vindicate one’s own right to exist (“salvation”). This, then, is the deeper sense in which the fanatic is irradiated with an unimpeachable sense of self-righteousness. “Self-perfection” and “self-esteem” are symptomatic of the self-veiling, or self-camouflaged, of narcissistic regression. Bad faith, or self-deception, becomes transformed into “good faith,” namely, sincerity and seriousness. As Nietzsche writes: “Conscientious people. – It is more comfortable to follow our conscience than our understanding: for it contains an excuse and compensation for every failure – hence there always exist ever so many conscientious people, very so few with understanding.”92 It is in terms of the abreaction of fallibility and failing along with a desire for selfpossession and self-esteem that ressentiment comes to play a crucial role in the becoming of fanaticism. As Nietzsche incisively argued, ressentiment is symptomatic of hatred against others from an existential sense of one’s own powerlessness and degraded social rank. Above all, ressentiment effects a transvaluation of values, for what especially fascinates Nietzsche is how powerlessness nonetheless becomes, through its own imaginative transfiguration, powerful. In the idealized vision of On the Genealogy of Morals, “priests, the most-evil enemies” leveraged their own powerlessness against the powerful (“the knightlyaristocratic”); it is “from their powerlessness [that] their hatred grows” yet from which the creative project of a transvaluation of established values, whereby “the miserable alone are good; the poor, the powerless, the low alone are the good,” becomes effectuated.93 This transvaluation of values critically involves a double form of falsification. The powerlessness animating ressentiment becomes falsified through a mechanism of externalization. The cause of one’s fallibility and failing is not oneself, but the other. As Nietzsche writes: “The reversal of the evaluating gaze – this necessary orientation outwards rather than inwards to the self – belongs characteristically to ressentiment.”94 By the same token, however, the values and rank ordering of the other – “the knightly-aristocrats” – becomes falsified. In a more contemporary reference: the authority of public institutions, election results, etc., becomes falsified to screen, or censor, the failings of those who have lost the election. In this basic sense, ressentiment is anaesthetic: “According to my hypothesis, it is here alone, in a desire to anaesthetize pain through feeling” that we find the cause of ressentiment.95 As Nietzsche sharpened this insight about ressentiment as an abreaction, and hence, selfdeception of fallibility and failure: “Who alone has reason to lie his way out of reality? Anyone who suffers from it. But to suffer from reality means being a failed reality …”96

15.6  “Grand, Ungodly, God-Like Man” C. L. R. James was onto something important when he argued that Captain Ahab in Moby Dick prophetically incarnated the “totalitarian type” of fanatical movements in the twentieth-century, Nazism and Communism.97 Setting aside, however, James’ 244

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Marxist (Trotskyist) framing of his suggestive reading, Melville’s Shakespearean narrative can be read as a literary discourse on fanaticism, charting its passage, in englobing journey around the world, from revenge through ressentiment to rage. The Pequod’s self-destructive pursuit circumnavigates, as it were, the apotheosis of fanaticism’s becoming, narrated along the plot points of a world’s falling to fanaticism and its cataclysmic usurpation of reality. Among the historical figures resonating within Melville’s literary creation, one of the more salient (and striking) is the French Revolutionary fanatic Anacharsis Cloots, “best remembered for his egotistical pride in fighting what he believed to be the evil oppression of the individual, and he called himself ‘The Orator of the Human race’.”98 Ahab is obsessively driven by vengeance against the great white whale Moby Dick which once “dismasted” him by sheering off his leg. Upon taking command of the Pequod, Abab remains the hidden god, until he finally makes his appearance to the crew, in declaration of his purpose, as master and commander of its voyage. As he proclaims: “There is one God that is Lord over the earth, and one Captain that is lord over the Pequod.” He stands before his crew, however, “demasted,” suffering from narcissistic wounding. As an abreaction against the amputation of his self-identity, his monomaniacal desire for revenge progressively transforms itself into rage: it engulfs not only the entire world, as a vengeance against the world, but ensnares as well his “world,” namely, the voyage of the Pequod. His monomaniacal pursuit is at once narrowly myopic and rigidly fixed and expansive and all-­consuming. Ahab exemplifies the symptomatic features of narcissistic rage.99 As a “malignant narcissistic,” Ahab seeks out the destruction of “malign other” – Moby Dick; this Great White Whale is the obsessional object of Ahab’s vengeance. Understood as a manifestation of narcissistic regression, Ahab’s vengeance is both a defense against his “demasted” self – the anaesthetization of suffering, that is, bearing his unbearable fragility – and transvaluation of his powerlessness into power through conviction of his cosmic righteousness and prerogative, echoing and extending, as it were, from here to eternity. During the chase after Moby Dick on the second day, Starbuck exclaims: “never, never wilt thou capture him, old man.” To which Ahab replies: “Ahab is for ever Ahab, man. This whole act’s immutably decreed. ‘Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean rolled. Fool! I am the Fate’s lieutenant, I act under orders”100 Ahab is unable to integrate his own image or conception of himself, as he suffers from a narcissistic wounding, and it is the part of his self that has been amputated – not under his mastery – that he perceives as standing under the control of Moby Dick, thus inciting his narcissistic rage. Moby Dick resembles Ahab physically: both are described as having a “wrinkled forehead” and “humpback.” As C. L. R. James remarks: “Moby Dick is the physical embodiment of Ahab’s inward crisis.”101 His monomania in him did not take instantly at the time of his dismemberment. There is here both condensation and transference: the transference of rage against “intangible malignity” onto the whale: deliriously transferring its idea to the abhorred whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot shell’s upon it.102 245

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Ahab’s “narrow-flowing monomania,” but in his “broad madness, not one jot of his great natural intellect had perished,” and this intelligence and life becomes the living instrument of his vengeance. If such a furious trop may stand, his special lunacy stormed his general sanity, and carried it, and turned all its concentred cannon upon its own mad mark so that far from having lost his strength, Ahab, to that one end, did not possess a thousand fold more potency than ever he had sanely brought to bear upon any one reasonable object.103 Ahab is likewise the “primary fanatic” who induces others into his fanaticism. When he announces to the crew of the Pequod the mission, until then veiled to the crew, to pursue Moby Dick, the clear minded Starbuck protests: “Vengeance on a dumb brute that simply smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing, Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous.”104 Ahab angrily responds to Starbuck’s reasonableness, thus revealing a further aspect of his “monomaniacal” passion for revenge for the narcissistic wounding of himself (the amputation of his leg as figurative amputation, or “wounding,” of his self-image). Ahab declares: “All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event – in the living act, the undoubted deed – there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask.” Starbuck’s reasonable caution registered the “obstinacy” and “blindness” of Ahab’s pursuit; the whale is a “dumb brute” that “smote thee from blindest instinct.” This calls out the fundamentally “irrational” dimension of Ahab’s fanaticism; for Ahab is himself a “dumb brute” who is driven from “blind instinct.” Aside from the point that it is, for Starbuck, irrational (in both a psychological and economic, that is, social sense) to pursue vengeance when there was no intention; the point is that Ahab nonetheless feels himself intimately injured, as if the whale had unjustly singled him out, as if it were “personal,” when in fact it was contingency and blindest instinct. As he exclaims: “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.”105 Ahab speaks of the whale as “that wall” and asks “how can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?” and evokes the image of “striking through the mask.” The “target” as it were of revenge is more than the object itself, and this means, that Ahab is obsessed by “something” in the whale that he wants to reach, and penetrated, fathom; and this means that the whale “tasks me; he heaps me,” and as he says, revealingly: “That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him.” Ahab makes no concessions or compromises for his pursuit and Manichean struggle. Starbuck’s “forboding invocation” falls on deaf ears; nor does Ahab sense the “presaging vibrations of the winds in the cordage.”106 Ahab becomes the God of the Pequod, and exercises charismatic leadership and the fanaticization of his crew; Starbuck refuses the follow the “false Idol” – and yet, Starbuck at an impasse: he refuses to murder Ahab “the would-be murderer in his bed.” Ahab feeds his crew a narrative, and it is this narrative of his personal injury, rage, and revenge, that binds them into a group – to chase the whale unto the ends of the earth. After his rousing declaration and narrative, the three lead harpooners (Queequeg, Tashtego, Daggoo) and crew pledge themselves to their newly formed sectarian menagerie. As seal of their loyalty to the charismatic leader, the three harpooners drink grog from the harpoon shaft. Ahab’s monomaniacal vengeance as usurpation of the ship’s voyage to render it for the cause of his private purpose; he has usurped reality itself. 246

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The object of obsession, against which vengeance raises its arms, as the object of hatred, is “inscrutable.” The fanatical passion for vengeance becomes incommensurable with its original catalyst, such that, increasingly, in the becoming of Ahab’s fanaticism, Moby Dick comes to symbolize more than itself, indeed, injustice of the universe itself: “The white whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung.”107 Melville suggests that Ahab both succumbs and creates his own obsessional becoming fanaticism: the fanatic becomes consumed by the object of their obsession – “it is the Idea that ate him” – and yet it is self-consumption that is self-creating, thus rendering the fanatic, and the fanaticism in its trail, a “grand, ungodly, god-like man” (in the words of Peleg): Therefore, the tormented spirit that glared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from his room, was for the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being, a ray of living light, to be sure, but without an object to colour, and therefore a blankness in itself. God help thee; and he whose intense thinking thus makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that vulture the very creature he creates.108

Notes 1 As Jay Lifton observes, “I came to realize that ideological totalism and cultlike behavior not only blend with each other but tend to be part of a single entity,” in Losing Reality. On Cults, Cultism, and the Mindset of Political and Religious Zealotry (New York: The New Press, 2019), p. 2. 2 https://www.politico.com/news/2021/11/10/jan6-shaman-sentencing-recommendation-520570. For his interview with the television program 60 Minutes: https://www.cbsnews.com/news/ qanon-shaman-capitol-riot-interview-60-minutes-plus-2021-03-04. 3 See Silvia Tomášková, Wayward Shamans. The Prehistory of an Idea (Berkley: University of California Press, 2013). 4 Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary (London: Penguin, 2044), p. 203. 5 In English, the term “fanaticism” entered circulation through a summary of Voltaire’s entry on fanaticism published in The British Magazine in 1765. Alasdair MacDonald, “Enthusiasm resurgent,” in The Dalhousie Review, vol. 42 (1962), 358. 6 For example: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/27/opinion/trump-voltaire-enlightenment.html. 7 Andre Haynal, “Miklos Molnar and gerard de Puymege.” Fanaticism. A Historical and Psychoanalytic Study, trans. L. Koseoglu (New York: Schocken Press, 1983), p. 20. 8 R. Emmet Mclaughlin, “Spiritualism: Schwenckfeld and Franck and their early modern resonances,” in A Companion to Anabaptism and Spiritualism 1521–1700, ed. James Stayer and John Roth (Leiden: Brill, 2007): pp. 119–161. 9 Der deutsche Wortschatz von 1600 bis heute. https://www.dwds.de/wb/Schw%C3%A4rmer #:~:text=swarm%2C%20anord.-,svarmr%20’Unruhe%2C%20L%C3%A4rm’%2C%20sch wed.,Jh. 10 William Cavanaugh, “The invention of fanaticism,” in Modern Theology, Vol. 27, No. 2 (2011), 226–237, 11 For the apocalyptic millenarianism of the Anabaptists and Thomas Müntzer, see Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium: Revolutionary Millenarians and Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), Chapters 12 and 13. 12 “The invention of fanaticism,” p. 230. 13 “fanatical people who believe that all their reveries are inspired by them.” 14 “[they] consider themselves very perfect in spirit, they imagine themselves to be moved by inspiration […], which is pure fanaticism.”

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Nicolas de Warren 15 Kant, Critique of Practical Reason. For a discussion of Kant’s view of fanaticism, see Fanaticism. A Philosophical History, Chapter 53. 16 https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k1040174x.image. 17 Pierre Bayle, “A philosophical commentary on these words of the Gospel, Luke 14:23,” in Compel Them to Come In, That My House May be Full, eds. K. Kilcullen and C. Kukathas (Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund, 2005), p. 454. 18 F. Brunot, De la Langue Classique (Paris: Armand Colin, 1913), p. 475. https://gallica.bnf.fr/ ark:/12148/bpt6k64340467/f38.item#. 19 For example, in the 1694 Dictionnaire, one only finds the adjective fanatique: “Fou extravagant, aliéné d’esprit qui croit avoir des visions, des inspirations; il ne se dit guère qu’en fait de religion.” 20 Roderick Nicholls, “Voltaire and the paradoxes of fanaticism,” in The Dalhousie Review, Vol. 82 (2002), 441–467 See also R.S. Ridgeway, Voltaire and Sensibility (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 1973), p. 52ff. As Haynal et al remark as well: “While participating in the Encyclopédie, Voltaire focused his entire Philosophical Dictionary on the problem of fanaticism. The subject had likewise been central to La Henriade (1728), an epic poem on tolerance […] and to his tragedy entitled Fanaticism, or Mahomet the Prophet (1745).” Fanaticism. A Historical and Psychoanalytic Study, p. 23. 21 Fanaticism. A Historical and Psychoanalytic Study, p. 21. 22 For this transformation, Dominque Colas, Civil Society and Fanaticism, trans. A. Jacobs (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997). As Colas writes: “fanaticism’ once designated religious fervor and zealotry, [but] was later distinguished from ‘enthusiasm,’ and thus came to encompass nihilistic or millenarian political violence” (p. 9). See also Cavanaugh, who refers to “two movements in the meaning of fanaticism” in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (The Invention of Fanaticism, p. 23). 23 As Voltaire writes in The Treatise on Toleration: “Superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy, that is the very foolish daughter of a wise and intelligent mother. These two daughters have long held the entire world in subjection” (p. 83). 24 Alexandre Deleyre in the article fanatisme in the Encyclopédie: “a blind and passionate zeal, which is born out of superstitious opinions, and leads to the commission of ridiculous, unjust and cruel actions; not only without shame and remorse, but even with a sort of joy of consolation. Fanaticism then is none other than superstition in action.” 25 Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary (London: Penguin, 2014), p. 202. 26 Fyodor Dostoevsky, Demons, trans. R. Pevear and L. Volokhonsky (New York: Vintage Books, 1995), p. 558. 27 Fanaticism. A Historical and Psychoanalytic Study, p. 31. 28 Philosophical Dictionary, p. 203. 29 For the distinction between “radicalism” and “extremism,” here invoked, see Quassim Cassam, Extremism (London: Routledge, 2022), p. 117. 30 As Richard Holmes proposes: “a free and spirited version of this vivid but almost untranslatable motto might be Make war on Fanaticism.” Quoted in Roderick Nicholls, “Voltaire and the paradoxes of fanaticism,” in Dalhousie Review, vol. 82, No. 3 (2002), 441–467. 31 Philosophical Dictionary, p. 203. 32 https://cisac.fsi.stanford.edu/mappingmilitants/profiles/groupe-islamique-arme. 33 Quintan Wiktorowicz, “A Genealogy of Radical Islam,” in Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, vol. 28, No. 2 (2006), 75–97. 34 Tahar Djaout, The Last Summer of Reason, trans. Marjolijn de Jager (NE: Bison Books, 2007). 35 In a comparable vein, Goldsmith speaks of a “cluster account” rather than “one simple and neat definition” of fanaticism, or, alternatively, a “foundational concept” in Reinhart Kosellecks’s sense, for whom a “concept” does not represent a strict definition or single “core” meaning or identity. A concept, in this sense, is “a concentration of many semantic contents” (Koselleck). Fanaticism. A Political Philosophical History, p. 3. 36 As Nicholls argues: “Voltaire’s concept of fanaticism gains plausibility if it refers to a psychiatric disorder […] pathological condition, namely, conceiving it as a vice that can be ascribed on the basis of the mode of a person’s commitment rather than the content of belief.” “Voltaire and the paradoxes of fanaticism,” p. 455. As Samuel Turrettin observes in his Préservative contre le

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The Symptomatology of Fanaticism fanatisme (1723) “this type of madness does not initially prevent him [the fanatic] from making good use of his mind in other ways, so he can reason well on other subjects.” 37 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 47. 38 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 80. 39 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 77. 40 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 139. 41 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 72. 42 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 71. 43 The Last Summer of Reason, p. 77. 44 G.K. Chesterton, “The Maniac,” in Orthodoxy. See The Everyman Chesterton, ed. I. Ker (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011): pp. 282–284. 45 For a comparable insight into how fanatical groups induce fanaticism among their members as well as others, see Paul Katsafanas, “Group Fanaticism and narratives of ressentiment,” in The Philosophy of Fanaticism: Epistemic, Affective, and Political Dimensions, eds. L. Townsend et al. (London: Routledge, 2022), pp. 157–183. 46 Lambert Bolterauer, “Der Fanatismus,” in Psyche, Vol. XXIX (1975), 287–315. See also his book length study Die Macht der Begeisterung. Fanatismus und Enthusiasmus in tiefenpsychologischer Sicht (Tübingen: Edition Diskord, 1989). 47 https://www.thrivetimeshow.com/reawaken-america-tour. 48 All quotes taken from Frontline PBS documentary Michael Flynn’s Holy War: https://www.pbs. org/wgbh/frontline. The irony cannot be missed that Flynn once led an elite JSOC force in Iraq. His storied career after the war includes appointment as Head of Defence Intelligence Agency under Obama in 2014; subsequently forced to resign; head of NSA under Trump; subsequently fired and convicted for illegal contacts with Russia; pardoned by Trump; and playing a role – it is widely suspected – in the January 6 uprising. 49 For the resurgence of Christian nationalism, see Philip Gorski and Samuel Perry, The Flag and the Cross: White Christian Nationalism and the Threat to American Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2022). 50 Richard Hofstadter, Paranoid Style in American Politics (New York: Vintage, 2008). 51 Leo Lowenthal and Norbert Guterman, Prophets of Deceit (Palo Alto, CA: Pacific Books, 1970), p. vi. 52 Prophets of Deceit, p. 5. 53 One is reminded of Voltaire’s “cold-bloodied fanaticism.” 54 Simone de Beauvoir, The Ethics of Ambiguity, trans. B. Frechtman (New York: The Citadel Press, 1948), pp. 49–50. 55 Prophets of Deceit, p. 7. 56 Prophets of Deceit, p. 9. 57 For the intrinsically theatrical nature of political action and democracy as a contest of representations, see Jacques Rancière, Hatred of Democracy (London: Verso Books, 2014). 58 Max Weber, Economy and Society, trans. K. Tribe (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2019). 59 For a classic study of this phenomenon, see Charles Strozier, Apocalypse. One the Psychology of Fundamentalism in America (Boston, MA: Beacon Press 1994). 60 SØren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, trans. S. Walsh (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 70. 61 Economy and Society, pp. 406–407. 62 Wilhelm Schapp, In Geschichten verstrickt. Zum Sein von Ding und Mensch (Frankfurt: Klostermann, 2012). 63 Jerome Bruner, “The narrative construction of reality,” in Critical Inquiry, vol. 181 (1991), 1–21. 64 Victor Klemperer, The Language of the Third Reich, trans. M. Brady (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), p. 15. 65 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 21. 66 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 23. 67 Quoted in Nicholas O’Shaughnessy, Selling Hitler. Propaganda & the Nazi Brand (London: C. & Hurst, 2016), p. 101. 68 Henry W. Adorno, “The meaning of working through the past,” in Critical Models. Interventions and Catchwords, trans. H. Pickford (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 89–103. As

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Nicolas de Warren Adorno writes: “For countless people it seemed that the coldness of social alienation had been done away with thanks to the warmth of togetherness, no matter how manipulated and contrived; the völkisch community of the unfree and the unequal was a lie and at the same time also the fulfilment of an old, indeed long familiar, evil bourgeois dream. The system that offered such gratification certainly concealed within itself the potential for its own downfall. The economic efflorescence of the Third Reich in large measure was due to its rearmament for the war that brought about the catastrophe. But the weakened memory I mentioned earlier resists accepting these arguments. It tenaciously persists in glorifying the National Socialist era, which fulfilled the collective fantasies of power harbored by those people who, individually, had no power and who indeed could feel any self-worth at all only by virtue of such collective power.” 69 Quoted in The Language of the Third Reich, p. 101. 70 Aristotle Kallis, Nazi Propaganda and the Second World War (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), p. 45. 71 See also his wartime diaries: I Will Bear Witness 1933–1941, Volume 1 and Volume 2, ­1942–1945. Diary of the Nazi Years. 72 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 25. 73 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 27. 74 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 110. 75 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 113. 76 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 61. 77 The Language of the Third Reich, p. 62. 78 J.P. Sartre, Anti-Semitism and Jew. An Exploration of the Etiology of Hate, trans. G. Becker (New York: Schocken Books, 1995). For recent literature on Nietzsche, see, for example, Paul Katsafanas, “Group fanaticism and narratives of ressentiment,” in The Philosophy of Fanaticism: Epistemic, Affective, and Political Dimensions, eds. L. Townsend, H.B. Schmid, M. Staudigl, and R.R. Tietjen (London: Routledge, 2021) and Bernard Reginster, “Nietzsche on ressentiment and valuation,” in Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, Vol. 57:2 (1997), pp. 242–257. For discussions of Nietzsche’s conception of fanaticism, Bernard Reginster “What is a free spirit? Nietzsche on Fanaticism,” in Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie, Vol. 85, No. 1 (2003): pp. 51–85 and Keith Ansell-Pearson, “Nietzsche on fanaticism, and the care of the self,” in Nietzsche’s Dawn: Philosophy, Ethics, and the Passion of Knowledge, ed. Keith Ansell-Pearson and Rebecca Bamford (London: John Wiley & Sons, 2021), pp. 167–186. 79 William Remley, The Philosophical Foundations of Alt-Right Politics and Ressentiment (London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2019). For a broader view of ressentiment as defining “the history of the present,” Pankaj Mishra, The Age of Anger (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020). 80 For Nietzsche’s thinking as “symptomology,” Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy. 81 “Voltaire and the paradoxes of fanaticism,” p. 458. For Nietzsche’s reference to Voltaire’s play, Human, All Too Human I, § 221. 82 See Sarah Kofman, “And yet it quakes! (Nietzsche and Voltaire),” in Paragraph, vol. 44, No. 1 (2021), 117–137; The epigraph to Human, All Too Human: “In the memory of Voltaire for the hundredth anniversary of his death, 30 May 1778.” 83 Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2021), p. 305. 84 Friedrich Nietzsche, Human all too Human, I, § 630, trans. G. Handwerk (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1995). 85 The Anti-Christ, § 54. 86 Human, All Too Human I, § 483. 87 Human, All Too Human I, § 633. 88 This, then, is the sense in which Sartre speaks of “fraternity-terror” in Critique of Dialectical Reason: “What people call fanaticism, blindness, etc. is really fraternity-terror as experience in another group and in so far as we, as individuals, treat it as an emotional occurrence in individuals” (p. 518). For the complexities of Sartre’s analysis, Nicolas de Warren, “Brothers in arms: Fraternity-terror in Sartre’s social ontology,” in Phenomenology of Sociality, eds. T. Szanto and D. Moran (London: Routledge, 2015), pp. 313–326. 89 E. M. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, trans. R. Howard (London: Arcade, 1975). 90 For the notion of “chosen glory,” see Vamik Volkan, Blind Trust: Large Groups and Their Leaders in Times of Crisis and Terror (Charlottesville, VA: Pitchstone Publishing, 2018). 91 Human, All Too Human I, § 630.

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The Symptomatology of Fanaticism 92 Human, All Too Human I, § 629. 93 Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals, trans. D. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 19. Nietzsche does not adopt a entirely negative judgment on ressentiment, for he speaks of the priestly class and, more pointedly (and controversially), “the Jews,” as having brought “depth” into the world. As he writes: “Human history would be a much too stupid affair were it not for the intelligence introduced by the powerless.” 94 On the Genealogy of Morals, p. 22. 95 On the Genealogy of Morals, p. 105. 96 The Antichrist, § 15. For Scheler as well: This falsification of value tablets, or transvaluation, “should not be mistaken for conscious lying,” as it involves a “deeper organic mendacity.” As Scheler writes: “Here the falsification is not formed in consciousness, but at the same stage of spiritual (geistig) process as the impressions and values themselves: on the road of experience into consciousness.” Max Scheler, Ressentiment, p. 49. 97 C.L.R. James, Mariners, Renegades, and Castaways (New York: C.L.R. James, 1953), p. 13. 98 Elmer Pry, Jr., “That ‘grand, ungodly, god-like man’: Ahab’s metaphoric character,” in Style, vol. 6, No. 2 (1972), 159–177. 99 See Heinz Kohut, “Thoughts on narcissism and narcissistic rage,” in The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, vol. 27, No. 1 (1972), 360–400. 100 Moby Dick, p. 704. 101 Mariners, Renegades, and Castaways, p. 145. 102 Moby Dick, p. 262. 103 Moby Dick, p. 264. 104 Moby Dick, p. 237. 105 Moby Dick, p. 237. 106 Moby Dick, p. 239. 107 Moby Dick, p. 262. 108 Moby Dick, p. 287.

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16 FANATICISM IN THE MANOSPHERE Mark Alfano and Paul-Mikhail Catapang Podosky

Would anyone like to have a little look down into the secret of how ideals are fabricated on this earth? Who has enough pluck?… Come on! Here we have a clear glimpse into this dark workshop. – Friedrich Nietzsche, The Genealogy of Morals, essay 1, section 14

16.1 Introduction This chapter explores a case study in contemporary fanaticism. We do not offer our own novel definition of fanaticism, instead adopting one offered by Paul Katsafanas (2019) in order to make space for an in-depth discussion and evaluation of a diffuse but important social movement—the anglophone manosphere.1 According to Katsafanas, fanatics are fruitfully understood as members of a group that adopts sacred values which they hold unconditionally to preserve their own psychic unity, and who feel that those values are threatened by those who do not accept them. We argue that, by these standards, many participants in the manosphere qualify as fanatics. We understand the manosphere to include a range of actors.2 Perhaps the most prominent are resentful and entitled young men who feel that their sexual, romantic, and emotional needs are not being serviced as they ought to be—many of whom identify as incels (short for involuntary celibates). Another group is men’s rights activists, who tend to be older and are resentful in a different way: in many cases they seem to think that their legitimate expectations about marriage, civil partnership, or child-rearing have not been met, and that the legal system is built in both subtle and non-subtle ways to ensure that they must foot the bill—financially, socially, and even physically—for relationships that they regret. Still-older men who seem mostly to have gone through divorce or other sorts of break-ups identify as men-going-their-own-way (MGTOW). While they lack the fiery resentment of incels and the litigious persistence of men’s rights activists, they nevertheless harbor deeply misogynistic attitudes and dispositions that motivate them to engage in ongoing, sometimes vitriolic discussions of gender relations. Allied with, and sometimes indistinguishable from, these gender-based social movements are a range of xenophobic and otherwise-chauvinistic social movements, whose members obsess over miscegenation, DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-20 252

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differential birth rates between white and non-white populations within their own countries, and immigration from predominantly non-white to predominantly white countries. A prominent example is Brenton Tarrant, who perpetrated terroristic mass murder against Muslims in New Zealand several ago. What unites these seemingly disparate groups is a fixation on social hierarchies, and an insistence that they must reclaim their deserved position atop these hierarchies. In previous work (Alfano et al. 2022; Roose et al. 2022), we have argued that there are three main dimensions to these hierarchies, and that they receive different levels of emphasis among different groups. First, there is the inter-gender dimension. All of the groups under analysis are concerned with relations of domination between men and women. Incels, for instance, often seem to think that women are dominant even though the official public story is that they are not. Men’s rights activists point to ways in which women benefit from legal protections that men do not enjoy (especially when it comes to child custody and military service). MGTOW complain about social and legal benefits that divorcées sometimes enjoy. Second, there is the intra-masculine dimension. Incels in particular are fixated on their position vis-à-vis other men in dating and mating markets. They don’t simply resent the women whose attention, affection, and devotion they think they deserve; they also resent the other men who—in their eyes—receive this attention, affection, and devotion. Third, there is the racial or xenophobic dimension. Many members of these social movements also harbor xenophobic and racist sentiments, and these are often expressed in terms of the so-called Great Replacement theory, which in these groups is manifested via objections to inter-racial marriage, higher birth-rates among non-white immigrants, and so on. If this is right, then the movements associated with the manosphere can be understood as fanatics in Katsafanas’s framework. They identify with a group, which they perceive to be threatened by the broader society that does not share their values. They unconditionally associate their group with sacred values in dominance hierarchies, which helps them hold onto a degree of psychic unity.3 One striking features of these groups is their use of recent coinages and unfamiliar terms (e.g., “red pill,” “incel,” “hypergamy,” “black pill,” “chad,” “sperg,” “freeman,” “hyperborean,” “alpha,” “feminazi,” “femoid,” “gynocracy,” “monkeybranching,” “roastie,” “stacy,” “beta,” “blue pill,” “husbank,” “omega,” “orbiter,” “simp,” “cuck,” “sjw,” and “white knight”). Our contention is that many of the men who coopt and coin these terms do so in an attempt to make better sense of their own experiences and lives. They then put them out into the manosphere, where they can be discussed, adapted, and adopted, in much the same way that hermeneutical resources in more palatable activist movements coin, discuss, adapt, and adopt language to forge communal hermeneutic resources. Fricker (2007) and Medina (2013, especially chapter 3) discuss how such meaning-making is done by, for instance, feminist and racial justice movements. According to Medina (p. 95), this is done through engagement in “epistemic negotiations.” He maintains that it is important to “develop a dynamic and interactive view of epistemic activities that pays attention to (and traces the trajectory of) people’s responsiveness to each other’s contributions,” and that this involves “negotiating processes of mutual interrogation and the collaborative generation of meanings and interpretative possibilities.” We suggest that functionally the same process of meaning-making is engaged in not only by progressive social movements but also by retrogressive ones. Whereas liberationist movements collaborate to forge and renegotiate hermeneutic resources that enable them to make sense of and communicate their experiences both within their movements and to the rest of society, retrogressive movements collaborate to 253

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forge and renegotiate hermeneutic resources that, in many cases, systematically distort the social world but which are often interpreted and adopted in the same spirit of liberation.4 As we will see in more detail below, participants in the manosphere have a whole lexicon to characterize what they regard as their dark epiphany. Indeed, we think that manosphere groups have in many cases been more successful than liberationist movements in creating, negotiating, and in some cases appropriating hermeneutic resources, and that this case study in the dark side of conceptual engineering may be both sobering and informative. Here is the plan for this chapter: we begin with a discussion of the role that concepts play in both individual and social life. This role means that which concepts are available to members of a population has the potential to influence both their aims and their behaviors. We then turn to conceptual engineering, which has risen to prominence in recent years. Working from highly cited examples, we distinguish different types of conceptual engineering that aim to introduce, modify, or eliminate concepts. The engineering metaphor suggests that the people involved in these projects are not merely describing the world but changing it in some significant, large-scale way. We then ask what changes conceptual engineers—whether they are philosophers, other academics, or laypeople—may intend to effect. In particular, we distinguish ameliorative projects, which (aim to) improve the world in some way, from degenerative projects, which make it worse—intentionally or otherwise. We contend that degenerative projects have been neglected by philosophers and that insights can be gleaned from studying the degenerative conceptual engineering that has taken place in the Anglophone manosphere in recent decades. The remainder of the paper delves into some of the details of this discourse and argues that the degenerative project both arrogates existing hermeneutic resources and forges new ones that are subsequently negotiated and injected into the rest of society.

16.2  Why Concepts Matter Our psychology and practical engagement with the world are constrained by the concepts at our disposal. Importantly, as hermeneutical resources, concepts fix the thoughts that we can have (Burgess and Plunkett 2013). What is available for one to believe depends, in part, on the world presenting itself through a particular concept that one possesses. And the role of concepts in our mental lives is more than doxastic. Concepts play a sophisticated role in the formation of desire, prediction, judgment, and planning (Camp 2015). They also direct attention, control what we perceive as salient, and enable us to recognize lines of inquiry. Beyond this, concepts also constrain affective understanding, and even shape affective states themselves (Jones 2019). Arguably, whether one is in love depends on taking oneself to fall under that description: love depends on a concept of love (see Jones 2008; Kirsch 2020). Given the role that concepts play in our cognition and affective processing, it’s clear that concepts undergird social interaction. An oft-cited passage from Burgess and Plunkett makes this connection explicit: Arguably, our conceptual repertoire determines not only what beliefs we can have but also what hypotheses we can entertain, what desires we can form, what plans we can make on the basis of such mental states, and accordingly constrain what we can hope to accomplish in the world. Representation enables action, from the most sophisticated scientific research, to the most mundane household task. It influences

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our options within social/political institutions, and even helps determine which institutions are so much as thinkable. Our social roles, in turn, help determine what kinds of people we can be, what sorts of lives we can lead. (2013, p. 1097 our emphasis) To summarize, concepts shape our mental lives and this has implications for how we understand ourselves and others. Concepts frame expectation, undergird action, shape institutions, and constrain (our understanding of) moral, social, and political possibility. This serves as the basis of practical activity. We interpret the world in line with the concepts available to us, and we act in response to the world in accordance with our interpretation of it. How can concepts do all of this? It’s important to distinguish two ways of thinking about concepts. On one way of thinking, concepts are semantic entities. They are public linguistic meanings (intensions and extensions) of non-indexical terms, and typically thought to exist abstractly (Cappelen 2018).5 Call this the semantic approach. On another way of thinking, concepts are psychological bodies of information, or knowledge structures – where “knowledge” is understood non-factively. Call this the psychological approach. This way of approaching concepts is typical in the field of psychology. Psychologists tend to focus on the relationship between bodies of information and cognitive competencies. The primary goal is to “determine what kind of knowledge is used by default” in certain mental processes (Machery 2009, p. 34; see also Camp 2015; Fischer 2020; Isaac 2021). Importantly, such processes involve classification and categorization. Using a hybrid of semantic and psychological approaches, we will analyze how certain groups in the manosphere develop conceptual practices for thinking about the world and setting norms for social engagement. On our view, many members of the manosphere are attempting to open up new avenues for thought, talk, and behavior, which involves grouping together individuals under novel or revised concepts (e.g., Chad, Stacy), associating knowledge structures with such individuals (e.g., affectively laden attributions such as Chads are “alpha”), and developing new standards of interaction on the basis of category membership (e.g., alphas are dominant). We’ll say more about this below. For now, we’ll discuss a recent field of philosophical methodology called conceptual engineering. Our goal is to show that philosophers have focused too narrowly on the ameliorative potential of conceptual innovation and have failed to recognize the ways that certain groups develop conceptual practices that frustrate efforts to achieve social justice.

16.3  Conceptual Engineering In its broadest sense, conceptual engineering is a form of conceptual analysis. However, it differs from traditional approaches insofar as it is not concerned with making explicit our intuitive grasp of necessary and sufficient conditions (e.g., Frege 1892; Peacocke 1992); nor it is (simply) concerned with empirical facts about ordinary linguistic usage. Instead, conceptual engineering tends to involve three stages of analysis: evaluation, normativity, and strategic planning. In many cases, conceptual engineers start by reflecting on an existing conceptual practice to make a judgment about whether it can be improved. If it is judged that a practice could be improved, the conceptual engineer makes a proposal or prescription for how to improve that practice. Finally, the conceptual engineer develops strategies

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for motivating the adoption of the improved practice in a particular domain of use (see Burgess and Plunkett 2013; Cappelen 2018; Haslanger 2000).6 Conceptual engineering, on the semantic approach, is primarily about changing the meaning of a term or the content of a concept, which determines reference. This is an important project for many different reasons. Some of these reasons are distinctively moral, social, and political; others are more theoretical. As an example of the latter, Kevin Scharp (2013) has argued that our ordinary concept of truth cannot be assigned a consistent extension, and this leads us to certain paradoxes, such as the liar paradox. What Scharp argues is that, in certain theoretical contexts, we ought to replace the ordinary concept of truth with two proposed alternatives. We’ll say more about moral, social, and political conceptual engineering soon. On the psychological approach, conceptual engineering is about changing non-­semantic mental and linguistic facts. It aims to revise our knowledge structures—the psychological information we use by default in certain cognitive processes (Fischer 2020; Isaac 2021). Importantly, conceptual engineers of this stripe are concerned with revising these bodies of information for the purposes of inducing a change in our actual thinking and speaking dispositions, such as how we classify and categorize the world (Podosky 2018; cf. Nado 2021). For example, such conceptual engineers do not aim at changing the meaning of, say, “marriage” for same-sex inclusion, but rather their goal is to change widespread classification dispositions with the term “marriage.” Disposition change is prioritized over changes to meaning (see also Koch 2021).

16.3.1  Types of Conceptual Engineering There are at least four different ways to do conceptual engineering: Introduction, Elimination, Revision, and Replacement.7 Introduction involves creating a concept and instituting this creation within an existing repertoire of concepts. Elimination, by contrast, is conceptual engineering as demolition. It involves the removal of a concept from an existing repertoire. Revision is perhaps paradigm conceptual engineering. It is the engineering of an extant concept with the aim to improve it. And Replacement is about creating a new concept to swap out with another that is relevantly similar, but not the same. A few things to note. First, surprisingly little has been said about Elimination. It is an important form given the social and political aims of certain ameliorative theorists who wish to trash certain concepts, such as racial eliminativists who believe that racial concepts do not correspond to anything in the world (Appiah 1992; Zack 2003). Given that the manosphere is replete with new but pernicious concepts, Elimination strategies will be vital for combating them. Second, these projects are not separated by sharp boundaries. Often it will be unclear whether one is revising a concept or simply replacing it. This partially depends on one’s preferred theory of concept identity, which we won’t discuss here.8 Third, conceptual engineering projects have different scopes. Some might only be interested in changing concepts for the purposes of theoretical inquiry (e.g., Scharp 2013); some might be interested in simply changing concepts in a context, such as the stipulation and uptake of speaker-meanings (e.g., Pinder 2021), or the modulation of concepts within conversation (e.g., Jorem 2021). Others have more ambitious goals, such as widespread conceptual change within entire communities (e.g., Haslanger 2000; Manne 2017). 256

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16.3.2  Ameliorative Analysis Why bother engaging in the engineering of concepts? We mentioned that there are often theoretical reasons, such as coming up against paradoxes. But this is not our focus here. Rather, we are concerned with conceptual engineering as a means to promote social justice. This is known as ameliorative analysis (Haslanger 2005, 2015).9 Ameliorative analysis has a short but rich history. Beginning most explicitly with Sally Haslanger’s (2000) proposed alternative definition of woman, there has been a flurry of subsequent work where theorists have offered new, or revised, ways of thinking about a particular subject matter. The goal of Haslanger’s project was to provide a definition of “woman” that embedded within it the oppression and subordination of women, with the aim of serving the interests of feminist inquiry and activism. After this came Robin Dembroff’s (2016) amelioration of sexual orientation; Elisabeth Barnes’s (2016) proposal of disability; Kathrine Jenkin’s (2016) trans inclusive account of woman; and Kate Manne’s (2017) revisionary analysis of misogyny. It is now somewhat standard practice in race and gender theorizing to consider not just what concepts our terms express, but rather what they ought to express given our social justice goals. Exactly how each of these proposals works to promote social justice depends on the details of the project. However, there is a sense in which, generally speaking, the overall aim is to improve our moral, social, or political consciousness. What our embeddedness in ideological structures has done to our minds is shape them so that we either fail to see the world as it truly is (false consciousness) or else to see the world in a way that is far from optimal given our social justice goals. An example of the former is the kind of consciousness of race that assumes hierarchical biological essentialism (Appiah 1995; Zack 2002); an example of the latter is traditional or antiquated notions expressed by “marriage.” For conceptual engineering projects that aim to promote social justice, the ultimate goal is to either correct our minds so that we may readily see the facts or to develop new ways of thinking such that we move closer to achieving particular justice-oriented ends. It’s worth noting that a lot needs to go right for conceptual engineering to deliver on the promise of promoting social justice (Podosky 2022). Notice the implicit presupposition regarding the scope of justice-oriented conceptual engineering. The goal is to change the thinking and speaking practices, and the behavior dispositions that such practices undergird, of entire communities, or, in many cases, the whole thinking and speaking world. How to get populations of this magnitude to change their thought and talk in conformity with a proposed concept is quite a task. This task is now formulated as a problem: the implementation challenge of conceptual engineering. We don’t have the space to go through different ways of thinking about the implementation challenge. Suffice it to say that propagating a new or revised conceptual practice is considered an incredibly difficult task among philosophers involved in justice-promoting conceptual engineering. However, it’s interesting to compare this to the relative ease that members of the manosphere have in the creation, development, and refinement of conceptual practices within their respective communities. This is not to say that for any concept proposed in the manosphere, it receives widespread uptake. Instead, the claim is that novel concepts, and ways of using them, seem to be able to flourish within such communities to the extent that particular groups in the manosphere, such as The Red Pill, have entire “handbooks” that consist of a long list of concepts that hang together according to an internal, albeit gravely irrational, dangerous, and immoral, logic (see Squirrel and Sonnad 2017; Stack 2017).10 257

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16.3.3  Degenerative Analysis Conceptual engineering does not require that one intend to ameliorate a concept, and it does not require that one in fact ameliorates a concept (even if that is one’s intention). Of course, if one undertakes ameliorative analysis then we might assume that one must have the intention to ameliorate a concept. However, ameliorative analysis, as we’re understanding it, is just one kind of conceptual engineering. One can be a conceptual engineer without aiming at promoting social justice (e.g., Scharp on truth). And one can be a conceptual engineer while aiming at making the world worse for some people, either de re (aiming to do things that in fact make the world worse, whether one realizes that or not) or de dicto (aiming explicitly to harm, as far-right agitators like Chris Rufo do). For an example of the latter, we could imagine that after a string of failed attempts to cause suffering in the world by threatening nuclear destruction, a Dr. Evil-type villain instead concocts a plan to brainwash people by introducing a set of concepts that shapes consciousness in a way such that people accept their ongoing suffering as normal: instituting conventional ways of thinking of what it means to be a good citizen as someone who dedicates their whole life to work and disregards their personal relationships. Arguably, this sort of conceptual assault is the heart of Nietzsche’s objection to Pauline C ­ hristianity— which he refers to as a “revaluation of values”—in The Genealogy of Morals and The Antichrist. A de re version of this concern also seems to underlie the Confucian project of the rectification of names. Only a few conceptual engineers have been interested in whether conceptual engineering can actually achieve its stated justice-oriented goals. Herman Cappelen (2018) worries that because we do not have control over the facts that determine the meaning of our words, conceptual engineering runs the risk of meaning degeneration: The fact that conceptual engineering is inscrutable and out of our control means that it is also possible (sometimes I think even likely) that those who try to achieve good ends through conceptual engineering will end up causing harms they didn’t intend. We have no prima facie reason to think that the process is typically one that leads to amelioration rather than degeneration. (2018, p. 159) Though we might intend to do good by tinkering with our conceptual repertoire, we might actually do bad—at least accidentally. Podosky (2022, p. 13) puts this problem in terms of harmful consequences, by analogy with negative outcomes for farmers in attempts to achieve justice for non-human animals by revising our concept of food to exclude (non-lab grown) meat. Teresa Marques (2020) also expresses the concern that our concepts can be perverted. This happens when a word that is used to refer to a particular reference class, and which invokes certain ways of thinking about the members of this class, is used in ways to refer to another reference class – and this is through forms of manipulation, either implicit or explicit. For example, Marques discusses how Nazi propaganda changed the reference of “fanatical.” The term “fanatical” was used not to refer to a fringe group of radicals but to those who were considered heroes in their efforts to advance Nazi occupation of Europe. That is, the associative information about being fanatical, or at least some of it, was preserved despite a change in reference. 258

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Both Cappelen and Marques show how conceptual engineering can produce negative effects. Projects of this kind we can call degenerative analysis. It can come in three forms: (1) an unintentional negative consequence of aiming at the good (Cappelen 2018); (2) an intentional effort to achieve an end that one mistakes as being good; (3) conceptual engineering that aims at the bad—which has not yet been discussed in the philosophical literature. There are limitations to the kinds of degenerative analyses that Cappelen and Marques introduce. Cappelen seems to presuppose that a particular conceptual engineer knows what the good is, aims to promote it, but fails when they end up producing negative effects. Such degenerative analysis might be classified as negligent or even reckless. Cappelen discounts the possibility of conceptual engineering projects where one does not know what is in fact good, and therefore cannot aim to promote it—while still producing negative consequences. Such efforts would be even more negligent and reckless. Moreover, his account is restricted to the determinants of meaning, the semantic approach, rather than a more holistic explanation of the interplay between meaning and psychological bodies of information. Teresa Marques does a better job. She focuses not only on semantics (i.e., reference) but also on the associative information that is attached to particular words. However, Marques falls short on explaining the possibility of degenerative analysis with respect to all types of conceptual engineering projects. Marques is only interested in the perversion of meanings, so her concern is solely with Revision and plausibly Replacement. But degenerative analysis can involve Introduction and Elimination. Rather than perverting existing meanings, degenerative analysis can introduce new, or eliminate old, conceptual practices in ways that produce harmful consequences or corrupt our understanding. How does this relate to fanaticism in the manosphere? It should be noted that there is basically no philosophical work on degenerative analysis in the real world, except for the few examples offered by Marques. If it is mentioned, it is done so in a highly abstract way (e.g., Podosky 2022). We’re interested in how conceptual engineering happens in the wild. Specifically, we’ll explore the degenerative analyses that occur within the contemporary manosphere. One might think that members of the manosphere, by inducing new ways of thinking and speaking, are either (i) attempting to engage in some kind of ameliorative analysis, albeit in a perniciously confused way, or else they are (ii) trying to change conceptual practices, in their community or in the broader population, in order to make the world worse. In the following section, we’ll explore (i) and (ii) more closely.

16.4  The Dark Side of Conceptual Engineering The term “incel,” short for “involuntary celibate,” was coined by a bisexual Canadian woman named Alana in the early 1990s.11 She started a blog and message board (Alana’s Involuntary Celibacy Project, which is no longer available online) where she and others could try to make sense of their experiences and perspective together. Over time, the message board came to be heavily populated by aggressive, complaining men. Meanwhile, Alana had become more socially confident and sexually fulfilled. She no longer identified as an incel, so she turned over control of the message board to a stranger. Years later, the lonely, angry, mostly white men who had flocked to her board had become a global social movement, adopting and perverting Alana’s coinage, which was initially intended as a talisman to be used by an inclusive community. They congregated on Reddit message boards and elsewhere, continuing the hermeneutic work of making sense 259

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of their experiences and perspectives but turning to dark, conspiratorial, and sometimes-­ violent imaginings. A touchstone of the incel movement was Elliot Rodger, a California man who committed a series of misogynistic terrorist assaults and murders in Isla Vista in 2014 before committing suicide. Before his killing spree, Rodger released an autobiographical manifesto titled “My Twisted World.” In previous work, we have analyzed this manifesto and compared it to other writing produced by members of manosphere communities such as Men Going Their Own Way, various men’s rights activists, masculinist supremacists such as the Lad’s Society, and the manifesto of Brenton Tarrant, the fascist Christchurch shooter (Alfano et al. 2022; Roose et al. 2022). While Rodger does not use the term “incel” in his manifesto, he described himself using this term on various online message boards, and the manifesto includes such self-descriptions as, “condemned to live a life of lonely celibacy,” “lonely celibate life,” and “suffering my miserable, lonely, celibate life.” Rodger has become a sort of patron saint and inspiration for other misogynistic incels, including some like Alek Minassian who went on to commit multiple murders.12 The example of Alana’s coinage of the term “incel” and its subsequent uptake are instructive when thinking about degenerative analysis. It seems clear that Alana intended the coinage as part of an ameliorative analysis (though of course, not one addressed to a philosophical audience or published in little-read academic journals). But of course, no one person can fix the public meaning of a term through sheer act of will. And when Alana turned over control of her message board, she relinquished any semantic or hermeneutic authority or power she may have had in the growing global incel community. She later told a reporter that, when she learned of Rodger’s shootings and his identification as an incel, her reaction was, “Holy shit. Look what I started.” And she told her friends that she felt like “a scientist who invented something that ended up being a weapon of war, I can’t uninvent this word, nor restrict it to the nicer people who need it.” What seems to have happened to “incel” is what Medina (2013, p. 101) calls “counter-interpretations that systematically distort” original communicative intentions. Alana’s coinage thus falls into category (i) above. She attempted an ameliorative analysis (and in all likelihood helped some people, herself included), but she also created a hermeneutic resource that was annexed and—to use a national security metaphor—subject to dual use. The resentful men like Rodger and Minassian who arrogated the term “incel” did so as part of a broader social movement that also took over and perverted other existing hermeneutic resources and coined and circulated new ones of their own. Naturally, with any large, diffuse social movement, it is hopeless to attribute a single intentional profile to all incels. However, we can track the creation and evolution of some prominent hermeneutic resources in this community and observe how they are forged, circulated, reworked, and injected into the broader culture. At least some actors in this social process are, we contend, engaged in degenerative analysis that falls into category (ii) above. Below, we offer some examples.

16.4.1  Arrogated Hermeneutic Resources In this section, we document some of the hermeneutic resources arrogated by incels and other members of the broader manosphere.13 While the meaning of the relevant terms and concepts is contested and constantly under renegotiation, we can at least get a snapshot of dominant understandings by examining common usage and the most upvoted definitions on www.urbandictionary.com. Urban Dictionary may be the closest thing the manosphere 260

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has to the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française. When this chapter was being authored, the top definition of “incel” was: short for “involuntary celibate”. often built like a discord mod, probably uses reddit, gets no bitches, says the hard r while being whiter than Wonder Bread, smells like Axe body spray and/or B.O., plays COD, and makes overused “i identify as an attack helicopter” jokes. has never felt the touch of another woman except that of his mother when she handed him snackies as a child. This “official” definition from within the manosphere is highly derogatory while also demonstrating insider knowledge of the online world incels inhabit. Discord is a voice, video, and text platform favored by gamers, including those who (like Elliot Rodger) spend a lot of time playing World of Warcraft (or, as in this definition, COD, which stands for Call of Duty). A mod is a moderator on Discord or some other platform and is stereotypically overweight and perpetually at their computer. The definition also points to the three dimensions of social dominance mentioned above: inter-gender, intra-masculine (via reference to the transphobic attack helicopter joke), and racial (via reference to the hard r). Another arrogated hermeneutic resource in this space is the red pill/blue pill metaphor. In The Matrix movie trilogy, the protagonist Neo is offered a choice between taking a red pill or a blue pill. If he takes the blue pill, he goes back to his normal, seemingly happy life. If he takes the red pill, the horrible truth of his existence as a slave will be revealed. When the first Matrix movie was released, taking the red pill was interpreted by many as a modernization of Plato’s allegory of the cave. In the broader culture, taking the red pill came to be understood as any kind of horrifying epiphany. In the manosphere, the term is used to refer to the realization that society is structured in such a way that a certain population of men is doomed to sexual frustration (a projection of the Pareto principle onto sexual relations), that feminist attitudes and policies enforce this unjust social structure, and that non-white foreigners are out-competing whites in fertility and will soon replace them.14 Ironically, Lilly and Lana Wachowski, the makers of The Matrix, have subsequently revealed that taking the red pill was intended to represent the experience of coming out of the closet as trans.15 Like Alana, the coiner of “incel,” the Wachowskis are not in a position to dictate the meaning of the terms they invented. A third example of an arrogated hermeneutic resource is the alpha/beta distinction. Originally, the distinction was used only in animal ethology to distinguish between males that enjoyed or lacked various privileges such as mating and territory, but over time it began to be applied to humans as well (Hawley et al. 2008). The introduction of the distinction to the human context tends to be attributed to Frans de Waal (1982), who was amplified by the pundit and conspiracy theorist Naomi Wolf, who injected the distinction into popular discourse.16 As it is used in the manosphere, the distinction between alphas and betas picks out stereotypes of conventionally attractive and conventionally unattractive men. Women are assumed to be attracted only to alphas, who tend to be dominant and domineering, but women are also stereotyped as being willing to form temporary attachments with betas in order to exploit them financially. As we will see in more detail below, another manosphere term for the alpha stereotype is “Chad.” The dominance relationship between the alpha/ Chad and the beta is thought to be mediated through women’s preferences and behavior. For instance, in a corpus from Men Going Their Own Way, we find the following sentiment expressed: “Chad plays while Beta pays.” 261

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Across these examples, we see that participants in the manosphere have adopted hermeneutic resources they found ready-to-hand in fringe (“incel”), popular (“red pill”/”blue pill”), and elite academic (“alpha”/”beta”) discourse, and through a discursive social process renegotiated and put their stamp on the meaning of these resources. The originators of these terms are not in a position to dictate what they mean once they have been released into the world, and those most devoted to establishing control of the resources are capable of doing so via persistent and strategic efforts to inject their preferred meanings into the discourse.

16.4.2  Parasitic Hermeneutic Resources Beyond directly arrogating hermeneutic resources, participants in the manosphere create and disseminate new ones in two ways. In some cases, the new resources are inspired by or based on existing hermeneutic resources. Without a pre-existing nexus of conceptual and linguistic resources, these new ones would not be sensible or attract much attention. In other cases, the resources are de novo. Crafting and securing uptake for the latter type of hermeneutic resources may be more challenging because they cannot take advantage of the social meanings attached to existing hermeneutical resources that a community has a history of coordinating around. However, as we show below, many have enjoyed success among incel and other manosphere communities. In this section, though, we focus on the former. One example is the “black pill”/”blackpill.” According to the currently most-favored definition on urban dictionary, it is defined thus: The Blackpill is basically the ultimative and hardest to swallow Redpill. It is about realizing nothing matters and there is nothing you can do that will change anything, it depraves [sic.] you of all positive thought and makes you want to get some sort of meaning out of this limited time we have. Basically extreme nihilism. That’s why its [sic.] not a called a red pill, since beyond that. As this definition indicates, this phrase is inspired by the arrogated redefinition of the red pill from the Matrix movies. It refers to an especially dark epiphany or transformative experience that not only changes someone’s representation of the world but also their motivational set. Were it not for the prior annexation of the red pill/blue pill distinction, this coinage would be senseless. Another derived hermeneutical resource is the “omega” classification. As we saw above, the manosphere appropriated the alpha/beta distinction from ethology and projected it onto humans. As the naming of COVID virus variants has demonstrated, once some Greek letters are being used, people can’t help using more of them. Whereas “alpha” names the first letter of the Greek alphabet and “beta” the second, “omega” names the last. Combining alpha and omega has tempted propagandists at least since John of Patmos authored the book of Revelation. Incels and other participants in the manosphere have followed in his footsteps by labeling the ultimate betas—weak, subordinated, submissive, hopeless—as omegas. According to one poster in our MGTOW corpus, “the omega for example is the loser, he is the last to eat, get [sic.] beaten up by the alpha, the beta and the females also.” 262

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More recently, the Greek lexicon was expanded to include the so-called “sigma” male.17 The archetype is related to the alpha but allegedly remains aloof from social hierarchies and society more generally. As such, the sigma is both desirable and hard-to-get, making him an especially tempting object of emulation. Novel but derivative hermeneutic resources such as “omega” and “sigma” not only inform people’s conceptions of the world and themselves but also influence their motivational sets and behavioral dispositions. Even if they are to some extent mythical, they still serve as lodestars by which at least some participants in the manosphere guide their actions.18 Yet another derivative hermeneutic resource in this space is that of the “volcel,” which is short for “voluntary celibate” and parasitic on the “incel” coinage. This term is especially popular among MGTOW and seems to be associated with both gender-based resentment and an insistence on agency. The volcel, as a figure, could have sex—including with attractive women—but chooses not to. The choice to disengage from sexual and romantic relations with women is framed in terms of independence and self-reliance (cf., the “sigma” archetype). Of course, one might question whether self-described volcels enjoy the sexual affordances that they claim, but part of their self-mythologizing at least involves this reclamation of agency, which fits neatly into Katsafanas’s definition of fanaticism.19 In the interest of saving word count, we will not explore other parasitic hermeneutics in as much detail. But to give a quick impression of some of them, we mention “white knight,” “divorce rape,” and “feminazi.” The white knight trope has its origins in Irish heraldry, was popularized by Lewis Carol in Through the Looking Glass, and has come to be associated in the manosphere with men who pretend to stand up for women and women’s rights only in order to garner affection and sexual favors from grateful women. Men who have gone through the redpill or blackpill transformation understand that no other man would look out for women or their rights without an ulterior motive, so they use this term to cynically label other men as hypocrites. In MGTOW circles, “divorce rape” is used to refer to the financial burden that women impose on their ex-husbands through the legal ­system—analogizing the sexual crime of rape with seeking alimony. The term “feminazi” was popularized by right-wing AM radio commentator Rush Limbaugh. It is a portmanteau of “feminist” and “nazi,” and is commonly used in the manosphere to associate the feminist movement with authoritarianism. As the reader might expect, there are many more parasitic coinages that we could discuss in this context, but we hope that the point is clear: participants in the manosphere don’t just arrogate existing terms and phrases, they also exploit the metaphoric space of existing social imaginaries to construct new stereotypes, archetypes, and intentional and behavioral profiles. In so doing, they make it possible for themselves and others to classify people and actions into these types and profiles, as well as to aspire to emulate some profiles and not others—even if the profiles in question are not embodied by any actual humans. These hermeneutical resources may remain confined to the manosphere, but they can also spill over into the wider culture. And when they are more broadly adopted, we observe degenerative conceptual engineering that overcomes the implementation problem and operates at scale.

16.4.3  De Novo Hermeneutic Resources Beyond the arrogated and inspired hermeneutic resources discussed above, novel terms have been coined by participants in the manosphere both to make sense of their experiences and to hurl as pejoratives at both men and women they see as their oppressors. 263

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Perhaps the best known of these de novo terms are the “Chad”/”Stacy”/”Becky” triad. “Chad” refers to the stereotypical alpha discussed above and has been in circulation for about a decade. As with the Greek alphabet terms, “Chad” seems to have inspired ­follow-on coinages: first “Stacy,” the archetypal sorority girl who obsessed incels like Elliot Rodger, and derivatively “Becky,” the archetypal female beta.20 Once a named character exists in the manosphere’s social imaginary, the temptation is strong to invent and name new counterpart characters. For instance, in our MGTOW corpus, the character “Tyrone” is conceptualized as a Black Chad: “Less women getting pregnant and getting on welfare because Chad/Tyrone can’t be found to pay child support (which is fine by me ’cause less welfare means a lower income tax).” Other de novo hermeneutic resources in this space seem to be aimed at solidifying and giving expression to other aspects of the red pill ideology. For instance, the notion that beta men tend to be financially exploited grounds the portmanteau “husbank” (“husband” + “bank”), which we find in our MGTOW corpus: “In a whopping 35% of marriage 2.0 contracts, the husbank earns $30,000 or more than the goodwife.” Relatedly, the phrase “monkey branching” is used metaphorically to express the idea that women are constantly looking to level up from their current partner to a different one who is either more physically attractive or wealthier: “The best thing that ever happened to me is that my ex succeeded in monkey branching way up the tree to billionaire levels. I have no expenses putting my son through college.” And the notion that sexual and romantic relationships are never grounded in genuine love and affection but rather in financial exploitation via the legal system is expressed by the portmanteau “spermjacking” (“sperm” + “hijack”): “Expect spermjacking to become ever more common (vasectomy for the win). And expect the laws to get even worse, because the government doesn’t want to support their [women’s] retirements either.” Crucially, the popularity and public meaning of these words and phrases is debated and negotiated as they are being injected into manosphere discourse and sometimes also popular discourse. We have already observed some of the downstream outcomes of this discursive process in the definitions from Urban Dictionary. The discussion occurs both in person and—increasingly—online in spaces such as Reddit, 4chan, and 8chan. One telling piece of evidence for this claim is the prominence of the “AWALT” and “NAWALT” abbreviations in the manosphere. These stand, respectively, for “all women are like that” and “not all women are like that.” To even begin making sense of these abbreviations, one must be aware of the charge that at least some women are “like that,” as well as what the demonstrative “that” refers to. It will not surprise our readers to hear that “that” refers to the constellation of psychological and behavioral dispositions associated with monkeybranching, spermjacking, and the broader redpill or blackpill ideology explored above. For instance, in our MGTOW corpus, we find, “as a heterosexual male, two decades of monk has taught me several things… one, is that life actually begins… post-awalt” (“monk” is a metaphor for the volcel lifestyle). Or consider, “If you don’t want a vasectomy, then don’t get one. But don’t complain when some little not-actually-a-nawalt nails you for 216+ monthly payments for a child that will never be yours because your bank balance popped up on her radar.” The universal quantifier built into the (N)AWALT abbreviation is intentionally provocative, and those who use it can be quite insistent that no evidence could sway them from their convictions: “HOW can ANY Women disprove MGTOW??? AWALT.”

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16.5 Conclusion In this chapter, we explored some of the ways that fanatics in the anglophone manosphere have employed the tools that philosophers have associated with ameliorative conceptual engineering. Since the manosphere is a large, diverse, and diffuse constellation of social movements, it does not make sense to attribute a single intentional profile to all of its members. But our contention is that at least some members of the manosphere intentionally engage in degenerative conceptual engineering, while probably a majority do so without realizing that that’s what they’re doing. Thus, many participants in the social movements associated with the manosphere qualify as fanatics by Katsafanas’s lights because they are singularly obsessed with certain values, especially inter-gender, intra-gender, and racial dominance hierarchies. They also perceive these values to be under threat from feminists, liberals, and those who have no objection to immigration from predominantly non-white countries to predominantly white ones. To shore up their psychic integrity, the men in these groups resort to a form of degenerative conceptual engineering. They arrogate hermeneutic resources that might otherwise be used by their perceived enemies (cf., the recent hostile takeover of “woke”). They construct novel hermeneutic resources based on or inspired by the ones they arrogate. And they craft new resources de novo. If our analysis is on the right track, then philosophers concerned with conceptual engineering need to pay greater attention to the full range of its affordances. Moreover, they may garner insights into how to solve the so-called implementation problem by looking in detail at how degenerative analyses have succeeded, while ivory-tower ameliorative ones have often enjoyed little uptake.

Notes 1 For additional context on fanaticism, see Katsafanas (2022), Cassam (2022), and Carian (2022). 2 This typology draws on Connell (2005), Connell and Messerschmidt (2005), and Ging (2019), as well as our own prior work in Alfano et al. (2022), and Roose et al. (2022). 3 See also Melo Lopes (forthcoming), who also argues that incels such as Rodger are prone to psychic disintegration if they do not receive the attention, affection, and devotion that they feel they deserve. 4 We accept that a manosphere-type hermeneutical resource might get at what the world is like and is thus epistemically unproblematic (though, problematic for other reasons). For example, some of the hermeneutical resources of the manosphere that attempt to capture intra-gender relations might accurately describe those relations in virtue of existing gender ideology. Given widespread commitments to masculine ideals, men might already implicitly engage with each other in a way that corresponds to an alpha/beta binary. Nevertheless, we believe that for the most part, these hermeneutical resources will distort social reality, and they will certainly frustrate efforts to achieve justice. 5 Cf. Sawyer (2021). 6 There is a division of labor amongst conceptual engineers insofar as different theorists only focus on one stage of analysis. 7 Matthew Lindauer (2020) has argued that conceptual preservation is also a form of conceptual engineering. Sometimes we have good reasons to preserve existing concepts, such as when our existing concepts are more “fruitful” for certain forms of inquiry rather than proposed alternatives. This is similar to concerns raised about “concept creep” (Haslam et al. 2020). 8 These projects become more difficult to distinguish when people apply a term based on its emotive associations rather than its straight descriptive content. For more, see Stevenson (1938) on persuasive definitions. 9 This is perhaps a narrower way of construing ameliorative analysis. As Catarina Dutilh Novaes says, “ameliorative analysis is a two-tiered process that starts with a thorough, critical examination of one’s purposes, and then proceeds to reformulate a concept in view of the purposes

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Mark Alfano and Paul-Mikhail Catapang Podosky previously established” (2018, p. 1023). Nevertheless, the idea of an analysis being “ameliorative” tends to be associated with the development of a conceptual practice with social justice ends. 10 For a comprehensive glossary of alt-right terms, see https://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Alt-right_ glossary. 11 See url = https://www.elle.com/culture/news/a34512/woman-who-started-incel-movement/, ac cessed 23 July 2022. 12 See url = https://toronto.ctvnews.ca/toronto-van-attack-trial-postponed-again-alek- minassian-slawyer-confirms-1.4869252, accessed 22 July 2022. 13 These arrogated hermeneutical resources also count as cases of epistemic appropriation. See Davis (2018), and Podosky (2021). 14 For a similar diagnosis of the so-called “Dark Enlightenment” advocated by the alt-right, see Aikin (2019). 15 See url = https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2020/08/the-matrix-trans-allegory- lilly-­wachowski, accessed 24 July 2022. 16 See url = http://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,992464-2,00.html, both ac cessed 24 July 2022. 17 See url = https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/what-is-a-sigma-male-the-so- called-rarest-man, accessed 25 July 2022. 18 For more on the theme of emulation of eponymous archetypes, see Alfano (2019, chapter 3). 19 The resonance with Genealogy of Morals, essay 2, section 13, is striking. 20 See url = https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/chad, accessed 25 July 2022.

References Aikin, S. (2019). Deep disagreement, the dark enlightenment, and the rhetoric of the red pill. Journal of Applied Philosophy, 36(3): 420–435. Alfano, M. (2019). Nietzsche’s Moral Psychology. New York: Cambridge University Press. Alfano, M., Byrne, J., & Roose, J. (2022). Automated psycholinguistic analysis of the Anglophone manosphere. In M. Lindauer (ed.), Advances in Experimental Political Philosophy. London: Bloomsbury. Appiah, K. A. (1992). In My Father’s House. New York: Oxford University Press. Burgess, A., & D. Plunkett. (2013). Conceptual ethics 1. Philosophy Compass, 8(12): 1091–1101. Camp, E. (2015). Logical concepts and associative characterizations. In E. Margolis & S. Laurence (eds.), The Conceptual Mind. Cambridge: MIT Press. Cappelen, H. (2018). Fixing Language: An Essay on Conceptual Engineering. New York: Oxford University Press. Carian, E. K. (2022). “We’re all in this together”: Leveraging a personal action frame in two men’s rights forums. Mobilization, 27(1): 47–68. Cassam, Q. (2022). Extremism: A Philosophical Analysis. New York: Routledge. Connell, R. W. (2005). Masculinities. Cambridge: Polity. Connell, R. W. & Messerschmidt, J. W. (2005). Hegemonic masculinity: Rethinking the concept. Gender & Society, 19(6): 829–859. Davis, E. (2018). On epistemic appropriation. Ethics, 128: 702–727. de Waal, F. (1982). Chimpanzee Politics: Power and Sex among Apes. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. ​​Fischer, E. (2020). Conceptual control: On the feasibility of conceptual engineering. Inquiry. DOI: 10.1080/0020174x.2020.1773309. Frege, G. (1892). On concept and object. In P. Geach & M. Black (eds.), Translations from the Philosophical Writings of Frege. New York: Oxford University Press. Fricker, M. (2007). Epistemic Injustice. New York: Oxford University Press. Ging, D. (2019). Alphas, betas, and incels: Theorizing the masculinities of the manosphere. Men and Masculinities, 22(4): 638–657. Haslam, N., B. C. Dakin, F. Fabiano, M. J. McGrath, J. Rhee, E. Vylomova, M. Weaving, & M. A. Wheeler. (2020). Harm inflation: Making sense of concept creep. European Review of Social Psychology, 31(1): 254–286.

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Fanaticism in the Manosphere Haslanger, S. (2000). Gender and race: (What) are they? (What) do we want them to be? Nous, 34(1): 31–55. Haslanger, S. (2005). What are we talking about? The semantics and politics of social kinds. Hypatia, 20(4): 10–26. Haslanger, S. (2015). Social structure, narrative, and explanation. Canadian Journal of Philosophy, 45(1): 1–15. Hawley, P. H., Little, T. D., & Card, N. A. (2008). The myth of the alpha male: A new look at ­dominance-related beliefs and behaviors among adolescent males and females. International Journal of Behavioral Development, 32(1): 76–88. Isaac, M. G. (2021). Which concept of concept for conceptual engineering? Erkenntnis. https://doiorg.simsrad.net.ocs.mq.edu.au/10.1007/s10670-021-00447-0. Jones, K. (2008). How to change the past. In K. Atkins & C. Mackenzie (eds.), Practical Identity and Narrative Agency. New York: Routledge. Jones, K. (2019). Trust, distrust, and affective looping. Philosophical Studies, 176(4): 955–968. Jorem, S. (2021). Conceptual engineering and the implementation problem. Inquiry, 64(1–2): 186–211. Katsafanas, P. (2019). Fanaticism and sacred values. Philosophers’ Imprint, 19: 1–20. Katsafanas, P. (2022). Group fanaticism and narratives of ressentiment. In L. Townsend, H. B. Schmid, M. Staudigl & R. Tietjen (eds.), The Philosophy of Fanaticism: Epistemic, Affective, and Political Dimensions. New York: Routledge. Kirsch, J. (2020). Interpreting our emotions. Ratio, 33(1): 68–78. Koch, S. (2021). The externalist challenge to conceptual engineering. Synthese, 198: 327–348. Lindauer, M. (2020). Conceptual engineering as concept preservation. Ratio, 33(3): 155–162. Machery, E. (2009). Doing Without Concepts. New York: Oxford University Press. Manne, K. (2017). Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny. New York: Oxford University Press. Marques, T. (2020). Amelioration vs. perversion. In T. Marques and A. Wikforss (eds.), Shifting Concepts: The Philosophy and Psychology of Conceptual Variability. New York: Oxford University Press. Medina, J. (2013). The Epistemology of Resistance. New York: Oxford University Press. Melo Lopes, F. (forthcoming). What do incels want? Explaining incel violence using Bouvoirian otherness. Hypatia. Nado, J. (2021). Classification procedures as the targets of conceptual engineering. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research. DOI: 10.1111/phpr.12843. Peacocke, C. (1992). A Study in Concepts. Cambridge: MIT Press. Pinder, M. (2021). Conceptual engineering, metasemantic externalism and speaker-meaning. Mind, 130(517): 141–163. Podosky, P-M.C. (2018). Ideology and normativity: Constraints on conceptual engineering. Inquiry. DOI: 10.1080/00020174X.2018.1562374. Podosky, P-M.C. (2021). Rethinking epistemic injustice. Episteme. DOI: 10.1017/epi.2021.8. Podosky, P-M.C. (2022). Can conceptual engineering actually promote social justice? Synthese, 200(2): 1–22. Roose, J., Flood, M., Alfano, M., Greig, A., & Copland, S. (2022). Masculinity and Violent Extremism. New York: Palgrave. Sawyer, S. (2021). The role of concepts in fixing language. Canadian Journal of Philosophy, 50(5): 555–565. Scharp, K. (2013). Replacing Truth. New York: Oxford University Press. Squirrel, T. & N. Sonnad. (2017). The alt-right is creating its own dialect. Here’s the dictionary. Quartz. URL: https://qz.com/1092037/the-alt-right-is-creating-its-own-dialect-heres-a- completeguide/, accessed 27 July 2022. Stack, T. (2017). Alt-right, alt-left, Antifa: A glossary of extremist language. The New York Times. URL: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/15/us/politics/alt-left-alt-right-glossary.html, accessed 27 July 2022. Stevenson, C. L. (1938). Persuasive Definitions. Mind, 47(187): 331–350. Zack, N. (2003). Philosophy of Science and Race. New York: Routledge.

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17 FANATICISM AND TERRORISM Quassim Cassam

17.1 Introduction In a book published in 2003, the noted historian and terrorism scholar Walter Laqueur declares that ‘fanaticism is an essential part of terrorism, for how can one expect militants to kill and be killed but on the basis of a very strong, single-minded belief’? (2003: 27). However, the fanaticism that is an essential part of terrorism is not just a matter of strong or single-minded belief. Rather: the fanatic sees everywhere treason, betrayal, and the breaking of fidelity. He discovers everywhere conspiracies against his beloved idea, against the object of his faith. He is obsessed with a maniacal pursuit after the snares of the devil. Being in the grip of persecution mania, it is very difficult to bring him back to reality. He sees enemies all around him, and he always becomes the persecutor. (2003: 26–27) In an earlier work, Laqueur represents fanatics as ‘divorced from rational thought’ (1999: 5) and as ‘mentally unbalanced’ (1999: 40). In both works, fanaticism is conceived of primarily in religious terms. Laqueur admits that not all fanatics are religious since there are also fanatical nationalists. Despite this concession, he insists that ‘the religious (or quasireligious) sources of fanaticism are beyond doubt’ (2003: 26). It is hard to believe that fanaticism, as Laqueur conceives of it, is an essential part of terrorism. For example, there is no reason to suppose that all or even most members of the IRA (Irish Republican Army) were fanatics in Laqueur’s sense, even though the IRA was a terrorist organization.1 For Laqueur, however, the terrorism of the IRA was an example of ‘old’ terrorism. The terrorism of which fanaticism is an essential part is the so-called ‘new’ terrorism of organizations like Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). Indeed, the new terrorism is defined in part by its fanaticism.2 Other key features include the following:

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1 The ends of new terrorists are unlimited and non-negotiable.3 Compromise with them is therefore impossible. 2 Whereas old terrorists were concerned with issues of national liberation and territorial autonomy, new terrorists are religiously motivated. 3 New terrorists seek, and are prepared to use, weapons of mass destruction (WMD) because they aim ‘not at clearly defined political demands but at the destruction of society and the elimination of large sections of the population’ (Laqueur 1999: 81). 4 New terrorists do not distinguish between combatants and non-combatants. They kill indiscriminately and see non-combatants as legitimate targets. 5 New terrorists have a particular fondness for suicide missions, which they regard as demonstrating their fanatical commitment to their cause. Several of these features can be seen as related to, and explained by, the fanaticism that Laqueur sees as an essential part of the new terrorism. It is because new terrorists are fanatics that their ends are unlimited and non-negotiable, that they are willing to use WMD to kill indiscriminately and that they have a particular taste for suicide missions. The distinction between old and new terrorism has been challenged by scholars such as Martha Crenshaw and Isabel Duyvesteyn.4 They argue that it does not correspond to any real distinction. However, one might wonder whether it is still helpful to distinguish between more and less fanatical forms of terrorism. Whether or not we wish to label the terrorism of Al Qaeda as ‘new’, is there not a sense in which its terrorism, or that of ISIS, is more ‘fanatical’ than, say, that of the IRA?5 This is one question that needs to be considered. Furthermore, even if it is obvious that not all terrorists are fanatics, one might ask whether all fanatics are, or are likely to be, terrorists. If the typical fanatic is, as Paul Katsafanas suggests, ‘willing to resort to violence’ (2019: 5) does this not make fanaticism a significant risk factor for terrorism? If it is doubtful that fanaticism is, generally speaking, an essential part of terrorism, and one is also sceptical about the distinction between old and new terrorism, then one might ask why the idea of the fanatical terrorist continues to resonate with some terrorism scholars and policy makers. One possibility is that it does so because it answers to something real in the world of terrorism. On this view, it is natural to think of someone like Osama bin Laden as a religious fanatic because he was one. There is, though, another possibility, namely, that terrorism scholars who are exercised by the fanaticism of new terrorism are, as Mark Condos describes it, ‘pathologizing the political’ (2016: 731). In a study of how British colonial officials in India dealt with assassinations along the North-West frontier in the late nineteenth century, Condos suggests that the labelling of the assassins as religious fanatics ‘enabled colonial officials to dismiss their actions as politically meaningless expressions of deranged and violent lunatics’ (2016: 738). Is it possible that when Laqueur characterizes new terrorists as mentally unbalanced religious fanatics with no clearly defined political objectives, he is wittingly or unwittingly recycling colonialist tropes about the Orient?6 This question has implications for the theory and practice of counterterrorism. It has been suggested that traditional counterterrorism approaches, such as political concessions and personal inducements, are unlikely to be effective when dealing with fanatical new

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terrorists. To the extent that fanatics are irrational or mentally unbalanced, as evidenced by their fondness for suicide missions, they cannot be bargained with. Proponents of this view argue that other methods are needed. In practice, these other methods have included renditions, ‘enhanced’ interrogation, and preemptive war.7 However, aside from obvious ethical objections to the use of such methods, there is also the concern that they misunderstand the nature of the terrorism to which they are a response. The following discussion is in three parts. Part 2 will elucidate the concepts of terrorism and fanaticism and explore the relationship between them, especially in the context of attempts to distinguish different varieties of terrorism. Part 3 will examine the work of Condos and other historians who detect colonial imagery and Orientalist tropes in accounts of the role of fanaticism in what will be referred to here as the new terrorism paradigm.8 In this paradigm, new terrorism is distinguished from old terrorism, and fanaticism as Laqueur as conceives of it is regarded as an essential part of the former but not the latter. Finally, Part 4 will examine the ways in which influential though plainly misguided conceptions of the relationship between fanaticism and terrorism have had a malign influence on both the theory and the practice of counterterrorism.

17.2  Terrorism and Fanaticism Terrorism is a method or tactic, and terrorists are people, groups, or states that employ this method or tactic. Many different conceptualizations of terrorism have been proposed.9 The following, by Anthony Richards, combines accuracy with brevity: terrorism is ‘the use or threat of violence or force with the primary purpose of generating a psychological impact beyond the immediate victims for a political motive’ (2015: 18).10 On this account, terrorism is a method or tactic used by a range of actors in pursuit of a range of political objectives. It is not restricted to any particular type of actor. Furthermore, both combatants and non-combatants can be its targets. For example, the 9/11 attacks targeted civilians in the World Trade Center and military personnel in the Pentagon. Both the civilian and military casualties of 9/11 were victims of terrorism, and the intended psychological impact of the attacks went beyond their many immediate victims. Terrorism, then, is ‘concerned with the communication of a message that would not otherwise be heard (were it not for the violence)’ (Richards 2015: 56). There are at least as many conceptions of fanaticism as there are of terrorism. Some see fanaticism in psychopathological terms. For such theorists, fanaticism is a mental defect, which Kant calls a ‘malady of the head’.11 Others see it as primarily an epistemic or rational failing. Finally, there is the view that fanaticism is fundamentally a moral failing. These views are not incompatible. For example, it is possible to regard fanaticism as both a mental and a rational failing. This is how Laqueur sees it. An example of a view which sees fanaticism as a rational and a moral failing is R. M. Hare’s neglected account in Freedom and Reason (1963) and Moral Thinking (1981).12 For Hare, the archetypal fanatic is the Nazi or fascist, and there are several features of his treatment of this version of fanaticism that can be used to construct a more general theory of fanaticism. The sense in which fanaticism is a rational failing is that it consists in ‘the refusal or inability to think critically’ (Hare 1981: 172). The fanatic places his convictions ‘beyond the reach of critical thought even when he is in a position (…) to examine and appraise them’ (1981: 176).13 The moral dimension of fanaticism is brought out by the following:

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[I]t is when people step from the selfish pursuit of their own interests to the propagation of perverted ideals that they become really dangerous. We shall never understand the phenomenon called Fascism, and other similar political movements, until we realize that this is what is happening. The extreme sort of Fascist is a fanatic who not merely wants something for himself, but thinks that it ought to be brought into existence universally, whether or not anybody else, or even he himself if his tastes change, wants it. (1963: 114) A fanatic, for Hare, is a person who is willing to trample on other people’s ideals and interests, and sacrifice his own interests, in order to realize his ideals.14 For example, the Nazis thought that a certain kind of society and a certain kind of person were pre-eminently good. In this sense, they had ideals. What differentiates them from liberals is that ‘they not only pursued a certain ideal, but pursued it because of the sort of ideal that it was, in contempt and defiance of both the interests and ideals of others’ (1963: 160).15 They ‘trampled ruthlessly on other people’s interests, including that interest which consists in the freedom to pursue varying ideals’ (1963: 157). Hare imagines a conversation between a liberal and a Nazi in which the liberal asks the Nazi the following question: suppose you discover that you are a Jew. Would you still favour the extermination of Jews? The fanatical Nazi will say: if I were a Jew then I would deserve to be killed. As Hare puts it, the fanatical Nazi ‘sticks to his judgements even when they conflict with his own interest in hypothetical cases’ (1963: 162). Indeed, the fanatic is also prepared to sacrifice the interests of his nearest and dearest to realize his ideal. A Nazi who imagines that he has Jewish blood also imagines that his children have Jewish blood. If he favours his own extermination in a possible world in which he is a Jew, then he must favour the extermination of his children in that world. To summarize: i A fanatic is willing to trample on the interests and ideals of other people in pursuit of his own ideals.16 ii A fanatic is willing to sacrifice his own interests in order to realize his ideals. For Hare, the fanatic’s willingness to trample the ideals and interests of other people is an expression of his contempt for those ideals and interests. There are many ways of trampling on other people’s interests and ideals, but the fanatic is prepared to use violence or the threat of violence to do so, and to compel others to accept his ideals. If there are non-violent ways of forcing others to accept his ideals, then the fanatic need not be violent. However, in cases where there is no alternative, fanatics can be expected to turn to violence to get their way. It is in this sense that, as Katsafanas points out, fanaticism generates ‘a propensity or disposition toward violence’ but ‘does not necessitate violence’ (2019: 17). There is one thing that is missing from (i) and (ii). In his 1963 account, Hare stipulates that the fanatic’s ideals are perverted and that fanatics are prepared to trample on others’ ideals and interests because of the nature of their own ideals. This makes Hare’s account substantive rather than purely formal. It is not just his own nature that makes the fanatic willing to impose his ideals on other people, by force if necessary, but the nature or content of his ideals.17 In this sense, there is no such thing as a fanatical liberal because liberals are

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forbidden by their own ideals to compel other people to accept them.18 Thus, (i) should be replaced by: (i)* A fanatic is willing to trample on the interests and ideals of other people in pursuit of his own perverted ideals. There is more than one way for an ideal to be perverted. However, even if there are perverted ideals that neither condone nor condemn trampling on the ideals and interests of others, ideals that do condone this count as perverted in virtue of that fact.19 In the case of Nazi and ISIS fanatics, one would be hard pushed to list all the many ways in which their ideals are perverse. The Nazis had an ideal of racial purity, which they did not expect Jews to share. However, their ideal of racial purity not only condoned but required them to trample on the ideals of interests of Jews. They trampled on Jewish ideals and interests by killing Jews. Furthermore, the willingness of Nazis to do this was at least partly accounted for by the nature of their ideals. ISIS’ ideals condone trampling on the interests and ideals of women, who it regards as second-class citizens. It regards itself as justified in imposing its ideals on women because these ideals are themselves deeply misogynistic. Condition (ii) makes the fanatic look like an almost heroic figure. As Hare points out, the fanatic ‘might even claim to be morally superior to his opponent, in that the latter abandons his principles when they conflict with his own interest in hypothetical cases’ (1963: 162). A person who satisfies condition (i)* but not (ii) is a bully rather than a fanatic. On this account, an extremist who recruits others to act as suicide bombers is not a fanatic if he is unwilling to put his own neck on the line. Those who carried out the 9/11 attacks were fanatics as well as extremists, whereas those who ordered the attacks while keeping themselves out of harm’s way were extremists but not fanatics. A person who only satisfies condition (i)* is, at best, only a fanatic in a weak sense. Full-blown fanatics satisfy both conditions. Pulling all this together, we have arrived at the following account of fanaticism, which shows it to be both morally and epistemically vicious: (F) Fanatics have perverted ideals about which they are unwilling or unable to think critically. They have contempt for other people’s ideals and interests and are willing to trample on those ideals and interests in pursuit of their own ideals. They are prepared to impose their ideals on others, by force if necessary. They are also willing to sacrifice themselves and others in pursuit of their ideals. Are there forms of fanaticism to which (F) does not apply? The perverted ideals that Hare attributes to the fanatic are political and (F) is a characterization of political fanaticism. Now consider a very different case. In his novel American Pastoral, Philip Roth has the character of Merry Levov.20 Having once planted a bomb in a post office as an act of protest against America’s involvement in Vietnam, Merry subsequently undergoes a complete transformation. She becomes a Jain and subscribes to a particularly extreme version of its doctrine of non-violence.21 She barely eats because of her aversion to harming any living creature and wears a veil to avoid harming airborne microscopic organisms. She does not wash or walk about after dark for fear of crushing any living creature. She literally wouldn’t hurt a fly and is starving to death when her father finds her. One might think of Merry as a kind of fanatic, but she is a pacifist who has no desire to impose her ideals on anyone else, let alone to do so by force. If this is correct, then (F) does not do justice to all forms of fanaticism, even it provides a compelling account of political 272

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fanaticism. Merry has some things in common with the political fanatic. There is, for example, her willingness to sacrifice herself. Nevertheless, it is clear that (F) misdescribes her. One might see this as a reason not to classify her as a fanatic, but a more cautious approach is to leave room for non-(F) forms of fanaticism, while continuing to insist on (F) as an account of political fanaticism. (F) does not support that notion that fanaticism is a malady of the head or a rational failing in Laqueur’s sense. For Laqueur, the fanatic is a hot-headed and mentally unbalanced religious zealot, a self-flagellating maniac who glories in self-sacrifice and the destruction of his enemies. As far as (F) is concerned, fanaticism can be ‘cold’ rather than ‘hot’. Consider Reinhard Heydrich, a leading architect of the Holocaust.22 His cold-blooded and calculating fanaticism was off the scale. He was the perfect Nazi, described by Himmler as someone who ‘from the deepest reaches of his heart and his blood…. felt, understood and realized the world view of Adolf Hitler’.23 The historian Richard J. Evans observes that: anyone who reads his written memoranda and statements must surely be impressed by their mindless and total assimilation of Nazi ideology, their permeation by the thought-patterns of Nazism, their lack of recognition of any possible alternative to the Nazi world-view…. Nazi ideology appeared to be for Heydrich something utterly impersonal, an unquestioned set of ideas and attitudes that it was his ambition to put into effect with cold, passionate efficiency. (Evans 2008: 276) This is far removed from Laqueur’s picture of fanaticism, not least because Heydrich was not motivated by religion. Yet there is no question that he was a fanatic, in line with (F). Is fanaticism an essential part of terrorism? The simplest way of showing that it is not is to produce a compelling example of non-fanatical terrorism. A more theoretical approach is to reflect on the proposed conceptualizations of fanaticism and terrorism to determine whether there is anything in them that would support Laqueur’s view. Starting with the first approach, it is easy to think of examples of terrorism that have little to do with fanaticism. There is the case of the armed struggle of the ANC (African National Congress) against apartheid in South Africa. In 1983, the ANC’s armed wing detonated a bomb in the rush hour outside a building in Church Street, Pretoria, that was occupied by the South African Air Force.24 The explosion killed 19 people, including a significant number of non-air force personnel. Assuming that the primary purpose of the bombing was to send a message to the South African government, this was an act of terrorism. However, the ANC leaders who ordered the attack cannot plausibly be regarded as fanatics. In defence of the claim that this was a case of terrorism without fanaticism, it should be noted that the ANC’s fight was against systematic, state-sanctioned racial oppression and in favour of the implementation of the ideal of one person one vote in South Africa. The latter is hardly a perverted ideal. Furthermore, ANC leaders did think critically about their ideals and their methods. Nelson Mandela defended the ANC’s methods on the basis that it was fighting for a just cause and ‘violence was the only method that would destroy apartheid’ (1994: 182). Non-violent, passive resistance ‘is effective as long as your opposition adheres to the same rules as you do. But if peaceful protest is met with violence, its efficacy is at an end’ (1994: 182–183). For Mandela, ‘non-violence was not a moral principle but a strategy; there is no moral goodness in using an ineffective weapon (1994: 183). These are not the words of an unbalanced or unthinking fanatic, and the ANC was neither divorced 273

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from rational thought nor in the grip of persecution mania. The persecution to which it was responding was real rather than, as with many fanatics, a figment of its imagination. A more delicate question is this: was the ANC not fanatical at least in the sense that it was prepared to trample on the ideals of the pro-apartheid white minority in South Africa and impose its own ideals by force? Is this not fanaticism by the lights of (F)? However, it was not in the nature of the ANC’s democratic ideals to require their imposition by force. The force exercised by the ANC was in response to the South Africa government’s forceful imposition of its ideals on the black majority. It was necessary for the ANC to trample on apartheid because there was no other way to put an end to it. Fanatics have a generalized and contempt for ideals that are different from their own. The ANC had no such generalized contempt, and it might also be relevant that its contempt for apartheid was warranted.25 The theoretical case against regarding fanaticism as an essential part of terrorism is no less straightforward. Terrorism is a tactic, and there is nothing in the proposed characterization of this tactic that supports the notion that fanaticism is an essential part of it. If the terrorism that is at issue here is ‘new’ rather than ‘old, and new terrorism is defined as fanatical, then of course it follows painlessly that fanaticism is an essential component of this type of terrorism, if not of terrorism more generally. However, Laqueur’s notion of new terrorism is problematic in several different ways. For example, he insists that new terrorists are religious fanatics who make no clearly defined political demands. However, he also includes in his list of new terrorist groups organizations such as the LTTE that had clear political objectives but no religious agenda.26 Even in the case of Al Qaeda, the archetypal ‘new’ terrorist organization, it is not true that it makes no clearly defined political demands and that its concerns are religious rather than political or territorial. Its goal of expelling American military forces from Saudi Arabia and Muslim countries is territorial. Its objectives are both religious and political and it is, in any case, doubtful whether there is a sharp distinction between politics and religion.27 It is true that Al Qaeda does not distinguish between combatants and non-combatants, but ‘old’ terrorists were no less lax in their targeting.28 Furthermore, the weapons used by new terrorists are no different from those used by traditional terrorists. These do not include WMD, however much Osama bin Laden might have fantasized about obtaining such weapons. There remains the issue of suicide missions. Is suicide terrorism not an indication of precisely the type of fanaticism described by Laqueur? The evidence indicates otherwise. In a seminal study, Robert Pape observes that ‘suicide terrorism is undertaken as a strategic effort directed toward particular political goals; it is not simply the product of irrational individuals or an expression of fanatical hatreds’ (2005: 27). A suicide mission is a terrorist attack that is ‘designed in such a way as to make the death of the perpetrators strictly essential for its success’ (Gambetta 2005: vi). By this definition, 9/11 was a suicide mission; there was no way of flying aircraft into buildings without killing all on board, including the terrorists. The ANC’s Church Street bombing was not a suicide mission. The two terrorists who planted the bomb were blown up by their own device, which detonated prematurely, but their demise was inessential to the success of the mission. Although suicide terrorism is sometimes religiously motivated, there are many cases of secular suicide terrorism. Suicide terrorism is most commonly a response to foreign occupation and ‘an extreme strategy for national liberation’ (Pape 2005: 23).29 Assuming that instrumental rationality consists in adopting suitable means for one’s ends, then those who order suicide missions may well be instrumentally rational since such missions can be 274

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highly effective. It does not follow that those who voluntarily carry out suicide missions are rational. However, as Jon Elster notes, ‘in itself, there is nothing irrational in the willingness to sacrifice one’s life for a cause’ (2005: 234). Suicide terrorism might be the work of fanatics but there is also suicide terrorism that has little to do with fanaticism, least of all with the overblown and hot-headed fanaticism described by Laqueur. None of this is to deny that some terrorists are fanatics or that some terrorists groups think and act in ways that are consistent with the new terrorism paradigm.30 However, such groups are sufficiently atypical to call into question the idea that they represent a new and significant form of fanatical terrorism. For all the talk of the ‘new’ terrorism, there is still no justification for characterizing fanaticism as an essential part of terrorism, rather than as an attribute of some members of some highly exceptional terrorist groups. However, there remains the issue of whether terrorism is an inevitable or highly likely consequence of fanaticism. Not all terrorists are fanatics but are all fanatics likely to end up as terrorists? It is easy to see why one might think so. If fanaticism generates a propensity towards violence, is it not also likely to lead to terrorism? The example of Merry calls into question the extent to which fanaticism per se involves violence or a propensity towards violence. In Roth’s novel, Merry Levov was violent before her pacifist turn but one can imagine a character like her who was always fanatically nonviolent. The fanaticism that involves a propensity towards violence is the type of fanaticism described by (F). Katsafanas notes that ‘the central cases of fanaticism involve attempts to impose some ideal or value on others who do not share it’ (2019: 5). How can the fanatic hope to do that without resorting to violence? Surely, talk of imposing something on someone else implies violence or the threat of violence. However, there are also non-violent forms of imposition. Governments impose speed limits by threatening to fine people who speed. Violence need not be involved. Furthermore, most violence is not concerned with communicating a message and so is not terrorism. The violence employed by the fanatic to impose his ideals on someone else may have more to do with changing another person’s behaviour than with sending a message. It seems, then, the terrorism and fanaticism are more loosely connected than one might think. Especially if fanaticism is conceived of as religious, there is little to be said for the idea that it is an essential part of terrorism. There is little more to be said about the theory that fanatics are likely to be terrorists, or even for the idea that terrorism is integral to political fanaticism. Heydrich was a political fanatic who terrorized his victims but was not a terrorist. He was not interested in sending a message to European Jews. He was only interested in killing them. Why, in that case, is fanaticism thought by some to be an essential part of terrorism? Where does this notion come from, and what is the significance of the thesis that ‘new’ terrorists like Al Qaeda are distinguished from ‘old’ terrorists by their fanaticism?

17.3  The Genealogy of Fanaticism A key text in post-9/11 thinking about fanaticism and new terrorism is a paper by David Rapoport. In ‘Fear and trembling: Terrorism in three religious traditions’, which was originally published in 1984, Rapoport focuses on what he calls ‘the ancient lineage of terrorism’ (2012: 4). He claims that before the nineteenth century, religion provided the only acceptable justifications for terror and that ‘the holy terrorist believes that only a transcendental purpose which fulfils the meaning of the universe can justify terror’ (ibid.). 275

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Rapoport’s three examples of ancient and holy terrorists are the Hindu Thugs, who were active in India from the seventh to the thirteenth centuries, the Ismaili Muslim Assassins, who were active in the Middle East from around the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, and the first-century Jewish Zealots-Sicarii.31 For the holy terrorist, ‘the primary audience is the deity’ and ‘it is even conceivable that he does not need or want to have the public witness his deed’ (2012: 5). The Thugs strangled their victims and dismembered their corpses. They terrorized their victims and killed for the pleasure of Kali, the Hindu goddess of terror and destruction. According to Rapoport, they were terrorists: ‘as persons consciously committing atrocities, acts that go beyond the accepted norms and immunities that regulate violence, they were…. clearly terrorists’ (ibid.). Estimates of the number of people murdered by the Thugs range from half a million to a million. Either way, ‘the Thugs murdered more than any known terrorist group, partly because they lasted so much longer’ (2012: 6). Even without going into Rapaport’s account of the Assassins and Zealots-Sicarii, it is easy to detect the influence of his discussion on theorists of the new terrorism. As religiously motivated fanatical terrorists, the Thugs had much in common with so-called ‘new’ terrorists. Indeed, if Rapaport is right, then ‘new’ terrorism should be renamed since it is a throwback to an extremely old form of terrorism. However, Rapoport’s account should not be taken at face value. In describing the Thugs as terrorists, Rapoport assumes that the distinguishing feature of terrorism is ‘the extranormal character of its violence’ (2012: 21). However, extranormal violence need not be terrorism. The gruesome violence of the serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer was extranormal, but he was not a terrorist. He terrified his victims but was not in the business of sending a political message. If Thugs killed in secret, without any communicative intent, they were not terrorists even if their violence was ‘extranormal’.32 Questions can also be raised about the historical accuracy of Rapoport’s account. Kim Wagner notes that ‘rather than being ritual stranglers motivated by religious belief, the “Thugs” may more appropriately be described as bandits’ (2018: 3).33 Thug gangs might be made up of vagrants or runaway servants who eked out a living by robbing lone travellers and disposing of their bodies. Others served as retainers to local elites. If Rapoport misrepresents the Thugs, the obvious explanation is that he relies for his information about them on British colonial sources whose reliability is, to put it mildly, questionable.34 There are parallel concerns about his account of the Ismaili Assassins. He describes them as having carried out suicide attacks, but there is little evidence of this. In effect, Rapoport recycles myths about the Assassins that have been debunked by serious scholars.35 Furthermore, by concentrating on terrorism in the Orient, he ‘invokes some of the most pervasive tropes of Orientalism, namely, that of religious fanaticism and irrationality – or, to put it differently, cultural incommensurability with Western “enlightened” modernity’ (Wagner 2018: 1).36 The association of fanaticism with the Orient is hard to miss in the literature on the new terrorism. For example, while admitting that not all new terrorism is Islamic, Laqueur asserts that the ‘rage, fanaticism, and lack of restraint’ that he associates with the new terrorism ‘occur more often than not in Islamic countries’ (1998: 173). In contrast, ‘terrorism with a human face, the self-restraint shown by certain terrorists, was limited by and large to Europe, where fanaticism and extreme cruelty, with some notable exceptions, have been out of fashion since the days of crusades, inquisition, and witch hunts’ (1998: 171). It is hard to imagine a starker expression of the view that today’s fanatics, like their supposed ancient predecessors, belong in the benighted Orient rather than the civilized West.

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This points to the possibility of a genealogical approach to terrorism and fanaticism that concerns itself not so much with the emergence of such phenomena themselves as with the emergence of the corresponding ideas, concepts, or conceptions.37 In his A Genealogy of Terrorism, McQuade argues that many of the descriptions associated with modern terrorism ‘were originally articulated and rehearsed in colonial settings like British India’ (2021: 15). Might the same not also be true of fanaticism? This may seem unlikely. After all, thinkers as diverse as Locke, Hume, Kant, and Hegel offered philosophical analyses of fanaticism that were not shaped by the British colonial experience in India. However, this leaves open the possibility that the conception of fanaticism that figures in the new terrorism paradigm is best understood as having emerged from forms of colonial discourse.38 Consider the following example given by Mark Condos.39 In 1901, Captain Johnson, a British officer in India, was killed with an axe by a Pashtun man called Doulat. On his arrest, Doulat was identified as a fanatic, and dealt with under the Murderous Outrages Act of 1867.40 This was a law passed to deal with a special type of crime in British India. These crimes were known as ‘murderous’ or ‘fanatical’ outrages. Perpetrators were assumed to be both religiously motivated and mentally ill.41 Although their actions were regarded as politically meaningless, they were dealt with neither as ordinary criminals nor as insane. Many were summarily executed, and it was for colonial officials to decide who was and was not a fanatic. There are few detailed records of trials under the Murderous Outrages Act or the thinking that led to some individuals being classified as fanatics. However, prejudice was doubtless an important factor. Condos argues that the actions of individuals sentenced under the 1867 Act were more complex than the brief official accounts suggest and often deeply political. In most cases, ‘the victims and intended victims were British officers, Indian sepoys, policemen, or prominent local Indians who were known to be in the employ or under the influence of the British’ (2016: 739). The effect of describing the perpetrators as fanatics was to pathologize political acts against representatives of the colonial administration. As Condos points out, ‘depictions of fanaticism as a sort of pathology were an integral part of European conceptions of this phenomenon dating back as far as the Enlightenment’ (ibid.). To give just one example, Kant’s 1764 ‘Essay on the maladies of the head’ was prompted by the presence on the outskirts of Königsberg of a religious fanatic known as the ‘goat prophet’. However, it is one thing to pathologize the goat prophet and another to pathologize Doulat. In the latter case, there is a real possibility that this classification amounts to pathologizing a person whose actions may well have been politically motivated. Does the new terrorism paradigm pathologize the political in similar ways? Before answering this question in the affirmative, certain key differences must be acknowledged. It is not the case that Al Qaeda is fighting a war of national liberation, however much it pretends that this is the case. Religion is a much greater influence on its thinking that it was on the ideas of many who fought against British and other colonialisms in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In the case of organizations like ISIS, one might be strongly tempted to regard its members as fanatics in the Enlightenment sense, even though the leadership of ISIS regards its extreme violence as communicative and strategic.42 But if there is one lesson to be learned from the history of the new terrorism paradigm, and the extent to which it has been shaped by the theory and practice of colonialism, it is that it risks masking the political motivations of ‘new’ terrorists and representing them as less rational and strategic than they really are. What might be described as the ‘fanaticizing’ of new terrorists – the

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representation of them as religious fanatics – ‘elevates cultural stereotypes to analytical insights and constructs an image of the enemy for political purposes’ (Wagner 2018: 2). This approach has two related effects. The first is to obstruct a proper understanding of terrorism today. It is easier to dismiss terrorists as irrational religious fanatics rather than try to engage with their subjectivity in a genuine effort to understanding their political motives and objectives. The new terrorism paradigm also has serious implications for counterterrorism.43 The greater the emphasis on the fanaticism and irrationality of new terrorism, the greater the temptation to resort to ethically suspect and ultimately counterproductive measures in response. Inadequate and flawed thinking about modern terrorism has resulted in inadequate and flawed counterterrorism strategies. This issue merits its own discussion since it highlights the extent to which theories of terrorism and fanaticism matter in practice.

17.4  Fanaticism and Counterterrorism If terrorists are conceived of as irrational and mentally unbalanced religious fanatics, what are the implications for counterterrorism? Bruce Hoffman, an important terrorism scholar, addresses this issue in the following passage: Traditional counterterrorism approaches and policies may not be relevant, much less effective, in the face of religious terrorism. Strategies that have been used successfully in the past – including political concessions, financial rewards, amnesties, and other personal inducements – would be not only irrelevant but impractical, given both the religious terrorists’ fundamentally alienated worldviews and their often extreme, resolutely uncompromising demands. (2017: 136) Hoffman emphasizes the need for multiple, creative responses to religious terrorism, including non-violent responses, but the reality has been different. As Martha Crenshaw notes, the idea of a new kind of terrorism has been used to explain and justify ‘the global war on terrorism, the establishment of the category of “enemy combatant”, brutal interrogation methods, reliance on a strategy of military preemption’ and ‘other homeland security measures that restrict civil liberties’ (2011: 63–64). In a similar vein, Richard English argues that ‘the most serious danger currently posed by terrorists is probably their capacity to provoke ill-judged, extravagant, and counter-productive state responses, rather than their own direct actions themselves’ (2009: 119). Why should this be so? Terrorists who are assumed to be rational, to have limited objectives, and be prepared to compromise are terrorists with whom it should be possible to negotiate and bargain. IRA terrorism in Northern Ireland was ultimately ended by negotiation and the signing of the Good Friday agreement. However, the assumption that new terrorists are unbalanced fanatics removes any incentive to look for peaceful, negotiated solutions. How can one bargain with ‘terrorists of the lunatic fringe’ (Laqueur 1998: 171)? Force seems to be the only realistic option in these cases, and the use of harsh methods might be excused on the grounds that there is no alternative when dealing with enemies who, at least as far as their political thinking is concerned, are deluded and irrational.

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In fact, there is an alternative. Having identified the weaknesses and dubious historical origins of the new terrorism paradigm, one might instead resolve to proceed on a quite different basis. On this alternative approach, so-called ‘new’ terrorists are no more irrational than their ‘old’ predecessors. They both make political demands, including some that are territorial. It is true that they do not distinguish between combatants and non-combatants, but no such distinction was drawn by the British pilots who bombed Dresden in 1945 or their American counterparts who used nuclear weapons against Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The claim that new terrorists’ demands are non-negotiable should be put to the test. Above all, this alternative framework will refrain from dismissing terrorists as fanatics in Laqueur’s sense, other than in unusual cases where this label is applied on the basis of evidence rather than cultural prejudice. Some terrorists might be (F)-type fanatics, but it is possible to be this type of fanatic without being on the lunatic fringe. It is not in this sense that (F)fanaticism is a rational failing. The practical significance of such a theoretical reorientation away from the new terrorism paradigm should not be underestimated. Different models of terrorism, fanaticism, and the relationship between them can be viewed as different constructions of the phenomena that constitute the subject matter of the field of terrorism studies. Each model presents an image of the terrorist enemy, and each image has implications for action. The new terrorism paradigm directs counterterrorists not to use traditional counterterrorism tools in response to terrorists designated as fanatical new terrorists. However, if we refrain from pathologizing terrorists, then there is no reason not to attempt the traditional counterterrorism approaches enumerated by Hoffman.44 Of course, we might be disappointed. We might discover that in some cases engagement and negotiation get us nowhere.45 In these cases, the emphasis should be on containing the threat of terrorism as far as it is possible to do so, rather than on declaring a war on terror. It is not possible to declare war on an emotion or, for that matter, a tactic.46 Furthermore, even in the case of those terrorists who we are most strongly tempted to classify as fanatics, we should acknowledge the importance of identifying and addressing the root causes of their terrorism. It should be remembered that terrorist violence ‘often emerges out of very serious problems regarding such matters as contested state legitimacy and ethnic or national disaffection’ (English 2009: 123). Above all, the classification of terrorists as fanatics should not be used as an excuse for an over-militarized response to terrorism or for failing to respect the human rights of so-called terrorist fanatics. No doubt, this approach will seem too soft for proponents of the new terrorism paradigm, one of whom has gone so far as to recommend a policy of not even attempting to understand or eliminate the root causes of terrorism.47 It should be pointed out, however, that the new terrorism paradigm has hardly been an unqualified practical success. It has been responsible for serious tactical and strategic blunders, including President George W. Bush’s ill-fated ‘war on terror’ and invasion of Iraq in search of non-existent WMD. The fact that those responsible for these blunders appear to have been deeply influenced by the new terrorism paradigm makes it plain that the hackneyed image of the implacable Oriental fanatic is no more accurate or useful today than it was in the heyday of colonialism. It is time to abandon such stereotypes and concentrate instead on developing a less fanciful analysis of terrorism and its links with fanaticism.48

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Notes 1 See English (2003). 2 As Isabel Duyvesteyn notes in Duyvesteyn (2012). My account of the new terrorism draws on this paper, as well as Crenshaw (2011a). 3 See Crenshaw (2011a: 54). 4 See Crenshaw (2011a) and Duyvesteyn (2012). 5 ISIS stands for the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham or, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. The group is also known as ISIL (Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant). In 2014, it adopted the name the Islamic State (IS). For more on ISIS, see McCants (2015), Gerges (2016) and Wood (2018). 6 This would place Laqueur’s work squarely in the Orientalist tradition, as described by Edward Said. As Said understands it, Orientalism is ‘better grasped as a set of constraints upon and limitations of thought than it is simply as a positive doctrine’ (2003: 42). Its essence is ‘the ineradicable distinction between Western superiority and Oriental inferiority’ (ibid.). 7 See Crenshaw (2011a: 63–64). 8 On Orientalism, see note 6. 9 English (2009), Chapter 1, is one of the most useful and perceptive accounts of the concept of terrorism, along with Richards (2015). 10 In describing Richards’ account as accurate, I don’t mean to suggest that it is flawless. However, it is the best succinct definition I know. For a fuller characterization of terrorism along similar lines, see English (2009: 24). 11 See Kant (2007). 12 See also Katsafanas (2019). For Katsafanas, as for Hare, fanaticism is a peculiar kind of vice or practical defect which ‘blends a purely rational failure with a distinctively moral failing’ (2019: 1–2). 13 As Paul Katsafanas has noted in private correspondence, the refusal to think critically can be quite localized. Some fanatics produce detailed reasoning in support of their goals. See Adler (2007). 14 To have an ideal, for Hare, ‘is to think of some kind of thing as pre-eminently good within some larger class’ (1963: 159). To have a moral ideal is ‘to think of some type of man, or, possibly, of some type of society as a pre-eminently good one’ (1963: 159). To have an interest is ‘for there to be something which one wants (or may want), or which is (or may be) a means, necessary or sufficient, for the attainment of something which one wants (or may want)’ (1963: 157). Ideals can conflict with other ideals and with interests, just as interests can conflict. 15 My emphasis. 16 Compare Katsafanas (2019: 5): ‘The central cases of fanaticism involve attempts to impose some ideal or value on others who do not share it’. 17 Hare’s position in Moral Thinking, published 18 later, is different. Here he claims that ‘one may be fanatical about moral opinions even when they are sound ones’ and that ‘it is not the content of a person’s intuitive principles that makes him a fanatic, but his attitude to them’ (1981: 175). In my view, the less formal account of fanaticism given in Freedom and Reason is preferable. 18 As Hare puts it, the liberal is forbidden ‘to force his own ideals down the throats of other people by legal or other compulsion’ (1963: 178). 19 There is much more to be said about what makes an ideal ‘perverted’ but this is too large a question to be taken up here. 20 Roth (1997). 21 Jainism is an ancient Indian religion with a core commitment to non-violence. 22 In the words of his biographer, Heydrich was ‘one of the great iconic villains of the twentieth century’ (Gerwarth 2011: xiii). 23 Quoted in Gerwarth (2011: 279). 24 Church Street, Pretoria bombing – Wikipedia. 25 This raises the question whether the contempt referred to (F) in should be conceived of as unwarranted. I’m inclined to think that it should but do not insist on this here. 26 The LTTE was a secular group with a specific territorial objective, the creation of a Tamil homeland in the north of Sri Lanka. 27 See English (2009: 39).

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Fanaticism and Terrorism 28 See, for example, the harrowing account of the IRA’s 1987 bombing of religious ceremony in Enniskillen in English (2003: 255–256). 29 The most committed and effective suicide terrorists in the history of terrorism belonged to the secular LTTE. See Chapter 2 of Gambetta (2005). 30 ISIS is the obvious example. 31 Another influential account of religious terrorism is Juergensmeyer (2017). This is a form of terrorism ‘for which religion has provided the justification, the organization, and the worldview’ (2017: 6). 32 It is not clear that strangulation counts as ‘extranormal’ violence. 33 ‘The historical “Thugs” were not terrorists in any meaningful sense of the word, nor are they “normally identified as such in the academic literature” as Rapoport claims’ (Wagner 2018: 7). 34 As Wagner notes, ‘the only sources available to historians examining the “Thugs” of early ­nineteenth-century India are those produced by the very authorities who persecuted them’ (2018: 3). See also McQuade (2021). 35 See, for example, Daftary (2011) and Cook (2018). Daftary points out that the Western tradition of referring to Ismailis as Assassins can be traced to the Crusaders (Daftary 2011: 3). 36 Another concern is that Rapaport subscribes to what William T. Cavanaugh calls ‘the myth of religious violence’, the myth that religion is inherently prone to violence. For a critique of this myth, see Cavanaugh (2009) and Armstrong (2014). 37 Verena Erlenbusch-Anderson characterizes ‘genealogy’ in this context as ‘the study of the ­empirical – material or discursive – conditions of the emergence of terrorism’ (2018: 3). My conception of genealogy is closer to McQuade’s, which concerns itself with the origins of the idea of terrorism (McQuade 2021). In practice, though, the two forms of genealogy are closely related. If terms like ‘terrorist’ do not refer to ‘a natural kind that exists in the world independently of human thought and practice’ (Erlenbusch-Anderson 2018: 5), then a study of the emergence of the idea of terrorism is, in a certain sense, also a study of the emergence of terrorism. 38 See McQuade (2021: 39). 39 Condos (2016: 718). 40 Condos (2016: 719). 41 ‘This twin emphasis on religious motivation and mental illness reappears again and again throughout the colonial records documenting these crimes’ (Condos 2016: 719). 42 As is apparent from Naji (2006), which is an insider’s guide to the methodology and strategic thinking of ISIS. 43 Crenshaw (2011a: 63–64). 44 On the extent to which terrorism can be rational, see Crenshaw (2011b) and the discussion of the ‘rational agent model’ (RAM) in Cassam (2018). 45 On the prospects of negotiation as a way of ending terrorist campaigns, see Chapter 3 of Cronin (2009). 46 English (2009: 122–123). 47 Dershowitz (2002). 48 Thanks to Paul Katsafanas for very helpful comments on an earlier draft.

References Adler, J. (2007), ‘Faith and Fanaticism’, in L. Anthony (ed.) Philosophers without Gods: Reflections on Atheism and the Secular Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press): 266–285. Armstrong, K. (2014), Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (London: Vintage). Cassam, Q. (2018), ‘The Epistemology of Terrorism and Radicalisation’, Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement, 84: 187–209. Cavanaugh, W. T. (2009), The Myth of Religious Violence (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Condos, M. (2016), ‘“Fanaticism” and the Politics of Resistance along the North-West Frontier of British India’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 58: 717–745. Cook, D. (2018), ‘Ismaili Assassins as Early Terrorists?’, in C. Dietze and C. Verhoeven (eds.) The Oxford Handbook of the History of Terrorism (Oxford: Oxford Handbooks Online): 1–21.

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Quassim Cassam Crenshaw, M. (2011a), ‘“Old” vs, “New” Terrorism’, in M. Crenshaw (ed.) Explaining Terrorism: Causes, Processes and Consequences (Abingdon: Routledge): 51–66. Crenshaw, M. (2011b), ‘The Logic of Terrorism’, in M. Crenshaw (ed.) Explaining Terrorism: Causes, Processes and Consequences (Abingdon: Routledge): 111–123. Cronin, A. K. (2009), How Terrorism Ends: Understanding the Decline and Demise of Terrorist Campaigns (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). Daftary, F. (2011), The Assassin Legends: Myths of the Ismailis (London: I. B. Tauris). Dershowitz, A. (2002), Why Terrorism Works: Understanding the Threat, Responding to the Challenge (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press). Duyvesteyn, I. (2012), ‘How New Is the New Terrorism?’, in J. Horgan and K. Braddock (eds.) Terrorism Studies: A Reader (London: Routledge): 27–40. Elster, J. (2005), ‘Motivations and Beliefs in Suicide Missions’, in D. Gambetta (ed.) Making Sense of Suicide Missions (Oxford: Oxford University Press): 233–258. English, R. (2003), Armed Struggle: The History of the IRA (London: Macmillan). English, R. (2009), Terrorism: How to Respond (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Erlenbusch-Anderson, V. (2018), Genealogies of Terrorism: Revolution, State Violence, Empire (New York: Columbia University Press). Evans, R. (2008), The Third Reich at War 1939–1945 (London: Penguin Books). Gambetta, D. ed. (2005), Making Sense of Suicide Missions (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Gerges, F. (2016), ISIS: A History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). Gerwarth, R. (2011), Hitler’s Hangman: The Life of Heydrich (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press). Hare, R. M. (1963), Freedom and Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Hare, R. M. (1981), Moral Thinking: Its Levels, Method and Point (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Hoffman, B. (2017), Inside Terrorism, 3rd edition (New York: Columbia University Press). Juergensmeyer, K. (2017), Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence, 4th edition (Oakland: University of California Press). Kant, I. (2007b), ‘Essay on the Maladies of the Head’, in G. Zöller and R. Louden (eds.) Immanuel Kant: Anthropology, History, and Education (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 65–77. Katsafanas, P. (2019), ‘Fanaticism and Sacred Values’, Philosophers’ Imprint, 19: 1–20. Laqueur, W. (1998), ‘The New Face of Terrorism’, The Washington Quarterly, 21: 169–178. Laqueur, W. (1999), The New Terrorism: Fanaticism and the Arms of Mass Destruction (New York: Oxford University Press). Laqueur, W. (2003), No End to War: Terrorism in the Twenty-First Century (New York: Continuum). Mandela, N. (1994), Long Walk to Freedom (London: Little Brown and Company). McCants, W. (2015), The ISIS Apocalypse: The History, Strategy, and Doomsday Vision of the Islamic State (New York: Picador). McQuade, J. (2021), A Genealogy of Terrorism: Colonial Law and the Origins of an Idea (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Naji, A. (2006), The Management of Savagery: The Most Critical Stage Through Which the Umma Will Pass, trans. W. McCants (Cambridge, MA: John Olin Institute for Strategic Studies). Pape, R. (2005), Dying to Win: The Strategic Logic of Suicide Terrorism (New York: Random House). Rapoport, D. C. (2012), ‘Fear and Trembling: Terrorism in Three Religious Traditions’, in J. Horgan and K. Braddock (eds.) Terrorism Studies: A Reader (London: Routledge): 3–26. Richards, A. (2015), Conceptualizing Terrorism (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Roth, P. (1997), American Pastoral (London: Vintage Books). Said, E. (2003), Orientalism (London: Penguin Books). Wagner, K. (2018), ‘“Thugs and Assassins”: “New Terrorism” and the Resurrection of Colonial Knowledge’, in C. Dietze and C. Verhoeven (eds.) The Oxford Handbook of the History of Terrorism (Oxford: Oxford Handbooks Online): 1–24. Wood, G. (2018), The Way of Strangers: Encounters with the Islamic State (London: Penguin Books).

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18 EXTREMIST WOMEN AND FANATICISM Tracy Llanera

Terrorist groups are groups that deliberately engage in violent acts to promote ideological or political objectives, while hate groups refer to groups with “beliefs or practices that attack or malign an entire class of people, typically for their immutable characteristics” (Southern Poverty Law Center 2022). Following Quassim Cassam’s philosophical analysis of extremism (2021), we can consider members of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) and the Hammerskins as, respectively, fundamentalist and racist extremists. By virtue of their affiliation with these terror and hate groups, many of their members hold beliefs outside of the center of the political spectrum (ideological extremism); they employ excessive or disproportionate violence to provoke terror or obtain their political objectives (methods extremism); and they are often closed-minded and intolerant, angry and resentful toward their targets and scapegoats, and paranoid in their thinking (mindset extremism).1 Now imagine your standard extremist of the twenty-first century, say, a religious terrorist or white supremacist. Who do you see? Is it an Arab male soldier in keffiyeh2 carrying an infantry weapon? Or a working-class white man in a pickup truck covered in swastikas and other racist paraphernalia? These are the common stereotypes of extremists in the public imagination. Less prominent are the women who actively participate in terror and hate movements, some of whom are more fanatical in their commitment than others.3 While they usually do not take on leadership or public-facing roles, women have been documented to generate propaganda, radicalize targets, and engage in violent operations (Blee 2002, 2020; Friedman 2007, 2008a,b; Lahoud 2014, 2017; Llanera 2023; Termeer & Duyvesteyn 2022). For instance, the Al-Khansaa Brigade, the first armed women’s unit of ISIS, has taken part in combat operations, including suicide attacks; in the Al-Hol camp in Syria, foreign women militants known as al muhajirat are indoctrinating minors and other refugees to jihadi ideology (Saleh 2021). Lana Lokteff and Lauren Southern, propagandists extraordinaire, promote racist ideas and attract recruits on a global scale (Darby 2020; Lombroso 2020). Yet women continue to be perceived as non-active or reluctant actors in these groups. One reason for this perception is that many terror and hate groups familiar to us—from Islamic fundamentalist movements like ISIS, Al-Qaeda, and Tehrik-e Taliban Pakistan, to far-right and neo-Nazi groups like the White Aryan Resistance, Stormfront, and Nordic Resistance 283DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-22

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Movement—are ideologically patriarchal. Following Marilyn Frye’s definition of the patriarchy, these patriarchal extremist groups follow a gendered social hierarchy where women exist in the service of men (1983: 9); put differently, their ideology expects and demands women to take on a subordinative gender role, one primarily defined by reproductive and domestic duties, and with no need or interest in education, professional work, or political participation. These extremist groups envision a future where women return to being the primary caretakers of the family and idealize them as obedient, domesticated, and submissive wives, mothers, and daughters, with no influence or agency or form of life outside of their families and clans. White nationalist “tradwives” (traditional wives), or anti-feminist racist women who valorize the 1950s image of traditional white suburban family life and endorse an ultra-conservative lifestyle (Llanera forthcoming), as well as what the Western media has dubbed “jihadi brides,” or women who have migrated to the Islamic Caliphate to become wives to soldiers (Strømmen 2017), represent familiar extremist stereotypes of the feminine ideal. In other words, women are generally presumed to have minimal or no political agency in extremist movements, an assumption belied by contemporary empirical research. Many women involved in organized racism and terrorism join for similar reasons as men (see Cook & Vale 2018; Mehr et al. 2020),4 as well as play important and indispensable roles in these extremist groups (Khalil 2019; Termeer & Duyvesteyn 2022). Some women are so fanatical they voluntarily sacrifice themselves for their cause (Friedman 2007, 2008a); the al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades, Boko Haram, and the Tamil Tigers are examples of terrorist organizations that have employed women as suicide bombers. How can we make sense of women’s participation in movements that are ideologically patriarchal? How can we best describe the agency they have in these hypermasculine extremist groups? Indeed, in current debates on gender, extremism, and terrorism, the problem of whether women have merely a “façade of agency” (Lahoud 2018: 8) or “active agency” (Termeer & Duyvesteyn 2022: 467, 478) is significant; the former conception insinuates that women are automatically less blameworthy for their actions, since they only follow orders from male terrorist leaders; the latter conception risks minimizing the impact of patriarchal dynamics in terror and hate groups, making all women and women equal in terms of liability and blame (see Friedman 2007, 2008a,b). I suggest that we need not choose between these two problematic conceptions. Any nuanced understanding of women’s agency in terror and hate operations should always account for both the gender dynamics and the political objectives of patriarchal extremist groups. I attempt to do this kind of work in this chapter by offering a preliminary philosophical account of what I call “women’s hate agency.” I link this gender-coded agency to women’s propensity to become fanatics in extremist groups. My account of women’s hate agency has three interrelated enabling conditions. First, this agency is inspired by what Paul Katsafanas identifies as ressentiment-fostering fanatical narratives of extremist terror and hate groups. Second, by virtue of these narratives, these extremist groups license women to defy gender norms for expedient political action. Third, women are called by their extremist group to perform special duties that bring them fame, praise, honor, and prestige as women. I argue that the exercise of women’s hate agency inspires extremist women to become fanatical about their cause. Women’s fanaticism, in turn, encourages more genderbased exploitation from within terror and hate groups.

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18.1  Ressentiment-Fostering Narratives The first feature of “women’s hate agency” is that ressentiment-fostering narratives (or fanatical narratives) of extremist groups can motivate it.5 In Philosophy of Devotion: The Longing for Invulnerable Ideals (2023), Katsafanas defines ressentiment in groups as a collective form of resentment, or “indignation resulting from the belief that one was wronged,” coupled with a “self-reinforcing, self-perpetuating narrative” (177, 178). Ressentimentfostering narratives claim that one’s group identity has been and continues to be gravely wronged, and that one’s worldview or form of life—for example, Islam, Christianity, or white supremacy—is relentlessly threatened and oppressed by inferior and harmful groups and forces, for example, Westerners, infidels, liberals, feminists, critical race theorists, and multiculturalists. Inspired by the writings of Scheler and Nietzsche, Katsafanas’s account of fanatical or ressentiment-fostering narratives share six common features: First, the fanatical narrative is goal-providing: it provides group members with something toward which to strive. Second, the fanatical narrative is exculpatory: it treats the faults, failings, and negative features of the in-group as forced upon them by the out-group. Third, the fanatical narrative is fixated on a rejected group: it offers a rather simple account of the source of negative features in one’s life. Fourth, the fanatical narrative tends to be all-encompassing. While the agent may initially focus on some particular wrong, the scope of the wrong tends to grow. In the extreme case, the agent sees most of his (or his group’s) shortcomings and failures as explained by the wrong that is being perpetrated against him by others. Fifth, the fanatical narrative tends to present individuals as impotent on their own but powerful as a collective: while the putative wrongs are beyond the individual’s power to rectify, collective action can correct them. Sixth, and relatedly, the agent is thus offered deferred compensation: the agent tends to envision a future in which the perceived wrongdoers are punished, eliminated, or render subordinate. These six features aren’t universal in fanatical groups, but they are extremely common. (2023: 182–183) Articulations of the ressentiment-fostering narratives of Islamic fundamentalism and white supremacy can be found in the 2001 propaganda film The State of Ummah, Al Qaeda commander Yahia Al Libi’s speech in June 2009, and American Identity Movement (formerly Identity Evropa) leader Nathan Damigo’s speech in 2016 (Katsafanas 2023: 183–185).6 In these examples, we find a group identity—tied to religion or race, and depicted as either superior or sacred—being portrayed as being wronged or persecuted by their enemies, with these grievances serving as the root of and “encompassing most or all the problems” that members of the group experience. Unsurprisingly, these narratives endorse violence and celebrate the misfortunes of their enemies and scapegoats. Extending Katsafanas’s account, I accentuate two important features of the r­ essentimentfostering narratives in the context of contemporary extremist groups: they function both as an expression of crisis and as a call to action. These features emphasize the urgency of their cause and more or less outline the conduct and actions expected from those who are truly committed to their ideology. The propaganda of white supremacy and Islamic fundamentalism interpret the identity-rooted dangers they experience as existential and in

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need of urgent response: they threaten to eradicate their race and culture or their holy and sacred worldview. The State of Ummah narrates how “hundreds of thousands of Muslims have been killed, maimed, and raped in graphic detail” and Yahia Al Libi’s speech, directed at his fellow Muslim extremists, lament the “unjust regimes whose prisons have become full of your youths, sons, and even your women” and the “armies, police forces and intelligence agencies” that “practice tortures against you” (Katsafanas 2023: 183–185). Damigo warns of “white genocide,” a dystopian fantasy theory that Cynthia Miller-Idriss points out is a narrative used mostly in the United States; other far-right conspiracy narratives include the “great replacement” (global) and “Eurabia” (in Europe), which all imagine “a frightening future of decline, degradation, or chaos,” and highlight the urgency of preserving and defending whiteness “against an invasion of immigrants, Muslims, or Jews” who will eliminate or replace “white nationals, Christians, Americans, or Europeans” (2020: 9). Curdling in the collective existential paranoia, extremist groups perceive themselves as fighting in extraordinary conditions (the present) to defend the glory of their idealized past. They also outline particular steps to action to realize their imagined future, with some narratives more specific in their to-do list than others. Both The State of Ummah and Yahia Al Libi’s speech call their adherents to take the path of hijrah (migration), participate in jihad (holy war) against their enemies, and establish a true Ummah (nation). White supremacists like Damigo call for the formation of a separate, whites-only nation; Miller-Idriss narrates that the extreme far-right endorse “an apocalyptic race war, which will result in the rebirth of a new world order and a restored white civilization” (2020: 13). My reading—which proposes recognizing ressentiment-fostering narratives by contemporary extremist groups as an expression of crisis and as a call to action—is compatible with the six features of fanatical narratives outlined by Katsafanas. As a tool used by groups to encourage fanaticism among its members, the perception of an ongoing crisis is designed to mobilize members to engage in the political affairs of the extremist group. Ressentiment-fostering narratives, in other words, are designed to inspire all members of extremist groups to action and can work to radicalize potential recruits to their ideology. But a tension exists in extremist groups that subordinate women but subscribe to ressentiment-fostering narratives. On the one hand, it is in the interest of patriarchal terror and hate groups—which remain minorities in mainstream society—for all its members to be actively involved in politics and their violent operations. Defending their racial and religious group identity requires muscling up all resources against existential, life-corroding dangers—whether these dangers are warranted or unwarranted. On the other, the relaxation of gender roles can challenge and even damage the ideological credibility of patriarchal extremist groups. In Islamic fundamentalist groups, recruiting women to be political leaders or combatants, equal to men, may disrupt and agitate in-group politics about the gender order, risking the loss of popular support (Termeer & Duyvesteyn 2022: 466; Winter 2018: 13). In the alt-right movement, the prominence of women as propagandists and political activists induces misogynist backlash against its female members from within the group (Llanera 2023). In other words, the extremist forces of terror and hate and the patriarchy are generally in friction with each other; the former invokes extraordinary political action and commitment from its members regardless of gender, while the latter requires the preservation of hierarchical gender roles to maintain ideological legitimacy. What might explain the accommodation of women as political agents in some hypermasculine terror and hate groups, and more importantly, and could we explore this move from the standpoint of women taking part in these activities? 286

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18.2  Flexing the Patriarchy The tension between extremism and the patriarchy allows us to explore the second condition that enables women’s hate agency: in response to the exceptional demands of their ressentiment-fostering crisis narrative, women are sanctioned by their extremist groups to act politically, offering the justification that women need to accommodate, minimize, or even reconcile the tensions that arise from acting and performing duties for their group that contradict or come into conflict with strict gender expectations. Simply put, patriarchal extremist groups license women to defy gender norms for expedient political action and to the benefit of their cause. This defiance of gender norms comes in the form of allowing, motivating, and even mandating women to perform roles specifically meant for male extremists, from bearing arms, engaging in combat, and serving as public-facing propagandists and organizers. This flexibility is well-documented from a gender angle in the propaganda and political dynamics of both patriarchal Islamic fundamentalist and white supremacist groups. While Muslim women are generally prohibited from engaging in combat, Lydia Khalil points out that “either tactically or ideologically,” this prohibition has been “adjusted, challenged and debated within jihadist circles since the earliest days of Islam” (2019: 6; see also Lahoud 2014, 2017). Decisions to allow women to take part in terror operations are often based on need and strategy, ranging from replenishing the ranks after losing manpower in combat, trafficking weapons and war paraphernalia (women can hide guns and bombs under their clothing, and are less subjected to body searches), to shaming traumatized or hesitant Muslim men to reenlist in combat. Joana Cook and Gina Vale point out that ISIS “shifted their position on the status of women in combat roles between 2014 and 2018, allowing women to take on increasingly more active roles including most recently stating it is obligatory for women to take up arms” (2018: 28). Put differently, ISIS began from merely permitting women to join terror operations on a case-by-case basis (the standard approach) to eventually mandating Muslim women to engage in combat, a move that can be explained by the extremist group’s desperation to salvage the Caliphate at the brink of its decline. In their analysis of Islamic State recruitment propaganda, Agnes Termeer and Isabelle Duyvesteyn summarize the three core narratives that substantiate the roles of Muslim women in the Islamic Caliphate: as the Builders of Ummah, the Representatives of Islam, and the Guardians of the Caliphate (2022). The first two narratives, classically patriarchal in imagery, were consistently deployed in the narrative discourse of ISIS. As the Builders of Ummah, jihadi women must, as nurturing mothers, reproduce and race “lion cubs” and uphold morality in the Caliphate; as Representatives of the Islamic faith, jihadi women must promote and defend the core values of femininity (like modesty, chastity, and piety) against the liberalizing influence of the demonic West. The third core narrative, that of jihadi women serving as Guardians of the Caliphate, represents an evolution in ISIS propaganda. While still maintaining the distinction between sexes, women are accorded “increased political agency” in this narrative, justified through “religious appeals, historical examples, and claims regarding increasing danger against the Ummah from 2017 onwards” in their propaganda (Termeer & Duyvesteyn 2022: 477). A clear example of this core narrative is “Inside the khilafah 7,” a video clip produced by ISIS’s al-Hayat Media Centre that circulated in 2018. Charlie Winter states that the video features “fighters wearing women’s garb in Eastern Syria”; the narrator in the short film referred to them as “chaste mujahid” women who were “journeying to [their] Lord with the garments of purity and faith, seeking revenge for [their] religion and for the honour of [their] sisters imprisoned by the apostate 287

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Kurds” (2018: 11). The word mujahideen, spelled mujāhidūn in Arabic (“those engaged in jihad”), broadly means “Muslims who fight on behalf of the faith or the Muslim community (ummah)”; the women of ISIS, in other words, can bear arms and serve as soldiers for the Caliphate.7 White supremacy shares this narrative flexibility when it comes to racist women and their political activism. In her pioneering work on women in organized racism in the United States, Kathleen Blee (2002) points out that three archetypes of white women have historically dominated racist propaganda: the goddess/victim, the wife and mother, and female activist. The first two are classic ideals of the racist patriarchy. Both archetypes follow the naturalist conception of women being the weaker or subordinative sex, either in need of saving by the white male hero from African American rapists and Mexican thieves or in charge of the domestic sphere as nurturers and carers of their white racial family. The third archetype, the female activist, is more complex; the white woman is presented as an “idealized comrade-wife” (linked to white men’s identity), a racial combatant (linked to the white cause), a white sister (linked to white sisterhood), a racist heroine (linked to racist actions), or a combination of these different features (Blee 2002: 120–122). This archetype of the female activist is challenging for two reasons: first, its action-oriented aspects clash with the passive and subordinative characters of the goddess/victim and wife and mother ideals, respectively; and second, some versions of the racist female activist suggest that white women are on equal footing with white men. Because the archetype motivates extremist racist women to commit to public, consciousness-raising actions to defend and promote white supremacy, neo-Nazi and other far-right groups continue to use the image of the female racist activist for recruitment. In a new paper, I argue that the two contemporary images of white women being peddled by white nationalists today are the “white power barbie” and the “tradwife” (Llanera 2023). First, the white power barbie represents glamour, sexuality, and the appeal of alt-right women in the age of Instagram (Hunter 2019). This image plays up the white power barbie’s desirability to white men and sets an aspirational model for white women on social media. Canadian alt-right propagandist Lauren Southern, who began her social media career by making anti-feminist commentary, would usually package her lifestyle videos as skincare routines or makeup tutorials—indeed, using her blond, barbielike appearance to lure unsuspecting viewers—before launching into an anti-Islam tirade or a conspiracy theory about immigrants abusing Swedish women. Second, the tradwife is a social ideal defined by the white woman’s submission to the husband and her devotion to the family, or “tradlife.” Utah-based Ayla Stewart is a prominent representative of this brand on social media (see Darby 2020). Tradwives link feminism to the deterioration of the Western civilization, the core of which is the white nuclear family—making them, and people who venerate the vision of 1950s American family life with misplaced nostalgia, natural allies of the alt-right. What are the implications of this gender licensing by patriarchal extremist groups? Since extremist women are permitted to act against gender norms, Islamic fundamentalist and racist white women can maintain epistemic fidelity to their sacred ideology. This licensing to promote terror and hate enables women to justify why they can violate patriarchal norms on behalf during crisis conditions; in other words, to defend the Islamic caliphate or recruit their targets to white nationalism, women can still endorse stereotypical patriarchal rules and norms, for example, women’s “feminine,” “domesticated,” “submissive” nature, while acting in ways that violate these gender rules, for example, generating propaganda, occupying leadership positions, training terrorist recruits, and committing acts of terror. 288

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How women in the Islamic Caliphate and the alt-right justify their participation in their extremist groups reflect both the burden and the power of this gendered licensing. Momena Shoma, who was convicted of terrorism for attempting to kill her Australian homestay program host Roger Singaravelu in early 2018, articulates her act as a moral and political duty to the Caliphate. As Khalil narrates: after her arrest, [Shoma] pleaded guilty, reportedly telling detectives she attacked Singaravelu because of the ‘order of Islamic State [which was calling on] everyone, even the women. So I just felt obligated, and it was like a burden on me. Yeah, I just had to do it … it could have been anyone, it’s not specifically him… I just felt like if I don’t do it I will be sinful, I will be punished by Allah’. (2019: 2; see also Cooper 2018) In her alt-right podcast, Lokteff fetishizes the figure of Viking shieldmaiden as a symbol of feminine fragility and activist strength. She thinks that the natural role of white women is to love and serve white men, and in return they receive the men’s protection and support. White women, she states, are the “‘life givers’ of the Euro/White future” and that “men’s ultimate romantic gesture to white women is the building and defense of Western civilization” (Mattheis 2018: 138). But, argues Lokteff, white women like her are compelled by circumstances to step up politically—put differently, to transform into white power ­barbies—in order to defend the white race from liberal politics, the feminist movement, and other evil forces in the alt-right narrative. She encourages other racist women to do the same to defend whiteness in its hour of need. In sum, the gender dynamic normally at play in white and racist, or fundamentalist religious societies—a dynamic where women belong in the private sphere, and at their best when they act as submissive wives and obedient daughters—is suspended in emergency conditions. While oppressive gender dynamics are the norm, a reasonable maneuvering of this dynamic is rationalized and made politically acceptable by these hate groups to accommodate their political goals. While key features in the ressentiment-fostering narratives of extremist groups remain intact—such as the group identity being wronged, the narrative as having an end or purpose, the outgroup being an all-encompassing threat, and the need for collective action— what extremists need to do, and what roles they need to perform, can be renegotiated under extraordinary crisis conditions requiring expedient political action. From this standpoint, racist women serving as plotters of terrorist operations or keynote speakers in power conferences (Darby 2020: 177–178), or European Muslim carrying out the hijrah and becoming combatants for the Islamic State (Strømmen 2017), are natural outcomes when extremist groups are threatened and responding to an existential and political crisis. Flexing the patriarchal rules to legitimize the exercise of women’s hate agency, in short, is a cost worth paying for ISIS and white nationalist leaders.

18.3  Carrots for Extremist Women But women’s hate agency is neither only roused by collective ressentiment nor permitted by their extremist groups; its exercise also offers rewards that are otherwise unavailable to women in ordinary conditions. Importantly, extremist women are recompensed and even celebrated for revoking gender norms and expectations for the sake of their cause. The third enabling condition of women’s hate agency is that the extremist group calls 289

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on women to perform special duties that bring them fame, praise, honor, and prestige as women. In what terror and hate groups construe as extraordinary crisis conditions, women are called to perform special and heroic duties. Marilyn Friedman’s pioneering philosophical analysis on women and terrorism helps explain how rewarding and recognition for women in both gender-subordinative societies and patriarchal terrorist movements take place. Friedman points out that women are stereotypically perceived as the non-violent gender: Women are believed to behave less violently than men in general and empirical evidence upholds this belief.8 Women are far more often than men associated with peaceful and non-violent modes of human interaction, including the whole range of mothering, nurturing, and caring activity. Caring and nurturing are frequently considered to be part of women’s “nature.” The concept of female “nature” is widely disputed, than men, especially in public settings. When a woman does resort to violence to deal with a social problem, this adds additional weight to her demand that others take seriously the claim implicit in her terrorist act that it is justifiable. A violent woman, on the face of it, bears a kind of enhanced witness to the thought that her violent behavior might be justified. (2007: 195–196) The participation of women in violence, according to Friedman, has greater ideological force than the participation of men. In particular, the martyrdom of women sends the message that the political and existential crisis must be so dire that even a woman would willingly sacrifice herself for its sake. Moreover, to a public audience conditioned to associating violent acts with the male gender, the sacrifice of a woman invites more publicity and staying power in the social imagination. A terrorist act perpetrated by a single, radicalized man in his twenties is less surprising and disconcerting than, say, a suicide bombing of a young mother with three children. As Friedman puts it, “public audiences are both repelled and fascinated by women who kill” (2008a: 43). In short, the engagement of women in acts of hate and violence has the capacity to enhance the political and moral credibility of a particular extremist cause (or at least generate this impression) as well as sustain the public’s attention. The enhanced social credibility and publicity borne by women’s sacrifice have been utilized by patriarchal state, nationalist, and terrorist actors to promote their ideology, reinvigorate the commitment of its members, as well as draw in new male and female recruits to their movements. Since women’s participation in terrorism can bring substantial benefits to their cause, women are also recompensed and rewarded by their communities in ways that are unimaginable and impossible in the broader ordinary conditions in which these women live. For example, Palestinian suicide bomber Wafa Idris was venerated for expressing, as Friedman puts it, the “highest level of nationalistic virtue a community can demand of its members for the sake of its survival and well-being” (2008a: 61). On January 2002, Yasser Arafat, former President of the Palestinian National Authority, gave his “army of roses” speech in Ramallah. With over a thousand women in attendance, he enjoined them to participate in the armed resistance and help the Israeli oppression of the Palestinian people. In his talk, Arafat used the term shahida, the feminine form of shahide (Arabic for “martyr”). Idris, at the age of 28, heeded this call and became the liberation movement’s first shahida: 290

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on the same afternoon, she detonated a bomb in a shopping district in Jerusalem, killing one person and injuring hundreds more (see Friedman 2008a: 50). After Idris’s death: At least 2000 mourners marched behind it through the streets of Ramallah, where the family lived. There were ceremonies all over Gaza and the West Bank for Wafa. Fatah9 held a symbolic funeral in which she was eulogized in these words, “Wafa’s martyrdom restored honor to the national role of the Palestinian woman, sketched the most wonderful pictures of heroism in the long battle for national liberation”10 (Friedman 2008b: 53) Terrorism by suicide, of course, is an extreme case. The recognition and rewards for extremist women that come with it are posthumous in nature: unlike ordinary women in their communities, they are revered in their community and esteemed in their history for being political heroes; if the group is religious, an ultimate prize is also promised in the afterlife (i.e., a direct entry to paradise). But we can also track a similar privileged treatment for women who work on dangerous or public-facing duties in the service of their patriarchal terrorist and hate movements today. In the case of religious fundamentalists, Hayla al-Qasir (also known as Umm alRabab) from Saudi Arabia is extolled for being a jihadi trainer of women soldiers and one of the most successful fundraisers for the group. Following her arrest in 2010, Sa’id al-Shihri, the deputy leader of Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, denounced the act and appealed to their supporters to publicize the names and addresses of senior officials in the Saudi secret police and public prosecutor’s office so that al-Qa‘ida is made known of their whereabouts, hoping at the very least to cause these officials to be terrified of the consequences of imprisoning jihadi activists and sympathizers, not least women. (Lahoud 2014: 796) This level of proactive response by Al Qaeda over an arrest is unusual and usually reserved for leaders, suggesting that al-Qasir’s role as a high-ranking female jihadi is a prized role. In the case of white nationalist groups today, the rewards for women come in the form of money and social recognition. Lokteff’s company Red Ice generates profit from exclusive paywalled content and participation from hundreds of thousands of subscribers, and Southern, who fancies herself as an investigative journalist, produces her own content and earns a steady income from her gigs in social media. When Southern moved from North America to Australia, she was immediately hired as a media commentator for the conservative media channel Sky News. A career in hate, in other words, can be rewarding and lucrative for white racist women.11

18.4  Women’s Hate Agency and Fanaticism As a reminder, Cassam argues that extremism comes in three different forms: ideological extremism, methods extremism, and mindset extremism. Members of religious fundamentalist and white supremacist groups display these three different forms of extremism: many of them hold non-mainstream beliefs, engage in violence and terror, and are intolerant, obsessed with ideals of purity and victimhood, and prone to utopian and conspiracy thinking. 291

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Often, you find forms of extremism working in tandem in these groups. Religious fundamentalist and white supremacist groups can also count as fanatical if they encourage the individual fanaticism of its members. In Katsafanas’s view, an individual counts as fanatical if she upholds one or more sacred values: values she takes to be fragile, ultimately bound to her self-identity, and shared with others in a group (2003: 188); in his generative account of group fanaticism, individual fanaticism is promoted through the use of ressentimentfostering narratives. If we read the accounts of Katsafanas and Cassam together, we can see that while they often overlap, extremism and fanaticism are not necessarily the same thing. Extremism is a broader category than fanaticism.12 A person can be an extremist without being a fanatic; for example, a white nationalist can be an ideological and mindset extremist but be unwilling to sacrifice their lives like a suicide bomber, who may willingly do so for the sake of her precious and fragile sacred value. In this final section, I turn to the question of how the exercise of women’s hate agency may inspire extremist women to become fanatical for their cause and how it can encourage more gender-based exploitation in terror and hate movements. Central to my analysis is what Katsafanas identifies in his work as the feeling of impotence felt by members of terror and hate groups. The ressentiment-fostering narrative that extremists subscribe to paints their experience as maligned and threatened by external groups and forces. The narrative attributes their misfortunes and suffering to an identifiable, clear, and all-encompassing cause, rendering them impotent as individual agents. But whatever impotence male members in these groups and movements experience is magnified in the experience of women who are doubly marginalized. Not only are women conditioned to be subordinative by the sexism and misogyny from within their patriarchal frameworks, but they are also, following their group narrative, in danger of the ressentiment-­engendering groups and forces threatening their collective identity. In short, both the forces of the patriarchy and extremism require the submission and undergird the oppression of women. Friedman points out that living in female-subordinated societies can “affect the judgment of women who live under it, an effect that probably lasts throughout women’s lives” (2008b: 225). These women deal with the realities that create a condition of agentic impotence, from “socialization for subordination, coercive enforcement of obedience, few or no options of exit from the system in question, and the social prevalence of gender norms that conflict with genuine morality” (2008b: 225). Granted, this kind of coercive gender conditioning may be applicable to some members of the hate and terror groups, but it certainly does not apply to the upbringing of many female members of white supremacist groups and jihadi women born and raised in Western countries. But the feminist analysis of Friedman suggests that in general, women living in or are bound to pervasively sexist and misogynist environments have less capacity for expressing their resentment independent of male or community support and for finding redress for their grievances in their respective environments in comparison to men. Moreover, the feelings of fear and powerlessness, which can motivate entry and participation in extremist movements, are more extensive and deeply rooted in women by virtue of their gender identity. In other words, it is reasonable to assume that women are reasonably more impotent than men in patriarchal terror and hate groups. How do we move from women’s impotence to women’s fanaticism in terror and hate groups? My hunch is that it has something to do with power. As Katsafanas rightly points out, fanatical narratives that terror and hate groups abide by also tend “to present individuals as impotent on their own but powerful as a collective: while the putative wrongs are beyond the individual’s power to rectify, collective action can correct them” (2023: 292

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182–183). By virtue of their membership in these extremist groups, the impotence that women experience in their day-to-day lives are replaced by the exact opposite: the feeling, expression, and enjoyment of power. Women, in other words, experience a newfound and liberating sense of power in their exercise of women’s hate agency. By becoming a neo-Nazi or a jihadi combatant and exercising their hate agency, extremist women—especially those in high-ranking positions—are able to actively assert their will, seek revenge and destroy their enemies, and enjoy the respect and recognition that accompany their commitment to extremism, all while being supported by their group and without being fully encumbered by patriarchal gender dynamics. A key manifestation of the collective power of women’s hate agency is the Al-Khansaa Brigade, the first armed women’s religious enforcement unit of ISIS mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. Tasked to uphold the moral code and mete out punishments in Raqqa and Mosul, members of the group were responsible for arrests and beatings of Muslim men and women who violated rules in the Islamic State; for women, punishable offenses included traveling without a male chaperone and wearing makeup under their headdress. The all-female police group has also taken part in planning and executing over 200 terrorist operations, a responsibility that extremist women in ordinary conditions would be banned from engaging in. While the exercise of power by women is not the only feature that can influence commitment in extremist groups, it plays a considerable role in encouraging the emergence of fanaticism in extremist women. The power that extremist women experience, after all, is deeply bound to the gendered hate agency that their extremist group accords and licenses them to use on behalf of their ideology. Recall Katsafanas’s description of a fanatic. An individual is fanatical to the extent that this agent displays four general features: first, that the agent adopts one or more sacred values; second, that the agent needs to treat a value as sacred to preserve one’s identity (fragility of the self); third, that the value’s status is taken to be threatened when it is not widely accepted (fragility of the value); and fourth, that the fanatic identifies with a group that commits to the shared sacred value (group identity) (Katsafanas 2023: 142–162). If applied to extremist women who are devoted to a particular cause, we see the following options available: if they waver or betray their extremist commitments, they lose the power bound to their gendered hate agency; however, if they keep exercising it and expanding its reach, the stronger, more agentic, and more capable they become. In a world with dire options, it pays to be a fanatical extremist woman. Sadly, female empowerment in the context of terror and hate groups comes at a great cost. For one thing, the personal and social goods that derive from women’s hate agency can work to reinforce their solidarity with the hate group in pernicious ways. It may, for instance, allow women to sidestep or gloss over the reality of their gendered subordination given the necessity and urgency of defending their extremist worldview. Women may not even see women’s subordination and oppression as harmful and abusive, or even deny that these gender-based harms exist. They may even lose sight of the reality that their agency in patriarchal extremist groups is wholly conditional: when the existential and political crisis is over, day-to-day life will revert back to a social condition where women have no hate agency to exercise, if they even have a place in politics or public affairs at all. Another pressing problem is that the rise of women’s fanaticism also conditions more women who are living in dire and oppressive environments to accept self-sacrifice as their social destiny. After Wafa Idris’s suicide as a martyr for Palestine, more women followed her trail in becoming suicide bombers. Even Palestinian children began seeing violence as their main social contribution in the liberation movement: 293

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In 2002, Victor13 visited a school in the Jabaliya refugee camp in Gaza that was run by the U.N. She visited a class of 6 year old girls and asked the class how many wanted to be martyrs, shahidas. “All the hands went up.” Then she visited a class of 12 year olds. Several girls in this group as well asserted that they wanted to be shahidas. One said, “To follow my brother. And, in honor of Wafa Idris, who proved that women can do as much as men.” Other girls did not mention Wafa Idris by name but had clearly succumbed to the allure of becoming female martyr-heroes for the Palestinian people. (Friedman 2008b: 53) In the context of extremist groups, and if done willingly, suicide bombing may count as the most definitive expression of fanaticism; after all, sacrificing one’s life for the sake of the sacred value that one cherishes is the very proof of its sacredness. Martyrdom, moreover, is an act of the hero. The problem with socially conditioning women to martyrdom—of getting women to exercise their hate agency in this final, irrevocable way—is that extremist groups see women as their best and most dispensable asset: Women, especially young girls, have been used to devastating effect as suicide bombers by Boko Haram in Nigeria. Skirting jihadist norms, Boko Haram favoured women suicide bombers because they were cheap, more expendable than male combatants, and a useful means of evading security measures following counterterrorism crackdowns and a declared state of emergency in Nigeria from 2014. This use of women and girls was unprecedented in the world of jihad at the time and did more to normalise the role of women as suicide bombers than arguably any other group. In the six years between April 2011 and June 2017, Boko Haram deployed 434 suicide bombers, of which at least 56 percent were women — a higher proportion of women than any other terrorist group in history. Boko Haram eventually became an IS affiliate in 2015. (Khalil 2019: 4) In summary, my account of women’s hate agency helps illuminate the role of women as political agents in relation to both their patriarchal ideology and their extremist cause. This agency is motivated by ressentiment-fostering narratives and is licensed by extremist groups or movements. This licensing permits women to defy gender norms while keeping true to their ideology and enables the social recognition and public rewarding of women’s engagement in extremism. As my analysis suggests, women’s hate agency is existentially rousing and action-engendering for the women who exercise it and it is pragmatically useful for the hypermasculine terror and hate groups that encourage it. The exercise of this gendered agency can also motivate women’s fanaticism, a reality that extremist groups are exploiting today in a deadly way.14

Notes 1 Heather Battaly argues that both Cassam (2021) and Katsafanas (2023) offer normatively negative accounts of extremism and fanaticism and proposes a normatively neutral philosophical account of both concepts (2023; see also Olson 2007 and diPaolo forthcoming). While I am sympathetic to Battaly’s approach, I follow Cassam and Katsafanas in their normatively negative interpretation of extremism and fanaticism, since the political and religious extremists and fanatics I deal with in this paper are characterized by their intolerance and violence.

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Extremist Women and Fanaticism 2 A traditional headdress worn by Arab and Kurdish men. 3 In Paul Katsafanas’s influential account of fanaticism, a fanatic is someone who (a) adopts one or more sacred values; (b) treats this value as sacred to preserve one’s identity; (c) takes this value’s status as threatened when it is not widely accepted; and (d) identifies with a group that commits to the shared sacred value (2023: 142–162). I engage the extremism and fanaticism from the point of view of extremist women in Section 18.4 of this paper. 4 Push factors are features that make persons vulnerable to violent extremism, such as social discrimination and victimization, trauma, and personal or political grievances. Pull factors are positive incentives that encourage participation in these violent extremist groups, such as solidarity or belonging, friendship or filial ties, idealistic social and religious aspirations. 5 Fanatical or ressentiment-fostering narratives are key to what Katsafanas proposes in his book as a generative view of group fanaticism, which claims that “a group qualifies as fanatical iff it promotes individual fanaticism,” notably through the provision of ressentiment-fostering narratives (2023: 188). In this chapter, I stick with the term “ressentiment-fostering narratives” in my account to avoid confusion, since extremists may adopt these narratives without being fanatical members of the group. 6 I have decided against adding links to sources of extremist views on the internet, in view of the ethical issues about promoting traffic to such sites. As a workaround, I mention the titles of the propaganda or websites and cite them in the scholarly literature where they appear in the chapter. 7 Britannica, “mujahideen.” 8 See Peterson and Runyan (1993) [qtd from Friedman 2007: 195]. 9 The Palestinian nationalist social democratic political party; formerly the Palestinian National Liberation Movement. 10 Victor (2003: 53–54). 11 As Heather Battaly correctly points out, “these women have more opportunities for ‘success’ (as it were) in their democratic communities than women who are living in in much more oppressive conditions.” 12 Thanks to Paul Katsafanas for drawing attention to this important distinction. 13 Barbara Victor, journalist and author of Army of Roses: Inside the World of Palestinian Women Suicide Bombers (2003). 14 I am grateful to Heather Battaly, Josh di Paolo, Paul Katsafanas, Paul-Mikhail Catapang Podosky, and Louise Richardson-Self for their comments on the outline and first draft of this chapter. I also thank the UConn brown bag participants for their enthusiasm and support for this project, in particular Michael Lynch and Lynne Tirrell.

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19 FANATICISM AND CLOSED-MINDEDNESS Heather Battaly

Fanatics are often viciously closed-minded. As Paul Katsafanas (2019, 2022) and Quassim Cassam (2022a, 2022b) rightly argue, fanatical members of ISIS, the Taliban, the KKK, and the Nazi party are paradigms of vicious closed-mindedness. They wrongly take their twisted ideologies to be certain (Cassam 2022a: 131; Katsafanas 2019: 4), irrationally refuse to subject them to critique (Cassam 2022b: 24; Katsafanas 2022: 159), and may even treat them as unanswerable to reason altogether (Katsafanas 2019: 8). More broadly, they ignore and dismiss ideas that conflict with their own ideologies, refuse to revise their beliefs, and do so for bad epistemic reasons and with bad epistemic effects. As Cassam argues, their closed-mindedness has the bad epistemic effect of obstructing their own knowledge1— it protects and sustains their false beliefs and twisted ideologies—which, in combination with their intolerance, results in further bad effects, including the dissemination of their false ideologies, and the destruction of the knowledge of others. As Katsafanas (2019: 13) points out, fanatical members of (e.g.) ISIS and the Nazi party have also been driven by bad ­motives—on his view, they are implicitly motivated by self-preservation and by the protection and preservation of their ideologies, even when they explicitly and falsely think they are motivated by truth and other goods. Indeed, the bad epistemic motives of fanatics needn’t be limited to self-preservation and ego-defense; fanatical members of ISIS and the Nazi party have also been motivated by hatred, power, and fear. In short, it is quite clear that fanatics can be and often are viciously closed-minded. But, Katsafanas and Cassam argue for a stronger claim. Generalizing from political and religious paradigms of fanaticism like those above, they argue that fanaticism entails vicious closed-mindedness. This chapter explores two main questions: must fanatics be closed-minded, as Cassam and Katsafanas suggest, or could they be open-minded? And, even if fanaticism entails closed-mindedness, must the fanatic’s closed-mindedness be epistemically vicious, or could it be epistemically virtuous? The chapter proceeds as follows. The opening section surveys the pioneering analyses of Katsafanas and Cassam, both of whom argue that fanaticism conceptually entails vicious closed-mindedness. The second section offers an analysis of the trait of closed-mindedness as an unwillingness or inability to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options, or an unwillingness or inability to revise one’s beliefs (Battaly 2018a, 2018b, 2020, 2021a, 297DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-23

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2021b). Building on the work of Josh DiPaolo (forthcoming) and Josh Dolin (2022), the third section argues that fanatics needn’t be closed-minded, and may even be open-minded. In so doing, it proposes an alternative analysis of fanaticism that is broader in scope than those of Katsafanas and Cassam. Finally, I contend that even if the argument of the third section fails and fanaticism does require closed-mindedness, the closed-mindedness it requires needn’t be epistemically vicious.2 Drawing on Joel Olson’s (2007) work, I argue that insofar as the Garrisonian Abolitionists were closed-minded fanatics, their closed-­mindedness was epistemically virtuous, not vicious. In short, I argue that closed-mindedness and fanaticism are normatively neutral concepts.

19.1  Katsafanas and Cassam on Fanaticism What is fanaticism? While they disagree over some of the details, Katsafanas and Cassam agree that fanaticism is both an epistemic and a moral vice. With two notable exceptions (DiPaolo forthcoming; Olson 2007), the literature on fanaticism has followed suit (Tietjen and Townsend 2022). Let’s begin with Katsafanas’s account. Katsafanas argues that fanaticism is a “vice or practical defect” that combines the epistemic failure of being (what he calls) a ‘true believer’ with the moral failure of intolerance (2019: 1, his emphasis). For Katsafanas, the ‘true believer’ is (a) unwaveringly committed to an ideal, which he values for its own sake, and treats as (b) inviolable and (c) unquestionable. More specifically, he is (a) willing to make sacrifices, even extreme ones, in order to promote the valued ideal. He is (b) unwilling to compromise the valued ideal in designing policies of action for himself and others—unwilling to make concessions or exceptions, or to ‘betray’ the ideal by weighing it against other values. And, most importantly for present purposes, he (c) treats his own belief in the valued ideal as indubitable, “invulnerable to… rational critique,” and unanswerable to reason, for example, because he takes its source to be divine revelation rather than reason (2022: 159). Katsafanas avers that while it can be appropriate to treat some beliefs as indubitable—for example, the belief that triangles have three sides—the fanatic’s unwillingness to doubt is not of this sort. In his words, “what distinguishes the fanatic is not simply his refusal to entertain doubts…but his ground for this refusal,” which is rationally unjustified (2019: 8, his emphasis). Thus, for Katsafanas, fanatics are unjustified in treating their beliefs as indubitable, and in this way, are epistemically vicious.3 In generating his account of a true believer, Katsafanas draws on the work of Enlightenment thinkers, including Locke (1975) and Kant (2007), who take religious fanaticism to be paradigmatic and who construe fanaticism as a failure of reason. Importantly, Katsafanas argues that for Locke and Kant, fanaticism isn’t simply a matter of refusing to engage with alternative ideas and refusing to doubt or revise one’s belief in the ideal. For Enlightenment thinkers, fanatics refuse to engage and revise because they think they have “religiously sanctioned, unerring insight” about the belief, which makes it inappropriate to subject it to rational evaluation (Katsafanas 2019: 6). So, in addition to being unwilling to engage and revise, Katsafanas’s true believers assume their belief isn’t even answerable to, or informed by, reason. I note that one can satisfy the former condition without the latter: an agent can be unwilling to engage and revise a belief, while assuming it is answerable to reason. She might refuse to engage or revise not because she thinks her belief is unanswerable to reason, but because (e.g.) she implicitly wants to protect her belief (see below4), or because she is epistemically lazy, or even because she thinks or knows she has already arrived at a 298

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true belief via rational inquiry. Since such distinctions are elided in the literature that has addressed Katsafanas’s view, and since they will play a role below, it is important to introduce them. I likewise note that on the Enlightenment view, fanatics think their belief isn’t answerable to reason because they presume it has a different source, viz., divine revelation. But, we might plausibly extend Katsafanas’s notion of a true believer to include (e.g.) posttruth MAGA-voters who think their belief that Trump won the 2020 presidential election isn’t answerable to reason, not because it is sourced in divine revelation (or in Trump himself), but because it is sourced in what one likes, rather than in reason, the latter of which is irrelevant and unimportant.5 Katsafanas argues that one of the primary problems with Enlightenment views is that they construe fanaticism solely in terms of the epistemic vice of being a true believer. For Katsafanas, this won’t be sufficient for fanaticism since one can be a true believer, for example, as he says many religious people are, without being intolerant, and fanaticism requires intolerance.6 On his view, it requires both the epistemic vice of being a true believer and the moral vice of being intolerant.7 In an effort to capture the fanatic’s morally vicious intolerance, Katsafanas adds several conditions. Inspired by Nietzsche’s (1989) account, he turns to the fanatic’s implicit motives for being a true believer. In this vein, he argues that the fanatic needs to treat some ideal or other as inviolable and unquestionable, in order to hold himself together and prevent his identity from disintegrating. To put this differently, Katsafanas takes fanatics to have “fragile” selves whose unity requires “a commitment to something unconditional and incontestable” (Katsafanas 2019: 13). As he is at pains to point out: by itself, this motive won’t be enough to explain intolerance, since one could be a true believer who is motivated by self-preservation without being intolerant, for example, a Buddhist monk (2019: 14). To be intolerant, one must also see the status of one’s valued ideal as threatened by dissent; that is, one must see the valued ideal itself as fragile and in need of protection.8 And, rather than resign oneself to its collapse, one must identify with a group whose members likewise see it as fragile and act to preserve and protect it by imposing it on others. Together, Katsafanas argues, these conditions explain the intolerance of fanatics. To sum up his view, for Katsafanas (2019, 2022), the paradigmatic fanatic: (K1) is a true believer who treats at least one valued ideal as inviolable and unquestionable, or as he sometimes puts it, as ‘sacred’; (K2) in order to preserve his identity; while (K3) identifying with a group of people who also treat the valued ideal as sacred; and who (K4) take it to be threatened when it is widely rejected by out-groups; and (K5) act to preserve and protect it by imposing it on others. Though Cassam rejects various features of Katsafanas’s account, he agrees that fanaticism entails epistemically vicious closed-mindedness and morally vicious intolerance. More specifically, Cassam argues that fanatics: (C1) “have unwarranted contempt for other people’s ideals”; (C2) are willing to impose their morally “perverted ideals” on others; (C3) are unwilling to “think critically about their ideals” because they spuriously regard them as indubitable; (C4) are unwilling to compromise their ideals; and (C5) are willing to “sacrifice themselves and others” in pursuing their ideals (Cassam 2022a: 133). Given its importance for present purposes, let’s begin with (C3). On Cassam’s account, the fanatic refuses to think critically about his ideals because he spuriously regards them as certain and immune to doubt. Echoing Katsafanas, Cassam avers that it can be appropriate to treat some beliefs—for example, that triangles have three sides—as certain.9 On his view, people who treat as certain only those beliefs they should treat as certain are not viciously closed-minded. As he puts it, people who are “uncompromisingly committed to 299

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sound principles for sound reasons are neither dogmatic nor closed-minded”; rather, they are appropriately principled (2022a: 20). In contrast, Cassam thinks the fanatic is viciously closed-minded—he treats as certain ideals that he should not treat as certain because they are unsound. In Cassam’s words, “the propositions the fanatic regards as immune to doubt—like those of Nazi race theory—are not only dubious but demonstrably false” (Cassam 2022b: 24). Cassam thus takes the ideals of the fanatic to be epistemically unjustified, unsound, and false, and the fanatic’s certainty to be spurious (2022a: 20). Indeed, he goes so far as to claim that “spurious certainty is a core element of the fanatic’s mindset: there is no such thing as a doubtful or uncertain fanatic” (2022b: 24). In short, for Cassam, the fanatic’s refusal to doubt and engage critically is viciously closed-minded and dogmatic, rather than appropriately principled. Importantly, Katsafanas’s true believers and Cassam’s fanatics are both closed-minded insofar as they viciously refuse to doubt or revise their beliefs. But, I note that unlike Katsafanas’s true believers, Cassam’s fanatics needn’t assume their beliefs are unanswerable to, or uninformed by, reason. Indeed, Cassam has argued elsewhere that agents can be closedminded because they think their reasoning has already led them to true beliefs. In this vein, he envisions a closed-minded 9/11 conspiracy theorist, Oliver, who wants to get the truth but thinks he already has—Oliver thinks his inquiry into the matter has already given him the answer (2016: 168). Note that Oliver doesn’t assume that his belief is uninformed by, or unanswerable to, reason. Quite the contrary, he thinks his belief is answerable to reason, and is already informed by reason—he thinks his inquiries have already secured the truth. For Cassam, what makes Oliver closed-minded is his unwillingness to “recognize fundamental flaws” in his beliefs and his unwillingness to abandon them (2019: 113). Ultimately, in his view, what makes closed-mindedness epistemically vicious is its systematic obstruction of knowledge (2019: 23). We will return to these points below. Cassam agrees that the epistemic vice of closed-mindedness won’t be sufficient for fanaticism, since fanaticism also requires a willingness to intolerantly impose one’s ideals on others (Cassam 2022a: 128). But in his view, intolerantly imposing one’s own ideals on others won’t be “relevant to the question [of] whether one is a fanatic unless there is also something wrong with one’s ideals” (2022a: 130). Following R. M. Hare (1963), Cassam contends that the ideals fanatics impose on others must be morally perverted, in addition to being epistemically unsound. His account thus requires (C2)—intolerantly imposing one’s own perverted ideals on others—which he takes to be morally vicious. In a similar vein, he argues that it won’t be enough to have contempt for others’ ideals if that contempt is warranted (e.g., our contempt of the ideals of Klan members is warranted). To be a fanatic in Cassam’s view, one must have (C1) unwarranted contempt for others’ ideals. One must also be (C4) unwilling to compromise one’s ideals in designing policies of action for oneself and others. In other words, one must treat one’s ideals as inviolable. I note that Katsafanas is right to distinguish between (a) treating an ideal as inviolable, and (b) treating one’s belief in the ideal as unquestionable. An agent can be unwilling to revise their own belief in their ideal, but be willing to compromise their ideal in designing public policy, for example, because a policy that incorporates aspects of their ideal can still be a step toward its eventual adoption in full. One can likewise be unwilling to compromise their ideal in designing public policy—for example, because they want to avoid appearing politically ‘weak’—while being willing to revise their belief in the ideal. Finally, Cassam argues that one can be unwaveringly, uncompromisingly, and closed-mindedly committed to a perverted and unsound ideal which one intolerantly imposes on others, but be a bully rather than a fanatic (2022b: 300

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22). Fanatics, he thinks, must also (C5) be willing to sacrifice themselves in pursuit of their ideals; being willing to sacrifice others isn’t enough. He suggests that the fanatic’s certainty in her ideals explains her willingness to sacrifice some of her own and others’ interests in her pursuit of them.

19.2 Closed-Mindedness Let’s assume that Katsafanas and Cassam have succeeded in providing us with sufficient conditions for fanaticism. But, are they correct in thinking that closed-mindedness is necessary? Must fanatics be closed-minded, or could they be open-minded? And, even if they must be closed-minded, must their closed-mindedness be epistemically vicious, or could it be virtuous? To answer these questions, we first need an analysis of closed-mindedness. Let’s begin with a paradigm example of closed-mindedness. Suppose Clint grew up believing that poverty is caused by laziness. He has stuck with this belief throughout his life, is unwilling to revise it, and unwilling to engage seriously with any ideas or evidence to the contrary. Clint’s modus operandi (at least when it comes to this topic) is to summarily dismiss any competing ideas and arguments that cross his path without evaluating their merits. So, when the conversation turns to low wages as a cause of poverty, Clint deems it nonsense and shuts down, closing himself off. When he sees an article arguing that lack of opportunity contributes to poverty, he thinks it ridiculous, and scrolls past it. He recognizes that such ideas compete with his own, and rejects them because they strike him as implausible. In short, Clint is closed-minded, at least when it comes to this topic. What does this mean? I propose that we understand closed-mindedness as an (UNENG) unwillingness or inability to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options (e.g., ideas, sources, questions, evidence), or an (UNREV) unwillingness or inability to revise a belief.10 The features of Clint’s case are sufficient for closed-mindedness, but they aren’t all necessary. Clint has a specific kind of closed-mindedness: he is dogmatic. Dogmatism is an unwillingness or inability to engage seriously with relevant alternatives to a belief one already holds, or (in cases where one is willing to engage seriously with alternatives) an unwillingness or inability to revise a belief one already holds. Importantly, closed-mindedness includes but doesn’t require dogmatism. This is because closed-mindedness doesn’t require having extant beliefs about a topic. One can be closed-minded in arriving at an initial belief about a topic, or closed-minded in the ways one conducts inquiries more generally—in which questions one asks, methods one uses, or sources one consults. There are several points to note about this analysis. For starters, it allows closed-­ mindedness to take the form of a domain-specific disposition, or a general disposition. Suppose Clint’s unwillingness to engage seriously with competing ideas and evidence is restricted to this one topic (the causes of poverty), and he engages seriously with respect to a wide range of other topics. If so, his closed-mindedness is domain-specific. Whereas, if he is unwilling (or unable) to engage seriously with relevant ideas, evidence, and sources across most topics and domains, his closed-mindedness will be a general disposition. Second, though Clint is dogmatic about a belief that is false, this analysis also allows for dogmatism about beliefs that are true. Importantly for present purposes, an agent can be dogmatic about her true belief that slavery is wrong. More broadly, an agent can be dogmatic with respect to her political beliefs, whether they are true or false. She can be dogmatic about her religious beliefs, whether they are true or false. She can even be dogmatic with respect to true and relatively trivial beliefs, for example, that her dog is well-behaved. 301

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Third, though Clint is both (UNENG) unwilling to engage seriously with competing ideas and (UNREV) unwilling to revise his belief, the analysis above (which is disjunctive) allows for dogmatism even in cases where one is willing to engage seriously with competing ideas. To explain, Clint’s engagement with competing ideas is superficial, not serious—he dismisses them without a hearing. In contrast, engaging seriously with competing ideas is a matter of evaluating them on their merits. One must hear them out, make an effort to correctly understand and represent them, and evaluate the arguments for them. One can engage seriously with competing ideas by, for example, evaluating the reliability of their source, asking relevant questions, and offering relevant counter-evidence or rebuttals. But, one can do all of this while still being dogmatic! Case in point: consider the rare conspiracy theorist who hears you out, correctly represents your view, and offers relevant counter-­evidence, but only because she wants to change your mind, and not because she is re-opening her own inquiry into the matter (Battaly 2018a, 2021b). She is dogmatic because she is unwilling to revise her belief—she refuses to put it back in ‘play’—and is only engaging seriously in an effort to influence you. Similarly, candidates in political debates can engage seriously with one another’s views while being dogmatic, viz., in cases where they only engage seriously in an effort to garner votes, and not because they are willing to revise their own views. One upshot of this is that engaging seriously with competing ideas isn’t sufficient for openmindedness. To be open-minded, one must be both willing (and able) to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options and willing (and able) to revise one’s beliefs. Fourth, on the analysis above, (UNREV) being unwilling to revise one’s beliefs is sufficient for closed-mindedness, but (~REV) failing to revise one’s beliefs is not. Of course, Clint both fails to revise his belief and is unwilling to do so. But, failing to change his mind isn’t what makes him closed-minded. One can fail to change one’s mind while being openminded. Consider Octavia, who wants her beliefs to conform with the best available evidence and is willing to update and revise them when the available evidence weighs against them. Suppose Octavia is evaluating whether to revise her belief that the primary cause of poverty is lack of opportunity. In so doing, she engages with a wide range of relevant arguments and recent studies about the topic. Further, suppose she finds that the best available evidence supports the belief she already has, and as a result, does not change her mind. Octavia is still open-minded, and would continue to be so even if she rarely or never changed her mind, given that her beliefs (in each case) were already consistent with the best available evidence. Open-mindedness does not entail actual belief change; it only entails a willingness to change one’s beliefs and to engage with relevant intellectual options. Fifth, the analysis above allows closed-mindedness to be driven by a range of different reasons and motives, which include, but aren’t restricted to, those identified by Katsafanas. Accordingly, closed-minded agents can, but needn’t, (~ANS) think their beliefs are unanswerable to reason. Instead, they might think their beliefs are already informed by reason, and refuse to revise them on those grounds.11 Likewise, an agent’s refusal to revise can, but needn’t, be implicitly motivated by self-preservation and the preservation of her beliefs. Instead, refusals to revise might be implicitly motivated by, for example, laziness, fear, hatred, a need for closure (Kruglanski 2004), or a need not to know (Medina 2013). Closed-mindedness can be driven by any of these bad epistemic motives, and more (Battaly 2020: 33). But, the analysis above also allows it to be driven by good epistemic motives for truth, knowledge, and understanding. An agent can be closed-minded because she implicitly cares about truth and knows that she already has it. For instance, an astrophysicist might be unwilling to revise her belief that the “The earth is round and not flat” because 302

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she is motivated to get truths and already knows that “The earth is round and not flat” (Battaly 2021b). In this way, sixth, this analysis of closed-mindedness is normatively neutral. It doesn’t assume that closed-mindedness is always epistemically vicious, and allows for the possibility that it is epistemically virtuous.12 In so doing, it analyzes closed-mindedness through the lens of, what Ian Kidd calls, “normative contextualism” (2021: 81). It conceives of closedmindedness as a descriptive disposition, and then identifies additional features that make it the epistemic vice it so often is, while allowing for the possibility that different features would turn it into an epistemic virtue. Below, I introduce two different ways for the descriptive trait of closed-mindedness to be an epistemic vice, and two corresponding ways for it to be an epistemic virtue.13 The arguments in subsequent sections focus on closed-mindedness as an effects-vice and (respectively) effects-virtue. First, closed-mindedness can be an effects-vice insofar as it produces a preponderance of bad epistemic effects, for example, it can protect and sustains an agent’s false beliefs, obstruct her knowledge, and (in combination with other traits) may even enable the agent to pollute the epistemic environment by disseminating her false beliefs to others (Battaly 2018b: 30–33). Second, for closed-mindedness to be a character-vice, it must be implicitly motivated by, for example, laziness, ego-defense, the need not to know, the desire to protect one’s extant beliefs, or other bad epistemic motives.14 To illustrate, Clint’s dogmatism is an effects-vice, since it sustains his false beliefs about the causes of poverty and prevents him from gaining knowledge. Whether it is also a character-vice will depend (at least partly) on his motives. If Clint is implicitly motivated by, for example, a desire to protect his belief, or a need for closure, or other bad epistemic motives, then his closed-mindedness will also be a candidate for character-vice. Correspondingly, for closed-mindedness to be an effects-virtue, it would need to produce a preponderance of good epistemic effects. Arguably, it does this in (at least some) cases of closed-mindedness about things one already knows (Battaly 2018b). To illustrate, in contexts where an agent has knowledge but her beliefs are widely rejected by others, closedmindedness can enable her to retain her knowledge (Battaly 2018b: 40). In combination with other traits, her closed-mindedness may even help her disseminate her knowledge to others. Second, for closed-mindedness to be a character-virtue, it would also need to be implicitly motivated by truth or other epistemic goods, and the agent would need to exercise good judgment (phronesis) in deploying it.15 In the fourth section, I argue that insofar as the Garrisonian Abolitionists were dogmatic about their belief that slavery is wrong, their dogmatism was an effects-virtue. If their dogmatism was also motivated by a desire to sustain and promote truth, then it would likewise be a promising candidate for character-virtue. Building on the work of Dolin (2022) and DiPaolo (forthcoming), the next section argues that fanatics needn’t be closed-minded. The fourth section contends that even if the argument below fails and fanatics must be closed-minded, their closed-mindedness needn’t be epistemically vicious, and can be epistemically virtuous. There, my focus will be on closed-mindedness as an effects-virtue rather than a character-virtue.

19.3  Must Fanatics Be Closed-Minded? Katsafanas and Cassam both treat political and religious fanaticism as paradigmatic, and generate their analyses with such cases in mind. They are obviously right that analyses of fanaticism need to account for such cases. But, my worry is that in focusing on political and religious fanaticism at the expense of fanaticism in its more familiar and mundane forms, 303

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their analyses end up being too restrictive. They end up requiring conditions like closedmindedness, which turn out to be unnecessary for fanaticism in its more mundane forms, such as fanaticism about activities (e.g., cycling, bird-watching), topics (e.g., bacteriology, primatology), sports teams (e.g., the New York Yankees), musicians (e.g., Beyoncé), and products (e.g., beauty products, iPhones).16 My suggestion is that approaching the subject from a broader vantage point can help us see that closed-mindedness isn’t necessary for fanaticism in general, and may even be unnecessary for political and religious fanaticism. One upshot of this approach is that it takes a more expansive view of the possible objects of fanaticism; i.e., of the kinds of things one can be fanatical about. In my view, and contra Katsafanas and Cassam, we shouldn’t restrict the object of fanaticism to ideals and beliefs. If we did, our analysis would exclude mundane fanaticism about activities, topics, celebrities (etc.), and in so doing would fail to capture what these mundane forms share with fanaticism in its political and religious forms (Battaly ms). Katsafanas and Cassam also argue that the fanatic must value the object of their fanaticism. As we will see below, this point will prove decisive in our arguments about closedmindedness. Are Katsafanas and Cassam correct about this? Should we at least restrict the object of fanaticism to something or other—for example, an activity, celebrity, ideal, belief (etc.)—that the fanatic values? This is a better candidate for a requirement, since fanatics typically value the object of their fanaticism, for example, anti-abortion fanatics tend to value the life of the fetus, fitness fanatics tend to value fitness, and even Captain Ahab valued the demise of the White Whale.17 But, whether it is ultimately a successful candidate for a requirement on fanaticism will depend on our verdicts about the following concerns. First, couldn’t fanaticism result from, say, loving and pursuing an activity, celebrity, idea, etc. without bothering to think about whether the activity (etc.) is good or valuable? To illustrate, couldn’t someone be a fanatic of gaming (or beauty products, or Justin Bieber) because they are drawn to gaming (etc.) by appetites that aren’t connected to conceptions of the good (broadly construed to include thoughts such as ‘gaming is good’)? Relatedly, aren’t some MAGA fanatics drawn to Trump and his ideas because of appetites that aren’t connected to conceptions of the epistemic good (broadly construed)? Couldn’t one be an “epistemically insouciant” MAGA fanatic, who hasn’t considered whether it is epistemically good to believe Trump’s ideas (Cassam 2018)? In other words, couldn’t fanaticism be driven by Aristotelian appetites instead of Aristotelian rational desires (boulesis), the former of which exclude conceptions of what is and isn’t good?18 If so, fanatics need not value the object of their fanaticism. Second and relatedly, could one be an akratic fanatic, who thinks the activity (etc.) in question is not good, but pursues it anyway because she can’t help herself? In other words, could she think that, for example, beauty products or gaming are bad but still fanatically pursue them? This would explain the association of fanaticism with a lack of self-control and with acting against what one thinks best.19 If so, fanatics needn’t value the object of their fanaticism and might even think it is bad. With the above in mind, let’s turn to closed-mindedness. The previous section distinguished between several factors, which have been elided in analyses of fanaticism20: ~REV Failing to revise one’s beliefs; UNREV Being unwilling (or unable) to revise one’s beliefs; UNENG Being unwilling (or unable) to engage seriously with relevant intellectual o ­ ptions; and ~ANS Thinking one’s beliefs aren’t answerable to reason. 304

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In Section 19.2, we saw that ~REV isn’t sufficient for closed-mindedness, and that ~ANS isn’t necessary.21 We saw that agents like open-minded Octavia can satisfy ~REV without satisfying UNREV, UNENG, or ~ANS; that closed-minded agents who want to change their interlocutors’ minds can satisfy ~REV and UNREV without satisfying UNENG or ~ANS, and that closed-minded agents who think their beliefs are already informed by reason can satisfy ~REV, UNREV, and UNENG without satisfying ~ANS. In short, we homed in on UNREV and UNENG as the key constituents of closed-mindedness. This means that in asking whether fanaticism entails closed-mindedness, we are asking whether fanatics must either (UNENG) be unwilling or unable to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options, or at least (UNREV) unwilling or unable to revise their extant beliefs. Clearly, fanatics are often closed-minded in one or both of these ways; for example, fanatical Nazis and Klan members are closed-minded, as are fanatical misogynists such as INCELS (Goetze and Crerar 2022; Llanera forthcoming). Even fanatics of a sports team can be closed-minded about how great the team is. Accordingly, we can and should expect fanaticism to be correlated with closed-mindedness. But, the question in all of these cases is whether the agent’s fanaticism entails their closed-mindedness, as Katsafanas and Cassam suggest. In my view, it doesn’t. For starters, fanaticism doesn’t entail (UNENG) an unwillingness to engage. Fanaticism about an object can instead drive one to know everything there is to know about the object and to engage widely. Perhaps, this is most obvious when the object of one’s fanaticism is itself an epistemic good; for example, when one is fanatical about acquiring truths on a particular topic, or about acquiring truth or knowledge more generally. As Josh Dolin (2022: 223–224) argues in his analysis of Sinclair Lewis’s novel Arrowsmith, epistemic fanaticism about a topic (in this case, bacteriology) can drive one to obsessively seek knowledge about it. Arguably, something similar can be said of Jane Goodall’s love of primatology and chimpanzees, which not only drove her to seek knowledge about them, but led her to new insights that wouldn’t have been made without her degree of commitment. But, the point applies widely, and not just to academics. To illustrate, fanaticism about (e.g.) the New York Yankees can drive one to want to know as much as possible about the Yankees and to open-mindedly engage with a wide range of sources in an effort to do so. In short, it can lead one to voraciously consume as much ‘information’ about the Yankees as one can find, and in this way, might even put one at greater risk for excessive open-mindedness than for closed-mindedness. I take this point to be a familiar one, viz., fanatical love of, and obsession with, an object can lead to the fanatical pursuit of knowledge about it and to open-minded engagement with sources, even sources whose views about the object differ from one’s own. Unsurprisingly, the more contentious claim is that fanaticism doesn’t entail UNREV either. Can fanatics also be open to changing their minds—to doubting and revising their extant beliefs about the object of their fanaticism, particularly their extant evaluative beliefs? I think a case can be made for this as well. Insofar as Yankee fanatics love the Yankees and want them to succeed, and also want to know whether they are succeeding and what would help, they might be willing to revise their extant evaluative beliefs about, for example, whether ‘The manager has a solid game plan,’ whether ‘The first baseman is a great hitter’, and so forth. In other words, insofar as they want true beliefs about what would help the team, they may be open to revising extant evaluative beliefs that aren’t supported by the evidence (e.g., when the experts agree that ‘The Yankees would be better off with a new manager’). Granted, there will be fanatics whose love of the Yankees blinds them to 305

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the team’s faults (though, interestingly, there will also be fanatics whose love of the Yankees makes them hyper-critical, blinding them to the team’s successes). But, the point is that this needn’t be the case. Now, whether Yankee fanatics would also be willing to revise extant beliefs that, for example, the Yankees merit their love and devotion in the first place is a trickier matter, particularly if such beliefs function as hinge-beliefs. But, this concern will be blunted by the points above, viz., that fanatics needn’t value the object of their fanaticism and might even think it is bad. My father, who was a fanatic of the New York Mets, spent much of the late 1970s and early 1980s bemoaning his fanaticism and the Mets, who were truly awful at the time.22 In a similar vein, Josh DiPaolo (forthcoming) has argued that we don’t need to know whether the Boston Marathon bombers were unwilling to revise their beliefs in order to know that they were fanatics; they were fanatics, whether or not they were willing to revise their views. On his view, fanatics needn’t be (UNREV) unwilling to revise their beliefs. They need only stick with their beliefs (~REV). As DiPaolo puts it, fanatics needn’t be certain of their ideals, they need only be confident enough to cling to them. And to be confident enough to cling to them, they need only think their beliefs are better supported than the alternatives (perhaps, due to errors in reasoning). Of course, we needn’t follow DiPaolo in even that much—on my view, fanaticism doesn’t entail ~REV either. But, even if it did, that wouldn’t be enough to make fanatics closed-minded. As demonstrated above, ~REV isn’t sufficient for closed-mindedness, since open-minded people can stick with their beliefs. So, what does fanaticism require? While I reject several of the conditions that are highlighted by Katsafanas and Cassam including closed-mindedness, I preserve three of the more general features of their analyses: the fanatic’s unwavering devotion to, viz. motivation for, the object in question; their perceptual focus on the object; and their willingness to sacrifice their other interests in pursuit of the object. More specifically, to satisfy the minimum threshold for fanaticism, one must: F1. Be disposed to care so strongly about the object in question that one’s motivation to pursue it both outweighs one’s other strong motivations and objectively counts as a passionate obsession (so as to distinguish it from mere liking). F2. Be disposed to focus on opportunities to pursue the object in question at the expense of opportunities to pursue other things that one is strongly motivated to pursue, where one’s focus also objectively counts as obsessive. F3. Be disposed to act in pursuit of the object in question even at the expense of acting in pursuit of other things that one is strongly motivated to pursue, where one’s behavior also objectively counts as obsessive.23 This analysis allows for political and religious forms of fanaticism, as well as mundane and familiar forms. It is also normatively neutral. Accordingly, it allows for, but isn’t restricted to, the normatively negative forms of fanaticism with which Katsafanas and Cassam are concerned. In this way, it includes the vicious fanaticism of (e.g.) the Nazis, the Klan, and ISIS, while also allowing the fanaticism of the Garrisonian Abolitionists to be a virtue. But, what if the argument above fails, and fanaticism does entail closed-mindedness? What if, contra the contentious claim above, fanaticism does entail an unwillingness to revise one’s evaluative beliefs about the object in question? The following section argues that 306

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even if fanaticism were to entail dogmatism, the dogmatism it entailed needn’t be vicious. Specifically, I suggest that insofar as the Garrisonian Abolitionists were dogmatic in their belief that slavery is wrong, their dogmatism was an effects-virtue.

19.4  Closed-Mindedness Can Be an Effects-Virtue Let’s suppose for the sake of argument that, in addition to F1–F3, fanaticism entails a specific sort of closed-mindedness, whereby fanatics are unwilling to revise their evaluative beliefs about the object of their fanaticism. Clearly, such dogmatism can be, and often is, epistemically vicious. To illustrate, the dogmatism of the Nazis, and of the KKK, has produced atrocious epistemic effects. For starters, their dogmatism has sustained their own false beliefs in the value of white supremacy and prevented them from gaining knowledge; and in combination with their intolerance, has led to the dissemination of their warped ideologies, the pollution of the epistemic environment, and the destruction of the knowledge of others (e.g., book burnings). In short, the dogmatism of fanatical Klan members and Nazis is a paradigmatic effects-vice. It is a disposition that produces a preponderance of bad epistemic effects.24 But, crucially, the dogmatism of fanatics needn’t be an effects-vice and can even be an effects-virtue. Drawing on the work of Joel Olson (2007), let’s turn to the closed-minded fanaticism of the American Abolitionists, particularly the non-violent followers of William Lloyd Garrison. Importantly, though Garrison typically gets the credit for this wing of Abolitionism, it can be directly traced to the Black freemason lodge established by Prince Hall in Boston in the 1790s (Waters 2021). In short, what has come to be known as ‘Garrisonian’ Abolitionism has its roots in Black Abolitionism. Arguably, at least some of the Garrisonian Abolitionists were fanatics in the sense of F1–F3 above: their motivations to abolish slavery trumped their other motivations; they focused on, and acted in pursuit of, opportunities to abolish slavery at the expense of other things; and their motivations, perceptions, and actions were objectively obsessive, if anything is.25 Importantly, the Garrisonian Abolitionists were also closed-minded insofar as they were dogmatically unwilling to revise their beliefs that slavery is wrong and that it should be immediately abolished.26 They did not refuse to engage with slave-holders on those grounds. Quite the contrary, they made great sacrifices to engage seriously with the arguments of slave-holders and moderate abolitionists (who prioritized preserving the union over immediate abolition) in an effort to change their minds.27 So, they did not satisfy UNENG. But, they did satisfy UNREV, and in so doing, produced a preponderance of good epistemic effects.28 Their dogmatism enabled them to preserve their true beliefs about the wrongness of slavery in the face of pervasive disagreement, which in turn contributed to the dissemination of their moral knowledge to others. To briefly explain, their dogmatism enabled them to maintain their true beliefs that slavery was abhorrent—to resist doubting or losing these beliefs—despite widespread hostility toward them. (The Garrisonian Abolitionists were in a decidedly hostile environment: in addition to being shouted down in meetings, they were often physically attacked.) Further, in combination with their obsessive focus on abolishing slavery, their dogmatism may have led them to notice wrongs, and access important truths about the injustices of slavery, that would have been ‘invisible’ to moderates.29 Finally, their dogmatic unwillingness to change their own minds, in combination with their fanatical commitment to changing the minds of others, ultimately contributed to the dissemination of their knowledge, and to the subsequent abolition of slavery. Of course, I leave it to experts on Abolitionism to judge the 307

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exact degree to which its Garrisonian branch contributed to the aforementioned epistemic (and moral) goods. But, on the assumption that it did significantly contribute to changing the minds of others, we can count the dogmatism of the Garrisonian Abolitionists as producing a preponderance of much-needed epistemic effects. Accordingly, we should count the dogmatism of the Garrisonian Abolitionists as an effects-virtue, not as an effects-vice. In sum, contra Katsafanas and Cassam, I have argued that fanaticism does not entail closed-mindedness, and that even if it did entail closed-mindedness, the closed-mindedness it entailed needn’t be an effects-vice. On the contrary, closed-mindedness and fanaticism can be effects-virtues. Unsurprisingly, there are several worries about such arguments. Here, I briefly address four. First, Cassam (2022b: 24–25) argues that though liberals and fanatics are both ‘convinced’ of their ideals, liberals are not closed-minded because, unlike fanatics, liberals think their ideals are answerable to reason. Cassam mounts similar arguments about the Garrisonian Abolitionists, whom he describes as “principled” rather than closed-minded (2022a: 147). In reply, closed-mindedness doesn’t require (~ANS) thinking one’s belief is unanswerable to reason. If it did, Clint (arguably) wouldn’t count as closed-minded, and neither, by Cassam’s own lights, would Oliver the ‘closed-minded’ 9/11 conspiracy theorist (2016: 168). In making UNREV sufficient for closed-mindedness, the disjunctive analysis above has a clear advantage—it does right by our paradigmatic cases of Clint and Oliver—while also counting the Garrisonian Abolitionists as closed-minded. Second and relatedly, one might wonder whether the Garrisonian Abolitionists were ‘dogged’ in maintaining their beliefs, but not dogmatic. Along these lines, Leo Townsend (2022) argues for a distinction between dogmatism, which he takes to be a vice, and doggedness, which he takes to be a virtue. On his view, dogmatism is an unreasonable refusal to revise one’s extant beliefs in the face of epistemic challenges. Whereas, doggedness is a praiseworthy willingness to revise one’s beliefs while also continuing to maintain them “at least up to a point” (Townsend 2022: 58).30 In reply, the Garrisonian Abolitionists were virtuous in maintaining their belief that slavery is wrong, but they were also virtuous in refusing to revise their belief that slavery is wrong. The Garrisonians didn’t just maintain their belief (~REV), they were unwilling to revise it or put it back in ‘play’ (UNREV), and were virtuous in both. Accordingly, on Townsend’s taxonomy, that renders them neither dogged nor dogmatic, and thus unaccounted for. If Townsend were to then argue that appropriate unwillingness to revise is ‘principled’ rather than dogged or dogmatic, then in addition to reiterating the reply above, we might worry about taxonomic bloat. Third, Aljosa Kravanja (2022) argues that fanatics can and have changed their minds and revised their beliefs. Cassam avers, noting that “it is one of the paradoxes of fanaticism that unwavering certainty about their ideals does not prevent fanatics from giving up those ideals and adopting different ideals with which their original ideals are incompatible” (2022a: 132). Accordingly, one might wonder whether my arguments above are much ado about nothing. In reply, the analysis of closed-mindedness above can explain the paradox.31 On the analysis above, closed-mindedness consists in either (UNENG) an unwillingness or inability to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options, or (UNREV) an unwillingness or inability to revise extant beliefs. To simplify matters, home in on UNREV, since it is the concern of the paradox, and then on its ‘inability’ clause. Note that here, too, the analysis is disjunctive: it allows for closed-mindedness in cases where one is unwilling to revise an extant belief, but able to revise the belief. To explain, even when one is unwilling to revise a belief, it might be able to be revised, and eventually come to be revised, because 308

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of ‘outside’ forces in one’s environment that gradually result in involuntary belief-revision. To illustrate, consider a MAGA fanatic who is unwilling to revise his belief that Trump won the 2020 election, but whose belief can be revised, and eventually gets revised, due to an epistemic environment that is incessantly bombarding him with the truth (Battaly 2021a: 320). He is still closed-minded, since he is unwilling to revise his belief; but he also eventually changes his mind because of forces outside of his own will, such as priming, repetition, and fluency effects. Finally, how do we know when it is epistemically virtuous to be closed-minded and when its epistemically vicious? Won’t the Nazis also think their closed-mindedness is epistemically virtuous? For starters, Nazis who believe their closed-mindedness is virtuous are wrong. The closed-mindedness of the Nazis, the Klan, and ISIS are paradigmatic effectsvices, as demonstrated above. But, the worry might persist: how can we tell whether the beliefs we refuse to revise are true or false, and whether the effects of our dogmatism are good or bad? These are difficult questions to answer! The conventional answer in virtue epistemology is that we will need to have epistemic character-virtues in order to have such knowledge. To see our beliefs and epistemic effects for what they really are, we will need to be motivated to get the truth rather than to cast ourselves in a positive light. We will also need to exercise phronesis in gaining awareness of our own limitations, and in engaging with alternative perspectives. In short, the conventional answer is that we need to have character-virtues such as conscientiousness, intellectual humility, and open-mindedness in order to determine whether and when our closed-minded refusals would be strategically effective. My hope is that there will be further exploration of the trait of closed-­ mindedness, its connections to fanaticism, and whether it might also have a role to play as a character-virtue.32

Notes 1 See Cassam (2019) which argues that closed-mindedness is an epistemic vice, and epistemic vices systematically obstruct knowledge. 2 Nor need it be morally vicious, though I won’t be arguing for that here. For a similar approach to fundamentalism, see Peels and Kindermann (2022). 3 For this reason, Katsafanas takes fanaticism to involve a ‘rational defect,’ though he demurs in note 21 (2019: 11). 4 For Katsafanas, fanatics refuse to doubt and revise their beliefs both because they (explicitly) think they are unanswerable to reason and because they (implicitly) want to preserve or protect them. 5 On epistemic insouciance and bullshit, see Cassam (2018) and Frankfurt (2005). On post-truth, see Lynch (2019) and McIntyre (2018). 6 At least, it is strongly associated with intolerance on his view (Katsafanas 2019: 9–10). 7 While both Katsafanas and Cassam aim to provide general pictures of fanaticism rather than explicit sets of necessary and sufficient conditions, each seems to treat some of the conditions identified as necessary. Arguably, intolerance and closed-mindedness are necessary on both Katsafanas’s account and Cassam’s. This shouldn’t be surprising, since each is arguing that fanaticism is both epistemically and morally vicious, and it is difficult to see how such a conclusion could be secured without requiring some conditions that delivered epistemic vice and others that delivered moral vice. 8 Hence, his view that the fanatic both explicitly thinks their belief isn’t answerable to reason and implicitly wants to preserve and protect their belief. See note 4. 9 Cassam thinks it is at least appropriate to treat analytically true beliefs as certain. He may also think it is appropriate to treat beliefs such as ‘slavery is wrong’ and ‘apartheid is wrong’ as certain (2022a: 20). 10 For a full defense, see Battaly (2018a,b, 2020, 2021a,b).

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Heather Battaly 11 They might think they are motivated by truth, even if they aren’t, and are instead implicitly motivated by, for example, the need for closure, or the desire to protect their beliefs. 12 But, isn’t (UNREV) always vicious? Battaly (2018b, 2021a) argue that it is not, and further that being unwilling to revise beliefs that one already knows can be an effects-virtue in hostile epistemic environments. Very roughly, it can enable one to sustain one’s knowledge rather than lose it (e.g., in an echo chamber in which one is surrounded by flat-earthers), and can enable one to limit one’s epistemic opportunity costs (e.g., to avoid devoting resources to re-evaluating flat-earthism). Arguably, being unwilling to revise beliefs that one already knows also produces better effects for other agents and the epistemic environment than would one’s open-minded willingness to revise beliefs that one already knows. Importantly, these arguments are restricted to beliefs that are not only true, but that the agent already knows. Being unwilling to revise beliefs that are true, but the agent doesn’t know, won’t be an effects-virtue. See also Fantl (2018: 152). Thanks to Paul Katsafanas for raising this worry. 13 On the distinction between effects-virtues (and vices) and character-virtues (and vices), see Battaly (2014, 2015). For worries about isomorphic analyses of virtue and vice, see Crerar (2018). 14 I take this to be a rough characterization of character-vice, and do not intend to be giving a full set of necessary or sufficient conditions. For differing views about the necessary and sufficient conditions of character-vices, see Baehr (2021), Cassam (2019), Tanesini (2021). 15 I likewise take this to be a rough characterization of character-virtue, and do not intend to be giving a full set of necessary or sufficient conditions. 16 See Tietjen and Townsend (2022). 17 Of course, Ahab was motivated by hate and revenge, rather than love of the White Whale. 18 See Aristotle (1984) NE.III.2–4. For further analysis, see Battaly (2014). 19 See Chung et al. (2018) on consumer fanaticism. On my view, fanaticism includes cases of addiction, but this isn’t a problem because one needn’t be blameworthy for one’s fanaticism. 20 DiPaolo (forthcoming) and DiPaolo (ms) are notable exceptions. 21 See DiPaolo (forthcoming) which argues that fanatics needn’t think their beliefs are unanswerable to reason. 22 Even if fanatics were willing to revise their evaluative beliefs about the object of their fanaticism, wouldn’t there be some set of core beliefs about the object of their fanaticism that they weren’t willing to revise, perhaps beliefs pertaining to their sense of identity? Thanks to Paul Katsafanas for raising this challenging question. My reply is twofold. For starters, it is worth considering whether fanaticism might require failing to revise one’s beliefs (~REV) instead of an unwillingness to revise one’s beliefs (UNREV). See my comments on DiPaolo’s view above. But, on my view, it requires neither (UNREV) nor (~REV), and we should instead expect there to be several different drivers of fanaticism, some pertaining to belief and others pertaining to desire and emotion. (UNREV) and (~REV) needn’t be driving an agent’s fanaticism, if her fanaticism is instead driven by her (non-cognitive) desires and emotions. Relatedly, I think an agent’s fanaticism needn’t make sense from her own point of view and needn’t cohere with her sense of identity. 23 For further defense, see Battaly (ms). 24 Clearly, their fanaticism has produced horrific moral effects such as the Holocaust. Here, I restrict my purview to epistemic effects. 25 See Olson’s (2007: 685) vivid description of Stephen Foster’s obsession with abolishing slavery. 26 Cassam (2022a: 150–151) seems to agree that the Garrisonian Abolitionists were unwilling to revise their beliefs about the wrongness of slavery. But, he argues that since their arguments were sound, they were principled rather than dogmatic. 27 See Battaly (2021b: 63) on Daryl Davis. See also Cassam (2022b: 28): on his view, this is another reason for thinking the Garrisonian Abolitionists were not fanatics. 28 Since the Garrisonian Abolitionists were willing to engage seriously with relevant intellectual options, I here focus on cases where fanatics are closed-minded because they are dogmatically unwilling to revise their beliefs. For an argument that closed-mindedness as an unwillingness to engage seriously with relevant options can also be an epistemic effects-virtue, see Battaly (2018b, 2021a,b: 65). 29 See Cassam (2022c: 183), who is here stating a view he rejects. 30 See also Roberts and Wood (2007: Ch. 7).

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Fanaticism and Closed-Mindedness 31 Cassam leaves the paradox unexplained, whereas Kravanja (2022) argues that a profound change of mind in the past can explain the fanatic’s overconfidence and certainty in their changed beliefs. 32 For comments and discussion, I am grateful to Megha Arora, Ahmed Abohamad, Tiana-Marie Blassingale, Jessica Brown, T.J. Broy, Josh DiPaolo, Enrico Galvagni, Paul Katsafanas, Yuhan Liang, Tracy Llanera, Michael Lynch, Jon Matheson, Katherine Peters, Glen Pettigrove, Nick Smith, Lynne Tirrell, Joanna Teske, Jason Tosta, Steven Warden, and audiences at the Bled Epistemology Conference, the Center for Ethics, Philosophy, and Public Affairs at the University of St. Andrews and the UCONN chapter of the Vice Squad. Special thanks to Paul Katsafanas for his outstanding comments.

References Aristotle. 1984. “Nicomachean Ethics.” In J. Barnes (ed.) The Complete Works of Aristotle. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Baehr, J. 2021. “The Structure of Intellectual Vices.” In I.J. Kidd, H. Battaly, and Q. Cassam (eds.) Vice Epistemology. London: Routledge, 21–36. Battaly, H. 2014. “Varieties of Epistemic Vice.” In J. Matheson and R. Vitz (eds.) The Ethics of Belief. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 51–76. Battaly, H. 2015. Virtue. Cambridge: Polity Press. Battaly, H. 2018a. “Closed-Mindedness and Dogmatism.” Episteme 15(3): 261–282. Battaly, H. 2018b. “Can Closed-Mindedness Be an Intellectual Virtue?” Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplements 84: 23–45. Battaly, H. 2020. “Closed-Mindedness as an Intellectual Vice.” In C. Kelp and J. Greco (eds.) Virtue Theoretic Epistemology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 15–41. Battaly, H. 2021a. “Engaging Closed-Mindedly with Your Polluted Media Feed.” In M. Hannon and J. de Ridder (eds.) The Routledge Handbook of Political Epistemology. New York: Routledge, 312–324. Battaly, H. 2021b. “Closed-Mindedness and Arrogance.” In A. Tanesini and M.P. Lynch (eds.) Polarization, Arrogance, and Dogmatism. London: Routledge, 53–70. Battaly, H. Manuscript. “Can Fanaticism be a Liberatory Virtue?” Cassam, Q. 2016. “Vice Epistemology.” The Monist 99: 159–180. Cassam, Q. 2018. “Epistemic Insouciance.” Journal of Philosophical Research 43: 1–20. Cassam, Q. 2019. Vices of the Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cassam, Q. 2022a. Extremism. London: Routledge. Cassam, Q. 2022b. “Fanaticism: For and Against.” In Townsend, L. and R.R. Tietjen, H.B. Schmid, and M. Staudigl (eds.) The Philosophy of Fanaticism. London: Routledge, 19–38. Cassam, Q. 2022c. “The Vices and Virtues of Extremism.” In M. Alfano, C. Klein, and J. de Ridder (eds.) Social Virtue Epistemology. London: Routledge, 173–191. Chung, E., Farrelly, F., Beverland, M. B., and Karpen, I. O. 2018. “Loyalty or Liability: Resolving the Consumer Fanaticism Pparadox.” Marketing Theory 18(1): 3–30. https://doi. org/10.1177/1470593117705696 Crerar, C. 2018. “Motivational Approaches to Intellectual Vice.” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 96(4): 753–766. DiPaolo, J. Manuscript. “What Is Radicalization?” DiPaolo, J. Forthcoming. “Is Radicalization Becoming a Fanatic? A Historical Inquiry.” In G.A. Bruno and J. Vlastis (eds.) Transformation and the History of Philosophy. New York: Routledge. Dolin, J. 2022. “Epistemic Idolatry and Intellectual Vice.” American Philosophical Quarterly 59(3): 219–231. Fantl, J. 2018. The Limitations of the Open Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frankfurt, H.G. 2005. On Bullshit. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Goetze, T.S. and C. Crerar. 2022. “Hermeneutical Justice for Extremists?” In L. Townsend, R.R. Tietjen, H.B. Schmid, and M. Staudigl (eds.) The Philosophy of Fanaticism. London: Routledge, 88–108. Hare, R. M. 1963. Freedom and Reason. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Heather Battaly Kant, I. 2007. Anthropology, History, and Education. P. Guyer and A. Wood (eds.) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Katsafanas, P. 2019. “Fanaticism and Sacred Values.” Philosopher’s Imprint 19(17): 1–20. Katsafanas, P. 2022. “Group Fanaticism and Narratives of Ressentiment.” In L. Townsend, R.R. Tietjen, H.B. Schmid, and M. Staudigl (eds.) The Philosophy of Fanaticism. London: Routledge, 157–183. Kidd, I.J. 2021. “Epistemic Corruption and Social Oppression.” In I.J. Kidd et al. (eds.) Vice Epistemology. London: Routledge, 69–85. Kravanja, A. 2022. “Can Changing Our Minds Make Us Fanatic? Belief Revision and Epistemic Overconfidence.” In L. Townsend, R.R. Tietjen, H.B. Schmid, and M. Staudigl (eds.) The Philosophy of Fanaticism. London: Routledge, 39–54. Kruglanski, A. 2004. The Psychology of Closed Mindedness. New York: Psychology Press. Llanera, T. Forthcoming. “The Misogyny Paradox and the Alt-Right.” Hypatia. Locke, J. 1975. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lynch, M.P. 2019. Know-It-All Society. New York: Liveright Publishing. McIntyre, L. 2018. Post-Truth. Cambridge: MIT Press. Medina, J. 2013. The Epistemology of Resistance. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nietzsche, F. 1989. Beyond Good and Evil, trans. W. Kaufmann. New York: Vintage. Olson, J. 2007. “The Freshness of Fanaticism: The Abolitionist Defense of Zealotry” Perspectives on Politics 5(4): 685–701. Peels, R. and N. Kindermann. 2022. “What Are Fundamentalist Beliefs?” Journal of Political Ideologies. https://doi.org/10.1080/13569317.2022.2138294 Roberts, R.C. and W.J. Wood. 2007. Intellectual Virtues. New York: Oxford University Press. Tanesini, A. 2021. The Mismeasure of the Self. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tietjen, R.R. and L. Townsend. 2022. “Introduction to the Philosophy of Fanaticism.” In L. Townsend, R.R. Tietjen, H.B. Schmid, and M. Staudigl (eds.) The Philosophy of Fanaticism. London: Routledge, 1–17. Townsend, L. 2022. “Fanaticism, Dogmatism, and Collective Belief.” In L. Townsend, R.R. Tietjen, H.B. Schmid, and M. Staudigl (eds.) The Philosophy of Fanaticism. London: Routledge, 55–68. Waters, Kristin. 2021. Maria W. Stewart and the Roots of Black Political Thought. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.

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20 POLITICAL FANATICISM AND EPISTEMIC SHAMELESSNESS Sophie Grace Chappell

Zeus was afraid for our race, lest it should be altogether wiped out. So he sent his messenger Hermes to bring Shame and Justice to humanity… (Plato, Protagoras 322c)1

20.1  Phaedrus’ Point No doubt political fanaticism has all sorts of causes. My thesis here is that one of its causes is epistemic shamelessness, the epistemic vice of not being properly ashamed of or averse to dispositions to believe, and actual beliefs, that are objectively epistemically shameful. As a cause of fanaticism, epistemic shamelessness may well often seem more like a formal cause than an efficient cause: the shape of how things are in a fanatic, rather than the trigger for them being that way. (Not of course that everyone who is epistemically shameless counts as a fanatic; no doubt nearly everyone is sometimes guilty of some degree of epistemic shamelessness, but not to the degree that fanatics are.) But there is obviously theoretical room for epistemic shamelessness to be both an efficient cause of fanaticism, a correct explanation of how someone became a fanatic, and also a formal cause of fanaticism, an apt and illuminating description of what a fanatic is like. It seems clear that this is just what happens in practice: the fanatic is epistemically shameless because she is a fanatic, and the fanatic is a fanatic because she is epistemically shameless. As it is sometimes colloquially put, fanaticism is a rabbit-hole, a downward spiral, a self-reinforcing condition. The efficient-causal aetiology runs in both directions; the self-reinforcingness of radicalisation is precisely what makes it so dangerous, and so easy. My project, then, is to examine and explore this phenomenon of epistemic shamelessness, and its role in generating and characterising fanaticism. I start with some words about shame, from Plato’s Symposium (178c-d), which Plato puts in the mouth of the poet Phaedrus: There is something that people need if they are going to live nobly all their lives: something that, they should recognise, cannot be as well brought about in us by having a good family, nor by privileges, or wealth, or by anything else, as it can by love. 313DOI: 10.4324/9781032128207-24

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What is this something? It is the ability to be ashamed of what really is shameful, and to have a proper longing for honour directed to what really is honourable. For without these no great and beautiful works can be accomplished either by the city or by the private citizen. There is such a thing as a capacity for fitting shame about what really is shameful, and for fitting honour about what really is honourable. This capacity is my first concern in this chapter; it has both a moral and an epistemic aspect, and I shall discuss both.

20.2  Shame as a Virtue, Shamelessness as a Vice The general disposition about shame and honour that the Symposium describes as quoted above has, and pretty obviously has, the profile of an Aristotelian ethical virtue. There is a reasonably clear sense in which the disposition lies in a mean, and it is something of which there can be both defect and excess—the virtue’s flanking vices. (Aristotle certainly has a word for at least one of these two vices: anaiskhuntia is his regular word for shamelessness, NE 1107a12.) And the speaker of the words in the epigraph is absolutely right in the main claim that he makes (suitably disambiguated): that the principal and essential cause of this disposition, over time, is love, eros. Phaedrus tells us that we cannot make a good city without citizens who are responsive to both shame, αἰσχύνη, and honour, τιμή. We may gather from wider reading that, for the ancient Greeks, honour is something that good people—the kind of people who will make good citizens—will naturally tend to seek or pursue for themselves; shame is something they will naturally be averse to for themselves. Similarly, honour is something that good people—the kind of people who will make good citizens—will naturally tend to bestow or seek to have bestowed on others who do or are what they take to be deserving of honour, to be kalos in the ancient Greek word; and shame is something that they will bestow on what they find shameful (aiskhros) in action or character. And these attitudes and dispositions readily breed second- and higher-order iterations: it is honourable to honour the honourable, shameful to honour the shameful, honourable to hold it shameful to shame the honourable; and so on, as far up the orders as our understanding, and our patience, will easily take us. That kalos is essentially untranslatable by a single English word is neatly shown by the inadequacy of our most usual attempts to translate it. “Fine”, “beautiful”, “good”, “right”, “noble” or indeed just “honourable” are the best we can do in English, and none of them, to my ear at any rate, is quite right. On aiskhros we have, I think, a better intuitive grip; and since τιμή is indeed the opposite of αἰσχύνη, that fact can help us to get our bearings. In this ethical vocabulary, to honour someone is to do the opposite of shaming them; and to shame them (verb) is to expose them to shame (noun), that is, to the specific kind of public social sanction that is involved in being generally thought of as disgraceful or dishonourable. So to honour someone (verb) is to display them in a place of honour (noun); it is to accord to them a specific kind of public social reward. But whether or not we lack the English words—even if there are no clear single unitary terms for the opposites that Plato’s τιμή and αἰσχύνη represent—there seems no doubt that we have both of the concepts that “Phaedrus”, as symposiast, invokes. It has been a research programme of mine for a decade or so now to illustrate this in detail, and by “the assembling of reminders” to argue that these thick concepts honour and shame are alive 314

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and kicking in our ethical thinking today, in something surprisingly similar to the forms that the concepts already take in fifth-century-BC Athens, and in Plato.2 Here then is an instance of Bernard Williams’ famous distinction (1993: 91) between “what we think” and “what we think we think”. Reflection on how our ethical life together actually goes can show—I have argued—that we do have just these concepts of honour and shame, and do act and shape our lives in response to them and under descriptions that they provide. But, perhaps partly because we lack a clear and simple vocabulary for these concepts, we are prone to imagine that honour and shame are either not part of our thinking at all, or at any rate not really part of our specially moral thinking. We are tempted on the one hand by a Protestant or Kantian impulse to streamline down the whole of ethics to what is simply right or simply wrong, obligatory-to-do or obligatory-to-avoid (and never mind whether it’s honourable or shameful),3 and on the other hand by Sidgwickian dichotomies between the prudential and the moral, the egoistic and the altruistic, Advantage and What’s Right. The means/end dichotomy is relevant here too, as it usually is in any part of ethics with a Kantian heritage: we are tempted by the thought that shame and honour have purely instrumental value for us, that they cannot be ends in themselves; that we care about honour solely because it advances our well-being, and shame solely because it retards it. And then, as a follow-up, we are tempted also into a functionalist and allegedly evolutionary just-so story about shame and honour, to the effect that this pair of concepts evolved because shame and honour are social mechanisms with survival value. Now the evolutionary just-so story is, like any just-so story, unverifiable. But even if it is fully correct, it is not, I contend, necessarily the debunking story that it is usually taken to be. There is no inconsistency between the claim that this is where shame and honour “came from”, and the claim that ascriptions of shame and honour can also be, in a perfectly workable sense, truth-apt. (Presumably we developed our number concepts because being able to count also has survival value; that doesn’t mean that 2 + 2 is not really 4.) Again, to subsume the concepts of shame and honour under the Kantian and Sidgwickian contrasts moral/prudential, altruistic/egoistic, instrumental/final, is, I contend, to distort those concepts as we actually have them, and to squash them into a systematising framework that they do not really fit. As we actually have them, our concepts of shame and honour go at least as deep as our concepts of well-being and harm, advantage and disadvantage, “right” and “beneficial”, self-interest and other’s interest, means and end. There is no useful or worthwhile explanatory reduction of any of these concepts to any of the others. Shame and honour are basic ethical concepts if anything is, and ends we seek in themselves if anything is. So if explanation is what we are after (as it is, since we are philosophers), then the right thing to look for is not an eliminative reduction of shame/ honour to utility/disutility, or to practical rationality/practical irrationality, or to rightness/ wrongness, or to anything else at all. Rather, it is to explore how shame and honour relate to our other basic ethical concepts; and to bring out connections—and contrasts. And that will be my modus operandi in what follows.

20.3  To Agathon and to Kalon Speaking of “ethical”, though: perhaps even that word is not wide enough, not at least as ordinarily understood? This might be for a reason that I have also argued elsewhere (KWTD pp. 199–200, cp. EBL p. 108): that there isn’t always a good distinction to be had between the moral and the aesthetic, and that even where there is such a distinction, it 315

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needn’t always cut deep or be philosophically indispensable—or exclusive. The answer to “Why be moral?” is quite often “Because that is the beautiful thing to do”. It’s not that the moral act is itself prudentially disastrous, but just happens to be, unfortunately enough, one of a class to the whole of which we are somehow committed, if we are committed to any part of it—as theories like rule-consequentialism and Gauthier’s contractualism too often tend to suggest. Nor is that the moral act is prudentially advantageous in some way—just a very obscure way, one which is consistent with the fact that the moral act is attended with terrible penalties like those described by Callicles at Gorgias 486b. We need not think that there is any prudential advantage, in any sense, in the gravely-sacrificial moral act. At least in some cases, advantage simply isn’t the point. It is rather that the moral act demands to be done even if it does involve a grave sacrifice—just because it is beautiful. What we are rightly honoured for doing, or proud of doing, and what we are rightly disgraced for doing, or ashamed of doing: we have here a conceptual contrast with what, in the conventional terminology, will be called an obvious aesthetic coloration. The shame/ honour contrast is about exactly what I was discussing in KWTD Ch.8, and also, later, in “Duty, Beauty, and Booty”: it is about which actions of mine are inherently admirable (admirable because, if you like to put it that way, they are beautiful actions), and which are inherently despicable (because they are, so to speak, ugly). I still want to assert this view today, even though I seem to be the only person in contemporary philosophy who holds it. (Oh well. At least I have Homer, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Thucydides, Pindar, Plato, Aristotle, the Bible,4 Francis of Assisi, Ignatius Loyola, John Henry Newman, Walter Pater, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Oscar Wilde, and Friedrich Nietzsche on my side.) The position is that “Because it is the beautiful/ honourable/ admirable thing to do” states as basic and irreducible a reason for action (or genus of reasons for action) as “Because it is the moral thing to do” or “Because it is the prudential thing to do”. So the key point to note here is that by “doing X because X is honourable” I do not mean “doing X in order to be honoured”; and by “doing X because X is admirable” I do not mean “doing X in order to be admired”. It’s the other way around: I do what is honourable because it is what deserves honour, not because it is what will get me honour. (After all, maybe it won’t; maybe my heroic sacrifice will be lost to history, and I won’t get even posthumous credit for it.) That X is an admirable deed is the analytically basic property of X, to which property actual admiration of X is merely the fitting response. Here too we have the concepts; just not the words for our concepts. Still, it is a sad reflection on the poverty of our ethical vocabulary that we can only capture this sort of property indirectly, by saying what kind of response to the property is fitting, instead of naming the property itself, directly. But the Greeks did have a word for it; their word for the property itself was kalos. At least on some translations, such as “beautiful”, this sounds to our ears like an aesthetic property, not a moral one. But surely it is at least possible to respond here as I am saying we should? Not with “Silly old Greeks, they got their evaluative taxonomy wrong”, but with “So much the worse for our ears”? If so, then maybe we should follow the Aristotle of the Nicomachean Ethics in making what, today, is perhaps the most startlingly-neglected philosophical move of an otherwise exhaustively-studied book by an otherwise exhaustively-studied philosopher. We should recognise to kalon as Aristotle does, as a basic explanans of good people’s actions on the same footing as to agathon—but distinct and often separate from to agathon. That is, we should allow that what modern philosophers call aesthetic considerations are, at least sometimes, just as much properly input to ethical reflection and reasoning—in a broad 316

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sense of “ethical”—as what they call moral and prudential considerations. Accepting that conclusion puts us in a good position to understand how shame and honour can play a key role in our broad-sense-ethical reflections too. For shame and honour are the notions that go with to kalon and to aiskhron; and yet, as we shall see, these notions have a particularly interesting role to play in epistemic judgement.

20.4  Shame and Honour as Second-Personally Addressed Shame and honour, in the sense of those concepts that I have been outlining, are concepts that are well-fitted for distinctively second-personal address. As I mean it, shame is centrally something that I address to you, and so is honour. (Honour, in the sense that I intend here, is simply shame’s positive correlate; for ease of exposition I will at least begin by stating the point simply about shame.) Something like this idea is at work in a recent poster campaign in the UK about COVID safeguarding: “Look her in the eyes and tell her that you never bend the rules.” This example brings to light a further important point about shaming of this kind. This is that, while the you is essential to cases of shaming or honouring address, and (aside from cases of collective agency) is essentially a you-singular, the I is not likewise essential; for it can at least equally well be a we. When shaming and honouring take the form of a second-personal address, it seems if anything more usual for it to be a we, not an I, who do this shaming and honouring. For shaming and honouring are, as the ancient Greeks deeply understood, public evaluative attitudes. Humans are political animals; honour and shame, glory and indignity, prestige and infamy, are essentially things that happen to us in our life together. So with the COVID poster campaign mentioned above, its whole purpose is to evoke public shame, where this is something that some you, some second-person-singular target of an accusation, is made to feel both by a first-person-singular accuser, the person in whose eyes she is told to look, and also by a first-person-plural accuser—the public whose voices are expressed in the voice that tells her to do this looking. If there is a single question that we should identify as shame’s key question then it is, roughly, “How could you?” In posing this or some closely similar question to you, I (or we) mean, as we naturally say, to shame you. That is: we mean to confront you, face to face, with what you have done, or said, or thought, or shown to be your attitude. Our question “How could you?” addresses you, second-personally, as a responsible agent. It says, or implies, that you could have done otherwise, and that there are reasons of shame and honour—certainly and directly, to-kalon-related reasons, and possibly and indirectly, toagathon-related reasons to—why you should have done otherwise. In putting this question to you we address you as an agent who is sensitive to, and capable of responding to, reasons of this sort; and we implicitly assume the right so to address you, and to make an at least in-principle demand that you offer us a justification for what you have done. Similar considerations about I and we very likely apply to the second-personal reasons that most concern Stephen Darwall in his magisterial The Second-Person Standpoint. With all that I’ve just said about shame and honour and the second-personal reasons they give rise to, compare Darwall (2006: 8, 11): A second-personal reason is one whose validity depends on presupposed authority and accountability relations between persons and, therefore, on the possibility of the reason’s being addressed person-to-person. Reasons addressed or presupposed in 317

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orders, requests, claims, reproaches, complaints, demands, promises, contracts, givings of consent, and so on are all second-personal in this sense. They simply wouldn’t exist but for their role in second-personal address… Whether a reason is second-personal is a matter not of logical relations but of personal relations. Second-personal reasons structure our relatings to one another. And I argue that those connected to moral obligation and the equal dignity of persons are what we are committed to whenever we relate to one another second-personally at all. Darwall has in mind here a distinctive and specific sense of “moral” that—as he goes on to argue—ties the concept of the moral into a tight circle of interdefinition with interpersonal accountability, interpersonal demands, the authority to make such demands, moral obligation, the equal dignity of persons, and other things too. Darwall does, as he says here, think that whenever second-personal reasons of any kind are in play, then so are specifically moral second-personal reasons. But he also seems pretty clear here that not all second-personal reasons are themselves moral reasons in his sense. For he speaks of “those [second-personal reasons] connected to moral obligation”. Unless the qualification made by this phrase is otiose, which seems unlikely in such a clear and careful writer as Darwall, the phrase clearly implies that there are second-personal reasons that are not “connected to moral obligation”—not moral reasons in themselves, though on Darwall’s account they will always occur together with second-personal reasons that are moral reasons. This prompts the question of what second-personal reasons there might be that are not “connected to moral obligation”. One clear clue to Darwall’s answer to that question is perhaps given by the list beginning with “orders” that I quote above. I suspect he will say that there are systems of second-personal obligation that are real but not themselves moral, such as the law or military discipline. Or maybe he will remind us of the distinctive kind of second-personal reasons that arise in a romantic relationship, alongside but quite distinct from the moral second-personal reasons that are also present between lovers. Or maybe both. I don’t need to disagree with these answers; but I can offer a different answer (as well). To say it again, and to express it in my own terms: just as there are second-personal reasons that derive from the good, to agathon, so also there are second-personal reasons that derive from the honourable, to kalon. We are constitutively capable of grasping second-personal reasons of both these kinds; and the networks of accountability, demand, authority, obligation, and equal dignity that they generate are at least analogous, perhaps even actually isomorphic, in structure. And the network that depends on the honourable is the network of shaming and honouring that I have in mind in this essay. Here I may encounter resistance from Darwall, who after all makes it a central theme of a whole volume of essays (Darwall 2013) to build a contrast between “respect as honour” and “respect as accountability”. Honour, as Darwall there describes it, is an inveterately ancien-régime attitude. It belongs naturally within “an essentially hierarchical social order” (2013: 17); it is connected with esteem, status, social position, roles, and hierarchy; honour “is not mediated by potentially healthy moral emotions like resentment or indignation that presuppose the equal dignity of all, but by potentially poisonous ones like contempt and disdain, which seemed focused on our status relative to others”.5

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Now presumably what goes for honour goes also for its negative correlate shame; Darwall will think that shame too is a leftover of an atavistically hierarchical approach to ethics. Indeed at 2006: 72 (cp. 124–125), Darwall goes further still—he actually denies that shame is second-personal at all: Shame and guilt both give an imagined other’s regard authority. But the authority [that] shame accords is fundamentally epistemic and third-personal. One sees the other as having standing to see one in a certain way (and oneself as correctly thus seen). Guilt, however, recognises as irreducibly second-personal practical authority of the sort we noted at the outset [of the book]. It acknowledges the authority to make a demand, that is to address a second-personal reason for acting. Even here, I still believe that I am not necessarily in disagreement with Darwall (though I am not sure whether Darwall will agree with me about this). Perhaps he and I are simply using the same words “shame” and “honour” to talk about different things. I am perfectly happy to agree that “shame” and “honour” can be used in the ways that Darwall describes, and sometimes are. I just say that the words have other uses too—including the ones that I have been describing here. Shaming and honouring can certainly be parts of an atavistic and hierarchical “honour-code”. But they can also be what I am talking about—activities with a recognisable second-personal address. Shame too can be something that recognises an “irreducibly second-personal practical authority”; shame too can be something that “acknowledges the authority to make a demand, that is to address a second-personal reason for acting”. Not, to be sure, within the confines of Darwall’s own account of the moral; but within a structure of reasons and accountability that stands in striking analogy to the moral—as I put it, the structure dependent upon to kalon rather than upon to agathon. Shaming, in short, can be (and often is) not only a transitive verb, but a transitive verb of address: shaming can be something that I not only do to you, but do to you by, so to speak, looking you in the eye. When I bring it to light that you have done something disgraceful or shoddy or mean or, in a word, dishonourable, and do so in this mode of second-personal address, then I bring it to light to you that you have done the disgraceful act. And when I (or, again, we) shame you in this sense, I treat you not as a thing but as another person, to whom I am by my shaming communicating that I think you should feel bad about what you have done or been (in a particular sense of “bad”), and who should therefore at least consider what you might have done instead, or can still do. Shaming you in this sense is perfectly compatible with having recognition-respect for you. Indeed, if recognition-respect for you entails holding you to all standards that truly apply to you, and if to kalon is such a standard, then shaming you in this sense can be required by having recognition-respect for you. Shame and its attendant attitudes constellate around to kalon as blame and its attendants constellate around to agathon. Both shame and blame can be third-personal; blame is third-personal when there is no realistic chance of confronting its subject, as in our moral attitudes towards Anatole Kuragin—or Napoleon Bonaparte. Shame will naturally be a third-personal attitude when, roughly, it is what Buber called an I-it attitude, an attitude that I take to a thing (or, to echo Simone Weil in “The Iliad as poem of force”, to a person who is being, or just has been, reduced to a thing). Certainly shame can be like that. But as I say, shame can also be a second-personal attitude, an I-thou attitude.6 Indeed, if Sartre is right, shame may be the most deeply second-personal attitude of all:

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While there are other self-conscious experiences, such as pride or guilt, that have a similar triangular structure to shame, and can arguably lead to the same self-reflexive didactic moments, Sartre is at pains to give shame a deeper and more symbolic significance. In fact for Sartre, as Guenther argues, shame becomes the “fundamental mood of intersubjectivity” (2011: 26). As Zahavi asserts in his discussion of Sartre’s account, “shame rather than merely being a self-reflective emotion, an emotion involving negative self-evaluation, is an emotion that reveals our relationality, our ­being-for-others” (2014: 214). While guilt and pride reveal and reflect on our actions or deeds, shame, it is argued, reveals our core identity or self. Surpassing the moralistic and self-evaluative aspects suggested by his voyeur example, Sartre argues that shame extends beyond the everyday experience of transgression in intersubjective encounters or in social settings. (Dolezal 2017: 428–430)

20.5  The Come-Off-It Response If the characteristic question of second-personal shame in general is “How could you?”, then the characteristic question of second-personal moral shame is “How could you do that?” or “How could you respond like that?”; and the characteristic question of second-personal epistemic shame is “How could you think that?” or “How could you believe that?” When we raise this question to someone of whose epistemic agency we are witnesses, we do not merely speak in the third-personal mode of esteem-respect. To criticise someone by means of this question is not merely to evince contempt or disdain for her epistemic inadequacies. Of course, we may also feel contempt, disdain, impatience, or similar for her; these feelings are the natural emotional response to the epistemic failure that we see in her, just as analogous feelings are the natural emotional response to some kinds of moral failure. But our criticism of her does not merely comment contemptuously upon her inadequacies, and leave it at that. The effect and point of our criticism is not that by means of it we simply “wash our hands of her”. There is epistemic washing-our-hands of people, just as there is moral; but when we say “How could you believe that?”, at least in the way I mean, we haven’t got there yet. On the contrary, the point is to engage with her. Our criticism is that the criticisee could have done better, and presupposes recognition-respect. For it presupposes that we her critics have the standing to criticise her for this failure; in virtue of our shared and equal status as epistemic agents, she is—at least in principle—answerable to us for that failure, just as she is answerable to any other person who shares our status of epistemic agent; and implicitly challenged to do better in future.7 As this perhaps makes clear, there is a shaming/honouring dimension involved in all interpersonal epistemic assessment, just as there is in all interpersonal moral assessment. Like our moral agency, our epistemic agency is subject to that kind of appraisal all the time, and in this context the appeal to shame or honour is not vulnerable to a wrong-kind-of-reason objection: shame is fitting for (some) epistemic failures, and pointing this out is not changing the subject from epistemic critique to some other kind of critique (social or hierarchical perhaps): to say that someone should be ashamed of herself for believing p when she has every reason to believe not-p is epistemic critique. However, it becomes particularly appropriate to speak of epistemic shame and honour when, as we naturally put it, “the argument is already over”. For at that point we get 320

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particularly vivid examples of what, at the beginning, I called the come-off-it response. To see what I have in mind here, consider these two very brief dialogues: A:  Look, if scarlet is a shade of red, then scarlet is a colour—right? B:  Right. A:   And scarlet is a shade of red. B:   Yes. Of course. A:   So scarlet is a colour. B:   No. No no no. That doesn’t follow. A:   Oh, come off it. C:  We know for sure that the earth is much older than 5000 years, and did not originate in a single sudden creation event. D:   Is that right? How do we know? C:  We have fossilised dinosaur bones. They show all the signs of being tens of thousands of times older than that. D:  That’s right! They show all those signs because God inscribed all those signs on them, when he created them in a single sudden event 5000 years ago. God just made them look much older, in order to test our faith in the Bible. You’ve failed the test. C:   Oh, come off it.8 In both these dialogues with fanatics of (one hopes) two different kinds,9 the come-off-it response is deployed, as I put it above, “when the argument is over”; though in a moment I will want to challenge that form of words. In the first dialogue, the argument runs out because B apparently lacks competence with modus ponens. At least in this instance B apparently fails to see, or refuses to admit, that “If p then q” and “p” together entail “q”. And nothing funny is going on; we aren’t dealing with a merely generic truth, like “Humans have 32 teeth”, or with a putative counter-example to modus ponens like Vann McGee’s.10 What B displays is—at least in A’s eyes—just a failure in basic logical understanding. B’s failure in basic logic is an epistemic failing; and by saying “Come off it”, A reproaches B for it. In the second case, what has gone missing is not so much logical competence, as a basic sense of what is probable or likely, and of what kind of evidence it takes to discredit a claim like young-earth creationism. D lacks the down-to-earth, commonsensical engagement with things as they are, and as they come to us, that I talked about as a distinct epistemic resource at the beginning of this chapter, when I contrasted the appeal to rationality and the appeal to “Come off it” as argumentative tactics. D fails to display what William James is widely thought to have meant by his famous phrase “a sense for reality”,11 or what Aristotle certainly did mean by empeiria, experience. No doubt the ability to take on board plain facts, as plain facts, is at least one of the things that Aristotle had in mind when he famously said, near the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics (1095b7), that arche gar to hoti—“for that it is so is a first principle”. D’s failure in basic common sense is an epistemic failing; and by saying “Come off it”, C reproaches D for it. Now I noted above that we find it natural to say that A and C’s uses of “Come off it”, to reproach B and D respectively, come up “after the argument is already over”. But I also noted that I have a reservation about this natural way of speaking. The reservation is that I think there is a perfectly good sense in which, when A and C say “Come off it”, they are still engaged in argument with B and D. (When they say it, they may be about to give up; but they haven’t given up yet.) 321

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The first line of attack was to try and show B and D how they go wrong relative to the familiar and widely accepted common standards of, respectively, simple logic and plain fact. That first line has failed; B and D have shown themselves to be incompetent with respect to those standards. So by means of “Come off it” A and C deploy a second line of attack: they try to get it across to B and D that they are failing with respect to those standards, and that they should try to fix their failures—by accepting the deliverances of modus ponens and of basic commonsense, respectively. For it is disgraceful to fail in these fundamental ways; such failures are very basic failings to be a competent inquirer or epistemic agent at all. They deserve to be shamed by other epistemic agents, and the right response to this shaming is to try harder and to do better. Such shaming, and such exhortations to do better, are not themselves parts of modus ponens, or of the process of assembling empirical evidence: in that sense they do come “after the argument is already over”. But they are, I want to say, a perfectly legitimate part of the process of persuasion. And in that sense, when these exhortations are offered, the argument is still going on.

20.6  Epistemic Shamelessness as a Political Problem Is still going on; but also, may be just about to end. The arguments that I displayed above will have happy endings if B and D respond to “Oh, come off it” with something like “Hmm… OK, maybe you’re right”. In that case we may say that epistemic shame, or equivalently an appeal to B’s and D’s sense of epistemic honour, has done its work: by this form of words B and D acknowledge that they are rightly challenged by A and C to abide by the standards of rationality and common sense without which there can hardly be any fruitful dialogues or serious arguments among us at all. But those arguments will have unhappy endings if, instead, B and D respond to “Oh, come off it” with something like “What? I’ve stated my position and I stick by it. Fight me.” In other words, one possible response to attempts to persuade by appeals to epistemic shame is just epistemic shamelessness. And this possibility is a very important and very topical one in the public domain right now, because when we look around the political world today, a sad truth seems only too obvious: that epistemic shamelessness is everywhere. Pervasively today, in the public discourse of our societies, it is not just that basic standards of logic and common sense are incompetently failed, but that they are knowingly and cynically flouted; it is not just that untruths are propagated by carelessness and inattention, but that rank and blatant lies are deliberately sown to choke and poison the fields of debate; it is not just that self-serving dishonesty and preposterous conspiracy theories are inadvertently fallen into, but that they are actively pursued and embraced. Fill in your own examples—I promise to spare you mine—but the internet provides whole swathes of instant evidence of what I am talking about. That’s the internet that, we all naively used to think (or I did, anyway), held out such fair and wonderful promise of a new world for rationality, knowledge, and understanding, where we could all find out the empirical truth simply by googling it, and where we would all share the same standards of logic and evidence because we were constantly engaging with each other in a unitary and in every sense progressive enterprise of human inquiry. So far from that golden dream being realised online, what we have to contend with today—both on the internet and in the outernet—is epistemic shamelessness as a deliberate debating strategy; epistemic shamelessness as the leitmotiv of the public square; and epistemic shamelessness in political power, in Beijing, in the Kremlin, in No.10 Downing Street, and until quite recently, in the White House too. (Whoops, I promised I’d spare you my own examples. Sorry.) 322

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If I am right to say that epistemic shamelessness is now a pandemic, then it is perhaps time I turned, in closing, to the question what we are to do about this state of affairs. As with other pandemics, I believe the real solution requires a great deal of patience; I might even say, a high boredom-threshold. To deal well with epistemic shamelessness, we need a long attention-span, and a long policy-arc: it is a key difficulty for our societies today, and I think one deeply connected to our difficulty about shamelessness, that the democratic process, by encouraging an antagonistic policy-auction every three to five years, makes it hard for both politicians and electorates to think long-term. For put very briefly, the problem of epistemic shamelessness is a problem of epistemic vice; and the only real solution to epistemic vice is, of course, epistemic virtue; and virtue takes generations to develop. In fact virtue ethics, if seen (as it too often is, but mistakenly) as a direct competitor for the status of “One True Moral Theory” with deontology and consequentialism, faces what I have elsewhere called “the timescale objection”.12 In Sections 20.7–20.9 I say some more about the nature of this objection, and how we might answer it.

20.7  The Timescale Objection to Virtue Ethics and Virtue Epistemology The nub of the “timescale objection” is that virtue ethics does not equip us or help us to know how to act in a crisis. That is surely an overstatement, but on the other hand this much is quite true: it is not Aristotle’s central aim in the Nicomachean Ethics, nor Plato’s in the Republic, Meno, Protagoras, and elsewhere, to tell anyone about crisis-management. For Aristotle, the aim is not primarily or directly to excogitate an ethics about “the right thing to do right now”—let alone one based in the modern fashion upon an iff-equivalence. Rather, his aim is to write a handbook for his students, the upcoming generation of political leaders, to tell them how to train, educate, and habituate the following generation of political leaders. That is why, if Aristotle has a single name for the subject matter of the Ethics, it more often seems to be hê politikê tekhnê or epistêmê, political craft or science, than ta êthika or hê êthikê (NE 1095a3, a16, 1099b30, 1102a8). It is why Aristotle takes eudaimonia, human flourishing, to be the objective not only of ethics but also of politics. It is why Aristotle is so familiarly pessimistic about the chances for character-reform for anyone older than a certain age, and pessimistic too about the appropriateness, for anyone younger than that age, of directly ethical discussion of the kind found in the Ethics, as opposed to other less explicit forms of moral inculcation. (“It makes no small difference whether one has been habituated one way or the other from the very beginning of childhood; rather it makes all the difference, indeed every kind of difference there is,” NE 1103b23, but “young men are not in their element listening to lectures on the political craft,” NE 1095a2–3.) It is also for this reason that Aristotle is so often content to tell us no more about what particular actions are the right ones than hws dei, “as it should be done” (see, e.g., NE 1120a24–26); perhaps Aristotle might add that his concern as a scientist is with the universal, but every action is a particular. And all of this body of reflection on what the virtues are and how to develop them is, as I say, presented by Aristotle as a prolegomenon not to private moral but to public political reflection. It is not for nothing that the last word of the Nicomachean Ethics, pointing us forward to the Politics, is arxwmen, “let us begin” (1181b24). It seems a plain consequence of Aristotle’s conception of the ethical-political enterprise, as being primarily a matter of the education of the next generation of political leaders, that for virtue ethics in anything like his sense, it is always too late for emergency ethics. To do right in the emergency confronting you, you need already to have developed the right ­dispositions— and most of that development needs to have happened years ago, in your immaturity. 323

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We are rather close here to Hegel’s famous dictum about the Owl of Minerva.13 It is as if someone in a shipwreck had cried out “Bring me a plank right now!”, and Aristotle had responded with a treatise on forestry.

20.8  Laborious Labours of Love Virtue ethics is not (centrally) about what-should-we-do-right-now questions; it is about the dispositions that will make us into the kind of people who will give the right answers to what-should-we-do-right-now questions. So the timescale objection is correct that virtue ethics has little to say that is proprietary to virtue ethics about the various crises and emergencies that we face right now because of our society’s pandemic of political shamelessness. But that is only a problem if virtue ethics needs to have something proprietary to say. If someone defends virtue ethics as a systematic moral theory, “the new kid on the block” perhaps but still basically a contender in the same “contest of the theories” as consequentialism and deontology, then perhaps they will insist on that. They are less likely to if, like me, they hold to a looser form of virtue ethics that does not insist that all ethical thinking should happen in the terms of the virtues, and does allow the possibility of using, as of course we do use, a whole variety of considerations in deliberation. The vocabulary of the virtues is a key part of this variety, but not the only part. Still, the worry remains that the virtues come slowly: they appear in people’s characters only after decades of habituation. And we need to deal with public and political crises, like my main topic here, the phenomenon of epistemic shamelessness, right now. How can it be helpful to that urgent task for me to advocate inculcating the virtues, and in particular the virtues that go with epistemic honour and epistemic shame? I have two things to say in answer. The first is simply “Hold your nerve”. Of course we should do our best right now to take on public epistemic shamelessness directly: to refute, rebut, reproach, and indeed to shame it; and as I say, we can have philosophical resources about how to tackle this task without requiring that those resources should be proprietary to systematic virtue ethics or virtue epistemology. But as well as this kind of fire-fighting, we should also find the space—if (and while) we can—to think long-term, and invest in the future that we hope to see beyond the present crisis. Where is it that people learn not to be epistemically shameless, to have a proper respect for the standards of rationality and evidence that go with behaving in ways that are epistemically honourable? They learn in the family and they learn in the school and they even, I hope, learn in the university. That is why education and upbringing are, as Aristotle rightly observes, absolutely crucial to good character: because what we learn in education and upbringing, among much else, is our standards of epistemic honour and shame. So investing now in that future, engaging in the slow, patient, painstaking, and often rather boring work of inculcating the next generation in the standards of the honourable and the good—both epistemic and more widely ethical—is like gardening; more specifically, perhaps, it is like planting saplings along a roadside. Maybe we will never live to see them full-grown into trees. It is a sad truth that what takes 20 years to grow can be recklessly destroyed in 20 seconds—as we know from Uvalde. But none of this makes it a waste of time, either to plant the saplings, or to educate the children. Indeed, these long-term, slow-yield, unexciting projects are precisely what is required of us both by the standard of the honourable, and by the standard of the good. And though certainly we can learn shame and honour from our lovers, these projects are not, pace 324

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Phaedrus, primarily the works of eros in the sense of romantic love, as opposed to slower and less exciting forms of attachment. Nonetheless, they are very much a labour of love, the kind of love that parents usually have for their children, and that good school and university teachers sometimes—perhaps not often enough—have for their students.

20.9  Saltations, McDowellian Conversions, Infused Virtues—and Epiphanies But anyway, to turn to my other (and my last) point, maybe we can also recognise that while the processes of moral and epistemic education are usually slow, laborious, and low in excitement value—still, they can sometimes have their moments of startling saltation. Remember here some well-known remarks of John McDowell’s (WME p. 74): …the trouble with someone who has in some radical way slipped through the net [of moral education] is that there may be no… point of leverage for reasoning aimed at generating the motivations that are characteristic of someone who has been properly brought up. What it would take to get such a person to consider the relevant matters aright, we may plausibly suppose, is exactly the sort of thing that, according to Williams’ argument, the external reasons theorist may not appeal to: something like conversion. Admittedly… the bare idea of conversion points at best to a schema for explanations of shifts of character, and the weight of the explanation in any real case would rest on our comprehension of the psychic efficacy of the specific converting factor (a religious experience, say). But… we might be able to understand on these lines how somebody who had slipped through the net might suddenly or gradually become as if he had been properly brought up, with the interlocking collection of concerns and way of seeing things that he failed to acquire earlier. Through the sort of experience that McDowell tantalisingly calls “conversion”, somebody (he tells us) “might suddenly or gradually become as if he had been properly brought up”. Such an experience might be a stand-in for part or whole of a “proper” moral education, rather in the way that Donald Davidson’s Swampman has an internal setup that enables him to copy exactly the referential practices of those who have the right causal background for achieving genuine reference—even though, magically emerging, as he did, fully-formed from his swamp, he does not share that background. In another ethical vocabulary, Aquinas’s, one might also talk at this point of the distinction between habituated and infused virtues (ST 1a2ae.63.3). The infused virtues provide another way round the timescale objection, because they involve the very same dispositions and actions as the habituated virtues—and yet they arise in us immediately and without habituation, by the direct influence upon us of God’s grace. For Aquinas, infused virtue is a pervasive and real phenomenon. For McDowell, his analogue of infused virtue is, apparently, a borderline possibility, a conceivable-in-principle way in which external reasons to act well might be generated in someone who lacks the right background to get them the usual way—by habituation. If you think like me, then you may want to follow Aquinas, not McDowell, in treating this possibility of “conversion” as much less borderline and merely-possible, and much more central and really-actual. For if you think like me, then you may well take it to be a central part of our ethical life, including our inculcation into the values and the virtues of epistemic shame and honour, that values 325

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can and do confront us pretty well directly (in some good sense of that difficult word), in the pivotal ethical experiences that I call epiphanies.14

Notes 1 Translations of Plato are my own, using a number of Greek texts including the OCT, the Loeb, and the text available on the Perseus website. 2 See Chappell (2014, 2022). 3 This streamlining impulse is of course an important part of Socrates’ own thinking about ethics, from the very beginning: see e.g. Crito 48c-d. In this respect as in some others, it was perceptive of Nietzsche to see Socrates as a kind of Christian avant la lettre. Socrates’ streamlining impulse can be made to seem especially strong by those translators who render the Crito’s dikaion and adikon as “right” and “wrong” respectively. However, “right” and “wrong” are mistranslations of dikaion and adikon, and both Plato and Aristotle pushed back against Socrates’ streamlining impulses; and were right to do so. 4 The concept of doing things “for the glory of God” is central both in the Hebrew Bible and in the New Testament, and it is a theist’s way of saying exactly what I am saying here: that there are things that should be done for their own sake because they are beautiful. Indeed, on the biblical view, there is in the end no other reason at all for doing anything. For more about this see Chappell (2014, Ch.8).   Since I am a theist myself, I can use the biblical vocabulary too, and in another context, might; here I choose to speak in terms more familiar to contemporary ethical philosophers. 5 Justin Coates, NPDR review of Darwall 2013, https://ndpr.nd.edu/reviews/honor-history-andrelationship-essays-in-second-personal-ethics-ii/ 6 Nor does the inclusiveness stop there, because I or we can also honour or shame—or praise or blame—ourselves. Like praise and blame, shame and honour can have not only second- and thirdpersonal address, but first-personal address as well. Indeed few possibilities are more familiar, or more psychologically and ethically significant, than the possibility of being ashamed of myself or proud of myself, of blaming myself or morally applauding myself. (As Darwall of course agrees: “The second-personal perspective of a member of the moral community is as much one’s own as it is anyone else’s” [2006: 35].) 7 “Do better” is now a twitter catchphrase, but so far as I can see its twitter usage is not this benign. (What twitter usage is benign?) On twitter, “Do better” is just another form of put-down. But the same words might be more courteously used—or left implicit rather than enounced explicitly at all—and then we might have a real and sincere challenge to others to be better epistemic agents. This surely happens off twitter. Maybe it even happens in the better neighbourhoods of twitter itself. 8 For another entertaining example of an attitude that merits the come-off-it response, see Yonny’s refusal to accept that the lines of longitude meet at the poles in Eric Newby’s The Last Grain Race: Newby 1956: 124. 9 Are these interlocutors fanatics, necessarily? No. Not necessarily. As I granted at the start, to display some level of epistemic shamelessness is not ipso facto to be a fanatic; because everyone displays some level.   People who talk like this don’t have to be fanatics; on the other hand, this is how fanatics talk. 10 Consider a US presidential election where there are three candidates: Carter (Democrat), on about 40% in the polls; Reagan (Republican), on about 50% in the polls; and Anderson (Republican), on about 3%. Now: 1  If a Republican wins the election then, if Reagan doesn’t win, then Anderson will win. 2  ARepublican will win the election. SO 3  If Reagan doesn’t win, then Anderson will win. The argument (due to Vann McGee) is that (1–3) is a case of modus ponens with true premises and a false conclusion; so, it is a counter-example to modus ponens.

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Political Fanaticism and Epistemic Shamelessness   One standard response to the case—which I think is more or less right—is to deny that the conclusion is false. What is false is (4) “Probably: (If Reagan doesn’t win, then Anderson will win).” But that is not what (3) says. The impression that (3) is false comes from confusing it with (4).   (Thanks for discussion to Shane Glackin, Julien Murzi, and Scott Sturgeon.) 11 Principles of Psychology Ch.21. Actually I doubt that, when James used this phrase, he did mean a general down-to-earth commonsensical insistence on our “natural beliefs”; I think he rather meant something like the “greater force or vivacity” that David Hume very implausibly suggested was the main difference between the “forcible impressions” that constitute belief, and the much “weaker” “impressions” that constitute mere imagination or “fancy”. However, let us take the phrase in its generally accepted sense, even if that rests on a misreading of James. 12 In Chappell (2020), from which sections VII–VIII are adapted. 13 G.W.F. Hegel, Grundlinien der Philosophie des Rechts, Vorrede (p.16 in 1972 Frankfurt am Main edition): Die Eule der Minerva beginnt erst mit der einbrechenden Dämmerung ihren Flug. 14 My thanks to Paul Katsafanas, and to an audience in Birmingham in July 2022.

References Aquinas, Summa Theologiae [1270]. Numerous editions consulted. SUMMA THEOLOGIAE: Home (newadvent.org) Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics [c.330 BC]. Numerous editions consulted. Chappell, Sophie Grace. 2014: Knowing What To Do. Oxford: OUP. Chappell, Sophie Grace. 2020: “Virtue ethics and climate change”, in Dale Miller and Ben Eggleston, eds., Moral Theory and Climate Change, London: Routledge, 123–135. Chappell, Sophie Grace. 2022: Epiphanies. Oxford: OUP. Darwall, Stephen. 2006: The Second Person Standpoint. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP. Darwall, Stephen. 2013: Honor, History, & Relationship: Essays in Second Personal Ethics. New York: OUP. Dolezal, Luna. 2017: “Shame, vulnerability, and belonging”, Hume Studies 2017, 421–438. Hegel, G.W.F. 1972: Grundlinien der Philosophie des Rechts [1820]. Frankfurt am Main: Holzinger. James, William. 1890. Principles of Psychology. The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Principles of Psychology, by William James. Newby, Eric. 1956: The Last Grain Race. London: Secker and Warburg. Williams, Bernard. 1993: Williams, Shame and Necessity. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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INDEX

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. abolitionists 11; American Abolitionists 307; Garrisonian Abolitionists 17, 298, 303, 306–308, 310n26, 310n28 abstraction 161–175, 222–223 addiction, Staël’s passions taxonomy 151, 153 Adkins, A.W.H. 32n16 Adorno, T. W. 7, 241, 249n68–250n68 African National Congress (ANC) 273–274 Ᾱjīvakas 48–49 Alcibiades 21, 25 Alfano, M. 16 Al-Khansaa Brigade 283, 293 al muhajirat 283 Alt-Right movements 242 ambition, Staël’s passions taxonomy 151 ameliorative analysis 257, 265n9–266n9 American Abolitionists 307 American Pastoral (Roth) 272 Ames, W. 74; Mysteries of the Kingdom of God 75 Anaxagoras 21, 31n6 ancient Indian philosophy 13, 36–49 Anstey, P. 83, 87, 95 anticlericalism 67, 71, 74; deep-seated 70; Hobbes’s analysis of 72, 73; Spinoza’s analysis of 72, 73 anti-enthusiastic humor 120 antiquity, fanaticism in 12, 21–65; ancient Indian philosophy 36–49; Aristotelian excessive fear of divine 21–34; classical Chinese philosophy 51–63 Anti-Semitism and Jew (Sartre) 250n78 Antoinette, M. 147

anxiety 39, 41, 169, 185–187, 194n14, 194n23–195n24 apretados 16, 215–219; abstractness 222–223; characteristics of 219–223; excessiveness 219–220; exclusiveness 221–222; possessiveness 220–221; value fanatic and colonial dead-end 223–224 Arafat, Y. 290 Aristotle: atheism 27–30; deisidaimonia 27–30; excessive fear 30–31; ‘lover of myth,’ the elderly, and priests 25–27; Nicomachean Ethics 316, 321, 323; philomuthos 26; piety 23, 27–30; political theory 31; Politics 22, 23, 28, 29; religious fear 4, 12, 21–30; tyrant 25 Arnim, B.B. von 158n4 Arrowsmith (Lewis) 305 ARTFL Project 109n4 āśrama system 42–45 Atharva Vedas 40 atheism 27–30 Athens 21–22; heresy trials 22; Herms trials 21, 23; impiety trials 22 ātman 41 Balling, P. 74, 75, 80n43; Light upon the Candlestick 75 Barclay, R.: Possibility and Necessity of Inward Immediate Revelation of the Inward Immediate Revelation of the Spirit of God 91–92 Barker, J. 140n18 Barnes, E. 257

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Index Battaly, H. 11, 16, 17, 294n1, 295n11, 295n12, 310n12 Bayle, P. 2, 78, 243, 248n17 Beauvoir, S. de: The Ethics of Ambiguity 237, 249n54 Beccaria, C. 97 behavioral dimensions, fanaticism 8 Behemoth (Hobbes) 72 beliefs, fanaticism 178–184, 186–189, 193, 194n6 Bellarmine, R. 102 Bell, M. 79n2 Berger, J.M. 30, 33n38, 34n40 Beyond Good and Evil (Nietzsche) 208–209, 212n4 bifurcation 43 Blasphemy Acts 71, 86 Blee, K. 288 blind passion 178–180 Blind Trust: Large Groups and Their Leaders in Times of Crisis and Terror (Volkan) 250n90 Bodéüs, R. 28, 32n25, 32n27 Boesflug, M. 89 Bolterauer, L. 16, 236, 248n46 Boreel, A. 74 Bossuet, J.-B. 231 Boston Marathon 306 Bourignon, A. 140n19 Bouton, C. 175n7 Brahmanhood 42–44 Brahmanical tradition 42; āśrama system 43–45 Breen, D. de 74 Breivik, A. 5, 6, 8; 2083: A European Declaration of Independence 6 Bremmer, J. 21 British Medical Journal 6 Broadie, S. 27–28, 33n28 Brown, J. 11, 12 Brueys, D.-A. de 231 Bruner, J. 249n63 Bruno, G. 102 Brunot, F. 248n18 Büchner, L. 203 Buddhist Middle Path 45–47 Burgess, A. 254 Burgh, A. 77 Burrough, E. 71 Bury, J.B. 22, 31n5 Bush, G.W. 279 Callanan, J. 139 Calvin, J. 102 Candide (Voltaire) 158n1, 232–234 Cappelen, H. 258, 259 Carol, L. 263; Through the Looking Glass 263

Carroll, R. 121, 124n20, 124n23, 124n33 Casaubon, M.: Treatise Concerning Enthusiasm 86 Cassam, Q. 7, 8, 11, 16, 17, 281n44, 283, 291, 292, 294n1, 297–301, 303–306, 308, 309n1, 309n7, 309n9, 310n26, 311n31 Casson, D. 14 Catholic inquisitors 99 Cavanaugh, W.T. 86, 144, 247n10, 281n36 Chappell, S.G. 17 Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times (Shaftesbury) 112, 114, 122n1 character-virtues, closed-mindedness 303, 309, 310n15 Chesterton, G.K. 235, 248n44 Cholbi, M. 55 Chung, E. 310n19 Cioran, E.M. 243, 250n89; A Short History of Decay 250n89 civil liberty 67, 77 civil society 2, 13, 14, 67, 68, 78, 79, 86, 88, 173, 175, 230 Clarkson, L. 71 classical Chinese philosophy, fanaticism 51–63; Han Feizi 58–61; Mozi 52–55; Xunzi 55–57 Clausen-Brown, K. 81n46 clerical authority 13, 72–73 Clifford, W.K. 199, 202, 204, 210, 211, 212n5 closed-mindedness 7, 17, 297–311 Coates, J. 326n5 cognition 76; closure 194n15; dissonance 239; rigidity 7 Colas, D. 86, 248n22 Collegiants 74–75, 77, 78, 80n43 Collins, A. 78 colonial dead-ends 223–224 commitments 5, 6, 8, 181, 188–190, 192, 201, 208, 218, 222, 223, 225, 286, 290, 293, 299, 305; emotional significance 15; Locke’s on 93; Shaftesbury’s concern 114 compassion 153–157 conceptual engineering 255–256; ameliorative analysis 257, 265n9–266n9; arrogated hermeneutic resources 260–262; dark side of 259–264; degenerative analysis 258–259; de novo hermeneutic resources 263–264; parasitic hermeneutic resources 262–263; stages of analysis 255; types of 256 Condos, M. 269, 270, 277 Confessions of a Christian Faith 75 Conflict of the Faculties (Kant) 131 conflicts 1, 8, 36–37, 52–54, 91, 166, 181–182, 189, 200, 236, 271–272, 292 Confucian philosophy 62n3

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Index Confucian Way 56, 57, 61 Conjectural beginnings (Kant) 140n22 consequentialism 52, 54, 55, 61, 323, 324 Consideration of the Greatness of the Romans and their Decline (Montesquieu) 98 Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution (Staël) 144, 146 contemporary explorations, of fanaticism 16, 229–327; closed-mindedness 297–311; epistemic shamelessness 313–327; extremist women 283–295; manosphere 252–266; symptomatology 229–251; terrorism 268–281 conversion 325 conviction 180–182; surrender in 187–191 Cook, J. 281n35, 287 Cooper, A.A. see Shaftesbury, Third Earl of corporeal punishment 105, 106; see also punishments counter-interpretations 260 counterterrorism 16, 269, 270, 278–279; see also terrorism COVID 262, 317 Craiutu, A. 144 credentials problem 55 Crenshaw, M. 269, 278, 281n44 crimes: murderous/fanatical outrages 277; religious 98, 104–109; sexual 263 criminality and guilt, Staël’s passions taxonomy 152 criminal punishment 107; see also punishments Cristy, R. 15, 212n3, 212n16 Critique of Practical Reason (Kant) 248n15 Cromwell, O. 69 Cudworth, D. 87 Curzer, H.J. 32n27–33n27 Dabiq magazine 17n2 Daftary, F. 281n35 Dahmer, J. 276 d’Alembert, J. 194n3 Damigo, N. 285–286 Darwall, S. 317–319; The Second-Person Standpoint 317 The Data of Ethics (Spencer) 212n5 Davidson, D. 325 Davison, K. 124n33 Dawkins, R. 212n2 degenerative conceptual engineering 258–259 deisidaimonia 27–30, 33n31, 33n32 Deleyre, A. 2, 3, 248n24 Dembroff, R. 257 democratic laws 24 Dennett, D. 212n2 deontology 323, 324 De Warren, N. 16

Dewey, J. 194n13 Dharma Sūtras 43–44, 48 Diagoras 21 dialectical invulnerability 8, 9 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (Hume) 21, 67 Dictionnaire de L’Academie (1694) 230 Dictionnaire Universel (1690) 230 Diderot, D. 2, 143, 148, 194n3; Encyclopedia 2, 143 die-hard fanatics 215–216, 223, 225; see also fanaticism Digambaras 48–49 Diggers group 69–71 DiPaolo, J. 7, 295n12, 298, 303, 306, 310n21 divine command theory 52, 55 divine inspiration 68–71, 84, 90, 92, 138, 178–179, 194n4 divine laws 32n16 divine punishment 23, 103 Djaout, T. 233, 235, 236; The Last Summer of Reason 16, 233–235, 239, 240, 248n34 Dodds, E.R. 21, 31n2 dogmatism 9, 13, 301–303, 307, 310n28; closed-mindedness and 307–309; extravagance of fanatical beliefs: 180; metaphysics 133–135, 138 Dolin, J. 298, 303, 305 Donne, J. 85 Dostoevsky, F. 177, 195n24, 195n26, 232, 248n26; Grand Inquisitor 187, 188 Dreams of a Spirit-Seer (Kant) 133 Dutch context, enthusiasm/superstition in 74–77 Duyvesteyn, I. 269, 280n2, 287 early modern period, fanaticism in 4, 67–125; enthusiasm 67–81, 112–125; humor 112–125; Hutcheson’s approach 112–125; Locke’s approach 83–95; Montesquieu’s approach 97–110; radical enlightenment 67–81; Shaftesbury’s approach 112–125; superstition 67–81 Ecce Homo (Nietzsche) 243 Economy and Society 239 Edmunds, L. 33n35 effects-virtue, closed-mindedness 303, 307–309, 310n12 Elements of Law (Hobbes) 78 Elster, J. 275 emotional collectivization 238, 239 emotions: enthusiasm and 123n17; Locke’s view on 115–116; significance of commitments 15 Encyclopedia (Diderot) 2, 143 England’s Warning by Germanies Woe (Spannheim) 86

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Index English context, enthusiasm/superstition in 69–72 English, R. 278, 280n9 enlightened fanaticism 168–171; see also fanaticism Enlightenment 144, 155, 177–180, 182, 193, 197, 232, 233, 242, 277, 298, 299; conception of utility 169–170; crusaders of 108; Hegel’s on 162, 168–170; Kant’s on 129, 130, 132, 134–136, 138–139; post-Reformation 37; radical 67–81; Reginster on 15; Staël on 144, 145, 155, 158 enthusiasm 4, 14, 67–81; danger of 87; in Dutch context 74–77; emotional and social dimensions of 123n17; in English context 69–72; etymology of 113; historical context 129–132; Hobbes’s analysis 72–74; Hume’s essay on 77–78; Hutcheson’s view 112–125; Kant’s interest in 129–134; Locke’s analysis 113, 121, 130; militant 216; misanthropy and 14, 136–139; More’s attack on 130; natural passion of 115; philosophical 87, 130; Pocock’s view on 139; poetic 124n32; reason as cure for 134–136; religious 87, 94, 113, 130–132; Shaftesbury’s view on 112–125, 130, 132, 139n4; Spinoza’s analysis 75–77; Voltaire’s view on 130–132 Enthusiasmus Triumphatus (More) 86, 130 envy and revenge, Staël’s passions taxonomy 152 epiphanies 325–326 epistemic shamelessness 17, 313–327; agathon 315–316; and honour 317–320; infused virtues 325–326; second-personal address 317–320; as virtue 314–315 epistemological privilege 55–57 epistemology: epistemic dimension, fanaticism 7, 8; epistemic norms 181; epistemic overconfidence 15, 180, 181; virtues 323–324 Erastianism 72, 73, 77 Erlenbusch-Anderson, V. 281n37 Essay Concerning Human Understanding (Locke) 83, 87, 122n1, 178 Essay on Toleration (Locke) 83 Essays, Moral and Political (Hume) 79n1 ethical holism 171–175 ethical theory 22, 28 ethico-political system 54, 56 The Ethics of Ambiguity (Beauvoir) 237, 249n54 Euthyphro (Plato) 27, 32n25, 62n10, 225 Evans, R.J. 273

exaggerated reason 148 excessiveness, apretados and 219–220 exclusive characteristics 221–222 existentialist view, fanaticism 15, 177 extremism 12, 30, 43, 143, 162, 170, 233, 283–294, 294n1, 295n4 Fable of the Bees (Mandeville) 124n23 false religion 67–69, 76 fanaticism 109n4; account of 8–11; analyzing 4–12; ancient Indian philosophy 36–49; in antiquity 21–65; apretados 215–226; Aristotelian excessive fear of divine 21–34; beliefs 178–184, 186–189, 193, 194n6; as central philosophical concern 1–4; classical Chinese philosophy 51–63; closed-mindedness and 297–311; commitment (see commitments); component of 110n5; contemporary explorations of 229–327; die-hard 215–216; in early modern period 4, 67–125; enthusiasm 67–81, 112–125; epistemic shamelessness and 313–327; extremist women and 283–295; features 5, 6; fertile philosophical topic 12; fifth century BCE 41–43; Hegel’s view 161–175; humor 112–125; Hutcheson’s approach 112–125; inquisition 99–101; Kant’s view on 129–140; in late modern period 129–226; Locke’s approach 83–95; in manosphere 252–266; Montesquieu’s restrained approach 97–110; need for certainty 177–195; phenomenology of 148–150; phenomenology of spirit 165–171; philosophy of 1–17; radical enlightenment 67–81; ressentimentfostering narratives 16, 284–286, 289, 292, 294, 295n5; scientism 197–213; Shaftesbury’s approach 112–125; Staël’s approach 143–159; superstition 67–81; symptomatology on 229–251; terrorism and 268–281; theorizing 78–79; three dimensions of 6–8; totality 171–175; value 215–226; women’s hate agency and 291 fantastical correspondences 90 fear of compromises 149 Federalist Papers 97 Fell, M. 75 Fénelon, F. 231 Fichte, J.G. 162, 163, 165, 171, 175n1–175n3, 175n13 Field, S. 73 Finkelberg, M. 33n36 Fisher, S. 71, 75

332

Index The Flag and the Cross: White Christian Nationalism and the Threat to American Democracy (Gorski and Perry) 248n49 Flaubert, G. 233 Fletcher, E. 83, 86 Flynn, M. 16, 236 Fontana, B. 147 foregoes personal advantage 149 Fortenbaugh, W.W. 32n26, 32n27–33n27, 33n32 Fox, G. 86 fragility 9, 192, 293; of self 10; of value 10 Frank, J. 84 Freedom and Reason (Hare) 270 free spirit 187 French Revolution 159n5, 161, 162, 164, 168, 170, 171, 174 Fricker, M. 253 Friedman, M. 290 Fromm, E. 194n23–195n23 Frye, M. 283 functional deception 31n12 Furly, B. 85 Galvany, A. 60 Garrisonian Abolitionists 17, 298, 303, 306–308, 310n26, 310n28 Garrison, W.L. 307 The Gay Science (Nietzsche) 199–201, 203–211, 212n4, 213n17 gender norms 284, 287–289, 292, 294 A Genealogy of Terrorism (McQuade) 277 German Peasant’s War 5, 85 Gibbon, E. 21 Gjesdal, K. 15 goat prophet 277 Goebbels, J. 16, 240, 241 Goldberg, S. 109n1, 109n4 Goodall, J. 305 Good Friday agreement 278 Gorski, P. 248n49; The Flag and the Cross: White Christian Nationalism and the Threat to American Democracy 248n49 Great Replacement theory 253 gṛhastha (householder) 44 Grier, M. 140n13, 140n16 Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals (Kant) 212n10 Groupe Islamique Armé (GIA) 233 group identity 10, 11, 16, 285, 286, 289 group resentment 10 Grundlinien der Philosophie des Rechts (Hegel) 327n13 Günderrode, K. von 158n4 Guterman, N. 236, 237, 249n51

Haack, S. 198 Han Feizi 58–61, 63n14, 63n15 Haram, B. 294 hard fanaticism 52, 62n5; see also fanaticism Hare, R.M. 7, 215, 270–273, 280n14, 300; Freedom and Reason 270; Moral Thinking 270, 280n17 Harris, E.L. 13, 62n1 Harris, S. 212n2 harsh punishments, Montesquieu’s 106–107 Haslanger, S. 257 Hatred of Democracy (Rancière) 248n57 Haynal, A. 247n7 Hegel, G.W.F. 15, 158n4, 159n5, 161–175, 216, 324, 327n13; ethical holism and fanatical totality 171–175; Grundlinien der Philosophie des Rechts 327n13; Insanity of Self-Conceit 168; Philosophy of Right 15, 162, 166, 172, 173; religious and enlightened fanaticism 168–171; self-consciousness 165–168 Heidegger, M. 177, 185–187, 194n20, 194n23–195n23 Heine, H. 162 The Henriad (Voltaire) 158n1 heresy trials, Athens 22–23 hermeneutic resources: arrogated 260–262; de novo 263–264; parasitic 262–263 Herms trials, in Athens 21, 23 Hesse, M.R. 241 Heyd, M. 139n2 High Church Anglicans 85 Hitchens, C. 212n2 Hitler, A. 273; Mein Kampf 185, 240, 242 Hobbes, T. 13, 67–81, 80n9, 80n21, 80n22; anticlericalism 72, 73; Behemoth 72; conception of human nature 118; critiques of clerical authority 13, 72–73; critiques of religious corruption 73; Elements of Law 78; enthusiasm and superstition 72–74; Erastianism 72, 73, 77; Leviathan 72, 73, 80n21 Hoffer, E. 194n12, 194n27 Hoffman, B. 278 Hofstadter, R. 236 Hollinger, D.A. 202 Holmes, R. 248n30 Holy Spirit 5, 85, 88, 131, 180 Holy Virgin 103 honour, shame and 317–320 Horstman, R.-P. 194n10 Hulliung, M. 140n18 Human, All Too Human (Nietzsche) 193, 205, 242, 250n82, 250n84 human nature: Hobbesian conception of 118; principles in 150

333

Index Hume, D. 2, 4, 13, 21, 31n5, 67–81, 79n3, 194n2, 194n6, 194n7; Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion 21, 67; Essays, Moral and Political 79n1 humor 112–125; anti-enthusiastic 120; Hutcheson’s theory of 112–125; incongruity theory 119, 124n22; Shaftesbury’s view on 112–125 “Humour,” good and ill 115–116 Hutcheson, F. 112–125 Hutton, E.L. 63n11 Huxley, T.H. 202, 204, 210 Hyde, E. 71 Idris, W. 290, 291, 293, 294 impartial care 52, 54, 55, 62n7 impiety trials, in Athens 22 incongruity theory, humor 119, 124n22 Indian Constitution 36 indirect coercion 93 The Influence of Literature upon Society (Staël) 146 infused virtues 325–326 inquisition fanaticism 99–101; see also fanaticism Insanity of Self-Conceit 168 insofar 10, 39, 51, 54, 59–60, 94, 184, 185, 188, 192, 193, 255, 298, 300, 303, 305, 307 intellectual: conscience 184; inability 15; malfeasance 89–92 interpersonal love, Staël’s passions taxonomy 151 intolerance 8, 21, 22, 31n5, 79n7, 192, 195n29, 201, 294n1, 299, 309n7 intuitive knowledge 88, 92 Irish Republican Army (IRA) 268, 278, 281n28 Isbell, J. 145, 146 Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham/Syria (ISIS) 8, 17n2, 269, 272, 277, 280n5, 283, 287–289, 293, 297, 306 Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL) 280n5 Islamophobia 37 Israel, J. 69, 80n9, 80n37; Radical Enlightenment 69 Israelsen, A. 139 Jabaliya refugee camp 294 Jacobi, F.H. 165 Jacob, M.: The Radical Enlightenment 69 Jaeger, W.J. 32n21 Jaffro, L. 124n33, 125n35 Jains: ancient Indian philosophy 13, 36–49; and avoidance of “extremes” 48–49; and Mahāvīra 36, 39, 41, 42, 48, 49; monastic tradition 48–49

James, C.L.R. 244, 245 James, W. 15, 197–211, 321; intellectual environment 202; Pragmatism 211; Principles of Psychology 327n11; The Varieties of Religious Experience 201; The Will to Believe 199, 202, 204, 207 janapadas 41 jātis 44 Jaucourt, L. de 97 Jelles, J. 74, 75, 80n43 Jenkin, K. 257 Jenkins, S. 212n8 Jews 29, 99–100, 103, 109, 271; in Amsterdam 75; community 74–75, 78; ideals of interests 272; inquisitors’ violent deeds 99; mass conversion of 74 Johnston, I. 62n8 Jolley, N. 87 Juergensmeyer, K. 281n31 Kallis, A. 241, 250n70 Kant, I. 7, 14, 81n54, 84, 129–140, 157, 158n4, 162, 171–172, 175n13, 194n6, 231, 270, 277, 298; Anthropology 132, 136, 138, 140n21, 159n7; Conflict of the Faculties 131; Conjectural beginnings 140n22; Critique of Practical Reason 248n15; on delusion 132; dogmatic metaphysics 133–134; Dreams of a Spirit-Seer 133; on enthusiasm 129–140; Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals 212n10; in Observations 132; self-observation 136; terminology 129 Katsafanas, P. 8, 79, 81n60, 124n31, 125n36, 144, 194n10, 195n31, 212n13, 212n14, 249n45, 250n78, 252, 253, 263, 265, 269, 271, 275, 280n12, 280n13, 280n16, 284–286, 292, 293, 294n1, 295n3, 295n12, 297–306, 308, 309n3, 309n4, 309n7, 310n22, 311n32 Khalil, L. 287, 289 Kidd, I.J. 303 Kierkegaard, S. 239, 249n60 Kindermann, N. 309n2 Klemme, H. 139n3 Klemperer, V. 240–242, 249n64; The Language of the Third Reich 240 Knight of Faith 239 Koets, P.J. 33n34, 34n41 Kofman, S. 242 Kohut, H. 251n99 Kravanja, A. 308 Kuehn, M. 139n3 LaBarge, S. 55 lack of imagination and recognition 149

334

Index Lacorne, D. 144 Laden, O. bin 269 The Language of the Third Reich (Klemperer) 240 Laqueur, W. 268, 270, 273–274 The Last Summer of Reason (Djaout) 16, 233–235, 239, 240, 248n34 late modern period, fanaticism in 14, 129–226; apretados 215–226; Hegel’s view 161–175; Kant’s views 129–140; need for certainty 177–195; scientism 197–213; Staël’s approach 143–159 La Vopa, A.J. 139n2 The Law of Freedom in a Platform (Winstanley) 70 laws: to Christianity 102; democratic 24; divine 32n16; imprisonment of Quakers 71; penal 104; purpose 58 Laywine, A. 140n13 Lennon, T. 87 Letter Concerning Enthusiasm (Shaftesbury) 84, 130 Letter Concerning Toleration (Locke) 93 Leviathan (Hobbes) 72, 73, 80n21 Levov, M. 275 Lewis, S. 305; Arrowsmith 305 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) 268, 280n26 Lifton, J. 247n1 Light upon the Candlestick (Balling) 75 Lindauer, M. 265n7 Lingua Tertii Imperi (LTI) 239–242 Lintott, A. 23 Llanera, T. 16 Llorente, R. 175n15 Locke, J. 3, 7, 14, 80n33, 83–95, 123n14, 232, 298; Art and Pains 87; belief vs. actions 94; collapse of mediating spaces 85–89; Of the Conduct of the Understanding 93; emotions and 115–116; enthusiasm 113, 121, 130; Essay Concerning Human Understanding 83, 87, 122n1, 178; Essay Concerning Toleration 86; Essay on Toleration 83; fanatical beliefs 179; intuitive knowledge 88, 92; Letter Concerning Toleration 93; malfeasance/malady 89–92; Second Letter Concerning Toleration 93; Second Treatise 93; Some Thoughts Concerning Education 93; subsequent thinking 86; Third Letter for Toleration 93; training and toleration 92–94 logical argumentation 58 Logical Positivists 212n6 Lokteff, L. 283, 289, 291

Lopes, M. 265n3 love of glory, Staël’s passions taxonomy 150–151 Lowenthal, L. 236, 237, 249n51 Luther, M. 2, 3, 5, 12, 37–38, 85, 86, 230 Mahāvīra 36, 39, 41, 42, 48, 49 Makkai, K. 123n12, 125n36 Makkhali Gosāla 48 Malcolm, N. 80n21 Malebranche, N. 87 malfeasance 89–92 Mandela, N. 273 Mandeville, B. de: Fable of the Bees 124n23 Manne, K. 257 manosphere, fanaticism in 252–266 Marques, T. 258, 259 Martin, D.B. 33n32 The Matrix 261 Mayhew, R. 32n17 McDowell, J. 325 McGovern, N. 13 McIntyre, J.L. 79n2 Mclaughlin, R.E. 247n8 McQuade, J.: A Genealogy of Terrorism 277 mediating spaces, collapse of 85–89 Medina, J. 253 Mein Kampf (Hitler) 185, 240, 242 Melanchthon, P. 2, 86, 230 Melville, H. 245, 247 men-going-their-own-way (MGTOW) 252, 253, 261–264 metaphysics 133; dogmatic 133–134; logic and 138; naturalistic 73 Michael Flynn’s Holy War 248n48 Middle Path, Buddhism’s program 45–47 Milgram, S. 215, 216 militant enthusiasm 216 misanthropy 14; and enthusiasm 136–139 Moby Dick 16, 244–247 Mohist ethico-political system 54 Moleschott, J. 203 Montesquieu 14; Consideration of the Greatness of the Romans and their Decline 98; correction of abuse 106–109; criminal punishment 107; evil idea of avenging insults to divinity 103–104; harsh punishments 106–107; inquisition 99–101; laws on religion and remedy for fanaticism 104–106; legislation 105; Mohammedan and Christian religion 101; monumental approach 105; Old Testament 101, 102; overt praise and subtle blame 101–103; Persian Letters 98–99; religious crimes 98, 104–109; respect to religious violations 105;

335

Index restrained approach 97–110; The Spirit of the Laws 14, 97–99, 101, 103, 106, 107, 109; treatment of slavery 98 Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) 119 monumental approach: Israel’s concept 69; Montesquieu’s concept 105 Moore, G. 203 moral cultivation 55, 56, 58 moral idealist 173, 215–216 The Moralists (Shaftesbury) 139n4, 140n15 moral norms 54, 68, 78 Moral Thinking (Hare) 270, 280n17 More, H. 139n3; attack on enthusiasm 130; Enthusiasmus Triumphatus 86, 130 mourning process 193, 195n30 Moyar, D. 15; Philosophy of Right 15 Mozi 52–55 Müntzer, T. 5, 6, 85, 86, 230 murderous/fanatical outrages crimes 277 Murderous Outrages Act 277 Mysteries of the Kingdom of God (Ames) 75

normative contextualism 303 norms 53; condemnation of 53; for expedient political action 284, 287; gender 16, 284, 287–289, 292, 294; institutional 239; for social engagement 255; unification process of 54; values and 187, 188; see also specific norms Norris, J. 87 Norwegian anti-Islamic fanatics 6; see also fanaticism Nuovo, V. 87

naïve certainty 186–188, 191 National Socialism 162, 192 natural correspondence 90 Natural History of Religion 67 natural passion of enthusiasm 115 Nayler, J. 86 Nazi: party 297; race theory 300 need for certainty 6, 15, 177–195, 208 negative allegiances 149 Newman, W.L. 22, 23, 25, 30 new terrorism 16, 268, 269; irrationality of 278; Laqueur’s notion of 274; paradigm 270, 275, 277–279; Rapaport’s account of 276; see also terrorism New Testament 80n28, 326n4 Nicholls, R. 248n20, 248n36 Nicomachean Ethics (Aristotle) 316, 321, 323 Nietzsche, F. 15, 16, 21, 152, 177, 178, 180–185, 187–191, 193, 194n11, 195n25, 197–211, 212n4, 212n8, 212n11, 242–244, 250n78, 251n93, 258, 285, 299; Beyond Good and Evil 208–209, 212n4; Ecce Homo 243; The Gay Science 199–201, 203–211, 212n4, 213n17; On the Genealogy of Morality 199, 206–207, 212n4, 212n8, 244, 251n93, 258; Human, All Too Human 193, 205, 242, 250n82, 250n84; unconditional will to truth 199, 204–211; Untimely Meditations 203 Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta 48–49 9/11 attack 270, 272, 274, 300, 308 nirvāṇa 36, 46 Nordic Resistance Movement 283

Of the Conduct of the Understanding (Locke) 93 Oldenburg, H. 74 The Old Faith and the New (Strauss) 203 Old Testament 101, 102 Olson, J. 298, 307, 310n25 On the Current Circumstances That Can End the Revolution (Staël) 148 On the Genealogy of Morality (Nietzsche) 199, 206–207, 212n4, 212n8, 244, 251n93, 258 ‘The Orator of the Human race’ 245 orthogenetic approach 39 O’Shaughnessy, N. 241, 249n67; Selling Hitler. Propaganda & the Nazi Brand 249n67 Palestinian National Authority 290 Palestinian suicide bomber 290 pantheism 69–71, 80n13 Pape, R. 274 parasitic hermeneutic resources 262–263 parivrājaka (wanderer) 44 Partenau (Hesse) 241 Pascal’s misanthropy 136–139 Pasnau, R. 89 passions 143–159; addiction 151, 153; ambition 151; blind 178–180; criminality and guilt 152; envy and revenge 152; vs. feelings 145; interpersonal love 151; love of glory 150–151; and self-governance 145; self-nullifying extremity 152; taxonomy of 150–153; vanity 151 Passmore, J. 52, 54, 56, 57, 59–61, 62n5, 144 patriarchy 6, 284, 286–294 Peels, R. 309n2 Peloponnesian War 25, 31n6 penal laws 104 permissive scientism 198 Perry, S. 248n49; The Flag and the Cross: White Christian Nationalism and the Threat to American Democracy 248n49 Persian Letters (Montesquieu) 98–99

336

Index personality types 15–16 phenomenology: of fanaticism 148–150; of spirit 165–171 ‘philomuthos’ in Aristotle 26 Philosophical Dictionary (Voltaire) 3, 7, 130, 134, 230 philosophical enthusiasm 87, 130 The Philosophical Foundations of Alt-Right Politics and Ressentiment (Remley) 250n79 Philosophical letters (Voltaire) 136, 158n1 Philosophy of Right (Hegel) 15, 162, 166, 172, 173 piety 23, 27–30 Pinker, S. 198, 212n5 Plato 26, 84, 163, 261, 326n1; Euthyphro 27, 32n25, 62n10, 225; Symposium 313, 314 Plezia, M. 26, 32n22 Plunkett, D. 254 Pocock, J.G.A. 84, 139 Podosky, P.-M.C. 16, 258, 295n12 poetic enthusiasm 124n32 political authority 13, 73–74, 84–86, 88, 93, 230–232, 238 political fanaticism 15, 17, 144, 146, 147, 161, 169, 173, 237, 272, 273, 275, 313–327; see also fanaticism political system 61–62; ethico-political system 54, 56; Xunzian 56–57 political theory 31, 53 Popkin, R. 81n46 Portilla, J. 15, 215–226 possessiveness 220–221 Possibility and Necessity of Inward Immediate Revelation of the Inward Immediate Revelation of the Spirit of God (Barclay) 91–92 Pragmatism (James) 211 Presbyterians 72–73 Principles of Psychology (James) 327n11 Proast, J. 93–94 prophecy 76–77 Protestant Reformation 37 Prudovsky, G. 62n2 Pry, E., Jr. 251n98 psychological approach 6–8, 255, 256 psychopathology 89 Publius 97 punishments 54, 62n9; Montesquieu’s concept 105–109, 110n8; rewards and 58, 61 QAnon Shaman’s symbols 229 al-Qasir, Hayla 291 Quaker movement 68, 69, 71, 74, 75, 83, 84, 86–88, 91, 92, 95n1

radical enlightenment 67–81 The Radical Enlightenment (Jacob) 69 Rajasthani High Court 36 Rancière, J. 248n57 Ranters group 69–71 Rapaport, D. 275–276, 281n36 rational agent model (RAM) 281n44 reactionary Brahmans 43, 44, 47, 49 Red Ice 291 Rediehs, L. 80n43 The Red Pill 257 Reeve, C.D.C. 32n15 reflective attitude 155 Reginster, B. 15, 200, 207, 208, 212n12 relajiento 15–16, 215–219 relational self 153–157 religion: authorities 2, 21, 68, 99; corruption, Hobbes critiques of 73; crimes 98, 104–109; enthusiasm 87, 94, 113, 130–132 (see also enthusiasm); fanaticism (see fanaticism); persecution 30, 100, 106, 109; toleration 78 religious fear, Aristotle on 4, 23–25; atheism 27–30; in classical Greece 21–23; deisidaimonia 27–30; excessive 12, 30–31; ‘lover of myth,’ the elderly, and priests 25–27; piety 23, 27–30; political effects of 22; Politics 22, 23, 28, 29; tyrant 25 Remley, W.: The Philosophical Foundations of Alt-Right Politics and Ressentiment 250n79 Remonstrants 74 renunciation 38–39, 47 resentment narrative 10, 11 ressentiment 242–245, 250n78, 251n93; ressentiment-fostering narratives 16, 284–286, 289, 292, 294, 295n5 Ṛg Vedas 40 Richards, A. 270, 280n10 rigidity 182; cognitive 7 Robertson, J.M. 31n5 Rodger, E. 260 Rosenberg, A. 198, 212n7 Roth, P.: American Pastoral 272 Rousseau, J.-J. 231; confessions 242; misanthropy 136–139, 140n17; pity definition 155; social contract 171 Rubel, A. 31n1, 31n6 Rukgaber, M. 140n13 Russell, P. 78 The Rustic’s Alarm to the Rabbies (1660) 71 sacred values 8–10, 16, 252, 253, 292–294, 295n3 Said, E. 280n6

337

Index Saint Bartholomew 3 St. George’s Hill 69 Salafi movement 233 sallekhanā 36–38, 48, 49 Sāma Vedas 40 Sánchez, C. 15–16 Sartre, J.P. 243, 250n78, 250n88, 319, 320; Anti-Semitism and Jew 250n78 Schapp, W. 249n62 Scharp, K. 256 Scheler, M. 242, 285 Schwärmerei 37, 38, 131, 132, 159n10 scientism 15, 197–213; basic 202–204; permissive 198; restrictive 198; strong 199, 204–211 The Scotsman 6 scriptural authority 75, 76, 101 Second Letter Concerning Toleration (Locke) 93 second-personal address 317–320 The Second-Person Standpoint (Darwall) 317 Second Treatise (Locke) 93 Segev, M. 12, 31n8, 32n27–33n27, 33n35 self-confidence, tranquil 186, 188, 191, 193, 195n30 self-consciousness 165–168, 170 self-contradiction 148–149 self-deception 208, 230, 239, 243, 244 self-denial 38, 47, 207 self-estrangement 87 self-governance 145 selflessness of utility 169 self-nullifying extremity 152 self-protective mechanism 9 self-reflexivity 208–211 self-sacrifice 165–168 self-transcendence 154–155 Selling Hitler. Propaganda & the Nazi Brand (O’Shaughnessy) 249n67 Serini, L. 213n18 Serrarius, P. 74 Servetus, M. 102 Shaftesbury, Third Earl of 3, 14, 194n6; in advocating tolerance 130; Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times 112, 114, 122n1; characteristic of 117; on enthusiasm 112–125, 130, 132, 139n4; humor and 112–125; Letter Concerning Enthusiasm 84, 130; The Moralists 139n4, 140n15; passion and cognitive content 116 shame 319–320; agathon 315–316; come-off-it response 320–322; and honour 317–320; second-personal address 317–320; as virtue 314–315; see also epistemic shamelessness

shared animosity 15, 149 Shariah law 233 Shelley, J. 124n19 Shell, S.M. 140n13 Shimomura, H. 212n1 A Short History of Decay (Cioran) 250n89 Siculus, D. 102, 110n7 Singaravelu, R. 289 skepticism of weakness 208–211 Sluga, G. 144 Smith, J. 87 social: contract 171; life 1; norms 78 Society of Friends 83, 87 Socrates 21, 220, 225, 326n3 Some Thoughts Concerning Education (Locke) 93 Sorell, T. 198 Southern, L. 283, 288 Spanish Inquisitors 101 Spannheim, F. 86; England’s Warning by Germanies Woe 86 Spencer, H. 212n5 Spinoza, B. 13, 68–69, 74, 78, 80n43, 81n51, 81n54, 159n6; anticlericalism 72, 73; on enthusiasm/superstition 75–77; Opera Posthuma 75; prophets and prophecy 76–77; Tractatus-Theologico Politicus 75–76 The Spirit of the Laws (Montesquieu) 14, 97–99, 101, 103, 106, 107, 109 śramaṇa movement 39, 42 Staël, G. de 15, 143–159; compassion and relational self 153–157; Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution 144, 146; On the Current Circumstances That Can End the Revolution 148; individual and collective well-being 145; The Influence of Literature upon Society 146; passions and feeling 145; phenomenology of fanaticism 148–150; philosophical preliminaries 144–147; Reflections on the Trial of the Queen 147; self-transcendence and belonging 154; taxonomy of passions 150–153; A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions 145–150, 153, 154, 157, 158, 159n7; well-being 145, 146, 152, 156 Steinberg, J. 13 Steinmann, J. 137 Stevenson, C.L. 265n8 Stillingfleet, E. 87 Stormfront 282 Strauss, D.F.: The Old Faith and the New 203

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Index suicide terrorism 274–275, 291; see also terrorism Sullivan, V. 14 superstition 7, 67–81; in Dutch context 74–77; in English context 69–72; Hobbes’s analysis 72–74; Hume’s essay on 77–78; Spinoza’s analysis 75–77 surrender, in fanatical conviction 187–191 Śvetāmbara 48–49 Swampman 325 Swedenborg, E. 133–135 Symposium (Plato) 313, 314 symptomatology, on fanaticism 229–251 synod 74 Tabb, K. 90, 91, 95, 194n5 tainted perception of reality 150 Tarrant, B. 260 taxonomy of passions 150–153 Taylor, C. 88 Termeer, A. 287 terrorism 16, 268–281; see also new terrorism; suicide terrorism testimony 48, 89, 92 theological norms 68 Theophrastus 28, 29, 32n26, 32n27–33n27, 33n32 Third Letter for Toleration (Locke) 93 Thomason, K. 14 Through the Looking Glass (Carol) 263 Thucydides 21, 23 timescale objection 323–324 Toland, J. 78 tolerate uncertainty 185–187 toleration 92–94 Tomášková, S. 247n3 Toscano, A. 11, 144, 216, 225n1–226n1 totality 40, 171–175 Townsend, L. 308 Tractatus-Theologico Politicus (Spinoza) 75–76 traditional counterterrorism approaches 269, 270, 278–279 training 92–94 tranquil self-confidence 186, 188, 191, 193, 195n30 Treatise Concerning Enthusiasm (Casaubon) 86 A Treatise on the Influence of the Passions (Staël) 145–150, 153, 154, 157, 158, 159n7 Treatise on Tolerance (Voltaire) 232, 248n23 Trullinger, J. 139 Trump, D. 223, 236, 299 unconditional universalism 216 unconditional will to truth (UWT) 199, 204–211 unification process, of norms 54 Untimely Meditations (Nietzsche) 203

unwillingness 17, 149, 162, 232, 272, 292, 297–302, 305–309, 310n12, 310n22, 310n28 Vale, G. 287 value fanaticism 215–226; see also fanaticism Vamos, M. 140n18 vānaprastha (forest dweller) 44, 47 Van Cauter, J. 80n43 vanity, Staël’s passions taxonomy 151 The Varieties of Religious Experience (James) 201 varṇa system 43–44 Vedas 39–41, 44 Vicar, S. 231, 242 Victor, B. 294, 295n13 violence: backlash 106; iconoclasm 38; intolerance 8, 21, 22, 31n5, 79n7, 192, 195n29, 201, 294n1, 299; Voltaire’s on 2–3 virtues: closed-mindedness and 303, 307–309, 310n12, 310n15; epistemology 323–324; ethics 323–324; infused 325–326; shame as 314–315 Vogt, L. 203 Volkan, V. 195n30; Blind Trust: Large Groups and Their Leaders in Times of Crisis and Terror 250n90 Voltaire 2, 12, 37, 98, 139n3, 139n5, 140n18, 143, 149, 158, 230; Candide 158n1, 232–234; in enthusiasm 130–132; on fanatical violence 2–3; The Henriad 158n1; Philosophical Dictionary 130, 134, 230; Philosophical letters 136, 158n1; problems in position 143; superstition 7; Treatise on Tolerance 232, 248n23 Waal, F. de 261 Wagner, K. 276, 281n34 Waldron, J. 93 “weakness of will” 191 Weber, M. 238, 249n58 Weiland, C. 84 Wernham, A.G. 81n53 Western concept, fanaticism as 37–38 White Aryan Resistance 282 Wiktorowicz, Q. 248n33 Williams, B. 315 willingness 5, 6, 8, 11, 13, 24, 51, 54, 60, 61, 93, 98, 148, 149, 158n4, 162–164, 167, 175n15, 189, 201, 211, 226n3, 261, 269, 271–273, 275, 290, 292, 299–302, 305, 306, 308, 310n22, 310n28 The Will to Believe (James) 199, 202, 204, 207

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Index Winkler, K. 124n19 Winstanley, G. 70, 72–73, 80n13; Law of Freedom in a Platform 70 Winter, C. 287 Wolf, N. 261 women: extremism 283–295; hate agency, and fanaticism 291 Woodruff, P. 31n12 World of Warcraft 261

Xunzi 55–57 yajamāna 40 Yajur Vedas 40 Yekker, B. 234–235, 239, 240 Zmigrod, L. 7 Zouabri, A. 233 Zuckert, R. 14, 140n11

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